Retirement has
found me living in the “best of both worlds,” or so I'm told. I
spend most of the year in Arizona and the few hot summer months up
North in the small town I grew up in: Halfway Oregon.
To the outsider
– and many locals, I would guess – Halfway is a paradise. A
picturesque small town nestled in a beautiful valley beneath the
stunning Eagle Cap wilderness. As Margaret Wolfe Hungerford penned in
her novel Molly Bawn: “Beauty is in the eye of the
beholder.” I agree with Marge. I can appreciate the rugged
remoteness of Pine Valleys natural aesthetics, however, for
me...there is a darkness here I cannot explain within the voice of
this blog piece. I will leave it at that.
It helps to
stay busy. This summer has been much easier than summers past.
Friends and family have visited which helps immensely. I've also had
the opportunity to ride with a local friend that knows this country
better than anybody I've encountered. He isn't on social media and I
believe would rather stay that way. He is a plethora of information
on the history of this valley, likes to ride in the mountains and
isn't afraid to get off trail. I shall refer to him as Ph-D.
In one of
Ph-D's many recounts of Pine Valleys history – he mentioned a lost
cabin and associated mine somewhere in the mountains north of the
valley. According to Ph'D...a handful of locals have stumbled across
remnants of the cabin. Some claim to have picked up “rich” ore in
the same area...never to be able to find it again. Well, that's
convenient. I'm guessing this must be Big Foot's summer home. Who
else could live in a cabin that has existed for over 150 years
without documented photographic evidence.
If Ph-D finds
me an annoying riding partner, he hides it well enough. He agreed to
take me along to explore the area where the lost cabin is supposed to
have once stood. A small amount of research mentions a cabin built by
two miners back in the mid to late1800's. Other than the general
location – my research hasn't yet pulled up enough information to
pin down a specific location. It will be like searching for a needle
in a haystack.
Ph-D said we
would likely be bush-whacking off-trail. I opted to saddle Jack. Ph-D
took his only saddle horse, Jewel, a 21 year old
been-there-done-that-mare. We hauled to the trail-head, unloaded and
the expedition began.
The trail
starts out fairly benign; much like any other trail. One minute we
are plodding along this trail and the next, Ph-D exits the trail and
shoots straight up the side of the mountain. As powerful as Jack is –
it was an effort for him to climb is way over the often soft ground
and loose rock that gave way beneath him. If we weren't climbing
straight up – we were side-hilling a slippery ridge no
self-respecting mountain goat would trek.
We reached the
top of the ridge, let the horses rest and take in the view. I checked
Jack's Scoot Boots to make sure they were still intact. So far so
good. After a short rest and navigational pointers from Ph-D that I
only pretended to comprehend – I followed the D in a butt puckering
descent off the ridge. Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if Ph-D
was trying to assure I never rode with him again. He would
occasionally glance back: “Still with me? I bet you're never going
to ride with me again!” I feigned indifference on the outside:
Guess again Professor...is this all you got? My
internal version was a bit more realistic: Holy mother of
pearl....this dude is bat-shit crazy.
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| Ph-D - Jewel - Jack |
The
descent was worse. Downfall from an old burn covered the mountain in
a leg-breaking maze of pick-up-sticks. I wasn't worried about Jack
not getting us through it – but I kept a close eye on his boots. I
didn't think he could afford to lose one and have to walk out
barefoot. We would ride 20 feet or so and have to back-track and find
a way around dead-fall our horses could not manage. We reached a spot
that Ph-D felt was safer to get off and lead. I made another quick
check of Jack's boots, verified they were still on and followed the D
picking our way off the mountain.
We
walked approximately 100 yards before deciding to climb back in the
saddle. It is then I noticed Jack was missing a hind boot. It wasn't
the greatest spot to try and tie up and look for it. I backtracked a
short distant before making the decision to leave the boot. I decided
to not chance losing another boot and removed the remaining three.
The terrain would be boggy and less rocky from here. I could put the
boots back on if needed. I marked the spot on my GPS as “lost boot”
- knowing I would come back and search for it until I found it. I
can't let shit go...it is not in my nature.
We
rode through meadows we thought might be a good spot for a cabin to
no avail. At that point – I was more focused on watching Jack's
hooves for signs of damage. He would occasionally step on a sharp
rock and gimp a few steps before walking it off. I let him pick his
way. The D led us across the drainage to the bottom of the next
ridge. The footing was soft enough I did not have to reboot Jack.
The
loop between ridges in search of the lost cabin encompassed 13 miles.
While I have ridden more technical trails in some aspects –
bush-whacking cross country over terrain a mountain goat would avoid
is an entirely different ball of baling twine!
I
promised Jack extra cookies and a triple doze of butte when got home.
He was a little sore coming out of the trailer but seemed to walk it
off within a few steps. I better examined his hooves and was relieved
– and surprised – to find they came out of it with barely a nick.
Thank you God and Scoot Boots.
I
ordered a replacement boot, mud straps and a set of pastern strap
locks. I've been using Scoots for about a year now and seldom lose
one. I have found they stay on in fairly rugged terrain but no boot
is going to stay on in the terrain we rode. The thick brush and
dead-fall limbs can get caught under a loose pastern strap and pull
them off. I could not fault the Scoots for the one Jack lost. I
contacted Scoot Boot support, told them of my experience and they
recommended mud straps. I ordered a set for Drifter and one for Jack.
I'd try the pastern strap locks on the fronts...they are cheaper.
A
week or so after the search for the lost cabin, Ph-D was hit with the
tragic loss of Jewel. She hadn't come in during feeding time as
usual. D found her laying in the pasture with a broken ankle. There
are no words to offer a person who feels about their animal friends
like some of us. There are those that consider animals...horses,
dogs...as mere tools to get a job done. Replaceable. Expendable. I
don't ride with those kind of people. I knew D was broken hearted.
Only time will numb the gut-wrenching emptiness.
Jack's
replacement boot and accessories arrived a week ahead of schedule.
Ph-D had mentioned at the coffee shop that he had more information on
the possible whereabouts of the lost cabin/mine. Fearing it might be
too soon – I took the chance and offered to let him ride Jack if he
wanted to go back and look for the cabin and my boot. It is hard to
ride somebody's horse – especially after loosing one of your own
that you trust wholeheartedly. I doubt it was easy for him to accept
my offer.
 |
| The horses in their Scoot Boots complete with mud straps |
I
booted Jack all the way around and Drifter's fronts. Drifter could
likely manage barefoot but I wanted to try out the mud straps. Ph-D
said we would go in from a different direction that would be less
steep. I breathed a sigh of relief over that. Drifter is young and
not as powerful as Jack. I didn't know how he would do scrambling up
and over some of the sketchy spots carrying my weight.
I
was, of course, totally lost from the get-go. I thought I had a
pretty good feel for where we went last time after down-loading my
GPS tracks and getting a birds-eye view. Going in backwards and, to
me, what felt like up-side-down...I had not a clue.
Most
of the route was more like a normal trail ride with a few
cross-country sections that weren't too treacherous. Drifter hopped
over dead-fall like a deer. He is light on his feet and at times
feels like his hooves are never touching the ground. Water crossings
can be a challenge and there were many. Drifter does not like to get
his feet wet. Each one got easier. It helped that he will follow Jack
anywhere.
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| Jack and Driff wait while we pan for gold...unsuccessfully |
We
stopped at a meadow with a small watering hole for Groot to drink and
let the horses rest. Ph-D noticed large “dog” tracks in the
trail. Much larger than Groots. He didn't say anything other than ask
if I had my pistol. I said I did and we rode on.
We
soon dove off the trail and were once again bush-whacking across
no-mans land. We dismounted and lead through a particularly sketchy
area. I am better off on my horse than off. I tried leading Drifter
but felt like he might accidentally step on me. I climbed back in
the saddle.
We
dove off the ridge and discovered we had gone down the wrong draw. It
was rough going and ended at a nearly vertical bluff. It was here
that I noticed Groot was not with us. I whistled. Nothing. He doesn't
hear well but he can hear me whistle from a fair distance. We were
less than a hundred yards from the watering hole were we last saw
him. If he was there – he would have heard my whistle. We debated
whether to ride on or go back through the hell we just come through.
I didn't feel he would give up and go back to the trailer on his own.
It was more likely that he took after chasing something. I continued
to whistle and call as we rode on hoping he would circle around and
catch up.
The
D would stop and look around. I am certain I could hear the wheels
turning in his head as he analyzed, calculated and hypothesized the
trajectory and alignment of the geographical formations in relation
to the topography. As for me; I saw a big rock that looked kind of
familiar – that's something, right?
We
were again on foot. Ph-D was ahead of me. My GPS tracks indicated we
were in the vicinity of the area Jack lost the boot. I kept turning
back to whistle for Groot. A large rock formation to our right looked
familiar but then again, so did every other of the dozen rock
formations we passed. The D studied the area. I wondered if the
slightly perplexed expression on his face meant we were completely
lost or stuck on this mountain with no way to get off. I asked if we
were close to the area we had gotten off to walk the day Jack threw
the boot. Seconds later, Ph-D answered: “hey...look at that!” and
reached down to pluck the wayward boot from under a tree. The
proverbial needle in the haystack had been recovered.
The
ride back to the trailer was bitter-sweet. Ph-D had recovered a
$125.00 boot – but I had lost a mysterious white dog that had come
into my life as quickly as he seemed to have disappeared. My outside
persona belied the heartbreak I felt inside: “Well...he was a stray
when I got him...I guess he didn't want to hang out with me anymore.
Hope he's having fun and doesn't get eaten by the wolves.” The
internal voice ached with the truth: “Dear God – please don't let
him get attacked by wolves. Don't let him be scared. Don't let him
feel abandoned. Help him find his way back.”
We
rode back a different route than we rode in. The many creek crossings
and boggy areas were a good opportunity for Drifter to get over his
dislike of getting his feet wet. Drifter followed Jack on the first
few crossings before taking the lead. He crossed most of them with
little hesitation. He balked at one of the last creeks. I urged him
forward. The D rode up beside us and had me try something different.
He said to walk him a few steps without increasing my energy – stop
him/pet him – take another step – stop – pet. If he hesitates
going forward – let him go sideways and if he takes even a half a
step toward the creek – stop him – pet him, etc. We did this
about 4 times before Driff walked across on his own. My sister and I
call The D “The Cow Whisperer.” The cow-whisperer does a pretty
good job with horses, too.
My
heart sank when we rode into the trail-head with no sign of Groot.
Shit. Ph-D offered to come back with me in the evening after working
cows and look for him. I appreciated the offer. I was already making
plans to come back up and make camp. I'd search for him until I found
him. This was not my first experience with this type of thing. Years
ago, my dog Spud (ironically another big white dog) had come up
missing. I searched for him until I found him...wounded and dying
after being hit by a train. While there will never be another Spud
for me – Groot deserved the same relentless attention.
I
would search for him until I found him or undeniable proof of what
happened to him.
We
loaded the horses and prepared to head off the mountain. I went to
the back of the trailer in search of a tree with my name on it as
Ph-D rounded the front. He met Groot jogging down the same trail
toward him like it was nothing more than another morning stroll. He
had come back the same trail we rode out earlier. He wasn't
particularly tired or concerned. Just “Here I am....went for a
little stroll and came back the same way we left because you two
idiots went the wrong way.”
We
didn't find a lost cabin. We did not find pockets of rich ore or the
secret location of an abandoned gold mine. That which we did find, to
me...is vastly more valuable. We found a boot symbolizing
determination and perseverance prevail. We found although you can
lead a horse to water, you cannot make him drink. However, with a
different approach...you can
get him to cross. Lastly, I found not only does God watch over fools
and little children...he also watches over peculiar white dogs with a
propensity to wander....and for that, I am eternally grateful.
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| Fount it! |
PS: A note of the effectiveness of the Scoot Boots. The mud straps are a hit. The boots stayed on over dead-fall - thick brush - bog...deep bog and any other terrain we threw at them. The pastern locks were definitely more effective at keeping the pastern straps on than without - but I did lose one and one held the strap on - but the strap broke. So - I will definitely recommend mud straps for off-road terrain and pastern locks for normal, down the trail type riding WITHOUT thick brush or dead-fall.
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