Trails, Walkways and Boot Tracks

By Verl Rogers

Verl Rogers spent his life enjoying the natural wonders of the Pacific Northwest and Alaska, from camping to climbing mountains. He chronicled many of those memories, which are condensed into this collection of essays and another book titled “Tales from the Mountainside.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verl Rogers
• Release date: Jul 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463026946

Verl Rogers

Born in Washington State 1927, grew up in Wenatchee WA, graduated high school 1945, joined navy just before end of WWII, served one year, graduated Whitman College 1950. Worked for Social Security (federal),then Safeco Ins, Pemco Ins, Grange Ins, returned to Social Security 21 years, married to Janet Bixler 1953, two daughters, three grandchildren. Lived in Juneau, Marysville, Seattle, Aberdeen, Yakima, Anacortes, Lacey WA. Retired 1988, now live in retirement village Panorama. One daughter died of cancer 2010, wife died 2012. I write one essay per week.

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(Verl Rogers halfway up Mt. Stuart, December 1951)

Verl Rogers was born in 1927 and spent his life enjoying the natural wonders of the Pacific Northwest. He chronicled many of those memories, which are condensed into this collection of essays and another book titled Tales from the Mountainside.

This is a memoir, and skeptical readers must be warned that all such writings are distorted by self-interest and damaged by time. Names, characters and places may be described differently than true events.

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Verl Rogers

Trails, Walkways and Boot Tracks

(Verl Rogers on the trail to Sand Lake, July 2004)

A well-dressed lady who served me tea and cookies knew a little of my background.

Have you actually hiked on trails? she asked. Once I went for a hike on a riverfront trail - I forget where - and found it went uphill and down too much to suit me, though I did enjoy the sight of the cattails in the shallow water.

 I assured the lady I had hiked a great deal in the mountains, and had enjoyed The Gilman Trail that runs beside a waterway in Seattle.

Did you ever go out overnight and camp in a tent, and carry your bed and food?

I answered Yes.

The question sounded as if such action was beyond anything in her world, and maybe it was. How can I describe trails, byways and boot paths to such a city-bound person? Mountains and wild places do not fit into a city, even though the local-government movement that transforms abandoned railway lines into mid-city trails has a strong popular appeal. It is easy to see how the lady enjoyed the cattails along the river walk.

Early in my Boy Scout career I read the handbook and read of hiking and camping. The book writers implied that such activities are to be desired mightily. My career in Scouts went from the first night in a pup tent with a big kid named Irwin who took up his space plus half of mine, to week-long trips in the hills, to the high mountains and to a major expedition to a virgin peak in Yukon Territory. We lived on a glacier for a month. By that time I had an air mattress to keep me warm, sleeping on snow.

Guidebooks for our local mountains did not exist until a man named Fred Beckey in Seattle wrote a single volume about 1948. Its instructions usually give directions to roads and trails that lead to mountain peaks. Later he rewrote the book into three volumes, and he now has several competing guidebooks. All describe good trails as those made by the Forest Service, the state Dep't of Natural Resources and the National Park Service, trails usually cut in the dirt by a shovel and a foot or two wide. Planned trails still can be lost, overgrown in meadows. Early on, I learned that most tracks through meadows go straight across from the entrance, even while overgrown. Worse trails are those on the fringe of government budgets, and drop in quality to boot-tracks, those stamped out by boots (no tools) worn by hikers willing to tramp through weeds and brush to reach a goal, often a lake or hilltop. Planned trails usually have useful signs made in highway shops, but a boot track is lucky to have a simple name at its start.

I got used to traveling cross-country with no trail, but my wife never did. One time we found a road along a ridge-top near the Bumping River in Yakima county, but it stopped at a turnaround. I wanted to get out, push under trees through brush and weeds to a viewpoint I could see a quarter-mile away, but Janet would not even try. You go and I will stay here. I hate crashing through brush!

Traveler, beware!

(Written Oct. 5, 2017)

Use What You Have (and Get Prior Approval from Dad)

Use it up, wear it out,

Make it do or do without.

When I was five years old my two big brothers, eleven and twelve, decided to get some use out of an old horse-drawn wagon stored in the barn. They thought they had found the highest and best use for the wagon, but Dad had a different idea. However he came on the scene too late.

The wagon bed was gone. Harold and Art unbolted the tongue. That left two axles and four wheels, with a long beam that connected the axles, braces to hold the rear axle in place, and a leveling device that held the front axle from flipping as the front axle was turned for a corner.

We called the skeleton The Wagon but properly it was only the running gear. Art found he could steer it by straddling the center beam, grabbing the horns on the leveler and pushing forward on one side and pulling back on the other. He had to do it this way because the tongue that ordinarily does the steering had been unbolted. There was no team of horses to hitch it to.

How to stop? The original brakes had been mounted on the side of the wagon bed, and the bed was gone.

Harold got a heavy six-foot pole. He set it in front of the rear axle, tilted the bottom end to skid on the ground behind the axle, and then leaned back with the top while the pole pivoted on the axle. If he leaned hard enough and made the pole skid just right, he could stop the wagon.

We pushed the wagon out to McKittrick Street. The street led through a dip, then on a slight rise a quarter-mile past Stevens' up to Pyle's house, where the pavement ended. A gravel surface then went up steeply to Jackson's house at the top of the hill.

We pushed up to Pyle's and Harold held the brake in place while Art, Sis and I climbed on. Art straddled behind the leveler while we others sat on the rear axle. We coasted smoothly down the slight grade into the dip, where we stopped.

Hurray we yelled. Do it again!

Back we went, this time halfway up Jackson's hill. This trip was much faster, and we zoomed down through the dip and up the other side, giving Harold a long fight with his pry pole before we stopped. We told ourselves that tomorrow we would start coasting at the top of the hill. …

It was supper time and we went in to eat. After supper, in the dark, Harold and Art suggested one more trip, this time from the dip down to the next crossroad.

Again we pushed the wagon into place and got on. The next thing I remember was waking up in bed. Dr. Sawyer, who lived nearby, was looking at me. Hello there, red-headed Verl. He checked my reflexes. "He's all right; he just got knocked out by falling back onto the pavement. No permanent damage.

My sister said, You just fell over backwards!

The next morning Dad took Harold and Art out to look at the wagon. Sis and I tagged along. Dad did not like our wonderful wagon. BAD STEERING AND NO BRAKES! he yelled. Harold showed his brake but that just made things worse.

Dad pointed out there was no way for the passengers to sit except by balancing on the rear axle. We already knew that, and so did the knot on the back of my head. Dad said he used to think Harold and Art had better sense. He added, Take that whole thing apart P.D.Q. and burn the pieces before I get any madder! Yes, I mean P.D.Q.! Dad didn't swear much, so we were impressed.

So we had a bonfire. Sis and I toasted marshmallows but Harold and Art couldn't have any.

(Sept. 25, 2009)

How We Had Family Picnics

When we were kids, Mom and Dad would jam all four of us, Harold, Art, Shirley and me into the car and drive 25 miles to Icicle Creek in the mountains above Leavenworth for a picnic. When I was small, I could sit on Mom’s lap in front, but later I had to sit on Shirley’s lap in back, never welcome. Once I tried to sit on Harold’s lap. Oh no you don’t! Try Sis!

Icicle Creek is well-named in English, for the water is never warm, but the name actually is an Indian word, na-sik-elt meaning narrow canyon. Subtract the n and the t and you have, approximately, the English name Icicle. The canyon goes for miles. Trails from it go to the Enchantment Plateau, many alpine lakes, and