A post on the facebook page for Horse Trails and Camping Across America, just sparked a memory for me from my youth. It is one of my most cherished memories and has had a strong impact on my life.

When I was sixteen years old, my father took my younger brother and me on a deer hunting trip into the Blue Wilderness Area of eastern Arizona. Since we were living in Tucson, Arizona at the time, it was quite an expedition for us. We packed up our cabover camper and our 6-horse stock trailer and three horses and headed out.

The drive took nearly all day long, and we arrived at Alpine, Arizona late in the afternoon. We took Red Hills Trail down into the Blue, toward the Blue River, stopping about 3/4 mile above the river at a level spot large enough for our rig to park. We set up camp there and spent the next couple days riding out from there.

My dad took my brother with him and I spent most of my time hunting alone. I would ride the horse to a likely looking spot, tie her to a tree, and hunt on foot. My dad had taught me how to “Navajo” to sneak up on unsuspecting deer, so I spent a lot of time sneaking around trying to be quiet. Didn’t see a thing, of course. On the second evening, Dad killed a deer, but it was too late in the day to get it out. He hung it in a tree and left it overnight. The following morning, he and I rode back in to get it.

We rode our Quarter Horses, and led a Half-Arab greenbroke fillie to pack the deer out. We had no idea how she would react to the smell of blood. When we arrived at the deer, we blindfolded the fillie. I held her while Dad worked on getting the deer up on the saddle and button-holed to the horn (we had no pack saddles or paniers at that time). The fillie stood still and caused no problems. Then my dad started tying the front and hind legs of the deer forward, near the front quarters of the fillie. She turned her head around and started sniffing the deer’s bloody hooves. We stood on-guard, not knowing what to expect. She sniffed a few seconds, then took a big old bite out of one of the deer’s feet! The next thing we know, she’s sniffing my dad’s bloody hands (bloody from getting the deer tied onto the saddle), and she takes a bite out of his hand! Well, we stopped worrying about things and removed the blindfold. We figure we had a carnivorous horse on our hands.

We started back toward the camp with dad leading the fillie and me bringing up the rear. Since we had no trail to follow, we just picked our way back. We eventually found ourselves facing a bluff, with no way around without having to go a long way around. You really couldn’t see much farther than a few feet anyway, because it was so thick with trees and brush, so picking a trail was essentially picking the best way through what was right in front of you. So, we started picking our way up this sandstone bluff. At one point the horses had to jump up a step about eighteen inches or so, then immediately jump up another one about the same height. Dad’s 16+ hand Quarter Horse handled it without problems, but when the fillie made her try, that’s when trouble started.

The fillie made the first step, but when she made her try for the second one, the deer on her back settled to the rear and pulled her over backwards. Over back she went, off the first step, and continued rolling head-over-heels down the steep bank for another thirty feet or so, ending up on her back with her feet uphill and her head against a tree. She was scared and shaking and wouldn’t move to try to get herself up.

We parked our horses where they were, tying them off to whatever we could find, and jumped down to help the poor fillie. We cut the deer off her, then got her saddle cinch loosened. We got the saddle off and checked her all over. Luckily, there were no serious injuries. In fact, she wasn’t all that beat-up, but she was so scared she wouldn’t try to get up. We ended up tying a rope around her neck and snubbing it off to a tree to give her something to brace against. We got her legs turned downhill, and she finally got up. After letting her rest and calm down for a few minutes, we saddled her up, tied the deer back on, and made our way on up the bluff and back to camp without further incident.

The last day of our hunt, Dad had a treat for us. He left my brother and me with the horses, while he drove the truck and trailer up to the top of the Blue. Then he hitch-hiked back down to us, so we could ride the horses up out of the Blue on a primitive trail. We were excited. Then Dad got back and we started saddling up. Turned out we had forgotten our bridles. They were still in the trailer.  Oh well, we just made-do with halters.

The trail was, I believe, called Red Hills Trail, like the road. I doubt you can find it anymore. It was not maintained even then. You could see the trail for the most part, but often you had to look for the old blazes on trees every 50-100 feet. We ascended from about 4,500 feet to around 9,000 feet in about seven or eight miles. It was a tough trail, and pretty scary in a few places, for kids like my brother and me, but we trusted Dad and the horses seemed to take it all in stride.

We arrived at a place that leveled out for a bit at around lunchtime. I remember it because there were juniper trees there that must have been several hundred years old. Some were as much as six feet in diameter. There was grass for the horses and a beautiful vista that spread out before us. Dad pulled out a large can of Van Camp’s Pork and Beans for lunch. Then we noticed we had forgotten to bring spoons as well. Not to worry! Dad pulled out his trusty Buck pocket knife and whittled out a wooden spoon for us. We sat there in the sunshine, eating pork and beans with a wooden spoon, listening to the horses quietly munching grass in the background, and the world was right, just for a while.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the ride, except that we were a couple of tired, but proud boys when we arrived at the trailer that evening. None of us have ever forgotten that meal with the wooden spoon. It has become a tradition in my family to eat pork and beans (and other canned foods) with a hand-carved wooden spoon on campouts and pack trips, in honor of that lunch meal on the side of a mountain in the fall of 1975.

That trail ride was the beginning of my love of horse packing.

Thanks, Dad.