About the time of the above incident our family was still involved with the mill at Sorrell Creek, in the lower part of the Bismarck Valley. The sawn timber was transported out of the valley by horse drawn cart, or wagon, up a long winding hill, using an extra horse to help with the load to the summit, known as Pierce’s Hill. From there it was downhill all the way to Hobart, or to the clients who ordered the timber. The team driver would call at the school and take either Gordon or myself to the crest of the hill in order to bring the extra horse back to the mill. On reaching the summit, the driver would unhitch the leader horse, wind the trace chains around the hames and collar, lift me onto the horse’s back, and I would ride back to the mill. This was a welcome interlude from school, but for one day when the horse took fright and dashed down the hill out of control. Pulling on the reins had no effect; he just set off at a gallop and I hung grimly onto the hames protruding above the horse’s collar. We charged down the hill at a frightening pace, around the winding road, leaning over around the sharp turns and culverts, till I was scared he could not keep his feet. There was no slackening of pace all the way till he rounded the Sorrell Greek bridge, turned in behind the mill into the stable yard, and in a lather stopped dead. In October 1978, the present owner of what was the mill property found an old pair of rusty hames, buried in some piles of ancient sawdust. They could have been the same that saved me from falling during that wild horseback ride. I now have them in my possession.
Darkle, the runaway horse, did fall over with me once, while galloping around a timber decked bridge on a sharp corner. I suffered nothing more than a hurt leg on which he had fallen. This black horse was temperamental and sometimes would decide not to co-operate at all, no matter how you urged, cajoled or flogged. Way up on a steep hill above the mill lived Mr. Peterson, who one day graciously loaned father his fine chaise cart. Gordon and I were detailed off to return it with Darkle in the shafts. We took him up the steep winding hill that was certainly no light assignment with two of us in the cart.
At the steepest and most dangerous part of the road, where it was built up by a stone wall some 12 or 15 feet, Darkie decided he had had enough and refused to pull another yard. We applied the whip but he went backwards. We jumped out, seeing the danger, and tried to turn his head so that he would back into the bank; but he resisted our frantic efforts and ran back. The wheels of the cart went over the precipice, and being strapped to the shafts of the cart, Darkie turned a back somersault and fell on the rocks below. We climbed down to where he was kicking, released his harness, and he struggled to his feet a wiser horse. The only serious injury to him was a hole in the top of his head where he had struck a rock in the fall. The damage to the cart was bad news for Dad, but as usual he had a way of taking it in his stride and repairing the smashed cart in his blacksmith shop.
