CHAPTER 4
Whitewater River to Apple Valley

Cabazon, in the San Gorgonio Pass, that is Los Angeles' lowest level lifeline through the barrier of the coast range of mountains, was our first real contact with civilization in the 227 miles we had traveled from the border. I don't mean that we stayed at a hotel and had hot showers, for we were lucky to find a "hidden" oasis on Hurley flat near the highway where we could give the horses, and ourselves a well earned rest.

Rather, it turned out that civilization meant hippies finding our hidden camp, and moving in upstream for a pot party. It meant hitchhiking into town for food and grain supplies, and calling a taxi to return. But most of all it meant a place where we could spend money.

One of the really pleasant aspects of trail travel was that away from a modern world, money was meaningless. We had no phone, water, electric bill, or rent to worry about. As there wasn't anything to buy, there wasn't any reason for carrying money about in our pockets.

However, when we came to town, it always proved necessary to dig deep into our jeans, and sorting through a collection of horseshoe nails, wang leather, matches, etc., somehow find enough money to pay for what, even for us, were essentials. Namely, food.

I could justify hiring a taxi as it saved us a four hour round trip by horse. Besides, it probably would have been necessary to feed coins into 12 separate parking meters. A funny thought? Not when the thinness of our bankroll dictated that we had to do some fancy horse trading if this trip was to continue.

We stayed a week at Cabazon, hoping to sell the Thoroughbreds. Or, at the least, Traveller, who hadn't gained with force feeding.

One prospect laughed, "Why he has to stand twice in the same place to cast a shadow." Finally, as our budget could not afford a board bill, or additional feed supplements, I gave Traveller away to a family with a "horse crazy" teenage daughter. My only proviso was that they call a vet and follow his advice.