Never Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

The events you are about to read, unfortunately took place, the names have been changed to protect the victims.

The Departed

It was the fall of 69 the leaves had changed their colors and the air was filled with a magic that only October could bring. As we sat in our lunch cafeteria eating the famous school chow the conversation drifted to the most famous of all events. Once a year the entire state of Utah would close school, leave their jobs, wives, farms, etc. for ten days to pursue a small, very smelly, but highly intelligent creature known as the mule deer. It was aptly named for its long mule like ears that could hear a soda can being opened at the bottom of the canyon while standing high on a ridge above giving the animal plenty of time to make an escape from danger. The population of Utah would dawn the blaze orange and set out like a sea of crawling ants towards the mountains in pursuit of this creature. The prize was bragging rights on whoever could obtain the largest antlered buck. Contests from local stores would be in full swing that time of year and a special CJ5 Jeep would be offered from Sunset Sports to the biggest and most majestic deer head brought in for measurement. They were trying to one up the famous International Scout giveaway from their competitor, Ziniks Sporting Goods. This hunt would affect every living soul in Utah one way or the other. The local stores would benefit from the so called deer hunt widows. This group of women would flock to the stores in search of a way to get even with their better half by spending money on anything they could get their hands on just to show that they were in control of the finances. The hunters would flock to the stores buying everything they didn’t need and a lot of things that they already had. This was all because they were caught up in the moment. Everyone seemed to be busy spending money.

As we set there discussing the events that were about to take place my friend Bob asked what my plans were for the hunt. I told him that I didn’t know. My father would be working that day and could not get the opener off. He suggested that I come along with him and his father and brothers. I jumped at the chance; I told him I would like that. Deep down inside I started to get the old hunting fever. He said we would be hunting a place called West Canyon. His father had hunted there the previous year and had seen a lot of mature bucks. They would be hunting from horseback and I was told I would need to bring my horse. No problem, this was the best of the hunts. I enjoyed horseback hunting more than any other. It offered an adventure within a hunt. Riding through the mountain vistas on horseback in the fall is a Grande trek. The cool crisp air and the fragrances from the wooded mountains made you feel like you were a king. The horses would take us up the mountain to a vantage that would require exhausting strength to manage on foot. From there, we would span out across the ridges and have a tactical advantage on our prey. The horse would put us at the back door of the Muley. If we were successful, and bagged our prize, the horse could be loaded up with the deer and hauled off the mountain with little effort to the hunter. Of course not all horses were equally adept in hunting skills as you will see.

This hunt would go down in history as one of the premier hunts. There seemed to be more advertisement from the local stores that year. It started clear back in August. The paper fliers contained all sorts of hunting gizmos. Everywhere I went the talk was about the hunt. Everyone was talking about the monster deer they had seen. Tuff, the barber, said a man came for a haircut and told them he had seen a 30 incher up Box Elder Peak while riding horses with his wife. A sheepherder told the loading boys at IFA that Vernon has some big horned deer out there. All this talk was circulating through the school as we tried our best to get through our classes and make it to the big day. Each day Bob and I would gather at lunch and devise our strategy for the opening morning of the hunt. The opening day was the best chance to get a good buck. The deer were less wary and a good hunter might be lucky if he could get to the top of the mountain before the other 200,000 orange-clad participants beat you up there. We had decided that we would ride our horses on a specific trail we knew in the dark and be at the summit before the dawn came. We were sure this was the best plan. Not too many hunters would ride a horse up a steep mountain in the dark risking life and limb just for a stinky ole deer.

As the day came closer we could hardly keep ourselves in our chairs at school. Even our teachers were in the mood for the big hunt. They were eager for our departure from school for a few days. At the time I thought they were really into it, but looking back on it now I realize they were relieved for us to be gone. Even our football coaches had cancelled practices until Tuesday. They were hunters first and coaches second. Finally school was out and the great adventure would begin. The parking lot was vacant in less than 5 minutes. Our school was emptied faster than the time a skunk got into the HVAC ducting. We were free. Never was the sky bluer, the air fresher, or the world as exciting as that day. Thoughts of going back on Tuesday were absent from our minds. It was time for the Mormon 500. That’s the scene along I-15 about two hours after school lets out for the hunt. A rolling sea of trucks, trailers and hunters flowed along this route, both north and south, to their predetermined hunting camps. There would be a caravan of vehicles racing each other all the way up into the mountains. Every conceivable camping spot would be occupied on the deer hunt opener. The gas stations were filled with lines of waiting trucks and hunters. The grocery stores were full of orange. Hunters were grabbing food and filing their carts with anything that could easily be managed without their wives there to prepare it for them. Jerky sales were in full bloom, along with canned items in all varieties. Anything that could be warmed up without effort or cleanup was thrown in. This was a manly time for hunting, not women’s work.

The Horseman

Bob called on the phone and told me that they had one problem. With all of his younger brothers wanting to go this year, they were short a horse. He told me to meet him over at Homer’s garage his dad had something worked out. Now Homer was a famous man around our town. He could fix anything and he was cheap. I had grown up knowing Homer through my grandfather. He would take everything we had on our farm to Homer for repairs. I mean everything, from lawnmowers, to chain saws, tractors, cars etc. If given the time Homer could repair any mechanical device known to man. He lived in the center of town where his garage was located. He also farmed a section of land just outside of town near the Jordan River. His garage consisted of an old barn made into a makeshift shelter with a wood beam running the length of the ceiling from end wall to end wall. This would support a modern monorail crane, which Homer would use to lift out the various engines and replace them. At least a dozen dogs would keep him company lying around the floor. They were witnesses to the repairs he made daily. The yard was a heap of car parts, old tractors, hay processing equipment, and everything between. Nothing had been thrown away since before the Great Depression. It was a spectacular junk yard, right in the middle of town.

When I arrived at the yard, Bob and his dad were talking with Homer. Homer shook my hand as he had a hundred times before. He knew me well and had formed a farmer friendship with my grandfather throughout the years. They had been swapping farm equipment back and forth long before the Depression. I had never in my life seen Homer without his gray long sleeved coveralls on and a pair of leather greasy gloves. He would wear a small black skull cap on his head that was made for welding. He was a small man, but had the strength of five. He was soft spoken and would treat everyone with kindness. As I listened to the conversation, I realized that Bob’s dad had made a deal with Homer to use a horse named Traveler on the upcoming hunt.

Now Traveler, as he was named, was Homer’s pride and joy. He had been raised by Homer from a newborn colt. Homer took great pride in riding him through our town’s local parade once a year. Homer would saddle him up and ride him down the main street in town where all the parade watchers would line the streets just to get a view of the parading stock participants. Homer would ride him through the parade dawned in his work coveralls, a Stetson derby hat, and greasy gloves. The Stetson hat looked new as each year Homer would pull it out of the box just for the parade. Old Traveler would prance back and forth through the parade route as proud as any champion steed. By the time the event was over the horse would be a frothing sweaty mess and its rider worn to a frazzle. Just the mention of Traveler’s name and Homer’s eyes would light up with pride. He would claim that Old Traveler could out walk any horse alive. He was a traveling machine, as Homer would refer to him. Never tiring, always going strong and as smooth to ride as a new Cadillac. Traveler was a long-legged buckskin colored horse. He had a tail that reached the ground, a mane that was full and flowing, and a white colored right eye. He was sunken in the back and had protruding withers. His head was long and quite large. It looked out of place in comparison to his slender neck and stringy frame. No one knew his breeding because his mother had been bought at the local horse auction by Homer and my grandfather several years previous. The two of them had worked hard that day at the auction trying to outbid all of the other farmers and horsemen for the rights to Travelers mother. Unbeknownst to the successful bidders, she was with foal that day. It came as a surprise the following spring when she gave birth out on the river farm in a snow storm. Homer worked hard to keep the colt alive that day; he moved the pair of them into a corner in the garage and took care of them for several months. I remember seeing them in there as I would pick up parts that Homer had repaired for my grandfather. He would be working on someone’s vehicle in the middle of the garage while over in the corner was a makeshift corral with the prize horse standing next to his mother. Each time someone would come into the shop he would brag how this horse would be the best horse in the county someday.

After we left Homer’s yard that day I felt compelled to tell Bob’s dad Glen that I had firsthand knowledge about Traveler. I told him I had seen my grandfather and Homer trying to saddle him last year for the parade. It took them over an hour to get the saddle on. On another occasion I was driving down Main Street in town when I saw Traveler running down the middle of the road with a saddle on him, but without a rider. Each spring the local cowmen would drive their cattle out west of town about 18 miles to West Canyon for summer grazing. On one such occasion, I saw Traveler throw Homer from his back and run back to his pasture as fast as he could. Each year on the cow drive this horse would present some sort of problem for Homer. I knew of several horseshoeing experts which had tried real hard to put shoes on the big horse without results. One old cowboy in town finally roped up the horse and pulled him to the ground on his side. Quickly he covered Traveler’s head with a gunny sack and proceeded to put on the horseshoes. It became the usual way to shoe the big buckskin. On another occasion, my grandfather told me that the buckskin had bitten Homer on the back of his shoulder when he had his back to him. The old mechanic used axle grease on the wound for several months. But despite all these minor grievances, Homer held the horse in the highest esteem. The horse could do no wrong act in Homer’s eyes. I told Glen that I felt like we might be in for a real adventure taking Traveler. Glen wouldn’t hear of it. His mind was made up. Homer had convinced him of the greatness of the horse. Besides, I was just a young school kid, what did I know about great horse flesh. I was invited up to Glen’s for lunch that day. We were going to make our final plans for the hunt.

The Prize

On arriving at Glen’s house, I was tutored into the kitchen and a ceremony was about to begin. While Bob’s mother made our sandwiches, Glen went into the other room and brought out a box. He had a smile on his face as big as the Mississippi River. His eyes gleamed and his chest stood out from his frame. He had something of real importance in that box. As he undone the box to reveal its contents our eyes were glued to his hands. He opened the box and there before us was a prize of all prizes. It was a genuine Weatherby .300 Magnum Rifle. With shells as thick and long as your index finger. It was a Mark V scoped with a Leupold 3x9 zoom lens. I marveled at the way he took it out of the box. He caressed the gun like he was holding a newborn child. Pulling the rifle to his shoulder, he sighted down the barrel and out the window across the street. Wow, what a gun. The stock was limited edition rosewood with engravings on the receiver and barrel. It came fitted with a cheek pad and rubber recoil end butt. He had engraved his name on the stock with some fancy scrolling. The gun was well worth several thousand dollars. I had never seen a gun of this caliber, let alone hold one in my hands. He passed it around for all to handle as he told the story of the great gun. He had invested a large sum of tickets at the Ducks Unlimited banquet the previous month, his luck had paid off. For his five dollars worth of tickets he was the lucky number drawn. As he continued with the story, he had left the banquet early and was not there for the drawing. Someone brought the gun by his house and left it with his wife. He was strutting around that kitchen like a rooster in the yard. This would be the first hunt for this rifle and he would surely kill the biggest buck on the mountain with this howitzer. After lunch we went out and sighted the rifle in. I remember when it was my time to shoot the prize it nearly kicked out of my hands. After two shots you had a flinch that wouldn’t quit. No matter how hard you tried to hold it on the target the scope cross hairs would go around in circles over the bull’s eye. My hands shook all over. My mind knew what waited when I pulled the trigger and it wanted nothing to do with the recoil of that gun. We went through several boxes of shells that day. At twelve bucks a box in 1969, I think Glen felt the recoil more than we did.

After we left the shooting area we decided to ride over to Homer’s farm field and size up the buckskin. He was being pastured in a 70 acre section with grass as high as the horses belly. Russian olives lined the ditch banks and made for a forest affect throughout the pasture. A horse could hide in those olives for days without being seen. The Russian olive tree is nothing more than a large thorny weed with bark. Whoever introduced these vile sprouts to the state of Utah needed to be run naked through a path of these fellers. They are found in nearly all bottom land pastures and they grow exceedingly fast. Other than an occasional use for fuel wood, they serve absolutely no purpose on earth. Even when used as fuel wood these nasty trees emit a foul odor that makes everyone in the area semi sick to their stomachs from the burning bark smoke. The buckskin was in high heaven in this surrounding fortress. It would take an army to flush him out of his lair. We climbed out of the truck and made a search in the high grass for nearly an hour. We never sighted hide or hair of the prize steed. He was hid up tighter than a tick in a hound dog’s ear. As we gathered back at the truck Glen realized this job would take more help.

One Man’s Pride and Joy

Traveling back to town I couldn’t help notice how nice Glen’s new truck was. He had purchased a 1969 Ford Ranger XLT 3/4 ton pickup truck with all the bells and whistles that Ford offered on that model. It came with fancy rims and hubcaps. It was decked out with air conditioning and leather seats. It had six amber colored running lights along the cab top and a full throttle 4 barrel carburetor sitting on top of a 390 cubic inch V-8 engine. That truck was loaded and Glen would cruise it through town like he was the Governor in his limo. He would honk and wave to people he didn’t even know. Just to get them turning their heads to see the truck and its owner. I felt proud to be in the cab on some of those occasions. I was part of something even though I was not sure what it was. He would take the truck to the wash even if it didn’t need it. He would give Bob some money and tell him to go getter washed up. He would cruise down to my house, pick me up and we would go cruising around town like we were something special. I hate to admit it, but that truck was a real chick magnet in those days. They seemed to flock to it where ever we parked it. We didn’t mind, in fact we made a habit to frequent the local hamburger stand every time we had the keys to the kingdom. Looking back on it now, that truck was a symbol of our manhood.
In those days most horsemen used two horse trailers or stock trucks to transport their horses. Some would use slide in units that would fit into the bed of the truck and have a manger welded on the rack so it would fit over the cab and offer the horse a place for some hay. Other cheaper models would be a welded metal rack that would slide into the truck bed; these were used for hauling pigs, sheep and smaller livestock. Some real hard up horse owners would try to haul horses in these crates. Since we were short a horse it meant we were short a horse hauler. Homer had just the solution and had loaned Glen the use of one of these crates. Glen spent an entire day using rubber matting from Geneva to line the truck bed on his new truck. He felt sure that he could protect the truck from the horse’s hooves by plating this rubber material all over the bed including the exposed wheel wells. When I first saw the results of his labor I was amazed at how nice it looked. All cut up and screwed into the bed with precision skill. The crate was loaded and the time had come for the big day. I could hardly sleep the night before the opener.

The Horse

We piled all our gear into the trucks. The tent, bedrolls, camp cooking accessories, and all that would be required for a comfortable hunt was stuffed and crammed into every cubby and space possible in our trucks. Horses were loaded into trailers and trucks. Our lists were checked and double checked. Really the only thing we were concerned about was our rifles, shells, and knives. We felt like that would suffice if we forgot everything else. Hell, a man can live off the land with his bare hands if needs be. These and other foolish thoughts went through our minds as we loaded enough gear and food into the trucks for a two week stay for ten men. The only problem was we were only staying three days. Oh well, always be prepared was our motto. We were not any different than other hunters. Everyone gets caught up in the big hunt. You always spend twice the amount of your allotted budget. You buy things you never use and if you do, it is only once and then you misplace them in your garage or basement only to find them ten years later. By then they are out dated so in keeping up with your fellow hunters, you buy new stuff and start the whole process over. The day was going well. We were nearly loaded and ready. We had decided previously that we would get the buckskin last. He was out on the other side of town so we could pick him up on our way out to the canyon. Glen had decided to load the buckskin into his truck. He was proud of the armor cladding he had installed. He wanted everyone around to take notice of the big horse in the new truck with the prize rifle in the window rack and the great white hunter at the wheel.

We pulled up to the buckskin’s pasture. With all of Glen’s sons and brother in law, we numbered seven strong. Glen pulled a halter rope from his gun rack and we climbed the fence to the pasture. Glen brought a bucket of oats at Homer’s request. The buckskin was a sucker for the grain candy according to his owner. Glen shook the bucket and yelled for the horse. He yelled again and again without results. Maybe he was sleeping or couldn’t hear his voice Glen thought. So we moved on into the jungle of trees along the ditch bank. We walked the entire length of the pasture without sighting the horse. We wondered where he was hiding. Spread out was the order of the day. We each took a separate path in the line of tangled trees. Back and forth several times we combed the pasture without even a hint of the horse. We were just about to go find Homer when one of Bob’s younger brothers let out a yell. Converging on the spot we found Bob’s Brother Clay. He was out of breath and sweating. He claimed the buckskin came running out of the tangled mess right at him. He had to jump out of the way or get run over. At least we had found our horse. Now let’s get him caught and loaded in the truck rack. That day we learned a valuable lesson about 70 acre pastures with a lot of sweet summer grass. The oats were worthless. The horse would run at the very sight of a halter rope. Glen tried hiding the rope behind his back. He tried hiding the rope in the bucket. Nothing worked. The buckskin would gallop away and hide in the trees every time we came close to him. He put a good race horse to shame that day. Several of us were in football shape but we were no match for the king of the Russian olives. He had run us into the ground. Finally we gave up and gathered back at the trucks for an additional strategy.

About this time, Homer showed up to take an irrigation turn. He was surprised to see us standing around in a defeated mood. He said he had just the plan. He could make short work out of this trouble and we would be on our way. He said he would be back in a half hour or so. The half hour turned into an hour and 45 minutes. It was killing us just standing around waiting to begin our journey. Finally we saw a man riding up on a horse. It was Homer. He had borrowed a horse from the neighbor farmer down the lane. He rode up and told us to open the gate to the pasture. As he rode through the gate he started to un-swing a lariat rope, which was fastened on the saddle horn. He would have looked like a real old fashioned cowboy, had it not been for the dirty coveralls, black skull cap, and greasy gloves. He kicked the mare in the belly and pushed her into a lope through the pasture. Horse and rider disappeared into the thick tangle of trees just like this was another day at the office. All at once we saw the buckskin in full throttle coming out of the abyss with Homer and the mare right on his tail. Around the pasture they run, back and forth through the trees then back out again. Round and round with neither party giving an inch. Homer had the rope ready for the catch. We all thought we would see a grand horse roping. This round about circus took place for another 10 minutes. All of the sudden the buckskin came to a sliding halt. He just stood there blowing air out of his nose like he was going to burst. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and he was shaking all over. The sweat rolled of his belly and head. He stood there and faced Homer with the rope. He never moved a muscle. Slowly Homer rode up alongside him and slipped the rope over his neck. We wanted to cheer but we held in our excitement. The great horse’s surrender took nearly three and half hours.

Homer led the horse out of the pasture and over to the trucks. We all stood around as Glen lowered the tailgate on his new truck and lowered the fold down ramp on the stock rack. Homer led the buckskin up to the ramp and put the halter rope on his head. He handed the rope to Glen and said, “Load him up.” Glen took hold of the rope and walked up into the truck bed ahead of the horse. He pulled on the rope and the buckskin stiffened up. Traveler stood his ground. He would not move up the ramp. Meanwhile, Homer smacked the horse on the rump with his glove hand. The buckskin flinched a little but held his ground. Traveler was leaning back on the halter rope at this point in the operation. Glen was pulling with all his might. Homer had a handful of the buckskin’s tail and was trying to lift his rear end forward. All of this was spontaneous. The big horse just hunkered down on his hocks and pulled back away from the rope pressure. While all this was going on Bob, his brothers and I sat contently watching and chewing our jerky. Something had to give and it didn’t look like it would be the buckskin.

Right when it looked hopeless. Homer stepped away from the buckskin and said he had just the fix for this old stubborn horse. He walked to his truck and pulled the seat forward. He brought out a long stick looking device with a small box on one end. He calmly walked up to the horse and told Glen to give a big hard pull. Just as Glen put his back into the rope and started to pull, Homer put the stick up on the buckskin’s hind end and pushed a button. The buckskin jumped straight forward with such velocity that he hit the front of the truck rack knocking Glen out of the way. Homer slammed the ramp up and dropped the hinge pin in its slot securing the back of the rack. Meanwhile Glen hit the front of the truck rack from the weight of the moving horse. He bounced to the side and grabbed the side of the rack rails. He pulled for all he was worth trying to free himself from the inside of the horse rack. He climbed over the side and fell face first out onto the dirt road. Homer stood there smiling as he said, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” Glen picked himself up off the road. Gathering his breath he asked Homer what he had hit the horse with. Homer showed him the stick and said he used it on his cattle all the time and it was called a hotshot. Not sure what to make of it, Glen dusted himself off and told us to mount up we were going hunting.

We left Homer standing there smiling as his pride and joy stood high in the bed of the truck and surveyed his new surroundings. The buckskin looked as proud as a Sultan’s prize stud. His long black mane flowing with the wind as Glen drove down the highway. We had decided to make one last stop at the gas pump. The closest place for gas was a pumping station called Bates. We pulled into the station and fell in line with other hunters waiting their turn for the precious fuel. The wait was a long one. Finally it came our turn. Glen pulled the Ford into the pump and started the process. Bob and I made tracks for the station store. We were short on jerky after chewing on it all day while chasing the horse around. As Bob and I stood there paying for our supplies of munchies, the cashier, looking outside at the pumps let out a loud “oh no.” What we witnessed next would defy logic. As we turned our attention to the sound outside we stood all amazed at the scene before us. As Glen was pumping gas, the buckskin decided he wanted out of the truck rack. He started throwing himself back and forth in the truck bed, trying to climb out of the makeshift jail. He had the truck rocking back and forth with a fury. Glen had left the pump handle still in the gas port and was climbing the side of the rack to get at the horse. All at once the great steed tried a daring escape by leaping forward up out of the confining rack. He was short in his attempt and his front hooves landed on the truck cab. He took this failure with malice and decided he would try one more leap forward. This effort failed as well. He finally settled into a standing position on his hind legs. His front legs were forward on the cab roof. He was helpless to move in any direction, except side to side. This he did with great fury. He was rattled and he wanted out of this situation. Glen found his way to the top of the rack and proceeded to grab the big animal by the halter rope. He was trying to pull him back down into the truck bed. The harder he pulled the harder the buckskin thrashed around. The prize running lights on the cab roof had shattered from the flailing hooves. They flew in all directions like exploding glass. The front windshield was broken on the passenger side. The horse was doing a good job of remodeling the cab roof.

Finally the horse tired out and stopped the onslaught. He stood there like a circus horse on his hind two feet with his front feet extended out over the cab roof. Glen tried with all his might to pull the horse back into the truck rack. It happened so fast that we were caught by surprise at the speed of the horse trying to make his escape. By the time we got to the truck scene, several men were helping Glen pull the horse back into position. His feet were lifted and pulled back into the truck rack. As he started to move again the mighty beast gave one last thrashing, which finished off the remaining cab lights. He raised himself straight up in the air and finally crashed down into the truck bed with all his force. He was standing on all four legs again. Quickly a friendly neighborhood man snuffed the horse’s head down real close to the rack with the halter rope. This would prevent him from getting his head up and trying to jump out of the rack. Why Glen didn’t figure this out is still a mystery today. I chalked it up to the fever of the hunt. Men are not in their right senses when the hunt is upon us.

The damage was witnessed by at least a dozen people. Glen stood there like he had just lost his favorite dog. Everyone had opinions. The comments made didn’t help Glen’s mood. Finally he had enough; he gathered up what was left of the running lights and put them in the garbage and finished the pumping. He never spoke a word but we could tell he wanted horse meat for dinner that night. The cab roof was on display for all concerned citizens to view. It was dented in at least six inches. The horse had made quick work of the remodel. With all this trouble the best thing to do was call off the hunt go home and lick our wounds. Bob looked at his dad and asked what we should do. “Were going hunting,” was the reply. “I’m going to ride that damn horse into the ground if it is the last thing I ever do.” Glen was pissed, to say the least. He had a score to settle with the horse. He would get his revenge no matter what.

The Hunt

Finally we were on the road out to West Canyon. As we turned from the pavement of the highway to the dirt road leading up the canyon, I was amazed at the large plume of dust that lay along the road leading up to the mountain. Everyone from Cedar Fort, Lehi, and Riverton was making the annual run up the mountain for venison. One outfit after another pulled up the dusty road. Horse trailers, campers, trucks, and all manner of jeeps, travelled along the winding road. As we made our way up the canyon I wondered if there would even be a camping place left. We had planned on getting to our campsite earlier in the day but the horse problems changed everything. As things turned out Glen’s brother-in law, Ferrell had come out earlier with his camper truck and secured us a nice spot to camp. Pulling into the campsite I could see Ferrell looking at Glen and the broken up truck cab. He walked on over and let out a loud moaning sound. He started mumbling something that we could not hear. Glen climbed out of the truck and with one look Ferrell left the conversation alone. He walked over to us and asked what the hell had happened to Glen’s new Ford. We rehearsed the whole day’s events while we dug out our gear. Glen stayed to himself. He was still fuming over the truck remodeling job. Several of us helped him unload the buckskin. He flew out of that truck rack like a lightning bolt. He hit the ground snorting and nearly stepped on Ferrell’s foot. We tied him tight to a cottonwood tree and proceeded to unload the others.

After we got the ponies settled in and fed, we put up our wall tent and began the process of making a comfortable camp. A nice fire pit was put in aligned with large rocks from the creek bed. The whole setting was starting to come together. Glen would sleep in the camper with Ferrell and the rest of us would sleep in the wall tent. As we pitched the tent, I felt a slight cool breeze along my neck. I glanced at the sky and it was starting to cloud up. Maybe this hunt would have some weather. It had been an Indian summer so far this fall. Every deer hunter wants some snow for the hunt. It makes things easier to see tracks and deer stand out against the snow background of the mountains. Dinner was a welcome treat that afternoon. We dined on lamb chops and spuds. As we sat around the fire that evening we were full of tall tales of previous outings. The fever was mounting in all of us. I could hardly contain myself. Glen was not his usual self. He would mutter some words that no one could understand. He would star at the buckskin tied to the tree. I’m sure he wanted to use a dull knife on him but he knew better. We stayed up late that night playing cards, shooting blue darts out of our butts with lighters, and all the fun foolery that comes with camping. We were having a fine time of it.

When we finally hit the sack we were bone tired from the day’s marathon. For me, sleep was difficult. I had visions of antlers racing through my mind. I worked out strategy, after strategy while lying in my bedroll. My mind would not close down no matter what I did. Several times in the night I thought I heard one of the horses pounding the ground with its hooves. I would dose off and wake back up to the sound. One of the horses was restless out there. I heard Glen yell out into the night, “Knock it off you son of a bitch.” I figured if he was awake then things must be all right. I finally woke up to the sound of Bob’s alarm clock ringing. We flew out of our bags and had our clothes on in no time. It was freezing cold. You could see your breath clear across the tent in the lantern light. A fire was started in the fire pit as we warmed ourselves and the morning camp came to life. This was going to be a great day. Crisp cold weather, the smell of pine and sage mixed with wood smoke in the air made a man feel great.

We huddled around the campfire after we saddled our horses in the dark. Each horse was loaded with the day’s lunch, all kinds of goodies, and last but equally important as all the rest, a day’s supply of jerky. We put our rifles in the scabbards and extra shells in our saddle bags. Our knives were fastened in our belts and we wore our cold clothing. Each of us had our orange sweatshirts on and our blaze orange ball caps. We were outfitted to the teeth and we were hungry as wolves for the hunt to begin. Warming ourselves around the fire we drank hot chocolate and munched on donuts. While we were getting in our makeshift breakfast Glen and Ferrell were wrestling with the buckskin in the firelight. The big horse had pawed a two foot deep trough around the cottonwood tree he was tied to during the night. He was full of piss and vinegar as the saying goes. He nervously moved back and forth amid the two men making it difficult to get the saddle and gear on board his back. Bob and I had decided we would go up a different trail that morning from the rest of the group. We would meet up with the others sometime around noon at a pre determined spot up on the mountain. We were just finishing up our cocoa when Ferrell let out a loud howl. He was moaning and cursing something awful just out of the fire’s light. The buckskin had stepped on his boot and smashed his big toe. He limped around the campsite using some words I had never heard before. Glen was trying to manage the bronco horse in the darkness by himself. Bob went to his dad’s support and between the two of them they managed to get him loaded up. Ferrell pulled his boot off and inspected the damage. His foot looked like a perfect horse shoe had been pressed across his toes. It was red and starting to swell. After several minutes of complaining he put his boot back on and limped over to the buckskin. The big horse was standing quietly in the darkness wondering what all the fuss was about. Ferrell wanted to take a big club to the horse but held back his anger. He didn’t want a scene in front of his favorite nephew’s. Besides we had a hunt to get to.

We all mounted up. Checked our stirrups and saddles and made sure we had everything in order for the dark ride up the mountain. While we were occupied in this endeavor, Ferrell mounted his horse and grabbed the lead rope on the buckskin. He stood calmly by as Glen put his foot in the stirrup and climbed into the saddle. Wow, this was going to be all right after all. The horse was just fine. We were short on rifle scabbards for this hunt. So Ferrell and Glen had their rifles slung across their shoulders with slings. Finally we were ready to hit the trail. Just as we turned the ponies for the hill in front of us Ferrell told Glen he had forgotten to lock up the camper door. He dismounted and handed his rifle to Glen. Glen put the rifle across the saddle horn and sat watching Ferrell lock the door to the camper. As Ferrell turned around to face Glen the buckskin decided he was not going to stand calm any longer. Glen pulled up on the reins with one hand while he held onto Ferrell’s rifle with the other. As he did this the large horse kicked out backwards and put his head down. Running a large amount of gas out his rear end he launched himself and rider, off into the dark abyss. All we could see was a flash of horse hide and Glen trying to hold on with one hand to the saddle horn. Glen didn’t make the rodeo whistle that morning. On the second jump Old Traveler got some air between himself and the ground. As he came back to earth with a shattering force, Glen was thrown forward up over the horses head and out into the darkness. He landed at least 10 feet out in front of the bucking horse. Traveler never missed a jump as the man hit the ground with a thud and a moan. Jumping clear over Glen, the horse proceeded to buck and snort as he tore off into the morning air.

Ferrell was the first to reach Glen. For a moment we all sat there mesmerized. Finally we came to our senses and moved over to Glen’s side. He had the wind knocked out of him, but other than that he was ok. Ferrell told Bob and me to go get the buckskin. We rode after the crazy horse. He had stopped about 50 yards down the road and was quietly grazing on some grass when we came up to him. We caught him by the reins and trotted him back to the camp. By the time we got there Glen was on his feet. He was still bent over trying to get his breath. He looked up at us with a look of murder on his face. I think he might have shot the horse that day but he couldn’t straighten up for nearly a half hour. The sky was getting light and Bob and I were still eager to get up the mountain for the hunt. Bob was torn between caring for his dad and hunting. When we could see his dad was all right we waited for the all clear sign to head out. Ferrell walked over to Traveler and pulled him to a nearby tree and tied him up. Bob had dismounted and went after the rifles lying on the ground. He leaned Ferrell’s gun up against the wall tent and picked up his dad’s prize Weatherby. That’s when we noticed the huge gash right across Glen’s engraved name on the stock. It was bad. The rifle had taken the whole brunt of Glen’s weight when he landed on his back in the rocks. We gathered around as Glen and Ferrell examined the damage to the rifle. Pulling the gun up to his cheek, Glen put it down slowly and started to shake the gun towards the ground. Glass pieces fell out from the scope as he did this. The hunt was finally over for Glen.

Ferrell and Glen stayed in camp that morning while the rest of us rode up the mountain. We worried about the buckskin as we rode along the mountain ridge towards our goal. Would the two men kill and eat the horse or would they roast him on the fire. I believe the only thing that saved old Traveler that day was the fact that if he was killed, Glen would have to pay Homer for his value. And that would add insult to injury as far as Glen and Ferrell were concerned. Our hunt that day was unsuccessful. We scoped several hundred female deer. We didn’t see any deer with horns. The day proved cold and blustery. We finally rode off the mountain that afternoon defeated. The deer and the horse had won the battle that day.

The Finishing Touch

When we arrived in camp, we were surprised to see the buckskin standing calmly eating some hay. Ferrell and Glen were asleep in the camper and everything seemed to be back to normal. When Glen woke up he told us that he was going home that day. He had the crap kicked out of him and he wanted no more. We all decided to pull camp and head out. Bob and I could come back up the next day by ourselves. While we broke camp, Ferrell and Glen worked on loading the buckskin. The horse would have nothing to do with the stock rack. Nothing on this earth would get him back in that mousetrap again. Finally after several hours of blistering effort, Glen surrendered to the horse. He was so mad his neck veins were protruding. The horse had imposed his will on man. Right when we were about to give up and go for help Glen got a vicious idea. He snubbed old Traveler tight to the back of the truck rack. And as he got into the truck, we heard him yell out the window, “Now let’s see how you like this.”

We pulled out of the campsite in a dejected mood. I think the only one smiling was Glen. He led the horse behind his truck at a fast walk. Down the canyon we went. The dust filled the road ahead of us. We could hardly see the tail lights on Glen’s ford in front of us. Traveler cruised along in the dusty maze like it was just another day on the mountain. He kept right up with the Ford. As we swept down onto the main highway, Glen picked up the pace a bit. He was going to drag that mangy critter all the way back to Lehi, even if it meant dragging the horse on his side. But old Traveler had held his ground. I looked at the odometer on my pickup and we were traveling at a 15 MPH clip down the highway. Every now and again we would see steel sparks flying out from under the horse’s shoes. At the Jordan River cross roads we turned left and in no time we were at the river pasture. Glen couldn’t wait to be rid of the varmint tied to his truck bed. He jumped out and untied the horse. Traveler was sweating pretty well. He had weathered the storm. He looked no worse for wear than he had the day before in this exact spot. He calmly eyed Glen as the man bitched and moaned about the things he would do to the horse if only he belonged to him. At one point I believe Glen had thoughts of trying to purchase Old Traveler just so he could exact out some revenge. Cooler heads prevail in times like this and Glen finally had second thoughts. We were all glad to see Glen leading the buckskin through the pasture gate that day. As he did, the big horse bolted away from Glen trying to free himself for the pasture grass that awaited him. Glen pulled hard on the rope halter and the big horse kicked up his heels as he sailed past Glen. The motion caught Glen and spun him around only to catch one of the flailing hooves right in the back pocket on his wallet side. It knocked Glen to ground. He rose from the ground just in time to see the big steed gallop away with the rope and halter swinging back and forth as he ran. Glen sat there for a minute as we all gather around. His face was bright red and he was covered in dirt from head to toe. We helped him get to his feet and asked what we should do now. He looked up and said, “To hell with it, I’ll be damned if I’ll give that sucker the satisfaction of chasing him down and freeing him from that rope and halter. If Homer wants it off, then that’s his problem. I’m out of here.”

So the great hunt of 69 came to a close that day. Glen had a sore buttock for several weeks. He had a hard time sitting down without pain, even at church. The repairs to the Weatherby were in the hundreds. The cost for the Fords repairs were in the thousands. The price for one man’s humility was priceless. The great Traveler lived out his life in grand fashion. His only work to be done was on parade day once a year. He handled it with a proud showing. Throughout the following years, Homer maintained the greatness of the horse’s abilities to anyone that would lend an ear. In the aftermath of those events a valuable lesson was learned by all of us. First of all, don’t borrow someone else’s horse. Secondly, never borrow a mechanic’s horse. And last but equally important as all the rest, Never look a gift horse in the mouth, there’s no telling what you might find.

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