Trail Log: 8-27-2022

(l-r) Ann - Becky - Cindy - Lee - Marti - Linda - Sonny

•  Trail: Hitt Mnt - A Lee Ride
• Miles: 11.75
• Riders: Self - Lee - Linda - Ann - Marti - Sonny - Nancy - Shannon
• Horses: Jack - King - Tex - Mango - Sweet Song - Lonesome - (don't know the other two)
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: Another Lee ride - this time up Hitt Mountain behind my old stomping grounds. It was a great send-off for my trip south in a few days. I got to visit with some old friends. We stayed mostly on four wheel tracks....which unfortunately got a bit dusty in spots - nothing a well placed bandana couldn't help out with. 

Nancy and Shannon opted to break off from the pack and bring up the rear. They were apparently riding horses that weren't comfortable riding with others.

A few of us stopped at The Coffee Cabin on the way back for dinner. 

Trail Log: 8-24-2022

•  Trail: Cornucopia Hwy - Tunnel Crk
• Miles: 6.58
• Riders: Self - Solomon
• Horses: Jack - Crackers
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: Ventured out a little farther. Crackers did great again. A bear wandered across the road in front of us. Neither horse batted an eye. I've run into bears on Jack in the past but Crackers has likely never seen one unless it's been out in his pasture. 

Crackers is moving better with every ride. I took him to an equine chiropractor a couple weeks ago. It made a huge difference. I think just getting out and moving helps as well. I hope Solomon is allowed to continue riding him after I head home to keep him in shape and enjoying a little freedom...for both of them. 

Solomon enjoys riding. He's been convinced he's going to either be eating by a bear, a cougar or a wolf since he got here. I wondered what he would think if/when we ran across a bear. I've been telling him there are a lot scarier things in life. He realized after his first bear encounter that they aren't nearly as scary as he was led to believe. He even hoped we see it again so we could get a picture of it next time. 

Yeah...that looks "exactly" like it did before they mined the shit out of it. :( 

Trail Log: 8-16-2022

Solomon and Crackers the Halflinger

 

• Trail: Clear Creek - Snow Park
• Miles: 5.2
• Riders: Self - Solomon
• Horses: Jack - Crackers
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: First time Crackers has been out of the pasture in probably 15 years and first time ever in the hills. He did amazing. He took care of Solomon and had no problems keeping up with Jack. We stayed on easy trails and didn't go far to ease him into it. 

Trail Log: 7-26-2022

 

• Trail: Fish Lake – Horse Lake – Cabin
• Miles:12.4
• Riders: Self – Patti – Marc – Lee
• Horses: Jack – Nellie Rose – Aly/Lou Ellen – King
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: The third and final day of the Fish Lake basecamp adventure. I was in no hurry to head back to the valley. My sister wasn't expected to be in until late afternoon. Not only is she not a morning person, but she was driving in from Meridian Idaho. I would have plenty of time for one more ride.

The group settled on Horse Lake. We picked up Horse Lake Trail 1873 North of camp and followed it along a ridgeline heading South East. A steady wind whistled and howled through the tops of blackened, towering pine snags as if they mourned the loss of life and lush green needles; the result of devastating forest fire.

I pulled Jack up and called to Lee: “Do you hear that?” Lee answered: “I do...wolves.” I'm not likely to question Lee about anything that has to do with the mountains or nature in general. The man has spent more time hiking, hunting, packing and riding in the wilderness than anyone I know. Still, it didn't sound like wolves from my experience. The howl of a wolf is something you don't question from the moment you hear it. Even if you've never heard it before...you know. Rattlers are the same. There are a plethora of bugs and plants rustling in the breeze that might startle a person that's never been buzzed by a pissed off diamond back. It's a sound indisputable and one you will not forget.

Wolves are the same. Years ago, I was packed into the White Clouds with members of the Backcounty Horseman of Idaho. One night I was jolted awake by a wolf howling close to camp. I shot out of bed and stood in the middle of camp with two others that heard it also. A few seconds later another wolf joined the symphony...and then another. Standing in the middle of camp at night in your underwear listening to the most beautifully eerie sound imaginable is awe-inspiring. Staying up the remainder of the night to keep watch over your stock is exhausting.

This was not the same sound to me. Perhaps it's because these wolves, if it were wolves, are much farther away? “Are you sure it's wolves? I think it's wind in the snags.” Lee is also one that's not going to argue with you. He'll tell you once and only once. What you do with that knowledge is up to you. “Yes...I'm sure. It's wolves.” Ok then. More to myself than anyone within ear-shot: “I'll just ride along here and go with it being wind in the trees.” Still...I kept a closer eye on Hank the rest of the ride.

Six miles in, we dropped off the ridge into a series of small meadows. A rustic cabin nearly hidden from view by the casual wanderer lay nestled in a clearing. Horse Lake served as the cabins exclusive front porch view. Horse lake is more of a bog than a lake this time of the year. Instead of being filled with water...the lake is filled with tiny little frogs. Zillions of them. I like frogs. I like one or two frogs. I'm not a fan of zillions of them all in one place. As far as I'm concerned it could have been the location for the 1972 George McCowan horror flick “FROGS.” Today the pond...tomorrow the WORLD!

I liked this cabin even better than the cabin at Clear Creek. While more rustic and remote, the cabin is still well maintained and stocked with waterver a person might need to survive in an emergency. It had everything including a barn for horses and tack...the loft stocked with several bales of old hay. I tried the hand pump outside the front porch. My efforts were not productive. Perhaps I will come back some day and see if I can get it primed and going! I imagine it's used as a cow camp...a snowmobile stop or likely both. I see no reason why it can't be used as my summer hideout; frogs or no frogs.

We ate lunch at the cabin before heading back to camp via Lake Fork Trail. Again...the trail is littered with downfall and bogs. Fortunately, Marc and Patti had negotiated this same trail earlier in the week and Lee...he's pretty much a walking compass. Between the three of them, we found ourselves back at camp safe, sound and frog free. I know. I checked. Not taking any chances for a sequel!

That afternoon, I packed up camp, said goodbye to my camp hosts and headed off the mountain back to civilization.

Trail Log: 7-26-2022

•  Trail: Fish Lake - Clear Creek Res./Cabin
• Miles: 12.1
• Riders: Self - Lee - Marc - Patti
• Horses/Mules: Jack - King - Ally/Lou Ellen - Nellie Rose Marie
• Dogs: Hank

Reservoirs - Cabins and bowling for llamas.

Patti - Lee - Marc

Notes: Day 2 of our Fish Lake camp-out. I normally get up early and more so when I'm in the mountains. I'm not sure why this is other than I wouldn't want to waste a minute of daylight. I didn't bother tacking up as it appeared nobody was up and around just yet. I took Hank for a walk and fiddle-farted around camp. I should have known better. One minute every horse and mule in camp was secured in portable pens or high-lined...the next each one tacked and tied to their trailers... except for Jack. These people are like ninja's on horseback! I quickly caught Jack and had him tacked in a matter of minutes. This ain't my first rodeo.

I was again simply along for the ride. I followed Lee, Patti and Marc as we made our way Northwest from camp. I recognized part of the trail head as one I'd hiked with my pack goats years ago. Yeah...I know, pack goats, right? It was my pre-horse/post back packing era and deserves a short explanation:

Years ago, I started hiking/backpacking the Eagle Caps. One day, as my son and I were trudging up the Nip-N-Tuck with 50lbs of ill-fitting packs strapped to our backs...a deer bound ahead of us on the trail. I remember thinking...man, if we could rope that big bodied doe and strap these packs on her, we would have it made. That's when the proverbial light bulb lit over my sweat soaked head. GOATS! Only an idiot would try to rope a wild muley and try to convince it to become a beast of burden...but it takes a real special person to purchase 7 goats, spend hundreds of dollars on tiny little sawbucks and panniers and commence to packing with the cloven hoofed critters. I was not the first to come to this packing epiphany; there is in fact an entire organization dedicated to the ins and outs of owning, raising and packing of our capra aegagrus hircus friends...better known as “the goat”: NAPgA...yep, the North America Packgoat Association. I was a proud, card carrying member of said organization for several years.

I spent those years packing with my goat herd and am only the tiniest bit embarrassed to admit I loved every minute of it. I'm especially proud of the time my goats scared the shit out of a pack of llamas coming up the Nip-N-Tuck to the hilt with yuppie gear. While that is a story for another time – suffice it to say that watching a string of llamas roll down 100 feet of switchbacks leaving yuppie gear scattered over the mountain face was something akin to nirvana. Hippies, Yuppies and other Sierra Club likes might think that a most cruel statement. On the other hoof...horseback riders who have had the misfortune of encountering a string of llamas on a treacherous stretch of trail will feel a certain sense of retribution. I will add that no llama's were injured during the encounter. Even “Clark,” the wayward llama who went AWOL during the incident, eventually returned the following fall after the snow drove him back to the valley, returned unscathed. Paybacks are hell.

One day, after spending several hours tacking up seven little goats carrying 25lbs of gear each – that proverbial light bulb again appeared over my noggin: “Just think...one good pack horse could carry at least as much as seven little goats AND I wouldn't have to walk if I didn't want to!” The rest is history.

Clear Creek Res.

The trail had changed considerably since my back-packing/goat-packing days. Forest fires had come and gone – trail head improvements and a barrage of traffic had turned this once wild terrain into something...less. Not tame, exactly...but less wild for sure. I suppose it's inevitable. It saddens me.

Marc and Patti

We continued past Melhourn Reservoir to Clear Creek Reservoir and stopped to take a break. Lee pointed out rusty remnants of tracks, mining cars and various other equipment used in the building of the dam. Clear Creek is one of many reservoirs in this range. A network of creeks and man made ditches flow from the reservoirs to comprise the irrigation system that feeds Pine Valley below.

From Clear Creek we rode northwest to Clear Creek Cabin. A picturesque cabin on the edge of an alpine meadow. The cabin has been restored, is fully stocked and immaculately maintained I assume by a snowmobile club. We ate our lunch outside the cabin and staked the horses out to graze.

Clear Creek Cabin

We looped east along a four wheeler track and dropped south skirting Sugarloaf Reservoir. The gentle 2 track meandering over rolling hills covered in purple lupine was a welcome reprieve after traversing miles of deadfall and bog. I closed my eyes and took in the heady aroma. This would be a good place to die...not today, however. Not with so many trails left to trod and adventures yet to unfold.

Trail Log: 7-25-2022

(L-R) Patty on Nellie Rose Marie - Marc on Alley ponying Lou Ellen - Lee on King and Susan. Susan does not ride but is a hiking fool. She may be the smart one of the bunch. 

•  Trail: Fish Lake - Russel Mnt. - Sugarloaf - Deadman
• Miles: 10.00
• Riders: Self - Lee - Marc - Patty
• Horses/Mules: Jack - King - Alley and Lou Ellen - Nellie Rose Marie
• Dogs: Hank

From Sugar Coated Mountains to a Dead Man

If I don't start blogging I'm never going to catch up. My excuse has been I'm too busy...and that is true in part. I'd go crazy if I didn't... but enough is enough. There is no harm in slowing down a little and smelling the horse poop.

I should start with the Pine Lakes trip I guided a few friends on...but instead, I'm going to start with the most recent while it's fresh in my mind. I spent three days riding the mountains surrounding Fish Lake. I grew up in this area but until the last couple of years, did not have the opportunity to explore much beyond the place I grew up on. I bought 5 acres of my childhood home from my mom. The last couple of years I've spent the summers here setting it up as a basecamp for me and my critters. In between building fence, picking rocks and swearing at more rocks...I've tried to venture out and explore the beautiful mountains surrounding Pine Valley. 

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Lee Barton invited me to come horse camping with him, his wife Susan and Washington State friends Marc and Patty. The group would be base camped near Lake Fork Meadows above Fish Lake. Marc and Patty are mule folk and train and ride the nicest mules you will find anywhere. Lee puts on numerous rides through out the country each year. You are hard pressed to find a trail rider that hasn't heard, or been on, a “Lee Ride.”

I had a USMS competition in Emmett Idaho where I spent the long weekend at the Littlefield arena. I wouldn't head to the lake until Monday morning.

I hadn't been to Fish Lake since I was a kid. My grandpa would take me there to fish. Grandpa's boat with the old Johnson outboard was the first motorized vehicle I learned to drive.

I don't remember the road to Fish Lake as being particularly trailer friendly. A memory of grandpa and I pulling his boat up a steep, windy, gravel road in his old red Ford step-side flashed through my mind. A pack of Winston cigarettes on the dash and one hanging from his lip as we bounced over potholes and washboards that chattered your teeth.

One particular trip involved sitting beside grandpa as we bounced our way to the lake. One hand on the steering wheel....the other on the gear shift....cigarette balanced on his lower lip. A truck full of teenage boys raced up behind us. They acted like they might ram us …impatience obvious in their reckless demeanor. Grandpa pulled over as far as he could hoping they would go around. The Toyota truck sped past in a cloud of dust and flying gravel. They barely missed the old Ford.

Grandpa pumped his fist out the window: “God damn – good for noth'in punks gonna get somebody killed. Drive'in a damn foreign job to boot! Don't deserve an American made truck and couldn't drive one if they did!....#$%@ $@!.” That was the first and last time I heard my grandpa swear let alone raise his voice. About as animated as he got was grumbling over cheap fishing tackle made in Korea. Grandpa despised anything made in Korea...especially fishing tackle.

Normally, I cannot stand the smell of cigarette smoke. I instantly turn green around the edges. Oddly, grandpa's smoking did not bother me. I actually liked the smell. To this day a certain waft of stale cigarette smoke mixed with auto garage mechanics brings back fond memories of growing up on the river with my grandpa. I will miss him always.

Those memories of ratting up the Fish Lake Road in grandpa's old step-side naturally brought out the skeptic in me in regards to pulling a 30' horse trailer to it. Lee assured me I could make it. Marc and Patty pull their living quarters in and both are longer than mine.

There are a couple ways to get to Fish Lake. I wondered if maybe the road I took was different from what Lee was familiar with. I decided to drive up in my jeep ahead of time and check it out. I was happy to discover Lee was right...it wouldn't be a walk in the park – but I could make it pulling my LQ. Still...had all my camping gear not been stowed away in a shipping container in Arizona...I would have preferred to pull my bumper pull and tent it.

Monday morning early I tossed Jack back into the trailer and headed for the lake. The early morning sun glared off the windshield forcing me to hang my head out the window so I could see the road. Either the road wasn't near as bad as I anticipated or not being able to actually see it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Lee had given written directions on where they were camped. He said they will camp ½ mile past the campground. The road leading into the meadow is too sharp for big rigs...I would need to drive another ½ mile to a wide spot …turn around and enter the meadow from the other direction. Well, damn. In the 17 miles of steep, windy road...I'd yet to see a wide spot big enough to turn my jeep around let alone a 35' goose-neck.

Lee was true to his word. I found their camp exactly ½ mile from the campground. Now to find the turn around spot. The widest spot in the road just over ½ mile didn't look promising. I feared Lee may have overestimated my ability to turn this thing around. Not knowing what lay ahead, I pulled over at the widest spot I'd come to and unloaded Jack. I would ride down to camp and find out if I'd missed my turnaround.

I jumped in Lee's old black beast – one of the coolest pickup trucks on the planet. We drove to where I'd left my LQ. With Lee's help – I was able to maneuver the thing well enough to head back the other direction. It's not something you want to try without a spotter. You might find yourself backing off the cliff and tumbling down to camp the hard way.

We had the meadow to ourselves. Lush grass provided graze for the horses. I would put up my portable pens for Jack to graze during the day and high-line with Lee's horse at night.

Lee and Susan were tent camped in a perfect little spot nestled in the trees. Marc, Patty and I pulled our LQ's in the open meadow. It was going to be hard to pack up and head back in a few days. The temperature was a good 20° cooler than the valley. If my sister wasn't coming to visit the middle of the week, I'd likely still be there.

The others waited for me to settle in before we headed off to my first of three days of mountain riding. Jack and I were once again in our element. We've both had enough arena riding and were ready to get back to the discipline that seems to be in our blood.

You would think being as I'm the local Halfway native who grew up exploring in these mountains I would know where I was going. I do not. I didn't have a horse trailer as a kid. When I headed for the hills – I was limited to riding from our place...usually up Carson grade, past Mayo's and toward McBride. I would be deferring to Lee, Marc and Patty to be my trail guides for the week. I rather enjoyed sitting back and taking in the beautiful country that was my childhood home. It sure beat stressing out worrying you might lose someone over a cliff or lost in the wilderness for three days! If my horse riding buddy's understood just how bad my sense of direction really is...not one of them would follow me into the mountains. Ever. I don't know which is better...my GPS or my ability to fake knowing where I'm going at any given time.

We rode to the Russel Mountain Lookout; an abandoned wooden structure with sections of steep steps zig-zagging to the top. Lee and I opted to not see the “do not use” sign faintly painted on dilapidated plywood boxing in the access. We shimmied over the top and made our way up the steps. Lee made it to the top while I stopped at the bottom of the last set of stairs. I still have a bit of a phobia about ladders. I don't care how short or high they reach – I cannot make the last two rungs. My dad died as a result of falling off a ladder. My neighbor's words of warning still pop into my head every time I use one: “Sunshine....the pear don't fall too far from the tree, you know.” :|

We ate our lunch before mounting up and heading toward Sugarloaf mountain. Nobody in our group knew how Sugarloaf got it's name. We determined perhaps the loaf shaped mountain looks like a loaf of bread sprinkled with sugar when it's covered in snow.

We connected with Deadman Trail north toward Deadman mountain. One can only assume the obvious on how Deadman got it's name. The fate and circumstances surrounding the gentleman remains a mystery to our group, however.

The forest service, though contracted by law...does very little trail maintenance in this part of the west. Their focus is on “fighting” fires as there is an abundance of money associated with the increasing number of fires caused by poor management of our forests and grange-lands. The dead-fall crisscrossing miles of trail resembled a haphazard game of pick-up-sticks.

If we couldn't step over, jump over or...in a few instances seemingly FLY over...you had to bush-whack your way through to find a way around. If your horse has issues crossing water or bog...this is not the trail for you. I counted my blessings confident we were riding as trail savvy horses and mules as they come.

We reached a point on the trail we could no longer safely navigate. A couple of young hikers scouted the trail ahead and verified it was best to turn around. We dropped back south...south west and made our way back to camp via Sugarloaf reservoir. I'd hiked to Sugarloaf reservoir years ago with my youngest son Blake and his cousin, Garret. I looked for the wooden sign they leaned against while I snapped their picture. I wouldn't find the sign until the next day as we were one the opposite side of the reservoir.

That evening, we settled around Marc's trailer for dinner. The group had taken pity on me and invited me to eat with them. I'd pretty much gone straight from the shoot in Emmett to the lake without doing any real meal preparation. I figured I wouldn't starve...after-all, I had several packages of Romen Noodles and what all American, outdoorsy girl doesn't have a can or two of Beanee Weenee's stashed away for such occasions.