A Trail Ride With ‘Frontier Jim’
The Gypsum Hills in south-central Kansas are beautiful in the Spring. Rugged white chalk outcroppings stand in contrast against the indian-red bluffs and steep-sided buttes. The rolling hills amble from meadow to meadow, exposing a mixture of abundant green prairie grasses and wild flowers…looking much the same way it has for the past 100 years.
Hutchinson News reporter Jim Hitch and I have been invited to join 170 other riders for the 13th Annual Gypsom Hills Trail Ride. For the next two day we will traverse the countryside west of Medicine Lodge by horseback. The year is 1986 .I was a greenhorn by anyones standard. The only horse I had ever managed to successfully ride cost a dime and stood poised for action in front of the Ideal Food Store in Scott City. I had been aboard a couple of others in my youth and as a child; a frisky, mean-spirited, sawed-off little tan and white shetland pony who was a bitter; and a beast of a horse named Big Red that belonged to my Uncle Chick. I wasn’t allowed to ride him by myself, just set on top as my uncle led him around the corral.
Jim Hitch was green in the saddle as well, having last rode a horse in 1951, somewhere on the plains in eastern Colorado. It ran away with him; that was by his own account. Neither one of us had any business climbing on board a moving death-trap that weighted somewhere around a thousand pounds.
By mid-morning we had been given instructions and are both saddled-up. Our mounts had been provided by Bob and Charlene Larson of the Gant-Larson Ranch and Jim and Bobbie Lonker of the Bar 7; the hosts for the event.
My horse is gentle, a dapple colored mare named Grey Ghost who was admittedly long in the tooth. Hitch was aboard a 14-year-old mare named Merry C. (she had been born on Christmas day), hence the name.
I had never attempted to make pictures from atop the back of a horse, let alone a moving horse. I had two camera bodies with lens hanging from my neck…one was loaded with black and white film, the other with color. Hitch had his notebook and a supply of pens…we were ready to ride.
At this point, a strange things seemed to happens, or at least so says Hitch. Perhaps it is the grandeur of this paintbrush setting, where Apaches, Kiowa, Comanches, Cheyennes and Arapahoes once roamed or his schizophrenic personality had taken control…Hitch has become Frontier Jim.
“I am oneness with my horse,” he claims, now sitting tall in the saddle. He has become every boy’s Saturday morning matinee dream, where Red Rider and his mighty steed Thunder roam the countryside in search of lawbreaking desperados. Hitch turns his head from side to side, scanning the canyon rims with his eagle eyes. I’m just trying not to fall off Grey Ghost as she digs into the ground with her right front hoof.
But now the time has come, we are both obligated to try and make our horses move. Steve Smith, one of the trail bosses, who has been assigned to keep an eye on us rides up along side. He offers to lead us out ahead to higher ground so I can photograph the riders as they make their way along the trail.
There is a problem…Grey Ghost refuses to move no matter what I do. Bossman Smith finally grabs the reins and leads my horse with me still on top past the crowd of riders. Frontier Jim rides away leaving me to face my embarrassment alone.
After a few minutes of wrangling, I finally gain control of Grey Ghost and we move along the trail unencumbered. I can tell the old girl has been down this path before…she’s on auto pilot.
I look for Hitch, but he has disappeared over the ridge. Riders meander along side me as I try to make pictures. Grey Ghost does not cooperate.
“Whoa,” I say, pulling back on the reins. “Good girl.” It take both hands to operate a camera. What do I do about the reins? I decide to tie them around the saddle horn. Grey Ghost stops for about 30 seconds giving me just enough time to shoot a few frames…we continue on.
Meanwhile up ahead, Hitch has now run into a problem of his own…seems the cinch strap on his saddle has come loose.
“Sir,” a female voice says to Frontier Jim, “Your cinch strap is hanging down.” Hitch seems perplexed. “It’s the strap that goes through that metal loop,” she continues, pointing toward the underbelly of Merry C.
Hitch leans over in the saddle and is looking down. Sure enough a strap is nearly touching the ground. He decides to dismount, but his faithful steed pays no attention. “Whoa!” Merry C insists on following the crowd.
Hitch finally manages to lean over far enough to grab the strap without falling off and finds the slot in the saddle through which the end just fits. Later he would describe the event as the equivalent of trick riding. I shake my head and roll my eyes.
We both reach the lunch site without further incident and attempt to dismount as gracefully as possible.
Hitch immediately heads for the nearest coffee pot; I’m guessing he needs to calm his nerves. I wonder off alone to make some pictures and have a look at my chest; those two cameras along with the plodding of Grey Ghost have taken a toll. Redness and bruising are starting to appear. On the bright side my back side feels no worse for the wear.
I look for Frontier Jim; he’s on his second or maybe third cup of coffee. He finishes and we mount up for for the next leg of the journey.
I make a few more images; Grey Ghost falls in line as I try and jot down a few names and clothing descriptions to be used for cutline information; it looks like the scribblings of a kindergartener.
I have lost track of Hitch again while marveling in the quiet and the beauty of the surrounding countryside. I can see a group up ahead, stopped and looking off into the distance. But before I can reach them, I hear Hitch yelling my name and motioning for me to come back. I assume he has spotted a photo opportunity…nope, that’s not it.
He frantically tells me of his need to find an off trail bathroom; then I remember…all that coffee.
As we break trail, Hitch relates his earlier futile attempt to coax Merry C into the bottom of a gully and away from everyone. “She won’t stop,” he says, “maybe because the ground is rocky and hurts her feet.” He is only guessing.
“I finally get her to stop and dismount,” he resumes. “She butts me with her head and when I try to make her quit she starts walking in a circle…threatening to walk over me.” He quickly climbs back on board.
In short, she won’t let him go to the bathroom. Frontier Jim looks desperate.
As soon as we are out of sight, Hitch hands me the reins, jumps from Merry C and runs down hill toward a grove of trees. “Hurry up for Christ’s sake,” I yell after Hitch. I don’t like being alone with two uncontrollable beasts and Merry C is looking at me funny.
For the next several miles we lazily creep along through rugged terrain. The Gypsum Hills or Red Hills as they are sometimes called because of the oxidation of iron in the soil, stretches on to the west for what looks like forever. In truth, on the Kansas side at least, the hills are contained within Barber, Comanche, and Clark counties.
By late afternoon, Grey Ghost is picking up the pace, whether I want her to or not. I get the feeling we are on the home stretch for the day; the camp is just over the next hill. We have made it back in time for steak, salad, beans and a baked potato. Frontier Jim looks as bad as I feel.
After supper Hitch and I look for a place to rest up, but the sound of music now begins to echo through the camp…it’s square dance music. Bob Larson finds us and insists square dancing is as easy as falling off a horse…I don’t need any help with that I tell him.
I quickly beg-off expressing the need to make more pictures, leaving Frontier Jim to do-si-do, swing his partner, and promenade. I make a few pictures and sneak off for a smoke. I was hoping for a little advice from the Marlboro Man. After all I had seen him on those cigarette commercials and he looked as though he knew what he doing.
Sleep comes quickly and so does the sound of Hitch’s chattering teeth the next morning at around 5:30. Even from inside the tent, the air was crisp and fresh; 40 degrees give or take.
We have cowboy church at 7 a.m. with the pastor of the First Baptist Church at Medicine Lodge. I’m not religious, but I bow my head just hoping to blend in and pray not to be the casualty of a stampede.
I drink coffee at breakfast; Hitch has nothing. Today he is on his own. I have chosen to ride in mule-drawn wagon along with several others. It will be much easier to make pictures from here. Frontier Jim eyes the soft bails of hay in the wagon bed and then rides off to the west.
For the next several hours we travel the beautiful terrain, crossing dry creek beds and unspoiled pasture land. The Gyp Hills, all 300,000 acres, is a well kept secret. Its serenity is awe inspiring.
Hitch rides up along side the wagon, the camp is in sight now. Merry C is excited and wants to run. Frontier Jim wants to go slow, but she mostly gets her way. We arrive in time for a 2 p.m. lunch.
Hitch walks over to a picnic table and lies down on the long bench seat. I make his picture. It’s all over. It has been great fun and I have the bruises to prove it. Frontier Jim says his buttocks has gone numb. We hobble toward the car…another assignment in the books.
No comments:
Post a Comment