Daddy Came Back, and All Was Right

We could hear my father before we saw him. A sound like a bird whistle soared over the thick forest of Douglas fir deep in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon. It was Daddy’s whistle, to tell us that he was almost back with bacon and maybe even eggs. Certainly some canned food and some coffee and hard candy.

In minutes, we could hear the soft clop of the horses’ hoofs on the deep mossy carpet in the woods. And then Daddy was there and off his horse and swinging me high in the air.

I had tried to be brave when he was gone and, of course, the one who was really brave was my mother. And when I heard that whistle in the vaulted stillness of the mountain sky, I knew everything would be all right because Daddy was back. If you’re struck with luck, that’s the way it is for you. Your father is always there for you, telling you that you are the best kid, the smartest, and that you have made him proud.

He also told me lots of things that made me contemplate patricide, but nothing that ever made me doubt his love and steadfastness no matter what crazy quagmire I had wandered into.

Daddy had left us alone in the woods for six days because of a series of woodland misfortunes.

We had packed deep into the mountains, riding three days in with four of us, three horses and three pack animals, probably mules, I don’t remember. I was 3 years old. I do remember riding in front of Daddy on the Western saddle. Mother was right behind us on her horse and then Bob Christensen, a 14-year-old son of Daddy’s law partner, who had been brought along as a special treat for him. I don’t know if Bob ever went into the woods again.

At the end of the third day, we made camp by a rushing mountain stream in a clearing in the heavy timber. The horses and mules were tethered farther up the dim trail.

Mother cooked dinner on the camp stove and we finally curled up for the night in sleeping bags, feet toward the embers of the fire.

During the night, the horses and mules came galloping by the camp and disappeared into the woods.

The next morning when Daddy went to where they had been tethered, there was one horse still tied. The others had been terrified by mountain lions and had broken loose. Daddy found cougar tracks in the soft earth down by the creek.

Daddy and Mother decided that Daddy would ride back for more animals and supplies because he was the better rider and could make better time. Bob stayed with us to be the man at camp, to build the fires and help Mother.

The three of us walked upstream the first day to catch some trout for lunch. I don’t suppose I caught any, but Mother and Bob did.

When we came back to camp with our fish, there wasn’t much left but the sleeping bags and the iron frying pans. Mother had not secured the food and I don’t know if anyone could have against the band of foraging bears that cleaned us out. They ate cartons of cigarettes, Mother’s makeup case and the first-aid kit. They tore open the sack of flour and scattered it all over the ground. And they tore open a package of shortening. They ate or destroyed everything.

For the next six days until Daddy came back, we ate trout Mother and Bob caught in the icy stream. She cooked them coated in flour with no shortening. I can still taste that black, iron flavor. Maybe that’s why I have never been able to understand the yuppie hurrah over blackened fish.

During the night, Mother and Bob took turns staying awake to keep the fire going to scare away the mountain lions. When Bob took his turn, he played the harmonica to keep himself awake.

I remember only bits of the story, riding in front of Daddy on the horse, the taste of the burned trout, Bob playing the harmonica and, most of all, Daddy’s bird whistle through the dark trees.

I don’t expect you to believe it, but I have a piece of half-moon-shaped fungus that Mother broke off a tree and drew pictures on with a twig. It has my name, a picture of a pansy and a cat sitting on a fence with its tail hanging down in a question mark.

Today, if you have a father at your house, whether he is yours, your husband’s or your child’s, fix his favorite dinner or get him his favorite takeout chili. Even let him cook if you are blessed with that kind. I have never been related to any man who went beyond opening the peanut butter or calling for Chinese takeout.

Happy Father’s Day to your house, and let’s toast Mrs. John B. Dodd who sponsored the first day honoring the old boy on June 19, 1910, in Spokane, Wash.

Wind the coconut cake round with honeysuckle, because that’s the way Daddy liked it, and cherish the gentleman you call Dad.