The Gorko Gazette

Fu-Man-Buckaroo 

Morning strikes quick like white-lighting bites dead land, out in the wilderness – livin’ that trail-crew dream, ain’t as glamorous as they make it seem.  

Hitches, lengths of labor, sometimes three-months at-a-stretch, grow ya long-in-the-tooth, deep in the American back-woods sunshine. The crew had chins wearin’ my vision thin. Ancillary thoughts, that never matter in the hoof-it dust. Heavy feet always sleep, and gripes get nowhere like left behind, sunbaked, metal rust.  

We were about a month on hitch – I was musty, dusty, and lookin’ extra ripe. It was time to move camp, farther-on down the trail into that vast wilderness grind.  

The gear was loaded, and we sat around like bumps on a log, takin’ a break on our spines. Eventually, Horner made his way to the space where we’d lay in our tents in the moon splashed night.  

His trusty steed, Willy, walked the nine-mule team in tow – Poor, A-sexual fools! 

Built for luggin.’ That’s all they know!  

Horner was a cowboy-packer from a previous generation’s grit. He was old and grizzled, like stale bar-be-que; boasting the most elegant, Snow white, Fu-Man-Chu. It hung down to his chest and showed his age like rings on a tree. 

We had tromped long, desolate and rugged miles, and let Horner be. There was an irascible, never-say-die, gumption to his quality; the years of back-country livin’ had warped his mind permanently peripatetic.  

We basked in the new landscape,10-miles of less wind, and the trail split the earth like a maniacal grin. It derided the spirit in my thighs to rise out of this lone-hearted wilderness – corporeal souls are designed to endure the harshest stage we are forced to bend. 

The trail, like life, never leaves time to fully restore. It’s always: get up, and going, the point of everyday is survive, and that never leaves ya bored. Ya learn compassion and that it’s good to laugh at life’s little quirky things, remember every moment, and your own brain can be the worst for human-beings.   

We unloaded our gear. Horner was kind and let our supervisor talk off his ear. One of the mules, crazily stirred; twisting reigns, and now was facing the opposite direction, compared to the rest of the herd. We set up camp and the boss-men talked. 

Then Horner said, ‘I’ll be back in a week – wit’ fresh stock ‘nd all.’  

His voice, confidently lithe, it had been farther-n-back, cool in the fang’s eye, our starvation assuaged, He was the chill-est of the cattleman, on any side of the Mississippi – the bravest buckaroo, he wrangled your worries with delight.  

We paid thangs, no mind. Horner handled that with care, but like the howl of the wolf, his voice pierced the silent air. We froze stiff like mountains in the mist, our heads turned like mutilated carcass dread – some poor bones were gettin’ the gnaw of his chew. 

‘Randy! Cut the shit! All you cocksuckers better get in line!’ Horner hoarsely hollered, givin’ the 180-mule a reminder of who was at the front of this mule-chain.  

He barked a few more orders like an irate boss at an employee that botched a critical sale. Horner was madder than a hornet stuck in a coke-can. The mules yeed and hawed, and Randy lined up quick, just like an obedient, human soldier – Randy sported a dour face-of-shame, like a child when you catch ‘em tryin’ to be slick.   

I don’t know why? I still think about this moment, even till this day. Probably, because all a man can wish for is to grow old and get a human-named-animal to finally listen to what he has to say.  

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