THE HIGH LIFE

Exploring Wyoming's majestic high country on horseback

by Kevin F. McMurray

Twenty-seven years. Yep, I told myself after doing a little mental addition, it had been 27 long years since I had been atop a horse. Philmont Scout Ranch, Cimmaron, New Mexico, 1964 - to be exact.

Yet here I was on a horse getting progressively deeper in the Absaroka Range's Washakie Wilderness in northwestern Wyoming. Why? To fish for trout, a sport which, unlike horseback riding, I had never tried. This was to be a real adventure.

The Washakie Wilderness, located in the heart of Shoshone National Forest, can only be entered on foot or by horse. The Forest Service, in an effort to preserve its wild state, prohibits any motorized vehicles in the area. Even chain saws are forbidden. Because of the rugged terrain and the fact that it is a National Forest, there are no airstrips or settlements of any kind. The land has changed little since the time when John Colter, famed mountain man and meat hunter for the Lewis and Clark Expedition, roamed these trails.

Consequently, only a few hardy souls make the trek into this pristine area. Those few are rewarded with an undisturbed wilderness area that harbors a wide spectrum of wildlife that has virtually disappeared from most areas in the Lower 48, At Cabin Creek, where the South Fork road ends and the South Fork Trail begins, a sign that simply states "Grizzly Country" says it all.

Undeniably nervous prior to mounting up, I mentioned to Tim Doud, my outfitter, how back East, horseback riding was considered by many to be a "girl's sport." "Well out here," the bearded cowboy laconically related. "it is just the opposite." "Out here" several thousand feet above sea level, I was a rough and tumble 50 miles from civilization and at the mercy of a gray appaloosa by the name of Streaker.

I had arrived in Cody, Wyoming, a day prior to the pack trip into the mountains. While gearing up for the trip, I was tempted to buy a pair of cowboy boots, but being a bit self-conscious about such a touristy purchase, I nixed the idea. On the trail, I cursed my inhibitive pride. My heelless boot gave me no control of the stirrup. As a result, my legs were continually tensed hard against the bottom of the stirrup. Within a couple of hours, my knees and calf area ached miserably.

The South Fork Trail followed the South Fork of the Shoshone River high into its headwaters in the Continental Divide. In the eight-and-a-half-hour ride, I was to cross the river 35 times, traverse 22 rock slides, and marvel at scenery that defies description. There were few respites from the saddle. Lunch was taken astride our horses. My only chances to dismount came when one of the pack mules lost his burden on a narrow path several hundred feet above the river and required repacking, and once again to remove a fallen tree from the trail.

To relieve some of the pain I was enduring, Doud advised me to let my legs hang free from the stirrups, thereby reducing the tightness in my lower extremities. But by doing so, I had to give up the security of steadfastness in the saddle. It was a practice in which I did not care to indulge while fording the swift running South Fork or while staring down a precipitous rock slide several hundred feet above the river gorge.

The closer we got to our destination, the more picturesque the high country became. Lush meadows, freckled with blue, yellow and white wildflowers and surrounded by tall pines, appeared one after another. As the sun began to drop slowly behind the Rocky Mountains, we arrived at Bliss Creek. Six miles long and half a mile wide, Bliss creek Meadow was truly a sight for sore eyes. Ambling into the cap, we surprised a moose and her young calf. Eyeing us curiously, they sauntered off to the willows that stood between the camp and the river.

Standing on my own two feet, stretching my leg and back muscles and attending to a world-class blister on my gluteus maximus were all pleasures I had dreamed of for the last several hours. Getting situated in my tent and exploring the camp surroundings kept me on my feet. I didn't feel much like sitting for the next few hours.

The incredibly green meadow was to by my home for the next five days. The meadow was also home to a famous horse thief named Jack Bliss who ran a thriving business at the site of our camp back in 1902. Unfortunately for Bliss, range detectives hired by ranchers in Cody put an end to his enterprise. He was shot to death outside his cabin and buried there just before the snowfall made the trails impassable. When the range detectives returned to retrieve his body for identification purposes, they found the grave area washed out by the spring runoff. His body was never found.

Up at the crack of dawn with a belly full of breakfast whipped up by Doris Roesch, Doud's partner, I thought a climb up the Bliss Creek Canyon would be a fine introduction to the area. A splitting headache brought on by not being acclimated to the 8,400 foot elevation forced me to quit the hike not a mile into the trail. After a recuperative hour's nap and a couple of aspirin, I resolved from then on to leave all the strenuous activity to the horses.

That afternoon was my introduction to the subtle art of trout fishing. Doud handed me a spinning rod and reel; he was armed with a fly rod.

The winding South Fork was a mere stone's throw from camp. Once past a beaver pond and a clump of willows, I was standing beside one of the most bountiful and beautiful trout streams in America.

Doud gave me a quick lesson on handeling the fishing tackle. A soft flick of the wrist and my silver spinner looped gracefully through the air 20 feet or so to a still water bend in the stream. It could not have been more than a few minutes before I got my first bite. The small fish gave a short but spirited fight. Ice-cold from the melted snows of the Absarokas, the brilliantly colored fish squirmed in my hand. It was a brook trout, or a "brookie" as Doud called it. Up to that moment, I had always thought that saltwater fish monopolized nature's gift of color to aquatic creatures. I was wrong.

Doud and I worked both sides downstream of the river. We continually leapfrogged past each other once we had fished out the holes where the brookies lurked. Within half an hour, I was covered with mud and soaking wet up to my thighs. But the mercury had climbed up to the low 70's and the golden hue cast by the sun, the crystal-clear water of the South Fork and wide-open azure skies proved to be too much of a diversion for me to sulk because of being a little wet.

Watching Doud fish with the fly rod was almost as much fun as fishing myself. The way he whipped the wispy thin pole, snapping the featherweight line in lazy esses and dropping the artificial lure into the still pockets of water, was poetry in motion. The simple pleasure of watching this little exercise with the majestic Absarokas as a backdrop made me lapse into a state of dreamy contentment. Catching fish was just an added bonus -- but, oh what a bonus. We kept an even dozen. We must have released twice that many.

On my second day, I was eager to tackle the South Fork again. This time we worked upstream from the camp. There were fewer holes, doud had warned, but more beaver ponds to spy and willow clumps where moose could be seen.

Fish-wise, it was a poor day. The bright sunlight conspired to keep the brookies from darting out of the cool shadows of the undercut banks to snap at our lures. Still, we bagged three keepers and made it back to camp for a lunch of trout fried in cornmeal batter.

It had taken me two days to recover from the ride in. Doud and Roesch thought it was time I saw Bliss Creek Canton by horse. A four-and-a-half-mile climb up to the 10,500 foot elevation would afford me a view that Roesch assured would "blow you away."

Wrangler Seldon saddled up Big Red for me. The horse was a massive red gelding that made me feel as if I were on a dinosaur. Retracing the route I had attempted the day before on foot made me glad I had aborted. The trail was steep and easy to stray from. I could have easily gotten lost had I doggedly persevered on foot. Since I had become a believer in the climbing ability of horses and mules, I put my fears on hold and simply took in the scenery.

Waterfalls cascading down hundreds of feet of rock, blue skies with billowy cotton clouds and air so clean and crisp that it seemed to sear my lungs put me in a reverie that I knew I would not soon forget.

At the top of the trail, we made a short climb on foot to a ridge that looked over Bliss Creek Meadow and the gorge that guided the creek to its confluence with the South Fork. Dramatically piercing the heavens was Wall Mountain.

At 11,498 feet, the imposing mountain lorded over an eye-widening landscape. Scanning the massive mountain with a field telescope, Doud spotted a five-point bull elk a good two miles in the distance. The animal chewed his cud peacefully in a meadow just below the summit. I searched the rocky ridges I hope of catching a glimpse of some bighorn sheep or possibly a scavenging grizzly. I had to content myself with an idyllic landscape whose silence was broken only by a gently blowing wind and the chatter of chipmunks and grasshoppers.

If it were not for the chilly mountain air and the fatigue that had me burrowing deep in my down filled sleeping bag each night, thoughts of midnight intrusions by grizzlies most certainly would have kept me awake, Doud had told me he saw only four of the beasts last year on the trail, and that they rarely came into camp. The bear-scratched sheet metal that girded the pines holding aloft the food cache seemed to dispute his claim.

He then told me that I was more likely to be struck by lightning than to be attacked by a "grizz." I would have taken solace in that fact had I not remembered that on the average, lightning strikes the USA six billion times during the course of one year. The law of averages, all of a sudden, did not look so good.

Rain pelting my tent awakened me on my fourth day in the Washakie wilderness. Dark clouds laced with lightning bolts, distant thunder, and smoke spiraling from the cook tent's stovepipe had me feeling like I was part of a Frederick Remington western landscape. Sipping coffee, playing cards, and listening to Seldon spin yarns about his life as a cowboy in West Texas pretty much filled my lazy day. Intermittent and quick forays to the spring that supplied us with fresh water for the blackened coffee pot would bring curious glances from the resident moose family. The cow and her calf seemed rather nonplused by my mad dashes to the beaver-damned spring.

The fifth and last day started early. Seldon was up at 4 am to round up the horses in the pasture two miles south of camp. With less to bring out that we brought in, it still took more that four hours to pack and saddle the eight mules and seven horses. While Doud, Roesch and the wranglers went about the tedious task, I grabbed my camera and wandered off to get some last pictures of moose. I circled the two near the spring and forced them out of the willows and into a small clearing where I managed to get close enough to see the vapor from their breath and hear the munching sound of their morning meal . At first the shutter clicks and whirl of my film advance seemed to amuse them. Then, apparently bored by my presence, they quit eyeing me altogether.

Confident and more experienced, I was still a bit apprehensive about another eight-hour odyssey on horseback. I welcomed the sights, the sounds, and the smells of the trip back, but not the aches and pains that the rough 23-mile trail was sure to inflict.

The day started out sunny, but no sooner had we mounted up than the skies began to turn to a muddled gray. Angry looking purple clouds and bolts of lightning began to crowd the western horizon. I made sure my rain gear was snugly tied behind my saddle where I could quickly get at it.

After three hours in the saddle, I started to shift my weight, searching for some relief from the constant pressure and bouncing. Understanding smiles from Roesch, who was busy guiding three pack horses, was about all the sympathy I got.

The familiar panoramas were just as enjoyable going out as they had been coming in. The verdant greens, the austere rock, the fleeting views of bighorn sheep, elk, deer, and soaring eagles almost had me forgetting that this was my last day in the wilderness.

The storm finally caught up with us at Silver Creek, just six miles shy of the trail's end. The flash of lightning, and the echoing of thunder down the South fork's canyons added to the mystique of the place.

While crossing the South Fork for the last time, I finally convinced myself that the first order of business upon arising from my hotel bed in Cody would be to stride, not a bit self-consciously, into the nearest western clothes outfitter and buy myself a pair of cowboy boots. The way I figured it, it would be a good excuse to come back to this high country and try them out on a horse. Anyway - I earned them.

 

MOOSE IN THE MEADOW

---

by Kathy Kadash

The moose were just yards from us, nonchalantly grazing the marshes. They were more wary than frightened of the three humans who intruded on their morning meal. I furiously worked my camera, as did Dorothy, the other guest who got up early with me to photograph them. We fired frame after frame at these odd looking creatures who look like one of nature's mistakes. But they were fascinating and well worth the pitch-black wake-up call our guide, Tim Doud, gave us to capture them on film.

To view the two cows, we trudged into the marshes just outside of camp. After we ran out of film on our shooting safari, we went back to eat breakfast. The moose practically followed us into camp to drink from a nearby spring.

I was elated to be so close to something I had only seen in zoos, but to Tim this was a common occurrence.

Tim and his partner, Doris Roesch, own and operate Bliss Creek Outfitters, a full-service outfitting business, which provides both vacation and hunting trips, as well as schools for guides and camp cooks. Their guide school is one of the few in the country and, to their knowledge, they offer the only camp cook school.

Our 5-day pack trip took us into Wyoming's Washakie wilderness of the Shoshone National Forest. Camp is based in Bliss Creek Meadows, southeast of Yellowstone National Park. The Absaroka mountain Range is a stunning backdrop for some spectacular scenery, and the meadows are a haven for wildlife. To reach camp, we rode horseback for 8 hours, traveling 22 miles down the south fork of the Shoshone River. At least 5 of those miles were along a rock slide hundreds of feet above the riverbed. Although safe, the trail is not for the fainthearted or those seriously out of shape. We crossed the river numerous times and alternated between riding the timber bordering the river and traversing the canyon walls.

Our destination was Bliss Creek Meadows, an idyllic spot at the confluence of Bliss Creek and the meandering Shoshone River. It's one of those "get-away-from-it-all" places that you see only in pictures, and rarely get the chance to experience.

Doris explained it this way: "We like our guests to be totally relaxed and forget the things they left behind, the things that made them want to get away from their day-to-day life in the first place. They get a better sense of self and what's important. a lot of people don't believe what we have up here is still available, and they're awed when they see moose and deer in camp."

Nestled in the pines at around 8,400 feet, the campsite is considered a primitive wilderness camp, which means it's only accessible on horseback or foot. The trail we took to camp is the same the Shoshone Indian tribes, as well as John Colter, mountain man and hunter for the Lewis and Clark Expedition, used over 100 years age.

Although the camp is primitive on one hand, it's civilized on the other. There are large, canvas wall tents, which sleep two to four people comfortable. The log beds have mattresses and come in either twin or extra-wide (for couples) sizes. Each tent has a wood stove, a propane lantern, and mats on the floor near the beds to keep your feet off the bare ground. That's especially nice in the chilly mornings while you're getting dressed.

There's a shower tent with an actual hot shower! Now that's something you won't find most places in the woods. Water in a large metal tank is heated on a wood stove, and through a series of pulleys and horses, you can stand underneath hot, running water. The tent is much like a sauna; no matter how chilly the air is outside, you're warm while bathing.

The cook tent, which is Doris' domain, is also comfortable with its various stoves and a long, kitchen table. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is or what the weather's like, you dine in the comfort of a warm, well-lit tent.

Doris, a German by birth, is an excellent cook and surprised us every day with meals fit for visiting royalty, not just a bunch of hungry horsebackers. Some of the tasty fare included the likes of steak and eggs and French toast for breakfast, baked pork chops and barbecue chicken for dinner, and chocolate pie and cheesecake for dessert.

Our group was small, only five guests, but Tim and Doris like it that way.

"We try to keep things personalized," Tim explained, "between two to six people, unless a group wants to book a larger party." The group after us consisted of eight photographers from the Midwest.

Our group was the typical interesting mix of people that such vacation trips usually bring together. Three were friends from California: a patent attorney, a research biologist, and an information systems specialist. Then, besides myself, there was a plumber from Berlin, Germany. He spoke English reasonably well, so we all could talk to him. However, he had a great time conversing with Doris, who is fluent in German.

What was somewhat unusual about our group was that all were horse people. The attorney is an avid endurance rider, who has completed the famed Tevis Cup several times, and the biologist and the informations systems specialist were no strangers to distance riding either. The German, who likes to play polo, takes a horseback riding vacation somewhere in the world every year.

On day two, we rode up Bliss Creek to a ridge overlooking Bliss Creek Meadows and the Shoshone River valley. Before we reached the top of the ridge, we spooked a herd of elk. We got off our horses and quietly sneaked thorough the woods to see them. They took off when we got close, but we located them later while taking in the breathtaking vistas from the top of the ridge. The small elk herd was below us then, and we spotted another herd as well.

Tim told us about a white cow elk he saw the year before in this same area, but we didn't get that lucky. That color is unusual for elk and seeing one is a real treat.

Tim is the fellow to follow to find wildlife. An avid bow hunter himself, he's an expert guide and bugler. He's won numerous elk calling championships and is on the pro staff of the Quacker Boy Call Company. Besides vacation trips, Bliss Creek Outfitters offers hunting trips for bear, elk, deer, sheep, and moose.

The following day we rode farther down the Shoshone River and up Crescent Pass, which is on the Continental Divide. Climbing up the 10,800 foot pass was something to write home about. Even the endurance riders took notice. The attorney remarked that terrain for the Tevis Cup wasn't any more difficult that what we had climbed. Fortunately, we were well-mounted with horses and mules used to the steep switchbacks and loose granite that fell away beneath their feet. I was impressed with Bliss Creek's tough, sturdy, sure-footed stock, who took care of the guests and never faltered on the trail.

Doris and Tim are proud of their string and they should be. "We have a variety of horses from a variety of backgrounds," Doris said. "We have mustangs, Thoroughbreds, Standardbreds, Quarter Horses, Missouri Fox Trotters, Appaloosas, and mules. Most of them ride as well as pack, so they are versatile."

Once we reached the summit of the pass, we rode to aqua-colored Elk Lake. It was August, but the lake was still surrounded by banks of snow. We lunched there and fished. The lake is one of the few places noted for golden trout.

Fishing is a big draw on these trips. I even tried it for the first time in about 20 years. Enough brookies and cutthroat trout were caught (not by me) just outside camp to serve up for breakfast the last morning.

Getting down from Crescent Pass was as tricky as getting up, so we dismounted and walked a good portion of the way to prevent soring the horses. Steep switchbacks are hard on horses' shoulders and backs.

When we were close to camp, we flushed out a moose along the trail. Tim and I jumped off our horses and bushwhacked in search of picture possibilities, but the crafty animal was able to hide too well in the trees.

Guests at Bliss Creek aren't locked into riding everyday. Tim and Doris offer a flexible schedule for activities.

"We always ask the night before what people want to do the next day," Tim says. "If there are six guests and three want to fish and three want to ride, then three people fish and three people ride. No one is tied down to a set schedule."

But being all horse people, we wanted to ride. So up Pierpont Pass we went, following the canyon walls of Clark Creek until we reached the over 10,000-foot summit. The ridge overlooks Hidden or Secret Basin (it has two names), one of those grandiose mountain bowls that's hard to capture even in a wide-angle lens. From the grassy meadows on the valley floor to the statuesque pines to the stark mountain cliffs, it's difficult to take it all in at once.

On our way to and from Pierpont, we observed an unusual situation. That morning, two of the oldest pack string veterans had escaped the morning gather and gone their merry way. (Every night, the string is turned loose to feed in the meadows; a wrangler brings them back in the morning.) When we ran into the renegades, they were grazing with a moose. The three made a strange little herd. But then the moose in Bliss Creek Meadows are a little on the unflappable side, as we had found throughout the week.

That night, around the campfire, we roasted marshmallows and Tim entertained us with elk bugling calls and stories. It seems the area around camp was named after Jack Bliss, a famous outlaw and horse thief gunned down by Wyoming ranch detectives in 1892. Naturally, Tim couldn't resist mentioning that Jack Bliss' ghost is supposed to still haunt the area, and that his apparition was once seen in my tent.

On Friday, we headed back. It's always sad to leave a place that has as much to offer an outdoor enthusiast as this one does. I thoroughly enjoyed my wilderness experience with just a touch of the city, and I'll especially remember the moose in the meadow.