Chapter 16 ~ Page 213
By comparison, this bridge, created by man, was a tiny tinker toy. Yet, its piers rested on the rubble of the natural rock bridge told of in Indian legend. Considering all of this—the beauty, the past, the purpose of today's Bridge of the Gods—it was inevitable that we had to give it a try.
For the horses, the steel deck would be the equivalent of crossing a quarter-mile of cattle guard in the sky. We would also have to contend with traffic. So we cheated. I accepted half of the offer of help. The pack string would go across by truck.
Once committed there was no turning back. The press arrived to film this unusual event. Bernice insisted I wear a clean shirt, and comb my hair. But just before taking that first step, I dug around in my saddle bag for a wrinkled, ragged piece of cloth that I considered my lucky shirt. She never noticed in all the excitement. A newspaper reporter did, and printed a statement on how "torn and trail weary my clothes looked."
Maybe that extra little bit of luck helped. If the lead horse had made one refusal, they all would have balked. Those that think horses cannot express thoughts don't know what they are talking about. One snort of panic from No-Name as he clanked an iron shoe upon the steel grating, testing his footing, would have spooked the others so badly they would have ripped their lead ropes out of our hands and taken off at a gallop.
Maybe it was confidence, and communication between horse and human that made everything possible. This far along the trail we had learned to respect each other's judgment. If, for example, we came to a tangle of windfallen logs, and I could make it through on foot, all I had to do was whisper in No-Names ear, "You can jump over." He would accept my word, and jump.
In return, if Big Enough took one look at a steep bank leading down to a meadow, and shook his head saying, "You've got to be kidding boss," Barry Jr. would find another way down to the grass.
Every horse in our herd was a specialist at something. Daisy and Bernadette led our string while crossing streams. Charlie was the best in snow. Pokey could sniff out a pool of water not on the map, and the safest way to approach without sinking in to his knees. Big knew exactly where to place each foot on a rock slide.
No-name was our adventurer. Sort of like his master, out of stupidity he was game for anything—once. But unfortunately, under this bold bravado of a wolf gray coat, he also was a bit of a coward. When something didn't work out as No-Name planned, he had the habit of letting me know exactly how he felt about the matter. I used to catch the blame from him over the dumbest things. So, this is why, with my heart beating against the roof of my mouth, I tried to whistle as I nonchalantly walked ahead, lead rope dangling loose in my hand.
For the horses, the steel deck would be the equivalent of crossing a quarter-mile of cattle guard in the sky. We would also have to contend with traffic. So we cheated. I accepted half of the offer of help. The pack string would go across by truck.
Once committed there was no turning back. The press arrived to film this unusual event. Bernice insisted I wear a clean shirt, and comb my hair. But just before taking that first step, I dug around in my saddle bag for a wrinkled, ragged piece of cloth that I considered my lucky shirt. She never noticed in all the excitement. A newspaper reporter did, and printed a statement on how "torn and trail weary my clothes looked."
Maybe that extra little bit of luck helped. If the lead horse had made one refusal, they all would have balked. Those that think horses cannot express thoughts don't know what they are talking about. One snort of panic from No-Name as he clanked an iron shoe upon the steel grating, testing his footing, would have spooked the others so badly they would have ripped their lead ropes out of our hands and taken off at a gallop.
Maybe it was confidence, and communication between horse and human that made everything possible. This far along the trail we had learned to respect each other's judgment. If, for example, we came to a tangle of windfallen logs, and I could make it through on foot, all I had to do was whisper in No-Names ear, "You can jump over." He would accept my word, and jump.
In return, if Big Enough took one look at a steep bank leading down to a meadow, and shook his head saying, "You've got to be kidding boss," Barry Jr. would find another way down to the grass.
Every horse in our herd was a specialist at something. Daisy and Bernadette led our string while crossing streams. Charlie was the best in snow. Pokey could sniff out a pool of water not on the map, and the safest way to approach without sinking in to his knees. Big knew exactly where to place each foot on a rock slide.
No-name was our adventurer. Sort of like his master, out of stupidity he was game for anything—once. But unfortunately, under this bold bravado of a wolf gray coat, he also was a bit of a coward. When something didn't work out as No-Name planned, he had the habit of letting me know exactly how he felt about the matter. I used to catch the blame from him over the dumbest things. So, this is why, with my heart beating against the roof of my mouth, I tried to whistle as I nonchalantly walked ahead, lead rope dangling loose in my hand.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia