![[Top: At the wheel of Grandfather Waterbury's Ford. Bottom: Nevada desert, with Father, July 1920, en route from Helena to San Diego.]](img/pg12_1.jpg)
How does one become this way? Why should one ever permit himself to harbor this odd mania for chilblains, malaria and bad digestion?
In my case I was on my way at the age of three weeks. I had been born in Tilden, Nebraska. As soon as she could travel, my mother took me to her people in Oklahoma. Scarce two, I was taken to Kalispell, Montana, to where my grandfather had removed himself. My father, lately out of the Navy when I was born, got about considerably and I saw little of him that I remember, though I idolized him when he turned up, on rare stops between trips. But when I was three he bought a homestead in Helena, Montana’s arid area. When I was seven my grandfather took me on an automotive adventure to Portland, Oregon from Helena, Montana —— a Model T Ford, a wilderness almost without trails, rare meetings with other adventurers through the wild Rockies. When I was nine there were other trips with my father and mother, trips as far as San Diego, California —— and going across the great deserts in a car of those days on the roads of those days was an adventure. My father had entered the Navy again with the declaration of war
in 1917. Then, the war over, he was out, a supercargo on a merchantman to Australia. And then he was in the Navy again. And all this meant movement to me.
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