OF MULES AND MEN (and cussing.)

GRIP HOIST:  A device designed to rudely awaken all muscles in one’s body that have been comfortably cradled in fat for the last 15 years.  Also used occasionally for pulling things off of a hiking trail at the speed of a melting glacier.  Usually operated by a colony of Silverback Apes; humans with less intelligence than a grapefruit have been known to utilize this medieval torture device.

Yesterday, in the company of Michael Lewis, Danny Sullivan, and Phiefer, (whose last name I can’t recall due to the lack of oxygen at the 8500-plus foot elevation that caused me to attempt acts I normally would have watched others perform from a comfortable distance, well away from the sound of my chortling and laughing.)

At any rate, yesterday we went back up on San Jacinto Mountain to a location on the Strawberry Cienega Trail where a rather large, and robust tree rested comfortably across the trail in an attempt to remove it.  A tree with a rather discernible, if not smug, grin on its face.

Because we brought mules, we decided to unloaded the four-thousand-sixty-four pounds of steel cable, hoists, saws, McClouds, axes, slings, shackles, engine parts from a ’64 Galaxy, and two, small, plastic bottles of Wal Mart water in the off chance we might get thirsty, and carried them three-hundred yards by hand to the tree we needed to cut because…well, because!

While Mike and Phiefer began getting all the rigging laid out and set up to pull the tree off the trail, Danny and I resumed sawing with the cross-cut saw on the downed tree where we had left off the previous week. Three hours later we finished.  Mike pointed out we might have made better progress had we turned the saw the other way with the little, sharp, jagged, pointy things downward.  We will take that into consideration the next time.

Mike demonstrated the operation of the grip hoist for the rest of us by pulling the handle, first one way, then pushing it back the other.  Exhibiting exemplary supervision skills, he then turned the operation over to the rest of his able-bodied crew, pulled out his camera, and strategically positioned himself in a safe, shaded area, and began shouting words of encouragement as we began pulling and pushing on the hoist handle.

 “Heave - Ho, heave - ho; pick up the pace, girls, or we’ll be here all day,” he shouted enthusiastically, as the camera recorded the burly tree’s laughing at us.

Failure was not an option this day; mostly because none of us wanted to make the trek back up the mountain again, and because, quite frankly, the stubborn tree was beginning to annoy us in large degree in its refusal to cooperate.  Then it occurred to me what we were doing wrong; we weren't cussing enough.

Soon we were happily swearing like a ship full of sailors on leave.
“Heave - ho... heave - ho,” Michael encouraged.

“Gol-d%^#ed, sum-a-biscuit-eatin b&#^$,” we grunted, as we struggled with the stubborn hoist handle.  The tree didn’t budge.  Then, one of those strokes of genius I’m so famous for appeared out of thin air.

“What if we direct our profanities at the tree,” I asked Danny?

“Worth a try,” he said, as we commenced cussing at the still grinning tree.

Suddenly there was a loud, “CRACK”, and then another!  It was apparent mine and Danny’s backs weren't happy with our futile cranking on the hoist handle.  Then, several minutes later, the tree began making the same sound; “CRACK!”

“It was moving,” we all voiced in unison.  “It’s moving!”

In closing, as we admired our efforts in getting the stubborn giant well off the trail, and having repaired the tread work, there is something to be said about a difficult day’s efforts and a job well done; but we were all out of profanities so we just silently marveled in what we had managed to accomplish.

In all seriousness it was a terrific day.  Michael did a fine job planning the task, the tree cooperated, nobody died, and we had a blast tackling a tree that was certainly a challenge.  Our bodies, however, might disagree!

 
 

IN A FUNK.

There is something about the wind that puts me in a funk, especially when it blows out of the north.  I can’t put my finger on it and I really don’t know why, but it’s a combination of depression, laziness, lack of energy, and the feeling of looking at my give-a-shit-o-meter and seeing it pegged at O.

This morning I shuffled out to feed the critters in my Uggs and jammies.  Silently cursing the wind, I stacked oat hay in the wheelbarrow and lethargically made my way out to the pasture, tossed the flakes in separate piles, and turned all the stock out to eat.  Knowing it had to get done, I reluctantly grabbed the manure rake and started cleaning pens when suddenly I noticed I had two visitors; Abby and Emma, two of my mules.

Normally when feed is available, my stock considers me invisible and pretty much nonexistent, but not this morning.  Emma gently placed her 200 pound anvil head on my shoulder and gave a sigh, while Abby stood next to me on the opposite side and just silently stared.  They were in a funk as well, and as they bid me ado and began walking aimlessly around out in the pasture searching for something unseen they were then joined by Zane, my third mule; all three wandering about, muzzles to the ground, searching.  They too, were in a funk, and suddenly it hit me; I knew why.

This past week I had the pleasure of joining with a group of fellow Backcountry Horsemen members and dedicated forest service workers (yes, there are still some out there) on a work party in the Sierras clearing trails in the Golden Trout Wilderness of an estimated 180 to 200 deadfall trees with crosscut saws.  Nearly all of these fallen trees were the result of the devastating McNally Fire in 2002.  Twelve years after that fire the charred remains of millions of trees are now falling with predictable regularity.  We heard at very least, a dozen or more crash while in camp at Jordon Hot Springs, and many others throughout each day as we worked.  One trail, the Red Rock Trail from Jordon up to Red Rock is virtually gone; over grown now with buck brush, manzanita, and the maze of fallen trees much like toothpicks tossed from above.

The good part is that we able to clear trail the nine miles from Blackrock Trailhead down through Jordon Hot Springs and down to Painter’s Cabin on the Kern River.  The more disappointing aspect was that we were only able to clear about 1.5 miles of the 41/2 miles of trail up to Indian Head and Red Rock.
All in all it was a great few days working with terrific people who are dedicated to keeping these trails open and passable.  The food was great and the camaraderie even better.  While it was in the low twenties at night, the days were cool enough to make it pleasant to push saw all day.  All twenty-plus head of stock, (mostly mules) were in absolute heaven grazing in the lush, green meadows at Jordon.

For some of us there is something about the high country that silently calls to us.  It’s like a beautiful, sultry siren with outstretched palms, curling its fingers, beckoning us to come to her; and we do, as often as we can.  And while we can’t wait to get to the mountains and be in the midst of some of God’s greatest creations, believe it or not, the mules do too.

So therein lies the mystery of the funk I find myself in; the same funk my mules are suffering from.  We miss the mountains and can’t wait to get back!

EASY AS LICK'IN BUTTER OFF A KNIFE

EASY AS LICK’IN BUTTER OFF A KNIFE

Saddles.... check.  Rifle, license, ammo.... check.  Bedroll.… check.  Cold weather gear.… check.   Groceries.… check.  Toilet paper.... check and double check!

As I ready preparations for this year’s deer hunting pack trip into the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Sierras, nearly everything is ready.  I say nearly everything because one, minor detail is missing.  That, of course, would be Jason’s gear.  Of the six panniers we’ll be taking on our eight-day hunt, the bear panniers are packed. The hard boxes containing camp gear and odds and ends is packed, the saddles, pads, bridals, manties and all the horse and mule tack is packed.  Even one of the leather ends with my clothes, fly rod, boots and such is packed.  All are weighed, packed and loaded into the stock trailer except for one.  

As usual, waiting until the mules are in the trailer and I’m ready to pull out of the gate, I can’t help but wonder what Jase will bring me at the last minute?  What surprise awaits me as he tosses his pile of schtuff in the tack room, crawls in the truck, reclines his seat with a pillow behind his head and says, “Okay; I’m ready.”  

Will his load be too heavy, too light, or will it be just right?  Will I have to rearrange all the panniers to make room for his alligator Gucci hunting boots, Fabio, designer hair-grooming products, or his half-gallon bottle of “Unforgivable” eau de toilette, by Jean John?  Will he remember his tooth brush this year?  Of course this is absurd; absolutely will his load be anything but exact!

Most folks think that what I get to do is fun, relaxing, and easy.  Actually, it’s about as easy as bucking moldy hay and about as relaxing as trying to tie up a bobcat with a six-inch piece of string. The truth be told, it’s a wonder I still have any hair?  If you think I’m exaggerating, consider this.
Organization is key to any pack trip.  Assign this task to an individual, (let’s call him Tom,) who historically is about as organized as a coffee can full of treble hooks and has the attention span of a monkey chewing on a fly swatter.  Then add to this a taskmaster spouse with a question list longer than Schindler’s that she’ll insist upon my answering five minutes before liftoff. 

Following my bride’s Spanish Inquisition that will include an endless list of questions such as, “Did you pack your underwear this time?  Did you check the spare tire?” And my favorite, “First aid and vet medical; you packed it, right?”  After I race back to the house to grab the first-aid kit and vet medical bag I’ll climb back into the truck and race the engine a few dozen times in an attempt to get her to quit with the questions, and following two more treks back to the house, I’ll finally pull out of the driveway at midnight and head down the road, as Jason drools on my pillow in the passenger seat sound asleep.

Then there is Ladd.  Ladd Stokes is a long-time friend of mine who makes this trip with us every year.  A horseshoer of questionable ancestry, Ladd is built like depot stove and nearly as intelligent.  He has the stare of a stalker, is as mild as sweet milk, and wears more do-dads on his hat than a Mexican general and I am often times quite amazed that he has opposable thumbs when I watch him set up a tent.  Then, imagine trying to get any sleep in a confined tent with a guy that all night long makes sounds similar to starting a chainsaw in a water trough.  And then there is his snoring!

At any rate, it will all have been worth it, though, when we finally arrive at our destination and at last get our camp set up.  I can see it now; our bedrolls are laid out, the food is put away for the night in the bear boxes and the campfire blazes away, and it’s then I rifle through the panniers in a panic for the seventeenth time, swearing like a combat marine, “I know damn good and well I packed it!  Has anyone seen the g*%-#^/$d toilet paper?”

THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT THE GRAND CANYON

           

          THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT 
                       THE GRAND CANYON

“You’re only as old as you feel,” someone once said.  “Sixty is the new forty,” touted another.  I’m pretty certain both these statements were spouted forth by some brain-donor lounging in a shaded deck chair on the sands out front of the Aston Waikiki Hotel while working on his fourth pink concoction with a tiny umbrella in it.  I promise you it is entirely possible to feel far older than your chronological age and today, at least, sixty is closer to the new ninety!

Having somehow managed to cheat death once again, and safely returning home from my hiking adventure into the Grand Canyon, I immediately collapsed on the couch in the den like a wet mattress off a roof.  Having now spent a day in a state of complete vegetation I've had a bit of time to reflect upon the experience and have walked away from it with… let me rephrase that; having hobbled away from the adventure still reasonably intact, I’d like to share with you some thoughts about a few of the things I learned while exploring one of nature’s seven wonders of the world.

I learned that crazy people with a sick sense of humor have apparently been around for generations.  Mainly I’d be referring to the twisted individuals who first saw the Grand Canyon and said, “Hey, let’s build a trail down there,” and of course, the other moron, who upon polishing off the last of their jug of whiskey, added, “Yeah, and let’s see how steep we can make it!”  We were told on this trip that a string of five pack mules had been lost over the side of one of these trails just two weeks before our arrival.  “That’s it?” I wondered, in all seriousness.  I now have a new appreciation for the longears who tote people and supplies into, and out of this incredibly rugged area on a year-round, daily basis.  It is impossible to fathom the steepness of these trails, and in fact, steep isn't even an adequate enough adjective to describe them.  There should be another word to convey what can only be described as steeper than a cow’s face.  I’ll work on it.

On my adventure I discovered that ground squirrels are unabashed thieves and masters of opening a backpack in seconds.  A backpack that took somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-minutes and two full-sized humans jumping up and down on it to cram the contents in and get the zippers closed.  These pint-sized pilferers can tear a three-hundred dollar backpack to shreds quicker than a new bride’s nightie comes off on wedding night, and often times, right before your very eyes as you stand in amazement mumbling to yourself, “he wouldn’t dare?”  They would, and they do.  Personally, and I realize this will come as a shock to the PETA pinheads out there, I am of the humble opinion these portly, puff-cheeked criminals would make for fine looking hats.  Not only that, it would create an entirely new industry, providing countless jobs for posterity, boosting the economy, and we could all make a fashion statement in the process by sporting sheikh, stylish squirrel bonnets in the process.

It is said there are about 656 muscles in the human body.  Nonsense!  I have discovered that biologists are incorrect; hacks, really, and that the number is actually far higher than previously believed.  I am confidently certain the number is closer to seven-thousand-and-twelve, and that nearly three-quarters of those muscles are to be found below the waist in ones legs.
     
I have learned that blisters can indeed grow other blisters atop themselves; a phenomenon biologist may wish to look into for future study.  I personally experienced nearly a dozen of these wonderful creations of friction, and in fact, am the proud, new holder of the current Guinness World’s Record for the largest, single, foot blister upon a blister ever recorded; approximately the size of a Hugo.

For the uninitiated, or those wise individuals who have peeked over the wall on the South Rim and wisely said, “I don’t think so, Buckwheat,” the trails in and out of the Grand Canyon are comprised of a series of steps or rock bars; tens of thousands of these gems, in fact.  The National Park Service would have one believe these steps, ranging anywhere from six-inches to three feet in height, were place there to help aid in reducing trail erosion.  Bull butter!  I have discovered that their primary purpose is two-fold; one, they actually aid in allowing the human body to act much as a Slinky would by causing an individual to quickly reach maximum velocity and the downhill momentum of a fighter jet should you stumble head over teakettle while sporting a fifty-pound backpack.  Thankfully, the Park Service and nature have strategically placed numerous, large boulders throughout the canyon’s trail system to aide in halting many of these supersonic tumbles.

The other purpose of these steps, or rock bars, is one of the National Park’s dirty little secrets.  They no doubt figure if you are stupid enough to hike down into the Grand Canyon, you probably should be prevented from breeding.  The NPS actually doesn't want you to leave and are trying to keep you in the canyon; forever!  You see, what they don’t tell you, as they cheerfully take your American Express Card and hand you a back country permit, is that if you are one of the fortunate souls to reach the mighty Colorado River alive and with most of your limbs intact, even though in theory, your backpack will become lighter from using up the four days of food you've hauled down there, gravitational forces of nature take hold and actually make your, now forty pound pack, weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of six-thousand pounds.  At least a hundred time during my four days in the canyon I heard voices screaming, Who the hells idea was this, anyway?”  I finally ran out of breath on my trek out and quit asking.

As Gus McCrae famously said, “It ain’t dyin’ I’m talkin’ about; - it’s livin’!”  That statement sums it up, I suppose.  I’m simply trying to live; to get all those things done I've yet to do, and one by one I’m slowly, but surely, checking those items on my novel-sized bucket list.

In short, I've manage now to check one more off the list, but the truth is, I can’t tell you how many times during my trek out of the canyon I sat down and said, “Screw-it; I’m just gonna sit right here on this rock, feast on squirrel meat for the rest of my days, and make sheikh  little hats to sell to tourists as they pass by on their trek out of the canyon!

Weighing it.

I like it when my wife, Cathy, laughs.  Most of the time her laughing is infectious, but on rare occasion it can be downright annoying; like when I’m standing naked in front of the mirror wondering what happened?    Such was the case when some time ago, upon informing my bride that I had decided to embark upon an adventure of sorts by checking off one of the items near the top of my bucket list and hike the Grand Canyon from rim to rim and back, she began laughing.  Now, considering my track record, a couple of haw-haws could possibly be considered in order, but rolling around on the living room floor like a New York City break dancer is, I think, a bit much.  Wetting herself in the process is definitely overboard.  After her excessive mirth had subsided and she changed her pantaloons, my sweetheart looked me directly in the eye and said, “Absolutely not, Buster; you can get that outta your head right now!”

Eventually, but not without considerable charm and a marathon effort on my part, she finally caved and gave me permission with one condition.  That condition was that step-son Jason must hike along with me for the trip.  I think her belief was that it would facilitate identification of the body by the recovery team.

At any rate, after several tries at obtaining a permit from the NPS, this year I finally managed to snag one of the coveted beauties, and after great anticipation (on my part, not the Park’s), the day has finally arrived, and in the morning we jump in the truck and head for Arizona’s Big Ditch to begin our four-day hike.  I have pared my pack down to forty-six pounds; underwear and an extra shirt are highly over rated anyway, I think?  

But the really odd thing here is that the more I decide I can do without on this trip; the heavier my pack seems to get.  I’m pretty sure that some foreigners are involved, and have somehow cleverly changed our nation’s system of weights and measures by making them much more than they really are.  I’m also pretty certain forty-six pounds didn’t used to weigh this much.  This pack is more like eighty pounds.  If my theory is true; I can’t wait to see how much they've added to fifty-four miles! 

See ya in a week! 

BON APPETIT

BON APPETIT

I am writing this month’s essay high atop Mt Kilimanjaro in Africa. The temperature is fifteen below zero up here and I’m freezing my keister.  Yes, they do have snow here in Africa, I didn’t believe it either: that’s why I’m here.  Maybe next time I’ll take Lilburn Merriwether’s word for it.  Lilburn is my neighbor, and he’s also a know-it-all.  The worst part is, apparently he really does.  He also told me the natives in this part of the country can get a bit testy at times.  That’s how I got up here so fast; they were in hot pursuit of me, their main purpose being to have me as their special guest for supper.  Damn that Lilburn, yes, he informed me there were cannibals here too.

So as I sit here, huddled behind a large rock attempting to shelter myself from the unrelenting wind, its cold enough to freeze the flame on a lantern and I’m shivering like a hound dog trying to pass a peach pit.  I also realize this will probably be my last essay.
You see, the natives are very hungry.  If I don’t freeze to death, the taunting savages below are waiting for me to come down so they might eat me for supper.  I think they have designs of feasting on Filet mig-tom this evening.  Even if I do freeze to death, they’ll dine on my frozen corpse come spring thaw.  Either way, I’m well-done for because in this medium it is rare anyone escapes here alive.  I know, cold as I am, I’ve still got it.

At any rate, none of that matters now.  Oh, how I wish I were back in Anza.  Back home in my den, sitting in my recliner, relaxing in front of the wood-burning stove with my faithful dog, Mutt, at my feet.  It’s also funny how perspective changes when you are about to die.  Right now I’m not quite so upset about being passed up yet again for a Pulitzer Prize in literature.  What do those snobs know anyway?  The Potty Poem is a classic.

Now, more than ever, I look back upon my life and wish I’d pursued my passions and fought my causes a little more fervently.  I wish I’d taken a harder stance on getting those stupid “childs” urinals removed and the big-boy ones reinstalled at so many of the public restrooms one finds these days.  I can’t even count the times I’ve splattered all over my dark jeans at McDonald’s.

I wish now that I’d have left the spray bottle of water in my truck; the one I used to take into the theater and spray a burst on those poor souls who were talking down in front of me, while I pretended to sneeze.

I regret having never starred in a porn movie.  Of course that would have required surgery and I was afraid to travel to Mexico.

I also wish I hadn’t flossed before I went to the dentist.  I should have made them work for their money.

Speaking of dentists; I’m number now than a six-shot root canal.  I think my time has come.  Let me just say these last words before I go; Bon Appetit!  (I still got it...)

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA

AT THE TIME

My life is full of “it seemed like a good idea at the time” moments.  Like when Lecil Hadley and I packed into the Golden Trout Wilderness on our annual deer hunting pack trip, and on a steep section of trail with a drop-off steeper than a cows face to our right, I noticed the load on one of Leese’s pack mules began to shift dramatically.  Of course the load couldn’t tilt to the uphill side of the trail; that would make the situation considerably easier.  No, it began sliding to the right and it was just a matter of moments before things were about to turn western. 

I informed Leese of the predicament, and glancing back at his string, the old muleskinner grumbled something about some place in Florida with a sunny beach as he stopped to dismount.  He would, however, need some help as the boxes were heavier than Tammy Faye Baker’s make-up bags.  

With my three pack mules neatly in tow, I dallied the lead rope to my lead mule, Zane, and jumped off my horse, rushing ahead to help Lecil get his panniers off his mule and retie the load.  I overlooked one, minor detail, however, I failed to secure my horse’s lead rope to something simply because Cody is the good child of my herd and always stands quietly.  In other words, I don’t have to worry about his wandering off.  Besides, where could he possibly go?  He was on a narrow, mountain trail that wasn’t much wider than a well-fed needle. There simply was no way he could possibly turn around.  The brush on the uphill slope was so thick the snakes had to climb to see out, not to mention he had three loaded pack mules behind him that were all tied together and tethered to him.

In a jiffy Lecil’s load was on the ground and we were in the process of resituating the pack saddle when I couldn’t help but take notice of a mildly disturbing event unfolding behind me; that would be my riding horse leisurely waltzing up the trail away from us, and yes, the three pack mules were following; still tethered together.  Faster than a fat lady on a buttered handrail I left Lecil to his misery and shot up the trail in an effort to foil the escape of my four criminals. 

Upon reflection, I suppose it might have been the sight of my eyeballs popping out of my head at the terrifying thought of my remuda and pack gear scattered from hell to breakfast as the result of the potential wreck I was envisioning. Or maybe it was the curious cackling noise of my coughing up a lung as I raced up the steep trail, sounding much like a tractor trying to start on a cold Montana morning.  Even more probable was the fact that my riding horse had no doubt come to the sudden realization that my pistol was nestled in the horn bag that was secured on the saddle upon his back, and the thought probably crossed his pea-brain that I might well use it on him.  Whatever the reason, Cody began to quicken the pace as I closed in on the wayward felons.

Now this particular section of trail is a corn maze of switchbacks for about the first mile or so, and being only slightly smarter than my horse, I cleverly hit upon another of those absolutely genius ideas I am so famous for; the thought being that if I could dash up the mountain through the thick brush to the trail above quickly enough, I could cut off the foursome’s getaway and be back in a jiffy, thereby avoiding the inevitable ridicule from Lecil that was sure to come.  Imagine my glee to discover, some twenty minutes later, that I had made an apparent miscalculation in regards to the exact location of the trail above. 

Upon this enlightening discovery I determined I couldn’t go back down hill from whence I came because, well, that would be embarrassing, so I calculated that if I changed direction and headed ninety degrees left, traversing the side of the mountain, I would have to encounter the trail reasonably soon.

Rocky Mountain sheep would have gazed in awe at my nimbleness and daring as I crawled, clawed, climbed, and leapt across the side of the mountain.  Suddenly, there in front of me, was the trail.  Woo-who, I had done it!

“Ah thought ya’ll went ta catch yer critters,” drawled Lecil, sitting on a rock and puffing on a cigarette as I stepped out of the brush and onto the trail not ten feet from where I had began my torture trek.

“Naw,” I said, brushing the leaves and dirt off me. “Had to use the bathroom; took longer than I thought.  Welp, guess I better go catch my critters!”

I must confess that after following my herd’s tracks back up the trail for another thirty-minutes, it was disturbingly comfortable to look up on the ridge above me and discover my renegade remuda standing quiet as a stone watching me trudge up the trail.  I then noticed something else.  My number two mule’s load seemed a bit askew.  In fact, the entire load was hanging as upside-down as cave full of bats.

Upon arriving at the scene of the crime I had to do a double-take.  Cody, my lead horse was now at the back of the pack.  Abby and Emma, my number two and three mules, were still tied to Zane Grey, but the number two mule was standing atop of Zane’s lead rope that had come unwrapped from my horse’s saddle horn and was trailing behind him as he led the parade up the mountain.    

Lecil was propped up against a rock, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

“Okay, ya ready to go,” I said, as I pulled up behind his string and stopped.

“Don’t it look like I’m ready ta go,” he drawled, scooting his hat back into position and grunting as he pushed himself up?  Lecil pulled his lanky frame up on his saddle mule and settled in.  Then he placed his hand upon his mule’s rump, leaned back and turned around.

“Ya know; Ah seen it right off and figured what wus gonna happen, but why azactly din’t ya tie thet horse-a-yourn when ya jumped off,” he asked, grinnin’ like a dog eating peanut butter from a wire brush.

“I don’t know,” I grumbled, a bit puzzled by his statement.  “Guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Half-an-hour later, as we stopped at the Little Kern to water our stock before crossing and heading up the canyon, it suddenly dawned on me as Lecil’s earlier comment rattled around my head like a BB in a boxcar.

“You mean to tell me you saw that I didn't tie my horse, not to mention you knew what was going to happen, and you didn't think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been prudent to say something like, oh, I don’t know, like, hey idiot; tie your horse?” I asked.  

“Ah, I dunno,” he said thoughfully, as he placed his hand on his mule’s rump, turned in the saddle and grinned.  “Ah suppose it wuz fer the same reason why ya din’t tie your pony ta sumthin’ in the first palce.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled, “And what might that be?”

“Welp,” he drawled, turning forward in his saddle clucking for his mule to move out. “Guess et jes seemed like a good idea at the time!”