Childhood and Mule Trains

Among the rich traditions surrounding The Dixie Lion's Roundup rodeo in St George, Utah, the Grand Entry is the most inclusive.  Each night, for two hours before the rodeo starts, the Dixie Lion's Club opens the arena to all riders, who, add a festive air to the historic SunBowl while jealous fans guard their seats.  From rough-riding Arizona Strip cowboys to bejeweled rodeo queens, from Dixie newcomers to native sons and daughters, the rodeo opener is an important social gathering where old friends catch up while riding side-by-side to the sounds and smells of Rodeo.  Live country music competes with human chatter and the soft pounding of hooves in freshly tilled dirt.   The savory smells of rodeo-hamburgers wafting over earthy-livestock, fill the arena.  It is heady stuff, for riders and spectators alike--who come under the influence of anticipation .  Moments before showtime, as if breaking a spell, the smooth voice of professional rodeo announcer, Reed Flake, takes control of the random gathering and empties the arena in preparation for the Grand Entry.  After a pregnant pause filled with thoughts of welcome, patriotism and sponsors, his command brings the random gathering back into the arena behind billowing flags--running the traditional serpentine pattern that kicks off the beginning of the greatest show on Earth.

After leading a string of pack mules in the Saturday afternoon parade, I went directly into the Dixie Sunbowl to participate in the Grand Entry.  Behind me, Calamity Jane carried a beautiful pack job, sporting a real canvas manty with a nice symmetrical double-diamond hitch tied over her load, while Minnie Pearl caboosed our train, packing two coolers full of ice and drinks slung over her sawbucks.  Mule trains are not something one usually sees at the Dixie Roundup--in fact the only mules one would normally expect to see are the ones that professional-funnyman, Randy Munns, dresses up clown-style with coveralls and a bobbly cowboy hat riding on a spring between its long ears.  

Last night, along the edge of the arena, throngs of children lined up to get autographs from celebritous beauties, dressed in sequined ribbons and tiara clad hats. Youngsters hoping to touch the soft nose of a real live horse stretched eager arms through the fences.  Curious kids of all ages wondered about my train of longears and I began pulling the string along side of the cabled wall to let one small kid after another climb into the saddle in front of me for a lap around the arena--with the approval of parents who eagerly helped them over the fence.  We would go into the arena's center and turn the train in a circle so tight that we were nose on tail for a couple of turns.  I would sing out, "GIDDUP MULE TRAIN!  HYAAAAAH!"  Then we would pull up next to the stands and trade riders.  Most of the kids giggled and talked happily--which I could barely hear over the din as I worked to keep the train moving in proper fashion.  One 3 year old boy asked me with grown-up politeness, "Mr.  What is your name?"  Another 4 year old girl heard me yell at Calamity to, "Get back in line!"  For the rest of the ride, she kept yelling back, "Get back in line!  Get back in line!" doing her best to help me out.  Even from the grandstands after her turn was over, I would hear her yell each time I pulled the train up to switch riders, "Get back in line!"   It was a piece of magic that I will likely never forget, and I suspect most of those cute little kids won't either.  One group of parents tried to thank me as the call came to empty the arena, and wondered aloud why I was willing to spend the entire time giving rides when it was obviously a bit of a handful.  I just tipped my hat and rode out of the arena with a lump in my throat, and a lightness of heart that  comes with the sweetness of childhood and mule trains.

File photo from last year:  Too many of my hands were full of rein, rope and kid to take pictures last night.  If something turns up--I'll replace this one with the real thing.  :)

The Great Divide: A tale of two oceans

Lightening intruded aggressively, breaking into the darkness in the most painful way.  Before our eyes could re-adapt to the dark, another blinding flash would tease some tiny detail out of the foreboding blackness of the forest.  Every tree looked like a bear and the thunder that followed added anxiety to the taughtness of Molly Mule's muscles.  She felt like a coiled spring between my legs.  It was late Saturday night... and we were headed for camp much later than we had planned.  Three blown trailer tires in the middle of the previous night as we traveled across central Utah, a return to the trail-head for a dog that stayed under my trailer after getting halfway to camp, and two runaway horses that had to be chased and re-caught, had put Nephew Adam and I several hours behind the rest of the already-late group.

As the staccato snap of rain hitting my hat gave rhythm to intermittent claps of thunder, the push and shove of the wind made pine trees groan, but filled our lungs with the sweet taste of rain-washed mountain air.  We hadn't slept now for two nights and fatigue didn't help us penetrate the thick WindRiver blackness.  If we could locate camp, we still had animals to unpack and care for before we could make shelter for ourselves.  What a rush!  Adam's fear was palpable as he queried, "Do you have a flashlight Uncle Paul?"   In my saddle bags there is one if we need it I replied.  "So how are we going to find camp?" he wanted to know.  It was a good question.  I was pretty sure we were on the trail, but we couldn't see it.  The Winds are big enough that a wrong turn in the dark could put you far from your goal.  We'll figure it out was my tired reply.  I had a hunch the mules knew where they were going.  After what seemed like an eternity, Molly took a sharp left turn into a small tree lined clearing.  We picked our way through the vacant darkness on what seemed like even less of a trail, down a steep hill, over some boulders.  Suddenly, we broke into camp on the edge of the meadow along the NorthWest corner of Raid Lake.  Everyone else was holed up against the storm, and their horses and mules nickered their welcome.

It was the beginning of a perfect week in the prettiest of mountain ranges.   While exploring about 70 miles of country that was new to us, we made a cowboy out of Adam, and schooled the very young Preston and Trevor.  Only the fishing was sub-par.  We made our trek this year with 12 animals and 7 people.

Getting your kid permission to have a week out of school takes an act of congress these days.  We applied for an "educational leave" this year and so a geography lesson was in order for our 2011 WindRiver's trip.  Hands on lessons being what they are, I don't think any one of us will forget the significance of standing on the Great Continental Divide.  Just pee a little to the left and you are leaking into the Pacific ocean...a little to the right and you will probably end up watering the Atlantic via the Gulf of Mexico.  It made a deep impression on 8 year old Preston's mind.   The strong wind on Washakie pass that day made watering both oceans a difficult task.

Like each year in the past, getting ready for the WindRivers is a big task.  Animals, equipment, gear, and food all have to be prepared.  These aren't relaxing vacations in the normal sense of the word.  There is a bit of stress involved, a few cuss words, and a lot of work--but they recharge life's batteries in a way that sitting on the beach can't touch.  Riding through Washakie Pass was elevating to the soul.  Seeing and peeing down both sides of the Great Divide is a mans prerogative and it allowed us to touch this country from sea to shining sea.  Two oceans--both falling from one lofty mountain pass.

Post Script:  A hearty thanks to Trent Harmon for getting up after midnight to open his store and sell us tires in Nephi (Harmon Tire).  Thanks to Jim Wallick, Brandon Larson, and my good Brother Mike as well for a fabulous trip.  And big thanks to Roy over at Jaxonbilt Hats for keeping our heads covered in every condition imaginable--and that is no paid endorsement.

Buckles and Beauty in Atlanta

"Wow!  What is that on your belt buckle?" she exclaimed as she peered over her reading glasses from behind the cash register.  I was in Atlanta, connecting to Nashville, with a 3 hour layover.  Its a mule, Ma'am.  "A mule!?  What's a mule?"  A mule is a cross between a donkey and a horse.  I raise them and train them.  "Really!...  I never heard of that!  Now what you go and do that for?  I mean, why you do that?  Is it like...a...business?...hear that girls?  He raises MULES!"  By this time, the line behind me has started to get impatient.  Airports aren't places to hold up traffic.  So I stepped aside and said, go ahead and take care of the line and I'll answer your questions when there is a break.  "OK.  But don't you go anywhere, til you tell me what you do with those mules now, ya hear?"


For the next half hour, I watched Kim take care of customers, one at a time.  She found one special thing about each person to whom she served refreshement--their hair, their dress, where they were headed, and then she paid them a sincere complement, usually getting a surprised look.  Several times we tried to catch a moment to resume our conversation, but the line kept coming.  I marveled at the smiles she pulled out of each customer inside one of the most impersonal places of American Life--an international airport.  Finally, I just ordered my smoothie and explained that the mules were partly for raising my kids, and partly a way for me to explore the wilderness that surrounds my home in the West.  But that answer seemed to provoke even more curiosity.  Since the line of customers behind me was never going to allow us to fill in the details, I left her with a handwritten note and directions to see "Longears and Sourdough" for its pictures and stories.

As I walked away, I thought about how beautiful it is to see someone who conducts their job, whatever it is, with such grace, that you feel like you have been in the presence of greatness upon the observance of their expertise.  Kim, I watched you bring a moment of happiness to everyone you served--strangers all, but friends when they left your deli in concourse C, grinning.  For me, it was a mule on a buckle and your curiosity that sparked my smile.  But it was the milk of human kindness you showed for the masses of strange faces who you will never see again, that made my smile last far after I boarded my flight to Nashville.

Green Energy and Mule Fuel

In the Wilderness Economy, there is only one way to transport goods and services.  By law, transportation in the wilderness must use technology that pre-dates the wheel.  That means all internal combustion engines must burn hay, mitochondrial style; and all locomotion must be ambulatory.  So by logical extension, railroads, stagecoaches and semi trucks are illegal in the back country, leaving the mule train as the only real option.  Turns out the mule train is environmentally friendly.  They eat green fuel and have the greenest emissions my eye-meter has ever seen. The carbon foot print of a mule train can't be bigger than a mule's hoof.

Over the past couple of months, I took a job hauling a little over 2000 lbs of water, food and gear into the new Red Mountain Wilderness area for some archaeologists who are surveying for antiquities.

Mule Train work is good honest work if you can get it, really.  Not that it pays well.  I can make better pay while bending light in an Optometric sweat shop.  But it makes for a pleasant day.  Mules are smart, and they have a love language all their own--profanity, which makes for an artful conversation that one would never hear in an eye doctors office.  It sounds like, "Molly, you leather-headed jackhorse, get back in line," or, "Minnie Pearl!  You half-brained, half-assed horse--stop kicking Maggie!" or "Calamity, you long-eared sumbeeeech, GIT along and quit pulling back on your ROPE!"  It may sound rude to your ears, but to the MULE, these are terms of endearment.

Now I got myself thinking about the mess our world is in today while I was locomoting that mule train through the woods.  My friends Patty and Jackson (not their real names) are always trying to help me save the world from too much freedom and too much heat.  I want to do my level best to help out, so, as I was thinking,  I realized something quite profound, right out of the blue...er green.  Profanity has some useful thermal properties that could be used as a type of refrigerant.  I've known it since I was a small child, too.  I'll never forget the icy stare that froze my mother the day I said in a commanding 8 year-old voice to my 3 year-old brother, Mike, "Com'ere you little Bastard!"  And the fact that she used Tabasco sauce to unfreeze my tongue, like a university physics experiment, taught me some tangible thermodynamic principles that you could never learn from a book--like Don't ever say what ain't true! and Never insult your Parents. So today, while Patty and Jackson sat in climate controlled comfort somewhere, googling a bunch of CO2 into the atmosphere, I was gently burning hay instead of coal or oil, and cooling the atmosphere with my artfully profane mule talk.

Who gets paid to camp?  Sweet!

Frank Parish leads Maggie

Kissin Kate Barlow,  Sulphur Mustang Extraordinaire

Molly and Kate

Unable to find another load for the return leg, the mule-train comes home empty

Mule Fuel

Filling the barn

Happiness is refueling

Two Seasons and the Beginners Rodeo

Here, where the Great Basin tangles with the Colorado Plateau and the Mojave Desert, there are only two seasons: Desert Season and Mountain Season.  For the last 8 months, we have been riding the desert, but the short Mountain Season has started and it is time to crawl up out of the furnace and start enjoying the cool comforts of pine, aspen and meadow.

Going into the wilderness, one-on-one with my 8 year old son is paternal happiness at its best.  Getting there with pack mules is a test of will power and teaches some important life lessons.  Every time we saddle up, we have what we call the beginners rodeo, in which everybody is excited and full of energy until they settle in to the rhythm of the trail.   On this trip, it was the pup who wouldn't follow, and four spirited mules that wanted to move.  We finally had to tie the pup on top of Preston's pack mule, Minnie Pearl.  Minutes later, Minnie Pearl got loose and ran full steam back toward the truck, pup and pack in tow--then full speed back to where she left us. But we got it worked out.  Just like life, if you can stay in the saddle through the tricky phase of doing something new, things smooth out and find their place.   Then the frustrations are forgotten and the trip is mighty enjoyable.

As twilight settled over the meadow where we camped that evening, the mules alerted us to some deer that were grazing upon the fresh spring grass.  Ears forward, all four mules were fixated on the intruding deer, and our hearts pounded as we strained to see through the graying light to see what was coming our way.  When we finally crawled into our tent for the night, Preston asked me to wake him up early to go look for more deer. 

As soon as the horizon began to soften the next morning, we saddled the riding mules and headed towards Quaking Aspen Spring and the Comanche cabin.  The morning air smelled still and cool, laced with pine and sage.  Deer moved all around us while we rocked in our saddles.  As we came to the Kolob overlook, the stately red towers that form the Hand of God beckoned, come hither, from across the valley below.  

Here, where fatherhood tangles with boy and man, there are only two seasons: Formative Season and Independent Season.  Like summer in the high country, the Formative Season is short--sometimes stormy, but always beautiful.  I wouldn't trade one minute of the time I get with my kids during their formative years for lands or gold.  This boy is learning to be fiercely independent, and the long season of life where he will walk his own path is ahead of us... somewhere not too far off, at the end of summer.

The pup, Little Joe, riding on Minnie Pearl

White Rocks Meadow, Preston on Senator

Filet grilled in garlic and olive oil, Dutch Oven style, for breakfast

The Gusts came up 2nd day, Kolob in the background.

The Kolob Fingers from Pine Mountain

The Joy of Fatherhood

It was warm for the first time this year as we left the house, headed for an overnighter on the Arizona Strip. Both of us rode saddle mules, while leading a pack mule with camping gear and coolers full of ice cold drinks.  We rode far enough to find a starry night-sky.  Spring's green carpet covered the desert as a token of thanks for an extra wet winter.

My boy did a man's job getting our coolers safely to camp.  Minnie Pearl had her moments, so he learned what it means to get rope-burned hands.  He also laughed at me when I tried to catch her loose lead right as my molly lunged up a hill--leaving me in a backwards somersault into the soft dirt.  As we plodded along, he chortled his 7 year old conversation, and sang--mostly "Ride Cowboy Ride."  He says it is one of his favorites, and he thinks Riders of the Purple Sage sings it best.  His palpable sense of accomplishment when we wrapped it all up the next day animated my manhood .  Ahhhhhh... to be the Sire of fine sons and daughters.  There is no other privilege on Earth that compares.   And there is no high that stacks up to the Joy of Fatherhood.

So, will they have Bacon in Heaven?

Pretty much, the question we all ask at sometime or another, is...do they have Bacon in Heaven?  Perhaps, knowing the answer will help those souls who still haven't made up their minds to try for yon Glory.  So...we saddled the mules this weekend and headed up the hill, determined to find out once and for all, the answer to that  most important question.  And here are the pictures--they tell the story.  No photoshop here, just vivid proof that there IS pork in paradise.   Hmmnnn...come to think of it, we didn't see a bunch of virgins waiting for Achmed the Dead Terrorist either.

Thanks Natalie for smelling up facebook with your bacon bouquet.  This morning makes two days in a row!

Bacon!  Essential Nutrient, and the only way to fry eggs.