Some days are just
about perfect, a ninety point eight second ride
Or hitch’n a team of percherons with the double tree even each stride
Mountain trails traveled with horses fill days that rank with the best
But every so often a mishap can put a good smile to the test
And just when you
never expect it, sound plans can turn for the worse
One moment yer whistling trail tunes, the next yer tempted to curse
We were leaving the Brazeau drainage, my trail partners numbering six
Winding our way through the lodgepole when we got in a bit of a fix
I was leading a mare
with a pack on when her load gave a definite sag
What looked like a fine double diamond had run into a bit of a snag
A branch just above stirrup level no bigger than a man’s thumb
Was putt’n the halt on the pack string and the mare couldn’t figger how
come
Instead her solution
was simple when motion got slowed from the rear
She revved up all of her muscles and shifted to the next gear
In no time the top pack and panniers slid all the way back to her croup
The britchen slung down to her fetlocks and circled one hoof in a loop
Both cinches were
snugged up nicely like a buck’n rig high on her flank
While much of the tarp from the top pack was wrapped plum around her lead
shank
The first to let loose was a pannier, the one that was full of camp gear
The lantern light high in a spruce bow and whoa must have sounded like
cheer
The swede saw was
promptly ejected and twirled like a boomerang
While the old coffee pail got punted in search of a new place to hang
Next was the bucket and wash pan with dish rag and soap close in tow
The sack full of dishes unraveled, it looked like a juggling show
By then the saddle had
settled to a spot just ahead of her knees
Like bloomers with no time for hoisting on the run from an outhouse with
bees
The top pack that held all our bedding spread nicely all over the trail
Marking the path of the stampede and in trees like a ship in full sail
The mare did a mighty
fine striptease, for try I can’t hardly fault her
With a little more time I reckon she’d a even have bucked off her halter
I s’pose it took most of an hour to round up all of our stuff
Scrap leather and twine patched the rig’n when the mare figured she’d had
enough
Then I thought of the
closing of barn doors too late for a vagabond nag
When I went over before we mounted and broke off that little pine snag.
© 2008, Bryan (Bj) Smith
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Bryan told us this poem was "inspired
while I watched all my worldly effects flung about the forest on a
pack trail in the Canadian Rockies one summer recently. I have
had my share of experience picking up the leftovers from a wreck
resulting from a disgruntled horse..."
