At 6:30 in the morning, my nine-year-old son can’t stop talking. I’m guessing that means he’s excited. I've been afraid he’d be bored out of his mind. At this point, I think we’ll be OK.
Still unsure, C.J. handed out the drinks dutifully.
We check in at the fairgrounds. My chariot awaits. Built on the chassis of a 1974 3/4 ton Dodge pickup, this wagon will provide a “real, smooth ride” – at least that’s what our drive, Richard, “Dick” Barney assures me. He’s got the bench seat covered with what appears to be a Holstein cow hide. At least I’ll feel at home.
This appears to be a loosely organized group. We had been told to arrive at 6:30, but others were told 7 or 7:30. The “cookies” are here already with a Dutch Oven full of sausage gravy. There’s a bag of biscuits nearby. A good sign, I think.
Somewhere around 8:30 the party leaves. As it turns out, we are the only ones with a wagon.Everyone else is horseback. Looks like there is a good mix of beginning and experienced riders. A retired teacher. Several members of the band in town to provide entertainment for the week. My new friend, Lanita. Another photographer. An EMT. There’s a couple from Montana and one of the cowboy poets brought in for the Lost – n- Lava Cowboy Poetry Gathering to be held this weekend.
We have 10 miles or so to go today. Dick figures we’ll cover 2 – 3 miles an hour. We weave through town with the help of local law enforcement holding back traffic on the state highways that run through town.My ride is amazingly comfortable. I had planned on walking part of the way – but at this point, I see no reason to leave my perch atop the Holstein hide. CJ starts out up here as well, but like the gentlemen he’s quickly becoming, he moves to a camp chair on the wagon in order for Evelyn, the band’s photographer to ride with us.
The weather is cool. Thank goodness. The lava rock is pretty unforgiving as it is. When it’s hot, it’s miserable. Even a few drops of rain join the wagon ride. Dick calls it a “4-inch rain – 4-inches between the drops.”
Cj is stretched out on his perch. Perfectly happy. Excellent. Not one complaint.Even better. I offer to have someone drop him off at school. “No, thank you!.”
I asked his teacher if he could afford to miss 3 days of school.She said yes. “He’ll learn more on that wagon than he would sitting in my class.”
Just over a mile into the trip, we stop for a quick break. People use the bathroom. Cj learns his fist lesson. Cowboy boots have slick bottoms for a reason. As he tries to hope off the rebar that makes up the step up to the wagon the lug soled boots he’s wearing get caught. He falls. In front of everybody.
“That was a bad idea,” he laughs as hops up and brushes himself off. The crowd releases a collective sigh of relief. No one wants to spend three days with a cry baby. He didn’t fall hard and was fine.
He then learns the next lesson of the trail. Cowboys give ya shit. The more shit they give ya – the more likely it is the actually enjoy your company.
C.J.is asked to help distribute water and pop at the next break. The trail boss comes up to the wagon and looks at C.J.
“Are you Lil’ Mary?”
C.J. has a confused look on his face. “No. I’m C.J.”
“Well, Lil’ Mary is the person who helps all around the camp and you look like Lil’ Mary to me.”
My heart stopped. My son doesn’t handle getting teased well. I prayed he wouldn’t explode.
“It’s a good thing. C.J.,” I said. “He’s just asking you to help.”
Later Dick explains cowboy lore to him. Legend has it there is a person, usually a kid, who helps around the camp, cleans up and is the “gopher” – that person is Little Mary. If they’re calling you Little Mary they’re seeing if you’re a team player – that you aren’t afraid of work. You’re earning they’re respect and trust. It’s a compliment, really.
C.J. is ready for the work.
C.J. is ready for the work.
The damp sagebrush releases its fragrance. There are still a few bright yellow wild flowers in bloom. Juxtaposed with the deep burgundy of the lava and the dark blue of the stormy sky, it’s beautiful out here. Breathtakingly simple and quiet.
Just before 1 p.m. we roll into camp. We’re north of the city of Shoshone, just a few miles from my house. The clouds have rolled back to reveal a searing sun. It’s hot. Too hot. And not a bit of shade to be found. We’re on a large ranch. Orginally the plan was to camp in the shade near the ranch house, but an over-population of mosquitoes made that option null. The dry spot will offer little shade, but much relief (we hope) from the angry mobs of insencts.
It is blissfully quiet at camp. Some folks are on a trail ride. Others are napping. Soon the camp will come alive with tall tales and music but for now, we’ll wait out the heat of the sun.
I watch Dick manage his horses. He and his son Eric remove the harnesses and bridles and brush the sweat away. Eric takes them down to the creek for a drink of cool water. I’ve been fascinated in how Dick manages the horses. He talks to them like I imagine he speaks to his grandchildren. Very calm. Quiet. Simple, direct commands and encouragement They’re two Percherons. He says the breed originated in France.
“They’re from France, but sometimes they like to think they’re from Russia, “ Dick says with a smile. As in rush-a.
Silky is a dapple gray lady. She’s the leader. Anxious to go and always at the ready. Joe is a “bay” – a dark, reddish brown male. Dick says they have distinct personalities.
“She’s a happy camper. He’s just campin’”
Throughout the ride he has to coax Joe to keep up.
“Come on Joe, help her out.”
“If you work with her, she’ll help you out.”
He uses a willow stick to gently nudge Joe’s behind. “Joe – she’s doing all the work.”
Silky, on the other hand, remains a step ahead. Literally chopping at the bit.
Dick has to remind her to slow down. Save her energy.
“Silky ,slow down. Be here.”
Be here. He’s reminded his horse to be present.To enjoy the journey.
Perhaps that’s good advice for all of us in this face-paced world. Look at the world around us. Enjoy the view. Be a part of the journey, not just the destination.
Slow down
Be here.
Be here.
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