My horse Carey marches up the slope, a staunch look of determination
on her speckled face. She's Sir Edmond Hillary, bound for the top of
Mt. Everest. As we quickly gain hundreds of feet in elevation, I gaze
at my surroundings - a dense forest of lodgepole pines, a singing creek,
rainbow of wildflowers - while she does the work. On top of the ridge
I reach down and pet the flea-bitten (that's a color) mare, for she
has carried me to this place where the crest of the Rocky Mountains
spills into Bliss Creek Meadow.
I dismount, tie Carey
to an old snag and sit down with outfitter Tim Doud, wrangler Brad,
and teens Justin
and
Chuck. For several moments
all I hear is "Wow! Awesome!" And, then we are silent,
lost in our own thoughts about this magical place. As I sit on
the ridge,
I reminisce about days past, memories flitting by like swallows
under a bridge. I see moose moseying through camp; I hear horse
and mule
hooves splashing in the clear mountain streams; I watch in reverence
as turkey vultures glide across intense blue skies. I think back
to Cody, Wyoming, where my adventure began.
In the Beginning
Doud
met me in Cody the night before my five-day horseback-riding trip
into the Washakie Wilderness, gathering
up
most of my luggage
and asking me about my vegetarian requirements. And then we both
chimed, "See
you tomorrow."
Tomorrow dawned sunny, and I met the other adventurers. Terry and
John drove west from Illinois with their 18-year-old son, Chuck. Tom
and 13-year-old son, Justin, flew out from Florida for their first
real father-son bonding in recent years. The six of us met the rest
of the crew at the trailhead, about 40 miles southwest of town.
As Doud and wranglers
Butch and Greg continued to load several strings of pack mules
and horses, the teens
asked
the usual questions: "How
much can a mule pack?" (About 150 pounds.) "What are the
names of the white mules?" (Clyde, Local and Casper.) "How
many years have the mules and horses been walking the trail?" (Many
have been packing in and out of Bliss Creek for more than 20 years.)
On Our Way
A couple of hours later we mounted up, anxious to hit the trail. The
rest of the group had little horseback-riding experience, so they sat
atop horses that were almost guaranteed not to spook. Some horses will
shy if a rider whips out a jacket to put it on; others will get a little
mixed up if the rider uses the reins incorrectly or sits off center,
but not these. Doud supplies horses that are mature, mellow and surefooted.
Because I've spent time around horses, I rode Sugar Ray, a bay quarter
horse, and Carey.
Huge, ear-to-ear grins spread across most of our faces as we headed
up the trail. Terry confesses that she is scared, but a wide smile
crosses her face within minutes and she is fine. Justin is the only
one who is hard to please, but that's OK. He's 13 years old, that hard-to-please
age.
Doud straddles his horse Jake, a sturdy rope towing along a string
of eight mules. I am next in line. A rope leads from her hand to Sir
Prize, a handsome, stocky stallion who has no trouble packing a load
of his own. The rest of the group is interspersed among Greg and Butch,
who each pull a string of four pack animals. Certainly, we're the image
of the Old West as we cross the rushing, boot-high, South Fork Shoshone
River and head up into the Absaroka Range.
A fox scampers up the ridge as we make our way along the slope, but
I am the only one who sees it. I look for another, but the wily creatures
elude us.
Fortunately, we see other wildlife: three moose along the river, pika
with their whistle-like chatter as we cross many a rockslide, and an
assortment of birds moving across the sky.
We have a long, 22-mile ride the first day, so stops are few, save
for a couple of quick snack breaks and a sack lunch at Needle Creek
where there's an old miner's cabin. Creeks are plentiful in this part
of the country. In fact, we crossed so many creeks and rivers that
I lost count.
Our ride through the
wildflower-blessed, glacier-carved valley leaves us literally on
the edge at times, as
we traverse open
slopes of "scree" or
loose rock, places where if you drop your hat it just might keep
on tumbling for several hundred feet. But, the horses know the
trail so
well they could do it in the dark.
As we ride up the
trail traveled by the likes of the Shoshone, as well as John Colter,
a mountain man
and meat
hunter for the Lewis and
Clark Expedition, one of the boys asks, "Are we almost there yet?" Some
things never change, not even in the wilderness.
Blissful Camp
We enter Bliss Creek Meadow as the last light of the day touches it.
When the sun disappears, we whip out our light jackets as we continue
our trip into camp. Camp is in the trees at 8,400 feet, in the heart
of the 4-mile-long meadow.
Barks and a "howdy" greet
us. The howdy comes from wrangler Brad, the barks from Yanni,
a giant Great
Dane, and Shadow, a loveable
Newfoundland/Labrador mix. We hit the ground at 7 p.m., kind of
stiff and sore, but pleased nonetheless. I give Sugar Ray a hug
and head
for my tent.
Brad shows me around,
introducing me to my "home" for
the next few days. Unlike my fifth-wheel trailer, my tent comes
equipped with a wood-burning stove. Other amenities include a propane
lantern
and wooden cots with thick foam pads. All I've brought along are
my sleeping bag, pillow, clothing and a few personal items.
The horses and mules unpacked, the camp cook starts dinner. We gobble
up our delicious meal (every meal is scrumptious in the wilderness),
end it with cherry cheesecake about midnight and hit the sack
An early riser, I slip out of my canvas tent at first light to photograph
scenes worthy of dew-soaked jeans and wet, soggy boots. The rest of
the group wakes up to two cow moose chasing each other through camp.
Even 13-year-old Justin is pleased. We enjoy a late breakfast, and
then, while the others take a hot shower (what a luxury!), or try their
luck at fishing Bliss Creek, I hike a couple of miles up the meadow
to some big rocks, a rainbow of lichen smothering them like a warm
comforter.
That afternoon, Doud, Brad, Chuck, Justin and I ride up to the place
where Bliss Creek begins, traversing lupine-covered meadows en route.
Chuck scurries up a nearby peak just to get a different view. He comes
back grinning, thrilled with his short adventure. I'm so in awe of
the place I barely notice.
Dawn Riders
Morning number three dawns, and soon we are off, riding up to the
head of the South Fork Shoshone, about 6 miles away. Occasionally we
traverse steep open slopes and meadows where the views are terrific
and the wildflowers prolific. From atop my horse I can see purple bull
elephant's head, red Indian paintbrush, white columbine, powder-blue
forget-me-nots and purple larkspur.
Standing atop 10,200-foot
Shoshone Pass, we are nearly surrounded by granite mountains. Tom
exclaims, "This
is just like a postcard."
We search for grizzlies on the fourth day. The Clark Creek drainage
and 10,290-foot Pierpoint Pass provide access to a view of Hidden Basin,
where we see several dozen elk. Unfortunately, we don't see any grizzlies,
but we have never-ending views to enjoy.
Our fifth and final day evokes mixed feelings. Chuck is anxious to
call his girlfriend, but he's also had a great time and is anxious
to return someday. Justin has had some fun, but he is only five days
older at the end of the trip and remains hard to please. The adults
are all unanimous: We don't want to leave. We must, and do, but all
vow to come back again. Fortunately the memories of moose, mountains
and more will tide us over until the next time.
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