“Just a trail horse”

Unconsciously my chin lowers slightly, followed by an imperceptible movement of downcast eyes in answer, “Oh, yeah – he’s just a trail horse.”

“Just a trail horse.” How many times have I been set back by that simple statement?  The same statement, heard time and time again, that is a sure bet to get my blood to boil. The same statement I am ashamed to admit has come from my own lips.

When I decided to start riding again, I of course needed to find a horse.  Not just any horse, my horse. Not a horse that was picked out for me. Not a horse that I would fall in love with only to have sold out from underneath me. Not a horse that fit somebody else’s definition of a good horse. This would be my horse. I would know my horse when I saw it. I perused the farm section of newspapers, Craig’s List and bulletin boards at the local feed and seed for months. I put the word out to several known horse traders and cringed at the inevitable question; “what kind of horse are you looking for and what are you going to do with it?” unable to answer, I dismissed any future searches involving face-to-face human interaction.  I knew I would need to resort to more unconventional methods. I tried winning a horse in a raffle…that was not productive. I considered adopting a wild mustang; too many restrictions. I contemplated going all Wild West and capturing my own mustang. Did you know that horse stealing is still a hanging offence in Idaho?   

About the time I was starting to feel as if I’d go through the rest of my life horseless, I came across an on-line internet site called DreamHorse.com . Potential buyers search for horses based on specific criteria. It sounded a little too much like those internet dating sites. How desperate does a horse have to be to find themselves on an internet site? How desperate must I be to create a buyer profile? Desperate enough, I suppose.

I went through the motions of clicking on preferences to narrow down potential candidates. I didn’t particularly care what type, color, breed or sex – after all – I would know the horse when I saw it, right? Wrong. I was lying to myself. I realized I had a preconceived image in my mind when I visualized my ideal horse. If I didn’t come clean and be totally honest with myself, I was destined to search through millions of homeless equines looking for a “forever home.” I began to check the options based on the image in my head of my very own dream horse.

“Click her to submit your search.” Modern technology is amazing, isn’t it? The search engine crunched through three pages of options I’d checked in a matter of seconds. Out of thousands of available equines, two pages of potential steeds splayed across my screen… and there he was. The one: my dream horse. A striped backed quarter horse dun colt I call Jack.

The first words out of the breeders mouth when I arrived to check out the horse was, “So, what are you planning to do with him?” I started to ramble, “Um…well, ma’am, I’m not positive just yet. I like to rope a little. I suppose it depends on what he has a propensity for. I know I won’t barrel race – maybe calf rope. I’ve been told I have a natural dip in my throw that would be perfect for breakaway calf roping. Maybe team roping. I started to learn to team rope years ago.” Good hell, what did it matter what I intended to do with him? Who cares? What if I planned to turn him out in the pasture and stare at him every day and never ride him? Would she refuse to sell him to me?  Then it happened, I sheepishly lowered my voice and avoiding eye contact, I mumbled,” I don’t know…maybe just trail ride.” “Oh, I see” she sighed. Was that disappointment in her voice? It sounded like disappointment. I suppose she was displeased with the idea of one of her well bred performance horses going through life as “just a trail horse.”

Jack’s first hoof trimming experience went well.  The farrier took his time and exhibited patience. We exchanged small talk as he worked on my colts’ feet. “Nice weather we are having. Nice looking buckskin. Sure is big for his age. Sure seems to have a good mind. What are you going to do with him?” There it was again. Anticipating the inevitable question, I had prepared a speech earlier that reeked of confidence, possibly due to the fact that it was comprised primarily of bull shit. I stood just a little straighter and presented my speech: “Well… I thought I’d get back into team roping – maybe try penning, sorting or cutting competitions. If none of those disciplines pan out, maybe he’d make a fine jumper!” Yep – I was on a roll. “I’ve thought about checking into shooting horse competition – you know. I love to shoot – I love to ride – seems like a natural combo.” As it turned out, the farrier happened to be in the top rankings in the Idaho shooting horse competition. Huh, what are the odds? Not only that, but he holds practices right there on his ranch! Hearing my interest, he kindly invited me to a practice session. Busted! I had no intentions of wielding firearms and shooting off my horse at high speeds. Hell, I hadn’t even put a saddle on him yet.  My head drops, shoulders droop, and I hear the words escape my lips in a whisper of defeat, “ …maybe he’ll just be a trail horse.”

Over the last couple of years I have attended numerous equine based clinics and seminars. It’s always the same. The clinician rides in on a peanut pushing, immaculately groomed shimmering bundle of equine composition. He or she rides into the center of the arena and begins mind boggling demonstrations of expert horsemanship and athletic prowess. Horse and rider float across the arena in effortless leg yields and side passes. Haunches in…haunches out- shoulder in – shoulder out. Seconds later and the duo dashes across the arena at lightning speed, only to screech to a skidding halt mere inches from the arena edge. The audience is mesmerized. Then, get ready for it…the grand culmination of all that is “natural horsemanship.” The horse begins to spin on its rear-end like a 1200 pound tornado; faster and faster until the audience is both mesmerized and nauseous. Seriously, if my horse did that, I’d throw up. I will admit it is impressive to watch. However, I do not know where the natural horsemanship comes into this particular maneuver. The closest thing I’ve seen a horse come to such a feat in nature was when a dog ran underneath my Aunts Horse. Addie spun around so fast, the centripetal force sent my Aunt shooting into a large sage brush.

Once the finale is over, the clinician addresses the crowd. “Ladies and gentleman, you may wonder how you too can apply these horsemanship methods to your particular discipline. Mastering these maneuvers can be beneficial to cutting cows, barrel racing, and team roping, reining competitions and sorting. Why… they can be beneficial even if your horse is… just a trail horse.”  

 I am in no way belittling the skill and athleticism demonstrated by competition performance horses. I appreciate the discipline of a good calf horse that keeps perfect tension on the rope during a winning run and little compares to the tremendous lateral movement and stopping power of a champion cutting horse.  I take nothing from these horses when I say that a comment like “just a trail horse” puts me instantly into defense mode.  I’d put my “trail horse” up against any horse I’ve seen in the arena any day of the week.

Trail riding does not offer the luxury of a confined arena within a controlled environment. A trial horse is expected to perform under extreme weather conditions from the searing sun to rain, snow and wind to thunder and lightning. What the wind won’t throw at you your horse to scare them to death, a thunderstorm will.

A trail horse is required to safely navigate miles of unforgiving terrain. Trail horses are asked to tread on sharp rock covered trails not much wider than a single hoof. There might be an insurmountable mountain on one side and a 60 foot vertical drop to a raging river on the other. The only thing keeping horse and rider from plummeting over the edge is a lot of trust and a little prayer.

At any given moment, a trail horse might encounter Elk crashing out of a tree-line, bushes coming alive with an explosive flight of birds, uncontained barking dogs and pissed off rattle snakes. What they can’t see can be equally as terrifying for them. A trail horse must be able to handle the scent of bears, cougars and other predators while filtering out a host of unknown and equally spooky sounds lurking in the forest.

A trail horse never knows what might be coming at them or behind them from one turn to the next.  Potential horse eating hikers with colorful backpacks piled high on their shoulders – bikers with reflective spokes flashing with every spin of the tire. Roaring ATV engines and racing dirt bikes. My personal favorite: llamas. You have not truly experienced the fear threshold of a horse unless you have happened upon a pack string of Llama’s coming at you. I don’t blame my horse because frankly, llama’s scare me too.

The trail horse doesn’t get to run down to the end of an arena, do a few impressive spins and go home for the day. A trail horse hits the trail from sunup to sundown and is expected to carry a rider and/or gear ranging from medical supplies and food to chain saws - all the while being asked to navigate obstacles from river crossings to bogs, logs and bridges.

The working trail horse has been asked to drag logs and pack cumbersome loads up and down steep, slippery terrain. He’s willing to be tied, hobbled or high-lined in the most precarious of situations. At the end of a long day of service, she will be content to drink from any available water source and graze upon sometimes scarce mountain grass. 

Moments before dusk, the orange sun begins to sink into the western horizon. Silhouetted against the glowing sunset, horse and rider return to camp after a long, strenuous day on the trail. You can bet your silver spurs that as I return; I will reach down and pat my horses’ sleek neck. I thank him for carrying me safely home from a job well done. Not bad for “just a trail horse,” not bad at all.

                       "Jump the creek and soar like the Eagles in the foothills."

Any reasonable person would have stopped trying to plot out every detail of their weekend outings after the first half-dozen or so “unexpected detours from well laid plans.” That would leave me either unreasonable or leaning heavily toward blatant bull-headedness. It never fails – If I lay out plans to do, “A,B and C on a sunny D in E – I will inevitably end up at the wrong end of 4 while trying to talk myself out of a bad 5 and 6 before 8 figures out 7 is missing.

On the bright side, some of the most unexpected events end up being the most memorable. It is true that “memorable” might not always be a good thing. Finding yourself tied to a merry-go-round while zombies in scary clown masks shave your head would likely be memorable, but not necessarily pleasant.  On the other hand, if you are one of the few people on earth not freaked out by clowns and zombies and has a compelling desire to look like Mr. Clean…you might file the experience away in your memory banks as a good thing.  

Despite unforeseen forces in the universe, (aka Murphy’s Law), Janine and I refused to let anything get in the way of enjoying a nice spring day in the saddle. We planned to ride Jump Creek with our group from the SBBCHI on Saturday and drive to Diamond Basin after the Jump Creek ride. We planned to camp at Diamond Basin and ride toward Silver City on Sunday. That was the plan anyway.

The Jump Creek ride was a success. Ten members of the BCHI, nine horses and two mules set out to explore a new area. This was to be my first attempt at organizing a fun-ride. There really wasn’t much too it. I scoped out the area weeks before. Finding it acceptable, the fun-ride was placed on the Squaw Butte’s calendar. All that was left was for people to sign up and show up. I wondered if I was supposed to plan something for lunch; a BBQ maybe? Potluck? I had not been on any other fun rides for comparison. Unsure of proper protocol, I stuffed a few extra cans of Beanie Weenies in my saddle bags in case anyone got hungry.

The morning of the Jump Creek ride, Janine noticed I suffered from a nagging cough. Sure she had just the cure for what ailed me, she passed around a concoction of Malibu Rum and Pendleton Whisky. I downed the smooth shot of Janine’s elixir, for medicinal purposes of course, and finished tacking up my animals. I would ride Jack, of course, and brought Annie along for towing practice.

The group was on the trail by 11:30. It was a nice, moderate, if not uneventful, ride on a calm spring day. I pondered the significance of the term “uneventful.” I have to admit, it was pretty nice to end a day with the term “uneventful.” By the time our group looped back to the trailers, not one person was worse for wear. Nobody had been stepped on, kicked, bucked off or rolled on. No cougars, no death defying feats of heroism…no harrowing confrontations with Mother Nature and not one single serial killer the entire day. I won’t say it bordered on the boring – I’m just saying…”uneventful.”

As Janine and I waved goodbye to the last trailer to pull out of the parking area, we shot each other a grin in anticipation of the rest of our weekend. Diamond Basin, here we come.

Approximately 40 miles of highway passed beneath our rigs between Jump Creek and the Diamond Basin turnoff. The dirt road leaving the highway toward the Basin and Silver City was rough traveling for campers pulling horse trailers. The country was beautiful and well worth the difficult terrain. An impressive horizon of snow covered Owyhee Mountains provided a backdrop for rolling hills of grey-green sage intermittently dotted with impromptu alters of rock formations.

Janine intended to lead us to an area with corrals and water for the horses. The road split off several times in different directions. I was glad Janine knew where she was going. I sure didn’t.  I caught site of an occasional dirt-bike whiz by my peripheral vision. A sign with an arrow that read, “Race-this way,” stretched across a nylon banner. Apparently this was a popular area frequented by ATV clubs.

Several miles down the dirt road, we pulled over next to an RV parked at the edge of a plateau. We were soon greeted by a southern gentleman, a petite lady and two rather large and outwardly loveable pit-bulls. A smooth southern drawl pointed out the nearest water sources. He also said the entire area was crawling with ATV camps and that we were welcome to camp next to them as it was likely the only spot left in this section of the Owyhee’s. Janine and I had a quick meeting of the minds; too many people for our liking. We decided to bag Diamond Basin and head for either Celebration Park or her farm in Eagle.

I had heard on the radio earlier that Celebration Park was being used as headquarters for rescuers and volunteers looking for a man presumed drown while fishing at Swan Falls. If the search was still underway, Celebration Park might be full. Since the park wasn’t far out of the way to Janine’s farm, we took a chance on swinging by and checking it out. The entrance into Celebration Park was a cluster of people and automobiles. Janine asked where I thought a good place to camp would be. I replied, “In your driveway.”

We pulled into Janine’s well kept 10 acre farm in under an hour. With the horses put up for the night and no need to build a camp fire, we went about cooking a little dinner. I had ribs pre-cooked in my camper. Janine tossed in a coleslaw and pot of baked beans. Another shot of Janine’s famous elixir and I would sleep like a baby.

The next morning we made plans to meet Lou Ann, Barb and Mike at the Eagle Foothills by 11:00. The foothills are a short 30 minutes or less from Janine’s place. I will admit I was not terribly excited about riding so close to a major metropolitan area. I had vision of “horsey trails” and giant, plastic pooper-scooper bags hanging from dispensers with signs reading, “Poop-it-in Pack-it-out.”

Upon reaching the Eagle Foothills large parking lot- I was pleasantly surprised to find miles of open sage surrounded by rolling hills carved with draw’s, ravines and gullies. There were a few more people than I would prefer, but overall, it looked to be a nice area. We quickly made introductions, tacked up and were on our way. Lou Ann led the way over the metal step-over-bar with Barb, Janine, myself and Shade, and finally Mike and his dog, Jake, taking up the rear. I opted to leave Annie at Janine’s so I could concentrate on a nice, quiet ride.

The trail meandered up and over a small hill before dropping down into a draw that spilled into the flat, sage covered open area. In the far distance you could see a dirt road on the north side and the main highway far to the west. A trail of deep sand wound its way in and out of tall sagebrush. A few minutes into the flat, sandy area and I thought I heard Lou Ann say something to Barb along the lines of, “let’s run!” I barely had time to turn in the saddle and ask Mike if he was ok with galloping on what I assumed to be a fairly young colt. Mike said he had just ridden this area yesterday and thought his horse had enough exercise for the weekend. Jack fought his head as I held him from bolting with the others. Just about the time I figured he would dump my ass and run off, Mike gave the go-ahead to follow the girls. Apparently he was having difficulty holding back his horse as well. I looked around at the area and figured if Jack took the bit from me and had a run-off; it was far enough from the main roads that he would tire before ending up in Parma. He might buck a little – but most horses can’t buck too hard at a dead run, I should be able to sit it out. I gave Jack half his head and we were off. The girls were already some distance ahead. Jack fought against my effort to keep him from an all-out dash for the finish. I watched from the rear as Janine, Barb and Lou Ann weaved through the sage over deep sand to the sounds of their child-like giggles drifting through the breeze. It was Never-Never Land on horseback! Like Peter Pan, the clock of life began to spin in reverse as three grown women transformed back through time and emerged as carefree and ageless little girls. I was NOT going to miss out on this flight through Never Land. I gave Jack his head and in the blink of a pixie’s wink we caught up with the rest of the girls just on the other side of the trail, second sage from the right.

Now on the other side of the flat, open area, we turned east and followed a dirt road before splitting off to a south bound trail through the rolling hills. The run didn’t seem to tire the horses. Each carried their rider effortlessly to the top of a hill overlooking the valley. Mike commented he had not seen Shade in awhile. What I thought was Shade out of the corner of my eye had actually been Jake, Mike’s dog. I had to think hard when I had seen her last. It was down in the deep sand on the flats. It was not like Shade to leave me unless she took out after a deer. I doubted there were any deer in this area with all the people. Had she got left behind when we took off running? I doubted that scenario too – Shade can run like a greyhound for miles. I concluded she must have run off after a ground squirrel about the time we took off on a run. She could have given up on the squirrel and found us no longer where she left us. Janine and I would back-track the way we came while the rest of the group would continue on to the trailers.

I whistled until I could whistle no more. My whistle always brings that dog running. She must either be really lost, or someone has picked her up. Janine and I didn’t waste any time and clipped along at a steady lope, whistling and calling for Shade. The flats were beginning to fill up with riders. We noticed a couple of lady’s riding English on two Arabians. Maybe they had seen Shade. We slowed our approach to a steady trot. Both gals bailed off their horses and began to inspect their animals’ hoofs. I looked at Janine – Janine looked at me, “What the hell are they doing?” I wondered if we scared them by riding up so fast – but he had slowed considerably and would not have approached them doing more than a good walk. Janine decided they must have gotten off to put the hubs in. Perhaps they heard me burst out laughing at Janine’s quick wit – or maybe they were not happy with us intruding on their ride. Who knows, but those were two very unhappy women. We asked if they had seen a dog and neither one of them could muster up more than a grunt that could only be interpreted as no.

Very well, I wasn’t wasting any time trying to analyze the personality traits associated with the English riding style. Janine and I headed back into the deep sand. There was no attempt at holding back my horse – if he wanted to run, run I would let him. Jack and I chased Janine and One-Shot through the sand. The horses hooves kicked up sand as they leaned into hair-pin curves. Occasionally, I’d jerk my eyes off the trail in front of Jack’s pounding hoofs as the words of T&T Horsemanship’s Alice Trindle, echoed in my head, “Laurie..I hope you like that spot on the ground, because if you keep looking at it, your horse is going to put you there!” I focused on Janine’s back and trusted in my horse to keep his feet under him. Worry over Shade aside, the dash across the sand was electrifying.

A man and a woman were riding a couple of trails over from us. Janine called out to them, “DOG…have you seen a dog?” They responded by pointing at the road with a friendly, YES!...She’s on this road about a mile back…she looks lost and is looking for you!” The road led toward the main highway. Shade is not a road smart dog. She’s never near or around traffic. Janine anticipated my panic and we were off again. Janine would ride back up the draw we had come down, back to the trailers, and I would continue on the road where Shade had been spotted. Luckily, neither One-Shot nor Jack are buddy sour. Janine took off for the draw and I pointed Jack down the dirt ATV trail.

 I prayed I could beat Shade to the highway if she was headed that way. I asked no more from Jack then what he was willing to give. He’d worked up a sweat, but was nowhere close to lathered or breathing hard. I could barely make out the highway in the distance. The sagebrush was too tall to spot a dog if there was one. Panic rose. Why had I not paid more attention? If she makes it to the road and gets run over, it will be my fault. What if someone steals her? She is a good looking dog and obviously well bred. She is chipped – but what good does that do if she’s run over or someone steals her? She’s not exactly the most user friendly dog; would she get in a vehicle with someone if she was that confused and desperate?

Well…look there! It’s the English lady’s on their fancy, high stepping little Arabs. If I could head them off, they might save me some time and miles searching. They came from the direction I was heading. I reined Jack toward them and slowed to a steady trot. The closer I got – the more nervous their posture. It just didn’t make sense. I felt for my belt and verified that I was not wearing a pistol. That wasn’t it. I don’t think I looked like a wild, psychotic horse thief. It had been a long day – and I imagine I was somewhat a disheveled sight – not nearly so prim and proper an “equestrian-ista” as these two, but what the heck? I was almost in shouting distance when both riders shot me a nervous look of contempt and jerked their horses in the opposite directions. “HEY! Hold on! Have you seen my dog over this direction?” One of them barked a sharp, “NO!” before bustling off in the opposite direction. Wow…these two really had their panties in a bunch! I remarked to Janine later that if riding made me that damn miserable, I’d never get on a horse.

I scanned the horizon and could see no sign of a dog. I could see no dog tracks on the road around the mud puddles. Shade loved water – if she came this way, she would have stopped by these puddles for water. I put somewhat more faith in my tracking ability than in the two disgruntled yuppie riders and decided to turn back. If she was not at the trailers, I’d rest and water Jack and head back out until I found her.

Jack and I caught Janine and One-Shot moments before they crested over the ridge dropping down toward the trailers. Another couple was riding out. We asked one more time – “Have you seen a dog?” They lady responded with a kind smile, “A German Shepherd? Yes, she is lying by a trailer in a cool puddle of water waiting for you.”

Shade rounded the corner of Janine’s trailer to meet us like a tall glass of cold water on a hot day; pure relief. If she had the energy, she would have jumped in the saddle with me. I don’t think Jack would have minded at all. Horse and dog greeted nose to nose in the manner of life-long friends.  

Lo Ann made a comment later that if they had been 15 years old that day, they would have had a drag race through the deep, sandy trail. Drag race or not, it was exhilarating. I’ve driven motorcycles, ridden in race cars, cop cars and ambulances and nothing compares to the feeling of the raw speed of a horse on the run. As kids, we did not need an excuse to let our horses run any chance we could get. Up hills, across fields, in the arena or on the track – the faster the better. Even if your horse wasn’t the fasted pony on the ride, they always seemed to find that extra gear going home. As adults, we understand the negative implications of running your horse everywhere you go, so we don’t. In fact, we seldom run just for the fun of it. Sure, Rodeo’s, Play days and various other arena-style gaming provides opportunity to break into a fast gallop- but when did we stop running just for the pure joy of running? When did we stop allowing our horses to just be horses? When did we stop playing?

I watch Jack out the kitchen window. Head high, tail flowing behind him, he runs from one field into the next. He runs bucking, kicking and carrying on like a yearling colt without a care in the world. Nobody sits on his back forcing him into high gear. There are no predators chasing him into flight mode. He’s running for the simple pleasure of it. He runs because it’s fun and because of the colt inside him that he will always be. He runs because of what he is – a horse who gets to be in that moment, just a horse.

Solitude, although not for everyone, is something I require on a semi-regular basis. Semi-regular is used in place of “often” in hopes that it sounds less eccentric and hermit-like. Regardless of how it sounds, solitude is almost as essential to me as the hunt is to a cougar. A cougar starves without the innate desire to hunt. I doubt I would die without some form of solitude, but I can assuredly guarantee a future of padded walls and dribble–bibs without it. Enter the Owyhee’s – God’s prescription for the prevention and treatment of lunacy.

Contrary to the timber, with hills covered in snow and the thermometer hovering around freezing at night, the desert is a perfect destination for early March. There should be enough grass coming on for the horses to graze. One bale of weed-free grass hay ought to cover it.  The camper was adequately stocked and the horse-trailer waited obediently for precious cargo still grazing in the field.

On this Friday morning, Jack and Annie did not share in my enthusiasm for adventure and solitude in the high desert. It would take a little doing and a lot of swearing before rounding either one of them up to halter. Yeah yeah, Jack…look how pretty you are running around in giant circles, nostrils flaring and tail flying in the wind…whatever. You may be prettier, but I bet you run out of gas before this four-wheeler does. Yep – four-wheeler 1, Jack and Annie ZIP!

 At over four dollars a gallon for diesel, nervous fingers made dreaded but frequent inquiries of the computerized MPG calculator. It’s like a train wreck. You know it’s not going to be pretty, but you have to watch it anyway. 12.4 MPG. Good hell. If this keeps up, I’ll be camping at the end of my driveway – on the garage side! Wait…16 MPG…18…22…45…98MGP! SWEET! If it were only possible to coast downhill, both ways, I’d be set. In spite of ridiculously and unnecessarily inflated gas prices, southbound on 201 to Succor Creek I head. 

The road that dove off into my favorite camping spot looked more suitable for the many cattle ranging in the area than it did for a top-heavy outfit pulling five thousand pounds of horse flesh and metal. A quarter mile past the steep off-shoot is a flat road that follows the creek, leading back to the camp site; I’d take this one. Several existing fire rings dotted the road leading to the furthest spot I normally camp. After looking around, I chose to camp further upstream from the usual spot. The horses would have easier access to water and a couple of the trees would make an excellent high-line. There wasn’t another soul for miles…perfect.

That was easy. This lazy person’s method of camping in a camper instead of a tent almost felt like cheating. I had the horses high-lined and camp set up in under 10 minutes. Had I brought my tent and gear, it would have been several hours. I spent a few minutes picking up any trash that had been left by previous campers. This spot was much cleaner than most easily accessible camp sites. I was taught at an early age to always leave a camp site cleaner than you found it. For me, this means picking up every tiny speck of man-made material viewable by the naked eye. Some might call it anal; I call it the right thing to do.

Aside from a rear trailer tire slowly going flat – I‘d say things were looking mighty good. You can almost always expect a flat tire pulling into, or out of, Succor Creek. Heck, I wouldn’t have a new tire if it were not for coming to Succor Creek on a regular basis. I wait until a tire goes flat, change it with a new tire set aside as a spare, then buy a new tire to replace the spare. With this methodology, I can expect a new set of tires about every 4 years.  I know…brilliant.

Several hours to sunset meant several hours of riding time to burn. I would ride up to what I call Cell Hill and try to get signal. Cell Hill is the closest spot to camp I’ve found with decent signal. If you stand with one foot on a cow pie and the other in a gopher hole and stick your tongue out just right, you might get enough bars to send a text. I thought it would be a good idea to text a couple of friends and let them know where I was – you know, just in case I get eaten by cougars or attacked by serial killers.

When I ride alone, I ride bareback. I have a phobia about being drug. If I’m going to come off my horse, I want to come off free and clear. Getting on bareback is not as easy as one might think; especially holding on to a mule you plan on towing. Luckily, Jack and Annie are great buds and Annie sticks to Jack like glue. I am able to position Jack alongside the trailer fender, sandwiched between me and Annie. With Annie’s lead rope draped over his back, I simply reach a leg over and slide onto the back of my buckskin.

It took us about an hour to reach the mostly uphill trek to the base of Cell Hill. Cell Hill is accessed via a four-wheeler trail that ascends straight up a very steep incline. Again, I would appreciate that Annie leads like a shadow. Had she pulled on the lead at all, I would have surely slid off backwards. Legs securely clamped around Jack, we reached the top of the hill in search of signal. True to name, Cell Hill enabled the exchange of several text messages. I could return to camp, secure in the knowledge that should I be eaten by cougars, someone would eventually know where to look for my remains (aka cougar poop.)

Downhill is another issue. Jack, for whatever reason, goes downhill like a bat out of hell. Annie does not. Annie travels at the same pace uphill, downhill, on-the-level…whatever the terrain; Annie travels the exact same pace. No mere green-horn horse is going to break her pace either. The advantage: The constant tension in the rope prevented me from slipping up on Jacks neck and toppling head first over his head. Disadvantage:  My right arm is now six inches longer than the left.

It is seven o’clock in the evening; the sun has given up the day and disappeared over the horizon to make room for the coming moon. It should be a full moon at that.  Jack and Annie have watered and are high-lined between the trailer and a small grove of cottonwood. Shade has finished off our dinner and is roaming the sands in search of creatures that come alive with dusk.  With the camper as level as it’s going to get parked near a dried up river bed, there is little left of the day.  Alone in its blissful embrace, I curl up with a Kindle version of Zane Gray, while solitude slowly encompasses the night.

Morning came with the earthy smell of sand and sage. I watered Jack and Annie, hobbled them, and turned them onto the sage.  They nibbled at the tender young shoots of green beneath golden strands of winter grass. While the horses grazed, I cooked a breakfast of diced potatoes and farm-fresh eggs over medium. I carried my cup of tea to a large boulder protruding from a hill-side that overlooked my camp. From there I could watch the horses graze. Breakfast in heaven.

It took Annie less than 10 minutes to slip her hobbles. In all fairness, the hobbles are garbage. They come unbuckled too easy. I wasn’t worried- she would never leave Jack. If Jack lost his hobbles – there might be a problem. I watched the horse’s mill around while I formulated a plan for the day. There was a chance fellow SBBCHI member, Janine, would come out after work and ride with me. I decided to make another trip to Cell Hill and check in with Janine.

Instead of riding Jack to Cell Hill, I decided I could use a little exercise myself and opted to hike. Jack and Annie would remain high-lined back at camp. Armed with a camera, cell phone and a can of Beanie Weenies, I headed toward Cell Hill. Shade and I trekked on, surveying the surrounding area. Steep ravines cut through canyons rimmed in massive rock formations. Dusty blue-grey sage dotted rolling hills covered in golden grasses. Not far from camp, a little more than a mile maybe – an impressive formation of rim-rock towered over the rest. I wondered: if Cell Hill was high enough to reach a cell tower, surely this monster could reach a dozen. It was also a lot closer to my camp.  The hike would be steep, but completely doable and it wouldn’t hurt to have access to a closer location from which to obtain cell services.

We reached the second highest point with labored breath. Closer proximity to the massive tower gave truth to the mountains breathtaking height; and I mean breathtaking in the sense that if I have to climb that thing, it’s going to take all my breath and then some! Good grief…whose idea was this? I switched on my cell phone and stared at the display – hoping for a bar to indicate signal – just one bar…that’s all I needed to justify not climbing that damn mountain. No signal. Crap. Come on Shade, if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed, it’s certainly not going to come to us.

Forty Five minutes later and some creative hands and knees rock climbing; Shade and I reached the top. Two years of sitting in a saddle had taken its toll.  Before I picked up riding again, I explored this desert on foot. I chucker hunted on foot. I backpacked, rock –hounded and Geocached on foot. I hadn’t explored under my own power in two years. It actually felt pretty good – I had made it to the top and my heart was still beating…beating REALLY hard, but beating non-the-less.

The view from atop the rim-rock spanned from Homedale to Bogus Basin; if there wasn’t signal here, there entire world was without signal. Sure enough, full bars AND 3G. I sent a couple of texts and settled down for a rest and a little lunch. I popped open a can of Beanie Weenies and enjoyed the panoramic view atop the Eifel Tower of the desert.

Later that afternoon, I made another ride to Cell Hill to check my messages. Janine was unable to pull herself from farm work and would not be coming. Another friend, who I refer to as Farm Boy, suggested he might drive out after work and to avoid shooting him should he knock on my camper door after dark. Where would anyone get the idea that I might be inclined to shoot somebody? I’ve taken the classes – I know when to ask first and shoot later…and vise-versa. Give a girl a break. Just because my vehicles sport an NRA sticker (ok, maybe three NRA stickers…and one on my computer and one on my horse trailer..) doesn’t mean I’m a trigger happy, paranoid red-neck woman. I am NOT trigger happy.

Jack, Annie, Shade and I made our way back to camp. It wasn’t long after our arrival when the peace and quiet was replaced by roaring engines, dust, children squealing and loud music that could have come from a Cantina much farther south. Of the miles and miles of desert, why did they have to camp 30 feet from me? I would not have minded as much had they shown some respect for the privacy and solitude of others. Nope. Music blasted as they continued to drive four-wheelers into my camp – turning around mere inches from the where the horses stood high-lined. At first I thought they were just curious about the horses, but when they continued to drive through the center of my camp, rudeness replaced curiosity and anger replaced impatience. I contemplated opening fire, but didn’t want to waste expensive .38 ammo. No, my intent was not to shot at anybody, but rather I figured if I could make enough noise, they would leave. I wished I had my .22 and 400 rounds. All I could do was summon up the most aggravated expression I could possibly muster in their direction while holding onto Shade, who, let off a low, throaty growl each time they got close.  I think I scared one of the little ones – he said something to his momma and they refrained from driving through my camp the rest of the evening. The music, however, continued to blare. Since reading was out of the question, I tried to enjoy the rhythmic, toe tapping beat to no avail. I felt disgruntled and more than mildley annoyed.

When Farm Boy arrived later in the evening, I had him park his rig between Cantina town and the horses. This helped to block out the noise somewhat. By 10:00, the music ceased and the group retired to a tent they had pitched smack in the middle of a river bed. I prayed for rain; lots and lots of rain.

Sunday morning saw the last of a beautiful weekend. Clouds began to roll in and the sky smelled of rain. Breaking camp was as easy as it was to set up. I could get use to this citified camping method. Farm Boy fried a batch of bacon and leftover Chinese he had for lunch the day before (It really was better than it sounds.) Farm Boy is an excellent cook. I’ve learned to try what he servers before wrinkling up my nose at some of the concoctions he dreams up. I’ve yet to be disappointed in his culinary skills.

I had hobbled Jack and Annie first thing in the morning to give them a chance to move around and graze before the trip home. They had wandered next to the neighbors’ camp, its occupants not yet stirred. What I saw while retrieving my animals made my blood boil and made me sick to my stomach. Piles of human feces littered the surrounding camp site. Soiled toilet paper lay strewn from one end of the camp site to the next. It was disgusting. I didn’t know what to do. A thousand questions flooded my mind. I should say something, but what? How could anyone do this to my beautiful desert? WHY would anyone do this? Have they no respect for God’s creation? What must their homes look like? Will they clean it up? Is it my right to say anything? If not mine, whose?

I retrieved Jack and Annie and pulled away from camp. I had to drive right by the now trashed camp site. The occupants had risen, milling around their tent. I slowed and stared at each one, then glanced at the mess they had created. Bright, toothy smiles returned my look of disgust, and each one waved in friendliness. These were not evil, bad people. These were ignorant people. People who had never been taught to respect or appreciate what nature had shared with them. These were people just out for a family gathering, enjoying a weekend from the everyday hum-drum that was their life. I had answered at least one of my questions – it was up to me to say something. It was up to me to teach them what they had never been taught. It was up to me to instill in them the respect and appreciation for all that is nature. I drove on by with sadness in my heart and the realization that this would be yet another camp spot I would someday return; upon that return, I would continue the ever daunting task of cleaning other people’s trash.

Janine, retired Post Master for the US Postal service, was not about to let a little rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of ominous winds stop her from enjoying  a weekend ride in the Owyhee’s. I do not have the US Post Office motto to justify my own actions. Apparently, I’m just stubborn. A good friend calls me the “Hell or high water girl.” Once my mind is set on something, I am going to do it come hell or high water. The last weekend in February called for such stubbornness. The Squaw Butte Back Country Horseman of Idaho’s Celebration Park fun ride was cancelled over the weekend due to pending storms and high winds.  With a healthy dose of tenacity, which sounds better than pigheadedness, Janine and I made plans to meet at Jump Creek at noon on Friday. We would check out the area for the upcoming fun ride in March. Later, we would head for Celebration Park to camp for the night. If the weatherman happened to be wrong, we would ride Celebration Park on Saturday. Ride or not, it would give us both a chance to get the wrinkles ironed out of our campers before the upcoming project season.

I had recently become the proud owner of a 2003, like new, one owner, immaculate, S&S over the cab camper. A Dave Ramsey disciple, I scrapped, saved, and sold everything that was not utilized in the last 45 minutes, and paid cash for my new-to-me home-away-from-home. The camper was previously owned by a little old couple from Pasadena whom, the RV salesman assured me, used it a mere six times before moving to a retirement community. They might not have really been from Pasadena, but I’d be surprised if the camper was used more than a half dozen times. It was immaculate; “was” being the key word. 

I bustled about in preparation to take my camper on its maiden voyage. I had everything loaded from pots and pans, spices, bed linens to toilet paper and septic treatment. Preparedness has really never been my thing, but this time, I wanted to make sure all was in working order before meeting Janine. I could not wait to show her my shiny new camper. Normally my camp consist of pitching a tent and loading copious totes full of miscellaneous gear that takes longer to set up and break down than to actually camp.  I imagined Janine’s admiration as she set across the table, sipping a cup of Constant Comment I’d prepared on a perfectly adjusted propane flame. She would be impressed! – Envious maybe!

I made a few final adjustments, including lighting the three burner stove to make sure sufficient gas had flown through the lines to ignite the refridgerator. Yep…all looks good. I quickly flipped each burner off and gently lowered the white burner-cover over extinguished flames, or so I thought.

Jack was loaded an hour later and I was ready to pull out of the driveway. Something nagged at the back of my mind, prompting me to check on the inside of the camper one more time – you know, just to make sure I had not neglected to wipe a speck of dust that might conflict with pride of ownership in my new real-estate. Standing on the tongue of the horse trailer, I opened the trailer door and was immediately assaulted with a black cloud of billowing smoke. Confused, I squinted against the smoke while my brain tried to comprehend what was happening. Waves of thick smoke and soot particles covered me in a thin layer of black film. Several minutes passed before the smoke cleared enough to allow a visual of the inside. I slowly stepped inside while desperately trying to remember where the fire extinguisher hung.  Once the soot settled, I looked around for a fire. Nothing. Where was it coming from? It smelled like plastic or rubber burning. It was then I noticed the remains of a large butane lighter lying behind the burners beneath a charred wall off black. I lifted the now black cover to discover all three burners were active. I had mistakenly turned them all on low instead of off.  The red-hot metal cover had ignited the butane lighter until all that was left was a crispy, metal stem. My beautiful little camper was ruined. I slowly backed out in shock and shut the door. I’d worry about it tomorrow. I’m going to ride…come hell or high water.

While I waited for Janine at the turn off to Jump Creek road, I tried to wipe down the inside of the camper. Wiping it down really had no effect other than smearing soot into swirls of black and grey. Every conceivable surface was covered in an ominous layer of oily black soot, including the insides of every light fixture.  The few towels I had to use were immediately saturated in soot beyond effectiveness. Thoughts of impressing Janine, or anyone else for that matter, were replaced with thoughts of where I was going to sleep for the night. The flowery print of spring flowers comprising the bedspread lay beneath a layer of ash.

Janine arrived no more than 15 minutes later. We parked in a large graveled area next to the trailhead designated as a horseback riding trail and unloaded. Janine brought a big paint she calls One Shot and her mule, Bubbah. Several trails shot off in different directions. We chose a trail that looked like it might wind around toward scenic Jump Creek Falls. The trail was faint and almost non-existent in many spots, in others, it disappeared altogether. At times, neither Janine nor I could tell if we were actually on a trail. After some severe side-hilling and off-road hoofing, we opted to follow along a creek bottom that wound its way up a narrow gorge to avoid traversing rough, steep terrain. The further we rode the more convinced we became that this might not be the best route for our group’s fun ride in March. I don’t mind riding in rough country and I do not claim to be any better horseman than other members of our chapter, but I did not want to be responsible for the safety or comfort of others, and besides, this was supposed to be a fun ride; not a testimonial in the effectiveness of the crupper. We turned around in search of a different route, chosing an ATV/jeep road that starts at the bottom of the sage covered hills just west from the parking area. The route looked more rider- friendly. Pointing our horses due west – we set out to explore this alternate course.

The road follows the lay of rolling hills, peaking out at scenic vista’s and overlooks of ornate rock formations. The road splits off in several different directions. We rode south in hopes the trail would lead toward Jump Creek Falls. The route we took did happen to loop back to the Fall’s, interesecting with a designated hiking trail. One particular spot in the trail did not look entirely kosher for horse traffic. A metal T-post protruded a few  feet out of the ground next to a precarious section of the trail. I’ve seen a horse impaled on a T-post – it is not pretty. I don’t care how sure-footed I think my horse is, I wasn’t going any further. Besides, we could not be sure if horses were allowed on this part of the trail. Deciding against the risks, we cut straight down the side of the mountain to avoid breaking any park rules, or, more importantly, injury to our animals.  

Janine waited at the bottom while I continued to descend. Three-fourths of the way down my saddle had slipped enough forward that I was sitting entirely on my horse’s neck. Smiling at the tolerance my young horse seems to have for all that I put him through at times, I slid off and led the rest of the way down. Mental note to self: invest in crupper.

We rode the horses to water at a spot accessible from within the camping area. On the way out, we noticed we were being filmed. The gentleman filmographer was quite taken by Janine’s paint horse, One Shot. I believe he was also quite taken by Janine. He made several efforts at small talk directed toward her as we made our way back to the trailers. As we began to un-tack, Janine’s personal paparazzi made his way over in a large, extended cab diesel.

There is a condition that effects people in certain types of occupations called hypervigellence. I like this word, “hypervigellence” – it sounds better than paranoid. I would like to think that I acquired this condition after working in an all male institution for 15 years – sadly,  however, I think I have always lived just on the other side of paranoia. The presence of the over-friendly cameraman set off the hypervigillent meter running on the back of my neck. As he handed Janine his business card, I meandered to the other side of the truck and slipped a pistol between the waistline of my jeans and the small of my back.  

It turns out the retired DEA official is an avid Everytrail.com subscriber and was putting together a U-tube video for the site. (Video of Janine and I at Jump Creek) Whether it was Janine’s paint horse, or Janine herself that caught his eye – he did provide invaluable insight into the surrounding area for our fun ride in March. Had we continued straight instead of forking off to the left, we would have ended up in an area called Sands Basin, and possibly caught glimpse of a herd of mustangs that inhabit the area.

Next stop: Celebration Park. An easy 35 mile drive from Jump Creek put us at Celebration Park. We circled our trailers around an existing fire-ring in an attempt to create a wind block. If the weatherman was right, we could expect high winds by morning. The weatherman was correct. With two horses and one muled high-lined between us, we called it a night. Mother Nature, however, was just getting started.

I tried to settle into bed without touching anything. Have you tried to move around in a compact sized short-box camper without touching anything? I was already black with soot and figured it couldln’t get any worse. I might as well crawl in bed and hope to not affixiate in my sleep.

Fierce winds blew away any hopes of riding the next morning. Over a quick cup of coffee for Janine and tea for me, we discussed the best route to take the group on the March fun ride. It makes the most sense to stay on the road toward Sands Basin. The road is well marked and looks to be safe for various skill levels. I also liked the rolling terrain for spring fresh horses that might need something else to think about besides acting like they haven’t been ridden since last summer.

I bade farewell to Janine and headed for home. High winds and campers do not mix well with 75 MPG freeway speeds. I dove off the freeway at the first chance and drove the back roads. The miles consumed by thoughts of charred butane lighters and extensive smoke damage. Was my little camper ruined? Would I have to hire a disaster cleanup crew? Would my insurance cover the cost of such a thing? Do I have insurance for this type of thing?

I searched the internet for tips on how to recover from smoke damage. Most everything I came across suggested some sort of dry cleaning agent. Understandable – but where was I going to purchase dry cleaning supplies? I had already tried wiping it down with dry rags – all that did  was smear it around. Damp clothes made it even worse. Then I remember the sample “Mr. Clean magic eraser” sponge I bought for a buck at Home Depot. I tried it dry first – that had no effect. Then I tried it wet. It truly was magic. Black soot litterallly melted beneath the touch of the 2x4 white sponge. Hope emerged with every swipe of Mr. Clean. My camper was not lost.

I spent the next three days wiping down every reachable surface. Bedding and curtains went in the wash. Every item I had stocked the camper with had to be removed and wiped down. Every light fixture taken apart and cleaned. Three days later and I stood back and smiled at a camper that once again shone as bright and shiney as the top of Mr. Cleans beautiful bald head.

Pack it in – Pack it out

(and then some)

How many times have you hiked into an area where you felt as if you were the first person to have set- foot on that very spot? The wilderness surrounding you in solitude and deafening silence as you breathe deep of nature’s serenity, reveling in its awesome pureness. You take in the vast view sprawling before you as far as the eye can see. A moment later, those same feelings are shattered by the glimpse of silver reflecting off a discarded, empty beer can.

A person can’t help but wonder: If someone went to the effort to carry it all the way in here full…why can’t they carry it out empty? It takes no more time or effort to leave an area better then it was when you arrived, than it does to trash it. The impact on the environment and those who enjoy and appreciate what it has to offer, is far too great a thing to ignore. It takes from 200 to 400 years for an aluminum can to biodegrade – it takes less than a second to pick up that same can. 

Most trail heads and entrances into hiking and camping areas are posted with signs reminding us to cleaning up after ourselves. “Pack it in – Pack it out” and “Carry in-Carry out” are two such signs. Small prompts like these are helpful reminders to clean up after ourselves while enjoying the outdoors… but they are not enough. Discarded aluminum cans, plastic water bottles and human debris can be found along every accessible trail from city parks to the far reaches of the backcountry. The greater the number of people exploring our natural parks and wilderness areas, the greater the problem has become.

Nobody likes to clean up after someone else, but when it comes to our public lands, it is the duty of every conscientious hiker that steps-foot on a trail to do their part in protecting the natural beauty of the outdoors. Pack a few small garbage bags each time you set out on a hike. Not only pick up and carry out your own debris, but reach down and pick up that discarded water bottle or aluminum can carelessly tossed by another. It may not be your trash, but it is your wilderness, and ultimately… your responsibility.

A rule that every outdoor enthusiast should abide by: “Always leave an area cleaner than you found it.”  It is just that simple. Perhaps the phrase should also be written at every trail-head and camping site.  If everyone were to follow this one simple rule, there would no longer be dreams of solitude and serenity shattered by the sight of a discarded aluminum can.

One of my teachers said many years ago: “If you want to know if a certain act is right or wrong – imagine the impact if every single person in the world performed the same act.” Think about those words the next time you are enjoying the tranquility of your favorite hiking spot and catch sight of that discarded beer can. Reach down, pick it up, and pack it out. It is a seemingly insignificant task that will leave a positive impact ten-fold on the environment, on those that come after, and ultimately, yourself.

I wrote this article after spending an unexpected 18 hours lost in the Owyhee’s several years ago. I had walked away from hunting camp with nothing but a 16oz bottle of water, a shotgun, three .20 gauge shells and a dog. I had a lot of time to think about what items I wished I had carried with me. While this list might not meet the Bear Grylls Man Vs. Wild approval list – it works for me. Unlike Grylls, I do not have the luxury of a cameraman following my every move, “just in case.”

There have probably been as many articles written on what essential items to take hiking or backpacking as there are people who hike. Some of the same items will appear on different lists time and again; each hiker having their own preferences and unique methods of performing a particular task.

Much of the gear a person takes hiking will be determined by factors such as the terrain, the time of year and the duration of the hike, as well as the physical abilities of the hiker. Depending on any one of these factors, the list can easily turn into a top ten or top twenty essential items.
Whether day hiking or planning a multi-day trip into the backcountry, there are a few basic items the prepared hiker should carry with them regardless of where or how long they plan to be out. This is by no means a comprehensive list. Think of the following items as the American Express of hiking and never leave home without them.

The knife: Knives come in many shapes and sizes from pocket knives to gadget-packed multi-tool knives to more sophisticated survival knives. Which one you carry is a matter of preference. Obviously, the multi-tool and survival knives offer more features and options, but a good sharp folding knife that fits securely in your pocked can be an invaluable tool. A knife can be used to clean fish or other game, shave tinder for a fire, manufacture spears for hunting and protection, cut strips of cloth for bandages and remove bullets taken in a gunfight at the OK corral. Perhaps it is unlikely you will need the latter, but it did get your attention, didn’t it?

Lighter or flint and steel: The ability to start a fire can mean the difference between life and death. Fires provide warmth, cooking, light and protection. They can be used to signal for help and provide comfort. A large part of successful outdoor survival depends on your psychological health and a fire can be one of the most essential elements in maintaining that health. Carry at least one good lighter. A lighter is essentially water-proof and easy to use when you are in a hurry to get the fire built. Wind-proof lighters are inexpensive and are an excellent investment. Flint and Steel kits or magnesium fire starters are practically indestructible, and with a little practice, can start a fire fairly quick. Water-proof matches are seldom as effective and can be difficult to light. There are more primitive means of starting a fire… like rubbing two sticks together, but unless one of those sticks is a match – it can take a lot of time and a lot of trial and error to get a fire going. Time you may not have.

Water purification system: A healthy and fit person under moderate circumstances can live 3 days without water. Toss in extreme temperatures and exertion and that number is drastically reduced. Carry enough drinking water adequate for the conditions you plan to encounter– then double it. Always err on the side of safety. Water is heavy and carrying enough for an extended period of time might not be feasible. In addition to what you can carry, pack some type of water purification system. There are numerous systems on the market. Which system you pick is a matter of preference dictated by the type of hiking you undertake. Smaller systems include individual filtration bottles. These filtration bottles look much like any other water bottle but have a filtration system built into them. As you squeeze or suck on the bottle – the water is forced through the filter. Water purification tablets are another means of water purification, are light-weight and take up little room in your pack. Tablets do little for the palatability of water, but are sufficient to kill disease causing bacteria such as Giardia and Cryptosporidium. Drinking unfiltered or unpurified water runs the risk of becoming contaminated with one of these bugs. The last thing you need while out hiking is a bad case of beaver fever.

Bandana: A bandana is the Leatherman of apparel. A bandana can be used to keep the sweat out of your eyes or dipped in cold water and hung around your neck to keep you cool. They can be used to keep the hair out of your eyes if you have it and to protect your head from sunburn if you don’t. A brightly colored bandana can be used to signal your location should you get lost. Cut into small pieces, the bandana can be used to mark your trail if need be. Applied properly it can be used as an emergency tourniquet or compression bandage. Use a bandana to soak up water for drinking in an emergency and as a filter to remove sediment; just remember to purify the water before drinking if at all possible. Last but not least, tie the bandana around your head and look every bit as cool as Rambo while continuing safely on your hiking adventure.
 
One might wonder why food is not on this list of essential items. As stated earlier – a person can only live an average of three days without water, but the same person can live 3 weeks without food. The items listed in this article are basic essential items which can be stored in your pack at all times. Each takes up very little room in your pack but could make the difference between an enjoyable hiking experience and a harrowing plight of survival. Not to mention how cool you will look in that Rambo bandana. Happy hiking and stay safe.

A Desert Pause

Writers block.  I’ve heard of it, but never gave it much thought until I wondered why I had not posted anything to my blog in awhile. I thought it was because of time constraints – busy at work – busy at home…basically busy with life in general. Time was not the issue. When I feel like writing – time is never the issue. Writing is as compelling to an author as sunlight to the sunflower; both driven by natural forces to act upon the creators plan. A sunflower follows the path of the sun because it must, the very same reason I write.

I thought I might stumble on a little motivation by going through some old photographs. While doing so, I came across this picture of Spud and my feet, with the Owyhee’s in the background. If a picture is worth a thousand words, this one picture will forever speak volumes to me.

The picture was taken in 2005 or 2006. Not long before Spud was killed. The photograph means more to me than simply a photo of my dog. It is a snapshot of memories that encompass all that was right in my world at the time. I was doing what I loved, in the country I cherished, with the best dog ever to walk beside me.

Spud and I were chuker hunting in the Owyhee’s in early October. If you have never Chuker hunted before, then you cannot appreciate the amount of rough terrain a person must cover in search of the ever elusive bird. Chukar are literally everywhere until you purchase a bird stamp and pick up a shotgun; when suddenly, they become as scarce as truth in an political campaign. Oh, you know they are still there – you can hear them… laughing at you. Laughing and mocking from atop the rim-rock, mere inches out of range for a .20 gauge. 

We had been hunting since sunrise up a long draw above our camp. Spud had done his part. He’d gotten up several covey’s, affording me plenty of opportunity to shoot. However, opportunity only knocks once while bird hunting and if you don’t answer the door on the first knock…forget it.  I suppose I am not a very dedicated bird hunter. Frankly, I don’t care if I never get off a shot, as long as I have the opportunity to shoot, I’m good. I get more enjoyment wandering around in the desert, exploring the nooks and crannies of massive rock formations looking for arrow-heads, than I do blasting a bird out of the air. This day was no different.  Spud would flush up a nice covey of chukar and I would inevitably have my eyes on my feet, kicking up dust looking for something, anything…that might resemble a Native American artifact.

Spud was patient with me. He would flush a handful of birds and turn to look at me. I’d look up from my feet at him and shamefully apologize for failing to hold up my end of the bargain. I could read Spud’s thoughts as easily as he could mine. He would forgive me.

We reached the top of the draw and Spud flushed a covey of birds from the bottom of a steep ravine. They were probably the same Chukar we had driven up the draw in front of us since we left camp. It was getting late in the afternoon and we would need to turn back. If I were going to redeem myself in the eyes of a soul searching German Wirehaired, I had better do it now. A line of Chukar ran up the ravine and broadside as I pulled up to shoot. I clicked off my safety and waited. The Chukar hunkered close to the ground, running parallel along the rim. I just needed one of the damn birds to lift both feet off the ground to count as an “in-flight” legal shot. Spud turned to look at me – there was that look again, masked in patience and understanding. Crap. I did what any red-blooded, all American great white hunter would do – I blasted two rounds of 6 shot into the bottom of the ravine, scattering chukar to the four winds and still, not one of the foul game took flight.  “Wait…I think I see one with both feet off the ground. Yes! Look at that…both feet just left the ground. I believe it’s hopping. Does hopping count as flying?” I could not disappoint that dog again. Today, a hopping Chukar was a dead Chukar.

We agreed on an extravagant tale of expert marksmanship in the event we crossed paths with the local Fish and Game and headed back down the draw toward camp. Halfway down the draw we sat next to a large sagebrush to rest and split a can of Beenie Weanies. I didn’t care much for the Weenies and Spud felt likewise about the Beanies. It was a perfect compromise.  

My backpack lay between Spud and I as we looked out over the golden grass and sage of the Owyhee desert. An ink-blue sky met a sprawling horizon of rim-rock and sandstone painted in ever-changing shadow by the artistic brush of the setting sun.

Once at home, I downloaded the weeks pictures to my computer.  There were a lot of pictures of sand, sage, massive rock formations and interesting draws. None of them struck me more than this one. Framed, it looks like Spud and I are sitting in front of a television screen watching a movie about the beautiful panoramic desert.  Every time I look at this picture I imagine that we are still there, enjoying the beauty and solitude of the desert. I can imagine that I reach over and place a hand on the head of a dog that will forever be by my side.  I imagine that I can reach out and hit pause.  

Popcorn

The horse that never fell

There are two things every kid needs to grow up proper:  a good dog and a fine horse. I had both.  While the dog would not come until later in my childhood; the horse would make an early appearance in the form of an 18 month Morgan/Quarter horse, stripped-backed bay filly, named Popcorn.

Poppy was born on the Umatilla Indian Reservation in Oregon, the same year as me. My parents bought her from an old Indian named Gus (Popcorn) Cornoryer for the hefty sum of $50.00: the amount of a debt Gus owed for pasture. It must have seemed like a lot of money back then to a young couple starting out with two little girls to feed. I am still amazed that Mom was able to talk my dad into it. Dad, like many back then, grew up in poverty, every dime counted – and he counted every one.

Mom often tells the story of the trip from Pilot Rock to Halfway Oregon with the wide-eyed and terrified filly in the back of an old truck equipped with wooden racks. The entire experience was surely traumatic for the young filly, before that day, Popcorn had never seen another human being.  Thrashing and spooking in the back of the truck at every new sight and sound, Popcorn fell repeatedly. My dad is not known for his patience or his compassion and threatened to throw her out along the river. Exhausted and sustaining multiple injuries to her delicate legs, Poppy fell for the last time and rode from Pilot Rock to Halfway on her knees. She would never load willingly again.

Once at home, treatment began in an attempt to heal Poppy’s legs. It would be up to mom to doctor and care for her. Dad would have cut his losses early and put her down. It was not in him to accrue the cost of a vet bill on a fifty dollar, untamed and useless animal that could not stand on its own four legs.  

Mom dressed and changed bandages multiple times a day for several weeks. Physical injuries were not the only wounds undergoing a healing process. Constant attention from mom’s caring hands worked to calm the filly’s wild and untrusting heart.

Many of my earliest memories are of standing beside Popcorn inspecting mom’s handy-work. By the time the bandages were removed, not a scar could be found. Mom had a true gift for healing that continues today.

From the perspective of a toddler, Popcorn and I had many similarities. We were the same age. Popcorn was young and wild. According to my grandma, I too was a wild-child. Popcorn had a thick, black mane.  I too had a thick black head of unruly hair. Popcorn had large, brown eyes. My eyes were brown. Popcorn loved hanging out in the barn. I’d rather hang out in the barn than in the house any day, and if I believe what my parents told me, apparently I was born in one too. Poppy loved apples – I loved apples.  Popcorn was a horse. I considered myself more horse than human.

It was not long after the wounds on Popcorn’s legs healed, when Mom said I had come up missing. Frantic, my parents searched the house in vain. They happened to look out the bathroom window when they spotted their 2 year old daughter sitting quite pleased atop Popcorn as she grazed contently in the orchard. Mom kept dad from running toward us in a panic for fear he would spook the horse and I’d be thrown. When dad calmly meandered his way over, he asked, “How did you get up there?” What a stupid question, dad. “I crawled up the fence.” How else would a person do it? Grownups, they don’t know anything.

I have vague, faded glimpses of memories of that first time I crawled on Popcorns back. I had somehow managed to coax her close to the corral fence; crawling up between horse and fence, pole-by-pole until I reached a pole level with Poppy’s back. How high that must have been to a kid barely out of diapers. I honestly don’t know if the memory is my own, or if it’s merely an image imprinted in my mind from the story’s my mom would tell me. I remember clinging to the pole with both hands while one chubby little leg stretched out, searching for the black dorsal stripe that seems to go on forever. Still clinging to the pole, I would have to take the plunge eventually or my intended landing pad would simply walk away. With a deep breath, and all the determination and faith of an innocent, I let go of my grip on the wooden post and slid, quite naturally, onto the very first horse I would ever straddle.

Technically speaking, Popcorn was my mom’s horse. Mom cared for her and trained her. Often I would ride on the front of Mom with my legs wrapped around a saddle horn that looked to a kid to be about the size of a dinner plate.  If I ever tired of riding, I simply feel asleep over the horn to the soothing sway of the bay mares stride.

Popcorn was undeniably the most sure-footed horse a girl…or man, would ever ride. Dad would put that theory to the test. For whatever reason, he saddled Popcorn and rode her into Pine Creek during its highest flow.  Pine Creek was rolling that year; and by rolling – I mean you could hear the rocks crashing against each other with the current. Dad pointed Popcorn straight into the raging waters with no regard for her fragile legs. In and out of the creek he rode – up and down steep embankments eroded by the waters powerful force.  Popcorn would not fall.  He forced her into the violent waters time after time, and still, Popcorn never fell.

There is a story my mom is understandably embarrassed and a little reluctant to tell. It happened on Main Street in Halfway Oregon. June Knox, a friend of the family, was in town showing off her brand new motorcycle. Mom and June got to bragging about which was better, the horse or the motorcycle. One thing led to another and the race was on. Mom raced Poppy down the pavement before June could shift into second gear. It’s unclear exactly what happened next – somehow June lost control of the bike and ran 350lbs of machinery straight between Popcorn’s hind legs. June was ejected from the bike skidding down the center of Main on her face. Miraculously, Popcorn managed to keep her feet under her and remained upright. There was no longer any debate over which beast was better, the motorcycle or the horse.

I remember the day Mom officially handed Popcorn over to me. Mom acquired a new horse to ride and I had long since outgrown our Shetland pony, Prince. We were walking side by side down the dirt road between our house and my Granny’s. Mom was leading Poppy. In an unceremonious moment, mom handed me the reins and said, “Here’s your horse.” I did not say what was in my heart. To do so would have sounded unappreciative; for I knew that Popcorn had always been my horse. 

Mom would say that Popcorn was the best babysitter a kid could have. I rode Popcorn from one end of Pine Valley to the next and everywhere in between. From sunup to sunset, we covered most every mile of the valley and surrounding Eagle Caps. Doug Payton stopped Popcorn and I on the road one day and asked, “Aren’t you afraid you’re gonna grow to that horse?” I was more afraid I wouldn’t.  Doug was (still is at this writing) a farrier and kept our horses in shoes for over 30 years. Like all good farriers, Doug was in high demand, yet he always made time to shoe my horse. Terribly shy as I was, it was hard for me to call Doug and ask if he had time to shoe my horse. Doug answered in his quiet, true cowboy drawl, “You put more miles on that horse than any one of these Cowboys around this valley… I’ve always got time to nail a shoe on your horse.”
Popcorn is in the middle - my sister Majella is riding her. I was riding Moonshine (far right), a colt I bought from the neighbors
 - and yes, my left foot is in a cast. Popcorn and I were 15 or 16 here.  Mom is far left on her horse Echo.

Popcorn may have had a part in the development of my lousy sense of directions. Poppy and I, along with my dog Gypsy, would ride out of the house at sunup with a pound of bacon and a bota bag, and not return for several days. Mom said she never worried about me as long I had that horse and dog with me. She knew Poppy would look after me. I didn’t have to pay attention to where I was. When it was time to go home I’d give Popcorn her head and she would see us safely back to the barn, often times with me slumped over her neck, sound asleep.

Popcorn did not look like the typical purebred Quarter Horse that flooded the Valley’s ranches. She didn’t have the long, sleek legs and neck of the elegant thoroughbred racers some of the other kids rode. Popcorn was a powerhouse on hooves. At approximately 14.3 hands, she carried a fine head, high on her thick, bowed Morgan neck. With powerful hind-quarters and a broad chest, she looked to me to possess the finest of many breeds. She was beautiful, and God help the snot nosed brat that tried to tell me otherwise.

Poppy was not without her faults. She could be stubborn. If Poppy didn’t want to do something, Poppy didn’t do it. For instance – she may have been just a tad-bit barn sour. We would head down the road just past my grandparents house and Popcorn would inevitably stop in the same location – refusing to budge. I’d kick and I’d kick and I’d kick some more until my legs couldn’t kick any longer. I’d get off and try to lead her. Popcorn would not budge. I’d throw all my weight into pulling on that damn stubborn horses face. Still, Popcorn would not budge.  I’d begin to cry, red faced and frustrated beyond consoling. Not able to budge her from the ground either, I’d swing back on and spew forth expletives that would have made my granny cringe. Playing right into her stubborn hooves, I’d point her nose in the direction of home and “make” her run all the way back to the barn; exactly what she had planned all along.

In the early 70’s, Mom put together a riding club that performed twice a year at the Baker County Fairgrounds.  Our group, called the Bells and Bows and later, the Comanchero’s – would be a haven for dozens of small town kids over a 10 year span. I believe I was four years old the first year we rode. I rode Prince those first few years, and later, Popcorn. Several of us kids opted to leave our saddles in the tack room and performed the drill bareback. I seldom rode in a saddle, and to this day, prefer to ride bareback. Later, mom incorporated jumps into the drill. I think Popcorn loved to jump almost as much as me.

Poppy excelled in parades. She would tuck that beautiful head under an arched neck and prance down the middle of the pavement like she owned it. It was all show for Popcorn – the prancing, the dancing...the flaring of nostrils and the wild eyes. It appeared as if I were perched atop an uncontrollable, wild animal. I liked to imagine the crowd was awed at this skinny little kid’s ability to handle so much horse. It all looked impressive enough to anybody who didn’t know that I could not have been astride a safer and gentler soul.

After leaving home, other horses would eventually come into my life, yet I would always return to Popcorn. I would go back to visit and never fail to take Popcorn out for a ride. She could usually be found grazing in the lower field, and, just like the young kid that still existed in my soul; I’d spend the day exploring every inch of the wooded property. When it was time to go home, I’d swing on Popcorn without bridle or saddle and she would race at liberty through the fields to carry me home.

Time changes a lot of things, but it cannot change the heart of a kid or the gentle soul of her first horse. Popcorn was with us for 27 years. She is largely responsible for the raising of not only myself, but of numerous others fortunate enough to have had Popcorn touch their lives. Sometimes, when I return to my property in Halfway, I stand in the far corner of the lower field and close my eyes. I can imagine Popcorn is there waiting for me…patiently waiting until it is time once again to swing upon her back as she races across the field…to carry me home.

The End

I wanted to like this movie, I really did. What could be more endearing than a story about a boy and his horse, torn apart by war? Set in the early 1900’s against the backdrop of the sixth deadliest conflict in history and directed by Steven Spielberg - it was bound to be an epic experience. It was not. At least it was not for me.

“The Movies 3” theatre in Rawlins Wyoming was not showing War Horse over the holidays like most of the larger theatres. I would wait until a week later when I returned home to see it. It sounded like an excellent way to ring in the New Year. With a pocket full of Kleenex and a hefty amount of expectation, I purchased a ticket and strolled into theatre #1, now showing “War Horse.”

The theatre was virtually empty with only a few occupied seats. I laid my coat at the end of an empty row and went up front for a three dollar box of chocolate covered almonds and a four dollar root-beer. The price of a ticket and concessions might explain the large number of empty seats.

With concession items in hand, I walked back into the dimly lit theatre to find the entire row next to my coat occupied. Looking around the theatre, I could not help notice that except for a few scattered movie goers, my row had suddenly become very popular. Not wanting to appear rude, I chose not to pick up my coat and move to another, less popular row. Instead, I picked up my coat and starred at the row invaders who in turn, starred back. I pretended to shake out my coat, while blatantly displaying it in the faces of the invaders, intending to dispel any doubt as to who was here first.  I sat next to a gentleman who smelled like nicotine and stale gym socks and made weird, guttural noises. 

There is something about witnessing a person attending functions alone that seems to make others nervous. I cannot eat in a restaurant alone and I could never enter a bar alone…however, I would rather watch a move alone than not. There are several reasons for this: 1. I can enjoy an entire movie without listening to another’s narrative. 2. I can focus wholly on the movie and not worry about what the other person may or may not be thinking. 3. If they smell bad or make weird noises, I can take comfort in knowing they won’t be going home with me.

The man setting to my right was obviously very uncomfortable that I chose to come back to my designated seat. I would not yield. I was here first. I scooted as far to the left as I could, sat at an almost 45º angle to the big screen, and tried not to breathe too deeply. The man shot several sideways glances in my direction throughout the movie. He seemed as perplexed as to why I would go to a movie alone as many of the others. I could not help but notice the puzzled looks as they starred, presumably looking around for the “other person” who surely accompanied this lone movie-goer. I’m telling you – it freaks people out to see someone go to the movies solo. You can get the same reaction standing with your back to the door, facing everyone else, in an elevator full of people. Try it sometime, it’s a kick.

The movie opens with at least 4 obviously different animals portraying Joey, the equine actor. I just don’t get it. With todays technology in CG – can they not find even two doubles portraying the same horse to look at least believable? I understand the need to utilize multiple horses in a move that encompass the lifespan of the horse. I understand the need for stunt doubles. I get it, really. I read they used 14 doubles to portray Joey from foal to adult horse. I have little doubt that if given the time, any horse enthusiast worth their salt could point out every 14 of those horses. From markings to confirmation – none of them matched; even the gates of the different horses were off. Granted, I suffer from a healthy dose of OCD and probably notice such things more than the normal person would. Still, you might expect such a thing in pre-CG  and spaghetti westerns, but in today’s computer generated graphics and special effect technology’s…come on…slap a little air-brushing on the horse and at least make it somewhat convincing.

  I did not care for the casting of the lead role for Albert, played by actor Jeremy Irvine, at all. I kept waiting for the type of on-screen connection between human and horse l saw in The Black Stallion, starring Kelly Reno as Alec. Nope. Flat. I felt the least dynamic character in the entire movie was that of Albert and felt the movie could have relied entirely on the interaction of the supporting actors and horses.

There were a few scenes which, while hard to watch, almost brought me to the edge of my seat…almost, but not quite; just when I thought it was about to happen, my butt would slide back into the seat with disappointment as cold as the theatre seating itself.

The scene where Joey runs through the battlefield and becomes entangled in barbed wire would have been more dramatic had it been believable. Anybody who’s been around enough horses knows that a horse can cut his leg clean-off in 2 feet of a single strand wire. Had that scene actually occurred, it would be unlikely the horse’s body would have remained attached to his head. However, I’ll give them this one, it did have potential.

The movie was, if anything, predictable. I felt like I was watching a remake of Black Beauty; especially when Topthorn entered the scene. Everyone knows the main horse’s character’s equine side-kick in any movie is doomed and Topthorn’s fate, although sad, was no surprise. Where they went too far, in my opinion, was with the tank. The most unnecessary scene of the movie enters here. Did they have to show the tank ominously rolling toward Topthorn’s dead body? I had to look away, even though I was assured later they didn’t actually show the dead horse being squashed under the tracks, I could not watch it. I understand the conflict Spielberg and Michael Morpurgo, author of the original book of the same name, was trying to portray; the impending coming of advanced heavy artillery and military warfare that rapidly rendered the horse in battle obsolete. I felt the same effect was better portrayed in the scene where Joey jumps over the tank and into the trenches; much less disturbing, for sure.

The scene where Tommy and Fritz free Joey from the barbed wire was the one redeeming scene in the whole movie for me. Might it have happened? Unlikely. I suppose in real wartime, someone would have shot the horse and continued on with the killing of each other. Regardless, when a dozen or more wire-cutters flew out of the enemy trenches, I actually smiled for the first time during the movie. Other than a goose making an occasional appearance throughout the film, it would be the last.

To sum up a rather long critique (and my first ever) – I found War Horse predicable, unbelievable and the characters lacking charisma. If the horse could actually have survived such a Calvary charge or the barbed-wire episode, being forced to watch his own premier of War Horse, Joey, I fear, would have died from boredom.