. . . And The Mitchums Found Snow

The last time the urge to take to the great outdoors overpowered mv husband, he announced that he thought he’d go fishing. The look I gave him spoke one sentence. Translated, it said, “What about all the work you’ve been promising to do around the house?”

It was a very effective sentence. I’ve never seen anyone do a faster job of putting in a garden walk. And then, no less than five minutes afterwards, Fearless Bob Mitchum (as he was dubbed in MODERN SCREEN) and our close friend, Equally Fearless Joe Haworth, set out for the wild, woody yonder to catch all the fish the law would allow. When they returned, after a few days and many adventures, they happily managed to give the impression that they’d invented this sport involving rod and reel.

I found romance in the mountains

 

You may have read about their daring deeds. I’m glad they’re on record because the fish seem to grow bigger each time Bob tells the tale.

As for the rest of us Mitchums, we sat at home with the garden walk. “Next time you decide to travel, include me in,” I told Bob.

“And me,” Jim added.

“Me, too,” said Chris.

“Well . . . if you get the chores done,” Fearless Mitchum said loftily.

The weeks passed, but before long I got the feeling that there was something in the air and it wasn’t quite time for Spring. For several days I noticed that Bob seemed busier than usual. He’d finished Macao and deserved a rest. However, he wasn’t taking it. He built new shelves for the kitchen cupboard. He mended the torn screen. He gave the lawn a clipping that resembled a close crewcut. I remember thinking how strange it was as I watched him puttering around the yard. It had only been a month since I asked him to cut the grass, and I couldn’t have mentioned it more than once.

Suddenly, I realized there wasn’t a job left that would require a handyman’s knowhow. My husband, I concluded, was about to begin to suffer from an acute case of wanting to take a trip. I settled back and tried to figure just where we’d go, because I could tell that Bob was giving the matter careful, though silent, consideration.

Quite logically, dialogue followed. “Ever see such weather?” Bob exclaimed one morning at breakfast. “Warm, sunny . . . hard to believe it’s snowing in the mountains.”

Jim and Chris glanced up from their cereal. “Yep,” said Jim hopefully, “must be lots of snow up there.”

Chris just looked wistful. Being married to a husband who’s an actor, I know a cue when I hear one. “We can always take the Joneses up on their invitation to Tahoe,” I suggested.

From the reaction the statement got, you’d have thought it was the greatest idea ever to hit the Mitchum household. And from the three bear hugs I received, I was nearly convinced that the idea was mine.

Ever since we’ve known them, Stan and Olive Jones (he wrote the hit song, “Ghost Riders”) have been singing the praises of Tahoe. Especially famous as a summer resort, it’s now coming into its own during the winter season. We were probably the only folks in Hollywood who hadn’t made the trek to investigate its claim to fame.

We were on our way through the small town of Bishop when Bob stopped the station wagon. “I think we’ve forgotten something,” he said with a shiver. “Follow me.”

And with that, he led us into a nearby department store . . . to the department of long woolen underwear. When we reached Tahoe I realized the value of our purchases. It was cold. Bitterly cold. However, to our boys’ disappointment, there was no snow. “Must be snow around here someplace,” said Jim. “Can’t we just keep on riding till we find some?”

“It’ll come. We’ll wait for it,” Bob promised.

Stan and Olive have a huge lodge on the lake. Usually they only open the rooms downstairs. But our brood rated the run of the house. It was late, so Jim and Chris went upstairs to bed. When we stopped in to say goodnight, we found them buried under a pile of blankets. I looked around for their clothes. They were nowhere in sight . . . nor in the closet. Two pairs of shoes were at the foot of the bed. A couple of small heads raised up from their pillows. The faces were grinning sheepishly. The boys had turned in fully dressed—even to heavy socks and stocking caps. “We’re freeeezing, Mom,” said Chris by way of explanation.

As it turned out, our youngsters had hit upon a fine solution to the problem of the below zero room temperature. Bob and I were the first to admit it. We took off our shoes and went to bed.

“I’m the rugged type,” I kept telling myself when morning came and I knew the temperature had gone down even lower during the night.

I made a dash for the fire downstairs, to find there was no fire downstairs. Right away I was sure Id done the wrong thing. On the other hand, I noted that Fearless Bob Mitchum didn’t stir from bed until! he heard Stan throwing logs into the fireplace.

There was still no snow. The weather wizards predicted it, but another day passed with Jim and Chris sitting by the barometer watching and waiting. They had seen snow once—several years ago in Hollywood when the weather had double-crossed the Chamber of Commerce and the white stuff blanketed our back yard. However, I had to agree that it wasn’t quite the same.

The following morning, I heard the boys’ shouts and knew what was happening even before I looked out of the window. Chris and Jim were hysterical. Jim got out the sled that had been in our closet for four years. Then we headed for the closest hill. “Here now, let me show you how to handle it,” said Bob as if the sled were a complicated machine.

Some 15 minutes later, he had climbed the hill and whizzed down again for the umpteenth time. “Think I’ve got the hang of it,” he finally announced. “Pile on.”

This went on all morning. And when the kids turned to making snowmen, Bob and the sled were still going strong. We fell into bed early that evening, as we had a big day ahead. That was the day I changed my mind about my husband. For the past few months, I’d been thinking that surely I was married to another Isaac Walton. However, I discovered that my husband had discarded this characterization in favor of Zebulon Pike, no less, when we set out to scale Lookout Mountain. In my estimation, Pike’s Peak could have nothing on Lookout Mountain. Statistics will have you believe that it’s a mile straight up. By the time we reached the top, my feet would have been willing to swear that the distance was at least five thousand miles.

Chris carried his bow and arrows. Jim took along his .22. Bob and Stan, occasionally pausing casually to lean against a tree long enough to get used to the altitude, were loaded down with picnic lunch. I brought up the rear with my camera. As I said, we did reach the top . . . slightly more exhausted than victorious. And the general feeling when we got back to the lodge was one of surprise!

Never let it be said that we weren’t game for all the sports! Novices—but nevertheless enthusiastic ones. Since Squaw Valley is a skier’s paradise, eventually we got around to skiing. That is, Bob got around to skiing. The ski tow there is the world’s longest (about 8,400 feet). Chris, Jim, and I watched Bob get off at some incredible altitude, wave goodbye and continue the trip sitting down.

When our feet touched the ground again we heard a familiar voice shout, “Hello.” It was Margaret Sheridan, who like Bob, is under contract to RKO. She was debating whether to try her skill on the steeper slopes. As she had had only one lesson, I convinced her that she should come back to the lodge with us. Cups of hot coffee later, she had no regrets. There’s nothing like coffee and conversation around a roaring big fire.

The day before we headed back for Hollywood, the menfolk planned a hunting trip. Jim and Chris had talked of nothing else for 24 hours. Bob and Stan made elaborate preparations for the snipe hunt they’d promised the boys. I was in on the secret. “Think they’ll ever forgive you?” I asked Bob.

“They’ll have a fine time,” he said.

Some distance from the lodge, oldtimers Mitchum and Jones explained the technique of snipe hunting. “You just stand here and hold the bags open and we’ll scare up the snipe. When they come out of hiding, we’ll chase them into the sacks.”

Jim and Chris agreed. They stood quietly while Bob and Stan disappeared to beat the snipe out of the snowy bushes. The boys waited patiently. No snipe. No Bob Stan, for that matter. At last they caught on to the gag. They had been left holding the bags. A few hours later, they wandered in. Jim was pretty sore. Chris thought it was very funny. However, they both thought the game had possibilities.

It seemed no time at all before our excursion was over. We packed the station wagon, said our goodbyes and started for Hollywood. Halfway there I chanced to remark that I hoped we hadn’t forgotten anything. “I left my sled,” said Jim in a small voice.

“You what?” bellowed Bob.

“I thought maybe we could go back and get it sometime soon,” replied Jim.

“You have a point there,” Bob told him. “You know, I think every growing boy should have a chance to romp in the snow and take advantage of winter sports.”

“I think so, too,” I said and grinned at my three growing boys.

THE END

—BY DOROTHY MITCHUM

(Robert Mitchum can be seen in RKO’s His Kind of Woman.—ED.)

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE MAY 1951