Leader of the Pack : Animals: Call him stubborn, but Tubby’s devotion to government service made him a legend. And legends don’t like being put out to pasture.

The land of fire and ice, big timber and fast water, Sonora Pass has known legends since the days of Grizzly Adams and the Bartleson-Bidwell immigrant party of 1841, who survived the first High Sierra crossing.

But for years, Tubby has ploddingly made his name in a corner of this wilderness north of Yosemite. And he has done so with two strikes against him. Not only is he a career government employee, he is a mule--two species often ridiculed as dumb, slow afoot and, more often than not, stubborn.

Tubby may have displayed those qualities on occasion, even his admirers say, but he still stood apart from his peers. The U.S. branded on his left hip, fading with time, provides a hint of Tubby’s credentials and his longevity. Those who know him reckon that he is somewhere between 37 and 40, extremely old for a working mule. He has served his country with distinction, surviving the administrations of Ike, JFK, Lyndon and the rest.

But he came to the crossroads last summer. Like many workers, he faced the heartbreaking moment when younger, stronger, more versatile competitors doomed him to a forced retirement, or so it seemed.

“He’s a good mule,” says Reg Bowdler, trails coordinator for the Stanislaus National Forest. “He’s carried a lot of weight in his life. . . . Generally it’s the ornery ones, they say, that last the longest. They have a stronger will to survive.”

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When the U.S. Forest Service transferred Tubby to the Stanislaus from a post near Bishop two decades ago, he was a seasoned veteran of many trails and heavy loads. Yet, this assignment was a challenge like few others.

Tubby and his team drew the most arduous and hazardous duty, hauling food and tools, even dynamite, to the hardy young workers who built and maintained trails through the mountainous passes and lake-dotted meadows of the Emigrant Basin Wilderness and beyond. The job was seasonal, for the heavy snow and bitter cold drove every creature out of the high country or into hibernation.

With each passing year, many of Tubby’s comrades met with unfortunate accidents, moved on or died. Still, come spring, Tubby always returned, ready to take on new burdens, usually 150 pounds of them each trip. He became a familiar figure on the steep trails that started in places with such names as Kennedy Meadows, Crabtree Camp and Gianelli Cabin, then skirted peaks of nearly 10,000 feet. He eventually won the recognition his years of service warranted and, like anyone who achieves a degree of notoriety, he developed a style and grace all his own.

Although not particularly tall, Tubby always has been fond of food, and his ribs have never come close to showing. At 850 pounds or so, he was far less hefty than some of his brethren and not nearly so handsome. His coat was the color of dirty snow. When he was relaxed, his corn-leaf ears tended to lean to the northeast, due west and points in between. His back developed the gentle slope of a saddle.

His long face reflected a soulful wisdom that came from thousands of miles of trail seasoning, leading some to say the years had mellowed him. But his bloodshot eyes were sleeping embers, reminders that he loved mischief, hated to be shod and would give only as much respect as he got. His gait was a touch slow but steady, a safe pace in a place where a misstep on a granite stairway means a plunge into eternity.

One day, however, everyone was forced to admit that the end of the trail was drawing near for Tubby. Grudgingly, packers made concessions to his stiffening joints. They lightened his load by 25 to 50 pounds. Rather than tie him into the pack string, they cinched canvas packs to his back, then let him light out by himself, trusting he’d find his way.

“He’s not the type who would turn around and run back to the corral,” says Bowdler, who’s spent half his 40 years working with Tubby.

Tubby’s deliberate manner probably was a matter of preference. That way, he could avoid eating dust. He could pick his path along narrow trails on unstable shale, up the steep granite slabs, alongside crumbled old wagon roads, through places such as Brown Bear Pass and Emigrant Meadows. He could stop and drink deep from icy streams that cut through the forests, lunch on alpine meadow grasses, even pause to sniff the lupine and Mariposa lilies.

Whatever the destination, Tubby came plugging up the trail, a few minutes late, determination on his face, to join his teammates. And at the end of the day, after a long trip down with an empty pack, he got a dose of deference at the corral. When the manger was heaped with hay, the others waited to the rear and side--out of range of his teeth and hoofs--while Tubby ate his fill.

“He’s definitely got the mean streak, and he who lays his ears back longest and hardest gets in the manger,” Bowdler says. “He’s kept his pecking order and always liked his food.”

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That was Tubby’s way, his life, until last summer. In search of ever more efficiency, the Forest Service recruited new mules, special ones from Dodge City, Kan. These tall, tawny beasts had a look of greatness and outweighed Tubby by several hundred pounds. At $1,850 each, they were a bargain, considering mules often give a quarter century of service.

They packed big loads, heavier than Tubby could fathom even in his youth. They allowed people to ride on their backs--something Tubby would rarely tolerate--and were trained to pull rock sleds or drag logs--again, not Tubby’s style.

There wasn’t anything these mules couldn’t do. They were working machines. More mule power than imaginable. The future.

So last summer, when the packs were stuffed and the teams headed out, Tubby was left in a corral near the Summit Ranger Station, off Highway 108. Day after day, he did no work for his food. By mid-August, as the creeks ran low and clear as gin, it was obvious Tubby was pretty much washed up. He had nothing to do but kick at the dust and scratch his muzzle on the fence.

“He got pissed off ‘cuz he was not going with the rest of them,” Bowdler recalls. “He started honking and squealing. . . . And when they came back, it was a whole other symphony of braying.”

Tubby’s health had taken a sinister turn as well. A tumor had formed near his tail, and in view of his advanced years, it was deemed inoperable. His best days were behind him.

Then, with the suddenness of a September snowstorm, one of Tubby’s mates, a packhorse, died of colic. And one of the super mules, a sweet one named Amy, stumbled on a dark trail near Burst Rock and broke her neck.

Out of the tragedies came another chance. With no more mules to fill the strings, packers turned to Tubby. It was as though he had never retired. He spent a month helping restore Summit Meadows, hauling dirt, making 15 to 20 short trips a day.

In early October, after the first snows, he and his teammates were trucked to an 800-acre foothill ranch, where they will winter, kicking up their heels and readying for more work after the snowmelt.

“I know Tubby’ll be back next year,” Bowdler says, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not here for another few.”