From Our House to Yours ...

Happy Holidays
from Austin, Texas

Another year has come and gone, and much has happened in our busy lives. While a single letter cannot tell it all, we can bring you up to date on the highlights of our year.

Twenty months of grand parenting has brought us much joy. Aidan is no longer a baby; rather he is very much a growing boy. He jabbers constantly and once in a while breaks into a rousing E-I-E-I-O. Aidan will have a little brother next May. Sean and Marissa and both of us are as excited as we were for Aidan.

We traveled coast to coast during the year, visiting southern California, then to the East Coast to Savannah, Georgia. Torrential downpours from tropical storm Fay punctuated the trip to Georgia, twice. Peggy visited family in Chicago and went to a class reunion in Arkansas. I traveled on business to northern California. For Thanksgiving, we visited with family in Arkansas. Our parents celebrated their first wedding anniversary together.

Peggy spent her weekdays volunteering at church and community events, exercising, reading and fixing wonderful meals at home. The dogs Hank, Zander and Klaus kept her busy, too.

I stayed busy at work, helping test and deploy entertainment services by AT&T. I am also preparing for field technician duties on the off chance that union workers will go on strike. Learning the tasks necessary to support central office activities has been an interesting break from the routine.

Well, those are the highlights. There is much more detail to tell. You will just have to call or visit to hear the rest of the story.


May you be blessed in the coming year.

With Love,

Mule Skinner & the Missus

'Tis the Season

Happy Holidays

Fooie on the Hooie

Woof!


Hooie story is here.

Two Wraps and Hooie

About two miles from our house, there is a nice pond. The trail behind our house meanders through a community park, and we often walk our dogs along this path to the pond and back. On a warm morning, one Saturday last spring, my wife, our two Weimaraners, Klaus and Zander, and I headed toward the pond.

I was still healing from a crash on the hi-wheeled bike. Both my hands protected my face during a fall off the bike, and both wrists were a bit gimpy. With 80 pounds of joyful dog on a thirty-foot leash, I had my hands full. Sensing that I was not completely in control, Zander pulled and tugged and made the walk uncomfortable. He was not his usual well-behaved self. The walk started as a pain in the "wrist". I was a grump!

With Peggy and Klaus in the lead, Zander and I trailed behind. Each of us was trying to control the other. After what seemed like forever, we made it to the steep bank of the pond. As we topped the crest, a duck waddled out from under a willow tree, saw Zander and headed toward the safety of open water. Zander lurched, and I toppled head-over-heels down the slope. Thinking that I would be dragged into the pond, I let go of the leash -- late. I stopped my head-long plunge just at the water's edge and just in time to witness an insolent duck quack at the mastery of his escape, only to be surprised that the dog was swimming only a tail feather away.

I picked myself up. Mud and duck poop dripped off my clothes. The duck was already halfway across the pond. Zander was in hot pursuit. I scanned the pond's edge looking for the best place to recover Zander. To my surprise, there was a kid's catch-and-release fishing derby in progress. In my tormented state, I imagined that the kids were cheering for the duck, while the dads were hoping (betting) that the dog would catch the duck. With muck dripping from a shirt-sleeve, I chose a direction and ran around the pond to intercept Zander. Zander and I reached the far edge of the pond at about the same time. He was startled by seeing me and ran through a family, startled by the action at their feet. To save a small child from possible injury by the trailing leash, I aimed a flying tackle in the general direction of Zander. I missed the dog but caught the middle of his leash. I clenched my fists and held fast. Zander ran around me twice. Spying another duck, he headed back toward the pond. The dog must have gone between my legs, because the next thing I knew I was down on the ground with arms tied to my ankles. Two wraps and a hooie -- I was roped like a calf at a rodeo.

A neighbor ran over, leaned down at face level and told me that what he had just seen was the funniest thing he had seen in a long time. Peggy ran over and in the calmest voice she could muster said, "Did you know you have grass stain on your shorts?"

I know that across the neighborhood, dinnertime conversations were brimming with the re-telling of the story of the old guy, his dog, and a duck. You can rest assured there was little talk of the fish that got away.

Famous Last Words

"But I don't know how to drive on ice."

"What better place or time than right now?" Dad said. His steady, confident voice encouraged, no insisted, that I give it a try.

It was midwinter in my formative years. You know that special time in one's life when a solo driver's license is less than six months away. Dad, Karl and I were on our way to hunt small game on a local military reservation. Karl, a German shorthaired pointer, was a good dog -- a friend, a companion, and a pretty good birder.

We were all in familiar territory, except for the pesky ice and slush on the dirt roads. Dad pulled over, we traded places on the broad bench seat of a 1963 International Harvester, model 1100 pick-up truck. I climbed behind the steering wheel of the mostly familiar vehicle. I had driven around the block and up to the local grocery store but only on dry pavement. The interior was Spartan -- a few levers and two knobs for a radio that did not work so well. Karl was in the bed of the truck, loosely chained, so he could not jump or fall out of the truck.

After a couple of minutes of instruction, I started the engine, shifted the bent-stick floor shifter into first gear, revved the engine, and began letting out the clutch. The truck stalled. The second attempt worked better. The truck moved. I gunned the engine and the back tires threw a cascade of ice, snow, and mud into the air, making a rooster tail of spray in the general direction of the back of the truck. Meanwhile, the front of the truck was snaking down the road. With heart pounding, I let up on the throttle and a more peaceful motion ensued. During several circuits of a couple of quarter sections, I learned to turn left and right. I learned to make careful stops and less bodacious starts. I was driving on ice.

Then it happened. Dad asked me to find a place to park along side of the road. It was time to go hunting. I steered the truck to the right and started into a skid. I over compensated by jerking the steering wheel to the left, causing a more severe skid. Back to the right, then left, then right -- I must have fishtailed that truck for at least 200 yards. The tracks I left behind were most impressive. I ended up sliding into the ditch on the right side of the road -- parked. Dad shrugged, and off we went hiking into the woods. Karl was relieved to be out of the moving truck. I was relieved not to be driving. Dad was secretly grinning.

After a couple of hours in the woods we headed back to the truck for sandwiches and hot cocoa. I worried the whole time about how Dad would get the truck out of the ditch. Little did I know that since I got it there, I had to get it out! We put Karl back in the bed of the truck, and Dad put me back behind the wheel. I was taught how to rock the vehicle back and forth until the tires grabbed and pulled us out of the ditch. I shifted into low and began to pull forward. Karl looked into the cab though the back window and, seeing who was driving, lifted muzzle to sky and let out the most pitiful howl I have ever heard. It was not until I stopped, and Dad took over driving that Karl quit the continuous howling. With this lesson I earned Dad's respect, but it took a while to regain Karl's.

What's New?

Only true blog-stalkers will be able to spot it!

Why a Blog is Better than A Fridge

'nuf said!

How's the Holiday?

Well, the 4th of July has come and gone. At one point during the weekend, I was asked, "what's been the best part of your holiday?" At that moment I gave a flip answer and laughed it off. Later, I gave the question more thought. Over the long weekend there was no "one" good moment but several:

• I met with friends at a karaoke venue and politely, yet firmly, addressed a foul-language issue with a group outside my own. The language was immediately cleaned-up. Both parties were thankful for my intercession.
• My wife and I served red, white, and blueberry waffles for breakfast to friends in our home.
• We attended Fourth Fest in our neighborhood.
• We entertained and were entertained by our grandson, daughter-in-law, and son. Dinner was served with multiple chicken grillings -- BBQ and beer-canned. A side dish of sweet potato salad was also a hit.
• In the late evening and into the night, we visited friends and watched fireworks, both a professional display and a street full of neighbors doing their own thing.
• I tasted a stuffed jalepeno recipe that was smokin' hot. I went back for seconds. Thankfully, a rich banana pudding was at the ready for the needed mouth quenching.
• We went on a 20 mile bike ride.
• We went out for lunch and had a wonderful shrimp and melon dish.
• We went to a movie.
• We baked a cake and took it to church for a pot-luck meal.
• We found a new favorite pizza at the Brooklyn Pie Company.
• I went back to work on Monday to get some rest!

The weekend had its moments -- kinda like a quick vacation!

Pass in Review Part 3

Well, if Frank's "total recall" was not enough, Jim Patrie, the Commander of Troops during the 1983 event, added his two cents:

You have a solid memory. It was a great day. I recall that the half section first spooked when Dave (S-1) came on the field and announced "Sound Off" … the bugler did so and the half section bolted to the woods. This was very early in the ceremony and they stayed in the woods for a long time.

SFC Wilburn (S-2 NCO and self-proclaimed rodeo star) got everything turned around in the woods and was ready to continue the mission. He saw a spot in the P in R procession and took it ... at full speed. I recall the terrified look on the two soldiers' faces as they sped by the reviewing stand. That is when the lady in the stands made her
synchronization remark. The half section was actually supposed to halt, place the cannon into service, and fire a shot ... remount and proceed onward and off the field. No chance, there.

The best aftermath: MG Grange was in attendance that day. Two days later, I got a letter from him on his General Officer stationary, saying:

Major Patrie,

Best change of command ceremony I've ever seen.

Sincerely,

MG David Grange

I still have that note. Greg and I have laughed hard over this story for many years. He sent me a note some years back inviting me to come to his change of command ceremony out in Washington. I said I would be there, but only if animals were involved.

"No chance", he said.


Editor's Note: Jim, I did not ask your permission to publish your comments. Your add is just icing on the cake. Thanks for the email!

Pass in Review Part 2

This week, I reconnected with a dear friend from the Army days. We were so close that to this day we still refer to ourselves as "twin sons of different mothers." We looked enough alike, that we used to prank our battalion commander by attending weekly staff meetings wearing each other's name-tagged shirts. Both captains, both battery commanders, both wearing battle dress uniforms ... it's a wonder the boss didn't prank us.

During our conversation, Frank and I discussed old times and the topic of the change of command ceremony came up. I asked him to summarize the event from his perspective. Without collusion, our recollections of the event were amazingly similar. So, with Frank's permission I offer up his description of the event -- proof that my original article, Pass in Review, was absolutely true.

The Story of the Flying Half Section

• The date: 1983
  
• The place: Kelley Hill parade field, beautiful Fort Benning, Georgia.
  
• The event: 2nd Battalion, 10th Field Artillery change of command ceremony between LTC Rich Entlich and LTC Rex Fore.
  
• The setup: Someone (Jim Patrie?) decides to include a field artillery half section in the ceremony, including the pass in review.
  
• The problem: There is no trained field artillery half section at Fort Benning!
  

From Frank's perspective:

So there I am, standing at the podium facing the parade field, ready to narrate the change of command ceremony. It's a beautiful sunny day -- perfect weather. We have been through a week of rehearsals and everything seems to be going fine including the rather brief training of the ersatz half section, the horses for which have been "borrowed" for the occasion from the riding stables at Fort Benning. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The battalion's five batteries, the battalion staff, the Commander of Troops (Major Jim Patrie), the band and the half section are lined up on the parade field on the ready line waiting for the ceremony to begin. Suddenly, the individual in charge of the half section appears at my elbow. I experience a moment of panic as I realize he should be on the parade field. He says: "I have to move the half section. All the noise and commotion from the crowd and the band is spooking the horses."

I can't remember exactly what I said to him. I probably told him to do whatever he had to do to fix it. A few minutes later, I notice that the half section is missing from the parade field. They were positioned on the far RIGHT of the line of troops as you face the parade field from the reviewing stand; now they are nowhere to be seen. Then I see the half section commander sticking his head out of the line of trees to the extreme LEFT and behind the line of troops. He has moved the half section inside the tree line and out of sight.

I'm now in a quandary. There is no way to advise the Commander of Troops what has happened since he and the staff are already out on the parade field. My only choice is to carry on the best I can and hope for the best.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch. Now it is time for the pass in review, the last event that occurs in ceremonies like this one. LTC Fore gives the order: PASS IN REVIEW. Major Patrie faces about and commands: "HALF SECTION IN REVIEW." (The intent was for the half section to pass in review first and alone, then the rest of the battalion would follow.) I later learned that he certainly did NOT know where the half section was at this time, and muttered under his breath to the staff, "Where is that @#$%&* half section?!?"

The half section commander hears the command for him to pass in review and vanishes inside the tree line to mount his horse. Major Patrie, not seeing anything happen and not seeing any sign of the half section, has no choice but to give the next command to the entire battalion: "PASS IN REVIEW."

Several things then happen all at once. Major Patrie faces about, commands the battalion staff "RIGHT TURN MARCH"; they start moving across the parade field to assume their position in the line of march in front of the band. The band master commands the band, "FORWARD MARCH." The Headquarters and Headquarters Battery Commander commands his battery, "RIGHT TURN, MARCH" to fall in behind the band.

Suddenly without warning the half section bursts out of the tree line at a gallop. It is now a race to see who will make the turn first to march in front of the reviewing stand: the half section, the band, or the battalion staff! Disaster looms. The narrator wants to crawl in a hole and pull the cover over his head.

The half section makes it to the turn just in time and races past the battalion staff. The half section commander manages to slow the horses down to a brisk walk as they approach the reviewing stand. I begin narrating the part of the script relating to the half section. My voice booms out of the speakers, frightening the horses again, as they are right in front of the speakers. They buck in the traces a bit, but settle down enough to complete the pass in review without further incident. I later heard that someone's wife in the crowd asked, "How did they get them all moving at the same time?" (The only other hitch occurs when I unintentionally mispronounce one of the battery commander's names. His wife gave a look that would have curdled new milk.)

As if that isn't enough...fast forward two years.

It's now time for LTC Fore to relinquish command to LTC Bobby Rich. Major Dennis Radnoti, the battalion XO, is determined that we will have a half section participate and pass in review again. He goes to the stables at Fort Benning, only to learn that there is no way they will loan us any horses. Seems that the horses returned to the stables in a high state of excitement two years ago and they will no longer have anything to do with us.

Major Radnoti scrounges some horses from a horse owner somewhere near Fort Benning. We start rehearsals. Many of us remember the last half section debacle and are quite eager to see what will happen this time.

At the full dress rehearsal, as the half section was led onto the parade field by their commander the two horses pulling the caisson and cannon get it in their minds that this would be a good time to break into a gallop. They gallop onto the parade field at high speed, with the commander in hot pursuit on his own horse and the caisson and cannon bouncing merrily behind. One of the soldiers riding a horse was thrown, but not injured. Only the interference of a small grove of pine trees at the back of the parade field stopped them. They galloped into the trees and halted because they couldn't proceed any further. To add insult to injury, the trees were thick enough that they couldn't be turned around. They had to be unhitched from the traces, led back out to the parade field individually and then hitched up again. The caisson and cannon were manhandled out of the trees and back onto the field.

The sight of the half section flying across the parade field brought back too many memories. I laughed so hard I almost had to sit down on the ground to recover.

Editor's Note: Thanks, Frank

Happy Birthday, Aidan

We all had a great time at Aidan's 1st Birthday party. Here's proof that Aidan did.

Read the full story here!

Where Have I Been?

Wow, I realized that I have been missing in action. So, where have I been? I've been in the mountains of northern California, the hill country of central Texas, the deserts of southern California, and the River Walk of southern Texas. There was business, a wedding, more business, and a trip to the dog training academy. I have worked a holiday weekend and spent way too many hours in the office. I have ridden the big wheel and made plans for the future. In short, I have been busy.

So to catch up, here is one on my favorite snapshots from a recent trip. The majestic silverback gave me a stare and about three seconds to take the picture. Immediately after I took the shot, the mountain king moved his band to a more private corner of their enclosure. This shot was taken at the San Diego Zoo.

Scotland the Brave

Last Thursday, I had the opportunity to attend a concert by the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards and Band of the Coldstream Guards. The pageantry was regal, and the military formations were precise. As the emcee said, "The music of the pipes rouses the blood for battle and celebrates the victory!"



Bob, thanks for the invitation.

Pass in Review ...

A long time ago in several different time zones, I proudly served in the military. I was a Field Artillery officer. One of my assignments was to serve as the Adjutant in a Field Artillery battalion. While serving in that position, I helped plan a special event that required synchronicity unrivaled in the civilian world.


In the Army, changes-of-command are, indeed, special events. The ceremony documents the physical and emotional turning over of leadership from one commander to the next. When our battalion commander announced his new assignment, he had very specific designs for his change of command. There we were a Field Artillery battalion on an Infantry installation. Something special was needed to mark the strong traditions of the Field Artillery.

The battalion commander called for a traditional parade with artillery caisson, marching band, and soldiers marching in tight formation. There would be flags, review stands, and hundreds of invited guests. Oh, and the weather had to be perfect, sunny and clear but not too hot. Immediate “Yes, Sirs” resounded in the conference room; we stood and saluted the boss; and he smiled, knowing his change of command would be one to be remembered.

The reality of the situation began to sink in. The excitement of the moment oozed away, and the steady nervousness associated with the enormity of the project overcame us all. We had eight short weeks to pull off a major event in relative isolation from the rest of the Field Artillery world – home base was hundreds of miles away. With a mission, 600 soldiers, and a deadline, we did the only thing we could do. Good weather was ordered; the conductor of the local military band was given his instructions; bleachers for the public review stands were located and moved to our site; plans and timelines were drawn up – in short we were a busy bunch of professionals, giving orders and carrying out the mission.

Suddenly, it dawned on us that the Infantry museum was not going to have the artillery caisson that we needed. We placed a call to the Field Artillery Association, back at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, to request the services of the world renowned horse-drawn caisson unit. The answer to our request was shocking --the caisson team could not travel to our location. Next, we called the Field Artillery museum and learned that we could borrow some unused piece parts of a caisson and some period uniforms. We agreed, and the component parts were scheduled for truck delivery to us at Fort Benning.

The event began to come together; the new battalion commander’s arrival date was confirmed; invitations were mailed; scripts were written; rehearsals for the parade started happening; soldiers did what soldiers do; but where was the caisson? Where were the horses trained to pull wagons? With three short weeks left before the event, a tractor trailer with wagon wheels, a disassembled caisson, and a rusty cannon with carriage arrived. We open a wooden crate to find a mix of leather harness, woolen shirts, canvas trousers, and “Smokey Bear” hats.

With 600 soldiers available, we found that we had a wealth of talent to make old stuff look good and work together. We found someone that knew wagons; wives volunteered to mend the old uniforms; and round-the-clock teams of GI’s began making the old cannon presentable. A team of soldiers was assembled and were given the mission to find horses in the area. We sent them to stables in a 50 mile radius of our location. In short order the team found four riding horses, whose owners agreed to have their horses learn to pull a wagon.

Two weeks to go and all attention turned to rehearsal. The band sent a bass drummer to practice with us. We formed our troops, and the soldiers re-learned to march to the beat of a drum. Everything had to be spit and polish, the steps, the turns, the salutes. All of these were requirements of a traditional military parade. On the third day of rehearsals the refurbished caisson and fresh team of horses arrived to join the practice. Needless to say, riding horses that have never pulled anything are spooky at best. But with patience and encouragement the horses and solders on the caisson team came together. The horses even adjusted to the beat of the drum. The procession was stately. We were all proud. More rehearsals and a couple of well deserved rest days for all, and we were ready.

The day of the event arrived – a glorious Saturday morning. The grandstands were bright in the sunlight. Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the fence lines and handrails. We began pre-positioning soldiers in their initial formations. The full military band and our traditional horse-drawn caisson arrived and took their positions. Guests took their seats, and the ceremony began.

As Adjutant, I had the responsibility to form the troops and have them march to their final positions in preparation for the upcoming parade. I took the responsibilities seriously. I even agreed, after much cajoling from my fellow officers, to perform the traditional adjutant’s walk. Originally designed to not delay the events of the day, the Adjutant’s walk is a fast walk-run that requires much stamina and physical agility. In preparation for the parade I mastered the walk. The goal was to move from the position, where I aligned the formations of soldiers, to my final parade position and announce that the solders were ready – all without falling down in the process.

I formed the troops, adjutant-walked to my position, and reported to the commander of troops that all was ready. Unknown to me the caisson team moved to a secluded wooded area to calm the nervous horses. The commander of troops reported to the old and new battalion commanders. The command we had all waited for was given, have the troops pass in review. The commander of troops performed an about face to echo the command. He turned pale as a ghost. The horses and caisson were no where to be seen. In doubt but without hesitation, the commander of troops executed his command, PASS-IN-REVIEW. The band struck up an energizing march and started the parade. The soldier formations turned and followed the band along the prescribed route.

Remember that we had practiced the marching with only a bass drum. The horses pulling the caisson, having never the heard the trill of flute and fife, were suddenly jolted from their relative calm. Just in front of the moving band, pine trees suddenly parted, and the entire team of horses, caisson, and cannon raced to a position in front of the parade. With solders hanging on for dear life, the horses galloped into view, bringing with them a certain unplanned bravado and thick clouds of dust. The spirited beasts made a few turns, and some how halted exactly in front of the review stands. The soldiers on the caisson managed a formal salute, faced back to the front, and then directed the horses to gallop away from the rest of the parade. The crowd went wild. No one had anticipated the expertise of the obviously well-trained crew.

The rest of the troops made their way past the review stands. In turn, each formation marched by and performed their required salutes. The parade was magnificent. My wife, who was sitting in the stands, overheard the following remark:

“How in the world did they get everything to move at once?”

What's a Southern Boy to Do?

I have an infection; I have an earworm. You know, one of those phrases or songs that get stuck in your head. It all started a few days ago.

A memory was triggered by a silly question, "Where are my plastic shoes?"

I answered, "Did you say orange plastic teeth?"

A character with orange plastic teeth had just sprung from a deep memory. It was a character from a junior high school English class that the teacher used to get us interested in diagramming sentences. That same teacher, being from the northeast, was also fond of reciting a poem that we all learned. So, for your reading pleasure, and for my relief from the earworm; here it is, as I learned it, so many years ago:

The Brooklyn National Anthem

Spring is Sprung.
Da grass is riz.
I wonder where da boidie is?
Da boid is on da wing.
Absoid, I always hoid,
da wing is on da boid.


--thanks Pat Werner, for learning me English, so good!

There you have it. Maybe now the thing will get out of my head!

Apple of my Eye ...

I had the nicest compliment, today. A co-worker was admiring a snapshot of my grandson and said that Aidan had the same spark in his eyes that I did. Well, truth be known, Aidan is the apple of my eye! Here’s the proof:


There is more on Aidan on his daddy’s blog at http://rackley-sean.blogspot.com.

Culture Shock ...

Hey, I'm working, here!

I have been around the block a few times, and I have witnessed many cultures. I have lived in Europe; I have traveled to the Middle East; and I have forgotten more quirkiness than I can remember. In some cases, I even have the T-shirt to prove the experience. However, today was a shocker.

I entered the men's room at my office building-- a last bastion of male privacy. As I approached the porcelain fixture, there was a guy, a stranger to me, having a conversation on his high-end cell phone, and the phone was in loudspeaker mode. There in one hand was his phone and in the other, something else. He was carrying on a conversation with a female voice on the far end of the call. I knew the phone was in speaker mode, because I could clearly hear both sides of the conversation. There the guy was carrying on business, as the both of us were carrying on our business. I felt as though my privacy was truly being invaded. I only hoped that the camera in the shiny phone was not voice activated.

So, I did the only thing that I could do. I flushed the urinal. It made a pleasantly loud gurgling whoosh. The guy on the cell phone seemed unperturbed. So, I flushed, again. I should have said something, like "excuse me" or "sorry," or … but no, I relished in the gurgle and flushed a third time.

Because of this new bathroom etiquette, I promise to do a better job next time. I now have a personal windmill to joust. All you bathroom cell phone users be warned. I may break wind loudly, or join your conversation. One way or another, I will stop this invasion.

PFFFFFFFFT, guilty dogs bark first!

View from the Top ...

Once upon a time in Hawaii, the Mule Skinner and the missus took a mule train from the top of a cliff down to the seaside, below. The skinners at the trail-head assigned riders to their mules, based on personality matches between mule and rider. Of course they knew nothing about me but knew their mules well. The skinner asked me, if I could handle a spirited beast. Being from Texas, I said sure'nuff, even though I was a shakin' in my boots. The skinner grinned and said, "Good, this one likes to run off into the jungle. You gotta take charge!" The mule's name was Lokelani.

Well, we mounted our steeds and headed for the cliff edge. Twenty-seven switch-backs and 1800 feet of jungle covered cliff was between us and the seashore at the bottom. What a view! We settled into a plodding pace and began our descent. Now, the mules know the trail very well. They make this trip every day. They know every turn, every slippery rock, and every place a tourist might want to take a picture. They know when a tourist lets go of the reins that a picture is about to be taken. As we approached a truly great view, I dropped the reins onto the saddle horn, pulled out a camera, and attempted to focus on the village below us. Lokelani knew what to do. He made a 180 degree turn in the direction of the switchback, leaned to the outside of the turn, and sighed a deep giggle. I scrambled to stay in the saddle. Because of the girth of my mule, I could only see tree tops below me -- no earth at all. I regained my composure but continued to feel the laughter between my legs for the rest of the ride to the beach.

We spent a couple of hours in the village at the bottom of the cliff. I was eagerly anticipating the return trip up the cliff face. My legs and seat were still burning from the wide displacement of my beast of burden. The ascent was completely different than the trip down. Saddles were changed. Extra harness was added so that the saddles would not slide off the back of the mules. The trail was steep. So steep, that many of the mules strained with effort to make the climb. The mule in front of me strained so hard that the animal seemed to be jet-propelled. The engine noises were clear and loud.

Remembering what the skinner had told me about my mule, I chuckled to myself, knowing that I had conquered Lokelani -- he knew who was in charge. The thought didn't get past my frontal lobe, when a clearing in the jungle appeared. I marveled at the coconut palms and fern covered hillside. Lokelani marveled, too. With ears laid back we galloped off the trail and headed straight for the ever darkening foliage. We left the line of trail riders behind us. We jumped a fallen tree and dived under low hanging branches. Off in the distance I heard a mule skinner yell, "Bring him back, bring him back." To this day I do not know whether the wrangler was talking to me or to the mule.

As mules go, this one is fairly young ...

This one eats no oats but is a hoot to ride!

My "mule" is a 52-inch Superior, a replica of an 1891 G&J standard. This bike was built for me by Rideable Bicycle Replicas.