- 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 57th
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
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
Dog Stuff
Miscellaneous Stuff to restock
(1).jpg)
.jpg)
