by Laura Crum
Clucking to Gunner, I guided him around the log and down the gully Lonny had described. Sure enough, in fifty feet or so, I saw a duck.
"Follow the ducks until you come to the fern meadow," Lonny had said. "From there you can see the lake."
I followed the ducks. It was easier said than done. The wind blew in fitful gusts, whipping scattered drops of rain along. The horses were antsy and uncooperative, still upset, just as I was myself. Whenever I had to stop and reconnoiter, Gunner pranced and Plumber tugged on the lead rope.
At one point I found myself on what appeared to be a path-less field of granite, my way marked only by these obscure little rock stacks. I followed where they led, hoping some practical joker hadn't moved them all last week.
I heard a crack of lightning and the accompanying roll of thunder and shivered. The rain came down more heavily, dripping steadily off the hood of my slicker. Gunner's neck was wet. My jeans were starting to soak through where they stuck out beneath my slicker.
Damn. This whole day had gone so far wrong it would be laughable, if I weren't having to cope with it. Here I was, alone in a literally trackless wilderness with a storm about to break overhead. Having just escaped a rattlesnake and some major rockfall.
Lightning flashed again; thunder rumbled almost immediately. Rain cascaded out of the sky, as if someone had suddenly turned up the shower. Visibility was getting difficult. I parked Gunner under a pine tree and stared out at the uncompromising place I'd chosen for my vacation.
Another clash of light-a huge ka-boom. The storm was right above. Peering through the half dark, I tried to judge whether my pine tree was the tallest one around. It was providing us with a certain amount of shelter; big drops fell on us at intervals rather than a steady barrage of wind and rain, but this would not be a worthwhile trade for being struck by lightning.
Never stand under a tree in a lightning storm, they say. I wondered again who they were. This advice was ignored by virtually everyone I knew. Who wouldn't take shelter in a downpour?
The horses stood quietly now, heads down. Water ran off them. They lifted their heads sharply at each flash and drum roll, but seemed willing enough to wait out the deluge under the tree.
In the next second my hair stood up. Lightning again, a strange green light and an eerie crackling hiss. Instantaneously, a deafening crash.
Shit. "That was too close," I told the horses. "That hit right near us." They huddled together, their eyes big. Roey was curled in a small, shivering ball at the base of the pine.
I tried to decide whether I should leave the shelter of the tree. Rain poured down in sheets; I stayed put, shivering.
The next bolt of lightning was farther away. I kept thinking about one of Ted's favorite stories-the two cowboys who had been struck by lightning as they were crossing Emigrant Meadow. "Both their horses killed dead under them." Ted would repeat it with apparent relish.
I trembled with cold and fear and wondered what in the hell I was doing here. What had made me think I could cope with all this alone, what stupid hubris had drawn me out into this godforsaken country to what looked to be my imminent demise.
The rain was abating a little, but I still huddled under my tree, feeling helpless. Jesus, it was all just too much. I didn't feel up to dealing with it. I wanted to crawl into my nice warm bed in my cozy little house. I wanted back to civilization, pronto. I'd had enough of the wilderness.
I stared down at my small red dog, who was shivering even more than I was. Tough luck, Gail, I told myself. You chose to be here, and you have to take care of these animals. They're counting on you; you can't let them down.
"Okay, okay," I said aloud. One thing about being alone in the mountains, you get to talking out loud. "I'll persevere."
The downpour had decreased to a sprinkle; it was time to ride on. I could hear intermittent thunder a ridge or two away, but the sky was steadily getting lighter where I was. I lifted the reins gently, clucked to the horses, and called Roey.
Wet and bedraggled, we moved out, aiming for the duck I could see up ahead. Three ducks later we were in the fern meadow. Through an opening in the trees, I could see the gray, restless water of Red Can Lake. Now all I had to do was get down to it.
Once again, easier said than done. Lonny had explained to me that this was the tricky part. "Follow the ledge to a crack that runs down the rock face. It's a pretty wide crack. Just stay in it. You'll be fine. The crack will take you right down to the lake."
Lonny's directions proved accurate, but, as usual, he'd way underestimated the scary factor. I felt completely exposed, riding a horse along a granite face that looked as if it should have been reserved for rock climbers.
Gunner picked his way obediently down the crack under my direction; I could only hope Plumber would do the same. My heart thumped steadily and I cursed my own foolhardiness. Why, why, why had I ever chosen to put myself and my horses in this much danger?
The lake was just ahead of us now. I could see what Lonny meant. Despite its storm-ruffled appearance, it was truly lovely. Smaller than Snow Lake or Wilma, Red Can nestled in a granite hollow on the rim of a huge canyon. The entire shoreline was granite, except for the small green jewel of a meadow we were descending into.
The meadow was ringed by rocky gray walls on three sides and by the lake on the fourth-a proper box canyon. I could turn both horses loose here. There was one small grove of pine trees with a little-used fire ring in the middle. I rode the horses up to it and dismounted.
The rain was over; the sky had turned a pale, misty gray. I stared around at the most perfect campsite I'd ever seen and patted Gunner on the neck.
"We made it," I said.
FIFTEEN
The next morning dawned gray, but with no actual precipitation-yet. It hadn't rained all night, either, for which I was grateful. I spent a leisurely few hours in camp, taking my time over coffee while Gunner and Plumber grazed contentedly in the meadow. I figured I'd ride to Wood Lake in the afternoon and camp there. It hadn't been part of my original plan, but what the hell. Plans were for changing.
Eventually I got everything packed back up again-no small chore. The pale, evenly gray sky had resolved itself into a pile of heavy thunderheads over the peaks, and I thought it might rain again in the afternoon. I wanted to be snug in camp at Wood Lake when the storm broke.
Getting out of Red Can turned out to be trickier than getting in. I stared at the steep crack I'd descended the day before and wondered how in hell I'd get back up. Leaving my horses tied to trees, I investigated on foot.
A closer inspection was not encouraging. As Lonny had told me, a horse had to stay in the crack. The steep granite slope on either side was slickrock, and absolutely prohibitive. Any horse who tried to clamber along there was going to fall.
I tried to decide what to do. I could lead the horses up, one at a time, hoping they would stay in the crack behind me. But there were problems with this. I had less control when I was leading them rather than riding; I couldn't really stop them from moving off the dirt onto the rock. Also, they would be anxious, separated from one another, and this might cause them to hurry.
On the other hand, if I rode Gunner and led Plumber, I wouldn't really be able to control the pack horse at all. Odds were he'd follow the saddle horse, but I couldn't be sure. And if Gunner slipped and went down, I'd go with him. Scary thought.
I stared at the crack, my heart starting to pound. There was no other way out of here. I had to go up that thing unless I planned to spend the rest of my life at Red Can Lake.
"We went down it; we can go up it," I said out loud, though I knew this wasn't necessarily true. Horses tend to go very slowly and carefully down steep descents, and they have an equal impulse to hurry on climbs. Trying to get some momentum up, I supposed. Whatever their reasoning, it made going up tricky spots more dangerous than going down. Down felt scarier but was actually safer. All the major wrecks I'd seen on mountain trails involved a horse or mule scrambling while climb
ing up a tricky piece of rock.
I couldn't stand here all day staring at it. Walking back over to the horses, I untied them and mounted. For lack of a good reason to do otherwise, I was going to do this the cowboy way.
Clucking to Gunner, I pointed him in the right direction; he started up the crack. I tried to keep a steady, gentle guidance on the reins, checking him when he hurried, aiming him toward the dirt footfalls, not disturbing his concentration. I leaned slightly forward so my weight was over his withers where he could balance it best. I kept my eyes on the crack, my concentration straight ahead. I could hear Plumber behind us; there was slack in the lead rope. I didn't look back.
We almost made it. We were near the top of the crack, right where it merged into the ledge, when it happened. The first warning I had was the tension on the end of the lead rope. I looked over my shoulder to see that Plumber had balked, unwilling to make a steep step up that Gunner had taken in stride. I clucked and tugged firmly, trying to stay calm.
Plumber hesitated and then, to my dismay, he stepped to the right, out of the crack, trying to go around the step up. I tugged on the lead rope, said "Whoa," to no avail. The little brown horse took one step on the slickrock and slipped, going down to his knees.
I let go of the lead rope; no use pulling Gunner down, too. Plumber scrambled; his shoes clanged and crashed against the rock, throwing sparks. He was up; he went down again; I thought he would surely roll to the bottom of the slope.
"Please, God, please, God." The words were loud inside my head. Somehow the little horse came up again and stood, all four feet in the crack, shivering.
“Whoa," I said out loud, trying to sound calm. What in the hell am I supposed to do now, my mind shrieked. I didn't have hold of the lead rope; I couldn't dismount. After a moment the only possible answer presented itself. I had to ride Gunner out of here and take my chances on what Plumber would do.
I clucked to my saddle horse and put some slack in the reins. He stepped up the crack. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see that Plumber was following, dragging the lead rope. I prayed he wouldn't step on it and throw himself off balance.
He didn't. We made it onto the ledge, in one piece, more or less. I dismounted and looked Plumber over carefully. He had a few scrapes and he'd lost a shoe. The scrapes were mostly minor, though one on his left front cannon bone was bleeding pretty steadily. The lost shoe, however, was a problem.
I got on and rode off the ledge into the fern meadow. Here I tied both horses up and dug some antibiotic salve and an EZ Boot out of my saddlebags. I rubbed the salve on Plumber's scrapes, and pulled the EZ Boot, an adjustable plastic boot made for this purpose, over his bare left front hoof. Then I walked back down to the crack to look for the shoe.
I found it very near the spot where Plumber had fallen. It was bent; he'd clearly stepped on it with either a back foot or his other front foot when he was scrambling. I wasn't sure what good it was going to do me. I had some minimal shoeing gear stowed in my pack, but my skills weren't really up to straightening this shoe out and nailing it back on.
In the course of my work as a veterinarian, I'd learned to pull horseshoes off. This was a necessity; in order to take X rays of the feet, I needed to remove the metal shoes, and I could hardly demand that the client do it, or expect that a horseshoer would always be handy. But pulling a shoe off was a two-minute job, requiring only minimal skill and some familiarity with the operation. Nailing a shoe back on was a good deal more difficult, and I had never done it, though I had seen it done, often.
I walked back to the horses, carrying the shoe. Plumber could wear the EZ Boot for now. Maybe he could even wear it for the rest of the trip. It was a cinch he couldn't be barefoot in this rocky country. He'd get sore right away.
Stuffing the shoe in my saddlebag, I untied the horses and climbed back on Gunner. Onward.
We retraced our route to the main trail and began descending the other side of Seavey Pass. Big vistas of granite and sky opened up in front of us. Thunderheads were piled high above the ridges, their tumbled gray masses complementing the rough gray rock below.
Beautiful, and slightly ominous, the Sierras beckoned. A siren saying come hither. I smiled to myself. Here I was, hastening to follow the call. To what end?
We went on. Once we were off Seavey Pass and in woodland again, I started to relax. No more tricky trail, and the clouds looked as though they might be breaking up. Perhaps it wouldn't rain after all.
I began to fantasize about a warm, sunny afternoon in camp at the as-yet-unknown Wood Lake. I would take a swim. Two days of no bathing had left me feeling a little grungy. Time for a wash.
The trail continued gradually descending. Wood Lake was a few miles ahead-an hour's ride.
Looking back over my shoulder, I watched Plumber for a while. He was sound, at the walk anyway. Apparently, neither his scrapes nor the lack of a shoe was causing him much grief. The EZ Boot was doing its part and staying in place. If his leg swells, I thought, I'll stand him in the cold water of the lake for a while.
Pine trees and granite, pine trees and granite. Down the trail we went, in a steady procession, Roey trotting quietly behind Plumber. I was half asleep when Gunner jumped up in the air, nearly jarring me loose. I clutched the saddle horn with one hand and jerked on the reins with the other.
"Dammit," I swore. Gunner froze.
It took me a second, but I got it. Rope under his tail. I hadn't been paying attention, and the lead rope had slipped under Gunner's tail. Plumber must have leaned back on it a little and it had become wedged up high.
Gunner was still frozen in place. Thank God. I had seen an otherwise gentle rope horse buck furiously and violently until both its rider and the rope under its tail came loose. But many horses, and Gunner appeared to be one, tended to freeze up.
I got off slowly and carefully, talking soothingly. "Take it easy, buddy, just whoa, I'll get it out, no big deal."
Patting Gunner's rump, I reached for his tail and gently pried it up. Gunner trembled, but he allowed it. I eased the rope out.
Gunner snorted. His eyes were big. I patted his shoulder and told him what a good horse he was as I climbed back on, reminding myself to be more careful. Lonny had broken his shoulder when a horse bucked him off in the rocks-all because of a rope under the tail.
Fortunately my horse was not inclined to bucking. Still, a rope under the tail was just cause, and I needed to prevent it from happening.
We rode on. I stared ahead through the seemingly endless forest, looking for the openness and light that would indicate a meadow or a lake. The ground grew wetter; a stream ran along the far side of the canyon, but the low ground we were traveling on was just plain muddy.
Both Gunner and Plumber snorted and hesitated each time we had to cross a mucky spot. Like most horses, they hated mud. I kept a careful eye on Plumber, hoping he wouldn't pull the EZ Boot off.
The canyon was narrowing and I could see light ahead. The trail was also growing wetter. We scrambled through some spots that were knee-deep, both horses floundering.
I was getting nervous; I didn't like mud either. Visions of quicksand rolled around my mind. At each wet spot I balked right along with the horses, trying to determine where the footing was firmest.
Damn. The trail passed between a rocky bank and a bit of thick forest, and the crossing looked like a tar pit. Thick, gooey, black mud-churned up from all the feet that had crossed it previously. Yesterday's rain hadn't helped it any.
The horses and I stared. I felt like snorting, too. It didn't look like there was any way around. Dubiously I selected the right-hand side as being the likeliest, and urged Gunner forward. He hesitated, then lunged.
Big mistake. He sank into the mud to his shoulder; the abrupt forward motion and sudden dive to ground level pitched me off. Fortunately it wasn't far to fall. I landed easily in wet black goo and floundered to a purchase on a log. Gunner and Plumber struggled and scrambled, bogging down and heaving themselves out
, until they stood on the other side of the muddy crossing. Roey trotted over to me and licked my hand.
Damn, damn, damn. Ignoring the dog, I picked my way toward the horses. At least they stood. They stood on all four feet, black with mud, but apparently okay. I remembered Lonny telling me that he thought a bog was almost as great a danger as slickrock.
Thanking God that neither horse was inclined to run off, I caught them and inspected them closely.
Shit. Damn. Son of a bitch. I wished I knew some better cuss words. Plumber had lost the EZ Boot. It was no doubt at the bottom of that bog, and I knew right away that I'd never find it. I had one more in my saddlebag, and that was it.
Cursing steadily, I climbed back on. Plumber didn't need the boot on this soft ground, and I wasn't taking a chance on losing my last one. I'd put it on him when we got to some more rock.
Mud dripped off me as I rode on. I could see light up ahead but it wasn't cheering me much. Nothing seemed to be going right. I was virtually snarling as I rode out of the trees into a meadow that fringed the shore of a lake. Wood Lake, by my reckoning. And there, camped at the edge of the forest, was Dan Jacobi and his crew.
SIXTEEN
I pulled up. My thoughts were unprintable. These were the last people I wanted to see. And there was no getting out of it. There were three men in camp, and all were staring right at me. Dan, blond Steve, and a third, shorter man with brown hair, whom I didn't recognize.
I was covered in mud, I was in a foul mood, and now I had to deal with these guys. "Hi, Dan," I said, pretty damn ungraciously.
"Howdy, ma'am." He touched his hat. "Looks like you had a little trouble with that crossing."
"I did." I knew I sounded pissed as hell.
He ran a practiced eye over my horses. "They look okay."
"I think they're all right." At this point my brain kicked in, pushing my emotions out of the way. I might not be glad to see these guys, but they could be the solution to one of my problems. "The pack horse lost a shoe," I added diffidently.