Too Proud to Ride a Cow
Springing Toward Summer
Happy Easter Sunday to you. The leaves are darkening up, the mules are getting shiny and Snookie is panting in the dirt under the back porch. My wife Julia just posted a beautiful essay on spring moving ahead toward summer here up the Shoebox Canyon. Read the full story, with… Continue reading
I am Heart Broken
Today protestors stormed the Capitol Building. I see images of bearded men waving flags and clubs and security forces with guns drawn. I am heartbroken.
I have walked to the four borders of my beloved United States with my mules, from Atlantic to Pacific Oceans and from Canada to Mexico. I was helped out by hundreds of people whose political views I agreed with and just as many that I did not.
Woody and Maggie (c. 1989 – 2014)
I’ve written and read a lot of obituaries lately. In the span of eighteen months, my mother, dad, mule, pack pony and family dog have died. None of this comes as a surprise. The young are supposed to scatter the ashes of the old. Then they go on living. Potatoes are banked. Winesaps are pruned. Commutes are commuted. May be some ash slips in to the orchard.
Here’s a look back at two extraordinary equines that took me in to… Continue reading
“Chicken”: The Day Woody Met the Atlantic Ocean
Pete Cochran’s fisherman’s shades make him look like he’s speeding all the time.
Which he is; running his Emerald Isle Stanley Steemer franchise and his Onslow County beer distributorship. But it’s more than just business; he’s got a family of five.
Somewhere between the Coors deliveries and stain removal (the secret is high pressure steam and solvent-free citrus oil concentrate) he managed to bring Woody and I to Emerald Isle.
Once again, Woody sailed across Intra Coastal in a borrowed… Continue reading
Proud as a Pilot Who Patched the Windshield With Duct Tape
The evening after Rick of Rick’s Rodent Ranch told me that jumbo rats bite and gave me a new bridle to replace my old one because it was wearing out, I sat down to put it together.
When I tried to swap the bit from Woody’s old bridle to the new one, I discovered it wouldn’t fit. The cheek pieces that hold the bit were too wide and stiff to fit through the rings in the bit.
I sure wasn’t… Continue reading
Four Miles Down, Four Barrels Up: Oklahoma Stripper Wells
We’re in oil country now, riding through Oklahoma. There’s clanking in the bushes where the crickets buzz at noon.
If you take a closer look, you’ll find an oil well.
They call them “stripper wells” around here. They get four or five barrels up per day. Some more, some less.
But most of them make that clanking noise.
I take Woody and Maggie closer for a look.
Far Enough West the Light Looks Different
Woody, Magnolia and I have walked far enough west that the light looks different from back in North Carolina, where we started our journey. Back there, the light felt thick, moist and blue. Here, it feels dry, thin and dusty. The shadows, too.
Here are three photos I snapped while riding along the sidewalk of a town so small I don’t even remember its name.
Don’t Wait for Answers You Don’t Like: Woody and the Snowy Pass
“Bernie we took a vote this morning and decided you shouldn’t leave today,” Tommy said. “There’s too much snow up on the pass. You might not make it through in this cold.” The coffee swirled to a stop in his cup. The Barn Door crew sitting around the table nodded. “Here,” Ed Turpin said, handing me a bread baggy full of pecans, “take these with you. My brother cracked them for you.”
Oh good, at least someone thought I was… Continue reading
I’m So Glad You Came Back: Returning to Leonard Knight’s Salvation Mountain
Leonard Knight and Salvation Mountain were on my mind. After 13 months riding across America with Woody and Maggie, it was time to go home. But I was in no hurry. Leonard Knight and so many others had left a deep impression on me and I wanted to visit as many of these people as possible on my way back east.
Heading Home by Dodge, not Mule
One of the… Continue reading
Woody and Maggie Reach the Pacific: San Diego, CA
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… Continue reading
A Mule at the Taco Bell Drive-Through: The Last Day of the Atlantic to Pacific Ride
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… Continue reading
Maggie Chose Dust Over Drowning: The Day the Buggy Died in California
The potato truck roared toward us and left Maggie with one decision: leap into the irrigation canal or plunge down the road bank.
Maggie chose dust over drowning, took her buggy airborne and belly skidded to a halt in the date palm grove.
The truck billowed by a flattened Maggie and Woody just stared. She lay there in the dirt and palm fronds, wrapped in tugs and breaching like a poorly tied hay bale. Then out shot her front legs… Continue reading
Mud, Faith, and Mules at Salvation Mountain
“LOVE” rose huge and pink from the airborne desert sands. Above it in red the words “GOD IS” and crowning the three words, like a sabre stabbing a cake, a telephone pole cross.
I rode closer.
I’d been in the desert four days. I was down to five pounds and four gallons of desert currency; grain and water. But this I had to investigate.
I reined Woody to the base of the mountainous explosion of wind and scripture and weeping… Continue reading
What the Dunes Remember: Mule Tracks in the Imperial Sand
They once called it The American Sahara, that line of sand dunes that drifts from Yuma toward the Salton Sea.
Then some geographically correct person re-baptized them the Imperial Dunes. As in the Imperial Valley where they grow truck loads of lettuce and alfalfa. Suddenly the dunes sounded tamer. Smaller. It sissifies a mountain of sand to re-name it after a garden, even if… Continue reading
“Oh My God”: The Day Woody Rode a Trailer Upside Down
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 usual “Oh, he’s good in traffic” bit and before I could get… Continue reading
