Through Time and the Valley

6. Cutting for Sign

6 Cutting for Sign Bythe time we crossed Adobe Creek the shadows were about five o'clock long and the tyranny of the midday sun had lessened a bit. We probably should have made camp on the creek, but we hadn't traveled much that day and were anxious to push on down the river. And after all, for the past two days we had seen ideal camping spots everywhere we looked, so there was no reason to think the country would change all of a sudden. The country changed all of a sudden. On crossing Adobe Creek, we left the lush green meadows behind and found ourselves in a harsh forbidding country of high sand hills, thinly grassed and dotted with soapweed and skunkbrush. An hour passed as we looked in vain for possible camp sites. We didn't even see a tree in 51 52 -.- Through TiIne and the Valley this country, much less a spring ofwater. Our expectations declined by the minute until we resolved to stop at the first windmill we came to. But looking around in a circle, we saw no sign of a windmill , only mile upon mile of sand hills. Finally we split up. I rode south to scout the country from the tops of the hills, while Bill and the mule moved on in an easterly direction. Eventually we both sighted a windmill in the distance and rode toward it. We made camp near an old cottonwood tree about three hundred yards from the windmill, reasoning that it would be easier to transport water than firewood. Within thirty minutes we had hobbled the horses, pitched and trenched the tent, doctored cuts and sores on the animals, and had water boiling over a big cottonwood fire. We dined that night on rice with bouillon, fried bacon, gravy, and dried fruit, and darkness found us inside the tent, jotting down notes by lantern light and swigging hot sassafras tea. The next morning Bill gathered up our waterbags and canteens and went down to the windmill for water. It was then that I discovered I had lost my canteen in the sand hills the previous afternoon. I despaired of ever finding it again. While Bill was gone, I looked up from the cooking fire and spotted a terrapin crawling through the sand nearby. I had heard old-timers tell of Plains Indians gathering hundreds of these turtles and baking them in the coals of a campfire, but I had never known anyone who had actually eaten baked terrapin, or who could offer a reliable opinion on it one way of another. So I decided to try it myself. By the time Bill returned with the water, I had cracked open the shell and was taking my first bite of baked land turtle. He glanced at the shell in my hand and curled his lip. Between bites, I tried to explain that it was the responsibility of the younger generation to preserve these old recipes and pass them on to the yetunborn . He nodded, filled his plate with rice and raisins, and retired to another part of the camp. For the benefit of the next generation, here is my informed Cutting for Sign - 53 opinion of baked terrapin. After baking it for twenty minutes, you crack open the under side of the shell and marvel at all the luscious meat that isn't there. And then you understand why the Indians gathered hundreds of them. The best protection the terrapin has against a hungry race of men is not his shell, but rather the fact that the shell is practically empty. The terrapin, which looks so plump crawling over the prairie, is composed of entrails, legs, and a lot of empty space. What meat you find isn't bad, a strip of white around the neck which has a fishy taste, and the dark meat of the legs which resembles cottontail rabbit. But I think maybe the best advice I could pass on to the generations unborn is to put baked terrapin, along with jackrabbit and prickly pear, at the bottom of the list of interesting foods. After breakfast we sand-washed the pans and broke down the camp. Looking out at the sand hills in front of us, I began to fret about my lost canteen, at which time Bill wondered why I didn't pick up my trail of yesterday afternoon and...