Smith River Run

Back in 19 and 50 or so, in the height of summer season we were down on the southern Oregon coast, where stretches of beaches uncluttered by the human tide extend beyond the eye, where gulls and eagles soar, sea lions roar and sand pipers pick at the sea shore sands, there where the waves crash in gentle touch the sparkle of sun glistening off their crests, the sounds of all not flooded out by man's discordant, nor disquieting, boisterous and blaring fanfares.

 

It was here, where the Umpqua emerges from her mountain to valley run joining the tide rushing out to sea; and here where in smaller stride the Smith too slows down meeting the ebbing salt water pools; here, up mountainous trails where loggers once trudged to fall the mighty coastal fir, Billy Boy took us fishing that weekend. Not far from where I was born, but left when life had only just begun when Billy Boy and First Love moved to Portland town.  Later, I returned to this land, called it home, cemented a life long friendship, got married and left again. But then those are stories of another time.

 

That weekend dang near could have been a disaster for Billy Boy! He had years ago walked the banks, fished these holes and explored paths along the quiet and calm running Smith.  Once, so the story goes, he rescued an orphaned, tan and spot­ted white tailed set of twin fawns, the mother left dead by a runaway log truck unable to avoid  the doe standing her ground in mid-roadway run.  Billy Boy fed the twins by bottle.  He had pictures of that. I have them stored somewhere.  Later Billy Boy and ol' Marvin who lived up in Bunker Hill, just down the road apiece, turned the two little ones over to the Game Commission so's they'd get a proper care with another of their kind. Marvin is gone now.  His wife Dorothy sure could make a black berry pie! Billy Boy always looked forward to that, but then...so did I.

 

Well, anyway on this day Billy Boy, First Love, me and my twin brother... haven't talked to him since First Love left on the heavenly ride to join Billy Boy, thats going on four year ago now...having finished the days fishing,  we're  walking down the old, worn and rutted packed dirt logging road next to the river's winding course. The sun was beginning to drop its golden rays westward out to the Pacific, the sky cloudless, the warm smell of fresh blooming wild flowers mixed with the breath of the soft blowing salt air gave a heady jaunt to the weary troop head­ing back to camp, creels full of native cut­throat, rainbow and a few brook. The night's dinner to be a feast of fried spuds, onions, and fresh caught fish!

 

Hope this picture is painted clearly in your mind's eye, cuz, well folks were just sort of lazying on, caught up in what had been, what was going to be and not really aware of what was!  You know the feeling, all at peace and happy with the world, yeah, that was what  it was like. Old Billy boy, as he often did, begin to tell us the stories from way back when.  Back when the CCC's built this  logging road, punched Hyw 101 along the cliffs of the rugged coastal waters, and built the jetties and bridges that protect the harbors and bays from down the central to the southern Oregon coast.  Yup, he had worked with them all, help build the big north jetty up in Newport out along the Yaquina Bay.  Nows there's a story for another time! Billy Boy did go back there though, years later to identify a neighbor's body, Buddy, his son a boyhood friend of mine. Buddy and friends had misjudged the ripping tides of the Yaquina...Billy Boy didn't relish that scene.

 

Well, we're walking along engrossed in the fascinating tales told many times but with differing slants as only Billy Boy could do, I think back on it and know that he was a master at it! As we walked and listened  Billy Boy would, as he often did when in wilderness places, occasionally reach out along the roadway cut or step a few yards into the under­brush and emerge with some delicacy of nature's  wonder...a root, a leaf, grass or bark and chew on it, course offering me, my brother and First Love some of the same.  What an adventure that was to us!  I remember when Billy Boy helped me collect over 350 wild flowers for my biology high school class so's I could earn an A...he knew about those things.

 

Well anyway, Billy Boy reaches overhead as we pass a deep bank in the road, and pulls a fern from its rooted perch neath a stump left there long ago when tree was felled by spring board cut . Wiping away the clinging dirt, he  broke off the fanned laced leaves placing a bared root piece in his mouth. Billy Boy began to chew slowly, a contented continence appearing on his weathered worn and old tanned face.  But that was soon to end!

 

Naturally the rest of us, meaning First Love, me and my brother wanted to try some.  Specially me and brother, after all, isn't that what grow'ng up is about...looking up to your pa and wanting to try it all?  Well....First Love probably should of left well enough alone. Female types can be so finicky about some things some times, like wanting hot water, and turn on lites when they're camping and eating things with familiar and delicate tastes!  Well... this was not one of those times!!  No siree, it sure wasn't!  Woowie!

 

Billy Boy had handed us each a piece of the root that he had just plucked and wiped clean of dirt, told us to chew and then suck the sweet succulent stem.  I thought it tasted as Billy Boy said it would.

 

It was but a moment after I had swallowed the first delightful mouthful when First Love began to gag, cough, spit and sput­ter!!! At  first I was reminded of grandpa's old Model A as it belched alive from the crank turns!  But then I knew this was something far different then the spit and fire of that car now retired to some junk heap yard!  First Love grasped her throat, her head now pitched forward in an awful sight, unin­telligible sounds squeaking from her mouth and traveling the distance to my ear as she fell to the ground!  Oh my gosh, I think I thought or something just about like that! I swallowed without chewing the rest of that root!!  Sort of hurt the throat.

 

Well, 'bout this time Billy Boy was to First Love, a worried look now replacing the contented one.  First Love gasping and heaving, swearing Billy Boy had poisoned her for sure!  "Now, now," he assured her in quiet tones..."it's nothing but the root of the licorice fern!"

 

She looked at him, he at her, them at us and all began to laugh, and then promptly as if on cue, First Love wet her pants!  That always happened when she was startled or laughed the hard laugh...could tell you a number of stories of that happenence!

 

Well, we made it back to

camp, lit the fire, dried clothes, ate the fish, sang a few family songs and then crawled into our beds out under the blinking stars on the southern Oregon coast down where the Umpqua and Smith meet the ebbing tides, and where we often returned to catch fish, listen to stories and sometimes, sometimes mind you, eat the raw root of the licorice fern!

 

I sure miss those times, but I have recall and will tell you all if you care to come back sometime and listen to 'em.

 

T. Condon July 11, 1998