A Tree in the Trail

Sunday was one of those fabulous fall bluebird days that just can’t get any better -- until one rides a good horse into the mountains to see the aspen colors, smell the pines and hear the silence that eludes a person who resides in town.

Three members of the East Slope Back Country Horsemen saddled our horses and headed to Ear Mountain for a glorious, spirit-lifting gift to ourselves. We all know such a day comes around rarely. Soon enough, snow will pelt our faces.

We had a little bit of trail work tied to our gift to ourselves. This project was simple, a small component of our overall day, but necessary.

We would cut a killer tree out of the trail.

Last July 3, while the rest of us were preparing to celebrate our nation’s birthday, an accomplished, horse-loving veterinarian from Choteau stepped into his stirrups for the last time.

His wife of almost 54 years, Gail, rode behind Dr. Bob Lee on their trusted, experienced horses, anticipating a sunny, relaxing ride along some of Montana’s most imposing and spectacular scenery.

A fallen tree hanging up in another standing tree across the trail knocked Dr. Lee off his horse and broke his neck, killing him almost instantly.

The tree knocked Gail from her horse, too, in her effort to get to her husband.

A few weeks later, one of our group, Gary, rode with a friend along that same trail, spotting the killer tree a mile or two from the trailhead. Neither rider had a saw.

I have a saw. Gary knew where to go. Colleen knew Dr. Lee and wanted to prevent another accident.

Together, we had the knowledge, skills and supplies to cut that tree from blocking the trail. Also, we wanted to honor a man who held the same love for horses and the mountains that we hold.

I called Gail to ask if she would mind if I told this story and to let her know that someone had cut that tree out of the trail.

Gail remembers riding into an aspen grove with a single tree lodged in the V of another tree. By the time we arrived three months later, two trees crossed the trail. One was low and extremely difficult for a rider to duck under. The second one was lodged higher, stuck in a V of another tree. We debated whether a horseback rider could make it under that one. It would be tricky.

Dr. Lee’s tree did not appear particularly risky. It didn’t crash down on top of him or force his horse to roll off a cliff. Yet it killed a ballast of his community who loved his family.

We cut both of those trees out of the trail.

With some help.

Three riders from Fairfield rode into the aspen grove just as we were cutting down the first, smaller tree. They took turns with the saw and we all carried logs off the trail.

Then we leaned back and told stories of wrecks we had in the backcountry.

We all know our own personal tree in the trail might be around the next corner.

Yet we still take the risk.

The magnificent power of sheer cliffs, squirrels chattering, spruce grouse flushing, our shoulders soaking up the sun and a good horse as our partner compel us to take that risk.

To quit waiting for life to come to us and really live.

To feel sorry for those who don’t.

To know deep in our souls just how fortunate we are.

We cut Dr. Lee’s tree out as respect for how he lived life to the fullest.

Then, for the rest of our ride, we really lived.