Riding for the Master

Chapter 29 Strength for the Day The Lord is my strength and my shield; My heart trusted in Him, and I am helped. Therefore my heart greatly rejoices, and with my song I will praise Him, Psalm 28:7 We were headed into the Sutherland again. It had been a few years since we’d made the hunt. Only Merle and I were able to make the trip and we were rather short on horses. We had Cheyenne and Cedar. Both had done this many times and were reliable and steady. We were not going to pack camp in and up the hill. Instead, we were going to camp in our travel trailer on the cut block and cross the river and ride up to the meadows each day. Being short on horses, we decided to take Doc and Wrangler. Doc and Wrangler were both out of my old mare, Queenie. They were big, beautiful, powerful bay geldings. But, they were green. About three years prior, I had put about five short rides on Doc before I was bucked off Stormy and had my arm ripped in two. My lack of confidence had kept me from riding him anymore. Wrangler was a year younger than Doc. He had never been ridden, though I had put hours of groundwork on him. I had also put a pack on Wrangler at home and had led him around. We figured they’d both had enough work on them, they’d make good packhorses. The trip would give them hours of use. Midway through the week’s hunt, we were again up early. I busied making breakfast. The travel trailer, with its propane lamp, was a cozy home on wheels and soon was filled with the smells of a hearty breakfast. It was not however, quite the same as a cooktent with the fire popping and snapping out heat. Soon breakfast was eaten, the two green horses were readied to spend the day in camp, we were saddled and ready to head out into the gray, cold October morning. On a wet year, the trail, into the north side of the valley, had many soft spots and some places where we would need to go through some deep water. The going would be slow, and to ride in and out each day would punch out the trail quickly, and be fairly tedious. This, however, had been a dry year. Our horses were eager to go, and we rapidly devoured the distance to the meadows overlooking the Sutherland River. We found success that day in a little glen along the bottom side of Moose Meadows. Merle took care of gutting and skinning the moose before we made the approximately two hour ride back out to camp. The travel trailer and a hot supper were very welcome after a day of riding and working in the cool autumn air. We passed the evening and crawled into bed. We had a big day again in the morning. The following morning found us headed out, green packhorses in tow, into a gray day with rain threatening. We reached Moose Meadows, relocated the little glen with our moose, and readied the meat to pack on our horses. We started with Doc, as he’d had the most work done on him. It soon became apparent; Doc was having none of it! Between Merle and I, we’d heard various methods of getting a green packhorse to warm up to the idea of packing fresh meat. I can attest that they all still depend on the horse. We tried approaching slowly. Doc retreated rapidly, as far as possible. We gave him a bit of a break, time to get used to the meat lying near him and tried loading Wrangler. Wrangler was no better. Old timers said “Rub fresh blood in their nose, the fresh meat won’t smell strange then, and they’ll let you put the meat on them.” I don’t remember if we ever got around to putting blood in Wrangler’s nostrils. We started with Doc, and the reaction was violent. He snorted, he pawed, he did anything but calm down. Other old-timer advice, “Sack them out with a piece of hide.” Merle cut off a piece of hide about 3 feet x 3 feet. I began gently waving it towards Doc. I tried for a while with no progress. A light drizzle had started. We took a break and ate our bagged lunch, letting the horses and ourselves catch our breath and relax some. With lunch over, we tried another tactic. Merle threw the chunk of hide on top of Doc’s pack saddle. Doc turned inside out. Writhing this way and that. Twisting, snorting and bucking to the full extent his leadrope would allow. Before long, he had the chunk of hide on the ground. With frenzied determination, he killed it! Stomping, pouncing and pawing, he ground it into the dirt. He was lathered in sweat, nostrils flared red, eyes large, round and white. We were losing ground, rather than gaining. I was an emotional wreck, ready to quit and leave. Merle was contemplating another solution. We would switch the saddles, placing our riding saddles on Doc and Wrangler, and the pack saddles on Cheyenne and Cedar. We’d turn Doc and Wrangler loose after we’d packed Cheyenne and Cedar, and walk out leading Cheyenne and Cedar. The other two would follow us. “But Cheyenne was a terrible packhorse when we packed her last time!” I chokingly protested, “She hit every tree, then would jump, stop, and start!” Merle assured me that she’d do okay. I was very dubious, but had no better plan. I went to take the pack saddle off Doc. He was so worked up it was hard to get near him.