Her pony Cricket was a showy Arab of little more than 800 pounds. He was a fair walking horse, capable of four raised-tail miles per hour on a good mountain trail. But given his druthers, the creature would druther lollygag at half-speed when he could get away with it.

Usually Jane set the speed for our outfit. There were several excellent reasons for that arrangement. First of all, my big, willing appaloosa mare could walk rings around any of our other horses and only a fool or a newcomer would try pushing a packstring faster than they could comfortably move. Secondly, Jane irritated easily during her change of life years and Cricket lagging, then jogging to catch up jarred the lady's teeth to a fine edge. Thirdly, it's easier for us to murmur sweet terms of endearment to the other when she's directly ahead of my saddlehorse instead of two packhorses and a lollygagging Arab behind.

I was still the heavy, though, demanding a steady pace, driving Jane to prod her pony if he slackened.

They were funny to watch, her and Cricket. After two decades as her private saddlehorse, he became adept at finding excuses to slow down, turn around, or give up. Surprisingly, real bears frightened the veteran trail horse very little. But stump bears scared the bejabbers out of him, and rock bears were frightening indeed. So were brush bears and tree bears. And marmot holes where bears might hide were so scary he pussyfooted up to each, blowing through his nostrils all the way -- until I growled menacingly from the rear. Then, with something to really frighten him, Jane's pony lost interest in imagined bogeymen and stepped out at his steady four-mile rate.

Occasionally Cricket could barely break through a cobweb stretched across the trail. And he almost always jumped a log, even if it was six inches in diameter, half-rotted, and lying flat on the ground.

"Why don't you take control of that horse?" I'd sometimes rasp in exasperation. But becoming disenchanted with a wife who hasn't my experience in handling horses usually turned out to be a diplomatic disaster, leading Jane and Cricket to join forces in a work slowdown -- hardly the quickest way to get from point "A" to point "B".

I recollect one trip when we were moving at a relatively steady pace as a result of my constant attention. But honesty compels me to tell you we'd been on the trail since daylight, with still another hour to our planned campsite where a nice stretch of river beckoned. The lovely place was shadowed by stately yellow pines, and there was a riverbank meadow with knee-high bluebunch wheatgrass for our horses.

Most always our little packstring perked up an hour from a campsite we'd used many times before, and, with ears forward and eyes alert, began taking stock of their surroundings. The problem was it was mid-afternoon and the day was hot and sultry. Sweat streaked each of our horses and it trickled down the inseam of my undershorts. Jane was wearing down as the long day took its toll,; she was off her horse, leading Cricket, but beginning to crawl. Finally I called ahead to say we'd make better time if she'd swing back into her saddle.

I don't know if it was her change of life or the 22 miles we'd already covered that day that made her cranky when she turned to place a toe in the stirrup. As she swung up, I heard her mutter, "Yes, Cricket, it's another forced march." Then as she settled into the saddle with a groan and the pony started jogging forward, she added just loud enough for me to hear:

"This must not be a union outfit!"

 

Next week? Another walk on the wild side.