Moving to Whitethorn

My mother and I moved to Whitethorn when I was 8 years old. Albert Sharpe who owned the Whitethorn Lumber Company was my new stepfather. The following is from my book, Tales of Whitethorn, Growing Up With Loggers. It is from the second chapter, The Road To Whitethorn, where I get my introduction to the Whitethorn road.

"After Briceland, we start climbing into the hills. The country looks pretty bare except for a few scrubby bay trees and manzanita brush. I crane my neck looking out at tree stumps and dead branches scattered all over the mountains.

I turn to Al. “Why are all the trees cut down?”

He looks at me and pulls his smoking pipe out of his mouth. “When I moved out here, most of this country was filled with trees. Giant redwoods, fir and tan bark. The redwoods and fir trees were cut for lumber and the tan bark was stripped from the trees and used for tanning leather. What’s left on the mountains out there is called, ‘slashings’.”

“’Slashings,’ sure is the right word,” I agree, “It looks like a giant pirate ran all over the place swinging his sword taking out everything in sight.” I spend a few minutes imagining a wild pirate swinging his gleaming sword at all the trees.

For the next couple of miles the road is so rough I have to hang on to my seat. I wonder why anyone would want to live way out here. “Why did you come to Whitethorn?” I ask Al.

“I wasn’t born in this country,” he says. I was born in Canada.”

“Where is Canada?”

“Canada is a big country way up north,” he explains. When I came to California, I made enough money in the woods to buy a saw mill. The Whitethorn Lumber Company was for sale for a decent price so I bought it.”

I sit back in my seat. He does talk kind of funny, like saying ‘bean’ instead of ‘been.’ “Why did you leave Canada?” I ask.

“When I graduated eighth grade, my father wanted me to work in our store instead of going to high school. I was so mad I ran away from home.”

My eyes widen. “Did you join a circus? I’ve heard stories about kids running away and working in a circus.”

He chuckles, “I went to the United States and started working in a coal mine.”

“A coal mine!”

“Yep. I worked there a couple of years. One day, I decided I would spend my whole life in a dark and dirty hole in the ground, if I didn’t do something to get out.”

“I’ve nevcr known anyone who worked in a coal mine. So how did you get away?”

He chuckles again. “You might say I played my way out. I started playing poker with the miners and before long, I made a big enough stake to leave and look for some other kind of work.”

“You must be a super poker player,” I reply, impressed.

My mother Ruby jumps into the conversation. “He’s the best poker player I’ve ever seen. No one can beat him.”

I sit quiet for a while, mulling it all over. Finally I ask. “Do you still own the mill?”

“Yep.”

“When we get to Whitethorn, we’ll take you to visit the mill,” Ruby adds.

Suddenly, the road becomes real steep and turns into a big S shape. Ruby shifts down to a lower gear. “Is this where I double clutch it?” she asks Al.

“Yes. Just push the clutch in a couple of times while you’re shifting.”

As Ruby tries to do the double clutch an awful grinding noise fills up the cab. I’m scared to death the pickup is falling apart.

Al clamps his teeth down on his pipe and hollers, “You’re not doing it right!”

“I just can’t get the hang of it!” Ruby wails.

Finally we grind to the top of the hill. The road to Whitethorn sure is rough, and I worry a little about what’s waiting for me at the end of it.

From the top of the hill, we free wheel it downhill. When my mother rolls down her window, a wonderful scent hits my nose along with the dust. It reminds me of sweet flowers, spicy bay leaves and wild berries. Maybe Whitethorn is going to be okay. I can hardly wait to get there and see what it’s like. “When are we going to get there, Ruby?”

She smiles. “It won’t be long now.”

A little while later the country starts to change again. I see a couple of small ranches with pastures that hold cows and sheep. Red dusty roads are branching out in all directions up into the mountains. Al says they are old logging roads and even today a few people live in some of the old shacks built on them. I wonder if we are soon going to turn into one of these old roads. I would hate to live up on these mountains with heaps of dust piled high on both sides of our house.

“See those bushes out there beside the road?” Ruby says. “They are whitethorn brush. The closer we get to Whitethorn, the more whitethorn brush you’ll see.”

I look around, but see only some stringy green bushes, nothing white. “Why do they call it whitethorn?” I ask.

“In the spring, they bloom masses of beautiful white flowers,” Ruby replies.

It isn’t long before our broken down road brings us to a little town. This must be Whitethorn. Like in Briceland, everything is covered with dust, only not so deep. A tiny grocery store sits on the left and a post office on the right. I don’t see a bar yet, but I’m sure it’s here. Other dirt roads split off from the main road. A River cuts off the houses on the right, and to get to them, it looks like people have to cross a scary-looking narrow bridge.

The main road follows along beside the river and we soon pass a meadow full of whitethorn and poison oak. What fun. Now I’ll be able to catch poison oak again just like I did in Bull Creek.

Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley