Chapter 4 ~ Page 62
A half-hour later they were still digging, much to the delight of our grazing horses, when up drove another FWD, from our side, "Hey, thanks," the driver said, hooking his rig to a tree, and pulling an extra long cable from the winch on front, "looks like you brought me some business."
After pulling all three out, he came over for a cup of coffee, counting a fistful of greenbacks.
"Three at once," he said, as if he didn't believe it himself "that' s a record."
It turned out his name was Dave Herman. He lived in a hidden camp a few miles away, and made his living pulling out flatlanders that came to the mountains to give their new FWD's a trial spin.
He helped us out of a predicament too. I traded him Almost for a trip to San Bernadino to buy medicine for Missy, and to ship the now extra packsaddle and panniers to my mother. He also slipped me five dollars, but that was for luring another daring driver into disaster ("could see your camp, and figured it was safe") before we left for Lake Arrowhead.
We tried to travel easy for Missy's sake. She hobbled along as best she could, carrying only her halter. Each step was pain personified, but the best treatment for her was exercise. Or at least that's what the vet advised. It didn't make me feel any less guilty. Before we got back on trail, four people stopped and pointed out that one of our horses was lame. I sent these concerned citizens on their way by saying we knew that, but we were saving her for our next dinner.
We also met a riding club on a 50 mile trip. Even the fellow with saddle bags loaded with beer banging on his mount's kidneys told us we were cruel to treat Missy this way. I didn't have any cute answer to that. The best parting shot came about unintended. We listened to how they were doing this, doing that, and weren't they great, when one asked where we had ridden from. Mumbling, "Mexico," our mangy mob moved on.
Past the sewage plant and garbage dump at Lake Arrowhead, we met a rider who cared, instead of criticizing. She rode with us to a camping spot that did have grass, but no water. She didn't seem to believe that we could dig a well in the wet sand of a streambed, for I barely had it working, before she returned with her husband, water, and ice cream. Thank you Fran LaPaint. How did you know that ice cream was the treat we missed the most by living in the past.
We began to drop out of the San Bernadino Mountains to touch the edge of the Mojave, and cross El Cajon Pass to the San Gabriel Mountains. Our route down off of this hump, should have been easier than the Mission Creek trail up, for the California R&H followed a dirt road all the way.
After pulling all three out, he came over for a cup of coffee, counting a fistful of greenbacks.
"Three at once," he said, as if he didn't believe it himself "that' s a record."
It turned out his name was Dave Herman. He lived in a hidden camp a few miles away, and made his living pulling out flatlanders that came to the mountains to give their new FWD's a trial spin.He helped us out of a predicament too. I traded him Almost for a trip to San Bernadino to buy medicine for Missy, and to ship the now extra packsaddle and panniers to my mother. He also slipped me five dollars, but that was for luring another daring driver into disaster ("could see your camp, and figured it was safe") before we left for Lake Arrowhead.
We tried to travel easy for Missy's sake. She hobbled along as best she could, carrying only her halter. Each step was pain personified, but the best treatment for her was exercise. Or at least that's what the vet advised. It didn't make me feel any less guilty. Before we got back on trail, four people stopped and pointed out that one of our horses was lame. I sent these concerned citizens on their way by saying we knew that, but we were saving her for our next dinner.
We also met a riding club on a 50 mile trip. Even the fellow with saddle bags loaded with beer banging on his mount's kidneys told us we were cruel to treat Missy this way. I didn't have any cute answer to that. The best parting shot came about unintended. We listened to how they were doing this, doing that, and weren't they great, when one asked where we had ridden from. Mumbling, "Mexico," our mangy mob moved on.
Past the sewage plant and garbage dump at Lake Arrowhead, we met a rider who cared, instead of criticizing. She rode with us to a camping spot that did have grass, but no water. She didn't seem to believe that we could dig a well in the wet sand of a streambed, for I barely had it working, before she returned with her husband, water, and ice cream. Thank you Fran LaPaint. How did you know that ice cream was the treat we missed the most by living in the past.
We began to drop out of the San Bernadino Mountains to touch the edge of the Mojave, and cross El Cajon Pass to the San Gabriel Mountains. Our route down off of this hump, should have been easier than the Mission Creek trail up, for the California R&H followed a dirt road all the way.
|
|
|
Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia