Over the course of the next two-and-a-half months I will be making the transition from Eugene, Oregon to Palo Alto, California. I have begun to chronicle the experience pioneer-journal style and will continue to do so as long as it remains an enjoyable creative writing outlet. So, if you care to hear about the travels and are partial to a world where pony means bike, wagon means Subaru Legacy, and my spunky tuxedo cat is a hirsute, rural woodwooker, you can find it here.
I woke again to the sound of death. Reshi, a hairy former carpenter who joined our party just outside Fort Springfield, likes to hunt early. 5am found him standing over his squealing prey, which had lodged itself under a bolder. However, he dispatched of it within minutes. The sun had not yet shown its face when he could be heard outside the camp chomping on bones. We all have to agree that he is a rather disgusting eater. Still, despite this and his poor taste in meat, he has been an asset to the party.
This morning I scavenged some blueberries from a thicket north of our camp. I plan to return tomorrow and everyday for the foreseeable future, until they are gone. Blueberries are such a luxury these days and they made an enviable breakfast with some grits and the dregs of some coffee I brewed yesterday afternoon and had been keeping by my cot.
We have been camping with a fellow wagon for a week now. It is a newer model and quite large. As we fear we may be loaded down in upcoming travels, we will be sending some of our belongings down the coast with them. I feel fairly confident in the driver’s ability to keep the items safe, but only hope I have packed the load securely enough that the dishes and other fragile items will not break.
Our wagon has problems. The day will be spent on repairs. I pray it is not an axle again, but I know the rugged trail takes its toll.
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