From the Relief Society Magazine, August 1950 –

The Jumpher Family Camps

By Deone R. Sutherland

“It’s ridiculous,” Mama said, “not to take enough things so we’ll be good and comfortable.”

“But we’re only going for four days,” Papa moaned. “I don’t mind that camp stove so much, but Martin’s rocker! Is he going to rock?”

Martin is the youngest in the family. He was rocking now on the edge of the sidewalk. People turned out for him.

“He might get tired,” Mama said. Then she whispered, “Besides, you know how attached he is to that little rocker. I doubt if he’d come without it.”

Martin had got awfully fond of his rocker. He’d drag it all over the apartment with him. Sometimes he’d sit in it with a little smile of blissful satisfaction curving his lips. He slept with it by his crib so he might reach out and touch it if he liked.

“But where will we put it? We’re so overloaded now,” said Papa, “we’ll never make it up the steep stretches of the canyon.”

“Well,” Mama looked reflective. Then went over to the car. We were all standing around outside helping load the car, Papa, Mama, Randy, Richard, me, Martha Jane, and Martin in his rocker. Occasionally people going by would slow their cars and look back, or else, if they were walking, turn their heads casually in our direction, then sharply. Martin stared serenely back at the reluctantly diminishing forms of the passers-by.

My sister Randy hated it. “Honestly,” she said, “we can’t even take a trip like other people. We have to be a spectacle.” But I noticed she stayed around.

Mama had climbed into the car. “Can’t we leave these things home, Hugh? It would make much more room on the rear seat, and maybe we could put the rocker—”

Papa groaned, “My fishing equipment! I might as well stay home as leave that. We’ll have to put the rocker on top of that tent and bedding on the top of the car.”

We finally coaxed Martin to leave the rocker and get inside the car. It was crowded, but Papa said the canyon wasn’t too far away. We were very excited.

“I’m starving,” said Richard. “Trips always make me hungry.”

“We’ve barely started,” said Papa.

“Hungry,” moaned Martin.

Mama passed us a banana. After awhile we ate the oranges. Martin ate part of his and then rubbed it on the car window.

“Now, I can’t see out at all,” complained Randy. “Tell us when we get to the canyon.” Martin reached over to rub his orange on Randy, but Mama caught him and pulled him into the front seat again. “This is a very lovely trip,” Mama kept saying. “It was very nice of Papa to insist on taking all of us with him when he went fishing this year.”

“We need a real outing together,” Papa said emphatically. Then he ordered in a loud voice, “Smell!” It was the canyon. The car began going uphill. It had been overloaded; we could feel it. “Lean forward,” Richard shouted, and we leaned. We kept having to stop for water for the engine. “We should throw off something,” said Richard. “Let’s start throwing things off so we’ll make it.”

“No,” said Mama decisively. When we were going again, Mama kept pointing out nice places to stop.

“Not me,” said Papa, “we’re not even out of civilization yet. Besides, I know the spots up ahead that are wonderful for camping where we can be all by ourselves.”

“I don’t think the car will make it,” said Mama softly. “Look at the trees, children.” We all looked and smelled. It was wonderful; So much green, and real pine trees and a creek. There were wild flowers and dense green places of more varied shades than we remembered existed. We sniffed the air again. There was a different odor, the odor of burning.

“The engine,” Mama called. “Hugh!” Smoke curled out of the sides of the engine. Papa drove off the road towards the creek. We got out and ran for water. Puff went the engine and the paint on the top of the hood burned off. Papa threw the water, and the fire was out. He got in the car and tried to start the engine. It didn’t start.

“I think this is a lovely place to camp,” decided Mama.

“So do I,” said Papa, grinning. “These new cars,” he shook his head. “Remember the Model T we had when we were first married, Kate? We really could go up the hills in that.” He patted Mama’s shoulder.

“Hey,” yelled Richard, “Martha Jane, get out of the creek!”

“We ought to get the tent up,” reminded Mama.

“Yes,” said Papa, “but let’s explore a little.”

We ran about deciding where everything would go. We cleared a place for the bonfire. Richard wandered off, and we went out to look for him.

“It’s getting dark awfully fast,” said Randy.

“Clouds,” I said.

“Blow over in a minute,” Papa said. “Richard,” he hollered. He finally heard us, and we all ran to get to the camp before the storm. Mama, Martin, and Martha Jane were dragging our tent to the campsite.

“I believe we might have a little shower,” said Papa, and Martin began to cry at the lightning. I jumped at a clap of thunder. We had no time to get the tent up. We crouched under it, watching the rain. Mama opened a box of cookies she had brought from the car, and we ate them. Martin opened his mouth to cry at the crash of thunder, but went to sleep instead. Papa made beds for the smallest ones in the car, and the rest of us sat in the encroaching mud under the canvas of the tent. “It can’t last long,” Papa kept saying. It rained all night.

We woke up stiff and muddy and fully clothed. “The bedding is ruined,” Mama kept saying. “And so am I,” she would say, feeling her hair. But the sun was shining, and the puddles would soon dry up, answered Papa.

Martin loved the puddles. “Oh!” he’d say. “Oh!” and reach out his foot to step in one. We kept having to pull him back. Papa built a big fire, and we began to get dry. The smell of food made Richard say he was going to die of starvation, and the canyon trip began to be really fun after we had eaten.

“We’ll all go explore Cooter’s mine,”’ said Papa. “I’ll make this a real outing for you kids.”

“Don’t you think you ought to rest?” asked Mama. “After last night, I mean. You’ve been limping.”

“Just a crick in my leg,” said Papa. “It’ll go away. Now everyone come. I’ll carry Martin.”

“No,” said Mama, “Martin and I will stay here. I’ll keep Martha Jane, too, and we’ll fix things up a bit.”

Martha Jane screwed up her face, though she really didn’t know what she wasn’t going to get to do.

“No,” said Papa emphatically. “You rest with Martin, but I’ll take Martha Jane off your hands. Come on, kids. I need a good chance to get acquainted with my family. We’ll be back in plenty of time for lunch.”

Mama waved to us, but she looked doubtful.

Martha Jane trotted along holding Papa’s hand. Richard kept prancing ahead, and then running back. “It isn’t far,” said Papa, “if I remember rightly. Save your wind, Richard.”

“I feel fine,” said Richard, running up the trail.

I got tired, and Randy got tired.

“We should be there soon,” said Papa.

Martha Jane sat down. “I’m tired,” she said. Papa carried her. He was puffing quite hard. Pretty soon he quit talking and just set his jaw.

“Haven’t we hiked past this once before?” asked Richard, pointing to a pine tree growing through a rock.

“I believe we have,” said Papa, puffing. He set Martha Jane down. We rested.

“Come on,” said Richard, running ahead. In a moment he came back. “There’s a sign up here,” he said, “pointing that way to the mine.” He pointed back in the direction from which we had come.

“Let’s follow the signs,” suggested Randy.

We climbed along the side of the mountain, Martha Jane on Papa’s back. The mouth to the mine was small, and the huge logs holding up the entrance looked ancient. Papa was too tired to talk about it. He got out his flashlight and a string for all of us to hold on to. Martha Jane wouldn’t get down so Papa carried her. Richard galloped ahead and back. The tunnel was damp and dark. Water trickled down the sides of the leaning walls. There were puddles on the ground, so we walked carefully along the cross ties.

“Yow!” screeched Richard far up ahead. We heard a slide of rock.

“Richard,” called Papa, but there was no answer. “Richard, Richard!” called Papa, and we raced forward.

Papa handed Martha Jane to Randy, who staggered under the load. Papa ran faster than I’ve ever seen him. When we got up farther into the tunnel, we saw Papa lying flat in the wet, damp mud talking to Richard. Richard had fallen through one side of the track to a kind of cave beneath. Mud and debris partially filled the cave, but Richard still couldn’t reach Papa’s hand.

“Gee,” said Richard, “I guess you’ll have to leave me here.” We gathered around and looked down at him. Martha Jane began to cry.

“Hush,” said Papa. “We certainly won’t leave him here after all the money we’ve spent on him.” Papa handed Richard the string, but it was only to steady him; it could never hold him.

“You’ll have to stay here with Richard,” said Papa to Randy and me and Martha Jane. “I’ll have to go out and hunt for a pole or something.” Then he made us promise not to move one inch one way or another until he came back. “Anything might cave in under you at any time,” he said. We were impressed. We sat perfectly still, though our legs ached, and we began to feel cold from the damp.

“You can show people my skeleton,” called Richard, “and charge.”

“Be quiet,” said Randy.

Everybody felt gloomy, except Richard. He seemed very cheerful. Martha Jane cried herself to sleep on Randy. Our feet were wet and muddy, and when we had just decided to abandon Richard and try to find out what Papa might have fallen into, he came back. He was dragging two long limbs from trees. Branches, partially cut off, stuck out on the sides. Papa had a bandage around one of his hands. “Just a slight scratch,” said Papa. “I thought it would never stop bleeding,” he added. We were too cold to be very sympathetic.

Richard climbed out, after much slipping back and caving of dirt. His hair was matted with mud.

“Your mother will never know you,” said Papa to Richard and then to us. He tied us together with string and took Martha Jane on his back. We went very slowly.

“I’m hungry,” Randy announced.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” replied Papa.

“Hungry,” said Martha Jane, beginning to cry again.

Papa sang to her. “Oh, little Redwing, don’t you cry. Oh, little Redwing.” We didn’t laugh. We were too tired.

The sun made us squint when we got outside. Papa blocked the cave as a sign of warning and said he’d hike back with a sign since we didn’t have any paper.

“Today?” we asked with interest.

“Not today,” he said, looking away, “tomorrow.”

We slipped and slid and crawled down, down. Randy and I moaned. Richard galloped ahead, clutching trees and hallooing wildly. Papa came down backwards, sometimes on his knees, holding Martha Jane tightly. We got back much faster than we went up, but it still took a long time.

“Your mother will be very worried,” said Papa; “it’s long after lunch.”

We beat Papa and Martha Jane in by a mile, and Richard beat us. Mama had lunch waiting and the camp all fixed neatly. We felt much better, though Mama was horrified at how we looked.

“Did you all stand on your heads in mud?” she asked. We explained while we packed water to heat so we could get clean, which Mama said was going to be a job.

Papa got to the camp at last. He gasped and lay down on the ground. Martha Jane ran to Mama, and then she saw the swing. “Swing,” she squealed. She ran in circles, toe-danced to the swing. She seemed very happy and not tired at all.

Mama got out the first-aid kit and bandaged Papa’s hand. She put merthiolate on his scratches while he groaned. “I’m dead,” he kept saying. He revived to eat and wash and then lay down again on a blanket. He slept all afternoon while we explored. That night he told us stories, and we roasted marshmallows around the campfire.

Mama took us for a short hike the next morning while Papa fixed the car. He had to flag someone and go to the city for parts. It took him all day. He hired a man to drive him back. Then the next afternoon Papa wrote a sign about a very dangerous mine and cave-in and set off to post it. Mama sent Richard with him to show him the way, though she whispered that part to Richard. Also, on no condition, were they to go into the mine. “Don’t worry,” said Papa.

We hated to leave the canyon.

Papa was packing the car again, and we were helping. “Kate,” he said, looking over a pile of bedding, “I never imagined in a thousand years kids were so much work, that things pertaining to a family could be so exhausting.” He looked at Mama with great admiration and shook his head. We all felt very conceited as if Papa had praised us.

“I don’t want to go,” wailed Martha Jane, and Papa had to chase her. At last we were ready.

“Oh, my pine cones,” Randy yelled, and leaped from the car and ran across the camp area. “I can’t find them,” she called. She disappeared from sight. There was a kind of squeak and shout. Papa jumped out of the car. Randy came up from the creek. Rivulets of water dripped from her jeans. Mama ran with a blanket. “I slipped,” Randy explained.

“One more shock—” said Papa.

We were off, finally, winding down the canyon. It seemed a long time since we had first come to stay, since we had been home.

“It’s too bad, Hugh, you didn’t get to fish at all,” sympathized Mama, holding Martin so he could see outside.

“I don’t mind,” said Papa.

“This was the best trip,” declared Richard, “that we ever had.”

“Let’s do it every summer,” suggested Randy.

“Promise!” we all shouted at Papa. Papa promised.

“We had a wonderful time camping,” Randy said.

We really had.