Sandra J. and family are that rare breed - ranchers and farmers who do nothing but ranch and farm their own land. No day jobs, no outside work. This is their life.
Over a bountiful homemade-sausage-pancakes-from-scratch-scrambled-eggs breakfast, Ms. Sandra and her two sons John and David helped me plot a route straight across their property to the county line. Not only would it be a welcome respite from road riding - it would also shave about three miles.
Turns out it didn't shave off any time, but the experience was worth every bit of daylight.
The route was about 5 miles meandering across rolling grass pasture dotted with several livestock ponds and small dry creeks, stands of trees, several freshly plowed wheat fields, and one large running creek. Once Walter got over the shock of being out in the middle of nowhere with no other company but cows, he settled in and seemed to thoroughly enjoy it (except the wheat fields we were told to ride through because there was no way around; difficult footing). We stopped at each pond. Walter drank from the ones he didn't have to share with nearby cattle. (Apparently, Sir Walter finds staring cattle too distracting.) I drank every drop from my water bottles and wished I had more. We sweated.We got lost. Son John spotted us and steered us back on track. We found a shallow spot in the big creek and Walter forded it in style. We passed a dead cow. We finally made our way to the county line road, through the gate and back to asphalt.
Where are the photos, you say? Alas - the batteries in my cheap little camera had died again, so there are none. Bummer. It was peacefully beautiful, take my word for it.
We turned west again on a farm road, at a corner with a small white house and barking chained dogs. A young horse - really still a colt - began chasing us along the fence. About a half mile up it came through an ungated opening and joined us. I rode all the way back to the house at a trot, the colt running behind neighing. Man came out, yup it's his, a rescue from bankrupt neighbors who had abandoned their herd, he hadn't put a gate up yet, sorry. Walter was so balky at leaving the colt behind that I had to trot him about a mile to settle him down.
It was getting late in the afternoon. Hot. This road was empty of all human habitation as far as the eye could see. No creeks or roadside runoff to drink. I began worrying about Walter.
Finally - horses! Pens! Barn! House! Rode up the driveway, tied Walter and knocked on the back door to ask if I could water him. A very surprised-looking gentleman opened the door, followed my gesture at Walter with his eyes, and a huge grin slowly spread over his face. "Why, sure!"
Then, hesitantly, I asked if there were more houses up the road. "Nope, nothing for about 10 miles." (Later, he told me he was shocked by the knock on the door because they never have any traffic, much less visitors.) I asked if we could camp... yes, of course, put him in that pen, and would you like to come to a roping tonight? Come on in when you're ready and have a bite to eat!
And so I met Tim and Bonnie V. Bonnie is a vivacious woman who has a job giving people money. ("They aren't always happy about it, you'd be surprised.") Tim was a paint-horse breeder who bred several champion horses, then had a life-changing medical incident. He came back from it and still has a few roping horses. We talked a long time about life changes, will power and other things... it was a good stay.
Friday 8/23
It was, in fact, 10 miles to our next stop. We got a late start - much too late in the day for Walter, it turned out. I did not have the packs well balanced the day before. They kept listing to one side. As always happens when I mess up on packing, my mule let me know exactly what he thought of my poor job the day before. He fussed, he turned, I had to hobble him to get him to stand still. Using a broken digital scale, I weighed and repacked and reweighed over and over. We set off down the driveway at 11 am. I was relieved to see Walter tank up at the water trough just before leaving. The sun was blazing, humidity was crushing and we were both sweating before we even hit the road. I had filled both liter bottles to have something to give Walter if needed.
It was needed. I gave it to him only an hour later, and he emptied the bucket. A few miles up we stopped at a lone house where a woman with the intriguing name "Clentis" (hope I got that right?) gave us a drink. Partway to Geronimo we came to a little cluster of houses. A fat palomino ran up to a gate. A cable truck was parked in the drive next to the pasture, and the front door was open inside the screen. There was a hose attached to a spigot in the yard. I tied Walter to the pasture gate and walked up, knocked, hearing voices. A large, unsmiling man answered the door.
"Yeah?"
I smiled gamely. I gestured at the large animal tied to the gate.
"Hi, excuse me, I'm riding cross country, could I please trouble you for some water for my mule?"
He stared for a moment at Walter.
"No."
Stunned, I sputtered "Wha..."
"NO!"
The man shut the door in my face.
I rode away, shaking a little, wondering what on earth must have happened to cause a human to be so broken that they would refuse water to a thirsty animal.
Shortly after, Walter let me know just how hot, tired, and thirsty he was. I stopped to let him graze in a lush patch of grass. Next thing I know, I'm going down... my mule's knees are buckling... he's gonna roll! I jerked his head up with a sharp "WALTER!!" and he instantly sprang back up. We moved on. About 20 minutes later, I let him graze again - hoping there was moisture in the grass - and he tried it again. Now I'm not amused, I'm concerned. This is totally out of character. I'm thinking dehydration...colic...
We're on New Hope Road approaching the outskirts of Geronimo now. Houses. Someone turns in to the driveway of a modern brick house on an exquisitely well-manicured lawn of at least an acre. A woman opens her car door to get mail. I wave, she waves. I ride up and ask about water. Next thing I know, her husband is unrolling the hose and I'm removing Walter's packs and saddle at her invitation. (These are not horse people. She just thought he looked hot.) Under their friendly gaze, after a long drink Walter rolls, I hose him off, he rolls again, then grazes happily while he dries off.
This was not a suitable place to stay, so they suggested the sheriff who lived just up the hill. Walter seemed quite content to be packed and ridden again after his long break. We turned in the sheriff's drive, seeing several vehicles and signs of life. There were goats and empty horse pens. I dismounted.
RAWR-RAWR-RAWR-RAWR-RAWR!
a snarling dog came roaring out of nowhere, fangs bared, charging at me. In fear, I tried to leap back into the saddle. The dog lunged at us. Walter panicked, I felt the lead torn from my hand as I hit the asphalt hard and heard hooves clattering away. I forgot all about the dog behind me, my focus on a frightened mule running down the middle of a road. The dog's menacing barks faded - he miraculously didn't bite - as I slowed myself down to a walk and went after Walter. I called to Walter mule and he turned, waiting for me. I held up my hand to stop an approaching truck. Walter let me take his lead and stroke his face gently as the truck drove by. I mounted and we moved on.
Sun getting low... no place that looks promising... we cross a bridge over a deep ravine (turned out to be Cache Creek running below), pass a house screened by trees and a young man with a gun over his shoulder emerges at the driveway, waving us down. In a friendly voice he reassures us it's just a BB gun and asks if we're travelling. When I tell him yes and from where, he laughs with delight and asks if we need a place for the night. He runs back to the house and the whole family emerges: the young man (who introduces himself as David), David's sister Cherish, her husband Elton, and the kids Ember, Jaden and Gabe. After walking the property I determine there is no place safe to let Walter loose and he'll need to be tethered, no way around it. The best place is the chain-link-fenced front yard. It has space, grass and I can pitch my tent. Cherish suggests I sleep on the trampoline, what a fabulous idea! The kids romp around cheerfully, asking lots of questions and feeding Walter peaches. The 3 dogs run around his feet barking but are harmless. Cherish and David drive off in search of hay, what hospitality! They actually find a bale at about 8 pm on a Friday night. Couldn't believe it. So, we are all chatting out in the yard. I have put single hobbles on each of Walter's hind legs in hopes of protecting his pasterns from the rope. I considered the possibility of the rope getting caught under a hobble but put my concern aside. I see Walter getting a bit jittery with all the noise and activity, but again, since he is still for the most part dealing well, don't give it much thought. I turn my back to him, saying something to David. Suddenly I hear shrieks and screams from the kids and David looks past me yelling, "Whoa, Walter! Whoa!"
I turn and there's Walter, eyes rolling in panic, trying to kick loose the tether that's wrapped and caught under his left hobble.
I get him loose, remove the hobble, and in the half-darkness of evening can plainly see a huge rope burn. On the left hind foot that just took six weeks to heal.
Upshot of it was, I moved Walter to a side area, cleaned and bandaged the wound, tied him up short and sat up in the tent most of the night watching him. But in the morning when I unwrapped, turned out the burn was not nearly as dire as it appeared in the semidarkness of the evening before. It was large but appeared to be all on the surface. No swelling, little heat. So after being treated to another wonderful hot breakfast of pancakes and sausage, we were off, Walter's foot bandaged to keep it clean. I determined we'd make it as short a day as possible and find a place to lay over for a day or two while I doctored the burn. After his first four days back on the road, Walter was due a rest anyway.
Saturday 8/24
We had spent Friday night on the banks of Cache Creek, only a mile and a half from the city limits of Geronimo. (We travelled 10 miles on Friday. Walter tried to go down at about mile 8. That told me the limits of his conditioning right now - he'll need short days in this heat for a while.) Geronimo is so named, I assume, because Geronimo was buried at nearby Fort Sill... though rumors abound that the body is no longer there. The road ran along the southern edge of the little town. I asked some workmen we came upon if they knew of a store that might carry 1st aid supplies. They said there were only two stores in town. One of the men phoned the convenience store just ahead to see what they had, and directed me there. As we approached Rob and Wendy's Store we passed a house with an empty corral.
 |
| outskirts of Geronimo |
A tall, genial man who turned out to be Rob of "Rob and Wendy's" met us at the front, filled a bucket with water, and watched Walter while I went inside. In the store I met Rob's wife, the equally tall and genial Wendy. Wendy went in a back room and came out with all sorts of gauze, bandages, etc. which she proceeded to toss in with the drink I bought, gratis. "We had it laying around." Back outside, Rob stood holding Walter's lead; Walter had fussed when I left and pulled down the [loose] metal pole he was tied to. Rob was cheerfully unfazed. Wendy came out, and I told them I needed a place to doctor my mule for two days, and did they know anything about the folks next door with the corral?
Rob raised his eyebrows at Wendy as I spoke and he interrupted with, "How about our place?" Followed by much rapid back-and-forth discussion between the two of them as to which neighbor could take Walter, as they did not have a pasture or pen. Wendy went back inside the store, a phone call was made, and in minutes Walter was lined up with a lush five-acre pasture complete with pond, while I was invited to pitch my tent outside the pasture or sleep over at Rob and Wendy's next door.
That evening over dinner, I found out my Long Rider friend Sea and her sometimes-riding-companion Gryph had stopped at the same store last year on their way east, and Rob and Wendy had found them and their ponies a place to stay for the night.
I tell you, there is a place in Long Rider heaven for trail angels like these folks. Not only am I deeply grateful to them, but I love the old tradition they are keeping alive of helping out riders passing through, strangers and their horses or mules... kind of like there used to be liveries, inns with stables. Places where news would be exchanged and stories told. I can see those days coming again, replacing the information highway, some strange new combination of old travel and future world - who knows? Walter and I, we'll be ready for whatever comes... walking along serenely amongst the changes, bearing witness.
In the meantime, for today, my only concern is Walter. He's healing up well. The burn looked almost all skinned over, no oozing, until I put Vetrycin on it last night. This morning it was all oozing again and looking bubbly and reddish but I think it's just the Vetrycin eating away the top layer of scab and it'll be fine. There's no heat, swelling or lameness. I'm even considering leaving late this afternoon if we have a place expecting us 6 miles from here. We'll see.
From here we head west and then north to Altus, our next rest stop.
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