I
don’t know about deer or bison or antelope and other two-toed ungulates but
those with single hooves, at least horses and mules, can be astoundingly
flatulent. It’s not an issue when they eat their normal diet of grasses and
sedges but we supplement our stock’s natural feed with a couple of quarts of
grain in the morning before we take them out on the trail. Just plain oats,
unprocessed and still in their husks, or crushed grain mixes called “cob” (for corn,
oats, and barley). The Forest Service often buys a cob mix laced with molasses
which I call “horsey granola.” They’re all about the same—full of carbohydrates—but
the cob with molasses is also loaded with sugar. The four-leggers eat mostly grass
or hay, remember, so this stuff is like rocket fuel and gives a real boost to a
long day in the backcountry. They love
it; some are addicted as if it were heroin or booze.
An
aside: a bucket of grain, shaken not stirred, will lure an entire herd into the
corral; they’ll gallop across their pasture (with the worst junkies in the
lead) at sight of a feedbag. Or any
bucket-like object. Once I had to catch some horses we kept at a distant
station but forgot to bring grain or even the feedbags that fit over their
heads with an adjustable strap. They’d have nothing to do with me and just stood
glaring like a gang of sullen teenagers. So I jogged back to the station’s
garage and rooted around until I found something that’d do nicely: an empty can
of house paint. The horses and mules thought it looked like something that might—ought to—contain a treat and they
charged into the corral followed by a cloud of dust. Gotcha. As always, once
I’d closed the gate behind them their expressions changed to bewilderment—“Wha…what
happened?! How did we get suckered again?”
This is a perfect demonstration of how simple-minded they are in certain
regards and just how much they crave grain.
But,
back to the point: it makes them fart.
Obviously it’s a result of gastric fermentation.
Their stomachs always rumble—if you
put an ear to one of those gigantic bellies you’ll hear an amazing array of
factory-like sounds. (In fact, a horse without those gurglings and bubblings is
either very sick…or dead). But after they’ve had their dose of grain and stand
awhile at the hitchrail this activity increases dramatically. Internal pressures
mount. But oftentimes it’s not until a string hits the trail that they’ll cut
loose, one after another—a duet here, a trio there in the first hundred yards
out of the corral. The odor isn’t too foul compared to dogs’ (or our) gas. The
tonal quality is the same but an octave
lower and the volume tripled. They can go on and on like a Monty Python-esque parody
and it always astonishes anyone who’s never been around livestock. It’s also guaranteed
to raise a hearty guffaw. For some mysterious reason flatulence, planet-wide, is
inevitably a source of humor. Eskimos and Bushmen and Koreans—even the French—will
burst into peals of laughter at the sound of a ripe one. It is a truly ridiculous sound but why it
can make us laugh so hard is eternally beyond me.
We have this mule in our small herd—Brenda—who
showed up in the late ‘80s. She’s a good mule. She’s enormous. She’ll cross
streams by tip-toeing on little step-stones to keep her feet dry while carrying
two-hundred pounds of freight. She’s nobody’s fool. And if there’s something
Brenda really doesn’t want to do the
old gal just won’t do it. We’re something like friends these days but have had
numerous battles—most of which I lost—and she’s driven me to levels of outrage I’ve
otherwise seldom attained. Once, I punched her in the face with my fist,
injuring my hand; mules are hard-headed in more ways than one. I’ve cursed her
in frightful tones with awful words which she understands perfectly and
sometimes responds to when a calm voice has no effect whatsoever. She tolerates
my slanderous tirades and always forgives but she’s caused an exorbitant amount
of frustration and has come close to killing me. I’ve forgiven her trespasses as well and through the
years of summers we’ve forged a bond of tolerant familiarity. Brenda doesn’t
recognize my name (nor her own) but understands that I know where to scratch
those special places that make her smile and sigh. She knows that I’m the guy
who doles out candy before making her and her friends go to work.
The summer of ‘98 I was doing a lot
of packing. We had piles of FEMA money that year after the big winter flood had
done so much damage and hired a bunch of new trailworkers; I was supporting
three crews by hauling their resupplies and packing camps in or out. At one
point two of these crews were working in the same area, north of Sonora Pass, in
the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness. This particular day I was leading a fully-laden
string—five pack-horses plus Brenda—to resupply one crew and happened to pass
the other working a section of trail by the river. Some were old friends and
veterans; others, youngsters new to this life. The rookies eyed me leading this
sixty-foot-long circus train, sitting tall on my handsome saddlehorse in my
packer costume, with visible awe. I pulled over to visit a bit; complemented
them on their work and told them how impressed I was with how much they’d
accomplished since my last visit. We made smalltalk wilderness-style for a
minute or two. Then Brenda slowly lifted her tail and saluted us with the old
Bronx cheer.
No one took much notice at first. Then
I saw a couple of kids smirking. We continued to chat but she just went on and
on…and on, with rat-a-tat-tat bursts of methane. Conversation dwindled. Then
gradually came to a complete standstill while Brenda, with placid demeanor,
continued passing gas as if the shut-off valve were broken. Finally I turned in
my saddle. All of us were watching intently as she pooted away but the horse
next in line, his nose mere inches from
the source, wasn’t registering anything aside from boredom by the look on his
face. At this point kids and old hands alike were exchanging nervous glances
and grinning sheepishly. I shouted, “GO,
Brenda, GO!! “, breaking the palpable
tension just as the barrage petered out at last. “You did it!! You just set the
WORLD RECORD!! 13.6 SECONDS!!” And then we all had us one giant hoot….
13 July 2003, 4 Dec 2012
© 2012 Tim
Forsell
All
rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment