"Fly fishing is my passion, hunting is my weakness, and mules are a perplexing addiction."

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Hi all;  I'm new to this whole blog thing and to be quite honest I've never read a blog, (mine or otherwise) ever, so this will be my first actual blog.  I was convinced by my webmaster, the evil Chris West, that I needed a blog and that it was expected of me, so anything posted prior to this was actually my webmaster masquerading as me.  People often masquerade as me, mostly when holding up convenience stores or after being caught in an uncompromising position with a farm animal by a startle farmer. 

At any rate, I will attempt to do a good job and should an actual thought should somehow find its way to my head I will do my best to first remember it, then jot it down here.  I mean really, who actually reads this stuff?

Until later, I'm off to try to find a thought!  tf

Friday, December 25, 2009

Whitney Trip

This years trip to Mt Whitney.

On to another adventure!!!


I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine,
It was new and figured to last a while
And it fit my fanny fine.

Constructed with care for detail, it’s craftsmanship superb.
It was made to stand the test of time
And it stood out from the herd.

I brought it home and oiled her up and just in case she squeaked
I rubbed her down with talcum powder,
Every flap and crease.

I wrapped the horn with rubber from a tire tube gone flat
And riveted a pouch on the billet
Where my fence pliers comfortably sat.

I put her to work immediately and she’s never let me down.
We’ve shared a lot of miles together,
More than either of us could count.

From mountain meadows, rocky trails, and hills choked thick with brush,
To sun-baked summers packin’ salt
To cows too tough to flush.

Over the years she’s seen her share of cinches come and go.
A breast collar here, a britchen there,
And gallons of saddle soap.

Her bars have covered horses and mules of every type.
From one’s as quiet as headstones
To the occasional unscheduled flight.

Enough ropes have burned around her horn to start a forest fire.
She’s packed out deer and orphaned calves,
And stretched miles of downed barbwire.

She’s held countless bawlin’ baldys at the end of a tight-stretched rope,
And watched as calves got branded,
Doctored, notched, and groped.

She’s sat and waited patiently out in back of the saloon,
And hauled me home not criticizing
My howling at the moon.

She’s weathered sons and daughters through gymkhanas and the like.
Now she baby-sits the grandkids
When they come to visit overnight.

She’s certainly been a dandy and unlike a bureaucrat,
She’s been honest and hard working
There can be no doubt in that.

Yep, I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine.
It was new and figured to last awhile,
And it fit my fanny fine.