Ain't You Got No Cah?
by
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We awoke to a heavy ground fog - obviously, not good for travelling. To our relief it soon cleared, and we found ourselves on a long, straight road. Countless logging trucks whizzed by us. That was not surprising considering that pine forests were so prominent in the landscape. The trucks caused us no problem since visibility was excellent and there was little other traffic. We cheered as we crossed the Florida state line and entered Georgia. Soon we crossed the Suwannee River and found ourselves in Fargo. We bought supplies there and continued north to the small motel that Woodrow had recommended. I really looked forward to a night in a MOTEL with its civilized comforts. By this time, I was maybe 50% Wagon Woman. When we arrived at the Forest Motel, we found it small, all right - four ancient units right on the road. It was adequate and clean, though, so we took a room for the amount of $l5.00. While Roy tied Jack between some nearby trees, I looked around at our new home. Adequate may be too complimentary a word. The shower was there, but was so small that if you weren't careful, you would scrape your elbows on the walls. When we turned on the TV, the one channel available had fishing news. We had to think positive: it did have beds. We put our energies to fixing supper. We cooked by the wagon which we had parked in front of our room. As we ate, we felt fortunate: it was a pretty area; few cars were on the road; and we were the only occupants of the motel. And according to Woodrow, we could feel 'safe'. We went for a walk and turned in early. "Your mule is loose," yelled an agitated voice outside our motel door. Those words were guaranteed to strike terror in the heart of a horse (or mule) owner. It was about 5:00 in the morning and pitch black outside. Both of us jumped out of bed, jerked the door open, and heard a voice from a pickup truck outside continue, "He's down by the school house. Put your clothes on, and I'll take you to try to find him." Frantically, we grabbed our clothes. Roy put some feed in a bucket, got his flash light and Jack's halter, and we took off with Wallace in his pickup truck. I rode in the cab and Roy jumped in the back. As he raced back toward Fargo, Wallace explained that he was really on his way to work, but felt he had to help us. He said, "I saw you all today at the post office in town, so when I saw him running down the road, I knew who the mule belonged to. I tried, but I couldn't catch him. I've been looking down all the side roads trying to find you. I got on my CB and asked if anyone had seen your wagon. A trucker came on and said he had seen your rig at the motel north of town." As he was telling me this, he was also calling on his CB for help. "Breaker, breaker for Fargo. Anyone seen that mule?" We could see nothing. The answer came, "I saw him at the curve north of town." My mind was racing, full of terrifying pictures of Jack, almost black, running down the middle of the highway in the dark. He would be oblivious to any traffic, only wanting to go home. I fervently prayed as we sped along. A few minutes later, we heard, "He's just run through town headed south." We couldn't be too far behind. As we reached downtown, three men at the filling station yelled, "He's just gone through here. He's down by the bridge." We raced on. A minute later, we caught sight of Jack in the roadside park by the river. He was still running, desperately trying to find a way out, to keep heading south. His problem: he was afraid to cross the long bridge over the Suwanee River just ahead. Wallace pulled the truck across the park road, and we got out. We carefully kept our eyes on Jack, knowing that, above all, he didn't want to be caught. But, by coaxing him with sweet talk and sweet feed from the bucket, we finally were able to put our hands on him. Roy got the halter around his neck, and Jack's running days (nights) were over - for that night at least. However, the ordeal wasn't over. It dawned on Roy that now he was going to have to lead Jack the six miles back to the motel. He kindly offered to let me wait in town, and he would pick me up later in the wagon. Considering the time involved (at four miles an hour) I declined, saying I would just walk back with him. We expressed our appreciation to Wallace for his caring and generosity. We were forever indebted to him. He said goodbye and headed off in the dark for his job. Then, as we started off on our long walk, there he was, back again. He offered to tie Jack to the back of the pickup and slowly drive us to the motel. When Roy declined (a pickup can't go that slowly), he offered at least to take me to the motel, for which I was truly grateful. When I offered, he refused to accept any money for all his trouble. What a special person! Roy and Jack arrived at the motel a little after 7:30. Roy was really provoked with Jack. He told me, "Do you know that I had to drag that mule every single step of the way? For six miles! He was determined to go the other direction. He was pulling on me every minute, trying to get back home . . . and he knows which way that is - South!" Of course, we couldn't believe that Jack had gotten loose. That night, as he did every night, Roy had fastened him to a rope between two trees with a strong (the heaviest he could buy) snap on the end of the lead rope from his halter. Evidently, Jack's rope had become wrapped around one tree. Something must have scared him, he rared back, and the snap broke. The halter hadn't broken. Free, he instinctively headed toward home. The irony was that Roy always worried about the possibility of Jack's getting loose. At least once every night, he woke up to check that Jack was still there and all right. This night, Roy had given Jack his usual check. In the motel, I had asked Roy as we went to bed, "Are you going to worry about Jack tonight?" Roy had said, with relief, "Not tonight. He's fine. Tonight I am really going to sleep and not worry about him." Later that day, we pursued all the 'ifs'. If we had camped south of town and the bridge, if Wallace hadn't seen us at the post office, if he hadn't had a CB, if we hadn't stayed in the motel right by the road where the trucker could see our rig, if Jack had gotten loose in the middle of the night when no one was going to work, the story would have had a different ending. We were sure of that. Jack would either have been killed on the highway or would have arrived back in Leesburg before we could have found him. We are eternally thankful that it worked out the way it did, and we were able to continue our trip. Jack, your protest was duly noted but, this time at least, you were out-voted. North is still the way to go.
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About the Book
This book relates the true story of a couple’s 600 mile, mule-drawn wagon trip from central Florida to the Smoky Mountains of western North Carolina. Lasting 28 days, this journey would ordinarily take some twelve hours to drive. The participants were Roy, Ann, Jack ("a good-looking mule"), and Sigmund, their boxer/Labrador retriever. They carefully planned a self-contained trip/adventure, but soon found themselves in daily interactions with a series of interesting, funny, and, above all, caring people who, for whatever reason, insisted on taking them in ‘off the street’ and treated them as royalty.
About the Author
The author lives with her husband in central Florida in the winter and the mountains of western North Carolina in the summer. They have participated in many group wagon train events. Her passions include growing roses, reading, writing, traveling - though not often by wagon - and playing with their family of grown children and young grandchildren.