I just finished the journal of our two weeks trip in August 12-26, 2015, which I call my final journey to the Great American West. I kept a journal from start to finish, including photos and items of historical background. This trip makes 15 journeys westward since 1993. On this last trip I spent time musing by a pool where, on an earlier trip, the big brown struck and my fly rod flew apart or where we had the two first campsites with Ronald Vandiver and the Reed Brothers, and Ralph Heddon.
At I walked down to see our first campsite at Wiggins Fork Ron Vandiver and group, I remember Ralph Heddon’s good biscuits cooked in a Dutch oven and fresh fish for supper. At this camp a large bull moose that early one morning waded across the river below camp, stopping midstream to drink water. On that trip I’d gone alone deep into the gorge to fish where big trout lie and in pain from an old back injury found an easy way back upstream walking along a high game trail just under the rim rock.
Near camp in a clump of firs on a knoll I had sat long on a log and felt my back pain ease while a big owl with unblinking eyes stared down at me. As we gazed at each other I felt at peace in my mind and heart. A fresh breeze blew through the boughs and the sound of the river made me feel sleepy and content.
After many journeys west and years spent fishing streams in the Blue Ridge Mountains I almost daily live with inner visions of wide plains, snow-capped peaks and rushing streams. Some memories remain clear through the passing of years. I keep a day to day journal or diary of the trips and back home I fill a binder with narrative and photos.
On page 7, Journey to Wiggins Fork and North Platte River, Aug. 12 to 26. 2015, I wrote “Wed., Aug. 17, 2015: Here by the flow of Frontier Creek which runs into Wiggins Fork River I sit a short way above our camp and watch the flow ripple over varied colored stones. Years ago with Ronald Vandiver and the Reed brothers – Ralph and Ray – and Ralph Branson, I took a bath in a pool sheltered by a clump of willows. Because of this inner longing for one final journey westward I was in familiar surroundings where great granite capped mountains lined the valley on each side. The phrase of an old song, “Away, away, across the river…” came to mind.
Actually on trips out west we have run into other folks from Georgia. An empty pickup near a trail head had a local Georgia tag but we left camp there without meeting the occupants. Many families and small groups from Georgia go west every year. More go in summer but many people who like to ski or snow mobile go in winter.
Thus, from a young age I read fiction books by Zane Gray and histories or explorations of the west such as the Lewis and Clark Expedition. People from the early years of our country kept going westward on the Oregon Trail and others feeling the urge to start a new life and perhaps find gold, the “Mother Lode!” Horace Greely made the famous statement, “Go west young man, go west!” I did. First as a young man and many times since while in the Air Force and later in life.
My life’s been blessed because I answered the call of the West.
