LETTERS & E-MAIL

Wisdom of the Mule Whisperer: Spare the Spurs, Smell the Cholla

ANDY SETS HER EARS and plants her mule shoes. Mountain on my right, cliff on my left-nowhere to go but forward.

"He-hah," I yell, a cowboy in command.

Nothing.

"Forward, you mangy, mule-headed can of dog chow," I holler, slapping Sandy across the haunches with the reins, the low point in a long day at Sandy's mercy as I chased wacko cattle up and down some hellacious hillsides.

This I do not need. Life harbors enough frustrations. My kids are moving away, getting odd jobs and just generally growing beyond my reach. I have a new job I can barely manage and a desk so piled with papers I can't find a level surface.

I don't need this lunkhead mule giving me trouble.

I jerk the reins and thump her with my heels.

Abruptly, she half turns and backs rapidly down-slope toward disaster.

My mind grows wondrously clearseveral overlooked details come forcefully to mind. For instance, Sandy outweighs me nearly 10 to one and could out-muscle a platoon of Marines. Moreover, if ejected from this altitude the only thing that will stop me from rolling off the cliff is a thick clump of cholla.

At just this moment, I recall a story imparted to me by photographer Gary Johnsona man with an uncommon understanding of mules, cattle and other forces of nature.

Once upon a time, Gary undertook a 100-mile ride atop Dixie, a mule of wonderful endurance and awful disposition. Built of brick and barbed wire, she was half wild ass and half Spawn of the Devil. She could bite like thunder and kick quicker than rattlesnake spit. Captain of her own doomed soul, she did pretty much as she pleased. In short, she was as unpredictable as a teenager in the grip of hormones.

Gary struggled for mastery as they journeyed across a landscape spewed out of the inside of a volcano. He cajoled, spurred, bribed and failed.

At the end of one day-long humiliation, Dixie bit him with great conviction on the forearm.

Gary responded with a stream of obscenities sufficient to wilt a mesquite down to the tap root. And then he did a very foolish thing: He wrapped the reins around his forearm, reared back and kicked Dixie in the chest.

Dixie's Satan side kicked in. She jerked back, lifted Gary entirely free of the ground and bolted straight through a large paloverde tree, trailing Gary like a semidragging a crumpled Volkswagen. Gary and Dixie left a perfect mule-man hole through that tree, decorated with bits of Gary. Dixie dragged him along for another 10 feet before she stopped and stared down at her prostrate foe.

Dazed, Gary unwrapped the reins, staggered to his feet, stumbled toward his gear, and pulled out his .45-caliber semiautomatic.

Up strolled Jed, the head wrangler.

"Whatcha doing?" asked Jed casually.

"I'm gonna shoot that mule," said Gary, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek.

Jed nodded sagely.

"I'm gonna shoot that mule right between the eyes," said Gary.

"Simple justice," Jed observed.

"You're not going to try to stop me?" asked Gary, eyes narrowed.

"Nope," Jed said, staring speculatively at Dixie, who in turn watched Gary with self-satisfied contempt. "Of course, you'll have to pay for her."

"That's all right," Gary said.

"Eight hundred dollars."

Gary paused. "It's worth it."

"Of course, there's one other thing."

"What's that?"

"It's another 120 miles to Phoenix. You'll have to walk it." Gary's shoulders slumped. He walked back to his pack, put away his gun and pulled out a granola bar.

"Friends, Dixie?" he said, offering her the granola bar.

She gathered it in with her dexterous lips and savored it a moment. Then in a powerful motion too quick to follow, she flicked out her right front hoof and kicked Gary in the knee.

He howled, hopped twice and crumpled.

Dixie chewed her granola bar in perfect satisfaction.

Reviewing this story carefully in my mind, I sit motionless atop Sandy. Then I loosen the reins, pat her on the neck and click my tongue experimentally.

She glances back at me to make sure I have been well-broken, then ambles down the hillside. I concentrate on enjoying the view.

On the way down, I resolve to let my kids live where they will and pick the career path they prefer even if it leads straight through the cholla patch. And maybe on Monday, I'll randomly toss half the papers on my desk.

Oh, yeah, and one other thing, after reading this month's issue: Next time someone suggests I'd enjoy herding cattle up and down hillsides on a mule that ain't neck-reined, I'm gonna suggest they get a running start and take a deep dive into the swimming hole on Wet Beaver Creek.