Wintering ~ Page 140
I had left the boys with a promise to return with a stock truck. They were to hold the string at the lake until the grass gave out, then go to one of three other meadows we had scouted. Good planning, except that I couldn't find a large truck for rent that was reasonable, nor pasture. I finally headed south with a borrowed pickup, enough money to rent a horse trailer for a few days, and to pay a deposit on rental pasture in California, if I could find any.
I caught up with BJ and James in their next to last reserve meadow. This one was private, complete with a road, and NO TRESPASSING signs. As deer hunting season was due to commence the next day, they felt this minor criminal act was justified for the safety of Charlie and Friends.
I had just started cooking the first decent dinner the boys had known since we abandoned them, when up drove a vehicle with it's horn honking. Out jumped two men and a boy; all were armed. I greeted them pleasantly as possible when looking down the action end of a thirty-aught-six. We were told to get the #%&*@~ out of there. I explained the necessity of holding the horses until I could find pasture, told something of our trip, and reasoned that since no cattle needed the grass, our grazing was actually beneficial. My answer was the click of the action of the rifle loading a live one up it's snout.
This fellow didn't know how close we all came to disaster. He threatened to shoot one horse every fifteen minutes until we were gone. I found out later that this prompted my not-so-wise-in-years son to cover this bad actor from his tent with our .44 magnum—a hand gun we had picked up in Alaska for protection from grizzlies—at full cock.
Since I had a choice to make, we moved, even though in the near-dark we not only lost some of our equipment, but almost got shot at by another hunter. The next day, since we were forced to camp along a very busy road at a place called Cold Springs, I left the boys to stand guard on the horses to make sure no one confused them with deer, and redoubled my efforts to find pasture.
We eventually hauled the horses, two by two, out of the mountains. It took 38 hours of driving, over a highway that was re-routed a different way through each time, due to construction. I had found an irrigated pasture down in the Sacramento Valley, where the climate was still summer.
Smoldering about our California "good-bye" I expected more, somehow, when crossing the Oregon State line, than to be pulled over by a state policeman. He asked for the registration of the battered old truck I was driving. I didn't have it, or even know who was the legal owner. The officer suggested I look in the glove box, and before I could answer, BJ pulled it open to reveal that stupid .44 magnum, put away for safe keeping.
I caught up with BJ and James in their next to last reserve meadow. This one was private, complete with a road, and NO TRESPASSING signs. As deer hunting season was due to commence the next day, they felt this minor criminal act was justified for the safety of Charlie and Friends.
I had just started cooking the first decent dinner the boys had known since we abandoned them, when up drove a vehicle with it's horn honking. Out jumped two men and a boy; all were armed. I greeted them pleasantly as possible when looking down the action end of a thirty-aught-six. We were told to get the #%&*@~ out of there. I explained the necessity of holding the horses until I could find pasture, told something of our trip, and reasoned that since no cattle needed the grass, our grazing was actually beneficial. My answer was the click of the action of the rifle loading a live one up it's snout.
This fellow didn't know how close we all came to disaster. He threatened to shoot one horse every fifteen minutes until we were gone. I found out later that this prompted my not-so-wise-in-years son to cover this bad actor from his tent with our .44 magnum—a hand gun we had picked up in Alaska for protection from grizzlies—at full cock.
Since I had a choice to make, we moved, even though in the near-dark we not only lost some of our equipment, but almost got shot at by another hunter. The next day, since we were forced to camp along a very busy road at a place called Cold Springs, I left the boys to stand guard on the horses to make sure no one confused them with deer, and redoubled my efforts to find pasture.
We eventually hauled the horses, two by two, out of the mountains. It took 38 hours of driving, over a highway that was re-routed a different way through each time, due to construction. I had found an irrigated pasture down in the Sacramento Valley, where the climate was still summer.
Smoldering about our California "good-bye" I expected more, somehow, when crossing the Oregon State line, than to be pulled over by a state policeman. He asked for the registration of the battered old truck I was driving. I didn't have it, or even know who was the legal owner. The officer suggested I look in the glove box, and before I could answer, BJ pulled it open to reveal that stupid .44 magnum, put away for safe keeping.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia