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

Trail Log: 8-12-2026

•  Trail: Lost Canyon - Mancos CO
• Miles: 7.67
• Riders: Self - Celia
• Horses: Jack - Smoothie
• Dogs: Groot - Harley

Notes: We rode up Lost Canyon to the diversion dam and looped back around. Afterwards - we brought home a jeep Steve found for me. I have been looking for an older Cherokee with an in-line 6 4.0 engine and stock. The man that owned it was going to take it to the scrap yard because, according to him, "It isn't worth the powder to blow it to hell." Well dang...I hope he's wrong. It was drivable four years ago. He was using it to pull his brother out of the ditch in reverse and the reverse went out in it. He parked it and there it has set since 2022. Other than being full of mouse poop and squirrel bedding - the thing is remarkably clean. We towed it home, jump started it and it fired right up. Even if I have to rebuild the engine and tranny - it will be worth it to me. It is exactly what I was looking for. I got it home and went to cleaning it up. I disinfected the engine and hosed it down...vacuumed and  Armor-all'd the interior until it sparkled. I am looking forward to restoring it. As I type this - it is sitting down at a local mechanic here in Aguila with hopes he can get the reverse to work. Crossing fingers and toes. I shall call him: "DINO"

Dino liking his new life in the desert. 

Trail Log: 8-9-2026

• Trail: Lost Canyon - Mancus CO
• Miles: 6.26
• Riders: Self - Celia
• Horses: Drifter -  Smoothie
• Dogs: Groot - Harley

Notes: I made it to Colorado as my final stopping place on my way back home. Celia and I saddle up and rode down their Canyon Hideout to Lost Canyon and beyond. After our ride, Steve, Celia and I drove to Durango and had lunch at the Seriously Texas Bar B-Q. I had brisket and cheesy potatoes. Boy, was it good. 

Trail Log: 8-9-2026

• Trail: Lost Canyon - CO
• Miles: 6.26
• Riders: Self - Celia
• Horses: Drifter - Smoothie
• Dogs: Groot - Harley

Notes: Saddled up and rode onto FS land from Steve and Celia's Canyon Hideout property. It felt good to get in the saddle again. We've been busy running around and doing all kinds of other cool stuff...like looking for a Jeep to replace Frogentein. I'm giving Frogenstein to my grandson. He's a good kid and will get more use out of it than me. I wanted something with more room for my dogs and desert treasures I haul in. It will require some work to get it going but the price was right! 

West Eagle Creek Horse Camp

• Trail: West Eagle Creek TH
• Miles: 30.5
• Riders: Self - Lee - Mark
• Non-Riders: Susan - Pattie
• Horses: Jack - Douglas - Ally the mule
• Dogs: Groot and Harley

West Eagle Meadow Horse Camp

Eagle Cap Wilderness

July 19-23, 2026

"There are places you visit...and then there are places that quietly become part of you. West Eagle Meadow is one of those places."

7-19-2026 - Arrival

Wrong Turn...Right Place

This was my fourth trip in under 10 days into the West Eagle TH. The first three reconnaissance trips were to try out the different routes into the TH to determine which was the best for hauling in a living quarters trailer...or if I even wanted too. By the time it was over, I chose not! The first route is only 30 miles from my Holbrook property by way of McBride. Totally doable in a Subaru but not so much pulling a bumper pull let alone an LQ. There wouldn't be a joint or cupboard able to survive that vibration. The second trip was the 77 cutoff between Halfway and Richland. This one was a bit over 50 miles. Most sections were OK – some would be sketchy. I might consider pulling the bumper pull but there were still sections where it would be hard to pass. I'd try another route that is supposed to be much smoother but longer. This route would take you to Medical Springs via Keating Valley. I had plans to go to La Grande with a friend anyway and he agreed to come back from La Grande via Medical Springs and then up to the TH and back to Halfway. This route was, I think, 70 to 100 miles and MUCH smoother road. I started my Avenza tracking from the Medical Springs/77 junction to Halfway via Keating so I would know how to get back...or so you would think. Nope. Not me.

One would think after 3 recon trips, I'd have it figured out. I had my track loaded into Avenza. I had offline maps downloaded on my phone. I had a page of printed directions straight from the forest service web site AND scribbled directions from Lee Barton, the human GPS. Technology was supposedly on my side. What could go wrong?

Technology, however, decided that what I really needed was a four-wheeler trail that would've made me nervous on a four-wheeler. I got turned around at Medical Springs. I thought I was supposed to take an immediate right out of Medical Springs but that road did not look familiar...so I drove on past it a ways. My GPS said to take a right onto some FS road that didn't look fit for a goat. Surely that's not it but who am I to argue with modern tech! I drove down that road about a mile...all the while looking and praying for a spot wide enough to turn around before I had to back the entire way out over boulders and ruts big enough to swallow a small Buick. We managed to get pointed back to hwy 203.Now what? My GPS again said to take a left onto the road right out of Medical Springs on Big Creek...or some such thing. It look liked a decent traveled gravel road so I took it. It wasn't wrong – but it wasn't the road I was trying to find. Still, it got me there via FS rd 67. 67 sometimes turns in to 77...until it doesn't. Then 77 might turn into 67 unless you take a right somewhere just south, south west of the 57^th parallel....in which 77 and 67 actually become the same road only in different but parallel universes.

I've officially decided I'm done trusting my phone to get me into the back-country. It can come along if it wants, but from now on it's riding in the passenger seat, not the driver's seat. Groot can be our navigator.

Eventually I found camp. Lee and Susan had pulled in shortly before I had and were already setting up camp. They arrive, as long as I've known them, in an old black GMC affectionately known as The Beast. The truck has hauled them over enough mountain roads to earn a personality all its own.

I picked a spot I'd scoped out on my previous 3 recon trips. By the time I unloaded Jack, pitched camp, and looked around, the frustrations of getting there had already started fading into the background. Funny how mountains do that.

Our campsite wasn't right on the creek, which meant watering horses required a short walk each time. Not a huge inconvenience, just enough to be thankful you remembered the walking shoes.

My first trip to the creek by myself was wonderful.

My second trip...with Jack...

...not so much.

A group of campers had settled into lawn chairs directly in front of the only spot where a horse could comfortably get to the water. They were perfectly pleasant people, but they unknowingly occupied prime equine real estate.

Jack looked at the creek.

The creek looked at Jack.

Neither one was getting together that afternoon.

So I tied him to a tree and wandered downstream where I could climb into the water myself and cool off. It wasn't doable for a horse, but manageable for an old lady with her trunks on backwards.

It was there I made my first important discovery of the week: I'd been wearing my swimsuit bottoms backwards. Not exactly the triumphant start I'd envisioned.

Still...

The creek felt wonderful.

Harley thought so too.

She launched herself into the water like she'd been waiting months for the opportunity. That dog was a lab in another life.

Groot's relationship with swimming is...different.

He doesn't dislike water.

He simply believes unnecessary swimming is beneath him.

Whenever the creek got deep enough that he'd actually have to swim, he'd stop, study the situation, and wander upstream until he found a shallow crossing instead.

Mark and Pattie pulled in to camp later that afternoon. Mark pulls a big LQ. Apparently he doesn't suffer from the same directionally-challenged disorder I do for they made it in just fine. For now, we had the horse camp to ourselves.

Everyone kept telling me about "the meadow."

I could see it on the map, but because I'd managed to come in the scenic wrong way, I'd never actually seen it.

That needed to change so the dogs and I hiked down from camp, crossed near the culvert, and followed the creek upstream.

I don't know how to adequately describe that meadow.

I've ridden through a lot of beautiful country over the years. West Eagle Meadow may be the prettiest meadow I've ever seen.

The creek wandered lazily through bright green grass. Wildflowers dotted the edges. Mountains stood guard in every direction. Harley, of course, swam every chance she got while Groot continued his campaign against unnecessary moisture.

Earlier, Susan announced she'd made stew and nobody was allowed to cook dinner. I didn't argue and was relieved because, as it turns out, my packing job had been...optimistic.

I hadn't forgotten food exactly. I'd simply packed like someone who had wandered through the pantry with their eyes closed. I am getting ready to head home (AZ) and figured I would just pack whatever I had in the pantry. Some of it was left from years ago when renter Bob was still occupying Granny's place. A can of clams? Why not...cream of mushroom soup? I don't like it – but what the hell. Maybe the dogs will enjoy it.

My grocery inventory consisted of other things like chili, Spam, Bisquick, a brick of cheese, Beanie Weenies, and enough random ingredients that I was reasonably confident I'd survive...although perhaps not elegantly.

I also discovered I'd brought less dog food than intended. Normally I'm much more organized.

This trip? Apparently I threw things into the truck, wished myself good luck, and drove away.

The one thing missing that took me by surprise was a cast iron frying pan. Then I remembered that the last time I packed all my camp gear was for a planned pack-trip into the wilderness. What I had with my in the realm of supplies was...shall we say, modest.

No problem. I'd figure something out and if not, well, I suppose frying bacon over a roasting stick would've been educational.

I only brought Jack on this trip. Drifter stayed home in Halfway, turned out with JJ and Crackers. I opened the gate between moms property and mine so they could mingle together. I hoped and prayed (a lot) that everyone got along and I would come home to a happy and healthy Little Black Hellion.

I'd love bringing both horses, but unless you're actually packing, there's always one horse standing around camp wondering why his buddy got to have all the fun.

The mountains are Jack's happy place and at eighteen years old, he has earned every mountain mile he'll still let me share with him.

I've always treasured time with my animals, but somewhere along the line, you realize they don't stay young forever.

Neither do we.

That realization has a way of making ordinary moments feel priceless. As long as Jack is willing and able - he will always be my ride of choice.

Dinner proved to be every bit as good as promised. Susan's stew wasn't just homemade, it was homegrown. Potatoes.Tomatoes.Beef. Practically everything in it had started life in her own garden or locally raised. Best stew ever.

Later that evening I needed to water Jack again. Gone are the days when I could simply vault onto a horse from the ground, especially one as tall as Jack. Instead, I led him next to a picnic table, looped the lead rope loosely around him, climbed onto the table, and eased into his back.

Surprisingly...

Nobody died.

By 8:42PM, the mosquitoes had officially declared open season. I can tolerate a lot. I cannot tolerate mosquitoes.

Time for bed. I had pitched my tent in a perfect little spot, put together the back-packer cot that takes a degree in mechanical engineering and a minor in patience and laid out my sleeping bag. I snuggled into the bag ready for a night of blissful sleep. If only. That was the first and last night of letting the dogs sleep in the tent with me. Between Groots weird belly noises and Harley chewing on her feet and anything else she can find to destroy, I kicked them both outside never to return. We are camping. They are dogs. Go...be wild dogs. Knock yourselves out.

7-20-2026 – Day 2

Echo Lake, Traverse Lake, and a Pair of Lucky Pants

Nature has a funny way of introducing itself in the middle of the night.

Sometime during the wee hours, I woke to something sniffing around outside my tent.

At first, I was convinced it was a bear.

It wasn't crashing through camp or making a racket. It was just...breathing. Snuffling around the food box. Wandering back and forth. Curious enough that sleep wasn't going to happen until I figured out what it was.

Eventually I peeked out and discovered my midnight visitor was nothing more than a doe.

She was less concerned with my presence as I was with hers. Probably a camp deer that was used to feeding off the campers and extra hay left over.

She wandered around camp, sniffed at the tent itself, and even after I slapped the side of the tent to let her know the room was occupied, she simply looked up as if I'd interrupted her inspection, then casually walked away.

Somewhere between worrying about bears and getting investigated by deer, I decided sleeping in the horse trailer might not be such a bad idea. I would pack up my tent and move everything to the back of the trailer.

Morning arrived a little before six.

Coffee was brewing. Bacon was sizzling. Jack was already wondering when breakfast would be served.

The first casualty of the trip wasn't man or beast. It was my stoneware griddle. Since I'd forgotten to pack a frying pan – I settled on a stoneware shallow tray I assume I got from Pampered Chef during one of those "feel obligated to buy useless shit you don't need from friends so they get totally awesome hostess gifts. Then...host your own party so you can then in turn make other friends feel obligated to buy MORE useless and over-priced shit so YOU can get awesome hostess gifts.” I'm guessing this stone-ware sheet was my awesome hostess gift. I felt like a genius watching it fry bacon to a perfection. Then I left it sitting on the burner while I cracked a couple eggs.

KABOOM!

The thing exploded in half. Apparently, too hot for that Pampered Chef. I feared the sound might awakening Lee and Susan thinking it was a tree crashing on them.

Well...so much for that griddle extravaganza.

Fortunately, my little aluminum anodized Dutch oven came to the rescue. I flipped the lid upside down, balanced it on the stand, and discovered it made a surprisingly good frying pan. Sometimes the best camp equipment is whatever happens to work after Plan A explodes.

Anodized. I always wondered what exactly that meant: a metal (usually aluminum) that has been treated through an electrolytic process to form a thick, protective oxide layer on its surface. - well, there you have it. Thank you google.

Breakfast consisted of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, and biscuits. It's funny. I might eat healthier at home, but I eat better in camp. There's just something about cooking breakfast outside with mountain air instead of kitchen walls that makes everything taste better. Or maybe your just so damn tired and hungry that shoe leather would taste good.

About the time breakfast was finished, the rain started. One of those gentle mountain rains that settles the dust, freshens the air, and reminds you why rain gear belongs on every packing list. Mine consist of a set that folds into a tiny ball and tucks into it's own pockets. Coolest thing ever. I look forward to the rain just so I can use it. Don't judge. We all have our little quirks that make us happy.

After watering and letting the horses graze, we tacked up for what would become one of the most beautiful trails I've ridden. Our destination was Echo Lake, with Traverse Lake beyond that.

The trail climbed more than 1500 feet. That is a lot, but this trail was one of the few mountain trails that was cut properly. Whoever carved that trail into the mountainside knew exactly what they were doing. Lee told us a man had been paid ten thousand dollars back in the 1930s to build it. If that's true, he earned every penny. Lee also said he read somewhere that the trail had 120 switchbacks. I don't think that was at all an exaggeration.

The mountain was incredibly steep, but the endless switchbacks spread the climb out so well that the horses were able to keep a steady rhythm almost all the way to the top.

Much of the trail crossed sharp granite and slate, so before we left camp I slipped Scoot Boots onto all four hooves. Once again, they proved their worth.

Jack handled that mountain every bit as well as horses half his age.

Feeling him quietly pick his way across rock made me appreciate just how many miles my trusty buckskin and I have shared together.

Echo Lake finally appeared through the trees like someone had hidden a secret gem in the mountains...waiting for us to discover it's breathtaking beauty.

We unsaddled, turned the horses loose to relax, and ate lunch while the dogs ran amok. Harley launched herself into the lake without hesitation. Groot evaluated the situation with his usual engineering mindset. If there was a way to avoid actually swimming, Groot was determined to find it. He'd stay ashore and see who needed the calming effect of petting a dog the most.

I have this uncanny serendipity vibe that follows me like my own shadow. I find stuff. Not JUST stuff I lose...but other weird, random stuff. While wandering the shoreline, I stumbled across something no one expects to find in the middle of the Eagle Cap Wilderness.

A pair of pants.

Not just any pants.

My size.

Now that's what I call trail magic.

I don't know if they were spare pants someone accidentally left behind or there was a gal about my size wandering around in the woods in nothing but her under-things. Hard telling. It will forever be one of those unsolved mysteries. All I know is they fit. The weirdest part? They actually smelled freshly laundered. Yep – magic, freshly laundered pants, just my size waiting for the picking. Score.

After lunch we mounted up and continued another mile and a half or so to Traverse Lake.

If Echo Lake was beautiful, Traverse Lake somehow managed to be even prettier.

Smaller.

Quieter.

Perfectly framed by rugged granite peaks.

The Eagle Caps have a way of making the rest of the world disappear.

Standing there, I found myself wondering what everyone else in the world was doing that day.

Shopping?

Watching television?

Scrolling endlessly through phones?

I don't know.

I only know where I'd rather be.

The ride back down demanded every bit as much attention as the climb up. More so. Those tight switchbacks weren't just tight. Some of them were so sharp the horses practically had to sit down on their haunches before swinging their front ends around to make the turn.

Going downhill added another level of difficulty because gravity was constantly encouraging everyone to move a little faster than they should.

There were several moments where all I could do was trust Jack to figure out where to put his feet.

By the time we reached camp, we'd been in the saddle for nearly nine hours and ridden over 16 miles. The kind of tired that comes after a day like that isn't exhaustion. It's satisfaction. The best part? Dinner was already waiting.

Mark and Pattie had made spaghetti, which meant I was once again spared from digging through my collection of random canned goods in hopes of finding something to sustain another day of rigorous wilderness adventures.

My contribution to the feast was napkins.

Everyone has their specialty.

After dinner I fired up my little propane oven and baked cookies.

That tiny oven has become one of my favorite pieces of camping gear.

Somewhere during the evening I finally figured out why my camping equipment seemed so random this trip.

A couple years ago, I'd packed everything for a horse pack trip into Washington that never happened. The minimal gear stayed packed. My frying pan did not!

When I loaded the truck for this trip, I simply grabbed the pack boxes as they sat and left my fate to the good camping Fairies. Everyone knows camping ferries don't approve of cast iron skillets with handles because they are too heavy and the handle too awkward for packing. Damn Fairies.

Before turning in for the night, I moved my bed into the back of the horse trailer.

No deer sniffing around the tent.

No Groot and Harley snoring and snuffling about.

Plenty of room to stand up and get dressed.

A roof over my head.

Luxury accommodations by back-country standards.

One last stop remained before calling it a night: The creek and my nightly bath. After a double check to make sure my shorts weren't inside out or backwards – I headed for the creek with a bar of soap.

The water wasn't nearly as cold as people imagine mountain water should be.

After spending an entire day in the saddle, it felt perfect.

I sat there watching the water slide over the rocks while Jack grazed nearby.

He'd carried me through one of the steepest, rockiest rides we'd done in years without missing a beat.

He'd kept up with younger horses.

He'd climbed like a mountain goat.

He'd quietly reminded me why he would always be my ride of choice.

I scratched his neck when we got back to camp and told him what he'd probably heard a thousand times before.

"I wouldn't trade you for three Arabians and a mule. Thank you for the ride."

Some things never get old.

Neither does ending another day in the Eagle Caps with good friends, tired horses, a full stomach, and absolutely nowhere else you'd rather be.

7-21-2026 – Day 3

Off the Map

By the third morning, I'd settled into a rhythm.

Coffee.

Feed the dogs.

Feed and water Jack.

Look around camp wondering where the day might take us.

One of the things I love most about these trips is that nobody feels compelled to have an itinerary. There are no reservations to make, no rocks to pick or fences to build, no clocks dictating the day. Someone saddles a horse, somebody else follows, and eventually a plan begins to emerge.

Before breakfast I decided to wander up Trail 1934 to see if I could locate an old trail I'd noticed on Avenza. It once connected over to Boulder Park, but somewhere along the way it had disappeared from newer maps. Susan had hiked up to where it took off from the main trail. She said there is still the remnants of an old rock cairn.

Nature has a funny way of reclaiming things. Either that, or I need to be wearing glasses on these exploration hikes. I followed my Avenza as best I could until I came to what I "thought" was the old trail. Dead-fall covered much of it, brush had grown thick, and in places the trail simply vanished into the forest. Unless someone packed in a chainsaw, or at least a good crosscut saw, nobody was riding horses through there anytime soon.

Still, I was oddly pleased just knowing it still existed.

Old trails fascinate me.

They remind me that long before GPS, satellite imagery, and mapping apps, people were finding their way through these mountains with little more than a compass, a good horse, and experience. And apparently a much better sense of direction than I possess. Patches of huckleberries were just coming on with sweet, purple pea-sized berries.

I noticed that Groot has gotten thin on this trip north. While he will never be fat – it's not in his breeding or his active lifestyle. The vet also said he will likely never gain much weight because he was starved so bad before he found me in the desert several years ago.

One of they ways I fatten him up is the make him waffles. He has never hidden his opinion that waffles should be considered a basic food group, and I'd packed Bisquick. Since I obviously hadn't packed a waffle iron, pancakes would have to do.

Using the upside-down Dutch oven lid as a griddle had become one of my better discoveries of the trip. Those pancakes turned out surprisingly good.

Even better, I'd figured out how to level the Dutch oven lid using its stand, making it the most unlikely cast-iron griddle I've ever owned.

The morning became even more interesting when a pickup and trailer pulled into camp.

Out climbed Blake, my youngest and his two friends Landon, and Nick.

Completely unexpected.

They had planned a pack trip into Echo Lake and Traverse Lake for Landon's bachelor party.

This isn't the first time I've randomly run into Blake in the middle of nowhere. You would think we were related and he inherited my taste in back-country exploration.

They were going to ride into Echo Lake – spend the night – ride up to Traverse and spend another night there before heading back down. I wished them good-luck – and told them I'd have brownies for them when they got out.

I noticed Lee and Mark quietly saddling their horse and mule. Nobody made an announcement. Nobody called a meeting. They were simply getting ready to ride. I don't know if I was supposed to wait for an invite. I did not!

I hurried over, saddled Jack, and fell in behind them before anyone could leave me behind.

That pretty much sums up mountain riding with good friends: If you want to ride – get your ass in the saddle. Daylights burning.

If you're standing around talking too long, don't be surprised when everyone else has already headed up the trail.

I wasn't entirely sure where we were going. Actually, that is an understatement – I had NO idea where we were going or what the plan was. Suites me. I'm just along for the ride.

Lee had mentioned an area he'd explored nearly twenty years earlier and wanted to find again.

When Lee starts talking about old trails and forgotten places, you simply saddle your horse and go.

He's one of those rare people who carries an internal compass. Mark is the same.

I've known Lee for years, and I honestly believe if someone blindfolded him, spun him in circles, and dropped him somewhere in the Eagle Caps or the Owyhee's, he'd still point toward camp before most people unfolded a map.

Lee has spent a lifetime in the back-country. He's equally at home rebuilding an old car from the ground up or leading horseback rides into places where maps become suggestions rather than directions. We affectionately call those rides: Lee Rides. Not everyone goes back for a second ride but those of us that do...wouldn't miss them for the world.

Susan says she's happy he has a group of riding partners now. It means he isn't out wandering those mountains by himself.

This particular ride itself quickly turned into an adventure. Views and terrain change a lot over 20 years. Nothing looked familiar enough to Lee for him to believe we were on the correct ridge line from years earlier.

Soon, Lee was certain we had climbed up the wrong ridge. Let me rephrase that – I don't think any of us consider any ride the wrong ridge – just maybe not the ideal ridge if you want to make it home alive.

Instead of following an established trail, we found ourselves side-hilling across steep country where one wrong step could easily send horse and rider sliding farther downhill than either of us wanted to go...and not necessarily on all fours. The terrain was deep, soft dirt that made it dang near impossible for a horse to gain purpose. They would lunge up – clawing their way up 3 leaps only to slide down 2. Other sections were littered in boulders threatening to break a leg or crack a skull should our horse go down.

Jack gave me everything he had.

Going uphill, he could still power his way along like the mountain horse he'd always been.

Coming downhill was different.

I am still rehabbing his hooves after years of improper shoeing with metal shoes. Barefoot except for Scoot Boots, his front feet get tender after miles over sharp rocks. I could feel him choosing every single step and wincing in pain when a foot landed on a sharp edge.

It's amazing how much trust can exist between a horse and rider after thousands of miles together.

I trusted him completely but ached for every step he took that caused him pain.

He trusted me not to ask for more than he could give. I would get off and walk to give him some relief.

In the end, we never did find the place Lee had remembered. Strangely enough, nobody seemed entirely disappointed. By the time we reached the top of the ridge and settled onto a hog-back for lunch – the view as far as the eye could see was worth the climb. The Meadow stretched directly below us – a half mile long. Mark laughed that it took us a good three hours to go that half mile. In reality – the back and forth climb up that ridge and back to camp covered a total of 10.85 miles.

I guess sometimes the destination is little more than an excuse to spend the day wandering through country you've never seen before. From this high vantage point – Lee and Mark surveyed the endless ridge-lines and drainage's until Lee was confident he found the correct ridge he rode up over 20 years ago. I have no doubt he will try again next year.

Back in camp, I knew Blake had brought along his farrier tools. I borrowed them and spent a little time working on Jack's feet, hoping to relieve some of the pressure he'd been feeling on the rocky trails. Mark loaned me a handful of grain so I could hide a little Bute in it. Jack accepted the arrangement without complaint.

I was too tired to spend much thought on dinner. Bratwursts and a can of pork and beans and call it good. Obviously Susan was not doing the cooking this evening. Still – when you're hungry...it was more than satisfying and there is something about popping the lid on a can of pork and beans and heating them over an open flame. By flame, I mean propane. I did not build a fire this camp trip. Not only was it too warm – but there are fires all around Eastern Oregon. I brought my propane fire ring and that suited me just fine. It burns clean and safe. The dogs negotiated themselves into half of one brat each. They considered that a successful day.

Harley had settled nicely into mountain life. She'd appointed herself guardian of every pine squirrel, chipmunk, and suspicious noise within a half-mile radius of camp. Whenever we rode, she'd stay tucked neatly behind Jack unless something with fur made the mistake of announcing its presence. Then she'd launch an investigation. Just once, during the beginning of the trip, she got too close to Mark's mule, Ally. Ally let her know she wasn't particularly thrilled with canine companionship. I am happy to report, however, by the end of the trip, Harley would take her rest laying next to Ally. Albeit laying next to her FRONT end. Ally seemed to accept Harley as a tolerable traveling nuisance by the end of the trip. Keep your friends close...and your enemies closer.

Groot, on the other hand, had no interest in heroics. He simply plodded along with that steady, dependable expression that always seems to say, I'm just happy to be included. Somebody pet me sooner than later.

Every evening ended the same way.

Jack and the dogs and I wandered down to the creek with a bar of soap.

Mountain water has a reputation for being painfully cold, but this particular creek wasn't nearly as icy as you'd expect. Cool enough to wash away the dust. Warm enough that you didn't dread climbing in.

I even managed to wash my hair. Sort of.

My hair never was the greasy type, so I decided shampoo could wait until more civilized hot and cold running water. That way I avoided the brain freeze that comes with having to keep your head under water for a proper rinse of the shampoo.

As I walked back toward camp, familiar voices drifted lazily through the trees while laughter echoed around the picnic tables. Susan had spent another day hiking while the rest of us rode.

She'd probably already finished another book.

Pattie was still recovering from injuries that would've kept most people home, yet she'd come anyway because she understood something many people don't: You don't have to ride every mile to enjoy horse camp. Sometimes it's enough just to be there. Surrounded by good people. Good horses. And mountains that somehow make the rest of the world seem wonderfully unimportant.

7-22-2026: Day 4

Fake Creek and Meadow Muffin Chowder

Sometime around two o'clock in the morning I woke with one of those headaches that feels like someone is driving railroad spikes through your forehead.

Out came the Excedrin.

The headache eventually surrendered. Unfortunately, so did any chance of going back to sleep.

By the time the caffeine wore off, daylight was already beginning to filter through the trees.

I crawled out of the trailer around five-thirty and started getting camp moving.

The plan for the day sounded simple enough.

Ride up the old Fake Creek Trail and see if we could make it to Boulder Park. Simple...at least in theory.

The Fake Creek Trail no longer appears on most modern maps because it hasn't been maintained in years. That alone made it interesting. There seems to be an unwritten rule among folks like me - if someone says, "There's an old trail up there..." somebody is going to want to go find it. I think, yes, I'm pretty sure...this was my idea. An idea I would later regret voicing.

We were not in any hurry to get moving. Not long after breakfast, a Forest Service crew from La Grande pulled into camp. Their mission wasn't our trail, it was the campground. Several hazard trees around the horse camp and outhouse needed to come down.

Before unloading a single chainsaw, one of the crew members walked over and asked if cutting trees would spook the horses. They were perfectly willing to come back another day if it would cause problems.

I appreciated that but assured them these horses had all heard chainsaws before, so they carefully blocked off the work area and went about dropping several large trees.

By nine o'clock we were finally riding. The first stretch of the old trail wasn't bad at all. A little dead-fall here and there. Nothing a mountain horse couldn't climb over or weave around.

Then the trail simply...

...quit.

Not officially.

It just faded into a steep hillside where gravity seemed determined to remind us who was really in charge.

Due to yesterday's side-hilling adventure, I'm fairly certain a degree of PTTSD settled in. (Post Traumatic Trail Stress Disorder) – although, somehow – this didn't seem as bad. After all, nobody had died then...

So we kept going.

Sometimes experience makes you wiser. Other times it just makes you more comfortable with questionable decisions.

Mark was leading the way on his mule, Ally.

If you've never ridden with mule people, it's worth mentioning that they possess an almost unflappable confidence in their long-eared partners. Mules are the four-wheel-drive UTV's of the equine world. Ally is no exception.

After spending a few days around Mark and Ally, I was beginning to understand why. She was sure-footed, thoughtful, and seemed perfectly content solving problems one careful step at a time.

Then the mountain reminded all of us who's really in charge.

The trail crossed a little creek – I say little like I actually saw it. I did not. It was completely hidden beneath thick brush. I pulled up Jack to give distance between us and Mark and Ally. Lee was in the back.

Mark disappeared into the vegetation.

One moment I could see him.

The next...

Nothing.

He and Ally should have climbed right back out the opposite bank. They did not. I couldn't see anything but the sound was enough to know they were in trouble.

Mark later recounted that Ally stepped into the ravine onto what looked like solid ground. Instead of continuing up the other side, she plunged downhill. The muddy bog swallowed her nearly to her chest.

Mud.

Deep mud.

The kind you don't discover until you're already in it.

Mark came off as Ally lunged downhill, and for a terrifying moment one of his feet hung in the britchen before he managed to free himself. Mark said all he could do was hang there upside down and look up at 1200's of Ally looking back down at him.

Everything happened in seconds. If Ally managed to fight her way out, she was going to need somewhere to go besides directly into us.

Lee backed off the trail the best he could and prepared to hobble his horse, Douglas, and help Mark if needed...and we were pretty sure he was going to need help. I got Jack turned around on the narrow trail and moved him uphill as far as I could. He tried his hardest, and thankfully succeeded, not to step on me or roll off the mountainside. We managed to pivoted around on the side of a mountain that seemed relentless in it's efforts to slough us off it's side.

For a moment, Ally reappeared into a tangled mess of brush and limbs. Just her head and ears peering over the top. I honestly thought we'd be cutting her free. There was no-way she was getting out of that nasty fortress.

Then, almost unbelievably, she powered herself back onto the trail just below Jack and I. Lee caught her when she reached him and Douglas.

Covered in mud.

Shaken.

But standing.

Mark appeared shortly after, equally covered in mud and shaking. Or maybe he just appeared to be shaking. Maybe it was me doing the shaking. This was my idea after-all. If anything serious happens to him or Ally – I would never forgive myself.

Nobody said much.

There really wasn't anything to say.

We simply took a collective breath, checked horses and humans, and quietly agreed we'd found enough adventure for one morning. Mark, perplexed as to why Ally dove downhill instead of crossing the creek – bravely, and I assume jokingly, mentioned "we can make it across. It's totally doable." Still shaken and feeling guilty for suggesting this attempt – I said: "You guys can make it! I'm going back to camp!" At this stage in my life, I have nothing to prove and neither does my horse. I am not too proud to admit that one scared the shit out of me. I had no intentions of repeating it.

By the time we limped back toward camp, Ally was favoring one leg enough to make everyone nervous. I watched her every step from behind. No swelling yet – still straight. She can put a little weight on it. It's not broken as far as I can tell. Each step seemed to improve a bit.

We stopped in the meadow to let the horses graze and rest. I wandered into the meadow and noticed wild onions growing nearby. I suddenly turned all "Meadow Muffin" and started digging. This was the perfect opportunity to experiment with wilderness cuisine. Why not! I dug a handful of wild onions and tucked them into Jack's saddle bags with a smile and a plan.

We left the meadow and headed toward camp. Mark agreed it might be a good idea to rinse the mud off Ally and soak her legs in the cool water. We rode into the creek just above the culvert and stood Ally in the deepest pools before riding through the huge culvert out the other side. The cool soaking seemed to help Ally as her limp was nearly imperceptible. One more reminder that mules are built from tougher stuff than the rest of us.

At a mere 3.03 miles, the ride had been cut short, but the day wasn't over. I figured if the day hadn't threatened life and limb enough – surely we could survive some wilderness cooking experimentation!

Back at camp I gathered every odd ingredient I still had left.

Butter.

Bacon.

Potatoes.

A can of clams. Expiration date unknown.

The wild onions.

A little of this.

A little of that.

No recipe.

No measuring cups.

Just confidence....or stupidity depending on which dictionary you are holding.

As I stirred everything together, it occurred to me that perhaps I should've verified those actually were wild onions. Nah...besides, I had no cell service for Google. We'd be fine!

I announced to everyone that if they were reading this later, it meant I'd guessed correctly.

Fortunately...

They really were onions.

The chowder turned out surprisingly..edible. A little earthy, perhaps, but nobody complained. At least not to my face. Mark noted the entire package of bacon in it and remarked that enough bacon makes anything tolerable.

More importantly...

Everyone was still walking upright the next morning. I call that a culinary success.

While the three of us wandered around the mountain trying to get ourselves killed, Susan and Pattie had spent the day exactly the way they wanted.

Pattie, still recovering from being run over by a horse only weeks earlier, wisely stayed close to camp. She'd already earned enough excitement for one summer. Her broken ribs, punctured lung and slight head injury kept her cautiously close to camp.

Susan had hiked, read, and generally enjoyed having camp to herself.

When we asked how her day had gone, she shrugged and delivered what may have been my favorite quote of the trip: “All I did was sit in camp with a trashy novel and eat potato chips. Once I'd satisfied my salt craving, I ate cookies until my salt craving returned.”

I crack up every time I think about it.

Later, when she'd finished the book, she handed it to me. I wasn't planning on reading it right then but the print was big enough that I didn't need my reading glasses.

The next morning, while everyone else was saddling horses, I read the first few chapters.

I am reluctant to say that I'm enjoying it way more than I am comfortable admitting. Apparently there are worse ways to spend an hour in horse camp than reading a book...trashy or otherwise.

That evening I wandered back up Fake Creek with my camera. Since I still didn't have cell service, I photographed flowers and plants for AI identification once I was again in cell range. AI. That got me pondering as I often do in my wanderings. A lot of folks are afraid of the new technology. I am not. People have been freaking about technology being the ruin of humanity since the first black and white TV. Then it was “Rock and Roll.” Then came video games and computers. I see them all as a tool. As a reflection of the human operating them. They can be used for good – they can be used for bad. Besides...AI, as powerful as it is and will become, cannot live off the grid. I can.

Fake Creek itself turned out to be every bit as pretty as its name was confusing. It had tiny waterfalls, crystal-clear pools, and enough personality to make me wonder who looked at it years ago and decided, "Nope...that's not a real creek. It's a fake creek. Let's call it “Fake Creek."

I also found huckleberries.

Lots of them.

Enough to make me wonder how long a person could survive on huckleberries if they really had to.

That night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, Harley exploded into barking. A horse trotted through camp. I threw on my boots, grabbed a flashlight and hurried outside.

One horse was missing from the high-line. Jack.

Somehow that buckskin had slipped completely out of his halter...still tied to the high-line like a Houdini – Horse escape act.

I searched camp from one end to the other.

Nothing.

I expanded my search but I was afraid I'd get lost looking for him and my friends would have to find me AND my horse. It was dark and I couldn't see a thing even with the flashlight. I needed a way to be able to make it back to my trailer in the dark. I took a little lamp I've packed for years, turned it on and place it on top of my horse trailer hoping it would shine bright enough I could see it and know where my camp was.

For nearly half an hour I wandered through the darkness calling his name and whistling, keeping an eye on that beacon atop my trailer. Still, no Jack.

I decided I'd better unhook the trailer so I could drive the roads before he made it halfway to Baker City. Ever try unhooking a trailer in the dark, in a hurry...stressed out your horse is galloping down a mountain road headed straight for certain doom?

The trailer block was nowhere to be found because of course...I didn't toss the damn thing in. Instead, I unwound the trailer jack onto a flimsy, narrow piece of wood that promptly split in two; dropping the jack onto soft ground. Thankfully, I'm pretty sure due to lot's of swearing – the hitch lifted just enough off the ball I could pull away from the trailer. I'd figure out how to get it back on some other time.

By the time I got the truck free and started down the road, I spotted him.

There he stood.

Perfectly content.

Back at the high-line visiting with Douglas and Ally as though he'd simply gone over to borrow a cup of sugar from the neighbors.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

Neither of us said a word.

Some conversations don't require words. One look says it all. He dropped his head in shame.

I slipped his halter back on. This time a little tighter and re-tied him to the high-line.

I climbed back in the truck and drove back to my camping spot – all the while following the little light I'd placed on top of my trailer like a lighthouse beacon; thanking God once again for taking care of fools and buckskin horses.

7-23-2026 – Day 5

Breaking Camp

Eventually every camping trip reaches the same unwelcome conclusion. You start looking around camp and realize there are more empty containers than full ones. The dog food bucket is nearing the bottom. The hay bale has one flake left. You begin mentally packing before you've physically packed a single thing.

I got up early and baked a batch of brownies. The boys, Blake, Landon, and Nick, would be coming back down from the mountain today, and I figured a little sugar coma might be appreciated after a few days in the back-country. Before they left, Landon estimated they would break camp about noon and be back around 3:00 PM.

By mid-morning I began breaking camp.

Sleeping bags rolled.

Camp stove cooled.

Dutch oven packed away.

The little routines that only take minutes to do but somehow signal that the adventure is almost over.

The original plan was to leave around noon and ride up the trail a ways, hoping to meet the boys coming back from Traverse Lake.

As it turned out, they got an earlier start than expected and made it back to camp before Jack and I were saddled.

They looked tired. The good kind of tired. The kind of tired you earn and produces stories.

From the sounds of it, they'd had a little excitement of their own somewhere up on the mountain. Something that could have been serious but ended well. No people hurt. No horses hurt. The condensed version was a spooked horse knocking a pack horse of the trail and rolling down the switchbacks, pack and all. I hope to get the full story later. Just another reminder that wilderness doesn't hand out free passes to anyone.

Landon's bachelor party probably wasn't what most people would picture.

No casinos.

No beach.

No fancy restaurants.

Just good friends, good horses, and mountains.

Personally...

I think he chose wisely.

I asked the boys if they minded I follow them off the mountain. I was packed up for the most part. All I had to do was load Jack and say good-bye to Lee, Susan, Mark and Pattie.

I fell in behind them for the drive back toward the Keating turnoff. They continued toward Baker and I toward Halfway.

By the time I rolled into Halfway, reality hit.

It was a hundred degrees. Smoke from the Powder River Fire hung thick over the valley, turning the mountains into faded silhouettes. My eyes and throat burned.

After spending nearly a week breathing cool mountain air, the heat felt offensive. I struggled not to turn the truck around and head back before I even unloaded.

The first order of business was getting Jack settled back in. Drifter stood in the far pasture with Crackers and JJ. I closed the gate to the road and gave a whistle. He came running full speed. "We missed you too, Driff."

With the horses settled, I walked into the house and did something most people never think twice about.

I took a shower.

A real shower.

Hot water.

Cold water.

Water that appeared simply by turning a handle.

It's amazing how quickly we begin taking ordinary conveniences for granted. A hot shower after several days of creek baths feels like luxury. Although – I noticed I turned the water a little cooler than normal. Standing there, I found myself appreciating plumbing in a way I probably wouldn't have two weeks earlier.

Then I made another decision.

I turned my phone off.

Not on silent.

Not airplane mode.

Off.

The moment I'd driven back into cell service, it had exploded with text messages, missed calls, emails, notifications, reminders, and all the other electronic demands that somehow convince us they're urgent and we are important.

It was exhausting.

I'd gone nearly a week where nobody expected anything from me. Nobody needed an answer. Nobody cared whether I responded to a text.

The mountains had asked only simple things.

Water the horse.

Feed the dogs.

Watch your footing.

Be home before dark.

Life gets remarkably uncomplicated when you strip away everything else. I realized, standing there with my phone finally silent again, that what I missed wasn't just the scenery.

It was the quiet.

Not the absence of sound. The absence of demands. No schedules. No deadlines. No constant tugging at my attention.

Just enough room for my own thoughts to finally catch up with me. Maybe that's why I keep coming back. The mountains don't ask me to become someone different. They simply allow me to become the person I already am.

If it weren't for Drifter waiting back home...

If it weren't for friends that would worry...

If it weren't for the rest of life that demands our attention ...

I honestly believe I would've stayed right there in West Eagle Meadow until the food ran out, or the first snow drove us off the mountain.

Sometimes...the hardest trail you'll ride...is the one that leads to a home not of your own choosing.

Epilogue

Why I Go

Every time I come back from the mountains, somebody eventually asks the same question.

"So...did you have a good time?"

I usually nod and answer, "Yeah. It was great."

But that's never the whole answer.

The truth is, I don't really know how to explain what happens to me up there.

Some people go to the mountains because they enjoy camping.

Some go to fish.

Some hunt.

Some climb peaks.

Some simply want to escape the summer heat.

I suppose all of those are good reasons.

They're just not mine.

I go because somewhere between watering horses, cooking over a camp stove, bathing in a creek, and crawling into bed tired enough to sleep without effort, I remember who I am.

Life gets remarkably simple in the wilderness.

The horse needs water.

The dogs need food.

If it rains, you put on a raincoat.

If you're hungry, you cook.

If you're dirty, you head to the creek.

The mountains don't care what you do for a living.

They don't care what kind of truck you drive, how many followers you have, or whether you've answered your text messages.

They don't even care if you came in on the wrong road.

Out there, none of that matters.

What matters is whether your horse trusts you.

Whether your friends can count on you and you them.

Whether you'll stop long enough to appreciate a meadow that has no idea how beautiful it is.

I watched Harley grow a little more confident this week.

I watched Groot faithfully plod along, perfectly content just being wherever I happened to be.

I watched Jack, at eighteen years old, remind me that age doesn't always decide what a horse is capable of.

He climbed mountains.

Negotiated rock.

Trusted me on trails that would've made a younger horse question my judgment.

Every year with him feels a little more precious than the last.

Not because he's older. Because I'm finally wise enough to understand that none of us get forever.

I spent the week surrounded by good people.

People who say grace before dinner.

People who bring world-class mules into the wilderness because that's what mules were born to do.

People who still know how to navigate by memory instead of satellites.

People who grow most of the food they share around the campfire.

People who think reading a trashy novel while eating potato chips is a perfectly respectable way to spend an afternoon.

I've decided they're right.

No cell service.

I didn't miss it.

No news.

I didn't miss that either.

The world somehow managed to keep spinning without my participation.

Imagine that.

When I finally drove back into civilization, my phone exploded with messages demanding my attention.

The mountains never demanded anything but your respect.

They simply offered something.

Silence.

Not the absence of sound.

The absence of noise.

There's a difference.

In that silence, I remembered things that really matter.

That coffee tastes better outside.

That conversations around a campfire don't require spell-check.

That creek baths are surprisingly refreshing.

That laughter echoes farther in the mountains.

That horses never care how successful you are. Only how kindly you treat them and others.

Mostly, I remembered that peace isn't a destination.

It's a choice.

It's choosing to trade notifications for chipmunk chatter.

Traffic for hoof beats.

Deadlines for daybreak

Concrete for granite.

For just a little while.

People sometimes tell me they couldn't live the way I do.

Maybe they're right.

Then again...

I don't know that I could live the way they do, either.

The mountains...the desert. They have ruined me for ordinary life.

And honestly...

I'm okay with that.

So, until the next trip...

I'll restock the dog food.

Replace the frying pan.

Buy more ibuprofen...

And wait.

Because somewhere up there, The Eagle Caps are still quietly going about its business.

The creek is still flowing.

The huckleberries are still ripening.

The deer are probably still checking tents in the middle of the night.

And the mountains...

The mountains aren't waiting for me.

They don't have to.

They know I'll be back.

Things Not to Forget Next Time

(Otherwise known as "The Shopping List I Wish I'd Made Before I Left.")

Camp Gear

• Frying pan that doesn't explode.

Cooking

• More bacon. (There is no such thing as too much bacon.)

• Potato chips and Cookies...because Susan has the right idea.

• Fresh onions...so I don't have to gamble on wild ones.

Horse Stuff

• Bute.

• Grain for hiding medicine.

• More hay than I think I'll need.

Dog Stuff

• Extra dog food.

• More dog treats.

• Dog pets – more dog pets. (Pretty sure Groot added that one)

Miscellaneous Stuff to restock

• Ibuprofen.

• Reading glasses.

• Gold Bond Powder

• Nail clippers

• Baby wipes

• Another good book...just in case Susan's "trashy novel" is already checked out.

 CLICK FOR FULL PICTURES

---