I recently found myself at an impromtu convention of reformed (mostly) moonshiners who are considering revolutionizing the alternative fuel industry.

The Old Timers compared recipes on octane-to-cost ratios and the M.I.T. crowd displayed new machinery designs guaranteed to cut costs even further. Since none of these delegates had official sanction for the event, it was foreordained that all product samples must be sampled or consumed in their entirety to the last drop so it wouldn’t find its way into the wrong hands or cups.

After that fuzzy part of the program was completed the conversation drifted around and finally settled on mules — their faults, merits, idiosyncrasies and personal habits, murderous and benign. Children, I came away from there knowing more about mules than I know about any of my ex-wives, although they all shared certain common characteristics. Old Uncle Jessie stated that a certain mule produced in Columbia, Tenn. from the right parentage measured 15 hands and could outrun a thoroughbred for two furlongs and after that point “kick the hell” out of anything with ambition to pass. Columbia has, or claimed, the distinction of being the mule capital of the world.

Juan, whose family is near El Paso, confirmed that fast-break trait and added that that type of crossbred hybrid is extremely high-strung and temperamental even for a mule and not good for much else other than calculated mayhem. Mr. “Pat” from Missouri spoke of mixing Morgan mares with the large Mexican strain of jack which were as large as a welch pony and turned out a strong and hardy draft mule. This was also the type used in the early logging days in the Mississippi Delta.

All crosses and mixes are said to be sure-footed in all terrains and a lot smarter than they look. (Duh). The cotton plantations preferred a lighter animal that required less feed because for five months of the year there wasn’t anything for them to do except eat and cause trouble.

I have heard similar stories from delta and hill farmers, parents etc. and it all pretty much fit together.

My only personal experience was with yet another strain much favored in the hill country of Arkansas, the Arkansas jumping mule — a cross between hunter and a jack. They are used for about the same purpose as a modern day four-wheeler in some circles.

Some hunting clubs such as Woodstock have a ban on four-wheelers and hunting on Crawley’s Ridge might involve cutting a fence in a non-emergency by unscrupulous hunters on a four-wheeler whereas a mule would just cross it and leave both fence and mule intact and the landowner not mule-lipped.

One of those wonders I happened to get acquainted with was a four-year-old mare with the unlikely name of Belly May. Her owner was a friend of mine who owned 40 acres and a mule in the midst of the federal reserve north of Helena, Ark. Now ol’ Pety had been in “them  hills” all his life. He had a repair shop, a small contractor’s business, a commercial fishing enterprise and a new wife.

Although they had lived together for 21 years in lawfully unwedded bliss, they had just recently tied the knot. I had known the pair of ‘em longer than that and never heard a cross word between ‘em. Till the day I met the mule.

I had popped over to check out the muscadine crop. As I approached the cabin (on foot). They were raising righteous hell at one another, her from the front porch and him from the front yard where he was in the process of saddling old Bell. It looked like he was gearing up for a prolonged leave of absence for his saddle bags were packed and his Winchester was in the boot. Before I could just sneak back to my Jeep and pretend I hadn’t been there, they saw me coming and temporarily suspended hostilities.

I didn’t linger long. As I was turning away Pete grabbed the horn and swung up. Now one of the traits peculiar to Bell May was she would always make a few jumping bucks to get the load settled in. After that she would be a good mule until the next time.

Old Pete usually remembered this and got ready for it, but this time in the confusion and conversation he had forgotten to “knee” the wind out of her. As soon as Bell felt the saddle shift she began to write a new chapter on the art of refined bucking. About then things started getting interesting.

The saddle turned turtle with Pete hung by a spur in the stirrups which seemed not to inconvenience Bell in the least. If anything it increased her ambition. At times she reared and pawed, at times crow-hopped with all four iron-shod hooves four feet off the ground. It was as grand of a spectacle as I ever hope to see.

The dogs were barking, the chickens were scattering, the rooster was crowing and the woman was still on the porch holding the bannister like a fan at a prize fight and shouting encouragement to the mule.

“Kill him, you darlin.’ Put that ________ in the ground were he belongs.”

And she was seemingly about to do just that. Although I had serous reservations about interrupting such a graceful animal during her ballet debut, I timed her landing and managed to grab both reins at the bit and close the show down. As soon as old Pete got his wits about him he crawled out of the wreckage of the saddle miraculously unscathed except for a few bruises and a busted ego.

The mule settled down after making one half hearted kick at the dog that only broke his leg; the rooster departed in search of the hens, the dog limped under the porch where Mrs. Pete still stood with a look of great disappointment written all over her face. Pete surveyed the damage and got the duct tape out and started mending the tack. The dog moaned under the porch and Bell May grazed in the yard while Mrs. Pete walked hollow-eyed back to her rocker. I believe she has held resentment for me ever since.

The muscadine crop showed poor potential so I’ve never been back. I don’t know whether Bell was really sure-footed enough to pull that stunt off and intentionally missed Pete with those terrible feet or whether he was the luckiest groom on Crawley’s Ridge that day.

I hear that a good mule will work for your 10 years just to get to kick you once, but I don’t know and don’t care to find out.

Stickin to the Jeep,

Ricky Harpole