By Jerry Barksdale for The News Courier
July 11, 2008 11:37 am
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In early October 1974, Ron Lawler and I began planning an Elk hunting trip to Colorado.
The country was in a crisis. The price of gasoline had skyrocketed as a result of the 1973 oil embargo by Arab members of OPEC. The scarcity created long lines at the pumps and many stations had closed.
More sober minded individuals might have chosen to hunt closer to home instead of setting out on a 1,200-mile journey to Sweetwater Lake located high in the Rocky Mountains. We didn’t sweat the small stuff.
My old green, GMC pick-up, which carried no title and no bill of sale, had a camper canopy on back and held about 15 gallons of gas. It averaged approximately 12 miles per gallon. If we couldn’t find gas along the way our trip might end at Memphis.
“Why don’t we put an extra tank in the back?” said Ron. “I can connect it with the existing one.”
“Good idea.”
He bolted a 30-gallon tank in the bed of the pick-up. On the rear of the truck we strapped a 5-gallon Jeri can of gas. In all, we had about 50 gallons of petro, enough to carry us halfway to our destination.
We departed Athens in our mobile bomb, happy to be on the road and away from our grumbling wives who didn’t appreciate the importance of our trip. Ron drove.
“Did I ever tell ya about that ol’ one-eyed horse I owned in Waxahatchee, Texas?” he drawled.
“Nope.”
“Well, he was the dangest ol’ horse I ever saw…”
His voice was relaxing. I soon forgot about nettlesome clients, tyrannical judges and creditors. Ron was still talking about that one-eyed horse when I fell asleep near Iuka, Miss.
Around 3 a.m. we pulled in at a windswept station somewhere in the Texas panhandle. A kid ran out in the cold, shivering.
“Can I he’p you?”
“Fill ‘er up,” I said.
I went inside and watched through the window as he pumped gas. When he had pumped over 15 gallons and the truck was still taking gas, he bent over and looked beneath to see if it was running out on the ground. He squinted at the numbers on the pump in disbelief. I moseyed outside.
“Anything wrong?”
“How big’s ya tank?
“About 15 gallons. Why?”
I’ve already pumped that much,” he said.
“Can’t be. Something must be wrong with your pump.”
“No,sir. State checked it just the other day.”
When we drove away the kid was looking at us and shaking his head in disbelief.
At Sweetwater Lake, we slept in a small cabin and at night warmed in front of a crackling fire. Ron talked about horses that he had owned like some men talk about good women they’ve known. The only evidence of game I saw was an Aspen tree gnawed down by a beaver. I counted myself lucky. I never wanted to kill anything anyway.
On the return trip we were stopped at a roadblock, suspected of being two escapees from state prison in a stolen truck. When I couldn’t produce a title or bill of sale, the cops thought they had their men.
It was my most memorable hunting trip. I didn’t bag any game, but I did come home with a good story. But I have always wondered how the tale ended about the old one-eyed horse from Waxahatchee.
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