Chapter 11 ~ Page 154
The second reason? I was mad. The first delicate meadow we came to had grass that stood horse belly high. This wasn't measured against our horses, rather, on the herd from a resort dude string concession. There was a delicate barbed wire fence, a delicate lodge, and a delicate paved road.
So, we rode on mad. Colette took a map and opened it while on Sugar. I guess I hadn't trained this horse well enough for floppy, flapping, noisy objects. He took off in one leap, bucking through brush and over fallen logs. Then, shortly after my plucky daughter got him under control again, Sugar decided he didn't care for our yellow rain slickers. Off he went again.
Thoroughly disgusted by now, I lost my temper. The end result may be the only recorded kicking match between a mule-headed mount, and man, where a well aimed riding boot to the rear—won.
The last six miles of the day were traveled over what was supposed to be a wagon road—"untouched by man since the days of the emigrants." The parents of one of my distant relatives had followed this route (actually I was to learn years later, I was related to the man who had blazed this route, Peter Hardaman Burnett). I was looking forward to experiencing a pioneering feeling. This was destroyed by a sign stating, "Park Service Road—No Admittance." Instead of wagon wheel ruts, all that was visible were the tire tracks left by rangers, ranging.
That night we pitched our tents 100 feet north of the park boundary, 100 yards from another luxurious, but forbidden, "delicate" alpine meadow. This choice of camps was far from ideal. The only flat space about was a shallow sand bar of a small stream. All the horses were allowed to wander, with a bit of help from us, towards the meadow."Now, how do you suppose that happened," I had planned to ask if a ranger appeared? But, what with great, huge, thunderclouds building high in the sky, this possibility diminished rapidly. That, and a news report caught while listening with one ear to the speaker of our new miniature transistor radio for the weather report:
"Squak ... Pit River Indians ... blat ... demanding return of tribal lands . .. sqwelch .. . Lassen Peak Volcanic National Pa . . . zap ... erected a ... claiming this lovely mountain .. . sizzle ... which park rangers are now climbing to remove."
I passed this bulletin on and it was received by my tribe as a battle won, with much cheering—"Yeahhhhhh!"
"The radio also said a 10% possibility of rain in the mountains."
" BOOOOOOOOOOO."
So, we rode on mad. Colette took a map and opened it while on Sugar. I guess I hadn't trained this horse well enough for floppy, flapping, noisy objects. He took off in one leap, bucking through brush and over fallen logs. Then, shortly after my plucky daughter got him under control again, Sugar decided he didn't care for our yellow rain slickers. Off he went again.
Thoroughly disgusted by now, I lost my temper. The end result may be the only recorded kicking match between a mule-headed mount, and man, where a well aimed riding boot to the rear—won.
The last six miles of the day were traveled over what was supposed to be a wagon road—"untouched by man since the days of the emigrants." The parents of one of my distant relatives had followed this route (actually I was to learn years later, I was related to the man who had blazed this route, Peter Hardaman Burnett). I was looking forward to experiencing a pioneering feeling. This was destroyed by a sign stating, "Park Service Road—No Admittance." Instead of wagon wheel ruts, all that was visible were the tire tracks left by rangers, ranging.
That night we pitched our tents 100 feet north of the park boundary, 100 yards from another luxurious, but forbidden, "delicate" alpine meadow. This choice of camps was far from ideal. The only flat space about was a shallow sand bar of a small stream. All the horses were allowed to wander, with a bit of help from us, towards the meadow."Now, how do you suppose that happened," I had planned to ask if a ranger appeared? But, what with great, huge, thunderclouds building high in the sky, this possibility diminished rapidly. That, and a news report caught while listening with one ear to the speaker of our new miniature transistor radio for the weather report:
"Squak ... Pit River Indians ... blat ... demanding return of tribal lands . .. sqwelch .. . Lassen Peak Volcanic National Pa . . . zap ... erected a ... claiming this lovely mountain .. . sizzle ... which park rangers are now climbing to remove."
I passed this bulletin on and it was received by my tribe as a battle won, with much cheering—"Yeahhhhhh!"
"The radio also said a 10% possibility of rain in the mountains."
" BOOOOOOOOOOO."
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia