Three On A Motorcycle is Unlucky, Or is It?

In September 1963, my family moved from Brenham, Texas to Riggins, Idaho. I was told that we did so at the suggestion of my asthma doctor. He felt that he had done all that he could to save me from my affliction, but the severity was not lessening. His last hope for me was a change of climate. My father, the avid hunter, had been to Idaho before. I am sure that this is why of all the places we could have moved to, we ended up in  the Salmon River Valley.

Going from Texas to Idaho was the greatest topographical, climatic, and cultural change I have eever gone through. It was great, but different.

I was extremely shy back then and not making any friends. One day, a classmate, Don Wolcott, introduced himself and we started talking. Until I moved back to Texas in July 1969, we were best friends. I learned later that our fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Clark, had asked him to go talk to me. Thank you Mrs. Clark. That tiny act of kindness filled my life with a bag of memories and experiences that I cherish to this day.

Today, for no particular reason, I have pulled out one of those memories that ranks high in my top ten.

It was spring time of my seventh grade year. We had a four day weekend coming up. One of the reasons that Don and I were such good friends was because we had fathers who allowed us to be free ranging kids. That meant we could go where we wanted to go, as far as we wanted to go, and do whatever we wanted to do. There was always the First Law sitting on its throne in the back of our minds, “If you get yourselves in trouble, you get yourselves out of trouble.”  To this day I have managed to heed that dictate.

This particular expedition had us leaving early on Thursday morning to go to Bud Wilson’s sheep camp on the Snake River, fish there until Sunday afternoon, and then come home.

Our usual mode of transportation was two 90cc Bridgestone motorcycles. Don and his brother owned one and my older brother owned the other one. For awhile my brother’s motorcycle was mine. He claimed it would not run any more. I fixed it, I claimed it. Enough said. He was bigger than me and often re-claimed it.

At this particular time we were in a re-claimed period. So Don and I would ride double on his bike. One person would drive and the other would wear (in the words of Collin Fletcher) a “bloody great bag” that had all of our gear in it.

The plans had been made, the supplies had been gathered, and Thursday was almost upon us. Then the first hitch in the plans suddenly appeared. Don’s older brother, Jerry, decide he wanted to go with us. Two on a small motorcycle is doable, three is not.

The solution was simple. Two on the motorcycle and one on a bicycle towed behind the motorcycle. And it worked. From the Wolcott’s house to the top of the ridge was 18 miles. From there to Bud’s place was another 11 miles. The first leg was easy. At the top we discovered hitch number two.

It had rained on the backside of the ridge. The going was difficult for just a motorcycle, and was almost impossible to tow a bicycle downhill. We abandoned the bike and took turns riding, walking, and falling down.

But we would not be stopped and eventually reached the river. We were tired, wet, muddy, and hungry. All we wanted to do was set up camp and make life worth living again. That’s when we discovered hitch number three.

Remember, I did mention it was spring time. I also told you that Bud was a sheep rancher. A question for you. What do sheep men do in the spring time? They gather all of sheep on the ranch so that they can count, medicate, dock the lambs’ tails, and who knows what else. Bud had a lot of sheep. A lot of sheep. Up the river, down the river, a lot of sheep.  There was no place to camp.

Luckily Bud was there and since he was going upriver to check on one of his sheep camps (No sheep there they were all at the ranch. A lot of sheep were at the ranch), he offered to let us ride along and stay there. So upriver we went. We shot through the rapids, laughed at the signs that warned us that beyond that point the channels were no longer marked, and claimed our cabin by the river. Bud said that he planned to be back on Sunday, but if he didn’t make it, we could just hike back to his ranch.

So we spread out the gear to dry, got out the fishing tackle, and went fishing. We also explore the area looking for old Indian camps, stayed up almost all night talking, and discovered most of a bottle of peach brandy. We also discovered that we didn’t care for peach brandy (probably a good thing) but that it did make interesting pancakes when added to the batter. We also learned that a can of burning gasoline will not ignite a match that is dropped into it. Let that sink in for a moment. You have three boys miles upriver, deep in Hell’s Canyon, Bud and his son-in-law are the only people who know where they are, and they are playing with a can of burning gasoline. It makes you wonder, where did they get the gasoline?

Have the shakes left you yet? I know what you’re thinking. I still get excited about how awesome that trip was. Hey, get over it, there were no face on fire this time.

 As Sunday drew closer, we started to contemplate the fact we might have to walk out. It wasn’t the distance that bothered us, it was Suicide Point. The trail followed the riverbank back to Bud’s. Except at one spot where a rock cliff jutted into the river. To negotiate this obstacle, the trail went up and then over. It was the over part that had us uneasy. It was about 300 feet above the water, very narrow, and on the very edge of the cliff.

Luckily, we didn’t have to walk on the very edge of death. Bud showed up, ferried us back to his ranch where the sheep were, a lot of sheep, loaded the bike and the motorcycle on his truck and drove us home. We arrived just after dark with plenty of time to be ready for school the next day.

When our parents asked how us how the fishing trip went, our answer was, “Nothing really special. We didn’t even catch very many fish.”