I remember going on pack trips with ol’ Pap. He’d be ridding Yaller, his buckskin Morgan. That horse could outwalk a Tennessee Walker and do it all day, uphill.

I’d be on Lightning, Quarter Horse and Shetland cross (!). I learned to pay close attention to where he was going. He had a sense that told him if my mind should wander and he’d take me under the first low branch he could get to. Down I’d go.

We used pack horses to carry our camp, usually one a green bronc learning how to carry a load in the high country and learning some manners as well.

Bringing up the rear was Miss Jenkins the burro, with a light pack of sandwiches and iced tea and ponchos and fishing gear. No lead rope for her — she had a mad crush on ol’ Lightning and followed us faithfully. If she lost sight of us she’d go to braying and bawling. We’d stop for a short breather and cinch check while she caught up.

Those days spent with Pap and the livestock who carried us through the woods, up the trail above tree line and down into pristine valleys full of icy streams and game and sights that burn into memory come back to me when I read your stories. Thank you, pardner.

The snow has melted in Minnesota, so it is definitely barbecue weather!

He had one mule that would wait until the first morning on the trail and after he was loaded, would take off at maximum speed for the gap between a pair of trees just big enough for him … and not the packs. If he busted the harness or the packs and came through the gap, he was back down the trail to home at full speed and you could either chase him all the way to the ranch or let him go. If he and the packs came to a sudden stop, he would back out of the gap, get back in line, and be sweet as pie for the rest of the trip.

So they would make sure he had the new pack saddle and something really sturdy on the that day. He could have been wearing gauze and marshmallows after that, but he only tested the packs on the second day of a trip.