My buddy Dave and I were spending a few days camping at Mueller State Park, riding our mules on some of the finest trails the Colorado Front Range has to offer. It was my birthday weekend, and my wife, daughter, and oldest son were planning to join us in camp later that day for burgers. So, Dave and I saddled up early to get a good ride in before the reinforcements arrived.
I caught Bella, gave her a good brushing, picked out her hooves, and doused her in fly spray—because the horse flies were out in full attack mode. Once she was saddled, I filled my water bottle, tossed a few snacks in my pommel bag, and climbed aboard. The day before had looked stormy, so I still had my oiled cotton slicker tied behind the cantle. Better to have it and not need it, right?
We rode out to the southeast corner of the park—a rugged section full of steep climbs and descents that’ll make you grateful for a tight cinch and a sure-footed mule. Bella was working hard, but steady as always.
That is, until she wasn’t.
We were climbing the last big hill before heading back to camp—only a couple miles out—when Bella suddenly went vertical. Not “a slight crow hop”... vertical. I mean launch sequence initiated vertical.
Now, Bella’s no slouch. She’s a big, powerful 16.2-hand mule—athletic, sharp, and rock-solid. She’s never offered to buck, and I’ve put her through just about everything. But that day, apparently, we were trying a new event: mule-assisted skydiving.
It’s funny how time slows down in these moments. You can’t decide what to eat for dinner in under 45 minutes, but in one second flat your brain can run through a dozen scenarios. First thought? I just tore my hamstring. The searing pain in the back of my leg confirmed it. Second? I really don’t want to come out of the saddle at this altitude. I’m pretty sure I saw one of Elon Musk’s Starlink satellites whiz by.
Unfortunately, what goes up must come down—and on the way down, Bella must have twisted to look behind her, which slid me to the right and popped my left foot out of the stirrup. I tried to haul myself back into the saddle using my left leg—bad idea. That leg was officially out of service.
So I looked over my right shoulder, saw dirt, and made the executive decision to bail. Jumping off a 16.2-hand mule is like stepping off your roof, but by some miracle, I landed on a soft patch of trail and avoided further damage.
Meanwhile, Dave was trying to stop his own mule, Missy, who had decided this “kerfuffle” was the perfect excuse to practice her barrel racing moves. Once he got turned around, he asked if I was okay. I told him I thought I was—but something in my leg was definitely not okay.
We started trying to piece together what happened. I guessed maybe a bee sting or a nasty horse fly. Dave pointed down the trail and said, “Or it could be that slicker lying in the dirt.”
Sure enough, there was my heavy oiled cotton slicker in the middle of the trail, looking innocent enough. Then it clicked—I’d heard a thump just before Bella launched. Dave hopped down to check my saddle, and sure enough, the saddle strings were untied on one side and loose on the other. All those steep climbs must’ve worked the slicker loose until it dropped and spooked her.
Right about then, Bella walked over and dropped her head to inspect me as I lay in the dirt. Her expression said, I just saved us both. You’re welcome.
Getting back in the saddle was brutal. My leg was on fire, but I was trying not to look like a total wimp in front of Dave. Luckily, when we got back to camp, my son Levi had arrived. I asked him for a hand, and he reached up to grab Bella’s halter. I said, “No, no—I need help getting off this thing.”
With a little assistance and a lot of gritted teeth, I made it down. Dave handed me an ice pack and a few Motrin from his trailer. After an hour of icing and 800mg of vitamin M, I felt human again—but it was clear my weekend was over. No way I could ride again, or even walk much. So, we packed up and headed home two days early.
Lesson learned: always double-check your saddle strings—and if your mule launches you into orbit on your birthday, at least make sure someone gets it on video.
And for the record—I wasn’t bucked off. I jumped off.
(That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.)
Dave and his mule Missy:
