Fishing for Mules
December SEAHA note from the editor
No one ever said mules were dumb. My upcoming pack trip into the appropriately named muleshoe ranch got me thinking a little packing refresher training would be helpful for Cricket. My past few attempts to pack Cricket have been somewhat abortive. My first serious try was in the Gila Wilderness. At each river crossing she waited until I was half in, then pulled the lead rope so hard I'd have to let go or risk getting pulled off backwards. If I dallied on the horn, she'd pull so hard it would confuse Horace. He must have thought I'd dropped a 1200-pound anchor, which I suppose I had. Half in and half out of the water, wreck potential abounded. I'd cuss and drop the rope before Horace turned back. Instantly she'd step into the water and tiptoe across, coating the wet rope into a sand churro on the other side. I'd dismount and retrieve the abrasive line, only to have another crossing 5 minutes later. After about 200 of those she had me pretty trained. In anger I turned her loose, ridding myself of this obstinate beast, let the long-eared comedian return to the wild. As soon as I unhooked the lead rope her eye turned soft, and she moved up between two of the saddle animals. For two days she walked free, staying in line, never holding up the riders, never rushing the mount ahead of her. When a drag rider lagged out of site, she stopped, turned around and he-hawed until they hove back into view. I had it all wrong, it was her pack trip. It was memories of that trip that got me to try a dry run thanksgiving weekend. I dallied up the lead rope tight, to better pull her when she dug in. I shouldn't have bothered. If I had a way to make her go she'd see if I could make her stop. First she came up beside Horace and me, it felt like riding one animal in a wagon team. When mules get worried, they stop. I couldn't maneuver Horace to get Cricket behind us. As cricket spooled out in front of me, I felt more like I was fishing for mules than "leading" a pack string. But hey, both are adventure sports! Imagine the thrill of reeling in a 1200-pound bay marlin, feet braced in your fighting chair, as you ride the swells of your rocking platform. "Ok missy, you can forget playing that game." I wanted to turn her loose again anyway and show my wife how good she would be if free. I dismounted and unhooked her halter. She let me saddle up, then the great fish exploded, kicking up sprays of sand and dancing across the surface of the arroyo. The hook thrown free, she made a full run downstream. She jumped the bank a few times then headed back towards the equine angler. My dismount was rapid as she bore down on us. In the nick of time, she came to a screeching stop in front of us. She held out her head to be hooked back up, and was led behind Horace perfectly for the rest of the ride.
No one ever said mules were dumb. My upcoming pack trip into the appropriately named muleshoe ranch got me thinking a little packing refresher training would be helpful for Cricket. My past few attempts to pack Cricket have been somewhat abortive. My first serious try was in the Gila Wilderness. At each river crossing she waited until I was half in, then pulled the lead rope so hard I'd have to let go or risk getting pulled off backwards. If I dallied on the horn, she'd pull so hard it would confuse Horace. He must have thought I'd dropped a 1200-pound anchor, which I suppose I had. Half in and half out of the water, wreck potential abounded. I'd cuss and drop the rope before Horace turned back. Instantly she'd step into the water and tiptoe across, coating the wet rope into a sand churro on the other side. I'd dismount and retrieve the abrasive line, only to have another crossing 5 minutes later. After about 200 of those she had me pretty trained. In anger I turned her loose, ridding myself of this obstinate beast, let the long-eared comedian return to the wild. As soon as I unhooked the lead rope her eye turned soft, and she moved up between two of the saddle animals. For two days she walked free, staying in line, never holding up the riders, never rushing the mount ahead of her. When a drag rider lagged out of site, she stopped, turned around and he-hawed until they hove back into view. I had it all wrong, it was her pack trip. It was memories of that trip that got me to try a dry run thanksgiving weekend. I dallied up the lead rope tight, to better pull her when she dug in. I shouldn't have bothered. If I had a way to make her go she'd see if I could make her stop. First she came up beside Horace and me, it felt like riding one animal in a wagon team. When mules get worried, they stop. I couldn't maneuver Horace to get Cricket behind us. As cricket spooled out in front of me, I felt more like I was fishing for mules than "leading" a pack string. But hey, both are adventure sports! Imagine the thrill of reeling in a 1200-pound bay marlin, feet braced in your fighting chair, as you ride the swells of your rocking platform. "Ok missy, you can forget playing that game." I wanted to turn her loose again anyway and show my wife how good she would be if free. I dismounted and unhooked her halter. She let me saddle up, then the great fish exploded, kicking up sprays of sand and dancing across the surface of the arroyo. The hook thrown free, she made a full run downstream. She jumped the bank a few times then headed back towards the equine angler. My dismount was rapid as she bore down on us. In the nick of time, she came to a screeching stop in front of us. She held out her head to be hooked back up, and was led behind Horace perfectly for the rest of the ride.
posted by Garrett | 5:09 PM
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