By Wilson Camp
I was only ten years old (1923) and my recollections are somewhat hazy. In 1923 my all around cowhand father bought, traded or rustled?? 30-35 wild mustangs in Nevada. I was in the round-up and captured those speedy steeds. But a little background first.
I was raised on a ranch in South Idaho, Malad City, a population of about 2,000. I rode to grammar and high school on horseback. Six kids in the family, 6-cow ponies.
Our valley in Oneida County was surrounded by mountains-a branch of the Wasatch. I rode and hiked ’em many times. Also went on many roundups as a kid. Slept under the stars with just a blanket.
My father Leo M. Camp was quite a promoter. He was a good friend of the Indian tribes in Idaho, Utah, and Nevada. He traded with them and bought furs and buckskin goods from them which were sold in Salt Lake City. Affectionately he was called by them “Chief White Cloud”, in as much as he had a thick head of white hair. I started to turn gray at 16 so I was dubbed “White Cloud Jr.”. My Dad was born and raised near Vernal, Utah at the very edge of an Indian reservation. He rode, traveled, tracked and hunted with them. His boyhood chums were all Indian lads. He spoke several Indian dialects. What a great outdoorsman he was!
Every year my Father promoted and produced a super spectacle on “Pioneer Day”, July 24th a Mormon holiday. Hollywood producers would have been envious, especially the authenticity. They were the covered wagons forming a circle, and then the attack by Indians with their feathered headgear, painted-riding bareback, etc. Then a fierce battle using blank cartridges, of course, ensured. What fun we participants had! Folks came from all over, including Utah to see it.
I remember my Uncle Alvin Camo who was completely bald headed. My Dad issued him a thick black toupee. Uncle Alvin was caught by the Indians and scalped. Then red ink was poured on his bald head.
Moreover, my Dad promoted all the local rodeos. He was the on horseback announcer using a megaphone. When my older brother and I rode in the kid races, and aboard a yearling steer, he always gave us a big buildup. Incidentally (my Father) he won the calf roping contest once when he was 55 years old.
Back to the mustang story. In 1923 my Dad was still a die hard hold out against automobiles. We had several buggies including one large white topped buggy. So horseback or buggy was our only method of transportation. Later on my father had numerous cars and trucks. My Father outfitted a small expedition to capture the wild horses and bring them back to our Southeastern section of Idaho and Utah.
Our white topped buggy was loaded with supplies, vittles, guns, kegs of water, lariats, and other paraphernalia. Our best team of horses (Chub and Bess) pulled the buggy. All of us took a turn in driving the buggy. It was late Spring when we pulled out.
Originally there was my cousin Walt 16, brother Irv 12, myself 10, and my Dad. Walt did most of the driving, while the rest of us rode horseback. My own horse was a speedy mare called “Old Boolger”. We also led 2-3 extra saddle horses.
At Holbrook, Idaho, my Dad picked up 2 good cowhands, who had their own ponies. We journeyed southwest.
After passing through Snowville, our water supply, which we replenished regularly from creeks, had gotten really bad. Tasted terrible, even the coffee. Later we learned that the creek not only ran through barns, but pig pens too.
I wished today that I’d paid more attention to details. My Mother and Father are long gone and my brother Irv, who remembered much more than I, died 15 years ago. Really don’t know whatever happened to cousin Walt. Anyway the trip didn’t seem that important to me at the time.
We traveled through a section of Utah, via the Lucin Cutoff and journeyed into Nevada where water was very scarce. Then, my Dad wouldn’t allow us to wash our tin plates or any of the utensils. We used the same utensils and plates over and over again. The flies had a field day on em’. We rationed water from many miles. To this day I remember the insatiable thirst that I had to endure.
We camped out every night by an open fire, from which we also cooked. I remember eating lots of salt pork and beans, some stew and the special treat of wild sage hens. My Dad was an excellent hunter and used his shotgun to good advantage. Sage hen (prairie chicken) and cotton tailed rabbits provided much of the menu.
In the evening my Dad would get his guitar from the white top and sing and play the harmonica and juice harp [Jews harp]. He had a high baritone and could sing those old songs so beautifully that often the tears came to my eyes. Burl Ives would have been very envious.
Finally after much desert trekking we arrived at the foothills of some mountains. Copper Mountain, Nevada. Only, no inhabitant there, just a coal miner. He had a mine and a cabin. A substantial mountain stream of water flowed by his cabin. (Don’t believe the place had ever been on the map). Irv and I stayed alone for several days at the miners cabin. While the miner, my Dad, and the rest of the crew and 2 extra Nevada Cowboys, my Dad had hired, went on a scouting search for the herd of mustangs. There were times I remember when I got homesick. The owner of this vast spread had a large corral on a flat area, a few hundred yards from the miners cabin. My Dad and the cowhands strengthened and reinforced the fence. The riders found the herd, fanned out and gradually drove, herded and rounded them up and steered them toward the corral.
It was then that Irv and I were allowed to participate. I remember some very hard, fast, tricky and precarious riding. Once my mare, “Old Boolger” chose to jump a wide stream on a fast gallop. I was totally unprepared for this as I expected her to run through the stream. I therefore was suddenly unhorsed and landed in the ditch.
Anyway little by little and much dogged perseverance we corralled 30-35 heads. The entire operation (the whole trip) took the entire summer.
Then painstakingly lead studs and mares were lassoed and eventually broken to lead. 2-3-4, were finally broken to ride. Never have I seen such strenuous bucking. But we had good cowhands.
When finally we started back to Idaho some of the mustangs were ridden. Some leaders of the herd were led. Most of the rest followed and some were driven from behind the herd.
Only damned good cowpokes could have pulled it off, and my own Father was one of the best. These horses were sturdy, strong and had tremendous stamina. Some were very beautiful. My Dad sold them all to local ranchers in a short time. I think he got a good price as we were more affluent for some time.
Surprisingly only a few became good, reliable and dependable saddle horses. The wild mustang blood in their veins rebelled wholeheartedly in being tamed and domesticated. Some of them, once their spirits were broken, were only good for work horses and even plow horses. Others whose wild spirits never could be broken because professional Broncos in the rodeo circuit.
While homeward bound on the Nevada desert we encountered an old prospector. He had a small cabin and invited my Dad, Irv and I in for supper. He had a crystal radio set with 2 sets of earphones. Alternatively with the extra set of earphones, my brother, father and I listened to a Jack Dempsey Championship fight in Shelby, Montana. Dempsey’s opponent was a Miner and a hero in the mining town of Shelby. The man’s name I believe was McCoy, though I’m not absolutely sure as that was 57 years ago and I was only 10 years old. Somehow the name Gibbons pops up in my memory. Could he have been the announcer? Was it Floyd Gibbons, I really don’t remember.
Demsey won the fight in 15 rounds by an unpopular decision. My Dad proclaimed that Dempsey didn’t dare knock (McCoy) out in that wild miners town. The spectators were too partial to their local favorite. Had Dempsey put him away my father insisted he most assuredly would of been lynched.
I wish I’d listened more tentatively!