Eleven teenage cowboys saddled up to hit the trail. We broke from Turpin Meadows, never thought this trip would fail.
We’d planned our trip, so many nights, I’d say danged near a year. My cousin was the one in charge of all the food and gear.
We rode back near some twenty miles. The horses all but spent. Then set up camp and cooked the steaks inside our new cook tent.
The horses were all fenced in or were tied up for the night. ‘Twas time to sit next to the fire. A well-deserved delight.
With bellies full of grub and sitting by the fire’s glow, Old Mother Nature made her call. Said, “Time for you to go!”
I quizzed my cousin, “Toilet paper?” Desperate in my plea. I won’t forget his wide eyes if I live to ninety-three.
He said, “I plumb forgot about the toilet paper roll! Ya better start to gather leaves and dig yourself a hole.”
The frightful news sure traveled fast out to the camping crew. They calculated lynching but not a rope among the few.
So, we gathered leaves, then hurried off, the well-known “Two Step Stride.” But some leaves were too scratchy for our tender, young backside.
My cousin, in his genius, said, “Just head down to the lake. But don’t forget your Ivory soap and scrub for goodness sake!”
We were finally back to normal. No more scratchy, itchy seats. Compared to leaves and grass the soap and water’s hard to beat.
That night, while sleeping in my bag, I heard the loudest splash. I rolled on out then headed for the lake in one fast dash.
The sky was clear, the moon so bright, heard yodeling calls from loons. But on that fateful night, I swear, I witnessed two full moons.
