A Recollection of One Summer

In the late 1940's, my Uncle purchased a matched set of mules, for riding. Mules can be very good riding animals, and can even be trained for roping and jumping. Later on, my Uncle trained his mount, Sugar, to calf rope very successfully. This little tale occurs a small time before that training.

The year before, my Uncle Ray, along with his oldest daughter, Pat, had ridden in this competitive "trail ride" and he had not only taken First Prize, but also the Grand Sweepstakes award on Sugar, while Pat came in second to him in the competition, riding Honey.

In the year in question, Ray found that Pat would be occupied with college work during the period of that year's trail ride. So, lacking any proper volunteer, he asked me if I would like to ride Honey. I, of course, agreed. Whatever Uncle Ray wanted, I was willing to do, and do my best.

Wednesday morning in Merced dawned with a standard San Joaquin Valley morning, promising to be a clear, gently breezy, but hot, June day. Temperatures in the middle 80's to lower 90’s were forecast. Competitors from all over the state of California, especially from the Central Pacific Coast horse clubs were there, in order to show their fine horses off to the "Hicks" in the Merced-Mariposa Horseman's Association. A finer group of horse/mule flesh would have been hard to find gathered anywhere else, in those days.

Speeches were made. Thankfully, short ones, as the heat of the sun at 8 AM was starting to build. Then, out the gate, turn left and we were North bound on “G Grade” - so-called, since the ground had been scraped from the orchards of that day, onto “G” Street to form a berm to keep flood waters from Bear Creek out of town. Finally, we were on our way. Only 35 miles to go, for that day.

Out "G" Street, past the radio station, then on out the Snelling "highway" - heat was building, riders were becoming settled in their saddles, mounts were becoming somewhat used to the heat and the very gentle upgrade as we proceeded. Then, the first landmark of consequence, La Paloma Road. Right turn and off onto this old dirt road that had served as a wagon road for many years for the gold mines, transporting goods from the railroad in Merced to the various mines, camps and towns in the Mother Lode. Eight miles gone.

While those that had thoughtfully shod their mounts with copper horse shoes rode somewhat carelessly, we, who had not, were as cautions as we could be of stones and rocks in the roadway.

FIRE! That was our constant companion and constant fear. This area, in June is sun baked, cured on the stem, grazing land. Grass that a very small spark can cause to erupt in flame and devastate hundreds, if not thousands, of acres of cattle range. Caution was uppermost in all minds. And 10 miles of this remained ahead of us.

Finally, Hornitos appeared, as if it was a mirage, with the cottonwood and Valley Oak shimmering in the distance. Hornitos (Little Ovens, in Spanish) meant a chance to dismount, rest our mounts and grab a substantial lunch.

An hour soon passed, and with rested and watered horses, we proceeded. However, the nice reasonably flat ground was a thing of the past.

From here, it was uphill all the way. Not only was it up a fair grade, but we were now shooting for a time "window". We had 4 and 1/2 hours to make it to the night's camping grounds at Mount Bullion. This was not a race against time, but it was still a race against the clock. Arrive at the campgrounds too early, and you were disqualified for punishing your mount. Arrive too late and you were simply disqualified. This required a nicety of timing. Very few of us found we could make the 30 minute "window" without trotting our mounts from time to time.

However, this would show up in the judging later on that evening, before the evening meal. If a mount showed excessive work, such having been trotted for an extended time uphill, points were deducted, or even a possible disqualification might be in the works.

Horsemanship, or in my case, Mulemanship, was what this entire ride was about. Again, the old Cavalry saying applied, “Horse, saddle and man“, in that order. Care for the mounts and tack, stand ’inspection’ by the Judges, eat dinner, a little talking, and into the bedrolls we went, as morning would come early.

And, early it did...Scarcely had the sun risen and breakfast was served...Eaten, of course, after the animals had been taken care of. Then, into the saddle, again, for a reasonably short day of only 20 miles, or so, to Jerseydale.

However, that entailed quite a climb, going up over the first of the ridges that line the western portions of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and then back down in the valley beyond. For most of the time, we utilized Forest Service fire trails, rough roads bulldozed into the side of the mountain. At one point, my uncle decided it was time to make a rest stop.

He stepped off his mount on the cut side, which gave him a "wall" to utilize, while I stepped down between the two mules, to hold them.

Suddenly, while uncle was occupied with his business, his mount, Sugar, daintily lifted his left forefoot a bit, shifted his weight a tad and gently placed that hoof on my uncle's boot toe. At the same time, Honey shifted his bulk in such a fashion that I was caught between the two mules.

No manner of urging, or pushing, would make those normally well behaved mules move. We remained in that fashion for 10 minutes or so, when all of a sudden I found that I no longer had a mule leaning on me. At about the same time, Sugar lifted that left front hoof and gently placed it on the roadbed again. Apparently, those two mules had decided that they needed a longer rest break than they knew Uncle would give them.

Lunch consisted of a couple of wax paper-wrapped sandwiches, a banana and a full canteen of water, issued after breakfast.

Jerseydale. The home of one branch of my family, acquired in the middle to late 19th century. Last night had been hot and trying upon man and animal to sleep. Tonight it was going to be fairly warm, with a touch of cool added. The difference is easily detected while you are sleeping on the ground with a 1940's era thin sleeping bag.

A description of the area, I guess is suggested. Last night had been the site of an old freight wagon stop, dry and dusty. Incidentally, it was reputed to be one of the hangouts of Joaquin Murrieta, the Mexican bandit.

This night, we were in an open meadow, of about 60 acres in size, with lush grass about belly high on our mounts, and reasonably high fir trees. The scene was, and still is today, about what it was when the first settler families came there, in the latter third of the 19th century, give or take a few fences and a power line or two.

Tomorrow we are off for Wawona, one of the earliest settlements within the Yosemite National Park area.

About this time, I suppose I should explain from whence came these vittles. Other members of the Merced-Mariposa Horseman's Association had volunteered to load all the grub, the pots and kettles and what not, and the kerosene stoves into their trucks and haul them over the mountains to the various stopping points, so that we would have two good meals a day. Plus they hauled the hay and grain for the mounts. All we riders needed was water, and each stop had been planned with that in mind.

Again, the ride the next morning was up one ridge and down into the following valley to Wawona. Wawona, of the old hotel and the covered bridge. One of the few usable bridges of that type that remained, at that time, in Central California. It is set in a lovely setting in a very large meadow, and is situated 27 miles, by road, from Yosemite Valley.

There we found stables and corrals for our mounts, and, what is more, showers, for the riders. These showers were very much desired, since we all had been, more or less, living in our clothes for the last few days. Freshly scrubbed and cleanly clothed, we all participated in a particularly good roast beef dinner, with all the fixings. A reward for having made it fairly high up into the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Tomorrow, would be the last and most crucial day of the ride, save the first hot day. Yosemite Valley lay just about 30 miles or so away from us...Unroll the sleeping bags and the riders were asleep, shortly after their dinner.

Onward to Yosemite, was our rallying call for the next morning. Mounts curry-combed, and brushed, so as to present as fine an appearance as we could to the tourists down in the Valley, gear all saddle soaped, and riders in clean clothing that was reserved for this day, off we went.

From Wawona it was a fairly gentle, but constant, climb to the summit, and then off along horse and hiking trails to the edge of the Valley. Specifically to the area of Glacier Point. From the Point, it is approximately 2,000 feet straight down, practically. Again lunch was sandwiches, fruit and whatever drinking water we had brought from last night's camp.

Descent into the Valley was by way of the "Nine-mile Trail", which switches back and forth for nearly the entire 2,000 feet to the Valley floor. Having hiked the trail, both ways, I knew that the down hill journey was much harder on the legs, and especially, the knees.

Therefore, spacing between mounts was severely monitored, and the pace was kept to a very slow walk, due to the incline of the trail. This trail has been, more or less carved out of solid granite, with some help from natural ledges and such. Even on foot, it can be a very hard and dangerous thing to travel 9 miles and descend approximately 2,000 feet, on the side of a nearly sheer granite cliff. Mounted, it just gets a little more dangerous for mount and rider. Thankfully, that day was somewhat cooler than those days we had just experienced.

Suddenly, one of the mares at the front of the strung out group came into season! At first, we had no idea of what was happening, while way in the back of the line, placed there intentionally, was a stallion that immediately began neighing and snorting, and generally raising heck, all the while on the side of a nearly vertical mountainside, and a trail that was no more than 3 to 5 feet wide. All at once, we heard a loud burst of cussing, and a number of very loud "Whoa, you S&& of a Bi&&H!” cries.

The next thing we knew, here came the stallion, pushing past the other mounts on the trail, with his rider sawing on the reins. This all happened when about one half of us were on the lower portion of a switchback of the trail, so that the mare was lower than the rest of us. Since the stallion wanted to get to the mare, just as fast as possible, he decided, without consulting his rider, to cut the corner!

There they went, a gray stallion, a de-hated rider, who was cussing all the way - straight down the mountain, through the rocks, chips and other debris that had collected as the trail was developed!

The stallion reached the other lower portion of the trail, and commenced to push by the remaining animals and riders, until he finally got behind the mare. There, he seemed to start to behave and obey his rider’s commands, and followed the mare right down to the Valley floor.

What could have been a horrible accident ended up with one horse gaining a large number of places in the “Parade”, and a rider that asked for a stiff shot of whiskey just as soon as we got to camp. His hat was returned to him that afternoon by a hiker that had witnessed the 'event', and admitted he thought a whole lot of us were going to get killed. Why no one was, I still don't know. I have heard it said that the Good Lord looks after drunks and idjits, and I guess we all qualified one way, or the other.

Finally, the last camp. A final dust covered parade past our families and the tourists lining the trail and the road, and we had arrived in Yosemite Valley, the goal for which we had striven mightily, these past four days.

Now to get the mount and the gear in First Class condition, which was somewhat speedily accomplished, since the day past had been a fairly short ride. Stand our daily ‘inspection’ of mounts, and then shower and clean up, eat our steak dinner and gather around the campfire to spin tales, and, especially, to marvel over the "Short Cut" on the trail that day. Also, to prepare for the Grand Judging the next morning.

By the way, I don't know if the stallion was ever able to discharge his duties to the lady horse in question, but I seriously doubt it. But, who knows?

Oh yeah, I placed Fifth in the junior class, due to an equipment malfunction that caused an injury to my mule. This injury occurred when an adjustment clamp on one stirrup came loose and cut Honey's side. At no time did my wonderful mount give any indication of the injury, and I was completely unaware of it till we unsaddled on the first night.

Such is the life of a cotton and alfalfa growing, sometimes cowboy, Western kid at the tender age of 14......As viewed from the distance of 50 plus years.....

And, I would be remiss if I didn‘t report that Uncle Ray took First Prize, again that year. It seems they did not give a Sweepstakes Prize that particular year. Also, the following year, mules were disallowed, for some reason.