When Joanne first attended the University of California Riverside in the fall of 1954, she brought her two horses, Sheba and Legend, with her. Naturally. Since the two horses wouldn't blend in very well in the apartment Joanne shared with three other young women, she boarded them at a ranch owned by Ken and Joy Haiks in West Riverside.
For some reason I've never understood, West Riverside lies just north of Riverside on the other side of the Santa Ana River. The Santa Ana River, at that point, is nowhere near the city of Santa Ana. Not even in the same county. Go figure.
The horses loved it at Haiks' ranch. There was plenty of room and it had a duck pond. During the months when the flies got numerous and bothersome, Sheba immersed herself in the pond. All you could see was nostrils and eyes as she swam in circles. The flies then moved their swarm to Legend who never put it together that she could go swim the duck pond too.
Haiks didn't keep a pond for the purpose of raising ducks. But he loved the fact that ducks would come there because then he could shoot them. If only he had a duck blind. If only.
Pastures tend to be devoid of cover. The cows and horses take care of any ambitious grass searching for height. Haiks devised an ingenious duck blind. He used Legend. Legend was still learning how to be a horse, and she didn't realize that what Haiks was doing was not acceptable. You ride horses, jump them, have them pull your carts. They do not tap dance, cook your dinner or answer your phone. And they do not stand still while people hide behind them and shoot shotguns.
Legend didn't know that, so she became Haiks' duck blind. I hope that she got extra oats out of that.
That's life. If you don't learn to swim, you may end up as somebody's duck blind.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
9L Cattle
One summer we shot 9L cows. Not fatally. We used a 4-10.
The 9L was Alexander Rudnik's brand. He ran his cattle up on Paiute. Nobody liked them because they overgrazed. Years and years before there had been certain kinds of flowers, but they disappeared with the overgrazing.
This one summer too many 9L cattle were hanging around the cabin. We’d dust their hides, but because we were by a creek, it was hard to get rid of them. We tried to hit their flanks. We didn’t want to blind anybody. There was one old bull who came around every day. I guess when we shot him we put a little shot into his scrotum because he really jumped and took off.
The 9L rounded up this big herd of cows and calves. They missed a little two-year-old steer. The steer, I guess, was lonesome because he kept hanging around the cabin. We knew the roundup had been held and we said, “Mom, can we kill that steer?”
She said, “Absolutely not. That’s criminal. That’s not like poaching, that’s thievery." But we nagged her and nagged her and nagged her for over two weeks until she finally said, “Oh, all right, go kill the goddamned thing, but do it a long ways from the cabin.”
The day that decision was made, he didn’t show up. We tracked him, and that dumb little animal had left the cabin, headed over the ridge, down Kelso Creek and off the mountain. Smart, smart. I wonder if we were sending out bad vibes?
The 9L was Alexander Rudnik's brand. He ran his cattle up on Paiute. Nobody liked them because they overgrazed. Years and years before there had been certain kinds of flowers, but they disappeared with the overgrazing.
This one summer too many 9L cattle were hanging around the cabin. We’d dust their hides, but because we were by a creek, it was hard to get rid of them. We tried to hit their flanks. We didn’t want to blind anybody. There was one old bull who came around every day. I guess when we shot him we put a little shot into his scrotum because he really jumped and took off.
The 9L rounded up this big herd of cows and calves. They missed a little two-year-old steer. The steer, I guess, was lonesome because he kept hanging around the cabin. We knew the roundup had been held and we said, “Mom, can we kill that steer?”
She said, “Absolutely not. That’s criminal. That’s not like poaching, that’s thievery." But we nagged her and nagged her and nagged her for over two weeks until she finally said, “Oh, all right, go kill the goddamned thing, but do it a long ways from the cabin.”
The day that decision was made, he didn’t show up. We tracked him, and that dumb little animal had left the cabin, headed over the ridge, down Kelso Creek and off the mountain. Smart, smart. I wonder if we were sending out bad vibes?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Night on Bald Mountain
One August around 1963 or 1964 Joanne and I rode into Desolation Valley and camped by Phipps Lake at the foot of Phipps Peak. According to Google sources, Phipps Peak is 9,234' above sea level. And what a view. To the west you could see the coast mountain range and to the east, pretty as could be, Lake Tahoe and then the high desert heading towards Utah. I don't think we could actually see Utah, but we could see a really long way.
Joanne rode her large Thoroughbred type gelding, Sam (a shortened form of Samsonite because his original owner thought he had a head resembling a piece of luggage) while I rode Legend. We had enough food for ourselves and grain for the horses for a couple of days camp out.
Phipps Lake is but one of many tiny lakes. I'm sure that in Minnesota they would be called ponds. But each tiny lake provided home to golden trout. Golden trout are really rainbows who live at a high altitude and develop an oily, salmon-like flesh. The trout in Phipps Lake didn't like worms and salmon eggs were blech, but they adored helgramites. We were lucky enough to find a few and enjoyed a golden trout dinner.
At 9000+ feet spring comes late and lasts only a few weeks at most. We were lucky enough to be there for Phipps Peak's spring. We even found heather blooming, and wild daffodils blooming around tiny little elven pools. On the second day of our camp out we rode around the area for several hours, stopping here, gaping there, and at last decided to return to camp. That's when I learned that Sam and Legend were two different horses.
Sam wanted to return to camp the way we had come, following his hoof prints back to camp. If we wandered around lost on the way up, he wanted to wander around lost on the way back.
Legend, however, had a different idea. She wanted to go back to the trailer parked some miles away on a flat just west of Highway 89. And she wanted to go straight. If that meant jumping off a cliff, she would have wanted to do that.
Neither of these horses had really great ideas for getting back to camp, but Sam's was far safer. I can truthfully say that Legend never had a good idea in her life, and you could really get damaged if you let her do the thinking for the two of you. I know. And I'll tell you all my sad story soon.
But meanwhile we had spent a couple of nice days. We had come up with three other riders the first night, but they left the following morning and we were by ourselves. Joanne was in charge of making our beds which she did by laying our sleeping bags out side by each and then setting up our saddles at the heads. Then she spread a clear tarp over the whole thing, thereby improvising a tent. Stirrups dangled down to each side and everything smelled of horse, but I've smelt and slept worse.
The sun went down, darkness came, we put out our fire and went to bed. One good thing about sleeping in a shelter improvised from clear plastic tarp, you can see the sky. One bad thing about sleeping in a shelter improvised from clear plastic tarp, you can see the sky.
The night started out clear. The stars twinkled and did all of that start stuff. But soon a wind came up and clouds covered up our lights show. Not to worry. Another lights show came along. Thunder, this time, and lightning. Winds to bend the tall trees surrounding the glad where we camped. Lightning striking all around us. Did we tie the horses securely? Or are we going to have to walk home carrying our saddles? And it went on and on. Rain fell. Wind tugged at the tarp.
There is this one thing about me. When things get tough and more than I can manage, I drift off to sleep. And that's what I did here. If we were going to be killed by lightning, I didn't want to be around when it happened.
The next morning was crystal clear. We saddled up and returned to the flatlands of Lake Tahoe as though nothing had happened. And in nature's overall scheme, nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
Copyright Ken Harris 2009
Joanne rode her large Thoroughbred type gelding, Sam (a shortened form of Samsonite because his original owner thought he had a head resembling a piece of luggage) while I rode Legend. We had enough food for ourselves and grain for the horses for a couple of days camp out.
Phipps Lake is but one of many tiny lakes. I'm sure that in Minnesota they would be called ponds. But each tiny lake provided home to golden trout. Golden trout are really rainbows who live at a high altitude and develop an oily, salmon-like flesh. The trout in Phipps Lake didn't like worms and salmon eggs were blech, but they adored helgramites. We were lucky enough to find a few and enjoyed a golden trout dinner.
At 9000+ feet spring comes late and lasts only a few weeks at most. We were lucky enough to be there for Phipps Peak's spring. We even found heather blooming, and wild daffodils blooming around tiny little elven pools. On the second day of our camp out we rode around the area for several hours, stopping here, gaping there, and at last decided to return to camp. That's when I learned that Sam and Legend were two different horses.
Sam wanted to return to camp the way we had come, following his hoof prints back to camp. If we wandered around lost on the way up, he wanted to wander around lost on the way back.
Legend, however, had a different idea. She wanted to go back to the trailer parked some miles away on a flat just west of Highway 89. And she wanted to go straight. If that meant jumping off a cliff, she would have wanted to do that.
Neither of these horses had really great ideas for getting back to camp, but Sam's was far safer. I can truthfully say that Legend never had a good idea in her life, and you could really get damaged if you let her do the thinking for the two of you. I know. And I'll tell you all my sad story soon.
But meanwhile we had spent a couple of nice days. We had come up with three other riders the first night, but they left the following morning and we were by ourselves. Joanne was in charge of making our beds which she did by laying our sleeping bags out side by each and then setting up our saddles at the heads. Then she spread a clear tarp over the whole thing, thereby improvising a tent. Stirrups dangled down to each side and everything smelled of horse, but I've smelt and slept worse.
The sun went down, darkness came, we put out our fire and went to bed. One good thing about sleeping in a shelter improvised from clear plastic tarp, you can see the sky. One bad thing about sleeping in a shelter improvised from clear plastic tarp, you can see the sky.
The night started out clear. The stars twinkled and did all of that start stuff. But soon a wind came up and clouds covered up our lights show. Not to worry. Another lights show came along. Thunder, this time, and lightning. Winds to bend the tall trees surrounding the glad where we camped. Lightning striking all around us. Did we tie the horses securely? Or are we going to have to walk home carrying our saddles? And it went on and on. Rain fell. Wind tugged at the tarp.
There is this one thing about me. When things get tough and more than I can manage, I drift off to sleep. And that's what I did here. If we were going to be killed by lightning, I didn't want to be around when it happened.
The next morning was crystal clear. We saddled up and returned to the flatlands of Lake Tahoe as though nothing had happened. And in nature's overall scheme, nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
Copyright Ken Harris 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Tevis Ride 1963
Joanne originally intended to make the Tevis ride in 1961 but her intended mount, Legend, popped a curb. She went anyway to crew for our neighbor, Doris Levingston, who was also making the ride. But instead of crewing for Doris, she made the ride on a borrowed white mule, Chongo. The mule was not always cooperative and at one point threatened to go no further. Joanne, following the advice of a seasoned mule handler, convinced Chongo that she was going to beat him to death with a tree limb and leave his lifeless carcass by the side of the trail. Chongo at once perceived the error of his ways and Joanne and he finished the ride on relatively good.
Joanne gained a lot of local fame in the Auburn area as a strong, capable rider and as the first person ever to complete the ride on a mule. When we moved to Auburn we became part of a community of riders who soon began asking, “Well, Ken, when are you going to make the ride?” Life is full of choices, but this was one I was not going to get to make.
Our friend, Jean Leininger, took Legend on the ride in 1962, so that got me off the hook temporarily. I crewed for Jean on that ride and had the opportunity to observe for myself what went on. Also it gave me a season to help mark the trails. Finally, Legend was in fine condition for the 1962 ride, so all I had to do was keep her that way for 1963.
We trained. We made at least one ride weekly of at least forty miles. We practice over Cougar Rock, the Elephant's Trunk, the twin canyons just before you reach Michigan Bluff, the stretch from Foresthill to Fiddler's Green that I knew I would have to navigate in the dark. When the time for the ride rolled around Legend and I knew every inch of the trail.
I experimented with the practice of “tailgating” out of the Michigan Bluff canyons. Tailgating is a technique involving dismounting, hanging onto the reins (that's pretty important), grabbing your horse's tail and letting her tow you up the hill. It's easier on both of you. She doesn't have to carry your corpulent carcass up a hill and your walk is much easier for being towed by your horse. Tailgating was not a universally approved technique in 1963 and it may not even be used now, but I believe it helped Legend. I was no featherweight back then, weighing around 200 pounds. That plus the weight of the saddle and the candy bars in my shirt, that's quite a load for a horse to pack uphill.
Came time for the ride, and we were ready. The horses are always checked for soundness on the day before the ride. The vets are very thorough. Nobody really cared about the riders. If they're that stupid, they deserve what they get. But the horses have no real choice, so the vets check them thoroughly on the day before the ride. Then the rider is assigned his number and the same number spray painted onto the horse's haunch.
While I'm on the subject, there were three enforced rests stops in those days where the horses were vet checked coming in and going out, Robinsons Flats, Michigan Bluff and Fiddler's Green. If the horses didn't meet some rigorous physical standards, they didn't continue. (The stops aren't the same now as they were in 1963. I just looked on their website and didn't recognize much of anything. Here's a news flash. I just looked in the mirror. It's not 1963 there, either.)
Horses need those stops. They are such giving creatures. “Sure, boss, you want me to go 'til I drop dead? I'll do it.” And it has happened. But no veterinarian wants it happening on his watch.
In '63 the vet checks were done on the shores of Lake Tahoe. “Run your horse down the beach and back,” the vet instructed me. I gave Legend a vocal signal and began to run down a sandy beach as fast as I could run on a sandy beach in high heeled boots. Legend broke into her rockinghorse canter, matching my pace exactly, so you know we weren't going to set any land speed records. She felt so good she “flew her flag,” tail up and swirling. Man, we both felt good – we were ready!
But we weren't ready for John Robie's reveille. We had to be up early on the morning the ride because started at 5:00 a.m. So at o'dark-thirty John Robie blatted his bugle and produced an effective but in no way melodious result.
At 5:00 a.m. sharp we rode as a group from Tahoe City to the area below Squaw Peak. The trail ran through a grove of tall cedars. It was darker than Satan's armpit, so dark I couldn't have seen a white horse if I'd been riding it.
There weren't many surprises on the ride itself. The first sixty miles went well, although when we pulled into Michigan Bluff Legend's pulse was so elevated that the vet checking her told Joanne that the mare would never continue. But Legend was in great shape and her recovery rate was wonderful.
We cleared the volcano flats during the last light of day and it was quite dark when we checked into Fiddler's Green. By then Legend was in better shape than I was. My legs had given out. I could no more support my weight than I could fly. But it would have been bad to sit in the saddle and bounce around like I was duct taped there. Hard on Legend's kidneys. So I elected to lean forward and push down on the saddle horn with the palm of my hand. That worked for both of us, although I did have a blistered hand the next morning.
We arrived with five minutes to spare, but we were tired, the both of us. I took Legend to a stall that had been rented for her at the district fair grounds where the finish line was. A thick bed of bedding straw becked her and she gently lay down and groaned. She wasn't in extremis. She was just very, very tired and that fresh straw felt and smelled so good.
I was looking forward to the same kind of rest when I got home, but I was so tired I couldn't sleep. Even a hot bath and brandy in my chocolate didn't help. And for me not to go to sleep within five minutes of the time I hit the pillow is unheard of.
Eventually I did drift off for a few hours but woke up sore in every muscle and joint, and stiffer than a pine tree. Legend was pretty stiff, too. We went for a gentle walk that afternoon, maybe a mile, just to work some of the kinks out.
That evening all the other riders chauséed and pas de basqued up to get their buckles. I hobbled. Barely. It produced quite a laugh because the other riders thought I was putting them on. I wish they'd been right.
Joanne gained a lot of local fame in the Auburn area as a strong, capable rider and as the first person ever to complete the ride on a mule. When we moved to Auburn we became part of a community of riders who soon began asking, “Well, Ken, when are you going to make the ride?” Life is full of choices, but this was one I was not going to get to make.
Our friend, Jean Leininger, took Legend on the ride in 1962, so that got me off the hook temporarily. I crewed for Jean on that ride and had the opportunity to observe for myself what went on. Also it gave me a season to help mark the trails. Finally, Legend was in fine condition for the 1962 ride, so all I had to do was keep her that way for 1963.
We trained. We made at least one ride weekly of at least forty miles. We practice over Cougar Rock, the Elephant's Trunk, the twin canyons just before you reach Michigan Bluff, the stretch from Foresthill to Fiddler's Green that I knew I would have to navigate in the dark. When the time for the ride rolled around Legend and I knew every inch of the trail.
I experimented with the practice of “tailgating” out of the Michigan Bluff canyons. Tailgating is a technique involving dismounting, hanging onto the reins (that's pretty important), grabbing your horse's tail and letting her tow you up the hill. It's easier on both of you. She doesn't have to carry your corpulent carcass up a hill and your walk is much easier for being towed by your horse. Tailgating was not a universally approved technique in 1963 and it may not even be used now, but I believe it helped Legend. I was no featherweight back then, weighing around 200 pounds. That plus the weight of the saddle and the candy bars in my shirt, that's quite a load for a horse to pack uphill.
Came time for the ride, and we were ready. The horses are always checked for soundness on the day before the ride. The vets are very thorough. Nobody really cared about the riders. If they're that stupid, they deserve what they get. But the horses have no real choice, so the vets check them thoroughly on the day before the ride. Then the rider is assigned his number and the same number spray painted onto the horse's haunch.
While I'm on the subject, there were three enforced rests stops in those days where the horses were vet checked coming in and going out, Robinsons Flats, Michigan Bluff and Fiddler's Green. If the horses didn't meet some rigorous physical standards, they didn't continue. (The stops aren't the same now as they were in 1963. I just looked on their website and didn't recognize much of anything. Here's a news flash. I just looked in the mirror. It's not 1963 there, either.)
Horses need those stops. They are such giving creatures. “Sure, boss, you want me to go 'til I drop dead? I'll do it.” And it has happened. But no veterinarian wants it happening on his watch.
In '63 the vet checks were done on the shores of Lake Tahoe. “Run your horse down the beach and back,” the vet instructed me. I gave Legend a vocal signal and began to run down a sandy beach as fast as I could run on a sandy beach in high heeled boots. Legend broke into her rockinghorse canter, matching my pace exactly, so you know we weren't going to set any land speed records. She felt so good she “flew her flag,” tail up and swirling. Man, we both felt good – we were ready!
But we weren't ready for John Robie's reveille. We had to be up early on the morning the ride because started at 5:00 a.m. So at o'dark-thirty John Robie blatted his bugle and produced an effective but in no way melodious result.
At 5:00 a.m. sharp we rode as a group from Tahoe City to the area below Squaw Peak. The trail ran through a grove of tall cedars. It was darker than Satan's armpit, so dark I couldn't have seen a white horse if I'd been riding it.
There weren't many surprises on the ride itself. The first sixty miles went well, although when we pulled into Michigan Bluff Legend's pulse was so elevated that the vet checking her told Joanne that the mare would never continue. But Legend was in great shape and her recovery rate was wonderful.
We cleared the volcano flats during the last light of day and it was quite dark when we checked into Fiddler's Green. By then Legend was in better shape than I was. My legs had given out. I could no more support my weight than I could fly. But it would have been bad to sit in the saddle and bounce around like I was duct taped there. Hard on Legend's kidneys. So I elected to lean forward and push down on the saddle horn with the palm of my hand. That worked for both of us, although I did have a blistered hand the next morning.
We arrived with five minutes to spare, but we were tired, the both of us. I took Legend to a stall that had been rented for her at the district fair grounds where the finish line was. A thick bed of bedding straw becked her and she gently lay down and groaned. She wasn't in extremis. She was just very, very tired and that fresh straw felt and smelled so good.
I was looking forward to the same kind of rest when I got home, but I was so tired I couldn't sleep. Even a hot bath and brandy in my chocolate didn't help. And for me not to go to sleep within five minutes of the time I hit the pillow is unheard of.
Eventually I did drift off for a few hours but woke up sore in every muscle and joint, and stiffer than a pine tree. Legend was pretty stiff, too. We went for a gentle walk that afternoon, maybe a mile, just to work some of the kinks out.
That evening all the other riders chauséed and pas de basqued up to get their buckles. I hobbled. Barely. It produced quite a laugh because the other riders thought I was putting them on. I wish they'd been right.
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