Mules Save Mountaineers
A quiet moment amid the exhausting, backbreaking and brutal work.
Imagine, if you will, a nice piece of land, a manageable 50 or so acres that run from ridgeline to riverbank. A place where your people put down roots having fled the oppression of “The Mother Country,” whether that country was Ireland, Scotland or England. A land good enough for farming, with a river bottom no one dare build a house upon because that lowland is best used for gardens and pastureland on account of the river being prone to flooding every now and again. The house is situated in the recess of the mountain, where morning sun gently shines, and, come evening a cool shade blows across the porch.
For 50-plus years, the farmer has sat alongside the love of his life at a kitchen table made of cherry wood he purchased in Hickory, North Carolina, as a wedding present. Every morning the farmer tends the land and his cattle. His wife retired from the school system after tending other people’s children, educating them for a better life that is almost always found far away from the land of their birth.
Imagine, if you will, this same married couple watching the weather prophet’s prediction: 11 inches of rain coming on the heels of a hurricane. The farmer assures his love there is nothing to worry about. “We need a slow and steady rain. We’ve had us a dry spell of late and if the pasture gets a good drink we just might get another cutting of hay. Besides, we’ve weathered hurricanes before. These old mountains always seem to break storms apart. It’s coming up dark and tomorrow is another day.” The farmer turns off his flip phone and plugs it in to charge. The kids—grown and moved on to other states—never call no ways.
When the first tree falls at 3 a.m., the farmer knows trouble has found their place. He thrusts bare feet into the knee-high muck boots and grabs the flashlight, both stationed at the door. His bride, who is a devout reader of the King James, places a worried hand upon his arm. “Be careful.”
Above the house, he hears the mountain give way. The farmer also hears something else. The cows. The truck he’s owned for 30 years fishtails as he pushes it down the road, and for once in his life, he feels the prayers of his wife guiding him toward the pasture. Prayers that the earth won’t open and devour her husband, prayers that he outruns the red clay earth, rocks, and trees speeding past their house. Prayers that he can make it back home. She thinks he should sell the cows. Should have stopped raising them years ago, maybe even sold off a chunk of land to pay for the ballooning property tax bill. A 77-year old man shouldn’t be raising no 50 head of cattle, she has protested more times than he can count.
But what of him then? Without his herd, what purpose would he have on God’s green earth? He doesn’t remind her they once had over a hundred head, and it was this farm that sent both their kids onto college. When she gets like this he lets her be. Opting to step into the pastureland with the cattle, check the fencing until suppertime. Things always seem better come suppertime.
He shoves the Ford into park and keeps the engine running. He curses the rain, the dark, and the aging body that slows him. With shaking hands, he cuts the fence, ignoring the sting of wire slicing his flesh. He must release the cattle from their field, else they drown. Must risk losing them to save them. These cows, whom he loves better than some people, if the truth be told. The extension agent told him to stop treating the beasts like children, but like sheep following their shepherd it is this close relationship that will save them both.
Into the rainy darkness, he calls them by name, adding “Sic heifer! Sic heifer!”
The cattle run toward him, scared. He is scared, too. He watches a round hay bale float free of its storage and thanks the Good Lord he had the sense to keep the cows locked out of the barn, for they would have surely perished. The bale swims toward him, an arrow toward its target. He darts out of the way and watches helplessly as 1,200 pounds of soggy grass crashes into the Ford and carries it into the darkness. He knows his wife is calling him home from the porch. Knows she is panicking as she watches headlights dim as the truck washes downstream.
The cows scatter, heading up the mountain away from water. The farmer must trudge back home because if he gets himself hurt she’s liable to really give him the business for frightening her half to death. Soaked and bleeding, he walks home, praying the house he built with his own two hands still stands on fieldstones he and the kids plucked from this very land. Surely these protective mountains will shelter him and his beloved through this storm.
She waits at the door with a tear-streaked face. She’s lit the oil lamps, the same ones his Granny used. He hopes Granny’s home place down the way is still standing when daylight comes. On the table, a peanut butter sandwich waits, but it is her strong arms that provides the most comfort. Outside, a tree crashes. The house shakes.
“Just hang on,” he says, hoping she doesn’t know what he really wanted to say.
She knows. No one is coming to save them. They only have each other.
The morning following Hurricane Helene, another husband-and-wife team wake to sobering news. Mike and Michele Toberer live hours from the damaging reach of Helene. Blessed with power, internet, and compassionate hearts, the couple watched scenes of unimaginable loss flash across the screen.
“I’m going to Asheville,” Mike announced.
The Toberers own Mountain Mule Ranch, an independent contracting company which provides training to the military. Mike hails from the Sierra Nevada range, a rugged territory that seems custom made for his surefooted mules, many of whom he’s owned since they were young. With over 30 years of experience handling mules in the harshest terrain, Mike and his right hand man, Bob Howitz, develop a plan to provide aid for Appalachia. Michele rallies volunteers and donors. Slim Milan joins the group to assist where needed. Later, they load Smokie, the only “Molly Mule,” which means female. The rest are males: Amigo, Apache, Buzzkill, Max, Jeb, Kev, Lil’ Wayne, and Vader, the draft-horse cross referred to as “short ears.” The pickup rides low, heavy with supplies, feed and camping gear. Other trucks pulling trailers follow, loaded to the gills with generous donations.
1 of 3
Mules Save Mountaineers
The mules are prepared for a long day of hard work.
2 of 3
Mules Save Mountaineers
Nimble-footed mules are willing to tackle rugged territory.
3 of 3
Mules Save Mountaineers
A mule is surefooted and sturdier, not easily spooked in unknown terrain.
Two men, nine mules. A wire-haired German Pointer named Elke. Wives. Sons. Daughters, countless volunteers—too numerous to mention in this allotted space—point their hearts toward the battered mountains. Not knowing what to expect, but following the urgent call God had placed on their hearts.
It is fitting that hooves were the first to hit the ground and provide hurricane relief. Called a beast of burden by many; in Appalachia these intelligent creatures have always been called friend.
Back in the day, mules helped skid logs for milling, delivered library books and carried circuit-riding preachers. Mules provide the power to press sorghum cane reeds into juice. Long before hill folk could afford tractors, a mule provided the brawn for a successful farm. These once plentiful animals, commonly bred for their value, were second in necessity only to a milk cow. Many an Appalachian has hitched a plow to his mule and then, in the ultimate act of trust, looped thick leather reins behind his own neck and snapped the leather hard across the mules flank, urging him forward. If the mule was in a working mood he walked the row as the farmer guided the plow. If the mule woke that morning wearing a foul disposition, he stood unmoving, requiring a little persuasion. Every Appalachian knows one must, quite literally, dangle a carrot in front of a stubborn mule. More often than not, a bucket of oats kept just out of reach also did the trick. Mules are smart. A mule will allow a man to believe he is cooperating, but really he just wants a treat.
The mules wait patiently as their handlers set up their staging area. Their ears point backward toward the broken land, listening. Only the mules can hear the tinny whine of a chainsaw far from where they are currently tethered. They stand at the ready as Mike, Bob, and other volunteers heave packs onto their backs and fill them. Every item tucked inside gives life: water, baby formula, oxygen tanks, insulin, packs of peanut butter crackers, bandages. Today, and in the days to come, everything the mules carry into the backcountry matters. Mike and Bob expertly tie a pack string line and check the knots twice.
It’s time to go. The mules agree. There’s work to be done.
THE FARMER'S WOUND has begun to fester. He tolerated his wife fretting over him, redressing the wound. He looks out the window past her as she turns her attention to medicine on the table.
Thankfully, his grandmother’s home is still standing. Muddy water dirties the windows of the first floor, which is a total loss. The home is full of family relics he’s too tenderhearted to part with. Today he will be forced to let things go, beginning with all the cows he knows he’s lost.
“It’s your sugar,” she whispers as she draws the medicine into the needle, trying not to notice only three days of insulin remains. “Makes cuts hard to heal.” Her blue eyes narrow. “You cut anywhere else?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Glory to God,” the farmer whispers as he gently peels away from her when he sees a cow come into view. First one, and then another, and another. Forty-nine alive, only one lost. The farmer weeps.
Miles from the farmer’s mountain, Mike and Bob have been in the saddle for hours. Mike riding Max, Bob riding Jeb. They prefer mules because a mule is more surefooted and sturdier, not easily spooked in unknown terrain such as this. Elke, the camp dog, circles them, sometimes taking the lead, other times, lagging behind. Nose to the ground, scouting. Ahead, the road is buried beneath a massive pile of debris flow: mud, boulders, and trees the size of the trailers used to haul the animals. The work is slow and the men must dismount at times to lead the mules over, around, and through an area that—before the storm—was a main road into a mountain community. It becomes evident a crew of chainsaw-wielding volunteers is needed.
Enter the Cajun Navy and 82nd Airborne Diamondback Wranglers. The Navy helped coordinate logistics, the Wranglers provided ground support. The work is exhausting, backbreaking and brutal. Performed without gadgets and GPS because of the towers being offline.
The men had heard that the river crested 20 feet above flood stage and water raged at 101,000 cubic feet per second. The same amount that flows over Niagara Falls had cut through the muddy land upon which they now trod. But hearing those numbers and seeing the devastation firsthand are two separate things.
“These folks are made from strong stuff,” Mike says, using a phrase he will repeat many times to Bob, who agrees, also wondering how anyone survived.
It would be weeks before a road would be open to all-terrain vehicles, and months before automobiles could safely navigate the roads, what little road remained. It will be years before homes are rebuilt, and decades before the forest heals herself. Air drops of water and food would come, but not in time for those who need the most help. Today, the only help comes on the backs of mules.
MAX THE MULE brings himself to a stop and inhales a deep breath. We’ve said mules are intelligent; we can almost hear his thoughts.
He remembers the clean mountain air from before, but that smell is now gone, replaced with the stench of something he doesn’t like. He turns his head to the left, then the right. Taking it all in. This is bad.
A copperhead slithers into the safety of a crevice and Max stomps his foot, warning. Let all snakes beware. He isn’t in the mood for their nonsense today. Jeb the mule isn’t either. In solidarity, he too warns any creature foolish enough to get in their way. Max exhales through his nose, as if blowing a trumpet, sounding the call for the team behind him. He understands now what the pack must do. He snorts again, as if saying, ‘Boys, we gotta hurry.’ Max quickens his pace. The others follow his lead.
Come dark, the mule packers return muddy and exhausted. They’ve witnessed destruction, mountainsides gone, creeks redirected to the point of taking out bridges. But they’ve also witnessed the best of humanity, a people who refuse to take more than they need; folks who tell Mike and Bob about another neighbor who needs help more than they do. A diabetic neighbor, someone who needs oxygen, someone who needs an airlift. The need is great.
At base camp, a hearty meal awaits, prepared by those who’ve shuttled donations and coordinated vet care, hoof care, human care. Tomorrow’s route will be planned over supper. But first, the mules are relieved of their work equipment. A work mule requires six hours of grazing, something that isn’t possible given the conditions of the land. Mike and Bob secure bells around the necks of the pack and release them to forage during the night. Only the Molly Mule is secured at the base camp. She plays an important role in keeping these boys out of trouble.
“I like to keep a mare, or a molly in the grouping, because they have a tendency to mother the males,” Mike said.
Each night the males forage, eating grass and briars, which is among a mule’s favorite snacks. Come morning, Mike and Bob distribute hay and feed to Smokie first, then call the boys back to camp for another day of hard work.
JEB HEARS THE SOUND, it’s time to return to camp. Time for another delivery. He bares his teeth at Buzz Kill and Lil’ Wayne, who have strayed too far. He must keep an eye on those two, else they lag behind. He hears Elke coming up the mountain and bobs his head toward the slowpokes, knowing Elke will push them toward camp.
THE FARMERS INSULIN bottle is empty. His wife had heard from a neighbor, who heard from someone further down the road, about this pack of mules.
Now, they’ve arrived.
“Mules,” she tells her farmer. “Well isn’t that something?”
She hasn’t anything to give the mules. No carrots. No apples. Her hands are empty.
“Old Columbus down the way used to raise mules.” The farmer speaks to the rider, who rifles through the pack.
She approaches a mule, her open hands palm up. “May I pet you?” she asks.
Jeb lowers his head. She runs her hands across his shoulder. She can’t stop the tears now. They fall like rain, her shoulders shaking. She buries her face in the thickness of his shoulder and weeps.
“Mules,” the farmer says. “Most helpful creature God ever made.”