The sun set at high noon in the bright bluebird sky as we escaped the heat in the tall grass under the aspens for lunch. My sister and I had our two saddle horses, Slick and Sonny, and a pack horse tied to the trees under the shade. The sun’s rays carry a heavy weight at 10,000 feet in the end of July. They show no mercy as they beat down on you with a fierce intensity, leaving your throat dry and a longing for all the water your saddle bags just can’t hold. We only had a few more blocks of salt left to haul across the high trail looking out over the East River and onto the backside of Mount Crested Butte. The wildflowers were just past their peak and they left us with waves of purple and yellow sun dried petals between mounds of skunk cabbage and fescue. We knew we needed to eat our lunch quick if we wanted to make it out before the big afternoon storm rolled in.
The end of July on the Dry Basin permit up Brush Creek always came with a promise of rain around 3 o’clock. With the rain comes crashes of loud thunder that rumbled through the valley and shake the ground beneath you. But the real star of the show appears suddenly and without notice, behind a veil of dark ominous clouds, calling for unwavering attention. It cracks down straight from the heavens in bright bolts of light, desolating anything in it’s path.
Earlier that summer my sister and I found ourselves on different parts of the range in a big lightning storm. I ended up long trotting my horse, Scoot, to the trailer dodging bolts of lighting just above the trail. My sister decided to take cover in a gully under some pines while she waited for the storm to pass. Without wanting a repeat offense, we quickly scarfed down our food and some water and kept climbing the mountain along the edge of the aspens.
With a few years of packing experience under my belt I had advised my sister at the start of the day to watch her lead rope as we navigated the tricky terrain, packhorse in tow. In years past I’d seen strings of horses and mules get tangled and wrapped around trees, horses pull back and break their lead rope because they were too nervous to jump over down timber, and rope burn on already hard, callused hands from pack horses busting into violent bucking fits. Old timers will always tell you to be prepared for the worst scenario to happen when you’re out on the range. You have to think ahead in the event that something does go array so you can respond in a quick and effective manner. Really, the absolute worst thing that could happen (AND does happen) is to go out into the mountains unprepared. More often than not we are out of cell service, on animals who come equipped with their own mind and instincts, surrounded by all things that are still left wild and untouched in this world. It’s beautiful and it’s dangerous all in the same breath. I think that’s why we love it so much.
I felt it before I saw it. We were zig-zagging out from our lunch spot in steep terrain, about to hit the top of the trail heading south. I had taken the big grey pack horse after lunch as we tried to climb our way out of the trees, stopping and resting every so often to give our horses a breather. On the last push before the top of the trail we had stopped again, and then I felt it. My butt dropped in the saddle and I felt the little sorrel horse, Slick, start to collect his back. He was always a kind of “snorty” horse. At a young age he’d been attacked by a mountain lion at the base of Mt. Whetsone which greatly attributed to his general uneasiness. We’d often laugh about his big bug eyes and stiff demeanor, though he was debatably one of the most reliable horses around. But this feeling was unusual… something was wrong.
I peered behind me to catch a glimpse of the sudden change in his body language and could see that there was clearly something stuck under his tail. It was the lead rope from our packhorse.
I quick stepped off on the uphill side, making sure to hold on to at least one of his reins in case he decided to become triggered by what was trapped under his tail. The grey pack horse threw his head down to eat as I watched the rope slide against his hide, holding it’s position under his tail ever so firmly. With the pack horse happily eating, I saw it as my chance to try and pry the lead rope out from between his tail and buttocks. But as soon as I touched the rope Slick collected his hind quarters even more, burying the rope even deeper. His eyes were wide, yet he stood there as still as a statue. *I’d like to make a side note here, that most horses don’t tolerate this.
I proceeded with caution. Annoyed, Slick pinned an ear back, but seemed more bothered by the fact that I was “messing around” back there than the rough lead rope that was jammed like a thick thong up his crack. We burst out laughing! My sister and I knew then that he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. I finally was able to gently wiggle the rope out from under his tail as the hog of a grey horse continued to chow down on the green grass behind us.
“Welp, that is exactly what you shouldn’t do!” I laughed back to my sister, letting out a sigh of relief.
A mile from the trailer, packhorse empty, salt successfully scattered we re-told the tale of the day as the clouds built up into a dark mass above us. Tears ran down our cheeks as we tried to recount the details of the almost wreck. Between wails of laughter and gasps of air I decided that I really needed to practice what I preached! It was a humbling moment turned comical. We drove out of the Jarvis as the rain started to come down, thankful to have escaped the storm and survived another day on the range.