Forrest, at home working in the high country

Becoming lost is the luxury of relying on others.  One can only be lost if we are secretly counting on the option of someone else to rescue us. Some of us just temporarily lose our way.  And then find it, and make it home on our own.

Or maybe I’m just lucky.

The summer I arrived on this mountain, I was expected to know my way around a mountain I did not know, had never been on, and had no one to show me except where my horse and own desire would take me.

I suppose Bob was burned out on the trail ride thing by then. That’s what I was there for.

On one of the first days, just before noon when the sun had warmed the early May mountain sufficiently, Bob chose three ponies, saddled up, and showed Forrest and me a back route through trees and meadows about five miles long, twisting here and there through only a semblance of game trails, the rest an invisible line into the big unknown, our big back yard.  He called it a trail.  It was not.

Once. That’s how many times he showed me the route. After that I was on my own and expected to lead a string of dudes through a secret for which I only knew a few hints. He told me the horse would remember, and for the most part, he did.  I tested his skills plenty.  The first time was on that back “trail” a few weeks later. Through one open meadow where the trail faded to nothing, I chose not to listen to the horse but veered in a direction I thought looked right. The right way, however, was to the other right.

From the back of the trail line, where Forrest’s “job” was riding drag, which usually consisted of checking out saddles slipping and riders losing balance and dropping wallets, ball caps and sunglasses (what ARE you doing with your wallet out here anyway?), I heard his soft low voice say, “I think it’s the other way.”  Of course he was right. My horse confirmed.

Otherwise, Forrest didn’t speak much back there. For years.  He’d ride the trails, drag, sometimes covered in dust that the line of horses before him had kicked up, just sitting back there on his old mare looking around and munching away. He always seemed to be eating back there when I’d turn around to look.  Peanut M&Ms. And still he was the skinniest little fellow you ever did see. Some days he’d smile when we’d finally arrive back at the ranch, and his teeth were brown from trail dust.

Whatever the weather, the challenge of the trail, the challenge of the people he’d been watching in line before him. There he’d be, silent and cool beneath his hat, hunkered down and enduring the elements.  The cowboy way.  Keep your mouth shut and don’t whine.  No matter what.

And I tested this. I tested him.  Not intentionally, of course, but that’s how it ended up. 

Take the first time I took him on a pack trip.  He was seven. I was guiding a group of teen girls.  He was extra baggage that I would not, could not leave home without, but had trouble figuring out how to bring along.  So he rode along, a long and tiring day for anyone, let alone a little kid that wasn’t really allowed to say much because he knew his mama was too busy taking care of the other kids to pay much mind to him.

Take the time Bob had me guide a family adventure all day horse ride up and across the Divide on a trail I had not even been close to.  Bob asked me if I thought I could do it.  What was I going to say?  No?  I don’t think so.

But I’ll tell you what.  It’s big up there.  Big and wide and open and scary, if you let yourself get scared, which of course I could not do because I had guests I had to convince that I was not scared.  And that I knew my way.  I would get them through this, safe and sound, even in the hail. Yes, a hail storm hit us as we cleared tree line. As I recall, that was late July.

And as we were riding back down this side of the mountain, still in a place I had never been with a group of tourists sitting cold and miserable on their horses between me and my son, I saw him back there, slicker pulled up tight over his neck, eyes hidden behind the rim of his well worn cowboy hat.  He could have been crying for all I knew.  But I knew he wasn’t.  He was a tough little fellow.  He had a job to do, and wasn’t going to whine about a little hail in the high country.

Forrest was eight or nine.  Our route that day was mapped out on a napkin by Bob.  I still have that napkin.  A keepsake of sorts. One more thing I survived.  One more time I could have been lost but found my own way.  No thanks to that napkin.

the soft warm eye of my little cold stallion

The horses’ coats are thick and heavy. Shaggy, fuzzy horses. Wild beats to look at.  Even their winter coats do not keep the cold from penetrating their skins, chilling them deep within.

Frost builds up on their eyelashes and at the base of their tail.  Small opaque icicles form around their muzzles.

I wonder if they know this cold spell will not last but a day or two.  Temperatures will warm.  Mornings will return to around zero.  A noticeable difference from twenty below zero, as we have this morning.

In the mornings the air is as still as the ice. Sometimes I think you can almost see the frozen water in the air.

In the afternoons, the wind blows strong and violent as the sun slides behind the slope of Ute Ridge.  It is early, not even 4 o’clock, the signal which warns us to prepare for nighttime. I finish my outside chores as the thermometer’s figures drop before your eyes if you had nothing better to do than watch.  Keeping busy keeps you warm.

The horses huddle in the wind.  A mass of many, all with their rear ends to the wind. From one another, from the position of their hearty yet so fine and delicate bodies, they find simple protection from the elements. They remain out in the open. I wonder why they don’t seek the shelter of the sheds. Deep inside, they are still animals of the plains.  They are still wild as that wind.  More so in the winter, when they are allowed to be here, forced to be here.

Wild, or so very domesticated, as they have been for thousands of years, our companions, our partners, our beasts of burden, of transport, of war. They have changed the life of man.  They have certainly changed my life.

Who says horses can not tell time?  They are as punctual as I am.  Usually more so.  They watch in the direction from where they expect me to arrive, anticipating their next meal that they know will be… soon, so soon, never soon enought.  Like so many sun dials if I was the sun.  I suppose my presence, that which brings promise of hay, is nearly as welcome as the rising of the sun.

We feed heavy.  Calories are heat. An apparent conversion.  Extra hay and a concentrated pelleted feed.  They endure, heads down, eyes not meeting with mine.  Just surviving.  They will eat.  This will pass.  They will make it through.

Only my little stallion seems to suffer.  Born in California and raised in a protected stall, he seems to find this all so wrong. I think at times he is right.  His coat is as thick as those born here, those who accept the cold blasts and biting winds without visible concern. It is an expected and tolerable part of life for them.  As if they shrug their shoulders and acknowledge that which they can not change.

The kids on pasture on an easy November afternoon.

As if it wasn’t bad enough…

My husband asked me once if I thought this place was cursed.  I laughed and said of course not.  Perhaps just the part of his family that has cursed themselves with their own misery. But no, not the land.  Never the land.

I still believe that. However…

Last week the news arrived.  The test results from the lab, the completed compilation of facts from near and far, observations from our vet in the valley, necropsy reports from Ft Collins, DNA testing from UC Davis, expert assumptions from across the west. We are seeking answers as to the cause for four foals dead in two years.  Something is very wrong.  I need answers.  This is a big part of my life, my job, my passion, my love.  I have three foals due next year. 

The vet sums it up for us.  It is the ranch, he tells us. 

We were hoping he would not say that.  Telling me it was my stud would be easier, of course.  He could be gelded and still have a wonderful life. He is a great horse now, a solid riding horse, an easy going herd mate.  Giving up that part of his anatomy and his world would not be the end of a good life for him (easily spoken by a woman).

But no, it is the ranch, says the vet.  Between the bacterium in the soil which has a potentially deadly affect on the sterile guts of the new born foals; to the elevation which we found can cause Big Brisket in the foals similar to that in calves; to the harsh climate which makes it all that much more… challenging… for the foals.

There is little research done on foaling and foals in elevation. Answers were not easy to find.  Still they are assumptions. Educated guesses.  That is enough to go on. There is nothing else. Our vet has searched for solutions, perhaps like looking for a needle in a haystack, as I have prodded him on and on and on for the resolve that we so desperately have been seeking.  He responded. It is not easy to handle. The truth often is not.  We will find a way. I will in turn hope my experiences will teach others.  I seek to find the good.  I have to look very deep.  It is no where to be found on the surface.

The vet concludes his research and report with this news:  the mares will need to foal elsewhere, and the foals must remain in a lower elevation until three months of age.

Yes, life goes on. But where and how we do not know.  Why is all we know.  Because we live, we love, we grow, we survive, we thrive, we seek, we yearn, we care, we try. Today we can only guess what tomorrow will bring.  But today there is so much we can do to make tomorrow… better… somehow.

High Mountain Musing is changing it’s web site address from:  highmountainmuse.wordpress.com  to right here:  highmountainmuse.com. 

A bit confusing in the short run; but hopefully simpler in the long run.

The new blog address will be effective immediately.  Same author (me), same stuff – my rambles and the mountain musings – just a different web address.

One of the more complicated changes may be in leaving comments.  All previous comments to date should have transferred over onto this site, and I’ll ask that any comments in the future be submitted here, as in due time, the old site will become obsolete.

If you subscribe to the posts, comments or have the site saved in your favorites, please be sure to make the changes. 

Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

Please let me know if you have any difficulty connecting here, or find any problems with navigation on this new site by leaving a comment here, or e-mailing me directly at highmountainmuse@gmail.com.   I imagine there will be some things we find that need to be tweaked – and thanks to Ron (J) we can fix them…

I’m not very computer savvy, but I’ll do my best to help in any way I can.

I’m taking the weekend off (going to the BIG CITY) and won’t be posting until Monday, so I’ll look forward to hearing from you then – here at the new site!

Warmly,

Gin

The finest of horses I have ever known.

The coyotes and crows now feed on you

But you died long ago

Years before when she took you away

Stole your point and your purpose

Replaced your intention and drive

With incompetent care and neglect

There was nothing you could do

There was nothing I could do

But watch you fall apart

At the end of that first year

I saw a blank stare in your eye

Like a lamb on his last living breathe

Your untrimmed feet cracking

And your coat matted and thick with worms

I knew you had already resigned

Five hundred miles a year we would travel together

I tired long before you every time

You taught me to ride a jog for hours

I taught you to ground tie

Would drop your reins and walk away

And laugh upon my return to see you still there

And always you were there

Waiting

Had you not been waiting for years for someone to trust you

Someone to hold on and soar with you as you would take wing up the mountain?

She took you away to hurt me

She had nothing else to take

And pitifully grappled for the last holding in our lives

It was not me she hurt but you

Your life stolen and replaced as an offering before the alter

An idle god beneath the plastic throne on which she sat and stared at you

Watching you fatten and founder before her blind gaze

You were stripped of what mattered most

As I watched your once magnificence

Fail and falter under uncaring eyes

As mine gazed upon you with fantastic memories

From across the fence

Farewell, my friend...

Riding home in the snow

The snow lets up enough to give hope for the promise of sunshine and mud just as I step into the saddle. I roll up my waxed down jacket, tie it onto the back of my saddle.  I know I will need it again soon. Once more, off to the high country to check on a camp, to see about damage from the snow and a bear.  I imagine there will be little problem from either one. I fear more the slippery trails and the footing of a fresh horse.

I ride alone today, though not truly alone as I am with my little stud horse.  At first, there are wide and sloppy tracks of an earlier wander out in the storm, an ATV that had broken through the fresh snow up to the creek crossing, two miles up from the ranch.

We cross the creek and fresh tracks disappear, only the shadow of tracks from the elk plentiful under this new layer of snow, a stark white path before us. The elk have been moving.  Down the mountain, they too know winter is coming on fast.  Further up the trail, we spook up a cow and calf elk, alone and frightened.  Their herd has descended without them. The baby is small.  I wonder if they will make it.

In the middle of a squall of snow and freezing rain, I hear the song of the grosbeak. A bare and barren tree decorated as if for Christmas with their beautiful voice and red heads like jewels in this cold, dark mountain land.

We ascend to an elevation of about 11,500 feet.  The snow is not as deep as I feared and seems to be letting up.  Another break in the clouds.  I can see up to the end of the canyon, shades of white and grey and black timber.  Layers of mountains, layers of clouds. I am swimming in this wild sea of rock and earth as I turn my pony back down and follow our solitary tracks home.

Horses on pasture before the snow arrives.

Snow settled on the deck outside the sliding door beside our table as we finished dinner last night.  The first of the season.  We removed our socks by the fire and walked outside on the shockingly frigid surface to celebrate its arrival.

This will melt.  Our early autumn storms don’t last.  They bring with them the panic that “this is it” and we remember we are not ready.  We do not have our hayshed full, our pantry stocked, meat in the freezer, horses hauled to winter pasture, tools picked up from the ground that could be buried and invisible until the following spring.

They also bring the peace of the winter season.  The slow long letting out of breath that has been so rushed and panting through summer.  An ease of being.  Long nights wrapped up reading with my boys by the fire.  How I love the shorter days…

The thermometer reads twenty-one degrees on the deck.  It will be colder out in the open, in the garden, on pasture.  I lovingly carried in the last survivors of the potted petunias hanging outside the cabin indoors last as the wind blew with a arctic warning, freezing my hands earlier in the afternoon as I rode horseback in the sunshine with heavy gloves, and still the chill penetrated so that unsaddling became a fumbling mess. 

I try to be out riding as much as possible this time of year.  I know it is almost over.  The image of the cowboy galloping through the snow never rode up here in winter.  Our snow is deep.  I would be breaking the legs of my horses.  We take the winter off.  I brush them, feed them, talk to them, remind them that spring will return, enjoy their rest because then I will have them out working the trails again.  They look at me with their big brown eyes and seem to understand, though it is hard.  Winter is long for them.

In the meanwhile, it is not here yet.  We have time to ride, to rush around and prepare ourselves for the long white season.  We watch the humans leave the mountain, back to their “real” worlds elsewhere, a warmer, busier life far from the mountain that somehow remains with them deep inside to help them get through until they return next year for a week, a month, a season. 

The elk will soon follow, though only as far as the foothills, where they are able to find food to sustain them until next June, when something calls them back up here.  How strong this drive within them.  Silent and unspoken, but they all know.  They all leave.  Often together, in one rapid exodus as a heavy snow thicken on the north slopes and the southern sides no longer thaw out mid day.

We are not there yet.  For now, we will try to enjoy the occasional snow, now so dramatic between  the golden blaze of the Aspen and the crystal blue of our mid day sky. How hard it is to remain present, to enjoy the here and now of such a spectacular time of year, when we know winter’s footsteps are approaching, so much to be done before they arrive.  And yet we do.  We do enjoy.  It is hard to remain indoors amidst such magnificence as the mountain in autumn.

Before the snow arrives...

Another storm rolling up to the Divide on Weminuche Pass

I stop on the trail for a brief moment, sit silent on my horse and listen. His head turns to the south.  I follow the direction of his alerted ears and see the elk crossing a clearing on the slope. We watch for a minute or two as the bull paces along the shale incline, as his powerful voice travels down in our direction.  A challenge or an invitation.  We shrug off his confrontation, return our attention to the trail ahead, and continue on our way.

The thunder crackles behind us, in the direction from which we rode, rolling off the mountain in an elongated rumble and roar. I take comfort in the chance that the clouds will not travel as fast as we, my horse and I.

He is anxious to return home and offers to run in an extended trot down the twisting mountain trail.  I trust him.  I allow him.  With loose rein we cover distance in double time, both horse and rider alert and focused ahead, vigilant for rocks, downed timber, mud holes and game on the route ahead, seeking the soonest view of what might be around the next bend.

At the creek he slows, like a child at a traffic light looking both ways before a street crossing, cautiously approaching the water.  He steps in, lets out a heavy sigh, lowers his head, and savors a long, slow drink.  I look up creek at the cold, fresh stream crashing over the rocks worn smooth by the force of spring run off many months ago, for so many years before us. The voice of the waters silent all else for the brief moment we stand there to rest.

And then we continue, the sound of the horse’s lungs blowing in short, powerful bursts with each vigorous step forward, the pounding on the muddy trail, sure footing despite the spray of mud or deep imprint each time the heavy hoof touches down.

We hear what we choose to, and here there is little sound to perceive but the stark echo of man and beast and nature, wind and water, wild storms and wildlife. If I yell out, will no one here?  There is no one to hear my voice, only for me to hear the voice of the mountain.

We see no one on the trail until the trailhead, nearly five miles from where we had stopped and turned towards home. I speak to the people on foot before me. Pointless sounds so out of place. I wonder if they hear.

A view through the trees

On the morning I left for my first solitary pack trip, my son told me he thought I was brave.  I was glad for this.  A part of most everything I do is for him.  I suppose this is what we do as women, as mothers, as parents.  It is what we want to do. Always in some way caring for those we love, doing all we can to make our children’s lives as positive as we possibly can. And still know when to let go. Or try to know.  I am not very proficient at that part…

He is 16. I can no longer pave every road before him, much as I would like to. What I have tried to do is teach him to pave his own roads.  This is an odd analogy – here we are living in the high mountains and travelling in the back woods, where the nearest paved road to our home is 18 miles away.  But I think you know what I mean…  I’m referring to seeing, following and even smoothing out the path before us.  Finding the right direction in life, and making the right choices to get down that path.  We will never make all the right choices, will we?  But we can, we should, always try.

And so, he called me brave.  And yet, all I felt was scared. I wanted to show him, him more than anyone else except myself, that we can do something even if we are afraid. First, with a great deal of preparation.  I’ve been packing for years.  I have the knowledge, the skills, the tools, the physical ability.  I knew I could, or at least, should be able to do it alone. But fear isn’t always so logical… There are times, no matter how prepared we are, we are still stepping into the unknown, and a secret, silent part deep within us steps and shouts “NO!”

As I wordlessly rode down the trail later that first day, high away in the hills yet so deeply buried in my own tangled thoughts, the horses slipping and sliding up a muddy slope through the last of the dark timber before breaking out above tree line, I looked across a break in the woods to the mountain tops across the valley and saw peaks I know he has scaled… in the winter on his snowmobile!  And I wondered who of us was really brave… Or are we both?  Are we all, any time we step just a little beyond the paved road?

Me and my horses, trying to be brave...

Along the Pole Creek trail

Short and sweet. Challenging enough to be an adventure. Far enough away to see some spectacular country. Long enough to be missed. Hard enough to tire my body (though no, still nothing like a day of digging…).Exciting enough to wet my lips for more…

A gentle stretch on a quiet morning

I stayed in our big back yard, as we call it. For those familiar with the area, the route headed up West Lost trail, up over and down into the Pole Creek drainage.  Then on into the Weminuche Wilderness at Starvation Gulch, perhaps the most beautiful place I know of… so far… From there, up to the ridge above Beartown, along the trail into West Ute, down the Utes… and home.  On a map, a distance of only about forty miles. You could cover this in a day horseback if all you’re doing is riding, and far more distance if you’re on anything motorized. But the camping and packing, I suppose that was the challenging part.  Especially alone. These are the chores we are used to sharing.  Setting up and breaking down tent and tarp and gear, tending horses, gathering firewood and water, cleaning up to leave no trace… and lifting all on the big horse….made me long for a little mule! I found myself in a sweat before even climbing in the saddle.  Riding was more relaxing.  Though being there, building a little home for the night alone in the wilds with the only sounds as I finally would crawl into the tent at night would be the rushing of the creek, the bugling of the bull elk oh-so-close, the rustling of mice or other little critters outside the tent, and the occasional gentle sigh and shifting of the horses in the trees beside the tent, tired and relaxed and content to be by the safety of their two legged companion.

In Starvation Gulch

Being alone along the trail in the wide open country of the world above tree line.  You can talk all you want to the horses and no one will hear you.  You can see forever.  You can feel as though your horse has wings as you reach the pass and open up a brand new horizon before you. Breathtaking! You can look back and see the ominous clouds building and chasing you and hope you can get your slicker on in time, or your tent up against the wind.  You look out of your tent and hope the horses are still there. Walking home is not a comfortable option in boots and levis and chaps.  And the chance of someone else coming along to “rescue” you isn’t a likely option.  I ran into one person on the first day, and a couple on the last.  All were somewhat surprised to see… a woman.  Alone with her horses.  I hope I showed them what I learned myself.  It can be done.

the trail on the top of my world

And now I think of where else I can go… Will we ever stop longing for more?

The trail heads up and up and up

And the trail down the other side...

Far from home: Yesterday, my horses on top of the mountain.

Today a tin cup sky hangs heavy over the mountain, leaden and weighty and every shade of grey, pouring forth its burden of rain and hail.  In the high country, I imagine this would be snow.  But me, I am safe and warm.  I sit by the woodstove, with my husband at my side and dog by my feet.  I am home.

Sometimes, just sometimes, we make rash decisions… and they prove to be good ones. 

Yesterday afternoon I sat by the camp I had just set up, with my horses grazing on lush tall grass nearby. It was a camp I had been to many times, only a few hours into the Wilderness from home. The adventure was over.  The challenge, the newness, the unexpected was over.  It was, almost, comfortable.

The panniers were unloaded, tent set up, firewood gathered.  I sat on a log by the little fire pit and was getting ready to start a small flame.  It was early still, about a quarter to four.  This is the time I had arrived at a camp site the past two evenings after a long day on the trail, still awaiting the work of tending the horses and setting camp in a new location, a new home for the night for me and my two four legged companions.  Ah… so now I had a long evening of free time ahead of me.  Vacation?  That’s not why I was there.  Adventure.  A challenge.  To prove to myself I could do it.  To push myself and find what matters most to me.

Free time is not what matters most. 

My husband?  Yes. A partner who allows and supports one to bloom and grow and at times fly free only to welcome your return with open arms. 

My son?  Oh yes!  And Forrest was to be heading out to hunting camp before my scheduled return.  A last minute decision, a chance to work for a friend and outfitter, Forrest was pleased with the opportunity, but displeased with the timing that he’d have to head out without a chance to see me first… This complication meant that with my planned Thursday return home, Friday I’d have saddle up and ride horseback another five hours out to hunting camp and back just for a brief occasion to see my son. Of course I would do it, but there’s work to do on the ranch… another day off?

So what is important to me?  My boys.  My animals.  Nature. Wild things. My independence.  And finding the balance that works best to juggle it all.  Making compromises at times and being willing to push myself beyond my comfort level at other times in order to best achieve this precarious balance. It doesn’t always work.  But I have to try.  And so… this leads me to that part about rash decisions…

As I sat there staring far away into the still unlit fire, I decided to pack it all up and hit the trail home.  If I took down camp, packed back up, resaddled,  rode fast enough along the nine miles of Wilderness trail, and if all actually went well, I’d be home before it was pitch black.

And so it was. With just a little light left in the sky, me and my horses crossed the mighty Rio Grande, climbed back up the bluff on our ranch and returned home. 

My boys were reminded of how important they are to me.  My dog was relieved to have me back by his side (May I add here that, for me, camping without a canine companion is just not right!).  My horses were grateful to be back on their home turf with their herd.  And me, well, I had my adventure. I learned what I needed to learn.  I saw such beauty (I can’t wait to share a part of that with you next).  And I got the feeling, or perhaps the reminder, that we really can do almost anything we want.  We are strong in body and mind. We learn to move ourselves forward with whatever we have, what ever our strengths and overcome weaknesses may be. We may get tired and sore, but we can push ourselves and get there.  Where ever “there” may be.  Even if its home…

Most important, I suppose, in this short but rather special solo journey, I reminded myself of something that’s always been essential to me: I don’t want a list. I want a life. 

My horses grazing after a long days ride at the most beautiful home away from home I know: Starvation Gulch

Looking back at my husband, the string of horses, and the forks of the Utes as the sun gets lower and the shadows get longer

The digging and dragging and ditch work are complete for the season, but work itself of course continues.  That’s what keeps us all going, in one way or another, a point and a purpose to each day. Whatever our purpose may be.

Yesterday, the purpose was bringing a family into the Weminuche Wilderness for their week long vacation. Ten horses, riding the folks and their gear into the high country. They will later backpack themselves out. 

I appreciate and respect the few families that still choose to spend time together, to spend time in the mountains, to give up some of the daily comforts for the tremendous views and soothing serenity, to get away from it all… but not from each other.  Here at the ranch, there in the high country… away from the traffic, the cell phones, the video games… just for a few days to remember…

This is one of the best parts of living on the mountain; not just visiting, passing by, or spending the fair seasons here, but hunkering down and calling it home and committing to the ups and downs, droughts and blizzards, crowds and immeasurable silence.  The opportunity to share, to meet such good people, to learn a little bit about their world as I open up mine to them, to help allow the wilds feel a little more comfortable for those who step outside…

Riding home, hunkered down on my horse as the rain soaked his mane flat against his neck, his alert ears forward, finding each step so smoothly and remarkably rapidly along the muddy and slick trail.  Horses with a job to do, a purpose, focused on the task and hand.  Don’t we all need that?  The sky darkens around us, a string of ten ponies, just my husband and me, too tired to speak, but no words ought to be tossed out there. We look at each other, each managing our string of horses, and smile, and little more needs to be said.

Alan rides with me on Flying Crow into Ditch Camp

Home again… It’s a fine, crisp and chilly Sunday morning.  Last I looked, the thermometer read 26 degrees, though with the first light of day and stirring air, I imagine it has dropped a couple more degrees.  How grateful I am to be here in my warm cabin, with the wood stove fired up.  How chilly we were waking yesterday morning up at Ditch Camp, with the heavy frost turning black the first of the foliage on the hillside.  Ah, but more of those stories later.  First, I want to share this with you. It’s not a recipe, though I try to post those on Sunday.  It will be a short week home for us, and there are too many stories I have to share with you… no time to talk food.  I’ll start with this one.  The story of Alan and what I’m afraid is his last trip into camp with us.

After our last return trip from Ditch Camp, we waited each day for Alan to bounce back.  He seemed tired, sore, under the weather.  I was hoping it was a cold or flu and that by tomorrow he’d be feeling better.   A week and half of tomorrows, and he did not recover.  But seeing us load up into the pick up with our supplies for the week and our horses in tow, he was determined to join us.  That is his place.  That is his job.  Since adopting him over nine years ago at the age of perhaps three or four, running along side the horses and being by our side at camp, where ever camp was, has been his number one duty.  And joy.

Less than a third of the way up the mountain, his spirit proved stronger than his legs, and he stopped, lied down, even rolled down a hill in exhaustion.  We stopped and waited time and time again, the horses content with our slower speed and more opportunities to get off trail for a bite of grass.  Finally, he did not show up around the next bend.  We tied up the horses, walked back, only to find him lying in the trail and quite glad to see us.  An expression on his exhausted face told us he’s trying, but he had little more to give.  Time for us to help him.  He knew we would.

You may recall the last time we had to carry Alan.  On a family adventure hike across Pole Mountain in the spring of this year. (link)  I suppose he knew we’d not leave him.  We’d take care of him, just as we know he’d try to do for each of us as well.

And so, on this family adventure, we started by lifting him on top of the big pack horse.  The horse was completely unbothered by the added weight of his buddy on his back.  However, keeping Alan there and lying down proved to be challenging.

Alan rides the big pack horse part way up the mountain.

Next, we put him in the saddle with me, draped across my legs and the horses’ neck.  I was riding my little stallion, who at times I feel is not much larger than the dog.  When Bob and Forrest lifted the dog up, Flying Crow accepted his added load without question.  It was a trusting moment for that little horse to allow us to do this, and pretty impressive for a stud horse in only his first year of working on the trail.  I call him the Little Horse That Could, and am pretty proud of him. 

After all these years of running along side horses, of keeping an eye on them and on us, as anyone who has ridden with us knows Alan will do, I can’t help but think he thought this was pretty neat, to finally be up there riding himself…

Home safe and sound and no worse for wear last night, Alan came into the office where we were sitting, put his head on Bob’s lap, then lay at our feet.  I believe he was thanking us. He told us in his own way that this is what team work is about.  This is what our family is about. We help each other out.  We are there for each other.  We don’t leave each other behind on the trail, but wait as necessary, and give each other a lift when need be.

I don’t know what we’ll do this coming week.  I’m afraid Alan is retired. He served his duty well for many years, though I know he will not choose to give up. He will stay home, though I wonder if maybe my little horse will accept carrying him every time, and I know that is not a practical choice.  Practical isn’t always a good thing. Camp will not be the same.  For us, for him.

Got my horse, got my dog...

Looking back at my husband and pack string as we ride up the Ute Creek Trail.

You can call me old fashioned. It won’t be the first time.  And I’m guessing many of you are, too, in many ways. Don wrote this yesterday, saying we were born 150 years too late.  At times, I sure feel that way, and indeed, I suppose at times, I am.  Other times, I find change and diversity as a beautiful and necessary part of life, without which we would be stuck in stagnant waters.

And yet… there are some things of the past I do hold on to.  Some of the old ways.  But they are not necessary old for me.  In fact, now that I think about it, they are new. Learned in my adult life.  From horses to homesteading, baking bread and milking cows. Skinning and butchering and making the most of every possible part of the animal. I didn’t learn these things as a kid. So, by preferring these things over the ready made, instant gratification and convenient packaging, I suppose I’m not really holding onto the past, but choosing the direction of my future.

What I’m getting at here is a dilemma I’ve been thinking of often lately as I ride the trails around our ranch and see the changing ways of the mountain.  It’s the dilemma of horses… and ATVs. 

Yesterday, I was taking a group of horses into this magnificent, remote, high mountain fishing lake.  On the way home, after passing (or being passed by) ATV number 25, I finally had had enough.  I bailed off the trail with my pack string and headed down an old narrow twisting game trail, just to avoid the traffic.

Yes, 25 ATVs within an 8 mile ride.  In fact, all that traffic in only 4 of those miles, as the other 4 miles was a section of trail closed to ATV traffic. Thus the rare call on and need for my horses. Someone who wanted to go where their ATV wouldn’t take them.

And how many horses and riders did I pass?  None.  Not a. Zip.  Zilch.  Not even one horse trailer up this way.  Not one visitor, tourist, guest or neighbor out riding horses.  But how many out on ATV?  Ooohhh, I can’t count.

Now mind you, I don’t mean to open a debate against ATVs.  I just want to point out that in the past few years, we’ve seen a huge drop in horse riding, coinciding with a huge increase in ATV riding.  Eight years ago, my first summer on the ranch, was a big drought year. The West was burning up.  At least this part of Colorado sure was. By the first of June, the sky was pink by noon, and ash floated around in the evenings.  Because of the increased risk of fire danger, the Forest Service closed the trails to motorized vehicles. The horses were in demand. People were willing to ride. It was the only way to get around, and folks, once on the horses, remembered it’s a pretty good way to travel.

In the seven years following, the demand for horses has dropped considerably, as the sales of ATVs has taken a big leap forward.

I ride the trail, the only horseman out there, stopping to talk to all the nice folks out enjoying the Forest on their ATV.  I stop quite often.  There are many people.  It is peak season on the trails.  They are all nice; they all happily stop to talk; they all appreciate the nature and beauty around them… especially when they stop, shut off their motors, and take a look around. 

I feel very old fashioned.  Very out numbered, out dated.  A relic of the past.  One I will fight to hold on to, to continue to be.

Off to Ditch Camp!  Talk about old fashioned…

The view up towards East and Middle Ute

Riding up the mountain with full packs

It was just another day of work. Or as my old boss and friend used to say just about every day on another mountain where I once lived and worked, another beautiful day in paradise.  I don’t take my appreciation for where I am, what I do, and that my body holds up most of the time to allow me to do this, lightly.  There is rarely a day that goes by that something about the work, the mountain, the horses, my family, or perhaps even all of these things, does not fill me with joy and gratitude.  Just as I never want to stop “seeing” things fresh and new.  This is my eighth year living and working in these mountains.  I came here, and stayed here.  We have struggled to make it work, despite financial and family disorders. It has been a labor of love.

And as I look around the mountain that surrounds us, that cradles us in her arms, the beauty nearly overwhelms me. Every day. I hope that feeling never stops.  I don’t believe it will.  It’s a matter of how we choose to look at it all.  A matter of taking to time to look, you know?  Because when we open our eyes, really open them, we also open our heart.  And then we not only see the mountain, but we feel it.  And then the beauty of the mountain really shines through.

How grateful I am to be here, doing what I do, for some great folks. The work itself, when we’re not digging ditch and cleaning cabins, is taking folks horseback on advanced mountain trail rides, or doing “drop camps.”  A drop camp is taking people and their gear, or just their gear, into the high country, so they can enjoy a week of back packing and camping from a far and away, remote location in the Wilderness without having to haul it all in themselves. 

So, yesterday, Bob and I headed out with the gear of six folks planning a week long adventure of hiking and technical climbing deep in the Weminuche Wilderness.  I admire these folks.  This is the third year we’ve had the honor of working for them.  Each time they choose a different area, study their maps, and find some incredible routes… and adventures… during their week.

Looking down Ute Creek from the Forks of the Utes

I suppose the most obvious perk to our work is the view.  Not a bad place to spend the day, I know, even if I may whine to you from time to time about the cold wind and rain that get us most every day. Beyond that is my respect for our horses, who are polite, respectful, hard working, and a pleasure to be with.  We care for them like children.  We’re proud of them as parents should be.  They are this way because we’ve taught them what to do and how to do it in a firm but fair, respectful manner.  Sure, they get sore and tired just as we get sore and tired.  But at the end of the day, we’ll all get the job done, and be rewarded with a good meal and a good night sleep.  Simple pleasures, simple rewards.  But we understand and trust each other now, and working together, though days may be long and tiring, we’re a team, and good team now.

Sharing the mountain with other folks, helping in our very simple and small way to open up the wilds and wilderness to appreciative and caring people… at the end of the day, every day, all summer long, that is what it’s really about.  Folks come here to “get away from it all.”  Our job is to help them do just that.  That, my friend, is one very special honor. 

Riding home with empty packs past Black Lake

And so, we’re off to start another day of work, another beautiful day in paradise.  Looks like we’re bringing a few fishermen up the mountain horseback for a day of fishing in a high, remote lake…