Chapter 10 ~ Page 132
We finally worked it out that BJ was the last to have had the lead rope of this string tucked around his saddle horn and back under a leg. No-Name must have gently tugged the rope out and stopped to graze, unnoticed. Or, at least we hoped so. What would we have done if we had ridden off this morning and left them tied to a tree fifteen miles back?
A half hour's ride found them munching on thistles. Aside from the fact that the horses were trying to tell us they were hungry in this grass poor country—something I already knew too well—this incident proved we had been on the trail from the beginnings of time, and would ride till the end of our living days. Bernice had her birthday. Another year older. And, she could expect to celebrate her next doing the same. Moving on.
A little syncopated rhythm I would sing to Charlie to pick up his ears, and spirit: "Charlie Horse/ heading north/ heading north." Actually, I would whisper it to him alone, until I realized everyone else had invented a little ditty to match the hoofbeats of their horse, also. Barry Jr. promised better rewards to his mount by improvising to the then popular Mrs. Robinson: "Hello little Big-Enough/ Hay, Hay, Hay/ Heaven holds a place for those who neigh."
No amount of scratching behind the ears, singing, or other affection seemed to work on The Colonel, or Petite, anymore. Both were showing ribs on account on endless days traveling, and poor grazing we had been encountering. We always tried to camp early to allow them to put on weight. This, of course, brought the inevitable clash with winter closer and closer, but I wasn't sure how much farther we could carry on anyhow. Our outfit was falling apart.
The wooden frames of two pack saddles had split. Bernadette's stirrups had broken. My boots were falling apart. No matter how early in the day we camped, I always had repairs to attend to until dusk. My boots required a nightly stitching and a few horseshoe nails in the heels to keep them alive. James had given up, and was wearing moccasins. Some things we just couldn't throw away. The pack saddles were repaired by burning holes in the wood, forcing in whittle pegs, and wrapping with wire. Ingenious? No just plain old necessity. I am rather proud, however, of thinking of replacing Bernadette's stirrups by fashioning replacements out of used horseshoes.
I know I probably could have done a better job pathfinding with a little more effort researching. Little Grass Valley had been flooded out with a reservoir. Six months later, while visiting Sierra City by car, I stopped in a restaurant and there, on a printed place mat, was all the information our "up to date" maps had lacked.
A half hour's ride found them munching on thistles. Aside from the fact that the horses were trying to tell us they were hungry in this grass poor country—something I already knew too well—this incident proved we had been on the trail from the beginnings of time, and would ride till the end of our living days. Bernice had her birthday. Another year older. And, she could expect to celebrate her next doing the same. Moving on.
A little syncopated rhythm I would sing to Charlie to pick up his ears, and spirit: "Charlie Horse/ heading north/ heading north." Actually, I would whisper it to him alone, until I realized everyone else had invented a little ditty to match the hoofbeats of their horse, also. Barry Jr. promised better rewards to his mount by improvising to the then popular Mrs. Robinson: "Hello little Big-Enough/ Hay, Hay, Hay/ Heaven holds a place for those who neigh."
No amount of scratching behind the ears, singing, or other affection seemed to work on The Colonel, or Petite, anymore. Both were showing ribs on account on endless days traveling, and poor grazing we had been encountering. We always tried to camp early to allow them to put on weight. This, of course, brought the inevitable clash with winter closer and closer, but I wasn't sure how much farther we could carry on anyhow. Our outfit was falling apart.
The wooden frames of two pack saddles had split. Bernadette's stirrups had broken. My boots were falling apart. No matter how early in the day we camped, I always had repairs to attend to until dusk. My boots required a nightly stitching and a few horseshoe nails in the heels to keep them alive. James had given up, and was wearing moccasins. Some things we just couldn't throw away. The pack saddles were repaired by burning holes in the wood, forcing in whittle pegs, and wrapping with wire. Ingenious? No just plain old necessity. I am rather proud, however, of thinking of replacing Bernadette's stirrups by fashioning replacements out of used horseshoes.
I know I probably could have done a better job pathfinding with a little more effort researching. Little Grass Valley had been flooded out with a reservoir. Six months later, while visiting Sierra City by car, I stopped in a restaurant and there, on a printed place mat, was all the information our "up to date" maps had lacked.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia