Wilderness
Bliss
High
country hoof beats and haute cuisine above Cody, Wyoming
By
Donna Ikenberry
 Carey
marches up the slope, a staunch look of determination
on her speckled face. She's Sir Edmund Hillary, bound
for the top of Mount Everest. As we quickly gain
hundreds of feet in elevation, I gaze at my surroundings
- a dense forest of lodgepole pines, a singing creek,
a 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 Rockies 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 minutes 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 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.
Tim
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 clients. 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 father-son bonding thing
in recent years. The six of us met the rest of the
crew at that railhead, about 40 miles south of town.
While we watched as Timand wranglers Butch and Greg proceeded 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, Loco
and Casper.) "How many years have the mules and
horses been walking the trail?" (Many of the
animals have been packing in and out of Bliss Creek
for more than 20 years.)
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 on; others will get
a little mixed up if the rider uses the reins incorrectly
or sits off-center. But not these horses. Tim supplies horses that are mature, mellow and sure-footed.
Because I've spent time around horses (I used to have
some of my own), I rode Sugar Ray, a bay quarter horse,
and Carey.
Huge,
ear-to-ear grins spread across most of our faces as
we head 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.
Tim
straddles his wise 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 I 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 creature eludes us. Fortunately,
we see other wildlife: three moose along the river,
a grass-gathering pika as we cross a rock slide and
an assortment of birds.
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. I reckon it was at least a couple of
dozen, though.
Our
ride through the wild-flower-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 that's OK. The horses
know the trail; they can do it in the dark.
As
we ride up the trail traveled by the likes of the
Shoshone Indians and 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.
We
enter Bliss Creek Meadow as the last light of day touches
it. When the sun disappears, we whip out our light
jackets and continue to the camp. Camp is in the trees
at 8,400 feet, in the heart of the four-mile-long meadow.
Barks
and a "howdy" greet us. The howdy comes
from wrangler Brad, the barks from Yanni, a giant
Great Dane mix, and Shadow, a lovable 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,
this one comes equipped with a wood stove. Other
amenities include a propane lantern and wooden beds
with thick foam pads. All I've brought along are
my sleeping bag, pillow and personal items.
The
horses and mules unpacked, the camp cook starts dinner. We
gobble up our delicious meal (every meal is scrumptious),
end it with cherry cheesecake about midnight and hit
the sack.
An
early riser, I slip out of my canvas tent at first
light the next morning 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 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.
Morning
number three dawns, and soon we are off (all except
for two wranglers), riding up to the head of the South
Fork Shoshone, about six miles away. Occasionally we
traverse steep open slopes and meadows where the views
are terrific, 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 claims, "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, the grizzlies elude us, 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. But we have to, and we do, and we
all vow to come back again. Fortunately the memories
of moose, mountains and much more will tide us over
until the next time.
Donna
Ikenberry is a professional photojournalist who specializes
in hiking, bicycling and auto-tour guidebooks. Her
newest is Bicycling Coast To Coast, published by
Mountaineers. |
