by Nya Rawlyns
At over sixteen hands, not even his six-two and change was going overcome his lack of athletic ability. I’m a thinker, not a doer. Barking, “Stand,” he took advantage of the mule’s temporary distraction and swung into the saddle, his knee grazing the rolled up blanket and raingear tied behind the cantle.
“You ready, Tex?” Michael handed over the lead line attached to the mare’s halter. “It’ll be lunchtime before we get to the trailhead, rate you’re going.” The man’s lips twitched.
Glancing at his watch, Sonny humphed to himself. It was coming seven o’clock. They had a half mile of road, then another third of a mile on the other side of route 101 to the beginning of Deep Creek Trail. Realistically, they were looking at a couple hours in the saddle before reaching the turnoff to Crater Lake. After that, there was a steep climb to the summit judging from the tightly packed contour lines on the topo map.
The awkwardness from the night before, when they’d sat silently opposite each other, staring into the campfire, faded as Sonny asked, “Can you give me a clue what to expect?” He urged his mount forward so they could ride side-by side.
Michael answered, his tone of voice even. “You’ve looked at the topo map. What else do you need to know?”
Sonny allowed himself the fantasy that his companion was pleased he'd asked and admitted honestly, not ashamed of his own lack of knowledge, “Everything. Otherwise I’m going to be a liability neither of us can afford to have, wouldn’t you agree?”
Michael’s expressive mouth puckered, then relaxed as he described the trail up ahead. “As canyons go, it’s cut like a vee, maybe a thousand or so feet deep. At the Arlington end, the creek spreads out into a marshy area like it does here, mostly open with hills and remnants of old mine tailings. We won’t be going that far, though.”
Sonny asked, “Is the trail well-maintained?”
“It was. Back a few years this section was designated a National Recreation Trail. They had enough funds to build bridges and such, but George said lately there’s been a lot of erosion and trail damage. Enough to recommend this area be designated Wilderness.” He pointed to his pack horse. “I packed some folding saws in case we run into deadfall. We each have one, right side panniers. Might get interesting in those sections where it narrows.”
Michael took point, feeding out enough line to keep his pack horse just off the chestnut’s flank on the Creek side. Sonny thought he’d rather have his mare against the rock wall to keep the gear safe, but on second thought realized if she spooked it was better her going down the steep incline into the creek rather than him and his mule.
Sonny was used to packing in the relatively open areas in the Absaroka Range where first order of survival was don’t let your mount graze on the downhill slaloms. Beyond that you just trusted your horse to do the right thing.
The canyon narrowed significantly as they tiptoed along the rocky path, making slow time over the two mile stretch before reaching the spur that would take them up to Crater Lake. For Sonny it was time well-spent watching Michael’s body sway with the motion of his gelding. He was relaxed in a way Sonny hadn’t seen in the short time he’d known the man. For once, Michael wasn’t on a short fuse, and although Sonny admitted to himself that the man’s scowl lit him up and turned him inside out with greedy lust, this new Michael was even more... more... He grasped for the word, finally muttering, “Alluring,” though that seemed girly and not quite appropriate.
Michael twisted in the saddle just as the word left his mouth. Sonny thought the man had heard him and was going to lay into him again. Instead he said, “Twenty yards ahead, take a left. Watch it though. There’s a bank. Give your mare her head.”
Nodding he understood, Sonny stayed back, giving Michael and his animals room to maneuver. When it was his turn, the mule lunged easily up the bank, though Sonny’s shoulder was wrenched as his mare struggled with the weight of the panniers and her shorter length of stride. Michael shook his head in disgust but refrained from making a comment.
Sonny recalled Ranger George assuring him the warden would bring him back alive. While that was a comfort, it did little to prop his rapidly failing self-esteem, especially when he seemed intent on self-destruction without any help from Mother Nature.
Do as he tells you. Don’t argue.
Right. Score one for stupidity.
****
They followed the trail paralleling the small creek spilling down the hillside from the lake above. It was a four hundred foot plus climb, a third of a mile of tough going, more suited for hikers than for pack animals. When they reached the top, Michael moved his animals out of the way to allow Sonny to come alongside.
Sonny asked, “This isn’t volcanic, is it?”
“Nope, not at all. Looks like it though, which is probably why it got the name, Crater Lake.” He pointed out the surrounding curved wall of rock soaring a couple hundred feet above the pristine lake. “What you’re looking at is a hanging lake, left over from when the glacier receded. In case you’re wondering, it’s spring fed and I don’t rightly know how deep it is.” He dismounted, asking, “You hungry?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it.”
“Good. Let’s follow the shore away from the campground. There’s just enough space over there to tie these guys up while I catch us some lunch.” Sonny looked perplexed, so he explained, “This here lake has some nice pan-sized brooks according to George.”
“Oh, okay. What do you want me to do?”
Stepping carefully on the loose gravel, Michael led the way toward the uphill side of the lake. Pointing to a cleft in the trees, he said, “That path leads to another trailhead. It’s about two miles out. We won’t be taking that.” Flicking his chin in the direction they just came from, he said, “We’ll be heading back to Deep Creek to see if we can spy that snowmobile trail further on.”
“Is that how we get to Timber Lake?”
“In theory.” Michael smirked at Sonny’s expression. “Go on, do your thing. Days might be getting longer, but that doesn’t mean much when you’re down in a canyon. We got us a ways to go before we can find a place to camp.”
He’d expected to find a few anglers hogging all the best spots, but mercifully they were alone. Withdrawing the hard shell carrying case protecting his fishing tackle from the pannier, he berated himself for not picking up a soft side version the last time he’d been in Laramie. Up to now he hadn’t worried too much about excess weight since he tended to travel light, catching his meals, and using his portable water purification system to handle his hydration requirements.
He’d been tempted to force Sonny to abide by his own minimalist standards, but good sense and a guilty conscience overrode his baser instincts. Just because the man drove him batshit nuts with those bedroom eyes and an ass that might as well be wearing a neon sign flashing do me, do me hard wasn’t a decent enough excuse.
Besides, one thing he’d grown sensitive to was how his own hair trigger temper was often misdirected at folks who didn’t deserve a shitload of ugly coming down on their heads. People who succumbed to that behavior were called bullies. He despised them. Sometimes that meant he despised himself, but it was something he was working on.
Dr. Seamus Rydell had him considering he might want to work harder at it.
That wasn’t the only thing he needed to work on. It had taken every ounce of self-control he could muster not to jump the fire pit the night before and strip blondie down to his creamy flesh, licking his way from the man’s toes to...
Crap, down boy.
As he cast his line, Sonny came up behind him, chattering like a magpie. “Found a level spot, but it’s too close to the trail. I don’t think this would be a suitable location for the instrumentation we’re looking to install.” He held up a compact camera. “Took pics, just in case.”
The tall drink of water looked so kissable, Michael considered dropping the tackle and showing sex-on-a-stick the meaning of suitable. Reluctantly he suggested, “How about ge
tting a fire going. There’s aluminum foil in the saddle kit.”
“You certainly came prepared. Sounds like you brought everything but the kitchen sink.”
Michael huffed, “That’s why I bring a horse, not a pony, to the party.” He wrist-flicked the line again, sensing some interest. “Go on, lab rat, or we’ll be having sushi instead of nice fried brookie.”
Sonny carefully wrapped the remains of the trout in the aluminum foil and tucked it into a plastic garbage bag for disposal when they got back to civilization. Michael concentrated on dousing the small fire and generally making their temporary picnic area look nearly as pristine as when they arrived. It took his mind off his misery, since watching Sonny lick his fingers, one at a time, had been almost more than he could take.
What nagged at Michael was the question... was blondie completely clueless about the effect he was having, or was he deliberately taunting him? Clueless he could almost buy. The man was only four or five years younger than him, but he acted naïve and guileless most of the time.
Rydell had mentioned he was the youngest in a family of women. Most times being the baby in the family meant you got coddled and spoiled rotten, but instead of growing up a selfish little prick like you’d expect, Sonny displayed amazing sensitivity. Sensitive and clueless made for an interesting combination.
But then there was that harder edge he’d caught a glimpse of in the parking area. Sonny had let his inner devil loose, just a fraction, when he’d taken off with the rig, leaving him to hoof it all the way to the lodge grounds. He’d been pissed purple at first, but all it took was one look at the guy’s guilty puppy dog face and all bets were off.
George had reminded him, none too kindly, he had deserved it. Besides, turnabout was fair play, especially when he hadn’t been on his best behavior since their formal meet and greet from way back in the conference room. Sussing out his reactions to Seamus Rydell was proving to have a lot more entertainment value than he’d first planned on.
They made quick work of checking girths and adjusting the panniers. Michael gave each horse and the mule a handful of Calf Manna. It was a good source of protein and highly digestible. Their problem in this section of the National Forest was finding sufficient forage for the animals which was why he was so anxious to get back on trail to find their layover for the night.
Sonny was scanning the topo map, his brows knit tight in concentration. When he looked up, he remarked, “Looks awful steep. You sure this is the way to go?”
“Not that way.” Michael traced his forefinger in a southerly direction. “See how this contour line bends around?” Sonny nodded. “The snowmobile trail follows that. Or it did at one point. I’m banking on it being clear enough to serve our needs.”
“What if it’s not passable?”
Michael shrugged. “In that case, we turn around, head back to the campground, call George and have him send his brother back up to the lodge.” Disappointment flooded Sonny’s face. Michael hastened to reassure the man. “Buck up, bucky. We’re not calling it quits. We take these guys home, then grab us some decent backpacks, heavy duty hiking boots and extra wool socks.”
“You mean walk in?”
Michael grinned. “You’re brighter ’n you look, Rydell.”
The man beamed, his face writhed in a dazzling smile. “I was afraid...”
“Afraid I’m a quitter? Not on your life, Tex. You paid me to take you to Timber Lake, so Timber Lake it will be.”
He gave Sonny a leg up onto the mule and gently placed his foot in the stirrup, then smoothed down the roughout leather chaps to lie flat against the fender. He liked the feel of lean muscling on legs long enough to wrap around him and hold him tight. Maybe he liked it too damn much. He needed to get a grip, and not the kind that would net him a boot heel in his gut.
Sonny mumbled, “Thanks,” and settled his butt in the saddle. As Michael handed him the lead line for the mare, the tall man cocked his brow and said, “I think you’re confused, Warden. I haven’t paid you.”
Looking up at amber eyes darkened to a challenge, Michael purred, “You will, Tex, you will.”
Chapter Eight
Roughing It
Sonny watched Michael trudging up the hill on autopilot, two lead ropes in his left hand and the saw in the other. When the tangle of downed limbs got too thick to push through, he ground-tied his horses and hacked out a small opening, just wide enough for the pack animals to squeeze past.
In his mind’s eye Sonny saw the openings spookily close behind them, leaving their little caravan no way but forward toward the next wall of dense foliage or a miniature mountain of small-to-midsize boulders.
Pausing from his labors, Michael bent at the waist, blowing hard. Despite having actually dropped altitude, it was still hard to catch your breath given the amount of effort they were expending.
Sonny yelled, “Yo,” to get Michael’s attention. He nodded to show he was listening. “I’m ready to call it quits if you are, Brooks.” He glanced at the rips and eroded spots on his work gloves. Two weeks ago they’d been brand, spanking new. Now they were in tatters.
They were spelling each other with the grunt work, but the rest periods were too few and far between. And worse yet, they were running out of light.
Stretching his back, Michael groaned as he sank onto his heels. Joining him, Sonny said, “Honest to God, Michael, I’m serious. This isn’t worth killing ourselves over.”
The grim set to Michael’s mouth eased in relief, but it was short-lived. “We’re in a bit of a pickle, Tex. It’s gonna be dark soon, and I don’t know if it’s safe trying to spend the night here.”
“Why not?” To Sonny, it seemed like a decent spot—a natural fence fore and aft to keep their stock in. A bit of grass, not much, but enough to keep them from starving to death. The down side, other than the steep, forested slope to their right, was lack of water.
“Storm’s coming.”
Sonny stared at the man. “What, you have the Weather Channel on your watch?”
“Listen.”
He did. Other than the wind soughing through the trees there wasn’t much to hear—his mule munching a few leaves, the steady beat of his heart, Michael sucking air. The forest moving in a rhythm as old as time. Nothing seemed out of place. He threw his hands up, bewildered.
“Wind’s coming from the east. Can’t you taste it?”
“Taste what?”
“Rain.” His knees creaking, Michael stood and walked to the rocky slope they’d been circling for hours. Hands on hips, he surveyed the area, muttering to himself.
Sonny admitted, “Now you mention it, it does feel sort of humid.” The air had gone dense, thick, like back home in Jersey when the east wind brought a storm with tropical deluges. Neck hairs prickling, he said, “If it rains hard, it’s gonna come down that mountainside like a waterfall.” That would solve their water problem, just not in a good way. “If we turn back now, it would only take a couple hours to reach a high enough spot to avoid living under Niagara, right?”
Michael snorted. “Not feeling being a lightning rod.” He pulled the topo map from his rear pocket and spread it on the ground. “I’m no geologist, but this here slope’s mostly a granite outcrop. Runoff and cold causes fissures, splitting the rock and weakening the face.” He looked up. “I think it’s worth the gamble pushing forward. If we’re lucky, a few hundred yards ahead, the trail will slope down and away toward the valley floor. We get low enough we might luck into that natural meadow I was telling you about.”
“If we aren’t?”
“We get wet and have a story to tell.”
Frowning, Sonny growled, “I’m not much good at telling stories.”
Michael gripped his shoulders, his mouth close enough Sonny tasted the scent of fear and determination. “Then let’s make sure we don’t have any to tell, Dr. Rydell.” He released Sonny and barked, all business again, “Tie the stock nose-to-tail. Make it a damn conga line. You handle them while I go ahe
ad and clear what I can. Let’s keep pressing ahead. If I’m wrong...” He let the words empty into the thickening air.
Sonny listened harder, feeling rather than hearing a faint rumble of thunder echoing off the tops of the hills. Doing as instructed, he tied quick release knots, allowing each horse and the mule very little leeway for a kicking contest to start. The mule seemed to understand the concept, settling in his first place position, ears twisting but his body posture and eyes attentive. The big red gelding went last. He had too much acceleration at his command. If the horse spooked it was possible he’d pull the entire line into a mad dash to God knew where.
By the time he reached Michael at the next downed tree, the man turned and barked, “Next time remind me to pack a damn chainsaw.” He’d created a narrow gap, not quite wide enough for the mule and the panniers.
Sonny suggested, “Take the pack off the mule and lead them through. I’ll bring the panniers separately.”
“The stuff in the bags weighs close to a hundred and fifty pounds, Rydell. That’s dead weight. Let me...”
“No. You can control the stock better than me. I can do this.”
Don’t argue with him.
This wasn’t arguing, just pointing out a fact. Sonny knew he didn’t have what it took to handle four spooked animals in a situation going to hell in a handbasket. He’d rather admit his weaknesses and focus on his strengths. It was the only way they were getting off the mountain in one piece.
Working quickly and efficiently, Michael stripped the mule of the bulky canvas bags and dropped them on the ground, leaving the framework intact. He reached to remove the breeching but Sonny stopped him.
“He’ll do what you want if he leads, but not if he’s last in line. He’ll lay down and make you drag him. Leave the frame. It’ll give you something to tie the lead line to.”
“You said he kicks.”
“Not if Peanut is directly behind him. Tie her up close so he can’t get his butt in the air as easily.”
Michael asked, “You ever want to shoot this sumbitch?”