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Mule Camping at the Beaufort Historic Site
It’s funny how things work out on the road. Take lodging for a mule.
Out on the road, I make things up as I go. Planning too far ahead doesn’t work when your home is in a bag (the tent) and you cook with wood.
When Woody and I showed up in Beaufort, we didn’t know where we were going to spend the night. I just asked the first person I saw where I might find lodging for a mule.… Continue reading
No Broken Neck. No Broken Back. Just One Upside Down Mule.
Woody met Mike Hollister on the side of the road while filling his tank. The clover was green, traffic on 101 sparse, so I’d slipped off the bridle so Woody could have a feed while I pondered how we’d cross the bridge ahead.
“What are you doing about the Core Creek Bridge?” Mike asked me a few minutes after he’d pulled up for a gam. I stuttered the… Continue reading
The Farrier Who Offered to Let Me Shoe My Own Mule
Woody seems recovered from last night’s bout of melancholia and greeted his feed bucket with the usual flared nostrils and relish. He’s still working on the bray. He’s still not drinking much, though, which I think may be partly due to the large amount of fresh clover, fescue and weeds he’s munching along the way.
Even the issue of his feet seems to be improving. He never was a fan of having his feet picked up and messed with. Right… Continue reading
Mule on the Picket Line: Woody’s Bad Night on the Neuse
Tonight I’m concerned for Woody. He’s touchy along his withers and he didn’t finish his feed. When I peeled off the vintage McClellan saddle and ran my hand down his back, he pinned his ears and gave me that “Pal, don’t” in the way that sparse words convey danger.
Earlier, when I pitched camp along the south bank of the Neuse, Tom and his daughter Rachel rode to visit and when they departed Woody churned back and forth on his… Continue reading
“Pal, Don’t”: The Night Woody Scared Me on the Neuse
Tonight I’m concerned for Woody. He’s touchy along his withers and he didn’t finish his feed. When I peeled off the vintage McClellan saddle and ran my hand down his back, he pinned his ears and gave me that “Pal, don’t” in the way that sparse words convey danger.
Earlier, when I pitched camp along the South bank of the Neuse, Tom and his daughter Rachel rode to visit and when they departed Woody churned back and forth on his… Continue reading
“I’ll Rent You the Tools”: The Farrier Who Called My Bluff
Woody seems recovered from last night’s bout of melancholia and greeted his feed bucket with the usual flared nostrils and relish. He’s still working on the bray. He’s still not drinking much, though, which I think may be partly due to the large amount of fresh clover, fescue and weeds he’s munching along the way.
Even the issue of his feet seems to be improving. He never was a fan of having his feet picked up and messed with. Right… Continue reading
I Did Not Look Back: I Just Rode My Mule West
This is the first post ever published on RiverEarth.com. Keith Smith and I got the site running just after midnight on March 17, 2004, the night before I rode my mule Woody out of Oriental, North Carolina. What started as a ride across one state turned into 13 months, 3,500 miles, and a journey that is still unfolding.
Woody’s long mule ears bobbed in front of me as I rode away from the town dock in Oriental. Voices drifted up… Continue reading
Caribbean Christmas Under Sail: Aboard Sea Bird in Antigua
Merry floating Christmas (Melinda Penkava photo)
Oriental, NC
Traveling the Texas High Plains by wagon this holiday season, I think back to Christmas on the high seas. Click here for the nautical nativity scene….
