Animal Evacuation

In light of the evacuation that took place two days ago, I thought it was time to write up a quick guide to Animal Evacuation. This is based on information from Albany County (Wyoming) Emergency Management. This will cover horses and dogs because that is what I will be evacuating. I’ll include a link for other animals.

The ACEM prepared this information with the focus on bringing animals to a central location. However, it would work for you to transport animals to a private location.

Getting Ready

Take some time to get your animals ready to go.

Dogs

You need a bag or backpack with the following: 

• Feed for 7-10 days
• Medication and dosing instructions
• Collars and harnesses with their tags and leashes
• Pet carriers for smaller dogs and crates for larger dogs
• Familiar bedding, toys and treats
• Pet First Aid Kit – stock it for burns, heat stroke, and lacerations. List included below.
• Non-spill Food and Water – keep in mind if your dogs are at an evacuation center, they may not be checked regularly. ACEM said that they try to go by every 15 minutes, but…. These should be accessible without opening the kennel or crate.
• Vaccination Records
• Proof of Ownership – photos and papers are great. Microchipping is foolproof.
• Soft muzzle – in case your dog gets injured. Take the time to get your dog used to the muzzle before you need it. Basket muzzles work but according to the presenting vet, you can get bitten through a basket muzzle.

Horses

Store the following in your horse trailer or have it at hand.

•  Feed for 7-10 days
•  Medication and dosing instructions
• Non-nylon halter and lead rope (the nylon ones melt)
• Pet First Aid Kit – stock it for burns, heat stroke, and lacerations
• Feed buckets
• Wire cutters and sharp knife
• Leg wraps and any blankets
• Vaccination Records including your brand inspection and coggins
• Proof of Ownership – photos and papers are great but we’ve all played the “Whose bay is that game.” Microchipping is foolproof.
• Cattle crayon or spray paint – use to put your phone number on the horse. Do not leave the halter on if you have to turn your horse loose.

Keep your trailer in good condition and practice loading your horse regularly.

Other animals

Ask your vet to download the “Saving the Whole Family” pdf from the AVMA website. It contains guides for everything from fish to cattle to llamas to ducks.

Packing the First Aid Kit

As you prepare your first aid kit, pack the following:

•  Cone of shame
• Silver sulfadiazine (available at vet stores) for burns
• Thermometer
• Bandage tape and scissors
• Alcohol prep pads (if they are cool to touch, they are still good)
• Latex/nonlatex gloves
• Saline solution
• Towels and wash cloths
• Tweezers and needle-nosed pliers
• Vet wrap and cotton batting
• Species-specific medications – bute for horses, etc.

The Evacuation

If your area is under evacuation, it will be at one of three levels. Your levels may have different names. The level will be declared as appropriate and not work through the steps.

Level 1: Get Ready

There is a situation that may require evacuation. Be alert.

Level 2: Get Set (Pre-evacuation)

Pre-evacuations are ordered if you may be expected to leave within 24 to 48 hours. Get everything ready to go, hook up your trailer, and find out the location of the proposed evacuation center. In Albany County, the primary center is the Albany County Fairgrounds. The overflow is Hanson Arena.

Level 3: Go (Mandatory evacuation)

This is a mandatory evacuation and you should leave immediately. While you can not be forced to leave, you will not get any support if you choose to stay. Have a plan in place for the entire family.

Firefighters will open gates or cut fences to allow livestock to escape. Having your phone number on your animals will help them be returned to you.

You are not permitted to return to the mandatory evacuation area until the order is lifted. 

I will be adding information on trauma care as I verify it with the vet.

An Unorthodox War

An Unorthodox War is a historical fiction novel about the women who served as spies and radio operators in the Second World War. The book weaves together true events and people as the fictional character, Elly, is recruited and trained for this extremely hazardous mission. Elly must reach deep within herself to master her trade and then serve her mission in occupied France where she is sent to train maquis fighters. During her work, she must survive the dangers, betrayals, and brutality that these remarkable women faced. 

Excerpt:

Prologue: Vivienne

July 1944

Normandy, France

The schoolhouse had been shelled until only the vaguest outlines still stood. The windows were gaping holes that looked out over fields and down a road. Rainwater dripped through what little was left of the roof and off the damaged joists, making puddles and slick spots on the rotting floor below. The desks that had once sat in neat rows had been smashed for firewood by a succession of temporary residents. The children were gone, fled to some unknown future, as the war had washed back and forth across this part of occupied France. Elly picked her way across the floor in the early dawn light, careful not to step onto the weakened edges of the boards. Her little band of maquisards had washed up in this temporary haven after the skies had let loose a terrific thunderstorm the night before.

She made her rounds, peering out into the rain-soaked fields and the trees beyond. It had been silent all night but that could change in an instant. Somewhere out there were some very angry Nazis who would like nothing better than to find them and exact revenge. The havoc Elly’s French resistance fighters wrought on a tank column that had made the mistake of outrunning their Panzergrenadiers had been glorious. Elly laughed softly to herself at the memory. She felt no pity for the tank infantry out in this storm. They were the enemy. This small haven of quiet would soon be left behind as her little team would divide up and drift back to their encampment outside Alençon. 

<<Vivienne?>> Remi softly called, as he stepped from the lean-to, his dark hair damp and tousled from the rain. Elly looked up as the Frenchman used her code name. He was weighted down with a bazooka across his back and rocket carrier, now empty, slung over one shoulder. His Sten was held loosely in one hand. Remi was her most trusted lieutenant and bodyguard. Elly knew nothing about him, not even his real name. You could not reveal what you did not know. She looked back at him expectantly.

<<Over here,>> she responded in French, and he crossed the floor to join her. 

<< Jorge and his men are moving out,>> Remi said quietly. 

<<Is he still picking up the Kublewagons?>>

<<Yes. We’ll head back south and work our way into Alençon. I need to see if Coraline’s received another assignment from London for us.>> 

As the local Special Executive Operation agent on the ground in occupied France, Elly’s job in this small part of France was to make Winston Churchill’s command to ‘set Europe ablaze’ come to life. Sir Winston wanted every German soldier to look over his shoulder, waiting for either SOE agents or the French resistance to kill him. It was a most satisfying command. Elly’s assigned SOE mission was to train and arm the maquis groups in the Saint Circuit that operated around Alençon. Her private mission was to drive the Germans back to Germany. They had boiled out of their homeland twice in thirty years, causing world wars, and all Elly wanted was for the killing to stop.

<<I am still hoping to take out that munitions factory,>> Remi said, and Elly grinned. That would be a very gratifying target, but they had been denied permission for the time being. Hitting the tanks would probably result in some angry messages from SOE headquarters in London, but forgiveness was easier to get than permission. Elly had realized months ago that there was nothing London could do to her in occupied France. There was literally nowhere worse she could be sent and no more frightening fate than what she faced every day. 

<<Get Antoine and we’ll go home,>> Elly commanded. As Remi went to round up his brother, Elly slung her Tommy gun over her shoulder and rebraided her dark brown hair more neatly. It needed cutting again so that she looked like the photos in her fake papers. The feldgendarms and the French secret police were unforgiving and although the photos were only seven months old, Elly felt as if she no longer resembled the shiny new agent who had sat for them in London. 

As her hands worked, she noticed a torn and grimy book cover sticking out from under one of the larger pieces of desk. Curious, she tied off the braid, picked the book up, and turned it over. The title, Les Misérables, made her vent a small laugh. She held the book in her hands, feeling the roughened cover and the water-damaged pages below. Most of the pages were gone, probably for use as toilet paper. Her fingers snagged on the cover, her skin weathered from months spent in the field, and her fingernails chopped short. She thought back to the woman she had been mere months before, teaching from this very book. Tidy and proper, dressed in skirts and blouses, her hair neatly rolled into the latest fashion. 

Elly looked down at her mud-stained trousers and ugly boots, feeling the now-familiar weight of her Tommy gun on her shoulder, and sighed. She could barely remember the woman she had been the day she had been lecturing from this book. The day that her world had ended when the telegram arrived. The day she stepped out of comfort and privilege. The day she started on the journey that would land her in France as one of Churchill’s Dirty Angels with orders to fight a most unorthodox war. 

 The New Adults' Guide to Basic Finances is designed for anyone new to adulting (or who would like a refresher on basic finances). This book started as a collection of articles I had written and thought my young adults might find useful. It rapidly evolved into a book that covers topics from understanding your paystub to budgeting to debt to retirement. 

Since it was written by someone who learned basic finances the hard way and not an expert, this book defines jargon and explains the basic in a friendly, understandable manner. It is available on Amazon - https://www.amazon.com/New-Adults-Guide-Basic-Finances-ebook/dp/B096HWC7C9/ref=sr_1_8?dchild=1&keywords=marjorie+daley&qid=1624742799&sr=8-8

 

I am very please to have published my first fiction book - Fire Ground. It's about a female firefighter who has to track down an arsonist before he his fires become a means to murder. 

The fascination with fire had started when he had been young. He had been caught only one time while setting fire to his father’s shed, and he had learned two things. The first was caution. He had been able to lie his way out then. The second was that fire had exciting consequences. At that young age, he had been unable to hear fire speak to him. It had just been pretty. As he grew older, he learned to listen to the words that fire spoke deep in his heart, asking to be freed. He had always been careful, starting fires safely, in barbeque grills or burn barrels. He tended them with care, listening, and learning. Fire wrapped its fingers of flame around his heart and seared him. The color, the smell, the dancing flames spoke to him in words only he understood.

For years, the controlled burns had been enough, but as he had biked down the dark and deserted road, he heard fire speak to him. He needed to see the color, the shape, and the smell of fire. He stopped his bike and fumbled in his pocket for the book of matches he always carried. Excitement flaring in his blood in an almost sexual craving, he pulled a match free and struck it.

The match flared briefly, the dainty light reflecting off his thin face. The tiny flame reflected itself in the dark hair that hung in a heavy lock over the man’s forehead, making the red highlights dance. The smell of phosphorus stung his nostrils. He stared at the flame, transfixed. Flame shivered, almost died, and then grew back into life as he cupped one hand lovingly around it. It danced merrily in the slight breeze. He loved the very colors of the flame; blue, orange, red, and brilliant white. His breath caught; part of his brain filled with words of flame. He swayed with it. The Flame wanted to be bigger. It wanted to roar its defiance at a world that would control fire, not worship it. It bowed towards the bed of a hay-filled pick-up. Flame grew and became Fire. He could hear Fire talking to him.

Traveling in the Age of Trump

We arrive at Charles de Gaulle Airport three hours early. It takes a while to navigate from the subway to American Airlines. As you walk the seeming miles from the metro to AA counter, you pass through the middle eastern and African airline counters. Dashikis, hijabs, Saudi scarves… it’s like a marketplace and I am surprised there is not a camel or two and a few souks along the way.

American Airlines with filled with Americans. It is a shock to be in Little America after two weeks in Germany and France. We end up in line with people from Cheyenne. I went to high school with his sister. Of course.

We stand in a long line for almost two hours to reach the kiosks that print baggage tickets. I have misplaced my ticket info, so rummage through my bag to find the sheet while Madora attempts to log in. Because her ticket is under Daleygreen but her passport is Daley-Green, the system melts. I find my info and log in while Madora gets help. We are now taking up two machines. The line grows. We finally convince the machines to cough up our baggage tags and now we inch into another line. Sort of intermingled with the first line. Just for maximum confusion. We are waiting to drop our bags and get our seats, since the baggage kiosk declined to assign us seats.

Two agents pull aside Americans, traveling on American passports and heading back to America, to interview them about their activities while overseas. Occasionally, an agent will wade into the crowd and change the barriers around. One man gets separated from his group. When he protests, the agent tells him “our supervisor tell us to move ze cords. I do not know why. It Is to escrew wit the people.” Well, not the last sentence, but that was the general gist.

A half hour has passed. The agents begin to suggest that people going to Chicago move a bit more quickly. They open another mystery line and the first agent tells me I don’t need to be in that line. The second one tells me that of course I should be. I am beginning to get sweaty and hot and irritated. Madora promises me caffeine and chocolate if I can keep my sense of humor. I overhear the interviewing agent tell the people in front of us that the interview must be in French or they can’t leave. I tell Madora that this may be an issue because the only French phrase I know involves sex. Madora suggests I try it and see what happens.

Before we can get questioned, we are shunted into another line and almost immediately to the ticket clerk. Madora doesn’t show up in his system. I do. As a standby passenger. I am not amused and explain in no uncertain terms that I am not standby and have never been standby. He pounds on his keyboard for a few moments and comes up with a boarding pass and tells me to run since it is now 11:25 and my plane is boarding. I refuse.

He goes back to his keyboard and tries to print a boarding pass for Madora. The computer deletes her from the system. I explain in no uncertain terms that we will be travelling together and that I have no intention of leaving my sixteen-year-old daughter alone in France. Before I can reach over the counter and spark an international incident, he is able to find her in the system and print a boarding pass.

We now have to weave about half a football field through people in various states of distress, find the exit from the American Airline hellhole, and run back towards the gate entrance, past the line that is even longer and more desperate.

But first, we must go through passport control. Since our flight is boarding, we are pointed towards the express lane. The border agent is on her cellphone, having, from the tone of voice and the laughing, a personal conversation. It gives us time to have a great conversation with an American who works in Paris and does a great deal of travel. According to him, the questioning of American citizens started four months ago and is not a French thing, but an American one.

I try attracting someone’s attention, but am ignored in the finest French fashion. We finally approach border control and hand over our passports. Mine won’t scan. So, using one hand, the other too busy holding her rhinestone encrusted phone to her ear, she begins to re-arraign the computer peripherals with one hand. I suggest that she hang up her phone and do her job. Madora grabs my arm. She shoves our passports over the counter, but here’s the thing. Not once did she look up at us or make eye contact. We could have exchanged passports with the man behind us for all this woman would have known.

We then shoot through security. I will say that the French have security down to an art form. But it is now 11:45. I attempt to run, but I can feel my knee and ankle protesting and realize that I am doing more damage to both unhappy joints. I send Madora ahead with instructions to stand in the airline door until I get there and limp along as fast as I can. When I arrive at the gate, it is blocked off, so I ask where to board. “Oh,” I am told, “you aren’t boarding yet. Go sit down and we will call you.”

I am now pouring sweat, out of breath, angry, and in considerable pain. I feel my sarcastic, and generally repressed, personality start to boil up. I decide to find a bathroom and limp off. There is another line. Of course.

On my return, I find that the plane is now boarding. Madora is in group seven. I have no group on my boarding pass and after a few moments, she divulges that she had been called to the counter to get a new pass but that I hadn’t. The agent is announcing that only the groups that she has called will be allowed to board and the rest will be sent back to baggage hell. I go up to the counter and tell them I am happy to board with my group, but I have no group number. “Yes, madame, zat is because you are on ze standby.”

All Paris comes to a screeching halt. A few pigeons fly up in startlement. Even the dead in the catacombs can hear my reply.

In seconds, I have a boarding pass, a seat, and a group number. I am also in a complete and utterly furious sarcastic mood. My good personality is begging with my bad one to let it be in control. It’s a pretty interesting conversation.

Madora is ahead of me in line and when her boarding pass is scanned, the lights turn red. She is sent to a little gated off area to be questioned by security. “That is my sixteen-year-old daughter. I go nowhere without her and she speaks to no one without me.” I explain to the boarding agent. “Oh, oui, madame. You must answer ze security questions as well.” Now, we are both in the little square of purgatory. I know that my answers and attitude can make this go more easily. I also know that I am very very irritated. I remind myself that I need to reserve my irritation for the right people, not the French people who are only following orders. Just like at Dachau.

A very short French woman with a big smile questions us.

“You are togezer?’

“Yes.” Teeth gritting to keep civil.

“What is your relationship to each other?”

Three answers occur to me immediately. 1) she’s my daughter; 2) occasionally rocky but generally really good; and 3) oh, she’s a street kid I picked up in Prague. I open my mouth is the hope that my brain will provide the answer I want, but I am not really certain what is going to come out. Fortunately, my brain chooses option one, but it is close.

“Ok, so I talk to you togezer.” (Yes, you most certainly will.) When did you come here?” She asks Madora. Madora begins her answer, complete with extraneous and agonizingly precise detail. She is so ingenuously adorable that I can barely stand it.

At length, the agent turns to me. “And you?”

“I came on the 16^th, I think. I went to Marseilles to ride horses.”

“Ah, horses. You like to ride ze horses?” My brain produces several possible answers.

“Why yes, yes I do. (Otherwise I spent an insane amount of money to be hot, sweaty, and sore on the back of a big, stupid animal.) And then we met up and we have been traveling together ever since.”

“And Prague? What do you do in Prague? What is there to do?” (Now you want a travelogue?)

“We walked around Old Town and looked at stuff.”

“What do you do in Prague?”

“Buy stuff, apparently.”

“What do you buy?”

“Mostly street art. (And drugs. And a few leftover Soviet era weapons. And some porn. You know, the usual stuff).” The boarding line is gone. The plane is waiting but it won’t wait forever. Manners. Control.

“So what do you see in Prague?”

“A lot of old buildings. Ten million people and a complete disregard for vowels. (and traffic laws. Not to mention pee in every street corner and beer and absinthe barf everywhere.)”

“Oh, a complete disregard for vowels. Zat is very interesting. You can go. Have a great flight.”

We hustle down the gangplank.

“You did good, Mom.” Madora tells me.

Of course, we run into yet another line as we herd past people trying to shove their oversized belongings into overhead bins and filtering past first class and business class to our tiny seats in cattle class. And god help me, I start mooing. Madora gives me the look, apparently convinced I am going to be thrown off the flight and all this insanity will begin again.

Ah, travel has never been so glamorous. Or comfortable.

I wonder what would have happened if I had answered honestly – that I have become radicalized by travel to sane countries and I am filled with the desire to wreak havoc on our out-of-control political system until we return to where Americans traveling on American passports to America are not treated like criminals. I assume I would be discovering the comforts of the Bastille and interrogation by men in black suits.

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.

http://www.teviscup.org/results/tevis-2014.html

Silent Wings Museum

The C-47 rests proudly outside the Silent Wings Museum in Lubbock, Texas, its nose pointed to the sky and its tail pointing directly toward the museum, as if preparing to tow it off the ground as it did gliders a lifetime ago during World War II. Known more familiarly by its civilian designation, DC-3, the C-47 is not only part of the old airfield, but is also an integral part of the museum it guards. The Silent Wings Museum is dedicated to a branch of service during World War II that saw horrific and honorable action and then faded into obscurity.

Part of an old airport, with the control tower looming behind it, the entrance to the museum is not particularly impressive. Inside, however, is a different story. The remarkably well-laid out and interpreted displays make this a must see destination for anyone traveling near Lubbock, Texas.

The story of the gliders begins with a movie about how these machines and men served the Allies, predominately in the European theater. Quite possibly the best display was the videotaped stories told by the men who flew and rode in the gliders.

The history of the glider service was short but thrilling. Both the Soviet and German armies used gliders and these light weight planes proved deadly in delivering men and material to battle grounds. In 1941, US General Hap Arnold began a study into the effectiveness of gliders and by 1942, the service required 6,000 pilots. Many high ranking officials and military personnel were dubious about the effectiveness of the gliders, especially as the service was put under the direction of a former stunt pilot, Lewin B. Barringer, who had a more than glamorous reputation. Many of these doubters were invited to an outdoor presentation on the effectiveness of the aircraft. After some debate, the men were invited to turn around, only to find themselves facing a squadron of gliders landed silently behind them, and their armed passengers ready to take them prisoner. The glider program received enthusiastic support from that point on.

The Silent Wings Museum details the issues with building a plane light enough to be towed but strong enough to carry troops, jeeps, armament and other equipment, and as importantly, could withstand the stresses of being snatched off the ground by a low flying C-47 equipped with  a tow line. The movies are fascinating and the displays are laid out to help the visitor visualize just how the gliders served. In those pre-helicopter days, the returning gliders carried back wounded men, spies and captured enemy officers.

The gliders were extensively used during the invasion of Sicily. In a particularly awful show of nerves and miscalculation, many of the gliders were released too early as the C-47 tow pilots turned for home and away from anti-aircraft batteries. Many gliders and pilots were lost in the ocean on approach to land. By 1944, glider operations had improved and the gliders served with distinction on D-Day. Because the gliders required open fields to land in, the Germans booby trapped open fields with tree trunks, mounted upright. The GIs called this Rommel’s Asparagus.  One of the pilots recounted a story of coming on for a landing during D-Day. In the dark, they approached a field that their intelligence had assured them was free of Rommel’s Asparagus. For some reason, the pilot ordered the squadron of men in the back of the glider to lift their feet. Seconds later, the glider was gutted by a tree trunk. They landed safely, not one man injured, although the glider had been split in half.

As the war ended, gliders were replaced by helicopters and the glider division was disbanded by 1953. The US Air Force still uses gliders to train cadets, but the history of these magnificent machines and their men was almost lost. Thanks to the Silent Wings Museum, the glider program and its story will never vanish.