Chapter 3 ~ Page 50
In one particularly difficult spot James stationed himself with back to a boulder, so that when I brought a horse by, stepping from rock to rock, he could brace and push a rear around to position the animal for a jump, down to the side.
Another tough bit was hard baked mud that had buried the trail tread. We spent fifteen minutes digging out the barest of foot holds, or steps, for the horses to use. They all carefully concentrated on placing their feet correctly, except that is, Traveller. Holding him on the hillside with a rope, we had to place each hoof individually where it belonged. Half way across, frightened, or just numb, the beast lurched forward, throwing us all down the hill. Traveller ended up wedged between boulders with his feet pointing up to Heaven.
Maybe he was committing suicide. A horse cannot lay on his back for long without suffocating. We struggled to free him, and then I too gave up. Sending the girls away, I unpacked my pistol.
Had it been so necessary for me to force an animal on like this to his death? Bernice, in tears, suggested taking a breather, and giving it one more try.
Crossing back over the slide, I rigged rope pulleys. With Charles supplying the horsepower we pulled Traveller bodily back onto the trail so he could take a few more steps down to civilization, and life.
The irony of this struggle in the wilderness was that we should have almost been able to look down on Disneyland. All we could see of the L.A. basin, except for a distant smog bank, was a crowded freeway. Those cars below zipped along so fast from oasis to air conditioned oasis, while we traveled so slow, canteens dry.
Maybe, if one of those drivers, rolling along in a self-contained camper, heading for a lake resort, could have looked up and seen us, he might have said, "Well, Buddy, that was the way it was." Possibly. Yet who would have followed this route in the days when skies were clear, and wide valleys, with grass and water, were un-fenced?
Another twist of the trail and our circumstances brought me out of this mood. We came across, laying in the middle of the path, a Forest Service Pulaski fire-fighting tool, and a canteen. The fellow that had snipped the fence for us, mentioned that he had been on the trail crew that had brushed this route out five years before. He hadn't had any reports on its use, or condition, since. I am sure if anyone else had come along during that interval, they would have grabbed, as we did, the canteen that was accidentally left behind. It also was a promise of better trail ahead.
Another tough bit was hard baked mud that had buried the trail tread. We spent fifteen minutes digging out the barest of foot holds, or steps, for the horses to use. They all carefully concentrated on placing their feet correctly, except that is, Traveller. Holding him on the hillside with a rope, we had to place each hoof individually where it belonged. Half way across, frightened, or just numb, the beast lurched forward, throwing us all down the hill. Traveller ended up wedged between boulders with his feet pointing up to Heaven.
Maybe he was committing suicide. A horse cannot lay on his back for long without suffocating. We struggled to free him, and then I too gave up. Sending the girls away, I unpacked my pistol.
Had it been so necessary for me to force an animal on like this to his death? Bernice, in tears, suggested taking a breather, and giving it one more try.
Crossing back over the slide, I rigged rope pulleys. With Charles supplying the horsepower we pulled Traveller bodily back onto the trail so he could take a few more steps down to civilization, and life.
The irony of this struggle in the wilderness was that we should have almost been able to look down on Disneyland. All we could see of the L.A. basin, except for a distant smog bank, was a crowded freeway. Those cars below zipped along so fast from oasis to air conditioned oasis, while we traveled so slow, canteens dry.
Maybe, if one of those drivers, rolling along in a self-contained camper, heading for a lake resort, could have looked up and seen us, he might have said, "Well, Buddy, that was the way it was." Possibly. Yet who would have followed this route in the days when skies were clear, and wide valleys, with grass and water, were un-fenced?
Another twist of the trail and our circumstances brought me out of this mood. We came across, laying in the middle of the path, a Forest Service Pulaski fire-fighting tool, and a canteen. The fellow that had snipped the fence for us, mentioned that he had been on the trail crew that had brushed this route out five years before. He hadn't had any reports on its use, or condition, since. I am sure if anyone else had come along during that interval, they would have grabbed, as we did, the canteen that was accidentally left behind. It also was a promise of better trail ahead.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia