Riding the Outlaw Trail by Simon Casson & Richard Adamson

Author:Simon Casson & Richard Adamson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eye Books
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

RIDING THE HIGH COUNTRY

“What are we doing here?”

THE SUNDANCE KID

SIMON:

June 24. Kurt Olsen hauled us from Green River. We passed through Thompson Springs, a remote outpost comprising a few wooden buildings and a deserted railway station. The southern gateway into the Uintah and Ouray Indian Reservation, this country is usually reserved for intrepid hikers, extreme cyclists and hunters – not three lunatics on horses. The most prominent landmark is a massive bluff overlooking the town.

Kurt’s truck crashed and banged up the dusty, rutted track towards Sego, a mining ghost town that was nothing more than the ruins of stone buildings crumbling into dust. Brush and vegetation slowly strangled and reclaimed the canyon floor. As we trundled past, I wondered what this rowdy coal mining camp was like in its heyday.

1897. Accompanied by a driver and buggy, Butch and Elzy Lay drive a fine string of horses through Sego on their way to Arizona. Butch pulls up to ask the storekeeper, Bud Milton, for permission to water the horses. Bud keeps a fine string of racehorses. He notices Butch’s outstanding mounts but doesn’t venture outside to parley. The Wild Bunch uses Ballard Brothers Store, maybe quite often. Joe Walker, who is a fringe member of the gang, runs cattle and horses on Florence Creek with Jim McPherson and needs to re-supply locally.

SIMON:

I tried hard to imagine Butch and Sundance being here, but somehow it didn’t feel like their kind of place. Remote mining towns were too rough and ready for the real sports, and we know for sure that Butch and Sundance enjoyed finery – deluxe hotels, tailored clothing, good wine and cigars. In comparison, Sego was a throwback to the Stone Age.

At the summit, we quickly unloaded, but not without a brief but alarming skirmish inside the packed trailer between my mare Sunday and one of the mules Kurt was also hauling.

We sat and demolished a packed lunch before striking out into unknown territory. Perched on the bluff, we gazed towards Green River. The sky was white. In the distance, a sea of brown, beige and orange hills floated on the horizon, below us a series of canyons slashed by evergreens promised interesting riding country. Altitude was up to 6,400 feet.

Kurt led down a gentle ridge paralleling Thompson Canyon towards Hell’s Hole. His mules rapidly outdistanced our horses – their pace was phenomenal. Within minutes, they had disappeared into the thick undergrowth, leaving us floundering.

We struggled on thrashing through the foliage when suddenly a sheer drop of a thousand feet presented itself in the form of a canyon below. The horses began to baulk. Richard carefully traversed up a rocky slope, and we continued edging through the troublesome undergrowth. Kurt was waiting patiently on a ridge wondering what the fuss was about. It was certainly tough going for the horses – but the mules were unperturbed. I was impressed.

RICHARD:

Mules are better than horses for many duties. The US military successfully used mules for 125 years (until 1956) and considered them

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