The Idea Germinated in a Gale: How Woody and I Came to Be

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

The idea of riding a mule across North Carolina germinated in a gale. I was off Madagascar in my sailboat Sea Bird, the sailboat that I sailed alone around the world. That night things blew up so nasty the mast hit the broken ocean and the portholes swirled with brine. I thought “Next time I’m home I’ll stick to the dry a while.”

Then I came back to North Carolina and noticed the change.

The world had closed in during my Tarheel absence. Suddenly there was Spanish on the Ford dealer’s sign. “Se habla espagnol.” Someone had planted houses on Stoneybrook race track where, only a few years earlier, I had galloped race horses with Dooley Adams and ridden races as a steeplechase jockey. Oh sure, I thought of escaping to the other side of the world like New Zealand.

But that just felt like I was running away. What I really needed was a slow look at my home state.

That’s when the notion of riding a mule across North Carolina really took root. That’s when Woody showed up; Woody the mule.

I bought Woody from a fellow who’d kept him as a babysitter for his young plowing mules. That explains his moth-eaten coat; between bites of hay the up-and-comers took bites of Woody. He’s allegedly ten on the bill of sale but vet Jim says he’s more like fifteen in the tooth. It’s not the first time a horse has aged five years on the trip home.

Woody’s rusty red like winter pine straw and old barn tin. He stands armpit high to me but knows he’s taller. He has the oversized ears, eyes and stubborn streak peculiar to his species but less of the kick and only a trace of the trademark bray. It’s as though he were supposed to grow into a giant draft mule one day but when his ears stretched to maturity the rest of him stopped growing and he’s been trying to catch up ever since.

When he tries to bray his voice breaks into a high nicker. His ears flip flop like they should and he can kick a dog all right but I just think he was hoping for more. I suspect it’s something in his past. But aside from the white-haired scars on his withers and Roman nose I’ll never know.

So why choose a mule to ride across North Carolina instead of, say, a horse?

For starters, mules are cheaper than horses. Or cars. Woody cost seven hundred dollars which is thousands less than the registered quarter horse or Honda Civic I was eyeing. Then there’s the question of hardiness. A mule carries more but eats and drinks less than a comparably sized horse. That’s a big deal when you set off across the relatively spigot-less, hose-less, grain-less North Carolina landscape.

As per preparations, Woody and I just made things up as we went. There’s no “How to Prepare Your Mule for Voyaging” book so we just winged it. Beginning in early January I rode him two hours a day at a walk. When I got back to the stable I’d sit down at the stable’s old treadle Singer sewing machine and started sewing up the gear I thought we’d need.

I scavenged Mel Wyatt’s hayloft for pieces of old horse blankets and sewed the sun scorched blue flaps into a pair of saddle bags and a canvas water bucket. Old leather reins became buckles and surplus military webbing made a green belly cinch. My ninety year old McClellan cavalry saddle got the same treatment and by early March I had a complete set of improvised tack to strap onto the ever-fitter Woody.

This week I trailered Woody to Oriental on the coast where we start our ride. Tomorrow we’re off for Oriental then it’s west across the state with spring. I hope to cover five or ten miles per day on a journey that may stretch to four hundred miles.

So if you see a man and a sorrel mule bearing sky-scorched tack with crooked red stitching, chances are it’s us. Steer us toward clean water and a patch of fresh grass. While Woody sips from the green canvas bucket I’ll tell you about the gale and you’ll tell me what lies ahead.

See you down the road!

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