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Back Come Again No More Save as PDF
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover
  3. Title Page
  4. Contents
  5. PART I 
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. PART II 
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. PART III 
  38. 31.
  39. 32.
  40. 33.
  41. 34.
  42. 35.
  43. 36.
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. PART IV 
  48. 40.
  49. 41.
  50. 42.
  51. 43.
  52. 44.
  53. 45.
  54. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  55. Touchstone Reading Group Guide

The only mercy was that Red and Molly had fallen asleep, the two of them curled up in the back seat. The perilous trip down the mountain took well over an hour. At last the road leveled out a mile from Moran Junction, where the state patrol had set up a roadblock. All vehicles heading east toward the pass were being turned back. Jake pulled up next to one of the troopers and asked what was going on.

“They’re calling for at least three feet a snow up there, probably more. We’re closin the road. You folks was damned lucky to make it down, haulin that trailer and all.”

It was still snowing lightly at the roadblock, but by the time they got into Moran Junction it had stopped snowing and the sky was beginning to clear. The snow on the hood of the Dodge steamed in the sunshine. The clouds lifted off the mountains.

They camped ten miles south of Jackson that night and ate a quiet supper with other families who were huddled around bonfires. Most had also come through Togwotee Pass. They sat quietly, not talking or singing, worn out by the crossing. Even Jake was quiet and glum. Emaline was grateful for the boy, who lay with his head in her lap as she sat by the fire. As weary as she was, he was a line cast into the future, a reason to go on.

From Wyoming, they followed the beautiful Snake River west into Idaho, the winding river between its high banks so lovely that it temporarily lifted their spirits. Idaho started well, with the river and the mountains, then petered out into flat potato fields, a plateau as flat, dry, and dreary as Nebraska, even if they could look out onto cultivated potato fields rather than sagebrush. Emaline longed for tall trees, shade, wide rivers, and rain, all the things she associated with Oregon. It seemed as though they were making no progress at all, running on a treadmill to nowhere. They limped along from camp to camp, stopping again and again to patch tires on both the Dodge and the trailer, overheating again and again or pulling over to let the brakes cool. Emaline tried to remind herself that the pioneers had come this way by oxcart, but that was small consolation. At least an ox would never get a flat tire.