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   When things go wrong, they do it in the most inconvenient way possible. I was mowing the lawn between the lake and the cabin yesterday when inconvenience again reared its ugly head. The mower had about half of a tank of gas in it. Surely that would be enough. I did not want to waste the cool morning by going to town to fill the gas can. By the time I finished the lawn, the gas gauge read empty but would still move if I rocked the mower. I like to mow across the dam and up to the top gate every other week or so when I finish with the lawn. I did not mow it last week and guessed I had just enough to make a couple of passes across the dam and up the hill. I almost made it. At the top gate, the mower sputtered to a halt. As the crow flies, it is only 500 yards to the house. As the tired and hot person walks, it is a long half mile. I was annoyed, but my walk back reminded me; it could be worse.

   Our farm has a long and narrow shape to it. I was running cows and horses on the land as very little of it is suitable for crops. In the first few years, I discovered, any open pasture would revert to forest if not mowed or brush cut every year or two. My summer routine was to park the tractor and brush cutter at the south gate and leave from there for a day cutting weeds, rose bushes, and saplings after fueling up. On one particular day, I had worked my way to the far end of the farm. I was heading down a fairly steep hill in the old International 966 when something caught a hydraulic line, breaking it. A fountain of oil shot out and I instantly had no steering or brakes. With the creek bank and a couple of good sized cedar trees looming before me, I was contemplating my lack of options when the tractor hit one of the cedar trees and came to a stop. Thankful to not be dead or injured, I checked the tractor for any additional damage. Finding none, I now needed to make my way back to the truck, get some tools to remove the hydraulic line, get it repaired, bring it and a bunch of oil back and I would again be good to go. Since I could not drive the truck all the way back to the tractor, it would entail a lot of walking.

   I started the long walk to the truck when I was met by a group of horses coming to see what I was doing. The horses that summered at the farm were brood mares. Their purpose in life was to raise colts so the only training they had was to lead and load in a trailer. There was no need to break them to ride. They were gentle enough; they just lacked any training pertaining to someone using them for transportation. Dreading the thought of walking all the way back to the truck in the heat, I thought one of these tame old mares would probably not throw me off. Pollyanna walked up wanting attention and a good ear scratching. Lacking anything resembling a bridle, I took off my belt and wrapped it around her neck. I swung up onto her back and was pleasantly surprised when she just stood there rather than dumping me on the ground. I gave her a gentle nudge in the ribs. She started walking just like a trained horse. There was just one problem. There was no steering. Pulling on my belt to turn her was like pulling on the barn. Nothing happened and she walked around in circles, wherever she wanted. My directions made no impression on her. Before long, I decided, this was not going to work.

   Riding back to the truck still seemed like a better idea than walking so I decided to check out another mare in the herd that had been following Pollyanna and me. Cookie walked up to me and much to her surprise, I hooked my belt around her neck. She jerked away from me and with the rest of the horses, galloped over the hill and out of sight. Being out of transportation options, I started the long walk to the truck, using one hand to hold my pants up.

     I hate to walk unless for a good reason, such as hunting. If a person is not carrying a gun, walking is just drudgery.

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