Tales Of An Old-Fashionista...

 

 I guess you can call me the accidental old-fashionist (or, for the savvier set, the old-fashion-ista): a decade or so ago, the idea of seeking out people and places that adhere to a much simpler life, from an earlier time would have been an impossible thought. Now, as has been better put by a more eloquent writer: I have thought of six impossible things before breakfast.

At present, I find myself in the thick of it, amongst people who find a kinship amongst each other, and with older folkloric type ways.  This, folks, is unapologetic NON- progress--I think there is something important in the keeping with these olden ways, and something we lose in each precious skill forgotten in the past. But all is not lost, as there are those, whether casually or purposefully, keep the small simple ways alive, and this is the stuff that makes my tiny soul gleeful. 

There are those who still listen to the Songs of the Past. There are simple, maybe courageous, little stories to be told in them. There are people who still bother to keep up with the traditions, and while I can't say that this sort of life is a glove that fits all hands, there is something still worthwhile in it.

A swirl of these thoughts run through my mind on my most improbable journey yet: I am sitting here amongst the kinsmen of a Southern Wagon train about to trek for six days using nothing but literal horsepower. There is something powerful about this, but equally ironic and sad: this is the last year of a 31 year run for this grand event.

There was no time to dwell on anything but beauty and adrenaline. We had just gone through the first part of the Alabama Wagon Train ,  and I and my friend Kira had just hopped onto one of the wagons, the lowline cart hooked up to Kate and Hank, Mr. Jim's mules. Mr. Jim and his wife were already at the front seats, and Kira and I rounded the back, jacketed and gloved against the chilly morning.

We were wagon number 9 in a long line of thirty-odd wagons and then 60 riders who brought up the rear. I won't lie: there was a grandiose feeling to the whole affair, even the equines seemed to sense it, stepping high as if they were in a four star parade. The whole morning affair seemed pretty straight forward, despite the clammy and gray morning weather. Wagons got hitched, horses and mules lined up by an owner and a wife, daughter, or family member; most folks around here were old hands at this, they'd been coming to this wagon train for years.

Mr. Reynolds, his daughter, and their two mules. He was the number two wagon and had apparently been to this wagon train over a dozen times...

I marveled at the skill of it all--there were scouts on various mounts--their ultra neon yellow vests with the word "SCOUT" marking them unmistakably--whose goal was to ride back and forth along the train, looking for problem spots, helping those that needed. Each wagon ranked by those who had been at the train the longest (in my last post, you'll note that Mr. Hollis was the lead wagon), and various wagons carried decorative flags, their steeds decked out in various finery.   Wagon Master Mr. Thomas was something straight out of a Western, grey haired with a near-handlebar mustache, with a jovial attitude and wise crack in the face of all problems.

Scout's honor....

In fact, there seemed to be a general jokester camaraderie amongst most of the participants, perhaps a Southern response to "don't worry, be happy," toward any adversity.  Take that, New York worriers...most folks on the train weren't phased by much, and even the humorous answer to the question "are we there yet?" was officially "4 more miles," a joke so long running they had even made a pin with that very saying for people to wear at the event.

I have to say I was impressed overall with the openness and simple joy extolled by everyone I met. There was no "them" and "us" mentality amongst anyone who saw or talked to me (well, there was the young fellow who called me a "Yankee" when I told him I was from New York, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye so that you couldn't be mad at him!).  Indeed, I interviewed several people who, upon finding out the reason I was there sad with sincere grins and happy surprise: "Welcome to the Alabama Wagon Train!"

Most of them seemed to enjoy talking to , were very forthcoming about their love for the Wagon Train community, and genuinely loved equines. My addled brain tried to wrap around simple answers to the question "how many horses (or mules) do you have." The answer I mostly got: "oh, fifteen," or "a half dozen mules and half dozen horse."  Yep, these folks had not jumped into this life headlong, or casually.

The odyssey itself was as beautiful as it's participants. We traversed some of the most pristine forest land, crisscrossed by streams, hills, and other wild and woodsy places.  We joked about rest stops, and mostly admired the horses (and mules):

The white mules in the wagon directly behind us.

Percheron Crosses.....

Mr. Mike's horses (you saw him hitching one up in the last post)

The view from our wagon....

And that was just half of the story.....

Is it strange to say that I envied these people? There was no high tech magic, no slickery to anything that was happening. These people had dirt under their nails and boots. There was tons of training in each beast, hours of work and sweat and hope, prayers, and blessed luck. And I wanted to be amongst them, another olden day vagabond, another modern old-fashionista....