Trail Log: 7-26-2023

FISH LAKE - LEE CAMP
I DID A THING!

&

The Tea Bag Crisis

Part 3.

Drifter and Twister

• July 26^th – Russel Mt Lookout to Sugarloaf Res – 12.4 miles
• Riders: Self – Phil M
• Horses: Drifter – Twister
• Dogs: Hank – Groot – Pearl

Susan offered to cook breakfast for everyone. Her camp grill was full up with bacon and hash browns so I cooked the scrambled eggs in my kitchen. Others pitched in strawberries, plumbs, zucchini bread and various other food items. It has been my experience that nobody goes hungry when they are camping. I might live on Pop Tarts and Twinkies any other time ...but when I'm camped out – I take the time to cook real food. The only other occasion I might spend more time in the kitchen is during Thanksgiving...and double that if I happen to be spending Turkey Day in the Owyhee's chukkar hunting!

Lee, Marc, Pattie, Bernice and Brownie Jim rode off toward Horse Lake. While it's one of my favorite spots in this area, I opted to got in a different direction. I wanted to ride Drifter in a smaller group and somewhere I was more familiar with. Drifter has never been in the high country. We would encounter downfall – bog – deep, hidden creek trenches and who knows what else. Phil and I ride together a lot in Arizona as we are basically neighbors. I would be more comfortable staying in this comfort zone for Drifters first high country excursion.

With GPS fired up and ready to go, I led us toward Russel Mt. We decided to try and make it to Sugarloaf Reservoir. It doesn't matter how many times I'd been to the area – if I'm not the one driving...I have no idea where I'm at or how to get back. Riding is no exception. Lee or Marc has always led the way. While they do an excellent job of trying to explain where we are in relation to everywhere else we've been...it just doesn't sink in. I nod my head pretending like I know what the hell they are talking about but really, all I hear is: Waah wah waaah waah...shirtless guy trail....waaah wah wa.

I put Easy Boot Glove front boots on Drifter knowing we would be riding on gravel to get to the trail head. They are a little big for him still so I wondered how well they would stay on through some of the bog and downfall. No time like the present to find out.

We rode up the gravel road to the lookout on Russel Mountain and followed the sign to Sugarloaf trail. This section of trail is well maintained compared to many of the others. I considered taking off Drifters boots but decided against it. I was curious to see how they would hold up over this varied and often technical terrain.

Sections of the trail became familiar to me. I remembered landmarks and certain areas from last years trip. Three miles or so in, we ride up on a large meadow. ONE TREE MEADOW! Earlier in the week, Lee had been trying to describe a section of this trail he said that I had dubbed: One Tree Meadow. I could not for the life of me recall any such thing. I pretended to go along with it and assumed he was confusing me with some other Laurie that rides a striped back buckskin and can't find her way out of her own bathroom.

It all came back to me the moment One Tree Meadow came in to view. I had Phil take my picture in front of the lone tree that stood dead center of the large meadow. For the first time in maybe...ever, I knew where I was! Now if I could just figure out where we were going...

"We go this way!" I recognized the small knoll we climbed to get out of the meadow as the trail had all been obliterated with time. Soon we arrived at a crossroads. New signage had been nailed to the old post: Deadman Trail one way – Sugarloaf Trail the other. I recognized this trail as one I hiked years ago with my youngest son and his cousin. I took their picture under the sign as they rested. Aside from the new signage, it was the same spot. For the second time..maybe ever....I knew where I was!

The trail to the lake seems to vanish here. We would wing it the rest of the way. The area surrounding the lake is bog and tall grass concealing deep, narrow trenches. As far as a horse is concerned, the black cuts in the earth are bottomless pits. Drifter did pretty good with the bog. He didn't like it, but he did it. At first he did OK crossing the hidden trenches until he fell in one. After that...not so much. One particular spot gave us the most trouble. Phil had found a spot we thought he might handle better. It was wider and you could actually see the bottom. It should not have been an issue for him. He has crossed many creeks. He was not about to this one. Phil brought Twister back and forth trying to get him to follow. For a split second I got him to put one hoof in only to step gingerly back out. He's crossed bodies of water a dozen times both on lead and under saddle. Plan B. I moved us 6 feet to the right to a section overgrown with meadow grass so thick you could not see the 6 inch wide trench. He couldn't see it – but he new it was there, gathered his butt under him and vaulted over. Works for me.

Phil, Twister and Pearl

We weaved up and around until popping up onto the lake itself. I did it! I did a thing! I found my way to the lake without being guided. Getting back might be another "thing" altogether but I would worry about that later. Phil fished while the dogs and I explored the lake and used my InReach tethered to my phone to send my son, Dillon, a Happy Birthday text. We didn't stay long due to not getting the earliest start. With no fish to fry for breakfast, we mounted up and headed for camp.

We stopped at the crossroad of Deadman Trail and Sugerloaf. Somewhere in the wee corners of my recollection, I remember Marc talking about him and Pattie getting back to camp from Sugarloaf via Deadman. I could not remember the details...something about waaah wahh waaah waaah wa – shirtless guy trail waaah waaah wah. I knew camp was in the direction Deadman trail was heading. We agreed to give it a try.

The farther we got down the trail – the more I started to second guess our decision. The trail started to curve away from camp. It wasn't getting any earlier I did not have Jack's saddle bags that carry everything I would need to survive a night or two in the high-country; including batteries for my quickly discharging GPS.

I pulled out the GPS – camp was less than a quarter of a mile over the ridge leaving DMT to the east. "It's just over this ridge. I know it." We took the chance to cross country and see if we could bush-whack our way over the ridge to camp. Not far in our endeavor, I noticed orange flagging tied to various vegetation. The sight of those orange bits of flagging niggled at my brain. Oh-well – carry on. The downfall was crazy. You had to ride 5 times as far to get to any one spot. We had almost made it to the crest of the ridge when the downfall became unsurpassable...at least in the amount of daylight we had remaining. We needed to go back the way we came and live to explore another day.

We again road by the orange flagging. Something Marc and Pattie were talking about. Did they leave it? Was this the spot they tried to cross as well and found it not doable? I was past the explorer spirit and rapidly approaching irritation. I bet if Marc had been talking about a half naked guy on this trail I would have paid more attention!

We stopped at the crossroads to try and get our bearings. I'm almost positive that if we had continued down Deadman, we would have ended up on Naked Guy trail and back to camp. I'd have to find out if that was true back at the safety of camp. I did not have the confidence to lead us down another rabbit hole and I was getting grouchy. Phil knows me well enough to know when I'm getting a tad grouchy. He hung back and let Drifter and I forge on in hopes of finding the trail that would take us back the way we came.

We made one more short, navigational inaccuracy that cost us another mile. A mile isn't much unless you are fighting your way through a game of pick-up-sticks over dozens of downfall. Phil put more distance between himself and a seething fountain of profanity. "Damn it...I knew this was the wrong way. @#$@ #@!!....Deadman @$%@ @$# !#$%% Orange pieces of $#1T...Should have gone to Naked trail...@$#..Deadman my @$$.

I found it humorous, later...much later...how the renaming of Clear Creek Trail changed in direct proportion to my frustration. As the week progressed - the Shirtless Guy on Clear Creek Trail had lost what little clothing remained. By the end of the week, he was buck naked.

We quickly corrected the navigational error (sounds better than couldn't find our @$$es from a hole in the ground) and were on the trail back to where we started. All in all, we added approximately 3 miles of FUBAR to our journey. Not too bad, considering.

On the gravel road back to camp we discovered Phil's mare, Twister, that thrown a shoe. Twister wears special shoes that cost a small fortune but keep her sound. Most likely the shoe sucked off in a spot that was particularly boggy. Both horses floundered around in it and one of Drifter's boots came partially off. The Easy Boot gloves use a gaiter system so even if the hoof part gets pulled off, the gaiter usually holds the whole thing on. We didn't notice Twisters missing shoe until we hit the gravel.

Going down hill was harder on her. Phil dismounted and Drifter got his first lesson in ponying a horse. It could have gone south as Twister does not like Drifter. She's in love with Jack but finds Drifter to be a childish annoying. 10 minutes before she had thrown one at him. I figured Drifter would be leery of her after that. Instead, he pinned his ears at her when she got to close to him and put her in her place. Jack's not here to save you now, sister – get use to it.

Phil waited on the hillside while I took the horses back to camp. I was still in somewhat of a foul mood. Lee seemed to pick up on it and took it upon himself to retrieve Phil while I put the horses away. I was proud of Drifter. It was a day full of many firsts for him and aside from balking at one creek crossing, he handled himself like the confident, fearless little guy that is a delight to ride. The day had dispelled any doubts I may have had of him following in his Uncle Jack's hoof prints and becoming a great mountain horse.

In the end – it was a great experience for me. I cannot visualize the geography of an area by listening to someone else or following their lead. My mind cannot decipher where this lake is in relation to that mountain and what trail intersects with another. I have to forge on myself, make mistakes...hopefully not die from them and figure it out on my own.

That evening, I picked Marc's brain on the route and questioned him about the orange flags. Him and Pattie did indeed leave them. They had also tried to shortcut over the ridge and had failed as we had. At least we were in good company! He verified that Deadman would have connected with Naked and brought us back to camp. I felt better about life knowing my assumptions were correct. Even though I lacked the confidence to trust those assumptions. Today's experience went a long way in boosting that confidence.

It had been a long day. I rummaged through my supplies for the makings of a cup of hot tea. I found a packet containing an individually wrapped Lipton Tea Bag. It was like finding a little, yellow gold plated treasure. Lipton does not make them anymore. Like everything else in the world – Lipton wraps their bags in plastic or foil; like that is somehow more environmentally sound. It's one of those things in life that annoys the crap out of me. I've looked in every store from Walmart to Family dollar for individually paper wrapped Lipton Tea bags to no avail. I searched on-line. They try to fool you by touting them as “individual” tea bags...not individually wrapped. Can't fool me Lipton! I had to accept this form of blasphemy and move on. I now drink only Red Rose tea, proudly packaged in individually wrapped little papers. I am at peace.

Trail Log: 7-25-2023

 Fish Lake - Lee Camp

Frame-dragging and The Shirtless Guy Trail

Part 2

• July 25^th – Clear Creek Cabin 
• Miles:  12.3 
• Riders: Self – Lee – Pattie – Marc – Jim – Bernice
• Horses/Mules: Jack – King – Leah – Ali – Wolf - Cash

We were on the trail by 9:00 AM. Lee and Marc agreed on Clear Creek trail and loop back down via Sugarloaf trail. A 12.3 mile ride that would encompass several lakes and the Clear Creek Cabin. We took turns as to the order we rode in. Jim and Bernice like to stay toward the back with their Tennessee Walkers to slow them down. Otherwise, they out-walk everyone on the trail and would end up lapping the rest of us. Jack isn't the fastest of walkers so I like to bring up the rear so I'm not holding anybody up and I can take pictures.

I started out behind Lee. Something was off...a visual cosmic distortion if you will. As I stared at Lee's back...the cause of the apparent shift in the time-space continuum came in to focus: The suspender strap over Lee's right shoulder was twisted. This would not do. "Lee...stop a minute. If I'm expected to ride back here, you are going to have to fix your suspender. It's twisted. It's driving me nuts. If you were a picture on the wall, I'd be straightening you out." Lee laughed – blamed Susan for not dressing him properly and adjusted the suspender. Just in time, too. Nobody wants to be responsible for distorting the time-space continuum. It is a real thing that could happen...it's called the "frame-dragging" effect. If you don't believe me...or Albert Einstein...Google it!

We were well on our way up the Clear Creek Trail...things were going along rather smoothly. The horses had lined out in their preferred order, the sun was shining with a slight breeze and Lee's suspenders were holding the cosmic balance in check. Jack and I had made our way toward the front of the herd. Somebody yelled: "HIKERS....HIKERS COMING." I looked around until I saw the subject of concern. One hiker...all I saw was one hiker. One bare-chested – rather ripped dude wearing nothing but a pair of silky brown jogging shorts and sneakers. I'm assuming he wore sneakers...didn't really get that far in my field of vision. My mouth must have dropped open because Lee and Marc were grinning and shaking there head at me. Lee asked shirtless guy if he was trail running. No...he wasn't trail running – he'd lost his map and was jogging up and down the trail looking for it. He thought it must have fallen out when he was jumping over logs. More like leaping over logs like superman...a shirtless – ripped superman! (sigh) -

I finally regained my composure enough to speak. "So...where are you camped?" I might as well have asked what his sign was and if he hiked here often. I could feel Lee and Marc trying to suppress busting a gut. This wasn't shirtless guys first creepy old lady encounter. "Ummm...actually, – were just parked. I'm not camped anywhere." It soon registered in my cougar like brain that shirtless guy took my desire to help return his map for a desire for something entirely different! "Oh! I just meant that if we found your map, we could return it if we knew where you were camped – that's all!" Shirtless dude wasn't buying it. "It's OK – I doubt you will find it. I must have lost it when I was off-trail jumping over logs and shit...you know, like superman...a really ripped and half naked superman." At least that is what I heard. I had to redeem myself: "Well, I hope it was a good map because if we find it we will keep it!" Take that, shirtless guy!

Somebody asked if there were any other hikers besides him and the gal. What gal? The guys swear there was a gal with a dog, but neither Pattie, Bernice or myself saw anything resembling a lady or a dog. Shirtless guy said two of his hunting dogs had a chipmunk treed up the trail a bit but not to worry about them – they would eventually come back. Was it just me, or was shirtless guy uncomfortably concerned that creepy old lady might try to return his wayward hunting dogs to him in person? In your dreams shirtless dude. In.Your.Dreams.

We did indeed encounter shirtless guys hunting dogs on up the trail. The chipmunk they had treed might as well have been two cougars and a bear for all the carrying on they did. Some of the horses and mules were uneasy with the commotion. I wished for a minute I had Drifter with me. He is a dog stomper. The neighbors dogs used to steal his Jolly Ball. One day Drifter had enough and ran one into the corner of his turn-out. He didn't hurt him, thank goodness...but his Jolly Ball hasn't come up missing since.

Jack doesn't have an issue with dogs and he's not spooked by them either. We pushed them on down the trail toward shirtless guy and that should have been the end of it. I mean, it would have been the end of it if Marc and Lee would let it go...but nope. Every opportunity they got they had to bring up shirtless guy and the effect he had on a certain creepy old lady. And that, boys and girls, is how Clear Creek Trail became known as Shirtless Guy Trail. Really...really well proportioned trail. I mean, some trails have been better maintained than others...that's wall I'm saying. 

Brownie Jim

We continued up Shirtless Guy Trail skirting Mud Lake toward Mehlhorn Reservoir. Downfall scattered here and there made passage difficult. One in particular had protruding limps at just the right height to gouge a horse in the gut. Jim dismounted, retrieved his handy-dandy limb saw and made short work of the limbs so Jack could pass safely. He had just earned his first brownie badge! I'd brought a couple boxes of brownie mix to bake in my nifty portable propane oven "The Camp Chef."

Elk bugled as Mehlhorn Lake came in view. We could hear there hooves pounding through the water before we saw them. I managed to get a video of a section of maybe 25 elk splashing along the shoreline in front of us. Another 25 or more stayed on the opposite shore...splitting the herd. A cow called to her herd on the other side as if begging them to return. We saw several smaller herds throughout the day ....some bedded down while others possibly trying to join back with the herd they had become separated from.

Clear Creek Lake is my favorite of the lakes in this area. It's larger than the others and has a big rock Island jutting near it's center. Remnants of rusted equipment used to build the retaining wall lay scattered about. We had to wade the horses across a section of the lake. I don't remember having to do that last year. Fortunately, Jack loves the water. Unfortunately for me...I do not. He likes to swim. I do not. When he swims, I hang on – close my eyes and hold my breath until it's over. This wasn't deep enough to have to swim it – but I worried we might lose a boot. We managed to make it across to dry land with boots intact. I was more impressed with these sneakers with every mile.

Clear Creek Cabin is an old lineman cabin refurbished and maintained by the snowmobile club. They do a beautiful job of it. Even though the snowmobile club maintains it – it is still part of Forest Service property and open to public use. We stopped here for lunch and to let the animals graze. It was a good spot for a Beenee Weanee photo-op. Jim sat propped on a stump beside the cabin...his floppy hat pulled down low over his eyes. He looked like he belonged with that cabin. I balanced the can of BW's on his hat, told him to not ask questions and he'd earn himself another brownie.

The trail back to camp via Sugarloaf is a sensory delight. Spectacular panoramic views of the Eagle Caps are the backdrop for miles and miles of rolling hills covered in purple lupine. The powerful aroma teeters on the border of heaven and overwhelming. Humans can try to bottle such a scent to be infused in candles, deodorizers and perfumes. They would fall short. God's creativity cannot be manufactured.

We rode in to camp to find Phil had arrived. He planned to come up and spend a couple of days riding in the hills before hitting several shoots in Idaho and Montana on his way home to Arizona. We weren't sure about taking his motor home up the road I take to get to Lee Camp. A couple of the others had come in a different way, one of them with his motor home. He said the road was smoother and wider coming in from the North Pine side. I did my best to give Phil directions and still expected him to end up in Utah. Phil might be one of the only people with a poorer sense of direction than me. And yet...there he was. I was proud of us both – me for giving accurate directions and him for not ending up in Utah.

It was as good a time as any to expose Drifter to hobbles. I had a person tell me once that hobbling a horse was cruel. The same type of person that confines their horses to a 12x16 pen and never rides outside an arena. Everyone is entitled to their own thing. As for me, I've never had a hobble trained horse cut their leg off in wire. Hobbles allow the horse to graze freely without fear of getting hung up in a halter or dragging lead rope. Some horses, Jack included – can move almost as fast in hobbles as without. I figure it at least gives me a fighting chance should he decide to head home without me. As it turns out, Drifter has been taking a few lessons from Uncle Jack.

The first thirty seconds after slipping the hobbles around Drifters ankles went about as expected. He was sure all hell was upon him. He lept into the creek – floundered around on the bank – bounded up the other side...did about three aerobatic maneuvers...dropped his head and went to eating. That was it. Hobble broke horse.

Lee pointed out that my hobbles are too loose. They should sit above the pastern on the cannon. I did not know that. I would need to borrow Lee's hole puncher and make some adjustments to both Drifter's and Jack's hobbles. If I didn't like Lee and was prone to kleptomania...I would not have returned the hole puncher. The single best pair of leather hole punchers ever. I've gone through dozens of the damn things and his are the only pair to actually work. The maker of them apparently wants to keep it top secret because we couldn't find a makers mark on them anywhere. Figures!

Brownie Jim

Click here for full set of pictures

Trail Log: 7-24-2023

 

Fish Lake - Lee Camp
Little Red Cup
Part 1 

(L-R) John - Jim -Marc-Lee-Bernice-Pattie (Twin Lakes)

These hands shall build no more fence, dig not a single hole nor pick another rock! A bold, and somewhat "Scarlet O'Hara" like moment considering there will always be fence to maintain, holes to dig and rocks...those damn rocks. The rock population in my arena alone rival the proliferation of the ant. According to Wikipedia, the ant population (no doubt similar in number to the rocks in my arena) is estimated to be between 10 to100 quadrillion. That's a lot of ant poop.

My give-a-shit on the inevitability of the above paragraph has left the building. With the affairs of The Cabin mostly settled, it was time to head for the high country before some damn pilfering Yankee gets it in the face.

Lee and Susan B along with Marc M and Pattie J, were planning their annual Fish Lake/Eagle Cap camp and ride. I was invited last year and was thrilled when the invitation was extended to this year. Even though I grew up in this valley, Lee and Marc have a much more extensive knowledge of the trails and various POI's in the high country surrounding Fish Lake. My hope was to build on last years explorations with Lee and Marc as guides.

I drove up a few days prior to check out the conditions of the road going in and the meadow we hoped to inhabit for 7 days. The road in seemed to have degraded from last year and it wasn't exactly trailer worthy then. Pot holes and washboards capable of chattering your teeth clean out of your head. I feared by the time I reached the top, I'd be gumming my trail mix and ordering up a set of new chompers.

The turn on to the road going into the meadow is the worst part and nearly impossible with a large rig. Your best bet is to continue up the road another two miles to a sharp bend in the road barely wide enough to finagle a multi-point turn. Forward-back-turn tires an inch. Forward-back-turn tires an inch....repeat...a lot. It helps to have someone spot you so the whole thing doesn't become futile by dropping your trailer over the cliff. That will ruin your day.

I made the decision to leave my LQ parked and tent camp it instead. I'd haul the horses in my smaller 3 horse slant and dig out my backpacking gear. My pack gear was not among the 85% of junk I got rid of prior to making the move to Arizona. I'd soon as get rid of precious family heirlooms before my packing gear. It's all about priorities. When shit hits the fan – grandma's china don't mean squat compared to a water filtration device capable of removing 99% of bacteria, parasites and microplastics. Sorry Granny.

Digging through totes of pack gear was almost as much fun as the camp trip itself. Perhaps in part it is the memories various items bring to mind. The ionized Dutch oven that's cooked many meals over an open fire from the Owyhee's to the Frank Church. The memory of carrying that same DO into the Eagle Caps so I could bake a cake for my son's 16^th birthday.

The Therma-rest, self inflating mattress; because sleeping on the ground isn't nearly as appealing as it once was. The 1 man bivy tent we managed to squeeze three people and a big white dog in for shelter from the absolute biggest thunderstorm I have ever experienced while packed in to the Eagle Cap Wilderness. An orange plastic tarp used to signal our location for Life Flight to rescue a gal who got bucked off at 9,000 feet in the White Clouds.

The little red measuring cup: Undeniably the single most used item in my camp boxes. It's been used for rinsing dishes – brushing teeth – scooping out beans and stew...and yes, even measuring ingredients. As for the latter – I get a chuckle every time I read the measurement markings etched on the inside: 1/4 cup – 2/4 cup – 3/4 cup – 1 cup. The first time I had to measure out a 1/2 cup I actually had to think about it. Obviously I've been out of math class a LONG time.

I didn't spend much time verifying the contents of those pack boxes. I knew they would contain everything I needed to survive a week in the high country. After every use – I always clean, reorganize and restock the contents. I tossed the boxes into the back of my truck with two coolers of food and hooked up to the three horse. Jack and Drifter were the last of the essentials to be loaded. This would be Drifter's first real trip into the high country. I can't think of better training/exposure for a young horse. They either come back a different horse – or they might not come back at all.

It's 22 miles from the The Cabin driveway to the meadow we call “Lee Camp.” I've broken the trip into 5^ths. The first five miles is 3 miles of pavement followed by 2 miles of crap. The next 5 miles is pot holes big enough to sink a Buick and washboards that will loosen your teeth. The next 5 starts to climb with steep, narrow corners and drop offs. This is where you would grit your teeth if you have any left. It is also where I met campers coming off the hill pulling a large bumper pull trailer. Of course, it would be on the steepest, most narrow bend on the entire mountain. The drop off was on my side. I backed as far as I could and hugged the edge until I could no longer see ground outside my passenger window. We both sat there starring at each other for quite some time. Dude...that's all I got. His passenger got out, presumable to verify that indeed...that's all she's got, dude.

We each folded in our mirrors. I assume he flipped it in four wheel drive and inched by me. Less than an inch...more like 2/4^th of an inch at best, space between us. I feared if he slid off a rock he'd be pushed into me – shoving me over the edge. I did what I normally do in these harrowing situations...I slammed my eyes shut and said a quick prayer. When I opened them again, the back-end of dudes camper was disappearing around the next bend. The remaining 5 or so miles is the easiest part. The road smooths out, is less steep and somewhat wider. We pretty much had it whipped.

I managed to make the turn into the meadow without too much damage...I could live with miner tire scuffing. Marc and Pattie had already made camp. Their four mules grazing contently within a hot fence. I selected a spot at the edge of the meadow that sits back into the trees. An existing fire ring and hitching post were evidence of a well used spot.

I set up my portable pen near the mules and enclosed a section of creek so the horses could get to water. The creek wasn't flowing – but it contained enough water to support our stock for the week. This would be Drifter's first time behind a hot-wire. His high-country education had begun.

Lee and Susan arrived within the hour. They set camp next to mine. Lee strung his high-line behind our camps to accommodate his horse and my two. Marc and Pattie brought 4 of their mules and would leave 2 of them high-lined to keep one of my horses company when we rode off for the day. The high-line would be another first for Drifter. With Uncle Jack to show him the "ropes" – he took to it with ease.

Susan

Susan does not ride. I understand she has ridden, but prefers the mobility of her own two feet. She sets an immaculate and organized camp and took it upon herself to cook the Sunday evening meal for everyone. Two couples would be arriving later: John and Jenny (?) G and Jim R and Bernice K – I believe both from Washington State. Lee had let me know earlier in the week that Susan was making a stew for Sunday dinner. I brought along my portable propane oven and baked cornbread to go with the stew. Fact: It is totally un-American to eat stew without cornbread. Susan's stew was amazing. Everything in it was home grown locally from the sweet corn to the ground beef. My cornbread was locally grown in cornfields somewhere and neatly packaged in a factory local to somebody somewhere and proudly stamped with "Marie Calendars. "I can say, however, that the honey was definitely home made by Halfway honey bees...and a stellar job they did. Fact: It is un-American to head cornbread without gobs of butter and honey.

With belly's full and the horses safely high-lined for the night, I crawled into my tent, made up the bed by spreading out my newly purchased sleeping bag onto a cot I borrowed from my mom. Apparently, I left my backpacking sleeping bag in Arizona. I likely subconsciously left it on purpose. It's the mummy type bag and made of down for extreme below zero temps. Several problems with that. 1: I get super claustrophobic in a tent and especially a mummy bag. I cannot tolerate stuffing my legs into the tapered confines of a mummy bag and often find myself thrashing in a panic sometime in the middle of the night. 2. It's a hot summer. We'd be lucky if the nighttime temps dropped below 45°. 3. I'm allergic to down. I ended up purchasing a flannel lined, non-down, good for temps to 20° and with plenty of room for my claustrophobic lower extremities. Life was good.

• July 24^th: Twin Lakes to Russel Mountain 
• Miles:  8.65 miles
• Riders: Self – Lee – John – Bernice – Jim – Marc – Pattie
• Horses/Mules: Jack – King – Palomino – Cash – Wolf – Ali - Leah

The morning routine consisted of turning the horses out to graze via portable pen or hobbles. Since I had not yet exposed Drifter to hobbles – I put him and Jack in the hot wire enclosure. After a breakfast of bacon and fried potatoes, we prepared to saddle up for the first ride of the week.

Preparing to ride has gotten a lot more involved for me since Jack's hooves got butchered over a year ago. A combination of hacking his hooves off and being shod too often since – he's pretty much run out of hoof. I decided to pull his shoes and let his feet spread out over the summer. Without shoes and no hoof wall – he is walking on pure sole. It has been a vicious cycle for us. Without shoes to hold his hooves together – they chip easily if he steps on a rock...further damaging the hoof wall and exposing more sole. For the first month, he could barely navigate the pasture. His back feet are the most damaged. I got on-line, did some research and took a chance on buying a set of expensive boots for his back hooves. Easy Boot "sneakers." I've used Easy Boot gloves on his fronts at different times over the years and have been happy with them. I have fronts for Drifter as well. I've not had a problem with them coming off or rubbing sores. The "sneakers" are a newer product. I read the reviews and decided to take a chance on them. I ordered narrow for the back feet and hoped for the best.

Booted up and ready to roll

My horse shoer, Stuart, has been helping to get Jack's feet back in shape. Stuart doesn't like it when you call him a farrier. He will tell you in an easy...humble drawl: "Ah...I'm just an old cowboy shoer. There's a lot that knows more than I do and I'm the first to admit it." Well...I've never had an old "cowboy shoer" butcher my horses feet. I'll stick with my old cowboy shoer...thank you very much.

Three days before I was to head to Fish Lake for the week, Stuart felt he could safely tack on a shoe to Jack's front hooves. "There isn't much to nail to – and you might be cussing me if they fall off by morning..." I assured him I didn't care if they fell off. I was taking Drifter, too. If I had to, I'd leave Jack in camp and ride Drifter. Regardless, it looked promising. Jack walked off across the pasture in the most normal gate he's had in two months.

So – preparing to ride has gone from throwing on a saddle and bags ...to include preparing his hooves for boots. First, I check his fronts to make sure the clinches are tight enough so as not to throw a shoe...but not so tight they will tear up his hoof wall if he does snag one on something. I also carried another set of boots for his front hooves in case he lost a shoe or got tender footed. Then I pick out his hind feet and commence to wrangle on the "sneakers." Thank God that horse likes me. With immeasurable patience, he allows me to stand awkwardly half under his belly – half between his hind legs and twist, shimmy and otherwise wrestle those damn sneakers into place. Swearing helps, too.

Saddled and booted up – we hit the trail. I told the group not to wait for us if we lost a boot. It's been my experience that when you ride a booted up horse, you spend considerable time pulling them out of the bog and from between dead-fall and reapplying them to your horse. I didn't want to be "that person." Jack is not buddy sour...go on without us. We will be fine.

There is no way in hell Lee would leave me behind and fortunately, it did not come up. Through miles of bog, downfall and rocks, other than a loose strap – the boots stayed on. I kept turning in the saddle to check..."are they still there?" It got to where whoever was riding behind me would keep an eye on them as well; probably every bit as annoying as if I had to stop every 300 yards and put them back on. A credit to their patience and kindness...nobody complained and if they rolled their eyes...I was too focused on the back end of my horse to notice.

We rode to Twin Lakes and looped back via the old wooden lookout tower at Russel Mountain. Last year – Lee climbed to the top of the rickety structure. I climbed a little over 2/4^th of the way (in little red cup measurements) and called it good. This year – we admired it from the ground. I don't know if that means we are getting older or smarter. I remain in denial and hold on to the latter.

John

We ate lunch at the tower. It was here we learned John was not feeling well. Shortness of breath – weakness – dizzy. I'm not a doctor. If I had to guess I would diagnose his symptoms as altitude sickness. Whatever it was – we agreed he needed to get off the mountain and back to camp. Marc and Pattie continued down the Sugarloaf trail while Lee, Jim, Bernice and myself rode back to camp with John. He tried to talk us out of it. He didn't want anybody to cut their ride short. Even if trail etiquette did not dictate you never leave anyone behind – I was ready to get off the mountain. Jack's hooves were holding up better than expected and I didn't want to push it.

John said he felt better after eating a little and resting. He decided to pack it up and head for home. I offered to drive or at least follow him in to Halfway where he could get into the clinic – but he said he just wanted to get home. I didn't blame him and besides, you can lead a horse to water but....

Drifter seemed to fare well on the high-line with his new "mule friends." I turned him and Jack out to graze for a few hours while I cooked dinner and reorganized camp. While the tent was comfortable enough – I decided to take it down and move my cot into the back of the trailer. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. I can stand up and walk around and it is more secure from the likes of bears, cougars and serial killers. Most importantly...it's a lot closer to the port-a-pot I set up in the tack stall.

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Little Red Cup