Chapter 16 ~ Page 214
The girls followed, keeping their horses confidence, by singing—each one a different song.
Bernice sounded as if she was playing a love scene with Charley Horse: "There now big boy, I know you can do it you handsome beast."
BJ captured Big's attention by lecturing on the story behind the name, The Bridge of the Gods.
Listening to this, I wondered what the newsmen that accompanied us thought. As it happened, their articles missed the point of what we were doing. I can't think of a time I was more proud of my children, and horses, on the whole trip.
A log truck met us out near the middle. No-Name wasn't about to let him pass without some sort of statement. He sort of backed up and lifted his tail. He missed. And the road apple he dropped fell straight through the decking to the river below.
That "comment" set the stage for our news conference when we reached the Washington shore. This time we all played the fool for the cameras. It was the reporters own fault.
BJ thought it would be a great opportunity to show the world how the historical diamond hitch was thrown. Instead, some TV commentator wanted to know how many times he had been kicked by a horse. Bernice was queried about her cracked, chapped, hands. The girls were asked, "Do you think it fair to be dragged along on such an arduous journey?"
Since these electronic news gatherers were only interested in sensation, I asked them all if they wanted to see a horse of a different color. I turned No-Name around, and just as if he had been trained, he lifted his tail.
We fared far better with the newspaper reporters. Ed McLarney, from the local Skamania County Pioneer was the only one to discover that Bernice and I had visited Stevenson once before. To get married. While home on my first leave from the Air Force, we had driven over the Bridge of the Gods to this town to get hitched without spending two weeks waiting on paperwork and other such foolishness. The only minister in town that day had gone fishing. We had been joined together in holy matrimony by a justice of the peace in the back room of his barber shop.
Bernice sounded as if she was playing a love scene with Charley Horse: "There now big boy, I know you can do it you handsome beast."
BJ captured Big's attention by lecturing on the story behind the name, The Bridge of the Gods.
Listening to this, I wondered what the newsmen that accompanied us thought. As it happened, their articles missed the point of what we were doing. I can't think of a time I was more proud of my children, and horses, on the whole trip.
A log truck met us out near the middle. No-Name wasn't about to let him pass without some sort of statement. He sort of backed up and lifted his tail. He missed. And the road apple he dropped fell straight through the decking to the river below.That "comment" set the stage for our news conference when we reached the Washington shore. This time we all played the fool for the cameras. It was the reporters own fault.
BJ thought it would be a great opportunity to show the world how the historical diamond hitch was thrown. Instead, some TV commentator wanted to know how many times he had been kicked by a horse. Bernice was queried about her cracked, chapped, hands. The girls were asked, "Do you think it fair to be dragged along on such an arduous journey?"
Since these electronic news gatherers were only interested in sensation, I asked them all if they wanted to see a horse of a different color. I turned No-Name around, and just as if he had been trained, he lifted his tail.
We fared far better with the newspaper reporters. Ed McLarney, from the local Skamania County Pioneer was the only one to discover that Bernice and I had visited Stevenson once before. To get married. While home on my first leave from the Air Force, we had driven over the Bridge of the Gods to this town to get hitched without spending two weeks waiting on paperwork and other such foolishness. The only minister in town that day had gone fishing. We had been joined together in holy matrimony by a justice of the peace in the back room of his barber shop.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia