Twice we had to stop and chop a path through fallen trees to give the Model T room to pass. Other than that, the trail was no problem. The high clearance of the Ford enabled it to step right over rocks and the hump between the ruts. We didn’t drive fast, of course. Warm air flowed over the windshield, which my father had lowered, bathing our faces with its many fragrances.

Both my father and Tim had watches. Timmy’s was a cheap turnip which had originally belonged to my father, who gave it to him when he invested in his own, a gold Hamilton railroad watch with the numerals in Roman. Tim’s kept fairly good time as long as he remembered to wind it, which was twice a day, but my father frequently bragged that his Hamilton was accurate down to a minute a month. On several occasions I have seen him prove it by comparisons against the Western Union clock at the railroad station.

When we reached the creek, Tim’s turnip said it was five after three, while my father’s Hamilton proclaimed that the hour was 3:11. Either way, we had a problem—and a hard decision to make. By the time we were unloaded, it would easily be 5:00, and daylight would start to fail around 7:30. Should we load up the canoe and proceed an hour or so downstream before setting up camp or should we set up camp here by the edge of the creek and waste that hour or so of travel time?

My father asked for our opinions. Tim was all for pressing on. I argued against him. “We have had a long day already,” I pointed out, “and we will be very tired before we set foot in the canoe. What can an hour of paddling gain us? Three or four miles downstream? Then we have to find a good camp and get it ready. Here we have a perfect camp. We can spend our time packing everything aboard the canoe that we won’t need for sleeping or breakfast. That will give us an early start, which will more than make up for the hour we lose this evening.”

Tim grumbled, but my father cast his vote with me, and we set about unloading the Ford. My father suggested that, since we now knew how to gather materials for a browse bed, we do so while he loaded the canoe. We fetched poles and balsam boughs and, although it pains me to admit it, Tim did a more than passable job in laying down the bed. I helped, toting and holding what he required, and before long we had constructed a bed that would have done Warren G. Harding proud.

Meanwhile my father had taken the canoe down carefully and slipped it into the water, where he tied it to two trees, fore and aft. Then he began to sort our gear. That which was not needed for our overnight camp was piled on the bank near the canoe and covered with the canvas fly.