My charge when Rusty Abe was started was to concentrate on outdoors stories. Since we’ve probably stirred up enough hate and discontent by getting into the political arena, it’s time to get back to the assigned task. BTW, thanks to those of you who’ve shuffled tropics to me. Any of the future items on here that stir up memories for you hopefully will entice you to share them with us. This is YOUR blog, not mine so please don’t be bashful. My job is to throw out ideas for you to grab and run with, okay?

My second job fresh out of school was serving as a forester on the Buffalo (Wyoming) Ranger District of the Bighorn National Forest. One of the pieces of equipment we had available was a Trail King utility scooter, similar in appearance to the popular Cushman street machines. Similar in function to the Tote Goat, the utility machine was geared for low speed while traveling in mountainous terrain. There was a steel box on the back for hauling whatever you could keep in it..

We rigged ours to haul a gasoline powered drill called a Cobra for making holes in boulders blocking forest trails. We used this one to drill about twelve inch deep, 1-to 1-1/8 inch diameter holes in granite boulders causing the frigid rushing snow melt water in the creek bed to wash out the Rock Creek Trail. The holes were packed with dynamite and a length of prima-cord then filled with water. We’d retreat a distance then detonate the charges with a twist type electric blasting generator. When the water, gravel, chunks of boulder and sometimes a few small brook trout quit falling, we’d go back and drill more holes.

I thought the engineers who designed the throttle control were nuts. Instead of the normal configuration where the rider on a motorcycle or scooter rolled his throttle hand back down toward him/herself, this one rolled forward to advance the throttle. It just HAD to be backwards in my mind. My co-workers watched with amusement while I reversed the throttle rotation direction.

When the change was made it was time to take the Trail King up on the side of the mountain above the ranger station. Everything went smoothly while some idiot walked beside the machine and throttled it straight up the mountain. Of course, the whole crew watched as I mounted and commenced to ride around the rocky slope.

The rodeo started when hitting a rock bounced me off the seat. Discretion would have had me letting go of the throttle. That could have stopped all forward progress. However, pride wouldn't allow me to let that thing get away from me. My grip was opening the throttle and it was dragging me across the rocks. “Whoa, you @#$%^&**&^%$#. Whoa you %$#@&*. The laughing jackasses down the hill were nearly rolling on the ground. If the truth were known, they were probably cheering for the Trail King.

The first order of business when the Trail King and my terribly embarrassed, battered, and bruised body reached the shop was to return the throttle grip to its original position. Old Rusty learned a painful lesson, The engineers knew what they were doing after all.