“Topping Out”

Chapter 1 Down to the Salmon “There she lays,” the stage driver said as he pointed. “Yonder’s a big hunk of the Salmon River country.” The panorama suddenly revealed from the rim of Idaho’s high Camas Prairie was a fantasy in dimensions. I gazed out over the nation’s greatest continuous expanse of blue peaks and rugged gorges, many unexplored. Here, within a fifty-mile radius, lay the three deepest river canyons on the continent—Hells Canyon of the Snake, the Salmon River Gorge, and that of its Middle Fork. From ridge to ridge, the immensity rose and fell into the mist of its own purple horizon. Out to our right, grand in its dusky depth, one predominant chasm coiled into the tapestry of distance. “That’s part of the lower Salmon gorge.” The driver followed its sweep of fantastic color and distance with a wide gesture. “I had no idea it was so wide! So deep!” I exclaimed. “This don’t hold a candle to the upper Salmon country,” he explained. “Don’t suppose you’ll ever see it though. Most schoolma’ams get mighty river shy after the first year, especially if they come from the city, and I’d guess you do.” His glance flicked over my velvet toque; tailored tricotine suit and high-heeled, buttoned shoes. “My folks live in Boise,” I said. “I’d guess this is your first school too,” he announced. Uneasily I admitted this, wondering if, in spite of my grown-up lady’s costume, I looked as young as my sixteen years. I wanted desperately to look eighteen, the minimum age required by Idaho for teaching. Feeling guilt for the false statements made to the examining board and in various applications for schools, I wanted no discussion on the subject of age. He spoke some more. “And I’d guess again that you don’t know much about this country, or you’d have left that trunk at home. A big box thing like that can cause a sight of misery traveling like you’ll have to do from now on.” I didn’t like my shiny new trunk called “a big box thing,” but I had to admit that it had already caused considerable trouble, for in order to load it that morning, the rear stage seat had to be removed. Fortunately, I was the only passenger for the canyon country. I glanced back at my treasure surrounded by mailbags and sundry freight items. Already its glossy surface was coated with dust. “I wouldn’t have brought it if I’d come straight through by stage from Boise,” I apologized. “But they said part of the road was out from a cloud burst, and I couldn’t get to White Bird that way. Had to come by train around through Oregon and Washington to Lewiston and take that jerkwater line up to Grangeville. Just think—three days to get a hundred miles from home.” “Just as well, though,” remarked the driver. “That stage road north from Boise is a heller at best. Takes as long, too, with stopovers and all, and you’d have been plenty shook up.” “The ticket agent thought I’d get almost to White Bird on the train. It looked such a little way from Grangeville on the map.” “A little way on a map don’t mean a thing in this country,” the driver commented grimly. After a tug on the reins, the team moved along the narrow road on the edge of the prairie. In spite of my wretched night spent in Grangeville, I took a last long look back to its faint smudge on the horizon. It was to be my last contact with life’s easier ways for a longer time than I then knew. In that raw frontier town, built by cattle, mine, and wheat, I had spent my first night of total aloneness and my first sojourn ever in a hotel. Booted feet had clumped up and down the hall, accompanied by loud laughter and profanity. There had been raucous whoops in the street, and at intervals horses were ridden up and down the boardwalks. When midnight passed and the tempo increased, I arose, dressed, and sat on the bed until dawn brought a lull in the merriment. When I went downstairs for an early breakfast, the desk clerk apologized for the uproar. “The boys like to celebrate a little on Saturday nights,” he explained. The edge of the prairie was close. The road dipped to the rim, and we started over. Far below, our way wound steadily downward. Several switchbacks were already in sight. It seemed a desperate descent to the bottom of the vast declivity. I set my feet and took a firm grip on the seat. The rangy bay team upped their rumps against the downward push of the surrey; the driver’s foot pushed gently and then harder on the brake. Iron tires screeched on wooden brake blocks, and a cascade of dust rose with each wheel turn, encasing us in a smothering cloud. “This here’s a twelve-mile grade, and she’s down every foot of the way,” said my companion. “But there’s no need to be nervous. I drive it every day.” The vast panorama was snatched from us as we clattered down the grade. Rapidly we sank into the mass of steep, brown hills. Gigantic outcrops of lava towered above us, and the road twisted between massive boulders. My trunk worked loose from its moorings and shifted forward against the seat, threatening to catapult us over the dashboard. At the next switchback, we halted. The driver set the brakes, handed me the reins, and alighted to chock the wheels. Then he set about the task of arresting the movement of my roving luggage, pushing it back, and using additional rope to anchor it. Acutely embarrassed, I gripped the reins tensely and considered the “sight of misery” my box thing had already caused. Down we went and still down. The sere grasses of the upper level gave way to sturdier stands of milkweed and thistle. Chokecherry bushes began to appear, their leaves and fruit heavy with dust. Occasionally, we spanned a gully between hills where a brave trickle of water greened the weeds and grass along its course. There was no tenseness in my driver’s leather brown face. His eyes squinted against the billowing dust, and he slouched at ease against the low seat back. Only the grip of his hands on the reins and the forward thrust of his foot against the brake showed constant vigilance. I began to relax. “How big a town is White Bird?” I asked. “Not very big,” he said. “Couple of stores, bunch of saloons, bank, and hotel.” “I hope someone’s there to meet me.” “There will be,” he said. “Never no question but some of the young bucks around will be there to meet the new schoolma’am. They just fight for the chance.” I could feel a flush creep up under the coat of dust that covered my face. “I’m not teaching the town school, you know. It’s at Buck Creek. Do you know where it is?” “Sure, I know!” he exclaimed with sudden interest. “It’s across the river up between the forks of the Salmon and the Snake. Pretty country up there, but rough.” “Rougher than this?” I asked quickly.