Re-riding with the Pony Express

Heading out on the five mile re-ride

The Pony Express, for all its short lifespan, holds a mythical place in western history. For eighteen months, riders for the Pony Express carried mail from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California and back, in ten days, galloping their way across the Great American Desert, evading Indians, robbers, snow, and all the other hardships the west could dish out. It was eventually replaced by the telegraph and railroad and the stations faded into memory and the riders into obscurity.

Every June since 1977, Re-riders (reenactment riders) leave either St. Jo (odd years) or Sacramento (even years), and carry real mail in a race across eight western states. Instead of one horse and rider team traveling 20 miles, the race is broken down into five-mile legs and two horses and riders attempt to cover five miles in 30 minutes. Teams travel all day and throughout the night to move the mail. One memorable year, some of the mail did not make it into the pouch. This mail was transported by more modern means. The Re-riders brought their mail to Sacramento more quickly than the modern mail!

Years ago, I read Marguerite Henry’s book San Domingo: The Medicine Hat Stallion and it took hold in my imagination. While I would never have qualified as a pony express rider, I galloped my sturdy cow pony across the New Mexico plains, pretending to deliver the mail. When, many years later, the opportunity to participate in the annual Pony Express Re-ride came along, I jumped at the chance, volunteering to ride one five-mile leg outside of Casper, Wyoming, heading west toward Independence Rock.

My departure point was a two and a half hour drive from my home in Laramie. It seemed an excessive distance to travel for a five mile ride, but it offered me a chance to both ride as a Pony Express rider and to ride the Oregon Trail. This one ride would fulfill two long time dreams. I had recently retired my old horse, replacing him with a long legged youngster, and it was not a horse show weekend. All the stars aligned properly.

My instructions were to head west through Rawlins, pick up the Muddy Gap road, and turn left at mile marker number 73 on the Alcova Highway. From that point, I would find post number 32. I couldn’t miss it. Naturally, I missed the turn at mile marker 73 and had to find somewhere large enough to turn my rig around. I then turned onto the proper road and traveled for a ways across the open countryside. When no post appeared, I began to worry that I was on the wrong road or had turned left instead of right, I called for help from the coordinator, while returning to the main road. Eventually, with consultation from an equally bewildered deputy sheriff waiting to escort riders down Hwy 220, and the coordinator, I found post 32.

The coordinator had me raise my right hand and swear the following oath, similar to the one the riders of old swore: “I do hereby swear, before the great and living God, that during my engagement as a member of the National Pony Express Association Re-Ride, I will under no circumstances use profane language, that I will drink no intoxicating liquors, that I will not quarrel or fight with any other member of the Association, and that in every respect, I will conduct myself honestly, be faithful to my duties and so direct all my acts as to win the confidence of my associates.  So help me God!” I did wonder about the swearing part, since my horse Karma can occasionally live up to the negative side of his name and has, a time or two, been on the receiving end of some serious language.

With the riders reported to be an hour and a half ahead of schedule, I hustled to unload Karma and tack him up. He spent a good long time investigating his surroundings. We were all alone on the dirt road. No animals in sight, although I was certain there were some generally short tempered rattlers in the greasewood. The soil was white, a change from the Laramie red dirt, and we were near a marker delineating the Horse Creek Station, a Pony Express stop, now remembered only by locals. The ever present wind swirled white dust down the road but kept the day tolerable as the mercury climbed toward the 90s.

According to Aubrey L. Haines’ Historic Sites Along the Oregon Trail, Horse Creek Station started out as a campground for the Emigrant Trail. Initially named Sage Creek or Greasewood Creek, it was renamed Horse Creek when the Pony Express set up a station. The station was located about 12.5 miles northeast of Independence Rock. There was plenty of greasewood around us and Independence Rock was a vague splotch against distant mountains.

We huddled in the meager shade of the trailer, Karma’s nerves appeased by a full bucket of water and a hay bag. Like the pony express riders of old, we knew two things. One, the mail was coming and two, we would have to ride out at a moment’s notice. What we did not know was when. Cell phone and internet coverage were non-existent at my station and so we waited in the silence of the prairie.

The Pony Express was neither the first nor the only attempt to move mail quickly west. Normal mail delivery generally took months, while express delivery took three to four weeks. One way was to ship mail to Panama and the Isthmus of Panama or around Cape Horn. Neither were particularly quick or efficient. In 1851, ‘jackass mail’ was implemented by two men to haul mail from Sacramento to Salt Lake City. One man was killed, the other uncompensated by the US government. Later, camels were tried. The animals were poorly suited to the hard rock American “desert” and the smell and sight of camels caused horse and mule stampedes. This venture ended after one trip. Shorter route by horses, skiers, and dog sleds were attempted. Eventually, the Butterfield Overland Mail Company started a circuitous route from Saint Louis to El Paso, eventually ending up San Francisco.

The three men who started the Pony Express were inspired by the ride of Francis Xavier Aubery. In the early 1850s, Aubrey used a relay of horses to make a two week mail run from Santa Fe to Independence, Missouri. He completed the ride in five days and thirteen hours, at great personal expense. This ride seemed a template to the three men who set up the Pony Express.

Eventually, my wait was alleviated by a truck and trailer moving a horse to a new leg. The driver, wearing the pony express uniform of red shirt and yellow scarf, informed me that the riders were at least half an hour behind him. He then looked askance at my breeches and English saddle. On discovering that I was from the Berkeley of Wyoming, he thawed a bit. We Laramie folks have a state-wide reputation of being a bit strange and it comes in handy at times, like when standing out in the middle of nowhere dressed in boots and breeches.

He drove off in a swirl of dust and I sat down to wait. Minutes ticked by again, dragging toward our departure time. I took the opportunity to read aloud several chapters of Orphans Preferred by Christopher Corbett. Karma was unimpressed. Without warning, trucks and horse trailers showed up, some stopping at my station and other jumping ahead. The riders finally galloped over the hill, and we lined up by the cattle guard. This was the only stop without a gate, so the mochila was thrown over the fence and onto the waiting horse.

The expectation in the old days was that the mochila was to never stop once it left either Sacramento or St. Jo, and the current re-riders attempt to keep that tradition alive. There was no turning back despite the weather or the time or even the threat of Indian trouble.

The mochila was far larger than I expected. It fit over the horn of the western saddle, with two locked pouches on the horse’s shoulders and two pouches over the loins. The rider then sat on the leather body of the mochila. Since it was not tied on like saddlebags, it took only seconds to transfer. I estimate that from the time the riders had crested the hill less than 300 feet away to the transfer, about 30 seconds had elapsed. Indeed, according to Christopher Corbett, while two minutes were allotted to switch horses, mochila and riders, most stops took only 30 seconds. The mail rider swung up and we started at a trot down the road. Shortly thereafter, the mail horse picked up a steady canter and Karma swung his long legs into gear.

Our trail was a good one, only some rocks and sand with no holes to throw the horses off. Eventually, Karma dropped back into a trot and we alternated between his huge canter and his big trot. I let him choose his pace and even trotting he did not drop too far behind the lead horse. When Karma’s trailer went past us, he let out a mournful whinny. Crossing the bridge over Horse Creek gave him his only moments of acting like a young horse. He loves to play in water, and by 2.5 miles, he was thirsty and hot. I drove him on. At four miles, he began to stumble and I toyed with the idea of letting him slow to a walk, but Karma was keeping up with the lead horse. Whatever weirdness his human was asking of him, he had no intention of letting the only horse around get out of sight.

Pony Express riders described their work as more strenuous than freighting and more interesting than prodding oxen down the trail. Pony Express stations were set up to change horses every 12 to 15 miles, with riders changing every 75 to 100 miles. The Pony Express horses were the best money could buy, although they were hardly the best trained. Riders remembered the horses as being broke when they could be lead out of the barn without kicking anyone to death. Hardiness and fleetness were the by-words for these horses and they were probably the equivalent of today’s Tevis Cup horses, the elite of the American endurance world. The horses, while ridden less distance, in general, than the 100 miler endurance horses, were ridden in every condition, and without the heavily researched and specialized feed available today.

On occasion, Pony Express horses went much farther than 12 to 15 miles. Riders grew ill or “saw the elephant” and quit their posts. Indians raided stations and drove off or killed the stock. The Piute War in Nevada in 1860 was particularly challenging for the Pony Express and, if memory serves, much of the story of San Domingo related events from that particular war.

Karma and I staggered into our stopping point, coming in a mere 20 feet behind the lead rider. In those few moments, the mochila had already been transferred and was heading off down the highway, the deputy in slow pursuit. Fortunately for my legs and Karma’s wind, our portion of the ride was finished, although in the real Pony Express world, we would have ridden another two legs before Karma’s well deserved rest. I, only the other hand, would have had to ride onward for another 70 to 90 miles.

I walked Karma out and unsaddled him before giving him a well-deserved bucket of water. He sucked down almost five gallons of water. I polished off two quarts and wished for more. Even the minuscule amount left in Karma’s bucket looked appealing. I watered the sage with it instead. Shakily, I loaded him into the trailer, and me into the truck, and we returned to the highway. By the time I had reached Karma’s barn 2½ hours later, the riders I passed would only have made 25 miles with another 100 miles to go before handing the mochila off to night riders at Atlantic City.

The Pony Express made the United States a smaller place, bringing the east and west coasts metaphorically only 10 days apart. As the first mail was carried into Sacramento, the crowd’s reaction was legendary. Eighteen months later, in the fall of 1861, the Pony Express went out of business when the transcontinental telegraph was finally strung into Sacramento. Like many western expansion endeavors, the Pony Express was not a financial success; it was riddled with corruption; and it ultimately made its way into western history and mythology and became shrouded in half-truths and mis-memory. However, as one privileged to throw my leg over a horse and gallop the same route, I can say that the Pony Express deserves to be remembered as one of the amazing human ideas that demonstrate how tough and strong humans (and their horses) are.

Haines, Aubrey L. Historic Sites along the Oregon Trail. Gerald, MO: Patrice, 1983. Print.

Corbett, Christopher. Orphans Preferred: The Twisted Truth and Lasting Legend of the Pony Express. New York: Broadway, 2003. Print.

"Pony Express." Pony Express National Historic Trail. National Park Service, n.d. Web. 22 June 2015.

"Pony Express Home Station." Pony Express Home Station. NPEA, Mar. 1993. Web. 22 June 2015.

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