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A Mule at the Taco Bell Drive-Through: The Last Day of the Atlantic to Pacific Ride

Published April 11, 2005

I, Bernie Harberts, did not use generative AI to write or illustrate this article. Spell check and grammar check, yes. AI, no.

Bernie Harberts pouring Atlantic Ocean water into the Pacific Ocean at the end of the Atlantic to Pacific mule ride, San Diego, California, 2005 — Joining waters.

After thirteen months on the road, mornings start like this.

I draw the needle from inside my hat band, thread it with dental floss (waxed) and suture the newest rip in my britches’ seat. Then I tuck my shirt in with greatest care, making sure the tail reaches well south of the repair in case of floss failure. I’ve long given up underwear. I’m down to an extra blue shirt, two bandanas and a pair of socks, none of which I fancy sacrificing for a last ditch patch job.

So this morning I did the obligatory three inches of suturing.

But this morning is different. It’s my last day on the road.

Woody the mule and Magnolia the pony inspecting Bernie Harberts threadbare wardrobe on the last day of the Atlantic to Pacific mule ride, San Diego, California, 2005 — Woody and Maggie inspecting my increasingly threadbare wardrobe. Actually, they want a bite of that apple.

“Hurray!” I think as I take a bold stitch-ripper of a swing into the old McClellan saddle. But the dental floss holds and I set my sights on the Pacific.

Woody trails Maggie down the sidewalk into a blurred onslaught of car hoods and roaring Goodyears and pointing mothers. We’re in San Diego now. Drivers smile over outstretched fingers while their passengers unfold cell phones and stretch them my way for a windshield shot. I’m out of the desert now and I feel that warm love for strangers after months alone on the road.

I rein Woody toward the Taco Bell drive through, not so much for nutrition, but for one last jag of entertainment.

We queued up behind a blue Dodge 2500 pickup that’s just ordering breakfast. “Hello, may I take your order,” the speaker blurts into his window. And then there’s the muffled “Yes, I’d like a…” coming from the cab. “Your total will be…” rattles from the metal box and the Dodge creeps forward.

Now it’s our turn. I lean down from the saddle, eager to speak to someone, even a canned voice in a box.

“Yeah. Hi. I’d like a bean burrito.”

Silence. Then some static from the speaker.

“Yeah! Hello!” I repeat, shouting louder, willing the metal box to respond. “I’d like a bean burrito please.”

Nothing.

“Oh well,” I think, and ease Woody and Maggie up on the Dodge’s tailgate. The Dodge picks up his order and drives off.

I ride Woody and Maggie up to the window.

“Yes, hello, I’d like…” and before the bean burrito bit gets out all Hell breaks loose.

“Oh my God! Look at this!” cries a teenage voice that’s never seen an Amish mule up close and certainly not one asking for a burrito. And that clears the kitchen because now every burrito roller and coffee pourer is stuffing themselves into the cashier’s cubicle to see what just rocked up to the take-out window. On the other side of the counter, customers strain to see why their service just disappeared.

The side doors to Taco Bell fly open, spilling kids and secretaries and wait staff out into the drive-through lane. “Wow, they’re so big!” I hear followed by “Hey, can I pet your horse?” and “What are their names?” and then come the fingers.

For a few beautiful moments, an old mule and his pony brought a San Diego drive-through to a complete equine gridlock. Cell phones were slipped back into pockets and breakfast burritos were put back into white bags so hands could run through manes and tails and forelocks.

Then the novelty wore off and we all rode off to wherever we were going before hunger and curiosity struck.

My small troupe rode to Fiesta Island.

Just like I had started my journey with a small group of well-wishers, it ended with a small crowd greeting me on the other side. Long Rider Lisa Wood and a group of her friends were there to celebrate my Pacific Ocean arrival.

Long Rider Lisa Wood and friends welcoming Bernie Harberts, Woody and Maggie to the Pacific Ocean at Fiesta Island, San Diego, California, 2005 — Long Rider Lisa Wood (far right) and a friend welcoming Woody, Maggie and me to the Pacific Ocean.

New friends celebrating with Woody the mule and Magnolia the pony at the Pacific Ocean, Fiesta Island, San Diego, California, 2005 — New friends celebrating with Woody, Maggie and me.

Dogs welcoming Woody the mule and Magnolia the pony at the Pacific Ocean, Fiesta Island, San Diego, California, 2005 — It was a dog-friendly welcome.

Bernie Harberts with Woody the mule and Magnolia the pony and two bottles of water at the Pacific Ocean, San Diego, California, 2005 — Maggie, Woody and me with two bottles of water at the Pacific.

On April 5, at precisely 6:42 PM, Woody, Magnolia and I waded into the mighty Pacific Ocean.

I reached into my saddle bag, drew out a small bottle of water and began pouring. It was a bottle of Atlantic water from the town dock in Oriental, North Carolina.

As the arc of water splattered into the ocean, I remembered how it started.

It was just going to be Woody and I alone. We were going to walk four hundred miles across North Carolina in two months. But then Maggie showed up, things spiraled out of control, and thirteen months and thousands of miles later, here we were wet to our knees on America’s far shore.

Now Woody and Maggie’s journey was through. After a year of winding through snowy mountain passes, shimmering deserts and Taco Bell drive-throughs, we’d reached the other side.

Then I drew out another, empty bottle. I unscrewed the cap and held it under water. “Glug, glug, glug” burped the air from the mouth and as the bottle filled a peace washed over me.

And a plan too. Now I have to get this bottle home.

Bernie Harberts holding a bottle of Pacific Ocean water at the end of the Atlantic to Pacific mule ride, San Diego, California, 2005 — How is this bottle going home?

More about riding Woody and Maggie from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

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