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Show Wagon train Continued From Page H-2-2 concessions have been made to the twentieth century: rubber tires have replaced the iron wheels of pione days and located discreetly apart from the others is a portable potty wagon with chemical toilets. The rough wooden benches of a century ago have given way to padded benches (that turn out to be not much more comfortable!) but other than that, the wagons look much like they must have a hundred years ago. We meet the wagon train staff, an intersting mixture of college students and retired persons needing a second income. Following that, we are given our first chance at riding horses. Im assigned to a work horse named Nancy and I find out first hand that all men are not created equal. Nancys back is as wide as a king size mattress and my legs are splayed out in a most uncomfortable position. Telling myself that I am here to experience the wilderness and the pioneer spirit, I cling to Nancys reins, wishing with every jolting step that I were home watching General Hospital. WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON: We stop (mercifulaffair served ly!) for lunch, a sandwich and Kool-Ai- d off one of the wagons. After that, I contort myself back onto Nancy and lurch along the road. On this first day we ride in front of the wagons. We also get our last look at the Tetons, looming off in Die distance. Our base camp is reached and I gratefully climb down off of Nancy, determined that I will never ride that nag again. There is a special, undescribable soreness associated with horseback riding and as I waddle into camp I know I must look like nothing ' more than an inebriated penguin. WEDNESDAY NIGHT: Although the Wagons West brochure mentions that guests have a choice of sleeping in the wagons, out under the stars, or in a deluxe teepee, the only teepee available belongs to Andy and to the main wrangler, a Wyoming policeman named Val. Since I am the only person on the trip, they invite me to share their teepee and I crawl inside to rest my aching bones. They proceed to fix up the teepee in a unique style. First, curious looking parcels are placed around the perimeter of the inside of the teepee. I later find out that they are all props used in Andys Mountain Man and Indian Chief wardrobes. Buffalo hides horse-tumed-ridi- non-fami- ly are placed on the floor. Outside, a scalp is hoisted aloft on a tall pole. Eventually, the teepee becomes a very comfortable, home, a modem day tribute to the ingenuity of the Indians. Dinner is served on MASH-lik- e metal trays. There is plenty of it and it is quite good, but the plates dont keep the food hot very long. After eating, the guests scrape their trays clean and then wash them off in a pail. Plastic cups are labeled with each guests first name and they become our cups for the rest of the trip. Wednesday is Talent Night, and those who think vaudeville is dead should have been around our campfire. Corny jokes are acted out, songs are wafted into the cold night air, a guitar is softly strummed. Huddled around the campfire, I get my first feeling of camaraderie with this group and this feeling is to last until the end of the journey. These are people from all over the United States, from all n walks of life, and of all ages a good of what America is all about. It feels good being with them. THURSDAY MORNING: Around 6 a.m., a cacophony of bells wakes up most everyone. The horses have been hobbled and left to wander around camp, most of them wearing a cow bell which makes it easy to locate them if they wander too far away. These bells clang like crazy in what seems like the middle of the night and cause me to stumble with sleepy eyes from the warmth of the teepee. Breakfast is gobbled in a daze and it takes me about an hour to get my furnace warmed up. Teeth are brushed, hair , is ignored, and shaving is blissfully absent (one advantage of being a real pioneer). Around 9 a.m., the call is put out for horseback riders, but this is my time to travel in the wagon since there are more people than horses. Ruminating on the particular tortures of Nancy, I willingly climb in the back of a wagon which is pulled by two horses the size of Nancy. A teenage boy, who is destined to become my tent-matis one of the other wagon passengers and he brings along a guitar. During most of the lulling, jolting ride through the mountains, he strums idley, playing Ted Nugent one moment and the Beatles the next. When I ask him if he knows Red River Valley, he struggles manfully through a chorus of it cross-sectio- e, ' and then returns to the more familiar music of his generation. The wagon train trip is soporific and very pleasant. Fresh air is an enjoyed luxury and the pace is deliciously slow. FRIDAY MORNING: Those blessed cowbells awaken me again. Its a sight to watch the hobbled horses hopping back into camp with their bells clanging away. Breakfast is especially good, with the bacon cremated exactly as I like it. Val gives us a lecture on hypothermia, but its hard to think about freezing to death when the temperature leaps into the mid 80s. Now that our group is smaller, there are enough horses for everyone and its back on Chester B. for me. Val tells the parents of the smaller children that the kids will have to ride behind the wagons this morning since the trail he is planning to take us on is a bit steep. That turns out to be the understatement of the day. We set off on a rather easy trail until we come to the edge of the mountain we have been camped on. Vals horse suddenly disappears over the edge and as I watch, other horses and riders vanish over what seems to be a cliff. Finally, its my turn and I approach the edge with trepidation. An involuntary scream escapes my throat. I am looking at a ridiculously small and narrow trail that seems to go straight down the side of the blessed mountain. I watch horses lurching along, their front legs desperately scrabbling for support in the loose gravel. I watch riders leaning far back in their saddles, their feet straight out in front of them. And then Chester B. good old Chester B. of starts the halting walk and the stumbling gait going down that stupid trail, and the song Whistle A Happy Tune comes screaming into my mind: Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect Im afraid, etc., etc. A hysterical giggle comes out of me and I proceed down the trail, certain that my wife and children will be reaping the benefits of my life insurance soon. Suddenly, we are at the bottom of the trail and I give out a few more giggles and a couple of for good measure. That giggle, by the Wahoos! way, was to become my trademark throughout the rest of the trip. 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