The cartoon penned by my friend Matts Zoumer in his book Cowboy Luck reminded me of my mule experiences.  My father Merv worked in the auction business in our trading area for years.  Many times in my memory he came home with the most unimaginable “purchases” much to my mothers annoyance and chagrin.  I could build this blog on the time he came home with a beat up old pump organ.  His idea was to reverse the air intake and outlet on the vacuum cleaner hook it to the organ and play it pump free.  It would have been a great idea if the sound of the vacuum cleaner did not drown out the sweet sound of the organ.  Being a man of great innovation we helped Merv on a Sunday morning when mom was out in mounting the vacuum cleaner in the basemant ceiling complete with 2 inch passage for the hose to join the organ from “down below”.  Anyway I digress but it does show the frequent occasions when he arrived home with a “prize purchase”  from a farm auction.

Fast forward to my university years where my cousin and I wrangled the dude string at our family guest ranch…the historical Stampede Ranch.  Dad arrived home with a mule.  He was a 700 pond Jack named Timber.  Like most purchases of this kind Timber was moth balled in a paddock awaiting time where dad had the time to enjoy Timber.  He was a cute bay with a yellow colored nose.  We had a fair amount of time between taking out rides in the morning and sleeping in the bunk house in the afternoon so Deb and I decided to find out what Timber knew.  What we learned that afternoon was: mules are stubborn (duh!),  you can lead a horse to water but if you don’t want to get kicked in the nuts let Timber go to his water hole by himself.  The lesson learned: when Timber wants a drink  he makes the rules and don’t expose your masculinity to the backside of a mule.  Dad had asked us to pack some salt to the cows back on section 35 so after our afternoon siesta we tied Timber in the tie stall and loaded salt onto the pack saddle.  We rode out with Timber on the halter shank and other than having his ears pinned to his neck seemed to be at home with the program.  The trail wound across the pasture through the creek and into the poplars.  Ah! trees schemed Timber and the party was on.  Our dude string took great pride at babysitting a dude through tight tree lined paths.  No, no, no not Timber.  When the trail got tight Timber started bouncing off poplars like a pinball machine taking dead aim at every opportune moment to shred the pack saddle, harness straps and blocks of Cobalt were strewn down the trail.  Smart!  Not a mark on him and now his ears were perked and the yellow nose seemed to flash a smirk.  We picked up the remains of the saddle and harness and decided that this was not the time or place to discipline Timber.  Just take him back and stay the hell out of his life.  Now I have met mule men and they take pride at being called mulemen and not cowboys.  They are apparently an amazing anuimal in the right hands (someone elses Batman).  Eventually other ranch hands tried to work with Timber until Merv gave him away (too many busted up and bruised cowboys out of the lineup). 

Matts your cartoon is so appropo…it sparked the memory of Timber. 

Years later Merv decided the ranch needed a team of Hennies and came home with a big matched team colored from a Belgian cross.  My father was failing in health and never got the chance to see them driven before he passed on.  On day an elderly man showed up at the farm where the hennies were penned.  My brother, now in charge, moved them to the farm to protect his staff. Roy Stewart was there to break the team complete with his harness under the tarp in his El Camino.  We expressed the thought that my brother was not interested in paying anyone to break the Hennies.  Roy countered with ” I aint here for pay!  “I promised your dad I would break em”!  Every morning the El Camino arrived and every day it was amazing to see a mule man building the foundation with the Hennies.  Within a few days they were harnessed and finally hitched.  Marci was freaking out everyday watching as Roy knelt to hook the tugs.  The one mare kicked his hat off every day for two weeks as he hitched the tugs narrowly missing his forehead with every stroke.  Undaunted with the patience of a saint Roy would continue without any hesitation.  Marci said “Roy this is no good…she is going to kill you”!  “No Marci she is just letting me know that she knows I back here hooking tugs”.  A few weeks later Roy asked me if we had any jobs he could do as they were ready to go to work.  I had been trying to pull massive carraganas out with my John Deere 4020 to no avail.  He said I will pull out those trees for you.  Right??? I thought but “have at her Roy”.  The next evening Marci came back from the farm with the news that the Hennies were popping trees out left right and center.  Right, left and center was the truth.  He had chains and pulleys that created a mechanical advantage the tractor did not creat.     It was amazing to see a mule man work with the Hennies that now loved him and worked obediantly for him.

What is the point of the blog?  Patience is a virtue!  There are rules for mules but you need them to want to set the rules.  Roy is gone now but I sure enjoyed seeing the El Camino in the community with the set of harness under the tarp even when it was parked in front of the Old Folks home in High River.  As I reflect on the story it was also, more importantly, about his promise to my dad to break his Hennies.  It is a story of a senior citizen that continued to be a muleman while a resident in the manor.  I wonder if the care staff knew he was breaking mules every morning while others sat in the sun room at the manor?  Roy Stewart (muleman)!

Mules, rules and fools.  Deb and I were the fools for not having the knowledge, patience or the smartness of a mule!  Timber rules!