You know, we’re enjoying summer right now, and to this old High Sierra packer, that means it’s time for mules. Naturally, there is no one time for mules, but pack station veterans, such as this one, know that summers, like this one, should be spent up there where you can hold out your hand and drop a rock a thousand feet.

When I packed for Gene Burkhart at Sequoia-Kings Pack Trains, we almost always rode horses, and packed mules. Just seemed to work out better that way. After I’d done this a few years, I didn’t need to ask the older packers why we “kids” (young men, actually. Fierce of brow and weak of arm) why we didn’t ride mules.

Here’s why:

Horses are comparatively stupid and mules are smart, especially in the mountains. In many cases, the mules were smarter than we who loaded them up. A cowboy can sometimes convince a horse to tackle a tricky part of the trail just because he thinks we know what we’re doing. A mule? Nope.

The reasons mules are so popular with packers was summed up well by my friend Slim Nivens of Pine Creek Pack Station out of Bishop. I was one of those teenagers back then in the 1950s, who had to know everything by Tuesday at 3 o’clock.

Slim was generous and patient with me. “Slim (which is my name, too), the difference between a horse and a mule is really pretty simple. You put a horse and a mule on the edge of a cliff and drive a fire engine at them. Red lights, siren, the whole works. Well, that horse sees that and will jump off the cliff, no matter what’s on his back at the time. The mule, however, will not be rushed into a decision. He’ll ponder whether it’s better to stand there and get hit by that fire truck, or to jump and be killed. Then he'll do one or the other, but he’ll do what he thinks is best.”

Mules, he said, don’t panic. A horse on the other hand, especially a young horse just learning how to haul me around on a trail, will probably kill me one way or another.

Another thing about a mule: you only have to teach them something once. They’ll remember it the rest of their lives. Good things and not-so-good things. There’s one little spot on the Sawmill Pass trail, for example, where the little four-year-old I was teaching unknowingly stepped in the middle of a rattlesnake stretched across the trail. Fortunately, the horse spooked uphill or someone else would be writing this.

Didn’t help the snake’s afternoon, either. The mule I was leading that day (I had four or five after her) got a good scare with that snake. Her name was Lady. Well, the little horse nicely filed that snake episode in the round file, But for years after that, every time Lady came to that spot in the trail, she’d slam on the brakes, blow atomic snot on a half acre of rocks, and had to be convinced that the snake wasn’t there any more. Even in pitch dark.

Mules, being a hybrid cross between a mare and a stud jack donkey, is much better than either of its parents. And if I have moments of silence and smiles on warm summer days, please excuse me. My best friends in those days weren’t always the other cowboys.

To learn more about the wonders of mules, read Sun Dog Days by Slim Randles. He could use the money.