It is that time of year again. One among many. The doves have flown, the squirrels await and Moccasin Bend sits where it always was and always will be.

We chose the back approach today. It was the only way to get in when the river was up. These are not the same horses. Horses are not built to serve beyond a 25 year span, but I do have one of the original companions for company.

The first time we rode in together she was losing her first tooth. She talked a lot and the squirrels were safe enough to frolic. We were, as I recall, on a trotline mission. It has been a quarter of a century—but today, it is like yesterday.

As the nags shuffle the trail, the conversation reflects the memories.

“Do you remember? Where is the pass? Have you been to Devil’s Gate?  Is McAurther  still alive? Did you ever catch a big snake?

She still talks a lot. She can ride her own horse now and has children older than she was the first time we made this trip.

They didn’t make this ride because the camp is not grandkid secure yet. Grandparents and mothers are not as bold as they once were, when the rug rats are concerned. On the first trip she sat the cantle of the saddle, clutching a Barbie Doll accessory purse containing fish hooks, .22 rifle cartridges, a “Do list” from her  mother, and a handful of steelie balls for her slingshot. (The slingshot had been confiscated by the beloved ex the previous week, but like any doting father I broke the rules and manufactured another for the adventure.)

After all, a young lady has no business unarmed in the deep dark woods.

We caught fish and shot cans in the current. We also caught more than our share of ticks and chiggers. Fortunately, I was, and she remains, immune to poison ivy. That was a blessing.

There were more deer tracks than we remembered and the squirrels were more prolific. The guns are heavier but the cameras are lighter.

The cameras are all we will use to shoot today. The guns are for self defense. There are still a few really big mosquitoes out here, and they are vampirish by nature.

I think about the horses. Back in the halcyon days we had the Mayflower Mare. She would stand to the gun and would swim in pursuit of fair game.

I wouldn’t depend on this new bunch. Beck pointed out the fact that the Mayflower could track by scent, a feat normally reserved for dogs. We had a pretty sorry pack of hounds back in those days, but as she remarked today, “We had a d____ good horse and a passable boat.”

“How could you beat that daddy?” she asked.

We saw what was left. The Pass is still there. It was dredged by Union soldiers in 1863 to provide a by-pass to Vicksburg. It’s at the lower reaches of the “Bend.” (The pass was a dismal failure by Union standards.)

The Devil’s Gate was an old bowed tree on the upper end. When the Coldwater fell below the “Varmit level,” you could pass beneath the arch in a leakie boat. Some of the old branches of the old tree were submerged. You could hear the current gurgling below the surface. It was a pleasant spot, unless you passed in the sunlight. The water boas and the more serious reptiles liked to enjoy the sun on the arch of the gate. That was easier to deal with in daylight than the passage in the dark of the moon with a sharp current below, and the coyotes and great horned owls raising unmitigated hell in the heavy night’s silence.

The first trip we couldn’t afford lifejackets, so I strapped her to a two-and-one-half gallon gas jug for flotation purposes. I figured she could float to the next bend and be “fetched”.

It (the rescue process) was never put to the test. She stayed put with remarkable success. Her mother would have had a heart attack if she had known. Looking back, I don’t feel all that stable myself. She handles that newfangled horse with more confidence than was born of good sense, but as long as the horse respects her judgement, she is safe enough.

The cameras are short on ammunition. The rifle and pistols are still loaded. There are beer and Coke cans at the Pass, left over from days gone by.

We have the ammunition. We have the memories. We have the young’uns.

I still don’t have much confidence in these new horses. Maybe the grandkids can teach ‘em somethin’.

Ricky