Risks and Rewards in the Mountains
The smoky skies and the trickles of sweat running down my back as I loaded horses into the trailer reminded me of the potential for wildfire where we were headed.
Temperatures had dropped from scorching 100s and the wind had settled into a breeze, but the grass is crunchy now and horseshoes can strike a spark.
My daughter, Abby, my friend, Colleen, and I met at the trailhead for the Bob Marshall Wilderness, planning to explore a new trail that would take us about 19 miles along the eastern Front, connecting familiar trails we had ridden from the north and south.
At the trailhead, we sorted through the supplies, balancing the paniers within a pound with horse and human first aid kits, a water filter, warm clothes, a map, and plenty of food to last at least a week.
All of our reliable horses had been here many times and we took enough dogs to alert bears with a lot of commotion.
But we weren’t too worried about bears.
We figured all the bears were on the prairie. The day before we left, Colleen had spotted four massive bruins at her ranch.
The familiar trail and our usual campsite waiting on standby allowed plenty of opportunities to reminisce about rides we had taken in the past – that spot where Abby saw a grizzly, this trailside cliff that used to cause us to panic but doesn’t anymore, here where a horse blew up one time and bucked all the kitchen utensils out of the pack, this patch of sarvisberries that was good last year, that knapweed ridge that needs a heavy dose of chemical or it will lead us down the trail next year.
Our easy memories casually noted the risks and quiet rewards of riding mountain trails.
By noon the next day, we scoped out the results of our July cocklebur-control efforts at a well-used and familiar camp, but that was where we entered new-to-us-territory.
Abby and Colleen held the pack horses while I scoped out the blind spot on a steep, deeply-cut trail for downed trees.
The trail was nasty for a couple hundred yards, with no room to stop or turn around.
As my horse lunged through the big rocks in the trail, she stumbled and rolled, first one way and then another.
I bailed off, hoping hooves weren’t following me.
When the dust settled, my horse stood trembling nearby while I found my feet.
Colleen, Abby and the rest of the horses climbed the bad spot without a hitch.
We sawed and moved a few downed trees out of the trail until we discovered a wide basin with the trail switchbacking its way up slippery talus.
My horse hesitated, then slowly stepped onto the loose rocks.
As many times as she had led the way on mountain trails, she seemed to have lost her confidence.
Twice, her hind foot slipped off the trail.
At the glory of the pass, we all traded tight grips for the awe of endless vistas.
Even through the smoke, uncountable crags reached for the sky.
That night, at our newly discovered, might-become-our-favorite camp, we had trees, a flowing spring and a nearby grassy meadow full of blooming wildflowers all to ourselves.
We didn’t talk much about how quickly a wreck can find us even when we prepare for everything we can anticipate.
We were too busy feeling fortunate to live where we can rock in the rhythm of a good horse’s walk through places most people can’t even imagine, feeling the breeze that cools just when it is about to get too hot and spending time talking about nothing -- that is really everything -- around a campfire.