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| (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 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.
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