200,000 and Counting

 

200,000

Somewhere along the way, without me really paying attention, The Sage Writer Blog passed 200,000 pageviews.

Two hundred thousand.

That number is a little difficult for me to wrap my head around.

When I first started putting my writing online, I never imagined hundreds of thousands of people would eventually stumble across anything I had written. Honestly, I was pretty sure my readership consisted primarily of my mom and my grandma. And maybe a couple of people who accidentally clicked the wrong link.

But apparently, somewhere along the way, people started reading.

The funny thing is, The Sage Writer didn't really begin with some grand plan. There was no business model, marketing strategy, or carefully crafted plan to build an audience. I was simply writing.

In fact, it didn’t start as The Sage Writer at all.

I first created my own domain called The Authors Web. It was not only a place to publish the stuff I wrote, but also a chance to learn about managing a website.

One thing I learned is that posting to a website every time you get the inclination to write is a pain in the butt.

That is when I converted The Authors Web into a blogging format. Much easier to maintain and format.

The first domain was with WordPress. Being the cheapskate I am, I did not want to pay for a domain merely for the sake of blogging. That is when I found Blogger.

A format more conducive to what I needed.

And free!

I changed the name to The Sage Writer...

And here we are.

As I've been digging back through old files recently, trying to find the beginning of this whole adventure, I discovered that my earliest identifiable piece in what I had labeled my Old Blog archive was written in September of 2011.

It was called:

Girls Gone Wild-erness

The title alone probably tells you everything you need to know about where this was headed.

It was the story of an all-girls pack trip into the Frank Church Wilderness. At the time, I was also writing for SBBCH, and I honestly don't remember whether Girls Gone Wild-erness ever made it onto my own website. It may have. It may not have. Digital archaeology is apparently harder than it looks…and I did that very thing for a living for over 20 years.

But that piece was there, sitting in my old files, dated September 14, 2011.

A little over a year later, on January 23, 2013, I published what appears to be the first actual post I can find from my Sagewriter WordPress blog.

It was called:

Let's Ride!

“You know how it is, at the spur of the moment you get a hankering to saddle up your trusty stead and hit the trail. It sure would be nice if you had a little company on that trail...”

It wasn't a dramatic declaration of my arrival as a writer.

It was basically me saying, Hey, I want to go riding. Anybody want to come along?

That seems about right.

Not long after that came one of the stories that changed things a little.

Annie's Story

That story started getting attention.

Annie’s Story was about a barter mule I…well, bartered for. People seemed to gravitate toward it.

For the first time, my little corner of the internet climbed to over 1,000 hits. I remember being amazed. One thousand people? Reading something I wrote?

At that point, I was still probably wondering how many of them were my mom checking in repeatedly to make me feel successful.

But then things settled down again.

And for years, I just kept writing.

Stories about horses. Pack trips. Wilderness adventures. Dogs. Christmas. Things that went right. Things that went spectacularly wrong. A lot of things that went spectacularly wrong, actually.  Stories from the trail and stories from life.

There were no fireworks. No viral explosion. No moment when I suddenly woke up and thought, Well, look at me. I've made it.

I just wrote.

Then I retired.

And I hit the road on my first, and quite spontaneous, adventure to Arizona.

For reasons that made perfect sense to me at the time, I called this adventure:

The Pumpkin Cheesecake Diaries

And something happened.

The blog traffic took off. The hit counter started spinning faster than a Vegas slot machine.

I don't know exactly why that series connected with people the way it did. Maybe it was the adventure. Maybe it was the journey. Maybe people were curious to see what would happen when a recently retired woman packed up, without a clue, a plan or a sense of direction, and headed toward Arizona. I imagine a few of them came for the misadventure. Who doesn’t feel compelled to watch a good train wreck?

Or maybe it was the pumpkin cheesecake.

I remember now how that name came about. Before leaving on that first trip to Arizona, I had made a pumpkin cheesecake and brought it along for the journey. At the end of a day filled with adventure, misadventure, or whatever the day had decided to throw at me, I'd stop somewhere for the night, set up camp, and have myself a slice.

It became a ritual. No matter how crazy the day had been, how many things had gone sideways, or what new adventure I had managed to stumble into, I could sit down at the end of it all with a piece of pumpkin cheesecake.

The weirdest part: I don’t like pumpkin pie. Not even a little. I do, however, LOVE anything cream cheese and apparently, enough cream cheese can make even pumpkin tolerable!

Whatever the reason, people started finding the blog. And then more people found it.

The strange thing about writing online is that you don't always know who is sitting on the other side of the screen. You write something while sitting alone at your computer, hit Publish, and send it out into the great electronic wilderness.

Then life goes on.

You write another story.

And another.

Sometimes you look at the numbers. Mostly you don't.

Until one day you glance up and realize that somehow...

200,000 people have stopped by.

I have no idea who most of them are.

Some may have stayed for a single story. Some may have wandered in looking for information about horses or the wilderness and accidentally ended up reading about my dogs, my adventures, or whatever ridiculous situation I had managed to get myself into that week.

Some may have been bots.

Probably a few. Probably more than a few. Likely a good 199,000 of them are bots. I’m OK with that…bot lives matter too!

But even if half the internet is made up of robots wandering around clicking links, there are still an awful lot of real people behind that number and they couldn't all be my mom and grandma! 

I will take it. Because when I started this journey, I wasn't trying to build an audience of 200,000 pageviews.

I was just writing.

From Girls Gone Wild-erness, written back in 2011...

To Annie's Story, when I first realized that maybe someone besides my mom was actually reading...

To The Pumpkin Cheesecake Diaries, when the little blog suddenly found a life of its own...

And now, somehow, here we are.

200,000 pageviews.

That's a pretty long trail from where I started.

So thank you to everyone who has ever stopped by, read a story, laughed at something ridiculous, followed an adventure, or simply wandered through my little corner of the internet. Even if you are a bot -  I appreciate you, too. 

Apparently, when I said “Let's Ride!” back in 2013...

Some of you actually came along.

And for that, I am incredibly grateful. ❤

Well....I'll be damned

Epic Road Trip - The Return

 

Epic Road Trip: The Return

 

July 28, 2026

It might be early to head south but I am homesick and tired of explaining why that is. AZ is my home. Yes – it is hot in the summer. Yes, there are snakes. However, I am certain they are not lurking around every bush waiting to attack. I suppose there is a fair chance of being snake bit no matter how careful a person is. I could also just as likely be mauled by a bear or eaten by a cougar up north. I don’t hear anybody concerned for my safety in that regard! Well, maybe my mom. She’s always warning me about the cougars, wolves and bears around. Regardless, I have come to the realization that I no longer need to justify the way I live my life. I want to go home and damn it…I am going home.

 

I winterized my Holbrook property and headed for Emmett, Idaho. I spent the night in Emmett at Dan and Robyn's. Emmett is only a few short hours from Halfway but it is a good stopping off place to regroup and make sure everything is travel ready for the long haul.

 

Dan’s daughter, son in law and granddaughters were visiting from Washington. It was great to see them all. Robyn squeezed me in a haircut that should last until I see them again when they head south this winter.

 

I won’t be going straight home from Idaho this trip. I will make a round-about side trip through Montana and then Colorado to visit friends before dropping south. I haven’t decided how long or where exactly I’m going. That is the beauty of doing whatever the hell you want, when you want. I haven’t had to answer to anyone since I was 17 years old and have no plans to start now.

 

 

July 29, 2026

 

I left Emmett early morning of the 29^th for Montana.

 

August 1–2

I would stay and help at the August clinic on the 1st and 2nd, but would draw out of the Kalispell shoot. The main objective was simply to keep my head down and get through it. Observation is key. Just sit back and observe. Don't react. Not exactly my style, but I managed it. Sometimes the best way to find the answers you seek is to make the least amount of noise and let the silence bring the answers to you. And the answers came most resoundingly: For me, that meant it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge

 

August 3, 2026

I left Bozeman for Colorado, intending to spend the night in Kaysville. That plan was abruptly disrupted when the front axle dropped out of my trailer in Idaho Falls. I am fairly certain it happened when I had to make a sharp U turn that torqued the wheels and ripped both front axle brackets to shreds. I heard a weird noise and discovered smoke billowing from the trailer tires. That will ruin your day. As soon as I realized my tire was smoking, I pulled into the nearest wide spot I could fit my truck and trailer. That happened to be the Sinclair Gas Station: Shakas. I pulled as close to the curb as I could get to leave room for the gas station customers and still be off the main road.

 

I still haven’t decided if I am the unluckiest or the luckiest person alive.

 

A deputy sheriff, Sergeant Bennion, pulled in directly behind me. Thank you Jesus.  We went about trying to figure out the problem. All the tires were inflated but the wheel fenders on the passenger side was tore loose and rubbing on the tires…hence the smoke. The deputy handed me a crow-bar and sledge hammer as I went about trying to pull the aluminum fender away from the tires. Apparently, they are not allowed to help you demolish your own vehicle.  I should have looked more thoroughly right then but wanted to get out of the way of the gas station and onto a vacant lot across the way. When I attempted to pull forward – the axle essentially stayed put while the trailer tried to move forward without it. That’s not good.  The front axle had sheared off at the brackets and essentially dropped the axle onto the ground.

 

WTF do I do now? Here I am – a trailer full of horses and dogs in the middle of a town where I don’t know a soul. I looked at Sergeant Bennion – he looked at me. “What do I do now?” He didn’t really have an answer. There is something of a sequence that happens to me in situations like this. First, my brain totally blanks out. It’s like there is nothing in there I can call on for help. I go completely blank trying to get the gears rolling. Several minutes roll by in a fog. Then – once it registers that nobody is going to rescue me – nobody is going to offer advice or come up with an awesome plan…my brain clicks into survival mode and starts to grab at straws until something finally works. Just having a body there was enough to give me some courage. I asked the Sergeant: You aren’t going to leave me here, right? He replied: No Ma’am. I’m here until you figure out what to do. The first person I called was my insurance lady and friend, Karen. Unfortunately, Karen was on vacation in limited cell service and couldn’t offer help other than to call roadside assistance.

 

My biggest concern was my horses. It was hot and they had already been in the trailer for hours. I told Sgt. Bennion I really needed to get the horses out of the trailer. He went into action and made arrangements for animal control to take my horses to the Bonneville County Fairgrounds until the trailer issue was solved.

 

While we waited for animal control, I called Les Schwab. They had me send a picture of the axle and promised to get back to me. In the meantime, Animal control showed up with a trailer to take my horses to the fairgrounds. The lady animal control officer, Clarisse, was someone you liked immediately. She was five foot nothing, but carried herself with a quiet confidence, a genuine smile, and a friendly, positive presence that immediately put me at ease. She took charge of the situation without ever being pushy or overbearing.  She clearly knew horses. It was reassuring to feel that I wasn’t handing them off to somebody who didn’t know a poll from a fetlock.

Officer Tom Bolleurs, another animal control officer – arrived on scene as well. I don’t think Tom knew as much about horses as Clarisse – but he was kind and seemed to understand that watching somebody haul off my horses to a place I didn’t know or had never seen was…hard. I told him I didn’t care what happened to that trailer but those horses are my life…my family. Both the Sergeant and Deputy Tom parked their cars in such a manner that would provide safe passage for my horses to be transferred into the other trailer. Clarisse led Drifter and I led Jack. Probably more for my benefit than his…I patted Jack’s neck: “I WILL find you and I WILL come for you Bubba…I swear.”

 

During the transfer of my horses, Clarisse called her husband, Chance, an auto mechanic. Chance promptly arrives on scene and inspects the trailer. While under the trailer, he took a picture of the information plate on the axle that would help anybody fixing it by providing the proper numbers for parts, etc. Chance suggested I call a welding shop that might be able to help. I can’t remember the name now, something like “West Welding or Main Street Welding.” The gal that answered said they might be able to fix it but I would have to bring it to them. When I assured her the trailer wasn’t able to move on its own, I asked if she knew of a tow truck. She said she did – but I should call “Patrick of Peterson Express Mobile Welding and that he could probably help and would come to me. If not – to call her back and we’d find a tow truck. Chance gave me his number to call if what we had in motion failed and we had to come up with a Plan B. They had room for me and my horses if need be.

 

My brain was rapidly firing on all neurons processing this ordeal while still trying not to panic. Each imagined outcome more chaotic than the next. One path is the realization all of this could take a week or more. How was that even going to work?  Do I move into the stalls with my horses at the fairgrounds? Do I move in with Chance and Clarisse? At least there would be hot and cold running water…I’ve survived off-grid. I can do this. Another burst of neurons rushed down the path that would have me hauling the Bison off to the scrap yard and buying a brand new BLOOMER or some such crazy shit no one ever can afford. That’s it. A new trailer. I can probably find an old 2 horse straight load nobody wants. I’ll trade them straight across for a 3 horse slant with LQ. One good axle – one in need of some TLC. Who could refuse such an offer?

 

I called the number for Patrick the mobile welder and that is when things began to happen…and in a good way. Patrick asked me to take a photo of the damage so he could bring the correct parts for the job and he would have me back on the road as soon as possible. Simple as that. Sergeant Bennion must have registered the relief on my face. Things were in motion. They were falling into place. Sergeant Bennion said he would hand me over to Officer Tom and gave me a card with his number on it and said to call if I needed anything at all. He said it was nice meeting me but wished it had been under better circumstances. I replied: Not me! This is a better meeting than me being in handcuffs face down on the pavement! He laughed and said I had a good point there. We shook hands and off he went.

 

Les Schwab called back and apologized for the late response but there was nothing they could do since my axle is a torsion axle. I appreciated the call back even if I didn’t know what the hell a torsion axle was.

 

Patrick the welder arrived and went to work inspecting the damage. Unfortunately, the brackets were damaged beyond repair. He would need to find parts. He again assured me before he left that he would return and get me back on the road ASAP. Officer Tom also bade me farewell and said he would check on my horses. He left his card and number and said to call if I had any concerns or couldn’t find the fairgrounds that now housed my horses. That was a real possibility since I can barely find my way out of my own bathroom at times. My fear was that it would be dark by the time I was back on the road. I can't see shit at night…not even a giant, lit up fairgrounds.

 

I was hungry. While I waited for Patrick to return, I dropped into Shakas for something to eat. I ordered possibly the worst chicken apple salad on the planet but the lady making it was so nice I pretended to like it.

 

Still waiting for Patrick – I unloaded the dogs and took them for a walk across the street at a large vacant lot. I kept staring at that lot. I wish I’d managed to limp this thing into that lot so I wouldn’t be in the way of this gas station. Customers trying to pull in and out while navigating around a 30’Bison did not seem pleased. What can you do? Nada.

 

I receive a call from Patrick. The part he needs cannot be found in the five places he knew of to call. They would have to order the part and it would take a week. A week. What the hell was I going to do for an entire week? Patrick has this weird, calming vibe about him and is apparently somewhat clairvoyant. “I told them you don’t have a week. We have to get you back on the road today…so, I’m going to fabricate the brackets myself. I am picking up the material I need and I’ll be there shortly. Don’t worry – we will get you back on the road.” I totally believed him. I was still hungry. This time I ordered nachos with extra cheese and just smiled at the nice lady behind the food counter making someone else one of her apple chicken salads to die for. Literally...a person might die eating that thing. 

 

While munching down the nachos, I noticed a group of sketchy dudes lurking around the gas-station. I kept one eye on them and one eye on my quickly diminishing nachos. I could really use another batch of those nachos but the sketchy vibe I got from the dudes told me to stay out of Shakas for the time being. Because it wasn’t crowded and chaotic enough, a massive, double tanker fuel truck pulled up across the street. He needed to fill the Sinclair tanks. Of course, I was in his way. He stepped out of his tanker. I expected a rude confrontation. Instead, he grinned looking over my broke down Bison:  “Looks like you’re not having a very good day.” I answered: Believe it or not – I’ve had worse and I’d rather be right here where I am than where I was two days ago. I apologized for blocking his access. He shrugged it off. It’s no problem – I’ll sit here until you get fixed up. Can I help?

 

The gas station manager then came out of the store to assess the situation about the same time Patrick pulled in alongside my trailer ready to go to work. The store manager addressed Patrick: “Hey – can you park your welding trailer somewhere else? I understand she can’t move because she’s broke down. But if you could park somewhere so my customers can get in and out…” A reasonable request considering. Patrick pulled his trailer onto the road. Not ideal but what can you do.

 

The gas station manager was determined to get the fuel tanker in the lot to fill his fuel tanks. He coned off an area so the tanker could squeeze in. The tanker driver managed to finagle his rig between me and the cones and was nearly in position when all hell broke out at the Sinclair Station. Several cop cars circled the 3 sketchy hoodlums. One was taken to the ground face down. I couldn’t help but grin: Well…Sgt. Bennion, I told you it could have been worse…that could have been me!”

 

The tanker, the arrival of an ambulance in combination with the 3 cop cars and as many hoodlums was Patrick’s breaking point: “Let’s get the hell out of here. We can drop that front axle and you can limp over to that empty lot on one axle. Just drive super slow. I agreed. I don’t know how he did it, but Patrick hefted that entire axle by himself. I am not weak. In fact, as my Grandpa Emmett used to say: “Hey – you are pretty stout for a girl.” I still could not lift half of the axle. I could sort of scoot it along – but Patrick said it was easier for him to pack it himself. Hernia aside – he tossed the axle into the back of his trailer and we limped over to the vacant lot. That act alone was like an axle’s weight of stress off our shoulders! Now we had all the space and time in the world.  

 

Somewhere between having my horses hauled off and the chaos at the Sinclair Station – ACO Tom sent me a text containing pictures of both my horses with a note: “Tucked away safe and sound.” That one text meant the world to me.             

 

The brackets Patrick fabricated on the fly were a perfect fit. It was a simple matter to weld them to the axle, roll the axle under the trailer and bolt the axle to the trailer. I say “simple” like I was any help at all. Hey – I did get Patrick to accept a bottle of water. I tried to feed him, but water was all he would take.  

Patrick had me back on the road in just over 6 hours. The total charge of $612.00 was, in my opinion – not nearly enough for his efforts. I wrote him a check and gave him an extra $200.00 in cash. He started to object but I stood my ground: Don’t argue with me boy…I’ve had a rough day and while I might not be able to lift an entire axle by myself…you do not want to mess with an old lady that’s worried about her horses and nothing left to lose.

 

Once the trailer was mobile again, I went to find my horses. Google maps took me straight to the fairgrounds. I found my horses, fed them and took the dogs for a walk. The part of the fairgrounds with the overnight pens was far from the rest of the main grounds. I appreciated the quiet. There was no traffic and for the first time in over 6 hours, I was not in anyone’s way. 

 

I reflected on the day as I crawled under the covers of my LQ mattress. I don’t think of it as bad luck at all. Shit is going to happen no matter who you are or where you are. The shit that happened to me that day could not have happened in a better place or around better people. EVERYONE that came into my bubble offered kindness and support. From the Deputy Sheriff who promised not to leave me alone to Patrick the welder…skilled, calm and determined to find a solution to get me back on the road. The tanker driver who could have been rude as I blocked his way was compassionate and understanding. The animal control officers who took good care of my horses and made sure I knew they were safe. The AC officer's husband, Chance, who let me know that if all else failed – to give him a call and he’d help figure out some way to move my rig and horses to safety. All good people. 

God does not promise smooth roads without adversity – but he does promise to ride those roads with you and put the resources in front of you to get down them. Mostly, the experience prepared me for the next time I break down on the road with my critters…and there will be a next time. I now know about Animal Control and that they can get your animals somewhere safe. I now know about the existence of mobile welders for such emergencies. And I now know that however overwhelmingly impossible the situation might seem – you will get through it. You will find a solution – there is always a solution and you will come out the other side stronger and more confident than when you entered.

 August 4, 2026

I left Idaho Falls about 8 a.m. and in no hurry. I intended to spend the night in Kaysville, just a few hours way. I’d get a super early start the next morning to avoid Salt Lake rush hour traffic. That plan also fell apart quickly.

 

The address to a fairgrounds I was given took me to a ritzy residential area I could barely navigate a trailer through. The GPS kept telling me my destination was on the right. The only things on my right were private, gated entrances. I crept up the narrow street like a lurker casing the joint. The lady behind me in the soccer-mom minivan thought so, too. She abruptly passed to the front of me and came to a stop…essentially blocking my way with her soccer-mobile.

 

She exited her vehicle and came around to my window. I thought it brave of her, if not a bit stupid. If I was indeed a creepy lurker casing out my next homicide victim, she would have been accosted, wrapped in a horse blanket, and stuffed in the stud stall of the Bison before she could holler, “Madison, grab your cleats! We’re late for practice!”

 

Putting aside my warped and slightly unhinged interpretation of situations like this – I believe she was genuinely trying to help. “Are you OK? Do you need help?” I assured her I was fine, tired and a little lost. Had she heard of the Heritage Center where a person traveling through with horses might squat for the night?” She looked around: “No, I have not. There is nothing around here of a Heritage Center. Let me get my phone. I will Google it for you.” I said thank you anyway – but Google got me here in the first place. If she would kindly point me in the direction of the freeway, I would take my chances with Salt Lake traffic …leaving her with her carpool schedules, orange slices, and the eternal hunt for Madison’s missing cleats.

 

 

Driving through Salt Lake in the mid-morning hours wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared. Certainly nothing as hectic as hauling through Vegas. I heeded Dan’s advice: “Pick a lane in the middle and stick to it.” So, I got in the middle lane and drove through the longest city in history. It was at least forty miles from start to finish. It might take a village to raise a child, but it takes forty miles of city to house that many soccer moms.

 

Celia called when I was nearing Mancos. They were in Delores getting a load of water and would meet me at the 184/145 junction so I could follow them the rest of the way in. Celia understands my directionally challenged propensity to get lost. Pick your friends wisely and preferably one that knows how to get from point A to point B without rerouting through Parma Idaho.

 

Once safely at the Cabin Hideout – I tossed my horses in the round pen, fed and watered the critters and crashed.

 August 5, 2026

Celia and I went to Durango for her doctor's appointment. She has a bad ankle with a torn muscle. The doctor told her to take it easy for six weeks. Celia understood “take it easy” as meaning she can still ride a horse if the horses name is “Smoothie.” I couldn’t argue with that logic. We spent the rest of the day at Tractor Supply and Walmart restocking my trailer.

 

Back at the cabins, we worked a little on cleaning up an area where we could put up a hot wire for my horses. We soon determined it was too hot to be working…and drank beer and Fireball instead. There are worse ways to solve a heat problem and the Fireball helped me sleep much better than I had in days.

 

Liberty, Celia’s young filly and unexpected mother-to-be, was waxing up and should have her colt any time. I stayed at the cabin and Celia slept at the main house so she could check on Liberty every couple of hours.

 

By dark it was much cooler. Nights cool of nicely in Colorado. I lay in bed content with a slight breeze billowing through the windows of my gooseneck. I could hear something outside huffing. I assumed it was a bear or a deer. Either way, I decided I didn't need to know badly enough to go looking. The horses were safe and if a bear wanted to get in bad enough – surely it would make enough noise to wake me up in the attempt.

 

August 6, 2026

We went after another load of water. I don't know why I get such a kick out of that. Maybe it's because you get so much water for a quarter. Like... gallons and gallons of water for one quarter! It's like what penny candy used to be. We did the math and remarkably – you get a gallon of water for less than .01 cent. I am still in awe.

 

I set up a hot fence for the horses, encircling an island of trees Celia wanted eaten down. There was a portable carport on the island that we had to take apart first. The horses are happy to have some trees overhead and browse to munch on.

 

It is still pretty hot here in the afternoons, so we get things done during the morning hours and watch "The Last Frontier" in the afternoon.

 

I was also feeling like I was getting a head cold. I was about to sneeze myself to death, so I took a Benadryl before bed. That helps me sleep even better than Fireball but leaves me groggy the entire next day. Fireball wins.

 

August 7, 2026

I slept pretty well with the Benadryl in me. Same routine. Get up, feed the critters, fry some bacon, and have a cup of mushroom coffee. For some reason, I tried to make myself like real coffee. I bet I spent a good part of a year trying to manufacture the perfect cup from traditional drip coffee to cowboy coffee with an egg. I even tried one of those fancy French press jobbies that all the coffee-snobs rave about. In the end – the only coffee I can stomach is the instant coffee you buy in the little packets at the dollar store. Go figure. Other than that, I drink mushroom coffee. Mushroom coffee is supposed to have various health benefits including better mental function. Given my Kaysville experience…the jury is still out on that one.

 

Morning again brought no baby for Liberty. Celia and I went about our business picking up limbs from a tree they fell at the cabin to watching The Last Frontier in the hot portion of the day. Late afternoon brought a text from Steve: SCORE!

 

Liberty had her baby just before dark. A solid black filly. It's hard to tell what color she might turn into, as she has sclera around her eyes and butt. Gruella or smoky black is my guess. Currently, she's a smoky black color, especially around the lower legs.

 

August 8, 2026

Doesn't look like we did much of anything today. Maybe cleaned up limbs? I could probably remember what we did if I drank more mushroom coffee.

 

August 9, 2026

Full day!

 

We rode in the morning. I rode Drifter, and Celia rode Smoothie. We rode out from Canyon Hideout onto FS land. We covered 6.25 miles.

 

Afterward, we drove around looking at different Jeeps. I have been on a mission to find a four-door, late-'80s to mid-'90s Jeep with the inline 6 4.0 to replace Frogenstein when I give it to my grandson. I love my Frogenstein –but frankly, it is not an efficient vehicle for me. I take my dogs everywhere with me and there is not room. Besides – climbing up into that thing is not likely to get any easier as time goes on. The jeep should be driven by a young kid and used to carry his sisters in the homecoming parades.

 

We found one Jeep that seemed promising. The man, a friend of Steve’s,  would give it to me for hauling it off. It was running until he used it to pull another vehicle out of a ditch and the reverse went out. The body is clean and everything stock. It went forward when he parked it 4 years ago, but no reverse. Steve would see if it would fire up and whether we could get it to somebody to determine if the tranny was shot or if it was something that could be fixed. In the meantime, we drove around looking at other jeeps that were listed for sale and some that weren’t! Steve is a serious trader/finder. If you are looking for something…anything, Steve is your guy to find it. From saddles to the horses underneath them to the perfect jeep – call Steve. He would see a jeep parked that had obviously not been moved in some time and hunt down the owner and ask if he could take it off their hands. The approach has served him well.

 

We went to Durango and had lunch at Seriously Texas Bar-B-Q. SOOO good. I had brisket and cheesy potatoes. Even the iced tea was the best ever. We ate outside overlooking the river.

 

August 10, 2026

We went to Cortez for breakfast at the Ute Coffee Shop and met friends Harold and Emily. I’ve met Harold before. Emily is a Navajo ex-law-enforcement officer for the FS. Celia, Harold, and Emily all retired from the FS.

 While we were in Cortez, we checked out a 1994 Jeep listed on Facebook Marketplace. It had been Mad Maxed out too much for my liking. The engine seemed to run well, though, and it had potential. I was still looking for something more stock. I kept leaning toward that jeep that sat for four years. A stock 1989 Pioneer 4.0 inline 6. It belonged to Jim, an old friend of Steve and Celia's. He would give it to us for hauling it off. It had run great four years ago until the reverse went out while he was using it to pull his brother's Jeep out. It was begging to be rescued.

 

Earlier in the day, Celia had a surprise visit from a very large and very skinny bear.

 

It walked right up to the corrals, made its way to the house, and stopped to eat a 2 week old dead jackrabbit Steve had shot.

 

Too dang close to the new baby!

 

August 11, 2026

Jeep-getting day!

 

I could not, in good conscience – leave without that 1989 Jeep Pioneer. It was like a stray dog that needed a good home. Sure, it was going to take some work…but don’t we all? The jeeps I had been looking at where averaging 4K to 6K dollars and they still wouldn’t be exactly what I wanted. I figure I can take that money and put it toward fixing up my new stray the way I wanted it. Jim said he’d throw in a tranny out of a running 1990 to boot.

 

We jumped it, and the thing fired right up!

 

The IAC had been removed. Without it, it idled too fast to let it run. But it ran long enough to see that the power windows worked, along with the blinkers and other things.

 

It was just what I'd been looking for. A four-door, 4WD, 4.0 straight six that was all stock. The interior was great.

 

I tried to pay Jim for the tranny at least, but he wouldn't take it. He said the whole damn thing wasn't worth the powder to blow it to hell.

 

I hope to prove him wrong!

 

We ended up towing it as opposed to trailering back to Steve and Celia's since it was only a mile or two away. After we got it parked, we drove to Cortez and ordered an IAC that I would pick up tomorrow.

 I couldn't wait to get it home, clean it up, and get it running.

 It is beautiful.

 August 12, 2026

Celia and I rode in the morning. I rode Jack, and she rode Smoothie – still going on the premise that “take it easy” meant riding a horse called Smoothie. We rode up to the diversion dam along the canal and covered 7.67 miles.

 

When we got back, we drove to Cortez and picked up the IAC. We did some minor shopping and headed back to install it in my Jeep.

 

Well damn…it worked!

 

The Jeep now purr’s like a kitten. Well…perhaps more like a weather beaten old Tom Cat that’s been in one too many fights. He’s got scars on his chest and a torn ear, but he can still hold his own in an alley fight…as long as he doesn’t have to back up.

 

 I took my new jeep for a test spin around Boyd's property. Everything works except the reverse. Maybe not EVERYTHING. I don’t think the AC works and from the looks of it, the heater needs a new hose. But everything else works! OH, except the rear power windows don’t go all the way down…or up. The back passenger door only opens from the inside – but I can fix that. Everything else though…except for the right rear taillight is broke but that will be an easy fix because it came with a new taillight ready to be installed! How sweet is that?!

 

The four-wheel-drive seems to be working. There are a lot of 4 wheel options I am not familiar with. It seems this jeep can be in Part Time 4 wheel drive – All the Time 4 wheel drive. 4 high…4 low and the regular get down the freeway in 2WD. That will come in handy if the need to outrun 40 miles of concerned soccer-moms through Salt Lake arises.

 

I can't wait to get it home and start tinkering with it.

 

August 13, 2026

First thing in the morning, we went to Dolores for two loads of water. They don't have a well at the cabins. Instead, they put in a big water-storage tank on the hill above the cabins, and you buy water in Dolores to fill that storage tank.

 

It takes two people. One to feed the machine quarters and one to hold the big hose over the water tank.

 I am the quarter feeder.

 It's my job, and I'm damn good at it. I take this job very seriously and have it down to a science. Eighteen quarters if there is some water left in the tank. Twenty quarters if the tank is completely empty. Any more than that and Celia gets soaked.

 Thus... I take my job very seriously. ;)

 

After water detail, we decided to pack up my trailer and horses and move down to the main house so we could get an early start for home Friday morning. Celia was going to haul my Jeep on their flatbed trailer. She also wanted to bring her Jeep back from Coles in New River. Perfect.

 "On the Hook" was in Dolores or Cortez. I can never keep those two straight. They have the best fish and chips and absolutely the BEST clam chowder ever. It's a good thing, too, because it's also the most expensive clam chowder ever. It was worth it, though. I bought three 32-ounce containers: one for Steve and Celia and two for me, so I'd have something to eat when I got home. And yes…four straight days in a row, I ate nothing but clam chowder – albeit the best clam chowder on the planet.

 

We stopped at the hardware store in Dolores for ice cream. From the outside of the hardware store, you would never know that within its walls was the yummiest hard ice cream you will eat.

 

I had salted caramel. Celia had huckleberry. Just one more reason to go back for loads of water.

 

August 14, 2026

We planned to leave Mancos by 5:30 a.m. After a minor mishap with the wrong-sized ball, we got the Jeep loaded onto the flatbed without killing anyone.

 

I put it in four-wheel drive and popped it right up onto the trailer like I'd done it my whole life.

 

In truth, I've only loaded a vehicle onto a trailer a handful of times, and unlike quarter duty, it is NOT my favorite job. I told Steve as much, and he assured me he was ready to jump over the side if things went south.

 

Surprisingly, I got it onto the trailer without the need for Steve to jump overboard.

 

We got it strapped down as best we could and said a little prayer that the straps would hold. Celia and I said goodbye to Steve and pulled out of Mancos on schedule.

 

We stopped in Cortez at Maverick for fuel before starting the 467-mile trip home to Aguila. We stopped for fuel a couple of times and had to stop a few times beyond that to tighten or adjust a strap.

 

The battery in the Jeep is too big for the hood to close properly. Fearing the wind would catch it and blow the hood into the windshield, I strapped the hood down with a ratchet strap. Much like you do with alligators so they can’t bite you. Or so I hear.  It took a couple of attempts to get the ratchet in the right place so it wouldn't slip off. We also discovered another strap was faulty and eventually replaced it.

 

That poor Jeep looked like an inmate in a straitjacket, with ratchets going every which direction.

 

Celia laughed and said, "Hey Laurie, this is how you like your men: tied down with their mouths taped shut!"

 

I couldn't argue. It was funny. I don't care who you are. ;)

 

Aside from the ratchet-strap dilemma, the trip was fairly uneventful. We arrived in Aguila by 2:00 p.m.

 

I asked Celia if she wanted to drive or push. Remember, the Jeep has no reverse, so we would have to push it off the trailer.

 

She said push.

 

Damn. I'm no better at backing off a trailer than I am at driving onto one.

 

I crawled behind the wheel and shut my eyes as Celia gave it a mighty heave, and off I went, jeep and all.

 

Again... nobody died!

 

I said goodbye to Celia as she pulled out of the drive, headed back to New River.

 I am home.

 Nearly 7,000 miles behind me, and I am finally home.

 The rest of the afternoon would be spent de-summerizing the place. There was water to turn on at the shared well, water troughs to fill, and a plethora of other tasks required to bring a place back to life after tucking it in for the long summer of vacancy.

 I was asked if I was happy to be home. Happy truly does not begin to describe it. While it is a sure bet I will never be one of those stay at home, settled down in one place type…I certainly appreciate having a place to come home to. Call it base-camp if you will. Being on the road for the summer was an experience I do not regret even if I never do it again. You learn a lot about life…about yourself… when you have hours behind the wheel inside your own head. Miles and miles of potential adventure, mishaps and maybe a few miracles to experience. The people you encounter are a reminder that there are a lot more good folks out there than bad. Folks who are willing and able to help in any way they can.

 The personal discovery of who you are as a person is invaluable if you will only listen. For me, that meant allowing myself to be the person I am. I may not be everyone’s cup of tea. I live my life in a way that not everyone understands but I am OK with that now. I don’t have to try to live or become the person others think I should be because it suits their perceptions of what they feel would make me (or perhaps them) happy.  Let me, be me…as I will let you, be you.

The Red Pen

 

3,000 Miles of Horses, Mud, Babies & Bad Decisions

Road notes from Arizona to Oregon by way of Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and whatever emotional zip code I happened to be living in at the time.

I pointed the truck north out of Arizona and managed to stack just under 3,000 miles onto the odometer before finally landing in Oregon for the summer. Somewhere between canyon roads, mounted shooting clinics, muddy fairgrounds, baby snuggles, and enough gas station coffee to medically alter a person, the trip slowly turned into something bigger than just hauling horses from one state to another.

The original plan was simple enough:
Follow Celia to Colorado.
Spend time in Wyoming with my daughter Athena and my newest grandson Mark.
Then head into Montana to help Jim Hanson with mounted shooting and horsemanship clinics before eventually making my way to Halfway, Oregon to base-camp for the hot months of summer.

Simple plans are adorable in theory.

Colorado: Canyon Hideout & Porch Security

I landed at Canyon Hideout in Colorado, tucked down inside one of those canyons so pretty it briefly makes you reconsider modern life altogether. No cell service. No noise. Just horses, canyon walls, and enough stars at night to make you feel like your problems probably aren’t all that important after all.

Harley immediately appointed herself Head of Porch Security while Groot conducted a full tactical snack inspection of the property.

Cabin life suited me pretty well. Settled the horses, put up hot wire, hauled water, and settled into the kind of quiet that either heals a person or causes them to start talking to inanimate objects. Jury’s still out.

We rode canyon country bordering National Forest and Ute land, climbing up through old Anasazi ruins with names like Pig Rock and Poison Ivy Ruins. Comforting little names like that really make a person feel welcome.

Drifter continued his ongoing career path as a talented but slightly criminal young horse. Some days he feels like a future champion. Other days he feels like a Craigslist warning story.

Steve spent most evenings telling stories that may or may not have been true. Honestly with Steve, truth feels less like a requirement and more like a creative guideline.

Mother’s Day rolled through while Celia’s family wrapped up turkey hunting season and headed home. They always make me feel welcome, but being around intact families when you’re the odd piece floating around the edges can hit a little strange sometimes.

Then again, my grandma always said I was odd.
Maybe this is just me finally growing into the role.

Wyoming: Baby Mark & Snow in May

I pulled out of Colorado at 4 AM after Jack stepped directly on my foot before daylight, which honestly felt like the universe providing an accurate preview of the day ahead.

Despite having TWO GPS systems running and AI helping with directions, I still managed to get lost multiple times hauling horses through unfamiliar country. Technology is amazing.

At one point I  passed the same gas station twice while both horses stared at me from the trailer with visible disappointment.

Eventually I rolled into Wyoming where Jim met me at the fairgrounds and hauled my horses and trailer back to Montana so I could spend uninterrupted time with Athena and baby Mark.

That kind of loyalty means something to me.

Baby Mark finally got to come home after everything they’d gone through, and seeing him in person for the first time hit harder than I expected. Tiny little million-dollar miracle baby.

I was initially afraid to even hold him because he seemed so small and fragile.
That lasted about five minutes. After which I did not want to put him down. 

Turns out I’m apparently built more for emergency situations than nurturing ones.

That conversation actually came up while I was in Wyoming with Athena and Baby Mark. I told her sometimes I wish I were more like her mother-in-law Cindy. Cindy is one of those genuinely saintly humans with a heart wired for service. If there’s a crisis, she’s already making casseroles, feeding people, organizing what needs done, and somehow quietly holding everybody together while the rest of us are still trying to locate our emotional support coffee cup.

She just naturally knows how to care for people in the soft ways.

I’ve never really been that person.

I told Athena sometimes I feel inadequate around women like that because nurturing doesn’t come naturally to me in the same way. I’m not the “let me feed the neighborhood” type.

Athena reminded me that people contribute different things to the tribe.

Some folks bake the casseroles.
Some folks apply the tourniquets.

Apparently I’m a tourniquet person.

If the zombies attack, I’m your gal.
Snake bite? I got you.
Alien invasion? Stay behind me.
You’re bleeding out in a ditch somewhere? I’ll keep you alive long enough to complain about it later.

But if you’re hungry afterward, you better hope Cindy’s nearby because I’ll probably hand you a protein bar and call it emotional support.

Wyoming delivered snowstorms, dog adventures, Sonic drink tragedies, thrift stores, Thai food, and enough emotional whiplash to qualify as a carnival ride.

The dogs adapted surprisingly well to temporary apartment life. Harley claimed every porch she saw like hostile real estate acquisition while Groot wandered around looking like a retired drifter who accidentally discovered indoor furniture.

Meanwhile Baby Mark slept peacefully all day and transformed into a tiny nocturnal dictator every evening.

I already miss that little guy.

Montana: Mud, Mounted Shooting & Controlled Chaos

From Wyoming I headed into Montana where things shifted into mounted shooting mode.

Clinics.
Video work.
Horse prep.
Arena setup.
Balloon duty.
Sponsor shirts.
Mud.
Rain.
More mud.

And somewhere in there, actual shooting.

We spent time around Bozeman, Deer Lodge, and Anaconda helping with clinics and shoots connected with the Treasure State Cowboy Mounted Shooting Association.

I helped wherever needed:
setting up arenas,
shooting video,
running balloons,
working horses,
staying out of the way when possible,
and occasionally failing at the “out of the way” part.

Drifter really started stepping up during the Montana State Shoot. I shot clean one day and finally started pushing for speed the next. Missed a balloon for absolutely no valid reason whatsoever, but once I quit protecting the clean shooter pot and just rode aggressively, things started clicking.

That horse has talent.

Jim was running like an absolute machine. Watching him and Teri High push each other within hundredths of a second was worth the trip all by itself.

Meanwhile the clinics produced the usual energy:
people getting bucked off,
mustangs outperforming expectations,
rainstorms trying to destroy everything,
and horse people somehow laughing through all of it anyway.

One gal got dumped pretty hard and climbed right back on like a proper ranch woman.
The mustang at that clinic ended up being one of my favorite horses there.

Montana itself was gorgeous.
Also muddy enough to swallow small vehicles.

The horses’ feet stayed tender from standing in constant wet ground packed with mud, gravel, and everything else horses manage to locate with surgical precision.

During downtime I edited clinic videos and interviews, including one with Teri High that actually turned out pretty decent considering I’m basically learning all this as I go.

Somewhere in there I also started realizing I’m trying out a different way of existing lately.

Less running.
Less immediate retreat.
More sitting with discomfort long enough to understand it.

Still not entirely sure how I feel about that.

I also realized I deeply miss alone time sometimes, even around people I genuinely care about. That part probably needs more figuring out yet.

But growth rarely arrives looking organized.

Usually it shows up muddy, exhausted, emotionally inconvenient, and asking where you keep the duct tape.

Idaho, Oregon & Summer Reality

By the time I hit Idaho, the road fatigue was setting in pretty good.

There were reroutes, road closures, birthday cake, memories at Craters of the Moon, and more rain.

Then finally:
Halfway, Oregon.

Everything fired right up when I got there:
tractor,
pump,
Subaru,
lawn mower,
weed eater.

Which was honestly rude because it eliminated all my excuses.

The grass exploded while I was gone. My arena now resembles a hay field tall enough to lose horses in. The fence lines need work. Water lines need repaired. Everything needs cleaned, sprayed, organized, unpacked, or fixed.

In other words:
summer has officially begun.

And after nearly 3,000 miles, I’m finally parked long enough to start catching my breath.
At least until the zombies arrive.
Double tap, baby…

Trail Log: 8-27-2025 The Lost and Found

• Trail: Fish Lake - Clear Creek - Melhorn
• Miles: 9
• Riders: Self - Ph-D
• Horses: Drifter - Jack
• Dogs: Groot

THE LOST AND FOUND

GOD WATCHES OVER FOOLS, LITTLE CHILDREN AND PECULIAR WHITE DOGS

I often wonder what my God given talents might be, if indeed I have any. It appears the ability to find lost items is mine. I say if you are going to be good at losing things...it helps if you are equally as good at finding them. I excel at both. I choose to consider the possibility that I lose these items in the first place as irony opposed to absent mindedness or clumsiness. While such a talent may not be as cool as the ability to sing like a bird or dance like Baryshnikov – it has led me on some memorable adventures I'd otherwise not experience: consider the adventures of the lost boot. 

Retirement has found me living in the “best of both worlds,” or so I'm told. I spend most of the year in Arizona and the few hot summer months up North in the small town I grew up in: Halfway Oregon.

To the outsider – and many locals, I would guess – Halfway is a paradise. A picturesque small town nestled in a beautiful valley beneath the stunning Eagle Cap wilderness. As Margaret Wolfe Hungerford penned in her novel Molly Bawn: “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I agree with Marge. I can appreciate the rugged remoteness of Pine Valleys natural aesthetics, however, for me...there is a darkness here I cannot explain within the voice of this blog piece. I will leave it at that.

It helps to stay busy. This summer has been much easier than summers past. Friends and family have visited which helps immensely. I've also had the opportunity to ride with a local friend that knows this country better than anybody I've encountered. He isn't on social media and I believe would rather stay that way. He is a plethora of information on the history of this valley, likes to ride in the mountains and isn't afraid to get off trail. I shall refer to him as Ph-D.

In one of Ph-D's many recounts of Pine Valleys history – he mentioned a lost cabin and associated mine somewhere in the mountains north of the valley. According to Ph'D...a handful of locals have stumbled across remnants of the cabin. Some claim to have picked up “rich” ore in the same area...never to be able to find it again. Well, that's convenient. I'm guessing this must be Big Foot's summer home. Who else could live in a cabin that has existed for over 150 years without documented photographic evidence.

If Ph-D finds me an annoying riding partner, he hides it well enough. He agreed to take me along to explore the area where the lost cabin is supposed to have once stood. A small amount of research mentions a cabin built by two miners back in the mid to late1800's. Other than the general location – my research hasn't yet pulled up enough information to pin down a specific location. It will be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Ph-D said we would likely be bush-whacking off-trail. I opted to saddle Jack. Ph-D took his only saddle horse, Jewel, a 21 year old been-there-done-that-mare. We hauled to the trail-head, unloaded and the expedition began.

The trail starts out fairly benign; much like any other trail. One minute we are plodding along this trail and the next, Ph-D exits the trail and shoots straight up the side of the mountain. As powerful as Jack is – it was an effort for him to climb is way over the often soft ground and loose rock that gave way beneath him. If we weren't climbing straight up – we were side-hilling a slippery ridge no self-respecting mountain goat would trek.

We reached the top of the ridge, let the horses rest and take in the view. I checked Jack's Scoot Boots to make sure they were still intact. So far so good. After a short rest and navigational pointers from Ph-D that I only pretended to comprehend – I followed the D in a butt puckering descent off the ridge. Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if Ph-D was trying to assure I never rode with him again. He would occasionally glance back: “Still with me? I bet you're never going to ride with me again!” I feigned indifference on the outside: Guess again Professor...is this all you got? My internal version was a bit more realistic: Holy mother of pearl....this dude is bat-shit crazy.

Ph-D - Jewel - Jack

The descent was worse. Downfall from an old burn covered the mountain in a leg-breaking maze of pick-up-sticks. I wasn't worried about Jack not getting us through it – but I kept a close eye on his boots. I didn't think he could afford to lose one and have to walk out barefoot. We would ride 20 feet or so and have to back-track and find a way around dead-fall our horses could not manage. We reached a spot that Ph-D felt was safer to get off and lead. I made another quick check of Jack's boots, verified they were still on and followed the D picking our way off the mountain.

We walked approximately 100 yards before deciding to climb back in the saddle. It is then I noticed Jack was missing a hind boot. It wasn't the greatest spot to try and tie up and look for it. I backtracked a short distant before making the decision to leave the boot. I decided to not chance losing another boot and removed the remaining three. The terrain would be boggy and less rocky from here. I could put the boots back on if needed. I marked the spot on my GPS as “lost boot” - knowing I would come back and search for it until I found it. I can't let shit go...it is not in my nature.

We rode through meadows we thought might be a good spot for a cabin to no avail. At that point – I was more focused on watching Jack's hooves for signs of damage. He would occasionally step on a sharp rock and gimp a few steps before walking it off. I let him pick his way. The D led us across the drainage to the bottom of the next ridge. The footing was soft enough I did not have to reboot Jack.

The loop between ridges in search of the lost cabin encompassed 13 miles. While I have ridden more technical trails in some aspects – bush-whacking cross country over terrain a mountain goat would avoid is an entirely different ball of baling twine!

I promised Jack extra cookies and a triple doze of butte when got home. He was a little sore coming out of the trailer but seemed to walk it off within a few steps. I better examined his hooves and was relieved – and surprised – to find they came out of it with barely a nick. Thank you God and Scoot Boots.

I ordered a replacement boot, mud straps and a set of pastern strap locks. I've been using Scoots for about a year now and seldom lose one. I have found they stay on in fairly rugged terrain but no boot is going to stay on in the terrain we rode. The thick brush and dead-fall limbs can get caught under a loose pastern strap and pull them off. I could not fault the Scoots for the one Jack lost. I contacted Scoot Boot support, told them of my experience and they recommended mud straps. I ordered a set for Drifter and one for Jack. I'd try the pastern strap locks on the fronts...they are cheaper.

A week or so after the search for the lost cabin, Ph-D was hit with the tragic loss of Jewel. She hadn't come in during feeding time as usual. D found her laying in the pasture with a broken ankle. There are no words to offer a person who feels about their animal friends like some of us. There are those that consider animals...horses, dogs...as mere tools to get a job done. Replaceable. Expendable. I don't ride with those kind of people. I knew D was broken hearted. Only time will numb the gut-wrenching emptiness.

Jack's replacement boot and accessories arrived a week ahead of schedule. Ph-D had mentioned at the coffee shop that he had more information on the possible whereabouts of the lost cabin/mine. Fearing it might be too soon – I took the chance and offered to let him ride Jack if he wanted to go back and look for the cabin and my boot. It is hard to ride somebody's horse – especially after loosing one of your own that you trust wholeheartedly. I doubt it was easy for him to accept my offer.

The horses in their Scoot Boots complete with mud straps

I booted Jack all the way around and Drifter's fronts. Drifter could likely manage barefoot but I wanted to try out the mud straps. Ph-D said we would go in from a different direction that would be less steep. I breathed a sigh of relief over that. Drifter is young and not as powerful as Jack. I didn't know how he would do scrambling up and over some of the sketchy spots carrying my weight.

I was, of course, totally lost from the get-go. I thought I had a pretty good feel for where we went last time after down-loading my GPS tracks and getting a birds-eye view. Going in backwards and, to me, what felt like up-side-down...I had not a clue.

Most of the route was more like a normal trail ride with a few cross-country sections that weren't too treacherous. Drifter hopped over dead-fall like a deer. He is light on his feet and at times feels like his hooves are never touching the ground. Water crossings can be a challenge and there were many. Drifter does not like to get his feet wet. Each one got easier. It helped that he will follow Jack anywhere. 

Jack and Driff wait while we pan for gold...unsuccessfully

We stopped at a meadow with a small watering hole for Groot to drink and let the horses rest. Ph-D noticed large “dog” tracks in the trail. Much larger than Groots. He didn't say anything other than ask if I had my pistol. I said I did and we rode on.

We soon dove off the trail and were once again bush-whacking across no-mans land. We dismounted and lead through a particularly sketchy area. I am better off on my horse than off. I tried leading Drifter but felt like he might accidentally step on me. I climbed back in the saddle.

We dove off the ridge and discovered we had gone down the wrong draw. It was rough going and ended at a nearly vertical bluff. It was here that I noticed Groot was not with us. I whistled. Nothing. He doesn't hear well but he can hear me whistle from a fair distance. We were less than a hundred yards from the watering hole were we last saw him. If he was there – he would have heard my whistle. We debated whether to ride on or go back through the hell we just come through. I didn't feel he would give up and go back to the trailer on his own. It was more likely that he took after chasing something. I continued to whistle and call as we rode on hoping he would circle around and catch up.

The D would stop and look around. I am certain I could hear the wheels turning in his head as he analyzed, calculated and hypothesized the trajectory and alignment of the geographical formations in relation to the topography. As for me; I saw a big rock that looked kind of familiar – that's something, right?

We were again on foot. Ph-D was ahead of me. My GPS tracks indicated we were in the vicinity of the area Jack lost the boot. I kept turning back to whistle for Groot. A large rock formation to our right looked familiar but then again, so did every other of the dozen rock formations we passed. The D studied the area. I wondered if the slightly perplexed expression on his face meant we were completely lost or stuck on this mountain with no way to get off. I asked if we were close to the area we had gotten off to walk the day Jack threw the boot. Seconds later, Ph-D answered: “hey...look at that!” and reached down to pluck the wayward boot from under a tree. The proverbial needle in the haystack had been recovered.

The ride back to the trailer was bitter-sweet. Ph-D had recovered a $125.00 boot – but I had lost a mysterious white dog that had come into my life as quickly as he seemed to have disappeared. My outside persona belied the heartbreak I felt inside: “Well...he was a stray when I got him...I guess he didn't want to hang out with me anymore. Hope he's having fun and doesn't get eaten by the wolves.” The internal voice ached with the truth: “Dear God – please don't let him get attacked by wolves. Don't let him be scared. Don't let him feel abandoned. Help him find his way back.”

We rode back a different route than we rode in. The many creek crossings and boggy areas were a good opportunity for Drifter to get over his dislike of getting his feet wet. Drifter followed Jack on the first few crossings before taking the lead. He crossed most of them with little hesitation. He balked at one of the last creeks. I urged him forward. The D rode up beside us and had me try something different. He said to walk him a few steps without increasing my energy – stop him/pet him – take another step – stop – pet. If he hesitates going forward – let him go sideways and if he takes even a half a step toward the creek – stop him – pet him, etc. We did this about 4 times before Driff walked across on his own. My sister and I call The D “The Cow Whisperer.” The cow-whisperer does a pretty good job with horses, too.

My heart sank when we rode into the trail-head with no sign of Groot. Shit. Ph-D offered to come back with me in the evening after working cows and look for him. I appreciated the offer. I was already making plans to come back up and make camp. I'd search for him until I found him. This was not my first experience with this type of thing. Years ago, my dog Spud (ironically another big white dog) had come up missing. I searched for him until I found him...wounded and dying after being hit by a train. While there will never be another Spud for me – Groot deserved the same relentless attention.

I would search for him until I found him or undeniable proof of what happened to him.

We loaded the horses and prepared to head off the mountain. I went to the back of the trailer in search of a tree with my name on it as Ph-D rounded the front. He met Groot jogging down the same trail toward him like it was nothing more than another morning stroll. He had come back the same trail we rode out earlier. He wasn't particularly tired or concerned. Just “Here I am....went for a little stroll and came back the same way we left because you two idiots went the wrong way.”

We didn't find a lost cabin. We did not find pockets of rich ore or the secret location of an abandoned gold mine. That which we did find, to me...is vastly more valuable. We found a boot symbolizing determination and perseverance prevail. We found although you can lead a horse to water, you cannot make him drink. However, with a different approach...you can get him to cross. Lastly, I found not only does God watch over fools and little children...he also watches over peculiar white dogs with a propensity to wander....and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Fount it!

PS: A note of the effectiveness of the Scoot Boots. The mud straps are a hit. The boots stayed on over dead-fall - thick brush - bog...deep bog and any other terrain we threw at them. The pastern locks were definitely more effective at keeping the pastern straps on than without - but I did lose one and one held the strap on - but the strap broke. So - I will definitely recommend mud straps for off-road terrain and pastern locks for normal, down the trail type riding WITHOUT thick brush or dead-fall.