Soon after, though, I realize something: in a UTV, I wouldn’t be in this part of the forest behind a “No Motorized Traffic” gate. I wouldn’t have the familiar saddle soreness that reminds me of the trail into this beautiful spot.
Part of our routine is to handle the horses’ feet every day leading up to the visit. If we do our job right, he cusses less than he did during the previous visit.
What if I had a horse truck, like they did in the not-so-distant past? I had seen the loading ramps at different Forest Service cabins in the mountains, where truckloads of hardy pack animals had descended from the back of two ton grain trucks and pickup beds. What if, instead of having to worry about tipping my big gooseneck rig off the side of a mountain road, I could simply squeak around the tight corners in style?
Beads of sweat ran enthusiastically down Nathan’s face like raindrops on a double-hung window, starting quickly toward the sill of his brow line and heading as gravity dictated, slowed by a weathered screen of stubble, dirt, and yesterday’s grease paint. Here, on the ridge, nature was making him earn anything that came afterward, and requiring […]
A few pieces of thread, spun ‘round one another, make up a string. A few pieces of string braided together make up a piece of twine. A few pieces of twine wrapped around one another make up a rope. And a rope, when dallied around the mulehide-bound horn of my wade tree saddle, can spell […]