Featured: Western Memories Smoke Wade Cowboy Poetry at the BAR-D Ranch www.CowboyPoetry.com

One day in June of 1960, and without warning, my father told me to saddle my horse and load it in the truck. He also told me to pack a few belongings. for I would be gone awhile. We drove for hours up a winding dirt road that led from our home ranch to the high summer range above Hells Canyon. We drove along rivers and streams with colorful names such as the Grande Ronde River, Joseph Creek, Cottonwood Creek and Horse Creek. At the head of Horse Creek we took a side road to Downey Saddle where we could look thousands of feet below at the Snake River—shining like a silver thread at the bottom of Hells Canyon. Here he told me to unload my horse and belongings from the truck and wait.

"Wait until they come this way. This is your summer job," he said.

Smoke Wade, age 15, leading the pack string. By counting the shadows, one can tell there are seven mules in the pack string. The mules were large in stature, and they tend to dwarf the horse I was riding. As a side note, when a rider spends this much time with a horse, riding daily for weeks at a time, the horse and rider do become bonded very much as related in cowboy poetry and music. The two become as one, the rider and the horse—much like best of friends.

I sat in the shade of a large pine tree and watched as my father left to make the three-hour journey back to the ranch in his truck. I swallowed my fear and waited while watching the sun climb high in the sky. I was yet to celebrate my fifteenth birthday.

Two hours later they came over the brow of the ridge top. Sheep! Hundreds of noisy sheep guided along by two lone herders and their dogs. The sheep herd had been on the trail for three days making the uphill climb from the bottom of Hells Canyon to the ridge top five thousand feet above. Hells Canyon is known as the deepest gorge in North America. My summer job was to join this woolly apparition and follow in the footsteps of my father, for he had herded sheep along this same route in his youth.

The herders, Virgil Winters and Casey Jones, soon made me aware of my duties. I was to be the camp tender and the muleskinner. My job was to lead the pack string, load and unload the mules, set up the camp, haul water, gather wood, take down the camp and help herd sheep when I had time. There was a tent to set up for the two herders to sleep in. I slept on the ground under the stars. And this became my daily routine as we moved the sheep 75 miles from the winter ranch to summer pasture in the higher elevations of the snow capped Wallowa Mountains in north eastern Oregon, then back again.

Loading a mule as the sun comes up. Breakfast is over and the camp is packed. This photo shows the pack boxes that food and cooking ware were loaded in. The rope in the foreground is a tether line stretched between the trees. The mules were tied to the tether line at night so they would not wander. The horses were allowed more freedom by placing leather hobbles on their front legs. They could hop around at night but would not roam far away.

With over two thousand head of sheep, we moved in this fashion averaging less than six miles a day. By the third day I was comfortable leading the seven mules in the pack string. At night coyotes and mountain lions made their attacks on the sleeping band of sheep and the night herder would scare them off with a rifle shot. There is no sound more chilling that the scream of a cougar at 2:00 a.m.

The mules were a cantankerous bunch. Each had his order in the pack string and the order could never be changed without creating chaos. When properly packed with the correct weight and placed in the proper order, the pack string was peaceful and performed their duties without disruption. I can no longer recall most of their names. Pedro was the large white lead mule. He was a cross with a donkey and draft horse and was gentle to ride.

Pedro was the big white mule that was always the lead mule of the pack string. He was very gentle and broke to ride. One day, my parents visited where we were camped with the sheep close to a road. My three little sisters couldn't resist taking turns riding Pedro. Sitting on top of the pack boxes on Pedro's back was probably similar to riding a camel.

The small mule, Johnny, always brought up the rear for he liked to follow. Some where in the middle was Molly and she was never happy with any arrangement and she caused the most trouble. After two weeks or more on the trail, we came to the town of Enterprise, Oregon and trailed the sheep right down the main street of town. Leaving town, we began the steep ascent to the peaks of the Wallowa Mountains.

(circa 1955) Mules were often called upon to carry odd sized loads in the steep Hells Canyon country. The variety of loads ranged from heavy items such as cast iron cook stoves and dismantled farm equipment to bulky loads such as sacks of grain or bags of wool. In this photo, my uncle, on the left, and my father, on the right, secure a freshly slaughtered steer to the back of a mule. The mule's facial expression and pointed back ears indicate its displeasure with this load.

Somewhere in the dead center of town, a rope got tangled under the tail of one of the mules, which caused a disruption with the entire pack string. Before the problem was solved, the seven mules had created what we called a "spaghetti ball," a tangled mess of mules with my horse and me caught in the middle. The mules were bucking and kicking and trying to throw their packs. The town folk came out of their shops and watched and cheered. Apparently the tangled pack string was just the type of entertainment they had been waiting all summer for. After securing order with the pack string, I rode out of town hiding my embarrassment.

Leaving the town of Enterprise, Oregon for the high Wallowa Mountains. The diamond hitch can be seen on the top of the pack of the last mule. The lead rope or halter rope of each mule is tied to the pack saddle of the mule in front of it. The mule skinner holds the halter rope of the lead mule in his hand. Tying the lead rope off to the saddle horn could prove to be disastrous should the mules begin to act up.

Packing and leading a pack string of mules required learning several skills. I was already an accomplished horseman. I had packed and led a single mule before. The string of seven mules was a challenge to say the least. I learned to "throw" a diamond hitch to secure the loads on the packsaddle. Some of the mules carried pack boxes, which required a barrel hitch or box hitch to hold in place. And every knot had to be secure, for if a load came loose on a single mule, mutiny would develop through out the entire pack string. At times we rode along narrow trails with interesting names like "Eagles Nest" or "Suicide Trail." In these places, the slightest mishap could send mules, horse and rider over the steep trail edge to certain doom hundreds of feet below.

Often, we followed the "National Stock Drive Trail," a trail blazed through the wilderness government land by Civilian Conservation Corps workers in the 1930’s. The trails were marked with small yellow signs and blazing— removing a section of bark—on the trees. It was the original intent that these trails would forever remain for stockmen to drive their herds from winter to summer pasture, or perhaps to market. All sign of these regional trails are now obliterated through neglect and forest fires.

(circa 1955) Some ranchers preferred pack horses to mules. In this photo, my father leads a mixed string of four horses and one mule. The animals are loaded with rock salt destined for the higher elevations of the canyon grazing country. Since both sheep and cattle required salt, the ranchers would often pool together to purchase a box car load of rock salt. Each allotment would eventually find its way to the home ranch for distribution to vastly scattered salt licks. The mule in this photo is the same mule, Johnny Mule, that brought up the rear of my sheep camp pack string.

Somewhere along the trail at a remote campsite, we celebrated my 15^th birthday around the evening campfire. The herders, Virgil and Casey, found a bottle of Silver Satin wine to celebrate with. We exchanged stories of our lives as the coyotes howled and the mules brayed. And it was in this manner in the summer of 1960, that a young cowboy began his rite of passage into manhood.

I never regretted the summer spent herding sheep and leading a pack string of mules, for I was always on horseback, and that was close to being a cowboy. Now, I alone remain from this event. The sheep, mules, sheepherders, horses, dogs, and owner of the sheep have all been gone for years. Only these photos and my memories remain. But what rich, rewarding memories there are. For I was once a muleskinner for the Cache Creek sheep ranch and only the loss of my memory will erase this event from history.