Prologue 4 ~ Page 13
We finally camped in an empty field that dawn's early light proved to be a cemetery. From here on, the events that followed became a bit hectic and confused. Near Campo, we found a forest service camp, nearly six miles down a narrow dirt road winding into Hauser Creek Canyon.
This, instead of being an overnight staging area for our expedition, became our home away from home for the next six weeks. Barry Jr. and I made a 60 hour round trip to pick up our other two horses. This time we took the freeway all the way, but since the truck was now burning oil as rapidly as the radiator lost water, it seemed the driving was uphill, both ways. We did find that the best time to beat the LA traffic problem was at 3:30 A.M.
On the last turn, of the last hill, before the junction of the road leading to camp, old unfaithful erupted, and refused to go further. At that time of my life I was not much of a mechanic. My mechanical modus operandi was to leave an ailing vehicle to rest in hope that it would recover. This rarely worked. But, when a person is smart enough to bring horses along for a spare, they get the last laugh—sometimes.
BJ (that is Bar
ry Jr's nickname and I am getting tired of spelling it out) mounted his Pokey, a flashy sorrel he had purchased as a two year-old with $75 of his own money. Together they had grown up into a team, even if BJ was a little too long legged for Poke's small frame. This was the first horse Barry had trained all by himself, and he had done it right, the slow and gentle way. As a result, Pokey would come to a whistle for a pat on the head.
I rode a bossy chunk of bay that looked and acted his name—Charlie Horse. He wouldn't think of lowering himself to come to a whistle. Every now and then, just to show his independence, he played the bad actor by crow-hopping a bit. Unfortunately, being a bit overweight, his imitation of a rodeo star was comic. I don't think he ever figured out why I always ended up laughing at his performance. To work out his frustrations, Charles bullied the rest of the horses in our herd.
As we neared camp, Crazy Daisy, a completely dingy pinto mare, was the first to hear our hoof beats, and she hopped out on hobbles to give a welcome. We had not owned her long, and I wasn't sure "Daze" was even worth the $5 I had paid for her. She did have a good rein, but only two speeds—fast and stampede. My hope was that enough miles would settle her down.
This, instead of being an overnight staging area for our expedition, became our home away from home for the next six weeks. Barry Jr. and I made a 60 hour round trip to pick up our other two horses. This time we took the freeway all the way, but since the truck was now burning oil as rapidly as the radiator lost water, it seemed the driving was uphill, both ways. We did find that the best time to beat the LA traffic problem was at 3:30 A.M.
On the last turn, of the last hill, before the junction of the road leading to camp, old unfaithful erupted, and refused to go further. At that time of my life I was not much of a mechanic. My mechanical modus operandi was to leave an ailing vehicle to rest in hope that it would recover. This rarely worked. But, when a person is smart enough to bring horses along for a spare, they get the last laugh—sometimes.
BJ (that is Bar
ry Jr's nickname and I am getting tired of spelling it out) mounted his Pokey, a flashy sorrel he had purchased as a two year-old with $75 of his own money. Together they had grown up into a team, even if BJ was a little too long legged for Poke's small frame. This was the first horse Barry had trained all by himself, and he had done it right, the slow and gentle way. As a result, Pokey would come to a whistle for a pat on the head.I rode a bossy chunk of bay that looked and acted his name—Charlie Horse. He wouldn't think of lowering himself to come to a whistle. Every now and then, just to show his independence, he played the bad actor by crow-hopping a bit. Unfortunately, being a bit overweight, his imitation of a rodeo star was comic. I don't think he ever figured out why I always ended up laughing at his performance. To work out his frustrations, Charles bullied the rest of the horses in our herd.
As we neared camp, Crazy Daisy, a completely dingy pinto mare, was the first to hear our hoof beats, and she hopped out on hobbles to give a welcome. We had not owned her long, and I wasn't sure "Daze" was even worth the $5 I had paid for her. She did have a good rein, but only two speeds—fast and stampede. My hope was that enough miles would settle her down.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia