Cast Your Hat to the Wind

Cast Your Hat to the Wind The Covered Wagon Trip of 1975

Sharon M. Lambrecht And Sheila L. Metteer

Chronological Chapters 11. Caught in the Act of Dreaming ...Sharon 12. Leaving Home ...Sheila 13. Marie’s Cooking ...Sharon 14. The Trip Begins ...Sheila 15. Brown’s ...Sheila 16. Round Up at Rattlesnake Butte ...Sheila 17. The Arsenal ...Sheila 18. Barney the Mule ...Sharon 19. The Six ‘S’ Hitch ...Sharon 10. The Escapees ...Sharon 11. Shale Mountain ...Sharon 12. The Importance of Matched Teams ...Sharon 13. Water ...Sheila 14. Sage Brush is Our Friend ...Sharon 15. The John Day River ...Sheila 16. Deception Hill ...Sheila 17. The Dollarhide Pond ...Sharon 18. The Twins Get Loco, Too ...Sharon 19. Dust ...Sheila 20. Heidi and the Rattler ...Sheila 21. The Camp Menace ...Sharon 22. Those Blasted Cattle Guards ...Sharon 23. The Runaway Team ...Sharon 24. The Close Call ...Sheila 25. The Shammy Shimmy ...Sheila 26. Paulina ...Sheila 27. Hampton Station ...Sheila

Dedication To our Momma ,Caryl Ann McMahon, whos e life long passion for horses and endless suppport prepared us for the opportunity of a lifetime.

God’s Place God placed a Shawl of Calico Over the western hills With a dash of red and a hint of green And every color in between While down below, all silver gray A mantle of sage brush Stretches away Here and there a touch of blue That reflects the clouds When the sun shines through Then He tucked it away in the back of beyond For only the searchers to see And He said, “go and find them, My calico hills, for there you Shall also find Me!’

By Marie Cripe

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Chapter 1 Written by Sharon Lambrecht Caught in the Act of Dreaming

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Let me introduce myself to you. My name is Sharon McMahon Lambrecht and I am an identical twin, to Sheila McMahon Metteer.

We grew up in Battle Ground, Washington on a 25 acre farm. My Dad called it Crazy Caryl’s Funny Farm. My Mom had somehow scraped together enough money over the years to buy land piece by piece, starting from a 3 acre place. She had a strong desire to farm. We all used to say, if it could reproduce, my Mom wanted it as part of her menagerie.

We reaped the benefits of her dreams and grew up with horses and animals abounding on the place.We had a fantasy childhood.

At this point in 1975, we were tall, strapping twenty-two year old farm girls with a love for anything Western. We watched Western movies, Western TV shows, wore Western clothes and boots and listened to Western music. And this was truly before “Country was cool“, to quote a song. Our lives revolved around family and riding horses. We could never get enough of horses.

We graduated from high school and became long distance telephone operators. We helped friends show their horses and went trail riding every chance we could. Sheila and I rode a beautiful pair of palominos that were our soul mates. We competed every spring in the local parades, riding Duke and Goldie with matching western outfits. It was great fun.

Not being your average twenty-two year old girls of the ‘70s, we didn’t drive average automobiles either.

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I drove a nice Ford Pickup, great for pulling the horse trailer we had custom made for us. Sheila drove a Classic Wiley’s Jeep panel 4x4 named Earl.

He was awesome. A truly monster rig. We dealt with odd reactions from men.

They found it hard to accept that these weren’t our Daddy’s rigs. No, they were ours.

Earl had minor problems from time to time. He was actually a hole in the road Sheila poured money into, but she loved him and didn’t seem to mind.

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One day we were taking Earl over to Ralph’s Repair shop for some minor problem that would cost her a fortune to fix. Ralph’s Repair was a cinder block building with cars and trucks all around it.

Ralph was an excellent mechanic and a long time friend of our Father’s. There was never a shortage of customers. He was a sweet man who charged fairly for his talents.

Sheila and I were standing around waiting to hear how much the repairs would cost and when to come back for Earl. We happened to look to the north end of the building and saw an odd looking vehicle. At first we thought we were looking at a green pickup with a canopy on it. It sure stood tall back there.

We wandered a little closer and to our amazement, there stood what looked like a covered wagon with a truck canopy mounted on the back half.

We couldn’t resist. We circled the wagon taking in every nook and cranny, every nut and bolt. The thing was built on a truck chassis with the axles and rubber tires still on it. The box was about eye level with real bows waiting for canvas on the front and the canopy mounted on the back. There were two bucket seats bolted behind the front of the box to drive the horses from. Very cool!

Our eyes met and we just couldn’t control ourselves. Up we climbed.

We sat there and looked at the world around us. What a dream come true and some lucky son of a gun was going to get to travel in this wagon. We closed our eyes and we could hear the clip-clop of the horses hooves and the jingle-jangle of the harness. With the spring sun warm on our faces, leaned back and dreamed away.

“Can I help you gals with something?”

We jumped out of our skins and stared in embarrassed silence at a round faced muscular fellow in a white cowboy hat. We could feel the heat in our faces. Caught red handed, trespassing.

“Uh! No! That is ok. We were just looking at this wagon.” Actually, we were doing more than looking, but we were squirming our way out of trouble.

“Is this your wagon?”

The fellow surveyed us with suspicious eyes. Sizing us up and not feeling too friendly. “What kind of bold girls were these?”, he seemed to be wondering.

“Yes. This is my wagon.” He still sounded reserved.

Oh, what the heck. “It is sooo cool. We just love it. Are you going to travel in it? Are you going far?”

A smile started on his face and he seemed to enjoy our interest. We were obviously not vandals. We were a couple of curious cowgirls.

We were bursting with a thousand questions and started climbing down from the wagon seats. He watched us and decided to introduce himself.

“My name is Bill Cripe. I am having Ralph build this wagon for me.”

We must have looked like a couple of adoring puppies waiting for him to go on.

One thing led to another and we told him our names and started the cascade of questions.

Bill asked us a few questions about where we lived and what we did.

Our meeting ended up with him issuing an invitation to come over to his place and meet his wife Marie. The trip was her idea and they were still in the process of planning it. Hoping to get started in May. We gladly accepted and set up the meeting. We couldn’t wait.

We found their place and were surprised to find them living in a mobile home park. As we learned more about the trip, we would understand why.

Marie met us at the door. She was a slender pretty woman. Short brown hair and dancing brown eyes. She had a pixy look about her and seemed young for her age. We were all a little tentative with each other. Sheila and I were both shy, believe it or not.

The conversation was awkward until the subject of the wagon trip came up.

We poured over county maps and Bill showed us some of the route.

We learned they had 6 horses and 1 mule to take. Two were young work horses, a team that Bill was working with to get them up for pulling a wagon.

This was all new to us. The whole process was fascinating.

Bill said they had decided to move to Fallon, Nevada because of Marie’s health problems. He was going to manage a feed store.

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Marie was head nurse at a local nursing home. She suffered from asthma, aggravated by local flora.

They had made a trip to Nevada and on the drive back, they pulled off the road to have a picnic lunch. They walked a little ways up the trail and sat on rocks. After eating, Bill explored a ways farther and discovered they were following wagon ruts. He believed they were on part of the Oregon Trail.

As they rested, Marie’s imagination started to take off. She sat there in the warm desert sunshine and could close her eyes and see and hear the wagons and teams creaking by with the low rumble of axles and iron bound wooden wheels, rolling over earth and stone. The women in long skirts, trudging along next to the wagons. Maybe trying to catch the shade the bowed canvas tops made if the sun was right, or if not, relying on their bonnets alone.

People struggling and suffering in their attempt to travel thousands of miles with the hope of a better life.

That was it. Marie was hooked and Bill was game to be swept along with her.

These two people were a rare courageous pair. As we talked we learned they had sold their home and land. Also, pared down much of their personal possessions to finance such a move. They had planned the route, purchased a new young team of draft horses and a large mule for pulling. They had designed one wagon and had it built. They had researched food supplies and found a dried goods company, investing in a large amount of items for the trip.

The never ending details made our heads spin. There was the food to consider for the animals. How do you keep all this stock fed as you traveled?

What could you carry on a wagon? Surely not a ton of hay and bags of oats.

Bill had discovered alfalfa pellets. Hay and grain all in one. He had hired a semi truck to travel the route and arranged drop off points for the feed along the way. He found good hearted store owners and ranchers who agreed to store bags of feed waiting for Bill and Marie’s arrival.

There were first aid concerns and veterinary supplies to plan for.

Harness and tack repair materials and tools.

Water supplies must be hauled for people and animal consumption.

Extra water for emergencies. Weight was a constant concern. A 5 gallon can of water weighs 40 lbs. A thirsty horse can drink 12 to 20 gallons a day.

Needless to say, our minds were swimming with details when we headed home.

We had set up a meeting with Bill and Marie to see what their stock looked like. They were boarding them in a pasture north of Lewisville Park.

We drove home in silence. What was happening here? Sheila and I sat in ‘Twin Silence.’ It is something like a Vulcan Mind Meld, but a more parallel thought pattern.

The next day Bill showed us his prowess at harnessing and driving the team of Sugar and Spice pulling a stone boat.

A stone boat is a large flat skid of timbers that farmers used to pull around the fields and throw rocks onto that were kicked up by the plow. The team seemed only slightly skittish. They looked like they enjoyed pulling after Bill got them started.

There was Skipper, Bill’s Arab gelding. A lovely bay. Sandy, Marie’s small gentle buckskin mare. Shamrock, a tall liver chestnut gelding that was very well broke and had been used for hunting. Satin, a very delicate looking sorrel mare with the sweetest temperament you have ever seen. She was just green broke and inexperienced.

Then there was Bucky the Mule. She was enormous. A good 17 hands tall and I mean not the exaggerated height you hear a cowboy bragging about. I mean she was tall. We circled her like we circled the wagon. In disbelief. Sheila and I didn’t know mules. We did know she was a quality animal. She had long straight muscular legs and a nice smooth conformation. She was a reddish brown and her large eyes showed intelligence. Bill informed us he would be looking for a harness mate for her on the trip. Sounded good to us.

After the meeting with the rest of the “family”, we all went back to the mobile home for a rest and a talk. Marie got everyone something to drink and we sat around aware of a crackling in the air.

Suddenly Bill said, “Marie and I have been talking. We don’t know each other very well, but we are pretty impressed with you two girls. We were wondering if you think you might like to travel with us on this trip of ours?”

Sheila and I could have thrown ourselves down at their feet and kissed their dusty cowboy boots. We were both shaking with excitement. This was one of those ’pinch yourself’ moments.

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“If you think you might like to come with us, we could sure use the help.”

In typical twin style we answered together, “We would love to go!”

“If you think you might like to come with us, we could sure use the help.”

In typical twin style we answered together, “We would love to go!”

Then the other questions started to flood our minds.

What about our jobs?

What about our car payments?

What about money?

What would we need to take?

Do we need our own saddles?

How long will this take?

On and on and on……

Then the biggest question of all: WHAT ABOUT OUR MOTHER!!!

We left it at “We would love to go!” and drove home in a fog. The rest of the dream must be kept from becoming a nightmare.

Chapter 2 Written by Sheila Metteer Leaving Home Mom and Dad were sure they would never see us again. They could barely conceal their trepidation. We were ignoring their red eyes and wringing hands the best we could. Expressions of caution flew. We ignored these also.

Sharon and I were just blasted excited, seeing nothing but what was ahead.

Fun and excitement!

We quit our jobs at the telephone company. This was something that shocked our boss. She had sniffed with contempt when we gave notice as if to say, “See all those women out there...they had dreams but they are still here.”

Our last day couldn’t go by fast enough and we turned in our equipment and never looked back.

Dad just shook his head and said, “Good paying jobs for women are hard to come by.” No, Dad; I thought, They aren’t! Covered Wagon Trips are hard to come by.

Sharon and I were committed. Bill and Marie had asked Ralph to build a second wagon for us, and our fates were sealed.

We had to forget our Brownie Buttons for “Empathy” and steel ourselves. Mom made the supreme gesture of giving us Heidi, her beloved Dachshund, to protect us. We exchanged hugs and were off.

Crammed in the front of Bill’s pickup, with the wagon being towed behind, we chattered excitedly, heading south down Interstate 5 and out of Washington. We were close on the heels of the stock truck loaded with all the horses. It didn’t take long before the problems started.

We never thought to give towing the wagon a dry run. The long tongue had been removed and a short “Hauling Tongue” had been installed. It had a regular end that would attach to a ball. Nothing unusual. The problem was at the other end of the tongue. It was bolted to the front of the wagon straight on without the usual triangular brace bars. Major error. The moment we reached 35 miles per hour we lost stability. Throw in a gust of wind or a semi passing and well, you get the picture.

The chattering subsided as Bill’s tension increased. No way to keep up with the stock truck. Off it flew down the Washington side of the Columbia River Gorge Highway and with it, any hope of a rendezvous.

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We had no choice but to go slow. Traffic flew past us. I secretly wished we had a slow moving vehicle sign on the back of the wagon. To speeding cars, it just looked like a pickup and canopy ahead. A slow one. Then as they passed, one and all had to brake when the wagon bows appeared and try to figure out “What in the heck is that?” This just added to the tension. It meant two lanes blocked repeatedly on a major interstate highway.

At this point, the last thing we needed was the Oregon State Patrol involved. I don’t recall seeing one O.S.P. car the whole trip. Either that or they just looked the other way not feeling like opening up a crazy can of worms.

With the weight of the pushing the truck down hill, the brakes overheated and failed.

However, Bill kept his cool and the hill ended before our dreams did. The next uphill stretch allowed the brakes to cool off.

Sheila, Bill and Scamper By the time we reached Cascade Locks we were worn out. Bill exited the freeway and coasted to the side road and we cruised into the little town. We stopped at a nice steakhouse and flopped down in a booth, glad to be going zero. We caught our breath and braced for the rest of the trip. Unfortunately, the worst was still ahead.

The Hood River area was notorious for it’s wind gusts. Soon, after the first adrenaline junkie fastened a sail to a surf board, this wind would prove to be lucrative for the locals. Hood River became the wind surfing mecca. But in 1975 it was just a blasted miserable stretch of highway.

We waded through a few curiosity seekers and questions like “Where ya headed?” Followed by what would become Bill’s trade mark phrase, “FALLON, NEVADA!” We piled into the truck, took four deep breaths and were off again.

We did fine as long as Bill kept the speed down. I had been disappointed the wagon was minus her canvas cover, but soon realized that would have acted like a sail. It just made her look more like a Covered Wagon.

We just kept going and after what seemed like ages, there was the sign to Biggs Junction. There, we would head south on Highway 97 straight to Shaniko.

Bill was getting a little anxious about the horses. The deal with the hauler was to unload and leave. We had no way of contacting him. Helpless, we rolled on and after about three hours, (the stretch down Hwy 97 should have taken a little over one hour) finally reached Shaniko.

We had passed through some small towns like Morrow and Grass Valley, Oregon and had created a store of pictures in our heads of Shaniko. We weren’t prepared for what met us.

It was basically a ghost town with a major highway passing along the northwest side. Bill pulled into town and stopped at the largest place there, the Shaniko Hotel. Well, it was a Hotel/Mental Institution. Seriously! It had been converted to the dual use by it’s owner Sue Morrelli. A nurse, she took in elderly mental patients in their more harmless years. It was an odd atmosphere. We took our cues from the locals who were very accepting of the situation.

In small town fashion, we were informed of the whereabouts of the horses. Everyone knew they had been unloaded and were in the care of a local family who generously volunteered their small pasture. The horses must have been beat, as the fences were so bad, they had to be in there on the honor system.

They all checked out and relieved, we decided to put off the fence mending until we found a place to camp.

We had been directed to a small shake-sided cabin called the “Falesgetti Place“. Sure enough, it was right where they said it was. Across the highway and the first place on the left. We slowly pulled into the front yard and a petite blonde came walking out.

“Hi!” she called out and we had our first home town welcome. Her name was Linda, also a nurse, from the Portland, Oregon area. This was a family vacation home.

Soon, our tent was set up in the yard and we were settled in for a two week stay. Marie dragged out her rocking chair and corn cob pipe and rested in the shade. We busied around helping Bill and when we were sure he was satisfied, we headed off to explore the town.

It was a strange place. Everything was original. The sidewalks were made out of thick wooden planks. There were hitching posts and old wagons sitting haphazardly here and there. It was a real ghost town.

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There were a few struggling little stores that catered to occasional tourists.

However, people in Shaniko had big plans. They would stick to their guns and hold onto the authentic roots, turning this little ghost town into a thriving tourist attraction, in about twenty years.

Right now, Sharon and I thought we had died and gone to cowgirl heaven. We wandered freely from one old wagon to the next. We peeked into timeworn windows and at dusk, found ourselves at the east end of town at a huge shed. It was called the sheep barn. Back in the bygone days, it had been used as a shelter to house and shear tens of thousands of sheep. They were herded here on their way to market. It was locked and too dark to see anything anyway, so we headed back to Falesgetti’s.

Bill and Marie had dinner going and some nice collapsible tables set up on the side of the wagon. Bill had faced the wagon to catch the morning sun.

This practice would soon be repeated over and over as the summer progressed.

All ate and settled down to make plans. We still had a lot of work to do before the trip could begin. We checked on the horses one more time and collapsed in our beds.

In the morning, we would be greeted with our first taste of “high desert chill“, the “cheat grass” poking us through our sleeping bags and a hundred new experiences that would stretch from here to Nevada.

Chapter 3 Written by Sharon Lambrecht Marie’s Cooking The food on the trip was the best ever. Marie was a fantastic cook. She took to the challenge of cooking over a campfire as our foremothers did, like a fish to water. She was always game to experiment with different things and we were game to eat anything. None of us wanted the job.

The enormous amounts of fresh air, coupled with the exercise and activities made our appetites ravenous by the end of the day. There wasn’t a cupboard or a fridge you could walk by and grab a snack whenever you felt like it.

This was a good thing.

Marie always had snacks if we couldn’t stand to wait, but it got to be worth the wait.

She worked so hard trying to see that all of us had a hot meal at the start and end of each day. She added much to our good spirits and morale.

In the back of her and Bill’s wagon there was a large wooden chest.

She had gathered all kinds of dried goods and herbs and spices. Marie would raid the Marie’s Famous Cinnamon Rolls coolers and start digging around in there after she had the fire started. Watching her brought to mind a gypsy woman searching in her magic bag for ingredients for a spell she was concocting. The only difference was we were watching a shapely butt covered in denim.

What a sweetheart! She would try the most daring entrees and if they turned out, we would all moan and groan over them and praise her for her talents.

Now, many times, what Marie started out with would start to go a little wrong. She would fuss away over her large pot suspended over the fire and grumble about this and that.

Amazingly, I don’t remember her ever ruining a meal. Sometimes we just ended up with Marie’s Camp Stew. It was delicious. We would still moan and groan about how tasty it was.

She even tortured us a few times when she was bored and we had long layovers in camps by dragging out the Dutch Oven. This was a large black pot with a handle. The lid was designed to rest flat on the top and had a sunken area for hot coals to rest upon. Thus, you had heat over and under the pot for even baking.

I will never forget the miracle of cinnamon rolls appearing from under that lid. You could almost faint from the lovely smell.

One of the treasures Marie guarded like a fiend throughout the trip, was her sour dough starter. She babied that crock and checked it everyday.

Making sure it was still ‘working’.

She would whip up great pancakes and biscuits in a flash. Nice thick slices of sizzling bacon filling the air with heavenly odors made it hard to finish the morning chores. Animals got fed first, but it was sometimes done in an amazing whirl when something good was ‘on the fire!’

The meat, bought or donated, was fried up with special spices.

Potatoes on the side. Fresh veggies and salad were a luxury we enjoyed for short periods after passing through a town. Or if some generous rancher offered to ‘give us a ride’ to the nearest store.

These rides became quite traumatic. You take for granted traveling at the speed of a car. Let me tell you after spending days and days at 3 miles an hour, the 70 or 80 mph ranchers cruised around at, was more than we could bare. We started to decline some of the invitations and let Marie and Bill be terrorized.

Back to the veggies. When you can’t get fresh, you get Marie digging out dried vegetables from her chest. Once rehydrated, they looked and tasted pretty much like normal, but there was one side effect that we won’t go into with any great detail. Suffice to say, we all walked around feeling inflated.

It was hard to be totally lady like after eating some of Marie’s Camp Stews, but after all, we were just a cowboy and his cowgirls and the horses and mules didn’t mind.

Chapter 4 Written by Sheila Metteer The Trip Begins Leaving Shaniko was bittersweet. You don’t expect to get close to people in just two weeks. We learned a great lesson there.

I think the four of us started the trip with the unconscious hope of escaping. Escaping our lives, jobs, bills, problems, you can name them all.

This seemed like our chance to free ourselves from what we thought were strained relationships and stale events. The surprise was this; the very thing we wanted to leave behind turned out to be, by far, the best part of the A View of Shaniko Oregon trip. People.

From the start, we were bombarded with love and generosity. It came from all directions and in many different ways. The value of this lesson would stay with us the rest of our lives. The human spirit was a concept the four of us had never contemplated. Now the concept grew before us like a beacon.

People wanted to help. People we didn’t know from Adam. We all agreed, this trip would never have been completed without this help.

Day one was a perfect example. We were ready. Packed and raring to go. The wagon was loaded with everything we needed, plus all that would be loaded in the second wagon when it arrived. Our many new friends bid us a fond farewell. The faces mirrored what we were feeling. Excitement mixed with a profound sadness.

The morning was bright and we anticipated the heat of the day and wanted an early start. The town seemed unusually quite and the strange echoes of horseshoes on black top rang out. The jingling of the harnesses and wagon bells hanging over Bill’s head seemed louder somehow. Friends waved good-bye and we were off. I always enjoyed this certain feeling in the pit of my stomach. A mixture of dread and excitement and wondered if the others were experiencing the same. I rode ahead. It was hard to believe we were really started. This wasn’t just a pipe dream. Nothing terrible had occurred to stop the trip.

We were sharing a little disbelief when we started down the first hill. It was a little steep and winding but we made it just fine. Spirits soared and we passed the Shaniko Waterworks nestled back in the canyon on the left.

Even the horses seemed upbeat. They trotted and blew a little. We figured they would as they were still green and except for dragging the stone boat in the fields back at home and a few trial runs around the streets of Shaniko.

This was the big move.

Then we started the pull up the long hill to the top of the desert plain. It wasn’t long before problems arose. The horses were having trouble pacing themselves and you could see the concern on Bill’s face. We stopped and checked the harnesses and all seemed fine. I watched along with Bill to see any sign of lameness. There was none. We trudged on and ‘trudge’ was the perfect word. We should have been making much better time. It was eight miles to Antelope and at the snails pace we were going we would be there by January.

I can’t remember who figured it out first. Probably Bill, but the brakes had been on ever since we left Shaniko. The poor team stood with their heads low, blowing like they had just sprinted a quarter mile. We gathered around the wagon and stared in disbelief at the sweat on those sweet girls. They had been pulling their hearts out for at least four miles with the brakes part way on!

We were sick. What to do? This was a major highway with no shoulder. We couldn’t stop here. I rode ahead and found a gate an eighth of a mile south.

I trotted back and saw Bill under the wagon, trying his hardest to sort out the problem. No luck.

We encouraged the exhausted team and they strained their way to the gate.

There really wasn’t enough room to swing the wagon across to the far shoulder and get a nice straight shot at the narrow gate. To add to the mess, The Shaniko School it was getting hot out and the team needed water.

There were two big rock cribs on either side of the gate. If you aren’t familiar with a rock crib, it is an ingenious way the ranchers use their resources.

Namely, rocks. They fill a large wire cage of sorts with hundreds of rocks and use them to anchor long stretches of fence line or gates. These two looked like they were four feet apart to us.

Still we had to get off this road.

Bill gathered up the reins and swung the team wide. We must’ve been just inches away from success when the wagon started to rock and roll on the rough ruts of the approach. Sugar and Spice had never felt or heard that much commotion behind them. They did the “fight or flight” move and when the dust finally settled a wide eyed Bill and an equally wide eyed team were about fifty yards up the dirt road dragging some poor ranchers gate caught on the back of the wagon. It was probably a good thing the team was so tired because they still weren’t sure the threat was over. They quivered and quaked for a few minutes while we soothed them and Bill surveyed the damage. The gate was a total loss.

The team was fine except for some bruises and some hurt feelings. The worst damage was to the single trees. These were literally bent into a “V” shape.

They were ruined. The sun got suddenly hotter. We milled around and scratched our heads. Then we heard the sound of an engine. A Jeep went flying by heading toward Shaniko. When the brakes screeched, we were both afraid and relieved. After a very practiced “U” turn, the vehicle came swinging abruptly into the gate. Please let this go well, I thought. We were at the end of our ropes.

A pair of long denim clad legs swung out of the Jeep, and a rather dusty and suntanned young man about six foot four walked leisurely towards us.

“Howdy!” he called loudly.

We all breathed a sigh of relief.

It turned out this young man was the A Example of a Dog Leg nephew of the rancher who just lost his gate.

Bill explained what had happened. With a shrug that said ‘Shoot! This kind of thing happens all the time…’ the young man was under the wagon and soon found the problem. It was a bad brake line.

In no time at all, he had the line unhooked and showed Bill how to plug it off with a nail.

We’re good to go.

He seemed like a Guardian Angel to us, as we stood there melting in the Central Oregon sun. His name was Lowell Forman and his uncle’s name was Eldon O. Borthwick, owner of the JC Connected Ranch. It was located about five miles west of Antelope. The ranch we were at was an additional ranch used for summer grazing called the “FISHER PLACE”. The Fisher family were pioneers in the area.

We watched as Lowell efficiently gathered up the damaged single trees.

Then he said he would meet us in Antelope.

“Just go straight through town, past the county sheds and pull into Clarence Brown’s field. I’ll have these welded and straightened and see you later!” He was off, with the words “Meet you in Antelope,” ringing in our doubtful ears.

Now we have to dig the extra single trees out from behind the wagon seat. They were under at least three tons of junk and they were the ones slated for the second wagon. They were old and wood and much better suited for the lighter wagon. In fact, we doubted if they would survive the next four miles.

That meant we doubted whether WE would survive the next four miles.

That my friends, was the good news. The bad news was, “WE HAD NO BRAKES!!” Between here and Antelope is a huge hill with a switch back you only see in the movies. Lowell had said not to worry, he would fix the shredded gate. We gathered our strength and circled the wagon, all eyes on those rickety old single trees and soon we were up on the road and headed south to Antelope.

What a difference! The wagon seemed to glide. The team soon relaxed and the traces slackened. We were guardedly elated. The miles flew by compared to the morning’s drudgery.

We were feeling pretty enthused when I got to the top of the hill . I stopped dead in my tracks. No way but down. I felt sick. The only way to slow the wagon would be shear brute strength of the team. They would have to sit back on the breeching and hold the wagon all by themselves. I was terrified.

We decided to help them as much as possible by tethering ropes to the back of the wagon and dallying the ropes around Sharon’s and my saddle horns and try to slow the massive wagon. What choice did we have.

Bill climbed up and picked up the reins and yelled “Ready?” I wanted to yell back “Are you kidding? No!” Not that it would have helped.

This took such guts. Looking back, you have to admire Bill’s courage.

He clucked to Sugar and Spicy and they stepped innocently on. To them it felt pretty good. The wagon was virtually rolling on its own. Then it began to pick up speed.

Sharon and I slowed our mounts and the ropes began to tighten. I was afraid of what the team would do when they first felt the pressure of the wagon full force against their butts. Bill was braced also. I felt Shamrock’s horseshoes start to slip on the pavement and could hear Skipper’s doing the same. Then I saw the rope give a little and looked up to see those sweet girls sitting on their breech straps and the wagon slowing down to a tentative controlled glide.

Bill guided the team expertly to the upper bank of the road and used the camber of it to give us additional slowing action. Thus we inched our way down that switch back. I didn’t think it was possible for four human beings to hold their breath that long! When we reached the bottom of that dogleg, the collective sigh was heard all the way to Fallon, Nevada.

Now, on to find the Brown place.

Sheila Riding Point

Chapter 5 Written by Sheila Metteer Brown’s Four very happy people rolled down the road into Antelope.

We had made it down, maybe not the worst hill, but the steepest hill of the whole trip. One that would make people with good brakes shudder.

We were still at the top of a hill. It just didn’t seem scary now that we “Did the Dogleg”.

The view was spectacular. A patchwork of green and gold lay before us like a giant quilt. One created with care and Ron Metteer love. Draped over rolling hills with a tiny town nestled in the very middle.

Antelope was charming. It had one main street (the highway) that ran north and south right at the bottom of the little valley. It looked cool and inviting.

Large Locust and Poplar trees lined the street all the way through town. Shade was on the “Valuable Things” list right below water.

The road swung wide to the right. It was a long gradual hill and we had plenty of time to enjoy the view. The team were pros now at “braking” so the tension level had been lowered about a 1000%. We were worn out but pleased we made it to Antelope and didn’t have to turn around and limp back to Shaniko. That would have been bad, arriving bedraggled and weary with our tails between our legs, after an aborted start.

Here we were still bedraggled and weary but our tails were held high and even wagging a little. The town was very quiet. You felt whisked back into the 1950’s. Nice little homes. A postcard from a time when people fenced their yards, not to keep a pet in, but to keep the free roaming cattle out of the pansies. Except for the occasional glimpse of a rebel doublewide on a side street, things looked pretty much the same as they would have 25 years ago.

We passed through town with no fanfare except a occasional face in a front window. People probably knew about our progress from early in the morning. I could imagine the phones ringing back and forth across the lines.

“I just talked to Mary Forman and she said Lowell found them broke down up at the Fisher Place. Lowell sent them to Brown’s to camp and is fixing the damage.”

Reply...”Oh really! Well I’ll call so and so and let them know....”

I realize now that the simple reception in Antelope was born from courtesy and respect for people’s privacy and not the slightest from indifference.

At the south end of town was a quaint little store. It proudly wore the name “ANTELOPE STORE AND POST OFFICE”. A decade into the future it would carry an ugly affront to the locals reading “ZORBA THE BUDDA”.

Compliments of an arrogant sect known as The Rahjneese. That however is another story.

The postmaster was a large man named Bill Dickson. Also related to the Formans. He would be another link in the long chain we called “The Wagon Trip”.

The directions from Lowell concerned us as we had yet to familiarize ourselves to the Central Oregon version of directions. They were given out of innocence. They had lived there all their lives and took it for granted that EVERYONE knew about ‘this and that’ and so those details just weren’t important. That meant we usually forged ahead on faith that if the locals knew where we were going we shouldn’t worry. It was a working arrangement that served us well and I don’t think we took a wrong turn the whole trip.

We passed the store begrudgingly, knowing it contained ice cold pops and a freezer with, if not ice cream, then surely Popsicles. The horses were showing the effects of the day and we needed to take care of first things first.

They needed to be unharnessed, watered, brushed, and fed and also we were eager to find the Brown’s Place.

Brown’s appeared soon enough. Right past the sheds and left at the fork in the road that Lowell didn’t mention. And with a little added guidance and a pointed finger (from a rancher), we found it.

I would not have called it a ‘Place‘. It was more of a field, but a nice one. It was about 5 or 6 acres of lush irrigated pasture with enough water for all. There was no house but a stand of Poplar trees where an old house once stood. This was a reoccurring sight, as it was sadly common for outsiders to trespass looking for long gone booty and then show their gratitude by burning down the empty old dwellings for fun.

We found the dirt road that led up off the highway to a gate and prayed it was a nice wide one.

The opening to the field turned out to be wide enough but we encountered our first ‘cattle guard’. A sight that soon struck each one of us with apprehension. This was a quandary we were too tired to overcome. There was a side gate, but it was unusable. We were standing there when Mr. Brown showed up and with an efficient flurry, born of ranching experience, he pulled the wagon over the guard with his pick up truck, as we led the stock through the small gate.

Things turned out fine and to our relief, we soon were settled in and the horses were clear on the other side of the field, grazing voraciously and I’m sure, planning on avoiding us for as long as possible.

We fiddled around and wondered if we would ever see Lowell again.

Marie rummaged through her dry sink for the evening meal. Seeking shade, Sharon and I climbed into the front of the wagon and were attempting to reorganize the harness we had jumbled in our haste to find the wooden single trees. We’d started planning on putting up our tent when we heard the sound of a motor.

Peeking around the side of the canvas cover I spotted the front of a car.

The first thing that struck me was, “Why would anyone pull such a nice car into a rough old field?” Then, when I leaned out and spotted the red and blue lights mounted on the top, I had my answer. A Cop! There stood a tall man in a Jefferson County Sheriff’s uniform talking to Marie and Bill. We slid down deeper into the box of the wagon and let the cowardess flow, mixed of course with a little sympathy for Bill and Marie.

We couldn’t hear the conversation, but imagined the words “DAMAGES and TRESPASS” being used liberally.

Marie’s head popped up beside the wagon seat and she had a humorous look on her face. Did she know how chicken we were? What was the deal? The sound of laughter reached us and after a little coaxing we managed to transport our spineless bodies out of our hiding place.

There was a vision of a deputy standing leisurely by his car with his tan hands hooked lazily in his belt. The same belt that held his gun. He turned when he heard our cowboy boots hit the ground and WOW! I could feel my face blush. Then he smiled and said “Well hello!” Rather casually for someone who was about to arrest us. Then Bill and Marie explained that this was Lowell’s cousin Ronny.

Not only that, but his Granddad was also the owner of the Fisher Place where we had remodeled the gate earlier. Great! Instead of fixing the gate our friend Lowell had called the cops. Not just any cop but one related to the land owner. My first thought was “Shakedown in a small town” and then something in Ronny’s eyes said different.

It was “The Look”. More of an appraisal. He visited for awhile longer and explained that he was on duty, but he would be back and off he went.

Interesting! Still it took awhile for Sharon and me to figure out what the joke was. Finally, over dinner, it was revealed that they believed “The Cop” was there, not because of the gate, but because of the long legged twins that appeared out of nowhere.

We were flattered but doubtful. Never having been pursued in any way by the opposite sex.

Not long after Ronny departed, a large pickup pulled up and a big man in a cowboy hat sat behind the wheel, a tiny little woman by his side. They made no move to get out. Just surveyed the camp. We all gathered around the truck windows visiting with “The Man.” E.O. Borthwick himself and his wife Lottie.

Just a visit. Lowell had already fixed the gate. No problem, just welcome to Antelope and if we were going to be here a few days, we would be welcome for dinner.

Great! I was really getting to love Oregon.

Speaking of Lowell, it was taking him an awful long time to show up.

Then a shiny new pickup appeared where the Borthwicks had been parked an hour ago. We vaguely recognized the driver. It was Lowell Forman, but what a transformation! He was immaculate. The shredded straw hat had been replaced by a new Stetson, so clean it could hardly have been worn before. He was even tanner with all the dust gone and bore a striking resemblance to John Wayne’s son, Patrick. He was much taller though, because of the shiny new cowboy boots that replaced the crumpled Wellingtons he wore earlier. New jeans and a bright western shirt with loud stripes completed the look. He wore a great belt with a big shiny buckle that he probably won himself.

He made the Marlboro Man look like a Hollywood wimp. It screamed “I’M HERE AND CLEAN AND AVAILABLE!” It was so sweet, Sharon and I were both embarrassed and overwhelmed.

He handed Bill the freshly mended single trees. Not only were they straight as new but reinforced. The new welds ground smooth and polished so no pretty cowgirl hands would get scraped or cut. We stood and made every effort to show our gratitude but it was nearly impossible to get him to make any eye contact. He mostly directed his remarks to Bill and conversed nervously about his truck and it’s clutch. All the while kicking his boot toe into the grass, I assumed in a effort to relieve his discomfort.

He was the shiest man I had ever seen. It was painful to watch and at the same time I had the urge to grab him and kiss him. I think he would have keeled over dead. I felt bad that he had obviously gone to all that effort to make an impression and couldn’t bring his self to focus on either of us twins.

Soon the visit was over and thanks said, then he was gone. I found out later he was single for quite awhile, but eventually married a nice rancher’s daughter named Mary McNamee. Also related to the Borthwicks. He finally found someone who could visit about trucks and clutches long enough to bring him out of his shell. He even ended up as an extra in the Henry Wienhard beer commercials. The one about the lying old man and the “Henry Wienhart cows they ran up around Sarragosa!” Good for you Lowell!!

He still runs his family ranch five miles west of Antelope.

Bill and Marie smirked around the camp the rest of the evening with us pointedly asking, “WHAT???” now and then.

They would look at each other and laugh out loud and shake their head as if to say, “I think this is just the beginning, don’t you?” When the invitation to help round up cattle on the Borthwick ranch came the next day, their suspicions were confirmed. It had begun and Sharon and I would prove to be ample matches for the “Boys of Central Oregon”!

Chapter 6 Written by Sheila Metteer Round Up at Rattlesnake Butte We were a little surprised when Officer Ronny showed back up that same evening and invited us up to a cattle roundup the very next day. We readily agreed and when he offered to supply us mounts, we declined and said we would use Skipper and Shammy.

He described where the roundup would take place and we Sharon with Ronnie Metteer assured him we would meet him here bright and early. He hesitated a little because the “Taylor Place” was quite a distance up the road. He offered again to come and get us with his horse trailer and we said not to be silly.

Back in Battle Ground, Sharon and I had been combing the highways on horseback since we were eight or nine years old. No problem.

Ron said good bye and the rest of us settled in around the campfire and visited about the day’s events and I strummed a little on my guitar. We were pretty tired. Bill wanted the team to have at least one day recovery from the “Brake” fiasco, but was fine with us taking Skip and Shammy.

We said “Good night” and crawled into our sleeping bags, zipped up the tent and before Hiedi had snuggled down in the foot of my bag, I was asleep.

Marie woke us up early and we ate a hasty breakfast of sour dough pancakes and bacon and hot coffee. We had to bribe the saddle horses in with alfalfa pellets, but soon the two were saddled.

After we discussed some last minute things with Bill and Marie, we were off.

We rode out the gate, down the dirt road and back up the paved road the way we had come. It took some urging to get the geldings going. They didn’t like the idea of separating from the other horses. Especially Skipper.

He had developed a love affair with Ronnie and Sheila Sugar. He adored her. He was an Arabian, trim and long legged. Sugar was a Belgian Chunky.

Very rotund and short legged. We wished more men could take Skipper’s lead and go for us heftier girls. Then again, if Skip had been bombarded with images of Thoroughbred mares, he might not have been attracted to Sugar. Once we were out of earshot of the whinnying behind us, they both settled down and did fine.

We took a left at the fork in the road. The sign read “MADRASWILLOWDALE”. This was the way. We trotted and loped along the shoulder for a mile and a half. Ronny said to go till we saw the sign that read “TUB SPRINGS LOOP” and meet him at the next place on the left.

We had passed the TUB SPRINGS sign about a half mile before and were beginning to get a little concerned, when a mammoth rock butte loomed up on our left. This monolith was called Rattlesnake Butte. We decided to steer clear of something with that name.

We trotted on and soon the Taylor Place appeared. It consisted of some old gray corrals south west of the huge butte. They looked tiny until we got closer. They were actually quite substantial. The butte just gave them that illusion.

To the right of the corrals was a large weathered barn. It had probably once been used for hay storage, but appeared empty now. Large stacks of hay were lined up closer to the highway and some dark, bare spots were left from stacks already fed. We let ourselves in the gate and explored the area.

We must have been pretty absorbed because we didn’t hear Ronny arrive.

We had climbed to the top of a hill behind the butte when we spotted him approaching on a nice sorrel. He yelled a greeting and we kicked the horses and raced down the hill to meet him.

That’s when we found out that this was business and we could be facing some dangers. We got about a 10 minute lecture from Ronny. It appears we had just galloped over a bunch of badger holes. “You two are lucky you didn’t break your necks!” He was saying. We didn’t know. Back home the only holes we had were mole holes. He walked us back up the hill and sure enough we had just sprinted across some major holes. We didn’t even see them on the way up the hill.

We smoothed our ruffled feathers and thanked him. There were going to be plenty of new dangers to learn about on this trip. If we wanted to make it home we had better listen and learn.

We turned and headed up a canyon that sat south of the barn. The grass was green and the meadow larks were singing. It was our first real round up.

We had chased cows back home on the farm, but this was the real thing. I was wondering why we didn’t need more riders. I had imagined a lot about ranch life. We were cowgirls, but ones that grew up on a farm. There is a huge difference. Huge is a good word.

As we got part way up the canyon, Ronny led us up a hill to the right and soon we were gazing out over the most incredible sight we had seen yet.

Miles of pristine ranch land as far as we could see. Ronny smiled and we looked back at him and asked in disbelief, “Is this all yours?”.

“Yup. See that far ridge?” We nodded. “That is all Granddad’s.” We were awestruck! The ridge he was pointing at was so far off in the distance it was pale blue.

“How many acres?” We asked, not to be nosey, just trying to comprehend the immensity of this property.

“Oh...about 20,000 acres here and then another 7,000 up at the Fisher Place.”

Wow! My butt started feeling more sore by the minute. He must have noticed the pensive looks on our faces because he added, “We will round up what cows we can find here in this field.”

I strained to see a fence somewhere indicating a boundary.

“How big is this field?” I asked.

“About 800 acres.” Ron spoke very matter-of-factly.

This was fantastic. Sharon and I could hardly believe we were here.

Ronny was just great. Funny and relaxed and he gave you a sense of quiet strength. We took turns taking pictures with that gorgeous view behind us. He watched our faces.

Suddenly, Ronny confessed. “You know it really helps me to see this place through new eyes. When you work here all the time you forget just how special it is.”

I never forgot that moment. I have to this day tried not to lose sight of the special aspects of my life.

We mounted up and turned around and Ronny said, “If you two ladies don’t mind, I have to go water some wildflowers.” We stared, uncomprehendingly. Water wildflowers? On Ronny Metteer 20,000 acres? Then it dawned on us he had to go pee. We turned red and he howled with laughter. We soon found out that Ronny loved to see girls blush.

“I’ll meet you down at the bottom.” he said, gesturing with the reins as he rode off chuckling to himself.

We exchanged embarrassed eye rolls and when he was out of ear shot, chattered about how could we know what “water the wildflowers meant!” Our brothers just said they had to go pee.

We walked the horses slowly to the edge and peered over. It was pretty steep. We wandered up and down till we saw a nice little trail that cut along the canyon face. We urged Shamrock and Skipper over the edge and carefully inched our way down.

We zigzagged back and forth, trying to find the safest way and Shammy who was a seasoned hunter’s mount, never put a foot wrong. Skipper took his cue from Shamrock. Little by little, we made our way down the little trail and in about 15 minutes we were at the canyon floor.

We let the boys graze and waited for Ronny. He came riding around the canyon wall from the north.

He had a strange look on his face. When he got close enough he asked, “How did you two get down here so fast?” We looked at each other and pointed up at the little trail. He looked up in disbelief.

“You came down that?”

“Yeah...” We said in unison, wondering what the big deal was.

Ronny laughed out loud. “that,” he said, pointing to our trail, ”is a deer trail! I meant for you to ride back down the way we came and follow me down the canyon!”

“You pointed over the edge and we thought you meant for us to go over the edge.” I said, a little indignantly.

Sharon and I had been on rougher trails than that. It was however, looking back, a pretty nasty mess. Ronny just shook his head and chuckled every time he thought about us riding right over the edge and was very, very

careful from then on to give us more explicit instructions. I think he thought we were insane, to tell you the truth. I don’t think Ronny would have enjoyed trail riding with Sharon and me.

We spent a total of eight hours roaming that FIELD. After a whole day, we managed to scare up 21 Hereford cows and calves. Frankly I was disappointed.

I mentioned this to Ronny when we were done and he said “Oh no!

That was real good.” So much for Hollywood!

I noticed one of the cows had a pretty nasty wound on the side of her head. I asked Ronny about it and he explained it was caused by the seeds in the wild cheat grass. The sharp seeds would pierce the inside of the cow’s mouth and as it festered and builtup with more and more seed, it developed into a infected jowl called “Cheat Jaw”.

“I’ll tell Granddad about her and we’ll get her corralled and doctored.”

Poor thing! I thought how painful that looked, but she was fat and still chewing away on her cud.

We rode back to the camp and cleaned up. Soon Ronny was there to pick us up and take us to dinner at his Granddad’s ranch house.

Ronny seemed excited. We climbed in the truck and soon we were listening while he narrated the story of how his Granddad had come to own all this land. It seems the place was made up of many different homesteads added, one by one, until it became what we saw today. We listened intently and asked many questions.

After we drove for a few miles past the Taylor Place, Ronny pointed to the right and said, “That is where Lowell lives.”

We could see a long driveway and a home way up in the hills.

Suddenly, he signaled and turned left. We seemed to fly down a long gravel road. I had noticed the name on the sign read ‘TUB SPRINGS LOOP‘.

Ah hah! The road must loop all the way around to this side of the ranch. I felt clever. That feeling would soon be dashed.

The main ranch house was beautiful. A large stone home sitting on the edge of the loop road. I was even more impressed when we entered. It was just what you would imagine. Antique chairs peppered the home. We learned that many of them Lottie had retrieved from the old homesteads and restored them herself. Glass china cabinet’s filled with old vases and dishes that were turning lavender with age.

We were made to feel at home. Lottie declined any help and fussed around the kitchen. Most of the food was already on the table and she scurried back and forth, expressing concern that we must be tired.

We weren’t.

“We had a ball!”, we told her. She clucked in disapproval. I got the feeling she thought chasing cows was man’s work.

Eldon sat at the large kitchen table and quietly examined us. He was wonderful, but a man of few words. He visited with Ronny and you could feel the love and closeness between these men as they discussed the day’s events.

The story about the deer trail only generated a grunt. I couldn’t tell if it was one of disapproval or admiration. I started to get uncomfortable. I wanted Eldon to be pleased with our efforts.

As Lottie set the last bowls of food on the table and sat down. I blurted out, “WE FOUND A COW WITH CHEAT CHEEK!!!”

You could have cut the air with a knife.

“With WHAT?” Eldon growled.

“With Cheat Cheek?” I repeated. Ronny’s face was getting red and he was lowering it closer to his plate.

“Say that again!” Demanded Eldon.

“Cheat cheek...” I whispered, my face feeling hot.

“You mean Cheat JAW?” Eldon asked, at which point Ronny burst into laughter.

I was mortified. Eldon laughed quietly and I could have killed Ronny.

Sharon and I laughed too and I was officially entered humbly into the Borthwick clan.

We ate and talked till dark. Eldon and Ronny brought up that “poor cow with cheat cheek” every chance they got. I filed it under “My most embarrassing moments” and Sharon pretended we weren’t related. She blabbed to Bill and Marie as soon as we got back to the wagon camp. Believe me, if that was the dumbest thing I ever said, I would be a happy cowgirl.

Chapter 7 Written By Sheila Metteer The Arsenal This was the real thing. After the two weeks in Shaniko and the short stay in Antelope, we were finally on the ROAD. That meant mile eating days and camps each night where you ate by the glow of the campfire and staggered into bed almost too tired to sleep. Knowing you had to be up three seconds after you closed your eyes and start all over.

The first night of the real trip was a disaster. We made it from Antelope to a place called Cold Camp. Aptly named. It was at the top of an exhausting long hill and you stayed there simply because you couldn’t go any further.

High on the hill’s crest was an array of giant radio towers. It seems we had been the newest in a long line of Cold Campers. No trees to tie the horses to. Just a few old fence posts. I don’t think a tree could survive up there. We were forced to tie some of the horses to the wagon for the first time. Sharon and I had managed to squeeze into the tight spot behind the wagon seats. We laid on the canvas material that would later become the cover for the second wagon. We folded it over the extra harness and gear that filled this temporary birth. It would have been fine except for the wind and the constant rocking and jingling of the horses halters. A cold wind blew all night and the horses took advantage of their sleeplessness to make sure we didn’t get any sleep either.

They rubbed and scratched and rocked the wagon until I thought I would burst out of my sleeping bag and tear them all apart with my bare hands.

We were almost glad to be awakened at 4 am by Bill. It was so cold we could hardly feel our fingers to harness the teams and saddle the riding horses. Off we went, all hoping never to stay in a place like that again.

Days were cold even in June

The sun came up slowly and we all got the kinks out. Soon we were rolling along quite nicely. It felt great to be making some headway. The road was a down hill grade.

Not too bad. It widened out and soon we were on our way to the Ashwood area. It was lovely. Long stretches of gravel road. Miles between any sign of inhabitants. We had little company in the way of ranchers or vehicles of any kind.

At one point, the road flattened out and got very wide. It was a perfect place to relax and just ride. I was leading Satin as usual. Such a sweet little mare but pretty useless. She was green and basically just a spare horse. Still she was part of the family, Bill and his gun so where I went Satin was on the end of my arm. Usually I hardly noticed she was there and she helped keep Shamrock at a walk which was a welcome accomplishment. He had a favorite gate and that was a jiggly jog. It could give you a raw bottom and a side ache in twenty minutes. This was a problem as we had some days where we would travel twelve hours in the saddle.

On one nice stretch of flat road that cut through the bottom of a canyon, I was day dreaming away when my eyes settled on a piece of rope ahead in the gravel. My mind drifted to all the possible reasons it could be there. I even thought about stopping and picking it up. You could always find a use for a nice piece of rope. I decided it was too short about the time I was walking Shamrock over it. I glanced down and to my horror, it moved.

Rattlesnake! Too Late! It was awake and wiggling away when I saw Shamrock’s hind foot planted in the middle of its back. I braced for the worst. It was happening so fast. Before I knew it, Satin was walking right towards the wounded and rapidly coiling snake. I had no way to stop her.

She stepped right over the angry snake. By this time I was completely twisted around in the saddle, still far from in control of the situation. I stared wide eyed as all four of Satin’s hooves landed inches from the rattler. It didn’t strike. Relief washed over me. I wheeled Shamrock around with Satin in tow and screamed “Rattlesnake!”

Bill reacted instantly. Up came the reins and the team and wagon came to a sudden halt. “Where?” He yelled.

“Up the road. In the middle. I rode right over it and Shammy stepped on it.” I watched as Bill handed the reins to Marie and reached under his wagon seat and hurriedly climbed down. As he walked towards me, I saw something glint in the sun.

Not long into the trip we realized that Bill was a gun enthusiast. In fact he had a virtual arsenal in the wagon. Every weapon known to man. Rifles, shotguns, crossbow and handguns, all with enough ammo to wipeout every living thing from here to Fallon, Nevada. I didn’t want to see anymore. I am not a gun lover and never had been. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Bill had a blow gun with poisoned darts and a few grenades in there. Still I was stunned at the size of the weapon I started to make out in his hand as he got closer. It was a good sized 22 handgun, but it looked like a 357 magnum was hanging from the end of his very excited and shaking arm.

I glanced at Marie’s tiny body at the end of the reins of that green team and new instantly if Bill fired off that gun in this canyon, she and the wagon would be in Nevada w-a-a-a-y ahead of schedule. I heard my words before I thought about it.

“Bill…”, I said calmly, “If you shoot that gun we will never see that team and your wife again! Bill! Bill, think about it.”

He hesitated. Thank goodness I had his ear. You see, one of Bill’s goals was to be able to blast at least one living thing to Kingdom Come on this trip, man or beast. If Bill had been with General Custer we probably would have had a President Custer at some point in history. It took every fiber of his being to step away from that snake. He did it and soon found a rock and put all sixteen inches of it out of it’s misery.

When it comes to length, the small rattlesnakes are just a deadly as the big ones.

He gave me a disappointed glare and discouraged, trudged back to the wagon. Oh Well! World War III would have to wait for another day.

On we rolled.

Cold camp.

Bill trying gallantly to start a fire.

Chapter 8 Written by Sharon Lambrecht Barney the Mule What can you say about Barney. He was a special animal. This is his story.

At the start of the Wagon Trip we had one wagon. We had a team to pull that wagon. No problem.

Now there was a second wagon being built as the trip started and we had one super mule that needed a partner.

Bucky was a fantastic Jennie mule. Bill found her in The Dalles, Oregon.

She was amazing. Bucky was over 17 hands tall and built with grace and beauty. Long lovely legs and perfect conformation. She was trained to pull and we didn’t realize what a difficult quest we were starting on.

There were trips made here and there in Oregon and Washington to check out possible matches. To no avail. The animals turned out to be much less than described, which is par for horse and mule hunting. Bucky was literally a super mule. A rare animal and hard to find a pulling mate for.

Time was a wasting and the second wagon would be delivered a short way into the trip. A team mate was needed now so the two could be worked together prior to hitching them to a wagon.

Word got to us about a mule for sale while we were still in Shaniko. We borrowed Linda’s station wagon and off we went to check out a ‘Government’ mule we heard was available.

For $250.00 Bill bought a jack mule from a rancher named Don Carter.

Don owned 38,000 acres 18 miles southeast of Fossil, Oregon. It was called the Prairie Ranch. Fossil, Oregon is 46 miles south of Shaniko one way. Mr. Carter agreed to deliver him.

Before long a horse trailer pulled into Bill and Barnie our camp in town and the jack was unloaded to great expectation.

We named him Barney after our cousin Bernell. He was a nice looking mule, but when we stood him next to Bucky, he was a disappointment. He was not a super mule.

He was so average. We looked at Bill with questioning eyes. “This is the partner we are going to use for Bucky?” we all silently asked, and headed to our chores, leaving poor Bill to find a place to corral the new un-super mule.

As the days unfolded, we decided our first impression was proving to be correct. Barney was a dud. Not only was he a dud, he was a dud with major problems.

Bill playing with fire

We found out that so called Government’ mules are working animals used in situations where there isn’t much time to mess around with a touchy jack or jenny. Get them in harness or pack gear and get to work. No molly coddling.

Barney had been ‘Eared Down’ as the phrase goes. That means when the animal gave the handlers any problem with the bridle or tack, the ear was roughly grabbed and even bitten by the handler to maintain control until they were bridled.

We started working on old Barn early the next morning. Bill was a trooper. He was willing to dive in and take on any challenge. Confident in his ability to master a tough problem.

I stood back for the most part and watched Bill and Sheila work. We were willing to learn by safely watching Bill and his methods. Too many people around a fighting mule just added to the confusion.

Everything went well in harnessing Barney until Bill reached up to put his bridle on. All of a sudden Barney’s head became this unbelievable battering ram. Neck snaking in a horizontal swinging ‘S’ that ended connecting directly with Bill’s face.

We stood there stunned. Actually, so was Bill. Reeling from the blow and eyes spilling tears, he stood there for a second and then the anger came out in him.

He grabbed Barney and started to muscle that old bridle back on him. This action had a predictable outcome. The dance of the ages began!

Being female, we stepped back to watch the flying dust and gravel from a smart distance. Besides, we wouldn’t want to hurt Bill’s ego by offering help at this inopportune time.

Bill maybe weighed 200 lbs and Barney weighed 1000 lbs. Who would you have put your money on?

Barney won!

Sweating profusely, Bill decided to finish the lesson the next day. Barney didn’t seem all that upset. He quietly walked back to the corral after the Lesson and was ready for a well deserved rest.

Several sessions later, Barney still wasn’t bridled. We could harness him with no problem, but if you reached for his ears, he went nuts. It became obvious we weren’t going to get anywhere with old Barney at this time. Not to worry. The second wagon would be coming later. We had time and he could just be tethered behind the current wagon for the start of the trip. Maybe harness him as much as we could and work with him later. Bill kept his distance and Sheila and I continued to work with Barney, but with great effort managed to slowly buckle the bridle behind his ears. This was very time consuming and not a practical method for daily harnessing. We resolved to work with him until we succeeded in bridling him with ease.

Bill was very much in agreement at this point. Short of two black eyes or a bloody nose, he had enough of working with Barney.

Bill had bigger fish to fry and a young team to work with actually pulling the wagon around the town of Shaniko. They had never felt the tongue of a wagon between them. The girls had only pulled a stone boat.

Part way into our trip we discovered something about our little mule.

Sheila and I had observed Barney and from a cowgirl perspective, he was a pretty quiet animal. He didn’t give you any trouble unless you reached for his ears. Solution was, ‘stay out of them places.’

We decided to become ‘friends’ with Barney female style. We started to work with him on the sly. Lots of pets and soft words when things got slow around our camps.

One day around a camp we called ’Cottonwood’ Marie had made too much batter and there was a pile of extra pancakes. Barney at this time would hang closer and closer to us in the camp.

He didn’t give you any trouble unless you reached for his ears. Solution was, ‘stay out of them places.’

We decided to become ‘friends’ with Barney female style. We started to work with him on the sly. Lots of pets and soft words when things got slow around our camps.

One day around a camp we called ’Cottonwood’ Marie had made too much batter and there was a pile of extra pancakes. Barney at this time would hang closer and closer to us in the camp.

One of us girls, as a joke, walked up to Barney and offered him a leftover pancake. To our surprise, he took it and ate the thing like candy. We fed him a couple more and all got a good laugh at the comical site of a pancake eating mule.

We had innocently found his weakness. A few sessions of pets and pancakes later, Sheila and I quietly slipped the bridle over Barney’s ears.

“Look Bill!” Bill was very surprised to look across the camp and see his nemesis standing in full harness with a proud cowgirl standing on either side of his head.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Bill stated, tipping his hat back on his head.

Looked like we were ready for phase two of our Barney experience.

Marie giving advise to Sheila and Bill

Chapter 9 Written by Sharon Lambrecht The Six ‘S’ Hitch In the first part of our travels, we hit some pretty nasty hills. We tried to use the locals as a resource for how bad the hills were on the road ahead. The mis-information was rampant. We were starting to think that we were getting jerked around when it dawned on us they didn’t get it. The problem with this was that the people we asked were looking at the roadways from the perspective of auto travel. They were mostly in 4x4 pick-ups. They also had driven it hundreds of times and would screw up their faces and try to think of what the road was truly like.

They hadn’t really looked at the darned thing for years.

The road reports were usually, “Oh it is pretty good. Just a few mild rises but nothing much.

Rest Stop Pretty flat if I remember right.” Yeah right!

Sheila and I had a firm rule to not travel ahead to check out the road. We wanted each day to dawn as an adventure. The unknown. Every day unfolding that way was exciting to us. Bill and Marie would try this also. Sometimes they would ride out in an evening to scout ahead or maybe it was to have time together away from the commotion of camp life. More often than not, I think they were just too tired at the end of a day of horseback riding and wagon driving to want to get back in the saddle.

The team of Sugar and Spice were hard working and honest animals.

They would dig in and pull their hearts out for you.

Bill’s wagon was a beast as far as weight goes. It was no problem on regular roads, because being made from a truck chassis it had very free wheeling movement in the axles and the rubber tires made for a smooth ride.

One of the problems was Bill’s choice of items he had to have in the canopy of the wagon. The canopy itself added extra weight and was something we envied Bill and Marie on freezing cold nights. They were snug as bugs in a rug.

What we thought added weight was the coffee cans of coins and all Bill’s weapons. Now it was Bill’s wagon and he could and did haul what he pleased.

It was just hard as hell on the horses if we got to a real steep spot in the road.

The horses would scramble and claw their way up those stretches and we would have to stop and “let them blow” for awhile. That was “catching their breath” in layman’s terms. Bill would yell “HO!” and they would gladly stop for a rest. This would be after maybe 50 to 100 feet. Very hard going! Then off they would go again when Bill saw they were breathing more normal. Plunging into the collars those dear ladies would struggle on.

Bill must have grappled with this dilemma for hours in the seat of his wagon. He loved his animals. He would never put them through unnecessary suffering. While he was mentally working on this problem he came up with the brilliant idea of the Six ’S’ Hitch.

This was implemented at the foot of the next bad rise.

Bill would hook two long ropes to the end of the tongue and hand them to Sheila and I on Skipper and Shamrock.

We only had the one wagon at this point of the trip, so we were both available on horseback. We would dally the ropes around the horns on our saddles and after a few false starts and jerks, Skip and Shammy would finally get the message and start to help pull that wagon uphill.

It worked great. Just the added horse power we needed to help the two mares. We got real good at it and Bill could judge from the grade of hill if we would be needed or not.

This was the creation of the Six ’S’ Hitch.

Chapter 10 Written by Sharon Lambrecht The Escapees We were camped at Laundry Camp. We had spent our time catching up on chores and letting the horses and mules have a rest. Not to mention the humans in the group. It felt good to take our time and get up in the morning knowing we wouldn’t be moving that day.

We were expecting John Butler, Bucky tied out to graze the young farrier Bill had found to follow us on the trip and shoe the stock when needed.

Travel like ours was hard on horses hooves. The gravel road would act like a giant nail file and the paved roads were worse. This is why Bill plotted the trip on as few paved roads as possible. Still there was a lot of wear and tear.

The large team had shoes that were specially made, tipped with an extra hard metal called Borium. These cleats at the heel and toe of the shoes were worn down almost smooth already and could be a real traction problem for the big team with the heavy wagon.

We were waiting for John to arrive at the camp. Bill had set up a tentative appointment with him. This was difficult because we never knew for sure how much time we would be making each day. Some good days had caused us to pull in early to our meeting place. We didn’t mind waiting for John.

We all needed a break and besides, he was really cute and fun.

The animals were being extra good at sticking around the camp to graze and Bill decided to just let them all loose to graze freely. This turned out to be a huge mistake. Little did we know their recovery from the travel and wagon pulling took less time than we figured and they were full of unnoticed energy.

They sedately wandered off, eating contentedly on the high protein grasses of the area. We kept an eye on them, but weren’t worried. They had become accustomed to camp routine and were easy to catch.

Bucky was kept tied up on a long rope in camp. She was the hardest one of the group to catch. Not trustworthy to graze free. She didn’t make too much of a fuss. Just got tangled up occasionally on some sage.

That day, true to form, she was wound around a bush with her head lowered clear to the ground. Sweet Marie decided to take pity on her and walked over to get her undone. She tugged and pulled but the rope was terribly tight. Marie walked back to the wagon to get a pair of leather gloves. We watched with curiosity as she marched back to Bucky pulling her gloves on.

She talked soothingly to the mule as she grabbed the rope for another try.

We could hear Marie start to grumble and curse the situation. She was the weakest member of our troupe, but also the gamest. Remember, this trip was Marie’s idea.

She tugged and pulled every which way and Bucky just stood there patiently waiting for her freedom. Bucky would blink and flinch once in awhile at all the activities around her head. She didn’t have much choice.

Marie hadn’t stooped so low to ask for help yet. We could feel the tension building in her though. She was getting really frustrated. Finally the moment had come. She stood on the rope near the root of the bush and gave a mighty kick with her cowboy boot.

This gesture was too much for Bucky. She thought the kick was aimed at her and she heaved back on her haunches and pulled upwards with all her formidable mule strength. The results were predictable. The sage plant gave way, unfortunately Marie was still standing on the rope. Suddenly the rope became like a giant slingshot and there went Marie, flying through the air.

She landed flat on her back an amazing distance away. Bucky trotted off a safe way from the ruckus, shaking her head.

In stunned silence we watched Marie’s body for any sign of life. Then everyone started heading for her at a trot. Bill got there first and was very concerned, checking her over for broken bones. As the breath returned to her body and Marie could feel the only thing injured was her pride, she started to laugh. We all did. What a sight. She would feel it later, but thank goodness for her sense of humor.

Later that day, towards dusk, it was time for us to go catch the stock.

Bill, Sheila and I grabbed lead ropes and trudged off in the general direction of the meadow in which they were grazing. Marie stayed behind to start our dinner.

The horses were not too far down the gravel road.

It had been raining before we arrived which made the grass smell wonderfully fresh. What a good day.

As we approached the horses, they lifted their heads and looked at us with inquiring eyes. “So soon?” they seemed to say.

At that moment the The Escapees making their plans code word was passed around and they all turned away from the approaching innocent humans. We were oblivious of the plot.

As we stepped up our pace, so did they. Usually, when they had full bellies they were good to just stand there and let us walk right up to them.

As our body language became rigid with panic, they all started trotting and as we trotted after them, they started to canter. Up went the tails, and “whee!”- off they went. Like a herd of Peppy La Pews.

Bill was furious. This was his normal reaction when one of his ideas went haywire. How could he have known about the plot?

We watched in horror as they headed up hill into the timber. We followed, losing ground with every step.

I couldn’t believe how out of shape I was becoming. How could this be? We had only been resting for a couple days. I started to drag slower and slower. Finally, I looked at my boots. What the heck! I had gray basketball size wads of mud on the bottom of both my cowboy boots. It weighed a ton.

I tried to kick it off, to no avail.

“Bill! What in the world is this junk sticking to my boots?”

“Gumbo!” He said, trying to drag his boots clean on a fallen tree branch. Sheila was doing the same.

Sheila, Bill and I trudged and scraped and trudged and scraped. I was imagining 15 hand tall butchered carcasses hanging from big stainless steel meat hooks in a slaughter house. It helped.

We eventually caught up with the sons a guns at a very high point in the woods.

They decided to have mercy on our fuming souls and we started grabbing halters and clipping on leads.

It was good and dark when we walked up the road into camp. Marie heard the clip clopping of the horses long before she could see us in the moonlight.

We, on the other hand, were silently approaching on gummy, goopy boots. “What in the world took you so long?� she asked. The silence was answer enough. We heard her low chuckle as she walked back to the fire and our over done dinner.

I think she enjoyed getting a little of her own back, after her Circus Act with Bucky that afternoon.

Needless to say, that was the last Free Grazing Day any of the animals of our wagon stock had the rest of the trip, except for a few carefully scouted out areas.

Chapter 11 Written by Sharon Lambrecht Shale Mountain We traveled through some beautiful country on this trip. Saw most of it from horse back and the seat of the wagons.

Saw some chasing runaway horses.

At the Ashwood Camp, Sheila and I decided to take a break from camp life and go for a hike. Bill and Marie appreciated having time to themselves, I Shale Mountain am sure and waved us off.

The country was great, if a little hilly. No problem. We were young and strong and enjoyed a challenge. We wandered through Pine trees and gullies. Not planning to go too far from our camp. The last thing we needed was to get lost. We had enough problems on this trip to deal with, let alone having to call out the local Sheriff’s Posse to search for us. We would never live something like that down.

Sheila spotted a huge shale cone shaped mountain. Maybe it was a hill, but when you are standing at the bottom of something like this, it looked like a mountain.

“Hey, want to hike to the top?” she asked. “Why not. Let’s go, but don’t think I am racing you!” I told her. Everything was a race with her. She was so competitive.

We took our first tentative steps onto the shale. What strange stuff. Like a pile of slippery rock splinters. Take two steps forward and slide one step back. This was going to be harder than we thought.

We just kept slipping and sliding up that mountain. What seemed like an eternity later, we crested the top and was it ever worth it.

The view was spectacular. Traveling by road, we were down in valley’s and at the bottoms of all the hills we passed. From here we could look out for miles and Oregon was fantastic country. We found half way comfortable places to sit and started to talk. We talked about the trip and how things were going for each of us. We talked about the boys we had met along the way.

The boys we were hoping to meet the rest of the trip.

Bill’s funny reaction to the young men we were encountering. He obviously had certain standards for who he wanted hanging around us. They were all nice to us. We weren’t looking to get married, but Bill was acting so much like a father and that was surprising. We would try to not worry him too much. Not! We were also amazed at how much we missed our family members.

You take your loved ones for granted sometimes and this trip was a real eye opener for us. We had two nieces and a nephew named, Sandy, Kathy and Frank, that we missed more than anyone else. They were darling kids and on our minds often. We sent many postcards to let them know we were thinking about them.

We looked around and realized there was a pink glow starting. It was getting late, but we just had to watch the sunset from this awesome place. We sat in silence and drank in God’s Country. He painted a very spectacular sunset for us that night. We saw it so much better from this vantage point.

As the last sliver of sun disappeared, we decided to hustle down the hillside before it was pitch black out. Aiming downhill, we started to slide and slip. It was actually fun and we laughed as we shot down the slope. It felt like we were on skis.

When we got to the bottom, we were catching our breath for a moment. Then striking off in the direction of the camp, we started to both feel strange in our walk.

“What in the world is wrong with my boots!” I said. Lifting a leg and wagging my foot around. There was the leather sole of my cowboy boot flapping in the breeze like the tongue of a worn out hound dog.

“Oh NO!” Sheila said, finding the same thing wrong with her boots. What had we done? It must have been the shale. It worked like razor blades on our boot soles and ate them right down to the threads, then ate them, too.

We had to laugh. Brother! What next on this trip. Fortunately, our brother-in-law’s Dad had a boot repair shop in his garage. Alphonse Fox, here we come. We just had to get them there and back. We flip-flopped back to the camp. Bill and Marie just looked at us, “Oh the foibles of youth.” they seemed to say. Thank goodness we had an extra pair of boots each.

We had talked of taking a camera back up to the top of that Shale Mountain. That was before we lost our boots. I guess our memories will have to do.

Chapter 12 Written by Sharon Lambrecht The Importance of Matched Teams At the start of the trip, Bill was the expert in the driving department. He was the one who found Sugar and Spice. They were a pair of mares, a cross of draft breeds that was called Belgian Chunkies. Sugar and Spice were also half sisters.

Strong, but not too tall. No need for a special horse trailer to haul monster draft horses. And harnessing was much easier considering a single harness weighed 100 pounds. Try throwing that much leather over a 17 hand tall animal.

They were both quiet in disposition. Even as young as they were, they were pretty darned calm when we watched Bill work with them. They went through the transition from stone boat to the wagon with the tongue in a fairly accepting way. Thank goodness for that. The first feel of anything new with a horse can be explosive.

Once, at a parade we were entered in, I watched a seasoned buggy horse become spooked and before she was through, she had totally destroyed the buggy she was hitched to. It was a tangled mess of splintered wood and bent metal. A miracle that the mare wasn’t seriously injured or killed, let alone the driver.

As we progressed on the trip, we discovered that dear old Sugar and Spice were not a true matched pair. They looked just alike and they were related after all. How could they not be matched.

It was their gaits. As you drove them and watched them hour after hour, you could see their strides were totally different. Sugar had a short strided walk and Spice’s step was much longer. Sugar had a beautiful little ‘baby trot’ while Spice’s was long and lanky. At a gallop they were both pretty matched.

Here is how it goes. You would start out by clucking to them, asking them to walk or ‘get up’. Off you would roll, all seemed well. A while up Bill and Marie in Loco the road, Sugar would get tired of straining her short walk to keep up with Spice. She would skip into that great baby trot. Spice would step up her walk, but would soon become tired of her strained walk. Sugar was getting to trot so how come she couldn’t trot, too. There Spice would go, jerking into her lanky galumphing trot. Now that was too hard for Sug.

It was a gradual race of faster and faster gaits, until you were pulling on the reins to get them slowed back down to a walk.

You are not suppose to gallop a team while pulling a wagon. A trot can be used as a gait that can eat up the miles and a horse can endure it for quite awhile. Unless horses are very well conditioned, they don’t last long at a gallop.

We never galloped the team, they were to be kept at a walk. Even a trot was unnecessary. We weren’t in that big of a hurry. Their legs didn’t need the pounding on the hard gravel roads. If you think a walk is slow, try having a lame horse and not moving at all.

Our other so called matched team was Barney and Bucky, the mules.

This wasn’t Bill’s fault. Bucky was just impossible to find a match for.

Later on into the trip Bill decided to do some unusual switching around with the teams. He matched Bucky up with Sugar. Both seemed to have shorter gaits. Bucky was such a monster puller and a little hyper, so she was much better suited hitched to the heavier wagon. Sugar was so steady, she calmed Bucky down.

Bill teamed up Spice and Barney for me. Spice was such an honest puller and Barney was a cheat. You had to watch the little bugger like a hawk.

He would actually fake pulling. Both animals would be pulling up a hill and I would watch rippling muscles on their haunches. When I would lean way over the front of the wagon to see the double tree, I would see Spice’s single tree was way out and Barney’s was far back, almost under the wagon. He would get popped for that one. Up he would go into the traces and start some honest work. Spice could pull the wagon alone on the flat, but when we hit a hill, Barney was going to help or I would know the reason why.

We worked out the quirks of the teams. It just took some experimenting. It doesn’t matter what color or what breed, sometimes the oddest combinations, make the best teams. Just like people.

Spice and Barney

Bucky and Sugar

Chapter13 Written By Sheila Metteer Water The road is a windy and dusty place. One aspect of the trip that poor Bill didn’t bargain for was Sharon and my inflexible desire to bathe every day. Sounds reasonable until you understand the term “High Desert.”

It is just that - a desert - no water, no ponds, no pools, no creeks, no streams, lakes - nothing. Couple that with eight thirsty horses and Bill had his hands full solving the camp’s water needs.

Water soon became a major factor in where and when we stopped.

I know this frustrated Bill - not watering the horses, that was a given, but watching gallons of water going to waste to rinse, shampoo, and cool off three females was another thing. Bathing became our recreation. Our reward for a long hot day and hard work well Marie doing laundry done. Get the camp chores out of the way and charge for the H2o. Marie was clean and tidy, very sanitary around the cook fire. We never once had a problem with illness.

On the other hand, Bill was a man, and like most men under certain circumstances, bathing became optional, even if his manliness was bringing tears to the eyes of his three female companions. Then again, on the rare occasion when water was in plentiful supply, Bill enjoyed a thorough scrubbing the same as the rest of us.

Another thing we weren’t prepared for was laundry. Now Sharon and I had done our share of camping and backpacking. Still, that in no way prepared us for this excursion. Along with washing dishes, we were expected to do all the laundry. Soon Marie had us introduced to a bar of Fels Naptha soap, a five gallon bucket and an odd looking contraption called “the plunger”. It slightly resembled a toilet plunger but was metal with odd arching vents. They were tube shaped and surrounded the cone shaped base. It had a wooden handle about 3 ½ ft high and the idea was to plunge it up and down in a bucket full of water and soiled clothes after applying the bar soap liberally to spots and stains and ‘viola!’Automatic washers look out! Not really. It was a time consuming and vigorous job, and sometimes a necessary one even when water was scarce.

At one camp in Ashwood we left our buckets under a veritable trickle of water from a culvert and after what seemed like an eternity we were able to do the laundry.

Drying the laundry was another challenge. After all that work you had to be very cautious where it ended up or Barney or Skipper would help get it ready for the next laundry day. Sometimes we had a clothes line strung safely out of the way. Other times we had to Sheila with plunger and buckets use bushes, wagon wheels, anything that could support a wet item. The drying laundry was checked frequently and gathered as they dried, before the wind could send them back to the dirt.

All in all, it was an amazingly satisfactory method and most of the trip we were neat and clean.

One surprising source of water turned out to be the large canvas tarp that hung over the right side of the wagon, and offered shelter from the sun and rain. It also Laundry day at Ashwood Camp became a reservoir during downpours.

Our first cloud burst happened in June at the Dollarhide Pond. Even though we had the entire pond, we couldn’t resist the possibility of somehow acquiring the water that had filled the tarp.

It was sagging low and threatening to pull the stakes right out of the ground. As someone moved to lift up the center and dump the water I yelled, “Wait! Lets catch it in buckets and we will use it to wash our hair.”

We scrambled around for a couple of empty buckets and Sharon (ever the sucker) positioned herself at the edge of the tarp to catch the water. I carefully pushed up on the sagging tarp with Marie’s broom. A slow controlled trickle of water started to fill the bucket. As soon as I was sure Sharon was completely off guard, I gave a mighty heave and twenty gallons of cold fresh rain water hit her full force in the chest. I can still see the shock on her face through the cascading downpour. I was running before the broom hit the dirt.

Bill and Marie’s hysterics were fading in the distance. I knew Sharon, even soaking wet, would soon catch me. I can’t run for beans when I’m laughing.

The sound of Sharon’s boot steps were closing fast. I made the fatal error of trying to out run her up a steep bank. Every three steps I climbed, I slid back two.

My escape was ended when I felt the frigid splash of rain water hitting me square in the behind.

Satisfied, Sharon returned the empty bucket and wet and all, we headed for town.

Chapter 14 Written by Sharon Lambrecht Sage Brush is Our Friend I don’t know what it is about Sage Brush, but to this day I love it.

At the start of the Covered Wagon Trip we had little experience with it. It was just that green/gray stuff you could see for miles out there in the desert places. We hadn’t traveled much at this point in our lives.

As you would look out over the Central Oregon hills you could see this endless expanse of open country. For us, growing up in the blackberry choked woods of Southwest Washington, it looked like heaven. You could ride for miles and miles and never run into a fence or barrier of any kind. If we wanted that kind of riding, we would have to haul our horses up into the mountains or head for the beach. Or ride on the road. Not the safest place for a horse and rider.

At the start of the trip, I would aim my horse out into the strip at the roadside and grab a sprig of sage. I felt like a cat with catnip, filling my lungs with the scent. Then I would tuck that sage somewhere on my saddle and as the day wore on, I would pick it up and bring it back to my nose. One big old inhale later, I would feel all was well with the world.

Years later, I can still con my husband into pulling over so I can stumble over a ditch and grab a branch, filling the vehicle with that smell. I would be transported back to the covered wagon days. It had become the scent of my youth.

We discovered on the trip how practical a plant it was. To some it may be just a nuisance taking over their landscaping. To others it may be just fire load in a wild fire.

If the plant was large enough, it was great for tying the horses to when trees were scarce.

It worked as an integral part of the Marie Cripe Catapult System.

(See Chapter 10 “The Escapees.”)

It was also a super place to dry your freshly washed clothes, so long as you kept it far enough away from marauding horses. By the way, we never got one tick on that trip. Maybe we were just lucky. Yuck!

It could supply ample shade for dog or man if you hunkered down low enough. The horses were out of luck.

Sage was good in a pinch for fire wood and an added benefit was the smoke from a sage fire seemed to discourage mosquitoes. Plus it was all over the darned place.

Now the most precious use for sage brush I found was the blessed privacy it afforded discreet females. What do you do with a man in camp. You disappear into the sage. Bill was always a gentleman. He was just lucky enough to be plumbed different.

You always wanted to make lots of noise when you walked out for privacy. Rattlesnakes just might be around, though I never saw one the whole trip in the sage brush. We were told if we ever heard one rattle, just freeze and wait. Before you could cast your eyes around the area you were standing in, it could be gone. It also lessened your chance of turning around and stepping into a second snake. Thank goodness!

I remember one of Marie’s funny stories she told after days and days of using our Sage Brush restroom. We had all gotten to take turns going into Mitchell, Oregon to get a real shower. Marie had used the facilities and she said after she stood up, she glanced around automatically looking for a rock to put over her toilet paper. How barbaric we had become.

I can now understand why Western artists use the beautiful gray green color of sage in their masterpieces. I can be drawn into the scene, drifting into the serenity and closing my eyes, I smell Sage. Sage is truly my friend.

Chapter 15 Written by Sheila Metteer The John Day River Day by day and camp by camp, we march on through Central Oregon.

When something became easy and routine, something else would pop up to take it’s place. So the new challenges kept confronting us each day.

There were some tough days behind us. We had reached an area past the HORSE HEAVEN MINES where the road was posted with “Private Property” signs. Gone was our freedom to camp at will. Now we had the task of finding camping spots where we wouldn’t be trespassing. It made for some extra long days. You can’t drop two wagons, four people, three dogs and eight horses and mules on a curve in the road. We needed space.

One day we had to travel 16 miles before we finally found a decent place to camp. We had our doubts about making it that far in one day. We did it! That was nice to have under our belts.

We passed ranches called “Cherry Creek” and “The Muddy”. Some of these ranches were so huge they made Eldon Borthwick’s “JC Connected” look like a lot.

We were getting closer to the John Day River and met a rancher named Warren Reynolds. We had passed his son Jim’s place back a ways and had camped down a long gravel road close to a state campground. We were beat and ready for a rest. We had some tough days behind us where we not only moved a long way but had to inch our way up some bad hills using the “Six ‘S’ Hitch” to make it.

Byrd’s Point and the John Day River

Bill agreed to come back the next day and help Jim cut up some “BEEF” he had hanging. It was small, brown and had antlers.

When he came to pick Bill up the next day, he brought us a bunch of fresh meat. This was great because we would be staying several days to rest the team.

We had to make it up a huge hill in order to get out of this little river valley and this one was bad. Everyone actually warned us about it instead of minimizing it like The Rafters they usually did.

There were no“OH...IT’S PRETTY FLAT AHEAD” coming out of the mouths of people living along the John Day River. This hill we were facing even had a name. ‘DECEPTION HILL’!!

We would soon get the history of it from a surprising source.

Our third day on the river, we were invited back to the Reynolds Ranch.

We had a nice meal and in the middle of it, someone spotted a strange pickup driving slowly toward the house. We were shocked to see the Borthwicks clear down here from Antelope. They came all the way “JUST TO CHECK ON US”.

Once again we were bowled over by these wonderful people. They had been up at the camp first and Lottie had left us a bunch of fresh baked goodies.

She clucked her disapproval at Sharon and my beds on the ground. It just bothered her a lot to think of us girls sleeping like that. So sweet.

Still we explained that until Ralph got the second wagon done, we had no choice. I think if she would have had a gun, we would have been escorted back to Antelope by a sweet little lady at the other end of it.

Sitting between Eldon and Lottie was a pretty woman, with red hair like Lottie’s, this was their daughter, Barbara. We said our introductions and Bill and Marie went back to the house. Sharon and I stood and visited with the them.

Barbara was a rancher from Madras, Oregon.

This was Ronny’s mother. We squirmed a tiny bit. Lottie wanted her to meet us. We thought it was a little extreme to drive all that way to introduce your daughter to a couple of young girls.

We weren’t surprised either, having seen the extent people would go to in this country to be hospitable.

Lottie and Eldon made no move to get out of the truck, so we leaned against it and listened while Lottie explained how she grew up in this very valley.

Her father’s name was Stephens and had owned a ranch almost on the spot where we were camped. It was known as the “BURNT RANCH”, having been burned down by Chief Paulina’s renegades back in 1866. Lottie’s father bought it and planted an orchard and started a store and stage stop. A very smart man.

The teamsters, who drove the freight wagons between Shaniko, Oregon and the end of the rail line in Mitchel, Oregon, all stopped there to rest their teams before going up “DECEPTION HILL.” Mitchell was the hub for all the distribution of supplies to South Central Oregon.

Anyone else getting worried? We were! As a girl, Lottie remembered weaving in and out of campfires and huddled teamsters and wagons, fetching things for her folks from the root cellars and out buildings. We were fascinated and wished we had more time to visit with the Borthwicks, but needed to get back to the house. We said our farewells and promised to come see them (which we did). Waving, we watched them drive off.

By the time we got back to the wagon, the sky was starting to look ugly. We scrambled around with Bill and Marie, feeding stock and getting things battened down, just in case it poured. This was a stressful thought, because it could mean a major delay if Burrr the roads got too wet. They could be so slick, we couldn’t make it up “THE HILL”. True to form it started to pour.

Sharon and I were sleeping on the ground under the tarp slung off the south side of the wagon. This was fine, until the wind kicked up and started to blow the rain under the tarp and onto us.

I had an idea and Sharon, always cooperative, decided not to help.

Still, with grit and determination, I pulled my jeans and boots on and tackled my brilliant plan.

I would unhook the tarp and drop it to the ground, making a sort of one sided tent.

I told Sharon, “Make sure no rain water gets in on the sleeping bags!”

She was in her panties and snuggled in her sleeping bag, using a flash light, she was writing a letter to Mom and Dad. She grunted in agreement and I went to work. I had to untie ropes and take down support poles, move piles of stuff and then move it all back, making sure nothing would get wet. Sharon looked up during all of this and checked the head of my sleeping bag a few times and I finished securing the bottom end of the tarp.

Bill and Marie never stirred. By now they were pretty used to their noisy neighbors and let us squabble away until we were settled.

When I finished, I was pretty well soaked to the bone and freezing. I dove under just in time to see Sharon frantically blotting my water soaked sleeping bag with a flannel nightgown.

I could have killed her! I should have made her switch bags with me.

Instead, I let her squirm with apologies and offer to let me sleep with Heidi at my feet. She folded another flannel nightgown up and laid it over the wet spot and I climbed into my damp bed.

The modified tarp-tent was a dismal failure. In the middle of the night we woke to dripping water.

Sharon turned the flashlight on and my pillow had a quarter cup of water on it. She was also getting dripped on. I looked at her and with out a word, turned my pillow over and pulled my sleeping bag up over my head. I wished I was back home in my own bed. We fell asleep worrying about “DECEPTION HILL”.

In the morning, we woke up stiff and cold to the sound of Marie clanking cast iron pots. I looked at Sharon and she started to howl with laughter. To add insult to injury a bloody mosquito had nailed me in the eyelid and one of my eyes was swollen completely shut! Man! Don’t you just wish you could have been there?

Chapter 16 Written by Sheila Metteer Deception Hill It was time to head for Mitchell, Oregon. We would have been more than ready except for “THE HILL”. There was no getting around it. There was only one way we could go unless we could build a raft and float up the John Day river. We tried not to drag our feet getting ready. We had, what we hoped, Happy cowgirls resting in the shade wasn’t our last breakfast and Sharon and I headed out to our sage brush lavatory.

We split up and when I finished I realized Sharon wasn’t coming. So I sneaked around behind her and when I was sure she hadn’t heard me, I let out a mighty war hoop. The effect was more than satisfactory. She FINISHED her activity quite rapidly. Chief Paulina would have been proud of me. Sharon, however, wanted to kill me. It didn’t help that I cackled all the way back to the wagon.

We didn’t realize at the time how appropriate this event had been. Years later, after doing more research about the area, I stumbled across a story about the first settlers here.

A man named Jim Clark built a cabin around 1860, practically on the very spot we were camped. Across the river was a huge rock called “Byrds Point.” It stood almost 3000 feet high. At the base of it stood some trees and Clark and his brother-in-law were cutting fire wood when he noticed smoke.

Unarmed, the two men scrambled onto their draft horses and headed back across the river. In the confusion, the Indians that were looting and burning down his cabin, scattered. Unfortunately, Clarks weapons were with the Indians. His wife and sister were away so he and his eighteen year old brotherin-law charged up river in the opposite direction of their burning cabin. They barely escaped with their lives.

That is how the “Burnt Ranch” came to have it’s name and why the onslaught in the sage brush was so tailor-made.

Harnessed, packed and saddled, we headed out of the river camp. The team was barely warmed up when we hit the hill. It wasn’t just steep, it was long. A good half mile it seemed to me. We had to chain up to the wagon right away and stop every thirty or fourty feet to let the team blow. It was the worst hill on the whole trip and I began to sympathize with the Old-timers right away.

Bill was so very careful not to stress the team and if it took all day to make it up the hill, that would have been his choice rather than injure one of the animals.

Sharon and I pulled our hearts out on the saddle horses. The ropes we had dallyed around our saddle horns rubbed raw spots where they cut across our thighs. We chipped away at Deception Hill all morning.

It really was deceiving and anyone without prior warning could find themselves in a heap of trouble. You wouldn’t want to find yourselves stuck on that thing with a lame horse, or worse, failed brakes. We didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about having hydraulic brakes on that day.

If we hadn’t been so shaken when we reached the top, we would have danced for joy. We had ridden to Mitchell with the Reynolds, so we knew the road was good the rest of the way. The only bad part was that this would be the longest stretch of pavement we would have to travel on during the whole trip.

We had been spoiled by the quiet secondary roads we had traveled so far.

As long as it was relatively flat, I just didn’t care. After making it up that hill I doubted whether the horses were going to be bothered by a few speeding cars.

I let Shammy trot on ahead and did my best to appreciate the view of the river. It really was beautiful from up here. We started to grasp the size of the hill when we began looking down, w-a-a-y DOWN on the John Day river below.

The road seemed very familiar now except for the steep drop off on our left. I wasn’t concerned about it until I glimpsed a slight movement on my right.

A deer! Before I knew what happened Shamrock spooked. I had been on a spooking horse thousands of times but his next reaction caught me completely off guard. Bill had warned me to watch out for Shammy because he was a hunter’s mount.

Until now the significance of this statement hadn’t registered. The deer rolled back on it’s haunches and whirled left. As it bolted across the road, I gripped with my legs and prepared for Shammy’s sideways lunge.

Instead, that goofy horse darted right after the stupid deer. This wouldn’t have been too bad if the deer hadn’t gone over the left hand side of the road and dropped out of sight to God only knows where.

All I knew wasShammy and I were going after him. I started my hands scrambling up the reins. I think those reins had grown about ten feet in the last two seconds. I just kept grabbing leather and by the time I had enough force to get control of that idiot horse, we had skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. When it cleared, I was staring through Shammy’s ears straight down a 1000 ft shear drop off. At least, Loco rolling through beautiful country that is what it looked like to me.

Shammy’s ears were still pricked so far forward, they were almost touching. He was quivering with excitement. I realized, if he could talk, he would have been yelling, “SHOOT...SHOOT!!!” Stupid horse.

I glanced back down the road to see if anyone had seen what had just happened and everyone was still out of sight. I was halfway glad. Still, I was sure that no one was going to believe what just about befell me. (Pun intended).

I nervously scanned for deer the rest of the trip.

We made our way up the gravel road and on to the highway. If it hadn’t been for the dummies speeding by in cars and honking, it would have been a nice stretch. Bill hurried the dangerously slow ones on with his usual reply to the inevitable question. “Where ya headin?” with, “Fallon, Nevada!”

I just wanted to get to “Mitchell, Oregon!”

We finally made it. There was a pretty good crowd because of the Reynolds family spreading the news of our arrival. I hoped to stay in town somewhere. Instead, we were directed southeast of town to a place called “The Dollarhide Pond”. Oh well, at least the “Pond” part sounded promising.

As it happend, our stay at The Dollarhide Pond turned out to be one of the most eventful times of the summer. It became a name that encompassed everything Sharon and I hoped for on the whole trip. Fun! And thanks to Skipper, we would end up there for sixteen days. But that is another chapter.

Chapter 17 Written by Sharon Lambrecht The Dollarhide Pond Little did we know, when we hit the pavement before Mitchell, Oregon, we would be heading for a longer than usual stay.

We had traveled through the Painted Hills and the John Day area, both beautiful stretches of country.

The short stretch into Mitchell would be on paved road. We clipped clopped into the town with great anticipation. It was not really a disappointment.

It was just very small. The main street paralleled the highway and there were a smattering of buildings, some businesses appeared to be going concerns, but others were obviously abandoned.

There was a store and a post office, also a café called the Little Pine Restaurant. If I remember right, there was a hotel or boarding house set up. I am sure there was a couple of taverns, but we weren’t drinkers and I can’t recall their names. Your usual Ma and Pa service station/repair shop with a tow truck parked at the side. We had no need for any service there. The hillside above the town had homes scattered over it. We were only up there once with Sharon Reynolds, the young wife we had met on the John Day. I remember her remarking about, “This eastside of town is where all the pious people live, the rest of us live to the west. Since we didn’t mingle too much with the towns folk, I couldn’t explain that one.

We pulled up in front of the store and inquired about where we could possibly camp for the night. You would get these foggy looks. It must have been hard for some people to comprehend why in the world people would want to travel and live like this. They must have thought we were odd.

The Dollarhide Pond

Once the fog wore off some, they would start to take in our questions, and good old Oregon hospitality would take over. There were offers of rides in automobiles and directions here and there. Advice about the best places to stay and we even had an offer of a real shower in the hotel.

Marie usually charged for the nearest store and raided the fresh produce. There were times when we could’ve killed for a fresh salad on that trip. She was limited to coolers for her refrigeration, but she did good. She could make things last by not opening up the coolers any more than necessary and keeping them in shade. Also, block ice lasted a lot longer than cubed.

We made our contacts and got directions to a place called the Dollarhide Pond. East out of town and a right on a gravel road heading south.

Off we went, banging and clanging, our clattering commotion echoing off the steep rocky hillside on the north side of the highway. It was a relief to turn off the pavement and onto the safety of the gravel road. Let me tell you, when you live out in these rural areas and have to travel fifty miles to the nearest town of any size, you put the pedal to the metal. We became very nervous on the main highway. Fortunately, Bill had plotted the course of the trip to avoid these fast thoroughfares.

Wow! We were very happy when we pulled into the large gravel parking lot of the pond. It was enormous and there was his and her outhouses.

A luxury to us. The place was surrounded with large shade trees and the pond was wonderful. Probably a quarter of an acre of water with the gravel road continuing up the east side of the pond.

There was a well worn path that ran all the way around the pond and it was fed by a small creek on the south side. On the north end of the pond there was a wooden bridge placed over the outgoing creek. Many grassy areas for horses to graze on.

Bill swung the wagon around to head into the setting sun and we started setting up camp. This would be a great place to spend a night or two. What ever Bill decided. He was the Wagon Master.

We got all the animals unhitched, unhooked, unharnessed, and unsaddled. We felt blessed as we led them to a spot on the pond where they could drink their fill and we didn’t have to haul water to them. Pans of pellets could be dispersed and Bill wandered off to survey the area to decide if free grazing would be possible.

Marie was getting set up for cooking and we scrounged around for downed tree branches to use for firewood. You forget the amount of effort it took to do all these simple tasks. You didn’t go turn a burner on or a faucet.

Your life was full from morning till night doing the simplest things because they all took time to accomplish. We didn’t have time to miss TV or get bored with nothing to do. So far this trip had shown us no ‘down time’. Things were soon to change.

By now we had our tent pitched and had walked the pond. There was a floating dock that wasn’t doing much floating anymore. It was laying catty wompus on the shore, but was soon staked out as a place for clothes washing and feminine bathing.

There those gals went again, bathing and washing, washing and bathing.

Bill just didn’t understand what a joy it was to feel that cool water and get the dust off us. It was rejuvenating. We would talk and laugh at Marie. She was so funny and every time we pulled out the Fels Naptha Soap, it was a celebration.

I think it was on the second day there that Skipper decided to be an extra special bad boy and kicked Spice in the knee. That was when things went very wrong. One thing led to another and our couple days rest at the Dollarhide Pond ended up being a very long stay.

As things unfolded, we were rewarded with meeting and making friends. There were the locals who befriended Bill and Marie with lots of help and firewood.

Then there were the boys that miraculously showed up, right when Sheila and I were going out of our minds with boredom. We had gotten so used to the busy and active routine of wagon travel, that to suddenly grind to a halt was torture. We wrote and telephoned family. Those who could, came to see us. This broke things up somewhat. We read books and kept our hair curled.

Gave ourselves haircuts with the horse shears.

We would ride into town at the drop of a hat. Anything for something to do. One day we looked up and there came two goofy looking guys on 10 speed bikes.

The bicycilist were dressed in these bright colored shirts and black shorts. Very cute. Their names were Tim Collins and Eric Goranson. When they saw the wagon and all of us, big smiles came across their faces. Great! Fellow adventurers. They weren’t shy and we started to visit with them. Come to find out, they were from Portland, Oregon and were heading on a 10 speed bicycle trip across the United States.

That was amazing. Under their own power. At least we were using horse power.

They had also been sent to the Pond as the town overflow spot. We learned that this wasn’t the only reason they were sent out of town.

Coming to Mitchell by way of Prineville, Oregon area. Tim and Eric had found the farther they traveled from Portland Metro Area, the more trouble they were encountering with the locals. They were unprepared for the antagonism directed at them. The clothes they had made and adapted for the trip didn’t help. They were dressed in very practical ways for bike travel.

It was just their choice of wild colors (for visual and safety reasons) and the style of dress that must have rankled the rednecks in the communities they rode through.

Tim and Eric had related horror stories of name calling and things thrown at them. There were truck doors opened up to try to knock them off their bikes. More than once they had literally ‘hit the ditch’ to avoid getting hurt.

When they came into our abode, they were very discouraged. We were just the opposite. Finally, there were guys our own age to visit and hang with, even if only for a little while.

We had a ball. We thought they were so funny and they thought we were hysterical. We would walk into town and have a burger at the restaurant. They had pitched their tent at the opposite end of the pond from us and would often join us around the campfire. They had their own food and would just borrow a little boiling water for their meals. Marie and Bill would share a meal or two, but as time went on, the boys kept staying right there with us.

Bill was starting to get annoyed, the longer they stayed. He took to walking around camp with a slingshot. Rocks thwacking into tree trunks, careful not to spook the horses. Looking back I think Bill was worried about our virtue. Not to worry Big Bill, we were very, very good girls. That didn’t stop the thunder cloud from forming over Bill’s head periodically.

When Bill walked out with a Bowie Knife strapped to his thigh, we figured it was time to have a talk with the boys.

That night, under the stars, we had climbed up the rocky face of the cliff near the highway. We talked about our dreams and the boys talked about their plans to give up the trip. It was just too hard and they didn’t feel they had the desire anymore to continue. We were shocked.

“How can you give up on your dream so soon?

You guys have put so much planning and effort into getting this far. Don’t give up now. You two should at least try to get out of Oregon.”

As it turned out, they decided to head on. The next morning, they packed up and we walked them, pushing their bikes to the highway.

We had a tearful good-bye and gave them kisses and hugs. Wished them well and watched them peddle off to the east.* When we toe drug our way back into camp, we noticed Bill wasn’t wearing any weapons.

Then in a cloud of dust a huge old beater of a car came roaring into the graveled parking area of the Dollarhide. Out stepped two tall young local boys with smiles on their faces.

Bill climbed into the back of his wagon and came out sixty seconds later with a six gun strapped to his thigh. *Eric wrote to us the whole way across the U.S.A. and a friend and I actually drove to Vancouver, BC to pick him up that next fall. He had traveled back across Canada by train, because it was cheaper. They had made it. “Hey Eric and Tim, where is your Book?”

Marie and Spicy having a tug-a-war over Marie’s broom

Chapter 18 Written by Sharon and Sheila The Twins Get Loco, Too Bill made contact with Ralph, our wagon maker, and the second wagon was ready. How exciting! Sheila and I would not have to sleep on the ground in a tent anymore. Also, the weight of the big wagon could be lessened.

The day finally came and in rumbled Ralph in his pick up with that beautiful shiny new wagon, painted John Deere™ green. It’s five bows arching gracefully high against the blue sky, just waiting for their cover of snowy white canvas. We danced around the wagon, craning our necks to look in every corner. There was a full size mattress resting on a plywood shelf at the front end and behind the seats. The seats were like the ones in Bill’s wagon. Two captain’s chairs that had been salvaged from old tug boats we were told. They had lots of padding and high backs with arm rests.

Not like the board seats of the old time wagons at all. The wagon was smaller than Bill and Marie’s, but had plenty of room for us and our things.

And don’t forget Heidi.

Our sister Colleen McMahon had helpfully delivered my sewing machine to our camp and we got to work right away on the canvas after Ralph left. We had taken a picture of poor Ralph asleep in a lawn chair under the willow tree. We wondered if he had as much trouble pulling the second wagon up the Gorge as we had. He never complained.

After his rest and a meal, he headed back to Battle Ground. He sure was a craftsman.

We three girls got to measuring the wagon and hauled the large folded yards of canvas and the sewing machine into the Hotel in town. We needed to plead for electricity. The ladies that managed the hotel obliged and we had a work room to use.

Thank you Mom for all the sewing lessons! We had a great new canvas cover made after some head scratching and team work. A few French seams and long ropes threaded through each end and edge.

Looking back, it is hard to believe we did it ourselves. It looked pretty professional.

Sitting around the campfire that night, we were all admiring how great the second wagon looked and discussing how we would divide up the

gear and feed between the two.

Sheila piped up and suggested we name the wagons so we would know which one we were talking about from now on. We tossed names back and forth for awhile. There was lots of laughter over some of the crazier ideas, namely from Marie and her imagination. When the name ‘Loco’ came up and was quickly followed by ‘Loco, Too’, the consensus was unanimous. The next day, Sheila and I decided to design the lettering for the wagons. She had fortunately brought her calligraphy book with her in her art box and we looked up old style lettering. She dug out a paintbrush and we went to work. She picked bright red paint and before long the two wagons were christened proudly with Loco and Loco, Too across the fronts.

After the first night of sleeping in Loco, Too, Marie asked us how we slept. We told her it was a little chilly and she hurried to Loco and rummaged around. She came out with a small patchwork quilt and we rigged up a rope for a curtain rod of sorts and that helped immensely with the chill winds we would have at night and also helped with privacy.

We needed to get the mules working together. They had both been trained to harness, now they needed to get used to having a partner and then get used to pulling a heavy wagon with the tongue between them. Most driving horses are trained with a pair of shafts, a long pole on either side of the body. The wagon tongue was another story.

After the Loco, Too came into the Dollarhide Pond Camp, Bill started grooming me to be the second driver. I was terrified, but I think I must have been less terrified than the other two ladies in the group.

Either that or I drew the short straw.

The day came to hitch them up and see what we had.

Every step was taken with extreme caution.

Sharon sewing canvas cover for Loco, Too

The team was very calm through the whole process. Bill had made all the adjustments needed and it was time to climb up on the wagon seat and cast our fate to the wind.

Bucky proved to be a workaholic. As Bill got them rolling, Bucky threw herself into the traces and Barney followed reluctantly. Off we went across the gravel parking lot. We made a large circle and they handled the tongue with no problem. When we headed up the small incline to the road heading south along the pond, the wagon started to rock and roll from side to side. This had a predictable result. The team started to spook and lunge forward into their collars.

I started to panic as I watched Bill struggling with the team. I remember watching a pair of gloved hands reaching over the top of Bill’s and grabbing hold of the leather reins. It was a major mistake. You never interfere with the driver handling a team. ‘WE’ got the team stopped and Bill looked over at me. I had let go by then and I braced myself for the onslaught. It never really came. Bill was great about it. He calmly but firmly told me NEVER to do that again. I think he saw the fear in my eyes.

I felt like an idiot. We gathered ourselves and he urged the mules back into the traces. Off we scrambled. Not the smoothest of pulling going on, but no longer out of control.

Bill had ridden up the road the day before to check out an area wide enough to turn the wagon around. This was the dry run. We would take them up the road for awhile, let them feel the wagon and the weight. Not long enough to wear them out. Bill and I would get a few kinks out before we challenged the mules and braved true road travel.

After Bill saw they were pulling fine, he handed the reins to me. I had driven Loco with him once in awhile and felt very comfortable with his team. They had become pros. These mules were a different story. They had a ways to go. I knew the only way to get them there was to grit my teeth, stuff my fears and just do it.

After the initial misstep, I felt very good about our first trip in Loco, Too. There was hope that I might live through the rest of the trip. Thanks to Bill’s coaching and the mules not being half bad, I was feeling more capable of handling a Ralph resting after delivering Loco, Too wagon all alone.

He was an awesome guy!

Chapter 19 Written by Sheila Metteer Dust There are distinct advantages and disadvantages to traveling on paved roads. The disadvantages far out weight the advantages. It was a pleasant change when the large truck tires of Loco and Loco, Too hit black top. The constant crunching of gravel ceased and when you had listened to it for hours, day after day, that was a relief.

Also, the dust was gone, except for an occasional dust devil caused by a passing car or a wind gust. It was by far the cleanest part of the route.

You think you will eventually adjust to the dust, but you never do. It is everywhere and on and in every thing. You ate it, drank it, slept in it and wore it imbedded in your…. You breathed it and you learned to close your mouth after a car passed on the gravel roads, unless you spit right away.

On the hotter days, it took a sip of water from the ever present canteen as an aid. We all carried canteens. Dehydration was a concern for both us and the horses and Marie, being a registered nurse, reminded us constantly to “Make sure you drink plenty of water!” I loved having a canteen.

At first I thought it looked cool hanging from my saddle horn on it’s leather strap. It was metal, The twins riding point covered in a nice heavy felt cloth.

The cloth was beautifully striped in a rainbow of color. What I didn’t know, till way into the trip, was that you soaked the outside of it with water and you had a portable water cooler, cowboy style. I was amazed at how long the water would stay frigid and fresh. After swilling down WARM water a few times, when you were burning up in the hottest part of the day, no one had to remind us to soak our canteens.

I really shouldn’t complain too much about the dust, because it was poor Marie who got the worst of it. She rode drag. That was a prefect description of it, too. You were the person who brought up the rear and warned speeding vehicles with a waving hat to “SLOW DOWN...WAGONS AHEAD!!” It was the most brutal and thankless position. Throw in Marie’s asthma and you start to get the picture. If you rode too close, you suffocated and if you got too far back the cars could and would accelerate and become a threat to life and limb.I enjoyed riding point, but occasionally rode drag. The problem was Shammy liked to be in front, so it was a fight to keep him the right distance behind the wagons. And Sandy, Marie’s buckskin was a little pokey. She would follow fine, but she slowed the pace of the teams down when in front and the point rider had to be able to scoot way ahead and turn and come back in an elongated zigzag pattern, pretty much all day. Sandy was more suited to drag. I always wondered if the phrases “THATS A DRAG!” Or “WHAT A DRAG!” really came from this situation. It sure fits.

Sometimes Marie was forced to hitch Sandy to the back of the wagon and climb into the seat next to Bill. Her lungs couldn’t take it.

A recent rain storm or a rare oiling helped immensely. Although, I wondered what concoctions they used to oil some stretches of road.

The smell was horrible. It Sharon on Bucky leading Sandy probably came from the Hanford Nuclear Plant judging from the sore throats we could and did get. Does radiation have an odor?

During the long dry spells, the vehicles would speed down the road on their way to the stores or wherever and grind the dry dirt into a fine powder that hung in the air forever. We usually wore bandanas around our necks that could be pulled up and used as a mask of sorts. (We found out that our Western heroes didn’t dress the way they dressed because it was fashionable, but because it was practical.

I was surprised at the economy of every thing they did. We started out imitating them to be cool and soon found out we stayed cool, because we were imitating them.)

There usually was a period of time at each camp, when the first thing we did after the stock was cared for, was to give the wagons a thorough flogging with a towel or dirty shirt and try to get as much dust out of them as possible. Bill and Marie’s Loco was pretty air tight, so they slept in a fairly dustless bed. However, Sharon and I could pot a plant in what we blew out of our noses first thing every morning. Sometimes we longed for the old days when we slept in the tent.

Then we would remember those days and decide a little dust wasn’t going to kill us. We never worried about waking up with a rattlesnake in the wagon. And we could reflect on an incident at the Dollarhide Pond that made us VERY content in the dusty Loco, Too .

We had the horses loose. The pond was in a sort of giant flat bottomed bowl.

The Dollarhide Road sliced up the east side at a pretty steep angle and the west side sloped enough, that it too, discouraged any attempt to escape. With a partial fence around the gravel landing, we were pretty confident about letting the horses graze free. There was plenty of grass around the pond’s edge. It saved on alfalfa pellets and a little on chores. Also, the only way out of the “Pond” corral was past Sharon’s and my tent and over the narrow bridge. We slid back into the warmth of the tent one morning to lounge and visit, after we had turned all eight of the horses loose. They must have eaten extra fast, because the sun had barely warmed the frost on the tent when the ground began to shake and before we could do anymore than exchange a horrified glance and throw our hands over our heads, thirty-two thundering hooves came charging down the trail and right over the only thing between them and freedom, OUR TENT! It was over in a split second. We fought our way out of what was left of it to the sounds of Bill and Marie screaming “WHOA! WHOA!”. My heart was pounding louder than the sound of the hoof beats clambering over the bridge. It wasn’t till we wrestled out of the tangle of tent and tent cords that we realized to our relief, Bill and Marie had managed to grab the leaders of the pack and foiled the “Great Escape Attempt at The Dollarhide Pond.” As we stared at the wad that was a tent and checked each other for hoof prints, we secretly wished the idiots had just kept on going.

This incident translated into a lot less freedom for us, as now we got to horse sit the untrustworthy little poops. We were back to standing at the end of lead ropes, one in each hand in shifts of four, all because of eight full bellies and some high spirits.

Bill and Marie took pity on us and we got an occasional break. It consisted of a quick ride into town. That even became humdrum. So, ever the fun lovers, we would scramble our choices of mounts and ride bare back, if Both wagons ready to roll nothing else, for the ease. Besides, we usually rode that way at home. We would trade off on Skipper and Shammy. Then just for kicks one day we decided to take the work horses. I had ridden Sugar before and though a tad slow, she was as comfy as an over stuffed couch. I even got cocky and tried Spicy. Her shoulder injury was improving and Bill thought the exercise would do her good, so I scrambled aboard. I was totally unprepared for her reaction. She started to tense and quake like an awakening volcano. Comparing her to Shammy, I was shocked at the overwhelming feeling of an extra five-hundred pounds of quivering horse flesh between my legs.She gave one threatening lunge and I was cured of my boredom! Man! What an animal. I hit the ground praying, knowing that I had just had only a taste of what she was capable of. She wasn’t called Spice for nothin’. One look in those eyes and she and I had an instant understanding. Spicey was going to pull the wagon and that was fine with me.

We grabbed Bucky and Shamrock and headed for town. Sharon and I had to saddle up, because Bucky could be a handful and Bill was done with the rodeo bit. But soon we were off.

Bucky played a game when she had a rider. It was called the “Spook at Everything Until Your Rider Wants to Kill You” Game. She really was a pain in the butt.

She would shy to the left and when Sharon barely recovered her seat, she would shy to the right. This never ended. It was one of the most irritating habits we ever saw. You couldn’t relax. Nothing you did reassured her. We finally figured out she just did it, because she enjoyed bugging the crap out of us. It made for a long ride into town.

Soon we were clopping our way up main street to the store and post office. We were getting our mail general delivery, because of the long stay.

Marie would also trust us to bring her the less fragile items she needed for dinner. We noticed a small crowd growing outside a local business. We were really starting to feel special with all the male interest.

They were obviously taken with our stunning good looks.

A brave gentleman approached us as we clip clopped past and asked, “Say, tell us. Is that a horse or a mule?”

Our flattered blushes turned into red faced indignation. Is that what the interest was? Whether Bucky was a horse or a mule? Brother! Just when we started to gain a little self-esteem as young women, our little egos were dashed to bits. “A MULE!!” Sharon said snappishly.

We rushed through the shopping and got out of Dodge. Sheesh!

Can’t a girl get a break. We passed the same crowd still standing on the side walk on the way home.

“NICE MULE!” one dork called out as we rode by. The teeth dents in our tongues were almost gone when we got back to camp.

“How’d it go?” Bill asked as we handed him the groceries and started to pull the saddles off.

“THEY LOVED YOUR MULE” we answered and disappeared to smooth our ruffled feathers and listened till Marie called, “DINNER!”

Chapter 20 Written by Sheila Metteer Heidi and the Rattler It had been a typical morning around the wagon camp. We had been at the Dollarhide Pond long enough to have settled into a routine of sorts.

Mornings didn’t need to start quite so early. There were no harnesses to put on and there was plenty of grazing for the horses and mules.

The main camp was on a gravel landing and over a small bridge sat our backpacking tent. It was a safe distance from Bill and Marie in the wagon. No one could approach our tent without getting past Bill and the dogs.

We busied ourselves with the dishes and as the locals had generously supplied us with firewood, our chores were few and the days lazy.

The visiting ranchers mostly just drove in and unloaded frozen beef and whatever their wives would send out of their pantries. They would stand around for a few minutes and jaw about the old days when their grandparents still used teams in harness. They were a great part of the enjoyment of the trip. Asking carefully chosen questions and with a few curious glances, they would make an awkward farewell, and off they would go to their daily tasks.

The few that were not shy would tell stories about the old Dollarhide Mill and drop a few warnings about the ‘snakes’ in the area. They knew we were naive about the snake population. I’m still not sure if the warnings were exaggerated and intended to make us ‘Greenhorns’ squirm, or given out of genuine concern.

Heidi and Sheila sunbathing

Whichever, they haunted the backs of our minds. All kept a wary eye open and walked with care.

What added to the tension was the stories about the Bullsnakes that were cross breeding with the Rattlesnakes and producing offspring with venom and no rattles. The thought was chilling. It didn’t help that it had been shared with us on several occasions. Could the kind people of Mitchell, Oregon be sitting at the local tavern, conspiring to ‘shake up’ the folks at the Dollarhide Pond? We would see.

Heidi had gotten pretty independent. She was taking longer walks each day. No one noticed one afternoon that she had vanished. Then ear splitting yelps echoed from across the Dollarhide Pond.

The four of us charged along the well worn trail around the pond and began searching frantically through the thick under brush at the ponds edge. No doubt in our minds that the deadly venom was already coursing through her little veins.

As we searched, we called and called Heidi’s name. We would then stop and listen for a weakening cry from our dying little dog. Suddenly, a movement caught my eye. Just the tops of the high grasses were shivering. I took a deep breath and slid down the steep bank. It was Heidi! Laying on her back with her four stubby little legs twitching in the air. I was stunned at how fast the poisonous venom had done its job.

I crouched by her, tears welling up in my eyes. I could hear Sharon’s footsteps coming fast.

Bill and Marie close behind. My thoughts jumped to the farm in Battle Ground and how to break the news to our dear mother. “We let Heidi get killed.”

I couldn’t bear to think about that moment and my attention returned to our sweet little friend dying before my eyes. I spoke soothingly to her and touched her gently. I rolled her towards me and was getting ready to lift her up when I spotted the “Snake”, except it wasn’t a snake Heidi peaking out Loco, Too at all.

It was a strand of discarded fishing line that had gotten caught in her dog collar.

The little drama queen was only trapped by a trout line. I unhooked her and was flooded with a mixture of relief and the urge to drop kick her into the pond.

Marie was the first to go into fits of laughter followed by the rest.

I think Heidi was just glad to be free. She stuck a little closer to camp after that. We however, kept the memory of that day close in the mind for the rest of the trip. The local people made their point and we learned a good lesson. Thankfully, not the hard way.

Chapter 21 Written by Sharon Lambrecht The Camp Menace Traveling by covered wagon was a dream come true, but I want you to know it was also very character building for many reasons. You learned to tolerate physical discomfort, heat, monotony, hunger, thirst, missing your family, living in close quarters in camps with three other people (even though surrounded by twenty-thousand acres of openness) and ending some days so gosh darned tired you could hardly put one foot in front of the other. That didn’t matter a bit, because there were things that must be done and no one else to do them, but the four of us. You just came up with the last little scrap of strength you didn’t know was there and did your chores.

Everyone got to know each other very well right off the bat. You get in crisis situations and there isn’t any pretending to be what you are not.

It brought us all closer together. Most times, all we had was each other to count on.

Bill was an old school cowboy. He was a man of the ‘40s and ‘50s and women had their place. That could be rough because Sheila and I were women (girls to him) of the’70s who hadn’t decided where our place was yet. He was in a situation where there were many times he had to rely on these big strong young gals to do things with him and for him that he would only have asked another man to do. I think it often drove him crazy.

Sheila and I weren’t beneath rubbing it in a little. For example, the time a big dignified rancher came to jaw around the campfire with Bill. It was time to feed the animals. Marie was trotting around the fire cooking up something for our dinner. Sheila and I each grabbed the large bags of alfalfa pellets, threw them over our shoulders and headed right past the campfire to go feed the stock.

Bill looked stricken. He cleared his throat and asked, “You girls want any help with that?”

Say What? He had never offered us help before. It was the male ego thing welling up in him. Here he was standing there visiting while these poor defenseless females lifted these heavy bags. What kind of MAN was he? What would that macho rancher think of him?

“Nope!” we retorted and trudged on. Sniggering at Bill’s discomfort.

Now, as a woman of fifty with twenty five years of marriage under my belt, I would have handled things way different. Lets face it, back then I was young and dumb. Bill has remarked about how “Strong Willed” we were.

That was actually pretty kind. We were, and I admit it. Then again, you had to be or you would never have attempted an adventure like the one we Skipper the clown were sharing.

Speaking of strong wills, I have to tell you about Bill’s horse Skipper. He was a joy to ride. I ended up with him most of the time. I am not a big fan of Arabs because, at five foot eleven, I have a hang up about tall horses. I want a “John Wayne” horse. I hate to think of my legs dangling a foot down below the belly, like I was on someone else’s horse.

Well, the fact is, I was.

We would have loved to bring our own beloved horses with us on the trip, but we already had six horses and two mules and that ended up being plenty of critters to keep track of. Bill and Marie weren’t about to leave two of their precious babies back in Battle Ground to make room for our horses. After all, it was their wagon trip and their move to Nevada.

I grew to love riding Skipper. He was smooth and very well trained.

He did what I asked him at all times and was a great horse. A real athlete.

He was there for me. I liked that in an animal.

I also watched Sheila who had grown very fond of Shamrock. He was a lovely ’tall’ horse. But she paid a price at times for the height. Every once in awhile, Shamrock would get wound up over something, and he had this “Jiggy” gait that was a killer. Secretly, I enjoyed watching her suffer. I could see her fighting him, trying to keep him in a walk, her side aching.

“Hey, you had to pick a ‘tall’ horse.”

Back to Skipper.

He had a BAD habit.

He would NOT be tied up.

He had hoodwinked Bill and Marie into believing, if they tied him up to a solid object, he would break his own neck. Sheila and I knew better, although I am not saying horses have never done that to themselves. We had just never seen it. All the animals we had trained over the years were just left to fight it out and every time in our experience, the tree or post won.

There were ways to tie them with ropes and halters, to avoid them getting hurt.

Bill had used these tried and true methods and Skipper still scared them to death. It was a horrible sight to see, watching a huge beast thrashing and struggling on the end of a rope, throwing themselves violently back against the lead over and over. Sometimes they would fall completely on their sides. They would emit other worldly groans from the effort. It was creepy. Bill couldn’t stand watching him fight and would run up and release the rope after a short time.

We would have been more hard hearted. He would have been left for a long time until he realized his methods weren’t working and he was only hurting himself. Sheila and I believed it was essential that horses could be tied up to keep them safe, a basic lesson always taught early on. Skip must have played hooky that day.

The funny thing was, he didn’t mind being tied to the moving wagon, only to something solid. He could be led next to another saddle horse and wouldn’t fight. He was an enigma.

This created a big problem for the camp. When we would get settled in for the evening, Skip was just let loose. If he was really tired from a long day, he would eat and settle in somewhere close to his lady friend Sugar.

Horses are all good when they are tired.

The high jinks started when we gave them a couple of days to get rested up and Skipper would get bored and go looking for trouble.

All the animals were tied up safe distances from each other, but close enough for them to feel the security of the herd thing. We would usually circle them around down wind from the fire and our cooking, if at all possible. If they were tired enough, we didn’t have to worry about them moving a hoof. No dust there. Most camps had strong bushes or trees.

These afforded some shelter from the sun.

Then there was Skipper. We had learned the hard way that the animals needed to eat the alfalfa pellets fairly slowly. Big Bucky the mule had wolfed them down too fast, back in Shaniko, and she had a throat full of swelling food.

We watched in horror, thinking it was going to choke her to death.

Marie and Bill fought like hellcats to get her through that one, and they did.

Massaging her throat and if I remember right, there was even a tube up the nose. Scary moment.

Skip started being a problem if we laid over for a couple days. He would run from food pan to food pan, trying to steal everyone else’s pellets, just because he could.

We would have to catch him and monitor him like a kindergartner. What a brat!

Once, he even choked himself on alfalfa pellets when we all got distracted and didn’t see him slink off to some other animal’s dinner. Bill was terrified. It only happened once.

He would also roam the camp and get into stuff. We would have to run him off every now and then. He would trot off back to Sugar’s side very pleased with himself. Stand there looking innocent, but all the while plotting his next escapade.

He also thought he was King of the Camp. He would bully the other stock. Walk by them with his ears back and we would watch the tension ripple from animal to animal. The little mobster would be saying in horse telepathy, “Now who will I teach a lesson to today? Let me see? How about YOU?” And he would swing his fanny towards poor defenseless Barney, making slight hopping motions like he was getting ready to kick.

This would cause a great commotion and we would hear Bill or Marie let out a yell, “SKIPPER! Stop that!” Off he would scoot, but you could see the sly look he would give over his shoulder, “I’ll be back.”

Sheila and I would have tied the little poop up and let him fight until he was whipped and had learned his lesson.

At the Dollarhide Pond he almost finished the trip for us all. We were in a huge graveled area, the edge of which was surrounded with large trees. It was perfect for tying up animals in the shade and we only used a small part of the parking lot.

Skipper was up to his old pranks and this time he kicked poor old Spice in the lower leg. He was in an extra specially BAD MOOD that day, or maybe Spice made a remark about him being SHORT. Who knows! His horseshoe cut her below the knee. Marie treated the wound immediately.

And they watched it with trepidation. In that country, infection was a huge problem and we didn’t have long to wait.

In spite of Bill and Marie’s doctoring, Spicie’s wound became infected and a large lump appeared on her left shoulder, right above the injured leg. Also, right where the leather collar would sit when Spice would be harnessed.

A vet was called and antibiotics were started. We sat for sixteen days in that place thanks to Skipper. There were pluses, though.

Being in one place that long, our families could finally find us and we had lots of company. We worked the team of Bucky and Barney together. They couldn’t have been more mismatched. That became obvious, all thanks to Skipper.

Sheila and I got great tans with nothing to do but lay around on the old dock in the sun.

Marie had time to delve deeply into the art of campfire cooking. She even did Pineapple Upside Down Cake in her Dutch Oven.

We could observe the Central Oregon weather and really study it.

Lay there and survey a tiny cloud off in the horizon drift towards us. Watch it get larger and darker and then it was directly over us, the downpour. So different from the weather around our Southwest Washington area. We didn’t bother getting up off the dock and let it rain on our sun warmed bodies, knowing it wouldn’t last for long and we would dry out anyway.

Why run for cover? It wasn’t worth the effort.

Thanks to Skipper we met Tim, Eric, Ron and Randy.

Eventually, Skip was cured of his rope fighting at Cold Creek Camp.He was accidentally tied to a small pine tree with long sharp needles. When he would pull back, the tree would bend over and the needles would poke him in the butt. He would jump forward at the feel of the prick. A few pulls later, he just couldn’t figure out who was poking him and decided to give it up. He has tied ever since.

Trial Run and Still Alive - Dollarhide Pond

Chapter 22 Written by Sharon Lambrecht Those Blasted Cattle Guards It is a little known fact, that there exists a law in Oregon, where covered wagons have the right of way. This is fantastic. It would make our lives so much easier. We thought!

We found people in the back country of Oregon to be so darned friendly. They would give you the shirt off their back. Anything they could do to help us was offered cheerfully. This must come from living so remotely from neighbors and knowing they had to rely on each other when a need arose. That and the novelty of being involved with these crazy adventurous people traveling through their backyards.

One thing we learned to dread was the cattle guard. These are deep ditches dug across the roadway and covered by a large iron grate. Heavy enough to take the weight of cars and trucks but very effective at keeping critters where they were suppose to be. Wonderful tool of farmers and ranchers. No need to stop and open gate after gate.

If you are moving cattle from one area to another, there would be a gate at the side of the guard to open and drive the cows around the dangerous guard. No problem. The cattle have such a fear of these contraptions that I have seen them painted on the roadways and I believe cattle actually fall for the fakes. Cows are pretty surefooted creatures and ‘usually’ cooperate when they are in a herd. There was no need to worry about the condition of the Sheila leading the team around the area where the gate was cattle guard placed.

Plus, due to the rocky country and rancher’s dislike of building fences, they were often placed in very precarious positions.

When Sheila, who was usually our point rider would come heading back our way, we would wait with trepidation at what grim news she would be bringing. Shoulders would slump when it was news of a cattle guard.

We would continue on until Bill pulled up close to the cattle guard and he would climb down to survey the site. Once in awhile it would just be a matter of opening a gate and driving the wagons around and closing the gate. This would be a dream come true.

But more often than not it was a nightmare.

Bill would take off his hat and scratch his head, looking at a washed out gully or large rocks in the way. Too large to move or get wagons over.

Or the way was so narrow and the gate would be almost vertical up a hillside. You could get a horse and rider through or move your cows through in a single file.

Now what? This took some thinking. Sheila and I had the great idea of getting sturdy plywood sheets to strap to the side of the wagon and just throw them over the guard. Then the teams could just walk over the plywood. This idea was shot down on the spot. Never did understand why.

Maybe Bill just thought it was too dangerous to risk the animals legs in an accident. He was probably right. Just one slip and it could mean a broken leg and possibly the end of the trip and Bill and Marie’s dream.

This was how it was handled.

Loco was pulled up close to the guard. The brakes set and we would scramble to unhitch the team. They were then led off to the nearest gate, sometimes this would be a thousand feet down the fence line. And don’t ask me why that was the best placement for the gate around the guard.

That distance was not that bad on horseback and cattle don’t know the difference, but leading a team in full harness, it was a long walk.

While waiting for the first team to get around through the gate, we would pull Loco, Too up behind Loco and wait for our moment.

When Loco’s team was on the other side, Bill would hook a heavy chain to the tongue and hook the double tree to the chain. This would keep the animals a safe distance from the drop off.

The process was repeated by the second team. Unhitched and led down to the gate and around to be ready to re-hitch when the time came.

The second wagon was hooked to the first and that one team would pull both wagons clear of the cattle guard.

Team two would show up and every thing would be reconnected and made road ready.

Sounds like an interesting process doesn’t it. Let me elaborate. Add to this the fact that it could be in the 90’s and we would not hit just one cattle guard in a day’s travel but several.

I can’t quite remember what the record was because I think I have blocked that out of my brain. Let’s just say it was very character building.

You had to work at not getting snappy and testy with each other. There was no way around the situation.

Chapter 23 Sharon M. Lambrecht January 19, 2004 This is my first chapter about the ‘75 Covered Wagon Trip.

The Runaway Team It was a warm sunny morning in the Ochoco Forest. The day had been going well. We were making good time with the two wagons and teams.

Everyone was placed in the various positions they had chosen for that days travel. Bill was in the lead wagon, Loco, as usual with Sugar and Bucky as his team.

Marie and Sheila were outriders keeping watch for traffic as point and drag.

I was driving the team of Barney and Spice pulling Loco, Too. Barney had been a pretty good boy that day. Pulled his weight well. No huge hills to annoy him.

As a special treat, we had a visitor with us for a couple of days.

Jerrie Ulmer, a friend’s daughter, was riding along and camping with us.

She had been very excited to get to experience this special way of life. She was 13 years old.

When our day had started and Bill had placed Jerrie with me, I had instructed her in the safety concerns of wagon travel. As it turns out, I was very glad I had.

The gravel roads we were traveling on were nicely maintained.

Graded beautifully, good and wide. My only concern was a small ditch running along the edges on both sides of the road. This must have been done because of erosion during occasional heavy rainfall washing out the roads. I wasn’t too worried about it because we had traveled enough with the teams by now and they were pretty dependable.

As we pulled through the large pine trees, we came to a long stretch of straight road ahead. Bill was 300 yards in front of us. Jerrie and I had been traveling along chatting and enjoying the beauty and peace of this country.

I looked at Bill’s wagon and team and saw what I dreaded along with everyone else, a cattle guard. He had pulled off to the right and Sheila was dismounting to check out the best way to get the wagons around it.

A familiar routine.

To the right of the road and seventy five yards or so into the woods stood two men and a large D8 Cat, I glanced at them and we waved, they waived and went back to work.

Then I heard a horrible thing. The extremely loud sound of the starting of the Billy Goat Motor on the diesel engine. It sounded like shotgun blasts echoing through the forest. It started out in a slow popping that built up to a mighty roar. They couldn’t have timed it worse.

I looked at Jerrie and she innocently looked at me with questioning eyes. Poor Jerrie!

I looked at the team and saw telltale signs of tension starting to ripple through their bodies. Ears straight back and blinders preventing them from seeing who was shooting at them.

Barney, the laziest animal I have ever known, must have decided a past owner had finally snapped and was coming after him. He started to skitter and jerk forward into the harness. Spicie took her cue from good old Barney and off she jerked into a fast, nervous trot.

Now I am no dummy (although I did chose to go on this trip?). I had already started to scramble my hands up the reins and was talking to my team with a calm soothing voice. To no avail.

Barney decided to ‘go for it!’ and off we shot. Jerrie had been watching things unfold and when I said, “Jerrie, you better get under the seat.” She didn’t waste a millisecond. She disappeared from sight.

I had my hands full. I was heading at breakneck speed up that road and was aimed dead on into the back of Bill’s wagon. I had time, but not much. I stood up from the seat and started to saw on the reins to stop or slow down my team. They ignored me completely. I then tried scanning the terrain for an emergency exit. There were those darned ditches. If I let the wagon go across them, it would surely roll over.

Now seconds are screaming by and I am running out of road. I could see Bill getting down and looking at me and the stampeding team. I changed my position by putting my booted feet upon the front of the wagon box and stood, leaning all my weight back against the bits. Sawing madly.

Sounds cruel, but someone was going to get hurt, including mules and horses, if I couldn’t get this runaway team stopped in time. I really think Barney was enjoying the whole thing. I had never seen him move this fast in two months.

Finally, I felt a slight easing of the speed. I was so close to the other wagon, I couldn’t believe there was room to come to a halt before hitting it.

My team took matters into their own hooves and started braking themselves.

Mules are irritatingly smart. Barney wasn’t going to get a scratch on his nose.

We slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and flying gravel. The animals were blowing from their great effort to gain that much speed dragging a heavy wagon behind them. Bill tipped his hat back, choking on dust and asked, “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Those idiots started that Cat and it spooked my team!” I was shaking like a leaf. Then I saw the top of a little head rise up from under the seat. Jerrie was peaking out from her not so safe haven to see where we had finally ended up.

Time to face another cattle guard and get on with our daily travel.

One more notch in the belt of experiences on the ‘75 Covered Wagon Trip.

Spice and Barney

Chapter 24 Written by Sheila Metteer The Close Call It is hard to put into words the sensation of waking up in a place like the Ochoco Forest in Oregon. You can’t really believe you’re there, surrounded by such glory.

The trees, the birds, the smell of the pines as the morning sun warms them and the dew evaporates. If you could bottle that smell, you would be rich.

Marie was up early and having a cigarette while she started breakfast. We were all pretty quiet. Maybe everyone had the same feeling of reverence I did.

We ate and things started to happen. Catch the teams and get the harnesses on them. Saddle up the point horse, which was Shamrock. Saddle Sandy for Marie who usually rode drag. Sandy was a much slower walker and Shamrock could hardly be slowed down.

We loaded all the camp paraphernalia into the wagons and visited about the coming day. It was a Sunday. We chose this day so we could avoid any traffic on the mountain roads. This would be a greater danger as the roads were steep and curving for quite a few miles. Also, it was illegal for any trucks to be working in the National Forest on Sundays.

Soon Marie and Bill were ready. Marie mounted Sandy and off we went. “Wagons Ho!” It was a suitable road and we made pretty good time in spite of the hills. I think we were getting seasoned by now and I relaxed after a couple of hours. This was my kind of travel. Easy going with no honking horns and speeding cars to wave down. I hated the look I got when the car windows rolled down and I’d say, “Would you please watch your speed?

There are covered wagons behind me.” They would scan the empty road and look at me like I had escaped from some mental hospital. They usually sped off to see if I was pulling their leg and I could hear their engine slow when “Golly Martha! There really are wagons comin’!”

All I cared about was that no one got hurt. It was also the responsibility of the point rider to find water, grass and a flat place to camp.

This caused friction between Bill and me because he felt I was just a woman and one that was pretty wet behind the ears at that.

It grated on his ego every time I rode up around dusk, all excited because I had found the perfect place to camp. It never failed that he would veto my choice because “We can make another mile or two before dark.”

That usually put us on the edge of some windswept hill without a drop of water or a blade of grass in sight.

We’d drag out the alfalfa pellets and Sharon and I would each sling two 5 gallon water cans over Shammy’s and Skipper’s withers and ride all the way back to the nearest water. We would spend a couple of hours hauling water to thirsty animals.

It was a real bone of contention between Bill and me.

That is why on this day I was pensive when I rode back to say I had found a beautiful place to stop for an early lunch and he instantly agreed.

Shocked, I rode on and all were in agreement when they arrived.

A lovely area. A meadow lay back down the road. We had passed it Wagons approaching the turnout on the right. The drop off was too steep for the wagons to cross, but there was a small creek to water the animals. Even though it was a hilly area, ahead and to the left was a spot wide enough to pull both wagons off and rest in the shade for our lunch. It was in the inside of a sharp curve of forest road. The sun filtered down through the trees and gave the place a surreal beauty.

The horses were anxious to drink at the little stream and eat the plentiful grass. We were getting ready to lead all eight of them across the road, when we heard a sound off in the distance. It was curiously familiar and at the same time, out of place.

Then to our shock and amazement a log truck, loaded to the hilt, came swinging around the corner and roared down the hill. The jake-brakes echoing loudly.

I will never forget the look on the driver’s face when he saw all of us. The realization that if he had been here minutes earlier, his truck would have hit all of us. The massive rig took up the whole road to make the sharp curve.

We held tight to the horses as they spooked at the end of their lead ropes.

And then the truck was gone.

We stood there wondering if we had imagined what had just happened.

I knew we hadn’t and as the dust settled and the sound of the log truck faded off in the distance, we all recognized that the hand of God had been at work. Whether you believe in Him or not, there was no way we would ever have taken a break like that on a normal traveling day. I wouldn’t have wasted my time asking Wild Bill for permission to stop that early, knowing what the answer would be.

This was a good day. We were alive and feeling protected. That night’s camp resounded with the story of the log truck miracle. In fact, it became a favorite.

“Say! Do you remember the time up in the Ochocos…?”

Chapter 25 Written by Sheila Metteer The Shammy Shimmy We broke camp early one morning, deep in the Ochoco National Forest. I’ll never forget the beauty of the place. The National Forests were numerous in Washington State, but they had a more timeworn feeling. More people.

The Ochocos seemed somehow older. Yet more pristine. It had been a suspiciously uneventful morning. Everyone had their noses to the grindstone, even Barney the slacker was pulling his share. We made very good time until I came to a disturbingly wide “Y” in the road. It didn’t look right to me, so I sat in the shade and waited for Loco and Bill.

Bill could have shown Lewis and Clark a thing or two about reading a map and charting a course. He had spent countless hours pouring over his maps and planning our route. Bill said there were nights he dreamed about the route and his maps. It wasn’t till I retraced the route several years later, in a car, that I grasped the enormity of his efforts. To Sharon and me, the daily ritual of “checking the map” became something we avoided like the plague. When we saw Bill shaking out and carefully smoothing his precious maps, we averted our eyes and tried to look busy. At some point, we usually got hustled over to examine what was ahead and feign interest, all the time hoping this would be quick and we could just get on with it. As I waited in the shade, I struggled to remember if I had even paid one iota of attention that morning. I couldn’t even recall Bill having set Shamrock and Sheila up the maps.

I could hear the familiar rumble of the wagons, so I just sat back and watched Shammy’s ears as they strained intently at the sound of his approaching friends. As I was soon to find out, Shammy was deeply loyal to this group. Something that I didn’t realize as we forged ahead each day.

“What’s up?” Bill called as he rolled to a stop. I explained that I wasn’t sure which way to go. Not feeling very guilty. I knew I would be way ahead again as soon as Bill pointed left or right. Bill didn’t point. He scratched his head and hesitated. We didn’t want to take a wrong turn and end up on a dead end. It wasn’t a problem in a car. You just jockey around until you are facing the other way and backtracked. The wagons were void of power steering and getting stuck on a narrow road with no way of backing up was a nightmare we planned on avoiding.

Usually, you could easily tell a side road. It was narrower and plainly less used. These looked identical. Also, there was no sign. It was long gone, if it had ever been there at all. I imagine it was confiscated by a souvenir hunter or wiped out by a snow plow. “Did they plow this high up?” I wondered as I watched Bill rummaging under the seat for his precious map. When I saw him slap his shirt pocket I realized it was flat. The familiar bulge of his cheaters weren’t there. Things got tense real fast.

We gathered in a powwow of sorts and discussed the disappearance of the map. I was useless (having pulled my usual stunt) and as the mornings activities were soon dissected, Bill and Marie came to the alarming realization that the last known sighting of the map was the top of Loco, Too’s rear wheel. It had been sitting under Bill’s equally important eye glass case.

Three pairs of eyes were staring at me, not including the horses.

And before long, I became painfully aware that it was going to be up to me and Shammy to retrace our steps and hopefully find the valuables.

Bill did what I felt was a secret “Eenie Meanie Minie Moe!” and the wagons rolled on down the left fork and I wheeled a reluctant Shamrock back the way we had come. I was sure this was going to be a quickie ride and soon would be united with all, being honored as hero of the day.

It soon became apparent I was alone in my optimism. My partner in this endeavor was adding new meaning to the phrase “DRAGGING YOUR FEET”. As the distance grew between him and his compadres, he became more and more resistant to my urging. Now Shammy was a fabulous horse.

Up until now. At this point, he was about as cooperative as a post. It took all my concentration to keep him from sabotaging my heroics. Coupled with my growing awareness of how isolated we were becoming, this was turning into a fiasco I wish someone else had volunteered for.

Soon we were both tense and worn out, but I was sure that the last camp would appear around every bend. Shammy was not. Short of doing a rollback and charging back down the road, every fiber of him was determined to resist this wrong direction. I knew it was futile to reason with him. He didn’t understand lost maps, just the growing distance between him and the other horses.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, there ahead, was our camp. I had been worried about missing it, but the tell tale signs our stay had left were obvious. As we approached, I strained to see the map and glasses. My heart beat fast, concerned by all that could have happened to it since we left.

Could someone have stopped and picked them up? No other car had passes us. Some furry creature might have grabbed them for his own. My mind spun out of control until I spotted something white in the tall grass that was left uneaten under the wagon. I jumped down and retrieved the map and the glasses were there, also. I rolled them carefully in my coat and tied it back where it had been, secure behind my saddle. I took a quick drink and mounted a dancing Shammy and off we flew.

Maybe flew is the wrong adjective. That implies smoothness. We jigged. I made it a rule never to gallop a horse on hard packed surfaces. My horse or anyone else’s. I had seen the ravaged legs of horses whose usefulness was cut short by such ignorant behavior. The concussion could splinter bone and create a painful and debilitating condition called splints.

Shammy and I were going to walk back. Well, that was my plan. Shammy had another one. To kick butt on the distance between him and the others with a “ground eating” trot. That would have been fine with me if his trot hadn’t also been “rider eating”. Shammy had one of the worst trotting gaits I had ever experienced. Add to that, his tension and separation anxiety and I soon realized that this was going to be a long trip home.

I fought him half-heartedly until the side ache started. Then when the inseams of my jeans started to feel hot, I knew chafing would be next. It was misery. I’d pull him down to a walk and he would reluctantly comply for about two strides and then that little skip-hop and off we were, back at his jiggle gutted trot.

I felt tired and hungry and saying I was saddle sore was an understatement.

Shammy however, seemed fresh as a cucumber and the closer he thought we were to the group, the more intent he became to “close ranks”.

I finally gave up and did the unthinkable. I dismounted and began to walk. Shameful, but necessary if I wanted to save my last layer of skin. It felt good to walk, but when it came time to mount up again, I realized I had made a huge mistake. Shammy, who always stood pretty good to let you mount up, became a whirling dervish every time my boot got close to the stirrup. This was the last straw. We had to be so close.

I wondered a couple of times if I had taken the wrong turn at the “Y”. No! I had been very careful there. Did Bill and Marie and Sharon decide to race ahead and ditch me? I couldn’t believe how far they had gotten. I could see the sun inching further down the horizon. I was hoping they would stop and give me a bloody chance to catch up, but short of letting Mr. Jackhammer have his head and trot on, I was feeling pretty defeated. I wasn’t going to catch up on foot.

Plan B. Shammy would have to walk. I hiked up the shoulder of the road, leading him, until I spotted a small branch that had blown off a pine tree. I stripped the needles off and with all the strength I could muster I pulled Shammy’s noise close to the saddle and hopped up, hoping my boot would hit it’s target on the first try. He was off, but spinning in a small circle and when my seat hit the saddle and the shooting pains ceased, I made up my mind I was not going to dismount again. Also Shammy was going to WALK!! The battle began with me saying “Walk!” And reeling in on the reins. When that didn’t work and my side ache became unbearable once again, I resorted to the switch. It was somewhat successful in that I got his attention for a brief second. But then his mind drifted, he was back to the fact he was being left behind. Off we’d go. I was near tears when I felt him tense even more and hope of hopes, there around the curve, I spotted the wagons. They were setting up camp and I never did find out how long they had been stopped.

I had long since abandoned the useless switch, but when Bill and Marie spotted the dusty streaks it left on Shammy’s rump, my heroes welcome went down the proverbial toilette.

At that point I didn’t care. I was more than tired and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Shammy was fresh as a daisy and eager to get close to the other horses. He didn’t even seem particularly hungry.

I put him up, after handing over the map and glasses. Bill was relieved but disapproving and frankly, I don’t think we ever discussed the incident, ever.

I’m sure that night Marie and Bill shared their unhappiness about my mistreating their precious Shammy . I got little sympathy from Sharon, but realized that no one could possibly understand that day, unless they had done the “SHAMMY SHIMMY’ with my dear Shamrock and “walked miles in my boots”, literally!

Chapter 26 Written by Sheila Metteer Paulina We had made it through the Ochoco Moutains. The trees were getting more sparse. Soon we would bid farewell to the nice stretches of lovely shade they afforded. Still it was exciting, not knowing what to expect around the next bend in the road. It’s a fabulous way to travel. When you are going at a maximum speed of five miles per hour, the anticipation can really build. This made riding point an extra special place.

Shamrock was the perfect horse for this. He seemed as interested as I was in what was around the next curve. He would clip along in a kind of hurried gait. He had learned by now, not to get too far ahead of the rumble of the wagons. I would have to pull him up and swing around and head back to the correct distance and this maneuver had already added countless miles to Shammy’s and my trip. He never once ran out of steam. Soon, even Shammy the marathon horse would meet his match.

The mountain roads ended on a huge hog back. We noticed we could see blue sky through the trees on our left and on our right. It snaked through the last of the forest and started to drop gradually.

Then suddenly, it appeared. The huge Paulina Valley was before us.

I had caught glimpses of it for a few miles and Shamrock seemed to hurry up a little. His ears forward and alert. His long sleek neck swung side to side with every step, as he also strained to find The Spot where we could see the whole picture.

The road seemed to drop out from under us and we stopped. I could hardly take my eyes off the vision before me. A wonder of a place. Lush farm country, as far as the eye could see. I hesitated only a minute. Glancing away from the view I stared down at a ugly sight. A very steep end to our mountain adventure. I turned Shammy and headed back to Bill and the others with my report.

It had been awhile since we faced this kind of hill. I felt a little sick and secretly hoped Bill would stop right there and attempt it the next morning. I doubted that would happen. We had plenty of time left this day to make it to the little town of Paulina, Oregon.

Bill calmly rolled on and when he reached the top of the hill, pulled the team to a stop and gazed out over the sight. We rested there a few minutes and with great confidence in the teams, he clucked and down we went.

It was a breeze. The teams did fine and even with the added obstacles of ruts carved into the road by sudden down pours and spinning four wheel drive vehicles, we soon found ourselves on the valley floor.

We rolled into the tiny town with little fanfare and were directed to a small farm a stones throw away from the Paulina Store and Gas Station.

Not needing gas, we hurriedly set up camp and with the mountains behind us and who knows what ahead, we set off to explore.

Bill and Marie took advantage of their alone time and Marie began to plan the grocery list and the evening meal.

We were anxious to get to the store. It was really the only visible sign Sheila tending fire there was even a town there. That and the cluster of old houses that huddled near.

We walked back down the driveway and out on the blacktop and around to the store a few blocks away.

We were thirsty for a cold pop and some human contact. The store owners were friendly, but acted like we were the tenth wagons to appear that day. That was a little disappointing until they invited us to use a shower out behind the store. A REAL SHOWER!! What good fortune, but soon another treat awaited us.

One by one vehicles began to arrive. We were curiously drawn to the growing crowd. We savored our pops and hung back and watched.

There is a shyness that can come over the boldest person when you are away from social contact long enough.

Eventually, the reason for the gathering was revealed. It was a practice session for the local Horse Shoe Team. All this excitement was over a game. The shouting soon started. Yells of encouragement and razzing of the less skilled.

These people were dead serious. This was the real deal.

I turned as a pickup came speeding in and skidded to a halt. Before it had stopped rolling, a stocky man with a black face jumped out and literally ran to meet the others.

“Sorry I’m late!” she called and we realized, behind the black grime, was a woman that had probably spent the whole day driving an open combine. She must have been harvesting some distant field.

She lined up with the others and started taking her practice throws, black face and all. No one batted an eye. This was an important practice, some one explained. Soon they would face off with a rival team for a championship game. It was really quite sweet. Hard to believe for Sharon and me. We watched and laughed at their good natured banter. Still you could feel they were all in earnest.

As the practice wound down, we were encouraged to throw a few horse shoes. It was tougher than we thought. The stake was farther away and the horse shoes they were throwing were a lot heavier than they appeared. As usual, Sharon and I made fools of ourselves and still, we were lavished with praise if we got within ten feet of the stakes. These folks had regularly got “Ringers”. We slowly grasped the time they had invested to perfect their skill. Having learned the strategy and finer points of “HORSE SHOES”, we took our sore fingers, broken nails and aching shoulders back to camp. The “Team” disappeared in the same cloud of dust and haste it had appeared and we were left, to once more, ponder life in a small town.

After a leisurely meal, punctuated by all our new found knowledge of Horse Shoes, we gathered our precious bathing supplies and headed for a small building behind the store. We felt excited at the prospect of a real shower. Although, when it was my turn, I stepped into the stream of water and was shocked that I felt nothing. I looked down at my body and could see the warm water splashing off my skin, but I couldn’t feel it. I realized that we had been bathing in cold water so long, that warm water no longer felt wet. I wondered if we’d been out here too long.

We toweled off and feeling fresh and pampered, we dressed in shorts and tee shirts and headed back to camp. There was a small field of clover between the store and the camp. We boldly decided to cut across it.

In the middle was a wheel line. This is a rolling set of sprinklers the length of a field. Large wheels with a water pipe suspended like a sort of axle and a motor to propel the whole line back and forth.

Not a problem, unless we hit the line right as it turned on. Then again, it was hot and it would mean a banner day with two showers in it.

Before we got close to the wheel line, we felt a odd stinging on our legs. At the same time we both realized that with every step we were kicking up clouds of hungry mosquitoes. They were hiding in the cool and formerly undisturbed leaves of the clover. We slapped and stepped and soon were dancing in panic. “RUN!!” Sharon yelled. We must have looked like we had lost our minds. Bill and Marie watched as we charged across the clover field and ducked under the wheel line in a full blown panic.

We dove through the barbed wire fence and came skidding into camp in a cloud of dust. Gasping for breath. So much for our shower. The horses stepped around nervously. At this point in the trip, I didn’t think any of our antics could shock Bill and Marie, but they appeared ready for an explanation.

We just looked at each other red faced and when I caught my breath I said, “Take my word for it, when you go to shower,” Gasp! “ TAKE THE ROAD.”

Chapter 27 Written by Sheila Metteer Hampton Station Leaving the little hamlet of Paulina wasn’t easy. It would be the last significant town for quite sometime. Falling into our normal routines, the day was easy with little road travel and light traffic. We just needed to get as far as the Severance Ranch and that would be our next stop.

Sharon and I were impressed with the quality of the ranches in this area. You can always tell the great ranches from the good ones by their hay fields. The ones we passed by were beautiful. They had already taken several cuttings off and there would be more to harvest before fall.

“Fall”. The word haunted us as fall was approaching faster than any of us could believe. We knew we should be a lot closer to Fallon, Nevada by now. With all the delays, we were now realizing how far behind we were.

The Severance family had befriended us in Paulina and invited us to camp on their ranch. It was a perfect days travel out of town and right on our route. We would have water and a nice safe place to camp. In the usual fashion, they planned a meal and we soon found out we were in for a special treat. The Severance’s had their own rodeo arena. They were having a practice and soon a half dozen or more horse trailers were parked around the arena and the hustle and bustle began.

Sharon and I clung to the arena fence and drank it all in. A dream come true. All these riders were competing in the “Team Roping” events at an up and coming Fair and this we found out was the usual weekend routine. They took turns going to each other’s arenas to practice. We were enthralled.

The horses were gorgeous. We couldn’t keep our eyes off them. Just watching the way everyone calmly went about the practice showed how serious they were. Most of the teams were made up of a husband and his wife. It made Sharon and I wonder if we would ever find our Dream Men. It seemed to us they all were in Paulina, Oregon and already taken.

Dust hung in the air and team after team took turns bursting out of the shoots and charging after the spry young cattle.

One rider (usually the husband) would rope the head and then the partner would try to catch both heels with the next loop. The heeler carried a second lasso and had another chance if the first one failed. This wasn’t in the plan. Failure was not welcome. These folks were dead serious and the seconds eaten up by a miss obviously frustrated them. There was a lot of good fun and more than a little ribbing going on.

We noticed how rough things got. A few riders bit the dust and there were some substantial collisions before the afternoon was over. All seemed to take this in stride.

Dan’s wife Jeanette showed us a very swollen, black and blue thumb. She explained that it wasn’t unheard of for a competitor to lose their thumb if they got careless and grabbed their rope overhand instead of underhand. We had watched the speed these riders moved at all afternoon and couldn’t believe they all weren’t “thumbless”!

Now we were all for tradition. However, we both were very attached to our thumbs so decided to pass on the invitations to “give it a try”. We still had a long way to travel and knew we were doing good to get everything done with all ten fingers.

Slowly, things wound down and casseroles started to appear out of coolers and before we knew it, we were full of good food and had fielded all of the usual questions about who we were and where we were going.

There was lots of ranch talk and then one by one the pickups and trailers pulled out and we wandered back to our camp.

The evening chores started off normally. The horses seemed famished. As we led them to pasture, they started to drop their heads and grab mouthfuls of grass. Dan had given us explicit instructions on where to graze the horses and the four of us, each with two animals, soon found ourselves in a major tug-of-war with them, trying to get them up the dirt road to graze where we were instructed.

We had done this a thousand times. The monotony began to irritate us. I had the big team and as I struggled to control them, they suddenly darted in different directions. I felt the lead ropes burning through my bare hands and knew that the knots tied in the ends of the ropes would hopefully help me regain control. How silly of me. When those hungry brutes hit the end of the leads, I suddenly became aware of what it must have been like to be drawn and quartered!!

I screamed and strained to hold on until I could feel my joints popping.

Then the lead on Spicy snapped out of my right hand and I found myself wishing for the equalizing of both leads again as I was catapulted to the left by the pressure of Sugar’s rope. I was whipped across the dirt road with so much force my feet barely stayed on the ground.

When I got my wits about me, I could see Spice eating greedily up the road. Loose, of course. I should have let go of Sugar, except I really wasn’t in a position to choose who I let go of. It just had to be the horse who was dragging the bloody stump of my arm!

I was furious. I strained to pull Sugar’s head up so I could reach Spice before she headed for the hills and Sugar would have none of it. She knew she was stronger than me and she was certainly hungrier.

The battle was on.

I screamed and swore at Sugar and jerked violently at her lead until she relented. Her poor eyelids fluttered as she moved forward and we headed for Spice. Spice was not going to have any of this and took off.

Someone finally blocked her escape and I had her.

Then to my shock, they both tried the same thing again. Even though I was worse for the ware, I snapped angrily at Spice’s lead rope until she started to listen to me. I was boiling mad at this spoiled behavior. We had been out here too long for them to be pulling stunts like this. Especially ones where someone (namely me) could get hurt.

I heard Bill’s voice booming over the ruckus. “Here now!” He yelled. “That’s enough of that.” At first I thought he was talking to the team.

Then I realized he was yelling at me. I was surprised. Then angry. Sharon and I understood spoiling horses. We had indulged a few in our day, however, we felt that out here, where it could be a matter of life or death, the horses needed to be dealt with in a firmer manner.

I answered back in kind and before we knew it, Bill and I were toe to toe. I wasn’t going to give an inch, as my body was still aching with the effects of my ordeal. All I remember thinking was thank goodness poor little Endless High Desert

Marie hadn’t been leading the team.

I heard Bill’s next remark and I stopped short. I had just yelled, “Someone is going to get hurt!!” When he yelled back, “THESE HORSES ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU ARE!!”

To this day, I wrestle with that moment and wonder how things could go south so fast. It was a defining moment for me.

We finished grazing the horses in silence and Sharon and I spent a tearful evening discussing the future.

Did we want to tackle the dessert with Bill if that is how he really felt?

Did Marie feel the same?

Was it time to go home?

We didn’t want to pull out and leave Bill and Marie high and dry.

They had many tough days ahead. How could they make it on their own?

We went to Marie with our concerns. She was very honest about not wanting us to leave and still very sympathetic about our situation. In denial, Bill chose to act as if nothing had transpired. I took that as a confirmation that he meant everything he said. Looking back, I think with a little more maturity, we would have smoothed things over better.

The next days, as we crossed the desert area toward Hampton Station, the tension between Bill and us lingered. Marie did her best as a buffer, but the damage had been done. Those were some long hot days. The area had flattened out south of the last rolling hills of Paulina into an expanse of desert that never seemed to end. We would watch the hills on the horizon and no mater how far we traveled, they never seemed to get closer. The sameness, coupled with the wounded relationships, wore on us all. Our camps were bleak and flat with nothing but sage brush as far as the eye could see. The only variance occurred when the horizon rippled in the distance like a desert mirage. The illusion of liquid might have been, at least, refreshing in an imaginary way if it wasn’t for the negative atmosphere that surrounded us like a dark cloud.

Sharon and I realized that we had run out of time. Our savings were gone and the only way we could continue would be at the expense of our parents. This was a difficult decision, but made easier because our Father had suffered a heart attack during our stay at Mitchell, Oregon. It wasn’t his first and he was recovering nicely, so we had mutually decided to continue.

However, it was time. We needed to secure jobs for the winter and take back the responsibilities we had passed on to our family. We just couldn’t justify borrowing money from Mom and Dad and that is what it would have taken to continue with the trip.

The deterioration of our relationship really made it harder to leave instead of easier. It had been the trip of a lifetime!

When we got to Hampton Station, we set upcamp and Bill and Marie rented a hotel room and had a well deserved rest in a real bed. We called up the family and informed them of our decision to come home. They were on their way to get us! Funny how anxious they were to get us home.

Once we had discussed everything with Bill and Marie and they knew we had to head home, the tension seemed to ease some. At least toward us. Now they had to sort out how the two of them would make it to Fallon alone.

The day came and our sister Colleen drove into our camp with Sharon’s big truck and canopy. To our surprise, there sat our Father in the back. Daddy had ridden all the way in the canopy sitting in a rocking lawn chair he liked. He had come to get his girls.

We made our good-byes with heavy hearts, somehow feeling we were abandoning Marie. We knew it would be toughest on her. Then we were gone. So strange to be heading for home and back into our old world.

Bill and Marie continued on alone.

Unfortunately, for all, Marie was so tired and busy she had little time to continue her journal. This period of time would be lost to Sharon and I as we went on with our busy and eventful lives. We do know that she and Bill succeeded and finished their dream trip. Bill worked in Fallon, Nevada running a feed store and Marie worked as a nurse and wrote short stories and poems for the local paper.

They eventually moved back to Idaho because of Marie’s health and retired there.

We searched for Bill on and off over the years. I finally found him in the winter of 2004. We had started to write about the trip by then. We were deeply saddened to hear of dear Marie’s death. I know she would have gotten more than a few good laughs reminiscing about our adventure.

No! HER adventure. Without Marie’s dream nothing would have happened for any of us.

We went to Boise, Idaho to see Bill and had a great visit. We poured over photos and notes and Marie’s journal. Bill helped fill in a lot of missing information. Soon, we had the inspiration to finish our writing.

The realization had sunk in for us all that we shared something so special and extraordinary that the story just had to be told. It is now written down for our families and our grandchildren. For anyone who has dreamed of “CASTING THEIR HATS TO THE WIND.”

Epilogue People will wonder what has happened to all who participated in this trip. After the span of time that had elapsed, it was a small miracle that we were able to find Bill Cripe. Without him, we would have remained in the dark.

Bill Cripe - Presently living in Boise, Idaho. He is a widower twice over. Our call came shortly after the loss of his second wife. He seemed hardly to have aged. Still carried himself with his almost military air. A man of energy and action. He was happy to relive the trip with us and came up with amazing details about our travels.

Marie Cripe - Marie passed away in 1990. She had fought health problems complicated by her ever present asthma. She had suffered one heart attack while wrestling with a horse. To the end, Marie continued to remain active with the horses she loved.

Sheila McMahon Metteer - Met and married Barbara Metteer’s youngest son Brent shortly after the end of the Covered Wagon Trip while visiting the Metteer Ranch in Madras Oregon. She has two sons with Brent and they are living in Warden, Washington on a lake. She is the proud grandmother of two young grandsons.

Sharon McMahon Lambrecht - Met and married Michael Lambrecht four years after the end of the trip. She has one son and is presently living in La Center, Washington.

Sheila and Sharon have enjoyed the experience of writing so much, they plan to do a series of children’s books about their many adventures growing up training and riding ponies.

In Memory of Marie Leonetta Cripe, whose wonderful sense of adventure and imagination brought forth the idea for this trip.

Her true pioneering spirit caught us all up and swept us along in a dream come true.

Marie, we ‘Cast our hats to the wind!’ for you!

Marie taking one last ride in her rocker, there wasn’t enough room for it.

Her beloved dog Scamper looks on.

Pennyjo Publications PO Box 191 La Center, WA 98629 Copy Š 2004 by Sharon Mary Lambrecht and Sheila Lillian Metteer All rights reserved.

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If you were invited to step back in time and experience travel in the 1840’s, would you have the courage?

This story is about four people who did and whose lives were changed forever.

Come with Sharon and Sheila as they recount the drama, comedy and adventure on the trail. Share the memories of a dream come true.

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