Trail Log: 7-24-2023

 

Fish Lake - Lee Camp
Little Red Cup
Part 1 

(L-R) John - Jim -Marc-Lee-Bernice-Pattie (Twin Lakes)

These hands shall build no more fence, dig not a single hole nor pick another rock! A bold, and somewhat "Scarlet O'Hara" like moment considering there will always be fence to maintain, holes to dig and rocks...those damn rocks. The rock population in my arena alone rival the proliferation of the ant. According to Wikipedia, the ant population (no doubt similar in number to the rocks in my arena) is estimated to be between 10 to100 quadrillion. That's a lot of ant poop.

My give-a-shit on the inevitability of the above paragraph has left the building. With the affairs of The Cabin mostly settled, it was time to head for the high country before some damn pilfering Yankee gets it in the face.

Lee and Susan B along with Marc M and Pattie J, were planning their annual Fish Lake/Eagle Cap camp and ride. I was invited last year and was thrilled when the invitation was extended to this year. Even though I grew up in this valley, Lee and Marc have a much more extensive knowledge of the trails and various POI's in the high country surrounding Fish Lake. My hope was to build on last years explorations with Lee and Marc as guides.

I drove up a few days prior to check out the conditions of the road going in and the meadow we hoped to inhabit for 7 days. The road in seemed to have degraded from last year and it wasn't exactly trailer worthy then. Pot holes and washboards capable of chattering your teeth clean out of your head. I feared by the time I reached the top, I'd be gumming my trail mix and ordering up a set of new chompers.

The turn on to the road going into the meadow is the worst part and nearly impossible with a large rig. Your best bet is to continue up the road another two miles to a sharp bend in the road barely wide enough to finagle a multi-point turn. Forward-back-turn tires an inch. Forward-back-turn tires an inch....repeat...a lot. It helps to have someone spot you so the whole thing doesn't become futile by dropping your trailer over the cliff. That will ruin your day.

I made the decision to leave my LQ parked and tent camp it instead. I'd haul the horses in my smaller 3 horse slant and dig out my backpacking gear. My pack gear was not among the 85% of junk I got rid of prior to making the move to Arizona. I'd soon as get rid of precious family heirlooms before my packing gear. It's all about priorities. When shit hits the fan – grandma's china don't mean squat compared to a water filtration device capable of removing 99% of bacteria, parasites and microplastics. Sorry Granny.

Digging through totes of pack gear was almost as much fun as the camp trip itself. Perhaps in part it is the memories various items bring to mind. The ionized Dutch oven that's cooked many meals over an open fire from the Owyhee's to the Frank Church. The memory of carrying that same DO into the Eagle Caps so I could bake a cake for my son's 16^th birthday.

The Therma-rest, self inflating mattress; because sleeping on the ground isn't nearly as appealing as it once was. The 1 man bivy tent we managed to squeeze three people and a big white dog in for shelter from the absolute biggest thunderstorm I have ever experienced while packed in to the Eagle Cap Wilderness. An orange plastic tarp used to signal our location for Life Flight to rescue a gal who got bucked off at 9,000 feet in the White Clouds.

The little red measuring cup: Undeniably the single most used item in my camp boxes. It's been used for rinsing dishes – brushing teeth – scooping out beans and stew...and yes, even measuring ingredients. As for the latter – I get a chuckle every time I read the measurement markings etched on the inside: 1/4 cup – 2/4 cup – 3/4 cup – 1 cup. The first time I had to measure out a 1/2 cup I actually had to think about it. Obviously I've been out of math class a LONG time.

I didn't spend much time verifying the contents of those pack boxes. I knew they would contain everything I needed to survive a week in the high country. After every use – I always clean, reorganize and restock the contents. I tossed the boxes into the back of my truck with two coolers of food and hooked up to the three horse. Jack and Drifter were the last of the essentials to be loaded. This would be Drifter's first real trip into the high country. I can't think of better training/exposure for a young horse. They either come back a different horse – or they might not come back at all.

It's 22 miles from the The Cabin driveway to the meadow we call “Lee Camp.” I've broken the trip into 5^ths. The first five miles is 3 miles of pavement followed by 2 miles of crap. The next 5 miles is pot holes big enough to sink a Buick and washboards that will loosen your teeth. The next 5 starts to climb with steep, narrow corners and drop offs. This is where you would grit your teeth if you have any left. It is also where I met campers coming off the hill pulling a large bumper pull trailer. Of course, it would be on the steepest, most narrow bend on the entire mountain. The drop off was on my side. I backed as far as I could and hugged the edge until I could no longer see ground outside my passenger window. We both sat there starring at each other for quite some time. Dude...that's all I got. His passenger got out, presumable to verify that indeed...that's all she's got, dude.

We each folded in our mirrors. I assume he flipped it in four wheel drive and inched by me. Less than an inch...more like 2/4^th of an inch at best, space between us. I feared if he slid off a rock he'd be pushed into me – shoving me over the edge. I did what I normally do in these harrowing situations...I slammed my eyes shut and said a quick prayer. When I opened them again, the back-end of dudes camper was disappearing around the next bend. The remaining 5 or so miles is the easiest part. The road smooths out, is less steep and somewhat wider. We pretty much had it whipped.

I managed to make the turn into the meadow without too much damage...I could live with miner tire scuffing. Marc and Pattie had already made camp. Their four mules grazing contently within a hot fence. I selected a spot at the edge of the meadow that sits back into the trees. An existing fire ring and hitching post were evidence of a well used spot.

I set up my portable pen near the mules and enclosed a section of creek so the horses could get to water. The creek wasn't flowing – but it contained enough water to support our stock for the week. This would be Drifter's first time behind a hot-wire. His high-country education had begun.

Lee and Susan arrived within the hour. They set camp next to mine. Lee strung his high-line behind our camps to accommodate his horse and my two. Marc and Pattie brought 4 of their mules and would leave 2 of them high-lined to keep one of my horses company when we rode off for the day. The high-line would be another first for Drifter. With Uncle Jack to show him the "ropes" – he took to it with ease.

Susan

Susan does not ride. I understand she has ridden, but prefers the mobility of her own two feet. She sets an immaculate and organized camp and took it upon herself to cook the Sunday evening meal for everyone. Two couples would be arriving later: John and Jenny (?) G and Jim R and Bernice K – I believe both from Washington State. Lee had let me know earlier in the week that Susan was making a stew for Sunday dinner. I brought along my portable propane oven and baked cornbread to go with the stew. Fact: It is totally un-American to eat stew without cornbread. Susan's stew was amazing. Everything in it was home grown locally from the sweet corn to the ground beef. My cornbread was locally grown in cornfields somewhere and neatly packaged in a factory local to somebody somewhere and proudly stamped with "Marie Calendars. "I can say, however, that the honey was definitely home made by Halfway honey bees...and a stellar job they did. Fact: It is un-American to head cornbread without gobs of butter and honey.

With belly's full and the horses safely high-lined for the night, I crawled into my tent, made up the bed by spreading out my newly purchased sleeping bag onto a cot I borrowed from my mom. Apparently, I left my backpacking sleeping bag in Arizona. I likely subconsciously left it on purpose. It's the mummy type bag and made of down for extreme below zero temps. Several problems with that. 1: I get super claustrophobic in a tent and especially a mummy bag. I cannot tolerate stuffing my legs into the tapered confines of a mummy bag and often find myself thrashing in a panic sometime in the middle of the night. 2. It's a hot summer. We'd be lucky if the nighttime temps dropped below 45°. 3. I'm allergic to down. I ended up purchasing a flannel lined, non-down, good for temps to 20° and with plenty of room for my claustrophobic lower extremities. Life was good.

• July 24^th: Twin Lakes to Russel Mountain 
• Miles:  8.65 miles
• Riders: Self – Lee – John – Bernice – Jim – Marc – Pattie
• Horses/Mules: Jack – King – Palomino – Cash – Wolf – Ali - Leah

The morning routine consisted of turning the horses out to graze via portable pen or hobbles. Since I had not yet exposed Drifter to hobbles – I put him and Jack in the hot wire enclosure. After a breakfast of bacon and fried potatoes, we prepared to saddle up for the first ride of the week.

Preparing to ride has gotten a lot more involved for me since Jack's hooves got butchered over a year ago. A combination of hacking his hooves off and being shod too often since – he's pretty much run out of hoof. I decided to pull his shoes and let his feet spread out over the summer. Without shoes and no hoof wall – he is walking on pure sole. It has been a vicious cycle for us. Without shoes to hold his hooves together – they chip easily if he steps on a rock...further damaging the hoof wall and exposing more sole. For the first month, he could barely navigate the pasture. His back feet are the most damaged. I got on-line, did some research and took a chance on buying a set of expensive boots for his back hooves. Easy Boot "sneakers." I've used Easy Boot gloves on his fronts at different times over the years and have been happy with them. I have fronts for Drifter as well. I've not had a problem with them coming off or rubbing sores. The "sneakers" are a newer product. I read the reviews and decided to take a chance on them. I ordered narrow for the back feet and hoped for the best.

Booted up and ready to roll

My horse shoer, Stuart, has been helping to get Jack's feet back in shape. Stuart doesn't like it when you call him a farrier. He will tell you in an easy...humble drawl: "Ah...I'm just an old cowboy shoer. There's a lot that knows more than I do and I'm the first to admit it." Well...I've never had an old "cowboy shoer" butcher my horses feet. I'll stick with my old cowboy shoer...thank you very much.

Three days before I was to head to Fish Lake for the week, Stuart felt he could safely tack on a shoe to Jack's front hooves. "There isn't much to nail to – and you might be cussing me if they fall off by morning..." I assured him I didn't care if they fell off. I was taking Drifter, too. If I had to, I'd leave Jack in camp and ride Drifter. Regardless, it looked promising. Jack walked off across the pasture in the most normal gate he's had in two months.

So – preparing to ride has gone from throwing on a saddle and bags ...to include preparing his hooves for boots. First, I check his fronts to make sure the clinches are tight enough so as not to throw a shoe...but not so tight they will tear up his hoof wall if he does snag one on something. I also carried another set of boots for his front hooves in case he lost a shoe or got tender footed. Then I pick out his hind feet and commence to wrangle on the "sneakers." Thank God that horse likes me. With immeasurable patience, he allows me to stand awkwardly half under his belly – half between his hind legs and twist, shimmy and otherwise wrestle those damn sneakers into place. Swearing helps, too.

Saddled and booted up – we hit the trail. I told the group not to wait for us if we lost a boot. It's been my experience that when you ride a booted up horse, you spend considerable time pulling them out of the bog and from between dead-fall and reapplying them to your horse. I didn't want to be "that person." Jack is not buddy sour...go on without us. We will be fine.

There is no way in hell Lee would leave me behind and fortunately, it did not come up. Through miles of bog, downfall and rocks, other than a loose strap – the boots stayed on. I kept turning in the saddle to check..."are they still there?" It got to where whoever was riding behind me would keep an eye on them as well; probably every bit as annoying as if I had to stop every 300 yards and put them back on. A credit to their patience and kindness...nobody complained and if they rolled their eyes...I was too focused on the back end of my horse to notice.

We rode to Twin Lakes and looped back via the old wooden lookout tower at Russel Mountain. Last year – Lee climbed to the top of the rickety structure. I climbed a little over 2/4^th of the way (in little red cup measurements) and called it good. This year – we admired it from the ground. I don't know if that means we are getting older or smarter. I remain in denial and hold on to the latter.

John

We ate lunch at the tower. It was here we learned John was not feeling well. Shortness of breath – weakness – dizzy. I'm not a doctor. If I had to guess I would diagnose his symptoms as altitude sickness. Whatever it was – we agreed he needed to get off the mountain and back to camp. Marc and Pattie continued down the Sugarloaf trail while Lee, Jim, Bernice and myself rode back to camp with John. He tried to talk us out of it. He didn't want anybody to cut their ride short. Even if trail etiquette did not dictate you never leave anyone behind – I was ready to get off the mountain. Jack's hooves were holding up better than expected and I didn't want to push it.

John said he felt better after eating a little and resting. He decided to pack it up and head for home. I offered to drive or at least follow him in to Halfway where he could get into the clinic – but he said he just wanted to get home. I didn't blame him and besides, you can lead a horse to water but....

Drifter seemed to fare well on the high-line with his new "mule friends." I turned him and Jack out to graze for a few hours while I cooked dinner and reorganized camp. While the tent was comfortable enough – I decided to take it down and move my cot into the back of the trailer. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. I can stand up and walk around and it is more secure from the likes of bears, cougars and serial killers. Most importantly...it's a lot closer to the port-a-pot I set up in the tack stall.

Click here for: Link to Photos on Google

Little Red Cup

Trail Log: 7-17-2023

Jack

 

• Trail: Cornucopia Hwy - NF4135
• Miles: 5
• Riders: Self
• Horses: Jack 
• Dogs: Hank - Groot

Notes: Booted Jack up for a ride up in the hills to get out of the heat and continue to leg him up. The boots are working great so far. I took him cross country a little today to see if they would stay on and they did. I worried he might not be as sure footed in them but he was! 

Later in the evening it was Drifter's turn. I rode him in the arena and played with having him sidle up to the mounting block at liberty and trotted around with no hands. He did great. I think he got stung in the eye - it's all swollen. Hopefully he doesn't have something else going on. 

Drifter

Trail Log: 7-12-2023

 

• Trail: Snow Park - Clear Creek - Halfway Oregon
• Miles: 2.16
• Riders: Self
• Horses: Jack - Drifter
• Dogs: Hank - Groot

Notes: First time back in the saddle in awhile. I had Jack's shoes pulls about a month ago. His feet are so broken and short he's walking on his soles from mid-bar to heel. My plan was to lay him off for the summer and let his feet spread back out. Combined with the butcher job over a year ago followed by being shod too frequently - his feet were trashed. He was being shod too often. The nails were being put in the same line time after time - essentially creating a perforated edge.  After pulling his shoes - his hoof wall broke off all the way around the perforated edge of his hooves. 

He hasn't appeared to abscess but each hoof is stone bruised. It is my fault. I know better. He was put on the same shoeing schedule with horses that seldom get out of an arena or pen. I should have stopped it - it's a mistake that cost him a lot of pain and could have crippled him permanently. As it is - I turned him out on pasture in hopes his hooves grow and spread like they should. In the meantime - he's been gimping around eating and getting fat! My farrier here up North said it would not hurt him to ride in boots so I can keep him in shape. I already had Easy Boot Gloves for the fronts from years ago. I ordered Easy Boot Sneakers for the backs. He wasn't sure about having them on the back at first; high-stepping in the back end like a backwards Tennessee Walker. 

My field in Halfway is not soft. It is strewn with gravel like rock to giant boulders. Which is actually, in my opinion, better for horse hooves then wet, soggy ground - but to a stone bruised horse - it was pretty tender going. The last week or so, he's started to move in the field more like is old self - trotting and even loping and playing with Drifter. I decided to get him out and try the boots. 

I saddled both horses in case Jack couldn't handle it and I needed to ride Drifter back. Once Jack got use to the boots on his back end, he came alive! Ponying a three year old whose been laid off as well was a handful. They both did great - heads bobbing - ears forward and happy to be back on the trail. 

I don't know if Jack's feet will ever be back to what they were - but I am hopeful that we can get back in shape with the help of hoof boots and barefoot trimming. 

The Cabin - Part 2

 

The Cabin – Part 2

"Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker"

It has been four days since moving into The Cabin. I spent the first day cleaning...cleaning and cleaning some more. Sweeping mouse poop...setting traps and poison out for said poop producers and investing in Scentsy wax to cover aroma of same. Unless the filthy boogers have regrouped to bring in reinforcements for another attack – I believe I have them under control. I'll take my Arizona rattlesnakes any day of the week.

I slept pretty good my first night considering. Considering a Big Foot marathon I watched the night before and my dad's tales of the bear that occasionally comes off the hill behind The Cabin to investigate possible leavings in the garbage cans. Fortunately, the garbage cans are empty and I don't really believe in Big Foot. I don't believe in Big Foot. I don't believe in Big Foot....

Dad had spent the greater part of my childhood preparing me for things such as bears – aliens - Big Foot – communists and hippies.

1. Bears are more scared of you than you are of them. But if you do encounter one...guaranteed at least one of you will be shitting in the woods.

2. If you are abducted by Aliens – you won't remember it because they suck all the data out of your brain and then erase your memory with a plasma probe before beaming you unbeknownst back to your bed.

3. It is universally known that Big Foot is the Hide and Seek Champion of the world and you will likely never know he's there. Never mind that 9' hairy figure stepping just out of view behind the tree at dusk. If you do come face to face...don't make eye contact.

4. Communists – buy, download or stream Red Dawn ...both versions and watch over and over again until committed to memory.

5. Hippies...Dad didn't have much of a solution here other than familiarize yourself with the smell of patchouli and keep a shotgun loaded with buckshot should one happen to show up on your property uninvited. It doesn't hurt to keep a Bible handy...apparently it acts as a repellent of sorts.

The first morning in The Cabin would put my training to use. I'd been up for several hours planning my day, making breakfast and puttering around in general. I thought I heard a vehicle pull up but since the dogs didn't bark, I assumed it might be the creek. A few moments later, I heard voices. I pulled back the curtain to see two hippies scampering up the hill to the west. What appeared to be a female hippie and a male of the same species. It can be hard to tell to the untrained eye.

I knew The Cabin was safe...there's a Bible in every room...two in some. With my pistol already concealed and ready to go....I boldly stepped out the door to confront the intruders. "Can I help you?" Both the male and the female stopped in their tracks and descended off the hill wide eyed and looking just a wee-bit guilty.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Can I help you?...this is private property."

Female hippy: "HI!! HOW ARE YOU? We're just going through to check on the head-gate."

Access to the head-gate for Posey ditch sits on The Cabin's property in the form of a locked, green gate separating our property and the neighbors. Dad was adamant about anyone other than the ditch walker accessing that gate. "Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker." Remember that girls...commit it to memory – no exceptions." Dad's words echoed through my head and out my mouth.

Me: "Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker. Besides...the gates over there." (I pointed in the opposite direction they were frolicking.)

Female hippy: "Oh...yeah, well...um...I was looking for the key...it's not there any more."

Me: "If you knew where the key was...you would know it wasn't in the direction you were going. Nobody goes through that gate except the ditch walker. Who are you?"

Female hippy: "My name is "Meadow Muffin" ...and who are you?"

Me: "I am the land owner of this property. Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker."

Meadow Muffin: Oh yes...well, I am the ditch walker."

Me: "You sure don't look like the ditch walker." (I know the ditch walker –Ray's an 85 year old man that's been in charge of this ditch for 43 years and I'm quite sure can't spell patchouli let alone smell of it.)

Meadow Muffin: "I'm the new ditch walker. The old one got voted out."

She went on to explain the gory details of why the folks on the ditch thought it necessary to vote out an old timer who's been doing his job for 43 years...and what a stellar job she was doing as the replacement. It rubbed me the wrong way. Technically, I don't have a dog in the fight; other than access to the head-gate goes through our property, it is of no concern to us. It just pisses me off what they did to Ray and I wasn't letting them off easy.

I glanced over at the male hippy:

Me: "...and what is your name?"

Male hippy: "I'm Milo Treehugger! - I like to ride my bike up here. It's a lovely place."

Meadow Muffin:" Haha...YES! If you see a guy up here in spandex riding his bike – it's just Milo!"

Me: "It's probably a lot safer for everyone involved if he doesn't" 

Sort of a deer in the headlights thing going on here.

Me: "Nobody comes through that gate but the ditch walker. Where do you live?"

Milo Treehugger: "I live in the valley."

Me: "Uh huh...so you both live in Halfway?"

They confirmed they both lived in Halfway Oregon.

Me: "You both live here...yet your pickup has Washington plates?"

They went on to explain that Milo Treehugger still had a place in Washington State. That explains a lot.

I confessed to Meadow and Milo that while I might seem paranoid – we have had problems with trespassers and nefarious individuals lurking about. Now that we live here full time, it stops here. Just last week an unauthorized person had come onto the property leaving the gate propped open.

Meadow Muffin: "It wasn't me...I always close the gate. Do you know who it was?"

Me: "No – the camera wasn't pointed in the right direction and didn't catch them. It is now. I started to walk up and check but didn't have my pistol."

Meadow:" Oh...I'm glad you pack. I pack too. I've been threatened many times since taking over."

Me: "Threatened by who?"

Meadow: "Lot's of the people on the ditch."

She went on to name several of the long-time locals on the ditch that weren't happy with her work. I couldn't help wonder how the hell she got voted in by her peers if most of them were angry enough to make threats? It's hard telling. In Meadow's defense, being the ditch walker is one of the most thankless and dangerous jobs a person can have. A ditch walker once told me that at one time, more homicides have been committed over water right disputes than any other motive in the United States.

We talked for a bit. Turns out Meadow and I went to school together in the 5^th grade. I vaguely remember the name. Milo, on the other hand...never seen in my life. We agreed the safest thing for everyone is to not be frolicking around private property on your bike...spandex or not.

We swapped phone numbers and agreed it would be safest if Meadow sent a text before accessing the gate. I felt a little bad for giving them such a hard time.

Me: "If you think I'm unfriendly – wait until you meet my sister."

Meadow: "Oh...you're not being unfriendly – you are being cautious – I totally understand. What's your sisters name? Should I get her number as well?"

Me: "Nah...she would kill us both if I gave out that information. My bark is worse than my bite. My sister on the other hand...she's the quiet one. You'll never see it coming. We will cross that bridge when the time comes. It's been nice meeting you – we should get along fine as long as everyone remembers..."nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker."

Note: I later called Ray. (after struggling to remember how to use a phone book and landline) He confirmed that after 43 years – he was indeed voted out of his job as ditch walker. I told him of my encounter with Meadow Muffin and Milo Treehugger. We agreed that dad would have been proud. Ray chuckled, told me to be careful and wished me luck before hanging up the phone. 

The Cabin - Part 1

 

The Cabin

Part 1

A vagabond: A person who wanders from place to place without a home or job. Until a few hours ago – I was the poster child for this definition. I took up official residency in our family cabin less than 8 hours prior to this writing. For the summers at least...I am no longer homeless.

My dad and Uncle bought The Cabin many years ago. They later divided joint properties to prevent their surviving heirs from squabbling over who gets what upon the brothers deaths. I didn't understand it then – but I now recognize it as a smart move. It has been my experience that death brings out the worst in some folks. In the divvying of assets – The Cabin went to my dad. It was his wish that The Cabin stay in our family.

I spent the day cleaning and organizing...moving what little items I have with me from my living quarters trailer to The Cabin. It's oddly emotional at times. I have no problem tossing aside the various items used in the day to day business of a vacation rental: Brochures and pamphlets of local tourism sites – boxes of board games and shelves of books to entertain guests. Keychains stamped with "White Fir Retreat vacation rental" and dad's phone number. The same phone number I can not bring myself to remove from my contacts.

And then there's this bowl of plastic fruit. I hate that bowl of plastic fruit. Plastic pears – plums and peaches covered in what looks like dryer lint and makes my teeth hurt when I have to touch one of the creepy little fuzzy things. I do not understand plastic fruit. What the hell are you supposed to do with it? It has no earthly purpose other than to make my teeth hurt. I look forward to tossing it into the fire-pit...or perhaps .12 gauge target practice. Likely both.

Plastic fruit aside...other things bring on tidal waves of emotions. Things that whisper of my dads presence. The rustic hand rails he carved out of twisted thorn brush. The eclectic hanging lamp he pieced together out of cannibolize parts...all weirdly wired like no electrician ever – yet functions perfectly. The spinning poker-chip holder on the shelf – the same one my sister and I played with as kids. The sound of pine creek at full flow rushing and tumbling boulders in spring runoff. Dad and I standing at the creeks edge - shoulder to shoulder; talking of things...hard things. Things a kid really doesn't want to acknowledge. Someday – her dad would die. He would talk of his wish of leaving The Cabin to my sister and I in the hope that we would keep it in our family for generations to come.

I managed to get through the emotions AND disgusting, fuzzy plastic peaches as the sun dipped behind the mountain. It is eerily dark at night here at The Cabin and scary as hell. If it weren't for two dogs and a .380 body guard, I don't think I'd get much sleep. I suppose watching a "Search for Big-Foot" marathon at my moms house the night before wasn't the best choice of viewing options. The gentle rain sounds suspiciously like Big-Foot hairy fingers tapping on the windows. I'll try not to think about that right now as I get ready to spend my first night in a real bed that you don't have to crawl into and out of like a tree fort. If only that damn tapping would stop...good hell. 

Trail Log: 5-27-2023

•  Trail: Oreana - Owyhee BLM
• Miles: 7.35    
• Riders: Self - Jones - Robin P
• Horses: Drifter - Diesel - Scotty

Notes: Robin (Happy Trails) asked Jones and I if we would ride part of an IMO course she is putting on. She set it on side-by-side and wanted us to ride the sections for markers 4 and 5 to make sure it was doable on horseback. 

I opted to take Drifter. Wasn't really thinking I should probably take Jack into unknown terrain but Drifter proved a good choice. He was a little fresh from being on green grass up to his withers. Still, he did awesome. This was the "sketchiest" terrain I've ridden him on with cliff's off to one side that dropped into the oblivion. He did really well and didn't plunge us off a cliff to our deaths...a certain win in my book. 

*phew* - we made it off the ridge without incident. 

New Email Subscription Service "FOLLOW.IT"

Well shit...the feed burner program I was using to manage subscribers and notifications to The Sage Writer Blog went AWOL.  

Several folks have inquired as to why I've quit blogging as they no longer receive the email notifications. That's weird - just when I assumed nobody actual reads my blog! 

Anyway - I'm looking into a new RSS burner as a replacement. In the meantime - I am manually adding all my THOUSANDS and THOUSANDS of subscribers. This could take...minutes because there is actually only like...35. Close to 34 as Granny passed away a couple years ago and she was my most active subscriber. :)

I found a new service called "Follow.It" I am adding my known subscribers manually. You should receive an email notification asking you to click on a link to verify you want to receive notifications when I post something new.  Of course, you can still unsubscribe should you wish to NOT receive post from The Sage Writer Blog. I mean...it's entirely up to you if you no longer wish to receive vital, thought provoking content developed to expand the human thought process to levels reached only by the most heightened intellectuals. You are free to get your Fireball and Beanee Weenee updates elsewhere. I am not here to judge. 

Laurie B. 

If you are currently not one of my 34 subscribers and wish to expand your horizons to a whole new intellectual level - simply enter your email address into the subscribe box on the WEB PAGE view of The Sage Writer Blog. If you are using a mobile device...you might be SOOL. (Shit Out Of Luck)