OFF TO VISIT THE MULES

Those who have diligently perused my past efforts of recording somewhat modern history will remember my mentioning the Rocket Equipped Van.

One Memorial Day weekend, my buddy Frank and I decided that we would go visit Bishop, CA for Mule Days, in conjunction with some spring skiing at Mammoth Mountain, which is in the same general area of the Eastern Sierras. So, we loaded up the essentials – wine, skis, poles, boots and suchlike and took off over the hills and through the beautiful Yosemite Valley.

En route, we had to pass through the old gold mining town of Mariposa. While passing through town, Frank decided he would like a cup of coffee. However, since we had neglected to bring any with us, he decided a short glass of Rhine wine would suffice, and he so directed the co-driver to attend to this matter.

Carefully treading my way along the floorboards which were cluttered with 2 pairs of ski boots, 4 pairs of skis, 3 sets of ski poles and assorted other 'stuff', I attempted to locate the Rhine wine, a plastic cup or two and a place to sit down while transferring the wine to the cup. Why the skis and poles were not in the 'rockets' I cannot explain at this long distance in time.

For some reason, I cast my eyes to the rear window of the vehicle and found that a California Highway Patrol Officer was in the next car behind us. The desire to open and pour the wine suddenly disappeared, and I simply sat down.

The non-arrival of Frank's desired cup of wine caused him to demand the cause of the extended delay. When I informed him that we had a CHP car right behind us, the uproar in the driver's cabin suddenly disappeared. In fact the last I heard from that portion of the vehicle was a muted “Oh”.

The CHP vehicle shortly turned off in the direction of one of the local coffee shops, so we presumed that the officer had coffee on his mind, also. With that distraction reduced, I went back to my labors so as to pacify the driver, and his raging thirst problem.

The remainder of the trip over the Sierras was uneventful, as was the drive down Highway 395 toward Mammoth Mountain and Bishop and our camp ground. We arrived late in the evening, with just enough light to find what appeared to be a reasonable spot to park. This camping park was of the “barely improved” variety but it appeared that it would suffice.

We lit a small fire, cooked our frugal meal, drank some small measure(s) of wine and decided to call it a day. Fortunately, I had packed my jungle hammock, since Frank made it quite clear that I would not be welcome to sleep within the van. Oh well, I do not enjoy being crowded into a confined space. My Naval training, I suppose.

I promptly slung my jungle hammock between two convenient trees well spaced for that usage. Grabbing my blankets, I was about to get into the hammock when Frank broke my train of thought with a question. Deliberation and enunciating the answer to the question required another cup of wine for the two of us.

While in the midst of a very involved but somewhat lucid answer, it suddenly occurred to me that I might as well sit on my bed – read hammock. Before I go further, let me describe my little 'home away from home'.

The entire jungle hammock is constructed of material of the nylon family and has a double roof supported by a sewn in nylon cord. Attached to this roofing material are lightweight mosquito nettings on each side. These nettings are further attached, somewhat loosely to the lower panel which forms the “bed” of the hammock. At either end of the lower panel, there are attached a number of nylon cords.

One attaches these cords to the selected trees, attaches the upper cord further up the trees, and attaches the spreader bars that keep the whole thing spread. This allows the owner to occupy a fairly spacious bed room AL Fresco. If one were to forget the spreader bars, ski poles work wonderfully. Or, so I have been told.

As I said, I had decided that I could give my answer to Frank's question all the required deliberation if I were sitting down, I sat somewhat more firmly than I had intended, and the hammock decided to swing out from under me. If a person has not tried to sit in a hammock, the first thing he should remember is that the hammock does not seem to like it, and will swing away from the person.

Another thing a person should recall is that a hammock will swing the other way, without giving notice.

In my attempt to sit down with the hammock swinging away, it would appear that I overdid my sitting activities. Luckily, I hit the mosquito nets right where they overlapped, so they merely let me through, rather than resisting my motions.

In fact, if I recall correctly, neither did the curtains on the other side of the hammock. Or much of anything else, either.

Once the world stopped spinning, I noted that Frank was laughing so hard that he was having trouble staying on the rock upon which he had been sitting. Later investigation provided certain details to me that were not immediately evident.

Details such as an almost full cup of wine was now dripping from the “rain roof” of the hammock, which was gently swaying back and forth. Probably practicing for the next time I attempted to get in.

Oh, yeah...The other thing that Frank found hilarious was the fact that I was sitting in a snow bank on the far side of the hammock. Some people can find humor in almost anything, I swear.

The remainder of the evening will remain shrouded in mystery to the reader. I have been asked to recount the evening by many of my fans, and my answer, in all cases has been the same: “I don't wanna!”.

It will suffice to say that after a restorative cup or so of wine, silence was preserved throughout the area. Except for Frank's snoring.

The following morning we departed the camp ground to observe the events of Mule Days. There were mules of every description and configuration. There were jumpers that would have rivaled any horse on the Eastern Horsey-area Hunter collection, Thorobred/Mule crosses that would have shamed any horse entered into the Kentucky Derby for looks, working mules of all sorts, everything a person could think of.

There was even an 8-hitch mule team pulling a replica of the covered wagons the pioneers used. The only item out of place, you might say, was the fact that these mules were only about 18 inches high and the wagon was in proportion. The driver walked alongside, of course, to control his team.

As we were driving up, we were privileged to see part of the “Wild Mule contest”. In this contest, a number of unbroken mules are let loose in the arena, and the same number of 5-man teams are then allowed to select, capture and rig out the mule.

This consisted of placing a head stall on the mule, then placing a pack saddle on it in such a fashion it would remain there at least until they led the mule over the finish line. Remember these mules had never been led, harnessed, saddled or anything else you can think of to do with a mule.

One other thing a body should remember! A mule can kick accurately, even with 4 people hanging on his neck. One member of one particular 'team' apparently let this matter slip his mind, since he apparently passed too close behind the mule in question. His forehead struck the flying hoof with quite a bit of violence.

I suppose that everybody has heard the phrase “walking on his heels”. In this case, the phrase fit. Believe me, it is not very easy to walk that way in Western heeled boots. However, this 'Cowboy' (Muleboy?) manged the difficult feat. Whether he knew where he was going is probably a matter of conjecture and dispute to this day at Mule Days.

With that exposition out of the way, we adjourned to the grandstands where we were forced to drink a number of paper cups of beer. Sadly, they had no wine. We also watched exhibitions of mule work that I would not be able to adequately describe. We will simply say that these exhibitions were almost beyond belief.

On one activity I will attempt an adequate explanation. 6 mules were each roped to the mule in front, and laden with items such as a 50 gallon drum on one mule, four 4X4X8 pieces of lumber loaded on another, a wooden box about 5 feet long and 4 feet wide lashed to another, a sheet of 4x8 plywood on another and so on. All the awkward items that the judges could assemble were placed on these mules.

These were items that might be required to be hauled back into the back country by the owners of the mules. All these were highly trained and professionally working mules.

Leading this conglomeration was a man a-horseback, holding the lead rope for the lead mule.

The mules were lead once around the arena for the crowd's enjoyment and then led into a very small corral. When the last mule entered the corral, there was a sort of milling around as the mules circled the corral – which by the way was just large enough to hold them all with almost no room left over.

Presently, the man on the horse appeared in the gate and proceeded to lead his string of mules back out. Every item was still on board it's respective mule and every mule was in it's appointed place. Had I not seen it myself, I would not have believed it possible.

Slim Pickens the cowboy, professional rodeo bull fighter/clown and movie star was there, and participated in the chariot race. I believe the mules that were used for this event were the same ones that were used for the Wild Mule contest. At least they didn't seem to want to obey the driver's orders as delivered by the reins and voice.

Clouds of dust appeared, some curses were heard from the Conductors Du Mule and a number of collisions occurred, until such a time as a mule happened to wander over the finish line and a winner was declared.

Other than viewing these events and much more, there was absolutely nothing to occupy our time. So, Frank started flirting with two girls sitting nearby. I, of course, maintained my completely gentlemanly manner. Even if I did have to go get and pay for 4 beers instead of the normal 2.

Eventually, the ladies left with a gay “'Night Guys” leaving Frank broken hearted and me poorer for the number of beers purchased.

We will leave the rest of the night to your imagination, merely commenting upon the number of guard rails we seemed to approach very closely on the way home.

A good time was had by all, and I remembered to approach my hammock with the same care the cowboy should have used with his Wild Mule.

The next morning, my brother and his wife arrived with their own tale to tell. Dick was having trouble seeing, due to a developing cataract in one eye. Consequently, he had a depth perception problem.

The road up into Yosemite was made in the 1930's, I believe, and is quite narrow, with a 2 ½ foot rock wall to keep cars from falling off into the Merced River. Thereby hangs a tale of political chicanery.

The whole of the Merced River canyon and the area above the canyon was being logged. Their contract with the U.S. Government was that they could log the National Forest but were forbidden to cut any trees within Yosemite National Park.

A sharp eyed Park Ranger noted that the timber company had cut within the park limits, to within 200 feet or so from the road from the South Entrance to the Park. This information was conveyed to the appropriate persons in Washington, D.C. The Congress, when they heard of this activity, assessed a quite hefty fine for the violation.

The Yosemite Valley Rail Road, which was working with the logging interests protested, since some of the fine's payment fell on them. Conferences were held, and a final agreement was reached.

RR company agreed to build the road into the valley for a large sum for the day - $25.000 comes to mind. Since they had a large number of stone masons and such in their employ, this seemed to be a good deal, and the road was completed in a reasonable time frame.

Whereupon, Congress said “Damn fine road, Men”, and promptly forgot about having promised the money for the work. After some law suits, the RR company had to eat the cost of building the highway. After learning the story behind that road, I have always enjoyed driving on it.

Anyway, back to my brother. As mentioned, the road is narrow, and my brother allowed his RV to drift just a tad too far to the right. Consequently, the side of his RV contacted the rock wall. In doing so, he lost a complete aluminum panel – about 3 feet by the length of the RV – from the side of the vehicle. Kinda looked naked, it did.

Since most of the conversation concerned the narrow road, the missing panel and such like, not much was said about the previous night. Besides, Frank did not seem interested in telling the story.

The second day was a repetition of the previous day, more or less. No walking on heels cowboys, which was a disappointment, as well as no girls in the grandstands. I got the impression that Dick's wife, Donna, may have placed a damper on that particular activity, A fair amount of beer was consumed, so the beer merchants were happy, at least.

We called it a day earlier than the night before and returned, much more sedately – and I must admit, by a much straighter path than the night before.

The next morning was pack up day and then we returned home. I think I can say that the long weekend was enjoyed by all. We got absolutely no skiing in, but then the snow was getting skimpy anyway, since this all occurred on a memorial Memorial Day Weekend.