by Todd Borg
“Give me a sec.” He walked out.
I heard Lana say, “Missing something?”
“Guy’s awful tall. I need the big saddle. I think I left it in the horse trailer after that desert ride.”
“I already set it on the paddock fence,” Lana said. “And the trailer was parked over the edge of my flowers again.”
“I didn’t do that,” Tory said, sounding defensive. “I’ve been very careful about that.”
“Okay, it moved itself.”
Tory came back into the tack room, shaking his head, carrying a large saddle. He began explaining about sizes of saddles and cinch straps, and which bridles were for which horses, and how to check saddle blankets for any sharp bits of pine needles or grit before putting them on the horses, and why they rode Western-style, and how little a horse should be allowed to eat on a ride, and many other details that I was already forgetting as he heaped information on top of more information. Combined with Tory’s gruff, brusque manner, I gathered that his intent was to overwhelm me.
Tory handed a saddle blanket to me and draped another blanket over a saddle.
“Your saddle is outside.” He grabbed his saddle and blanket, and we walked outside and set the tack over the fence.
We went back into the barn and Tory opened one of the stalls, clipped a short line to the halter of the horse inside and handed me the line.
“This guy will be your horse,” Tory said. The huge gelding looked like its front half had been dipped in chocolate and its back half dipped in cream and then sprayed with chocolate drops. “His name is Paint. He’s twelve hundred pounds of muscle, so he’ll have no trouble hauling someone your size up the mountain.”
Tory took another, smaller horse out of its stall.
“This one’s Prancer,” he said.
We brought both horses outside into the bright light and looped their short halter ropes over fence posts.
Tory showed me how to bridle and saddle both Paint and Prancer. I noticed that of the two saddles, Tory’s was the one with the padded seat and mine was made of leather so hard it may as well have been made of wood.
“Lana told me that you’re going all the way up to the Tahoe Rim Trail, then down the east side fifteen hundred feet, and back again.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You think we’re crazy?”
“No. You’ll be fine. Your lady friend knows what she’s doing?”
“It was quite a few years ago,” I said. “When she was in college she worked a couple of summers at a dude ranch in Jackson, Wyoming.”
“Then she’ll be your guide. It just takes one person who knows horses to lead a group, so to speak. First, you and I will go on a check-ride, make sure you’re comfortable and your saddle fits and all that.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
Tory went over more things to keep in mind, tips about climbing into the saddle, and how not to get my feet caught in the stirrups, and leaning forward when going up a steep trail. I got up on Paint, and he adjusted the height of the stirrups.
“There, easy as one, two, three,” Tory said in a condescending manner as if I were a three-year-old. “Now try letting go of the saddle horn, and sit up a little straighter. You know, when they teach flying lessons, they always stress holding the yoke gently.”
I knew where he was going with that. “Yeah, I’m actually a sometime pilot. The key is a light touch on the yoke, fingertips of one hand. The plane flies better when you stay relaxed.”
“Exactly the same with horses.”
“Difference is, planes do exactly what you tell them,” I said. “Not so sure about horses.”
“You can be sure. Horses are naturally obedient.”
Right, I thought.
“I’ll jump on Prancer,” Tory said. “Then we can take a turn through the forest together and get you up to speed.” He turned toward Prancer and swung himself up and into the saddle in one smooth motion.
“I thought Prancer bucks men off,” I said.
“Who told you that?”
“The Elles.”
“Then I’ll ride her like a girl, all soft and gentle.” He gave me a look that was half sneer. “We’ll start on a wide trail where we can ride two abreast.” He made a little motion with his hand on the reins, and Prancer trotted up a trail heading north into the woods.
I didn’t do anything, and Paint walked along after Prancer. I shook Paint’s reins like I’d seen in the movies, and he sped up to a trot, naturally drawing alongside of Tory and Prancer. I didn’t even have to steer.
The trot was excruciating in its jarring bounce.
Tory must have read my mind. Or maybe he saw one of my fillings come out. “A little faster is easier,” he said. He must have made a secret signal, for Prancer sped up into a kind of loping gait. Paint followed, just a touch behind and to the left.
“This is called a canter,” Tory said, his voice louder to carry over the beating hooves. “Feels just like sitting in a rocking chair, doesn’t it?”
I thought nothing of the kind, but it was smoother than a trot. We went for some distance. Spot ran large circles around us.
“There’s a trail coming up that turns off to the right,” Tory shouted. “It’s single track, so I’ll pull ahead. Then you follow me.”
Without any telltale movement, he got Prancer to speed up ahead of me, then he veered off on a narrower trail. I pretended I knew how to indicate the same intentions to Paint, and, like magic, Paint followed him.
We were now galloping fast through the forest. Trees rushed by at a dangerous speed.
Tory and Prancer leaned into two or three S-turns. In time, we came to another fork in the trail. Tory shouted back toward me.
“If we go straight, this trail would take us up to Cave Rock. Instead, we’ll make a sharp right just up ahead.”
“Got it,” I shouted back.
Tory didn’t slow Prancer at all as he shot off onto the new trail, leaning hard to the right.
I understood that he was trying to push me far past my abilities. Yet Paint followed Prancer. We made a loop through the woods. In a minute, we came back around toward the Mondrian box. Prancer slowed, as did Paint. Tory brought Prancer to a stop, and jumped off. He took Paint’s bridle and pet Paint’s forehead.
“That was great, Owen. You’re a natural,” he said with obvious sarcasm.
“You say that to everyone.” I swung my leg over and got off. My legs and groin were already sore. It was going to be a long day.
“No, I’m serious. You’re practically a trail hound.”
I had no idea why Tory had such an attitude about me. Maybe he had expected me to be more obsequious as he played the role of equestrian expert. Or maybe it was something about my appearance. Although Tory was muscular, he was about eight inches short of my six-six. I’d seen it before, men who want to make tall guys pay for the unearned advantages that the world gives us.
“Well,” I said, “I felt a little out of balance when we hit top speed back there,” I said. “But I didn’t fall off, so I guess that’s a good sign.”
“That was barely a slow gallop. Maybe you and I should ride together sometime. All the riders around here are women. It would be good to do a guy’s ride for a change. We could get out and let these horses really open up. Burn off some of their energy.”
“They go much faster than what we were just doing?”
He scoffed. “Twice that fast.”
“Thanks for the offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”
FOUR
Fifteen minutes later, Street, Spot, and I were well down the single-track trail, with Street’s toolbox of forensic gear strapped onto the back of her saddle.
“Watch out when Paint’s ears go flat against his head like that,” Street said. “It means he might take a nip out of your leg.”
“Good to know,” I said. Now that Paint was preparing to swing that huge jaw around for a taste of my shinbone, the merits of riding instead of hiking up under the hot August sun s
eemed less clear.
I gave Paint my best Clint Eastwood glare. But according to Tory, he had 1200 pounds to my 215. I don’t think he was fooled into thinking that I was the alpha male on this journey. Reaching forward, I patted his big neck just behind his right ear.
“Easy, boy. We’re pals. I’m just along for the ride.”
Paint turned his head just enough that I could see the evil look in his right eye. Then he resumed walking, slower than before. Paint labored his way up the dusty trail with all the enthusiasm of the kiddie-carnival donkey of my youth, groaning with each step.
Street and Prancer were ahead of me, giving me a good view. Street had grown out her auburn hair. She’d folded it like ribbon candy into loops and gathered it into a clip. She wore tight jeans that were tucked into boots with tall heels that hooked on her stirrups so that her feet couldn’t accidentally slip through. Golden, stitched patterns danced up the sides of the boots. On Street’s long, thin legs, they looked like a special feature in the Victoria’s Secret Cowgirl catalog.
Paint and I were falling behind again. I gave him a squeeze with my legs and shook the reins.
“C’mon, big guy. Maybe pick up the pace?” He came to a stop, swung his head around and leered at me, ears back.
“It wasn’t a critique, bud. Just a soft sell. I’m on your side.”
Paint turned away and jerked his head out, loosening the reins, then stepped off the trail to munch fresh grass with vigor. At least he had enthusiasm for something.
Spot appeared, running through the trees on one side of the trail. He crossed in front of Street and Prancer and ran through the trees on the other side.
Street stopped and turned back toward me. “Spot likes this exploration stuff. Look how he gambols through the forest.”
“Street, my sweet, Great Danes don’t gambol. Deer and their fawns and the occasional pair of young girls gambol. Spot’s cheery Harlequin exterior belies the reality that he is a predator with fang and claw. He hunts and stalks and pursues his prey with relentless cunning and focus.”
Spot ran out of the trees and did a quick stop in the trail. A dust cloud wafted off on the gentle breeze. He had a bent stick in his mouth and dirt on his nose. A purple wildflower was stuck in the toes of his left rear foot. He looked up at us, wagged, then chewed the stick into pieces.
“I see what you mean,” Street said. “Ferocious predator.” She appeared to do nothing, yet Prancer trotted ahead.
Paint walked behind. I shook the reins to attempt to get him to speed up, but he did not take the hint.
Unlike Paint, Prancer was a deep mahogany color. Unlike Paint, Prancer had a surfeit of enthusiasm. As Prancer trotted, Street went up and down with every other beat. The horse bounced, but she looked smooth.
“What is that you’re doing?” I called out.
“It’s called posting,” she shouted back at me. “Keeps your brain from getting loose when a horse trots.” She pulled Prancer to a stop and gazed out across the lake.
“How does a childhood runaway who studies bugs know about posting?” I asked. “They teach that at dude ranches?”
“Yeah. But I learned about horses the same way I know about bugs. Books. You should try posting when you trot.”
“You should try making Paint trot,” I said.
Street headed up the trail, walking Prancer now as the trail grew steeper and started to wind. We came to the second Y in the trail and took the high road once again as instructed by Lana.
A youngish man with a camera around his neck and a pack on his back came hiking down toward us. The camera had a long telephoto lens. Despite the warmth of summer, he wore long sleeves and a red knit cap. He had no hair below the cap. When men shave their heads - guys like Tory - they usually don’t put on caps to cover up. Maybe this guy was in chemo.
“Morning,” he said, giving us a pleasant smile. He stepped off the trail to let us by. Spot walked up to him, sniffing, wagging. The man was hesitant, but he didn’t voice any fear. He slowly reached out and pet Spot.
“Get any good shots?” I asked, pausing Paint as Street rode on ahead.
“Not really. But I’m not after scenic shots. I’m looking for our newly famous forest resident.” He pet Paint on his forehead.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“You haven’t heard of our wild Mustang?”
“I didn’t know there were any Mustangs in Tahoe.”
“There aren’t supposed to be. A few people own Mustangs that they adopted from the Carson City Prison program, but those are kept in stables like all the other horses in Tahoe. They don’t live here naturally. Too much snow for them to survive in winter. Even so, we’ve got a wild one now.”
“You’ve seen it?”
He nodded. “I read about it in the Herald before I saw it. The reporter hadn’t seen it, either, but other people had phoned in sightings. The reporter even gave it a name, called it Heat. Now I’ve seen Heat twice. Not today, though. He’s become a kind of obsession for me. I’ve even put up a website about him. People can post sightings and trade info on what might be the best way to bring him safely back home, wherever that is. If we can’t catch him, his chances are pretty bleak. He’ll get mired in the snow. If you see him, will you let me know?”
“Sure.”
He pulled a home-printed business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it up to me. “Otherwise, you could go to my website and post the time and location you saw him.”
I took the card.
The man continued to hold his hand out. “I’m Travis Rundell, by the way.”
“Owen McKenna.” We shook. “Heat is a funny name for a horse,” I said.
“It’s because the people who’ve seen him say he likes to stand in the sun. He seeks out the little open meadow areas in the forest. It makes sense when you think of it. Mustangs live on the open range. They spend their whole lives in the sun. It would be hard to go from that to life under the forest canopy. You should check out the reporter’s blog. Her name is Glenda Gorman, and she’s been writing daily reports.”
“We know Glennie,” I said. “A friend of ours. Where’s Heat been seen?”
“Right here in these forests of the East Shore. That’s why I’m so excited about it.”
“What’s Heat look like?”
“Prettiest horse you’ve ever seen. Deep cherry color, with a triangular blaze on his forehead. The triangle points down. Heat is large for a Mustang. But not big like this horse, of course.”
“I’m curious about how a wild Mustang would end up in Tahoe.”
“Me too,” Travis said. “The most likely explanation is that someone adopted him, but he wasn’t really domesticated. So he escaped into the forest. Both times I saw him, he ran away and disappeared. Same thing as when other people have seen him. The only other possibility is that he somehow came by himself up and over the mountains into the Tahoe Basin.
“Anyway, I hope you enjoy your ride. The views up on the mountain are great. Oh, one more thing before you go.”
“Yeah?”
“There are two guys who’ve been out riding these local trails over the last couple of weeks or so. We think they’re just summer visitors who are staying near one of the stables. They’re a bit intimidating. They drink and carry on, and they harass other riders. I just saw them up this trail, about a half-hour hike above us. They were pretty drunk, so I just thought I’d warn you.”
“Appreciate that,” I said.
I rejoined Street and Spot. I told her about the Mustang as we followed the trail up the mountain. Paint went slowly, always looking for a tuft of grass to eat. Street and Spot gradually got far ahead of us. They were waiting as Paint and I finally labored our way up to the four-wheel-drive trail below Genoa peak. We both dismounted to drink water, stretch, and enjoy the view.
A few minutes later, we got back on our horses and, with Street leading, worked our way over to the saddle.
There was no Jeep waiting for us. We’d gotten the
re before Diamond and his deputy.
“There’s a cairn on top of that boulder.” Street pointed to a small stack of rocks that someone, Diamond perhaps, had assembled. “That probably marks the trail that descends down the canyon toward Genoa.”
It was indeed a trail, and it showed recent footprints.
“Do you think we should wait for Diamond?” Street said.
“No. We agreed that if we didn’t see each other, both parties would head down to the site. Getting there before them will give you more time to collect your goodies.”
“Never thought of forensic specimens as goodies,” she said.
The view now showed Carson Valley in one direction, and Lake Tahoe in the other. Carson Valley was 1600 feet lower than the surface of the lake. Because the lake just happened to be a bit over 1600 feet deep, the bottom of the lake was the same elevation as Carson Valley, making it easy to visualize the depth of the lake.
Street started down, and I followed. After twenty minutes, Paint saw an opportunity. He stepped to the side and gobbled fresh green where a late-season water seepage oozed out of the rocky slope and fed a serpentine tail of wildflowers and grass.
“How much farther? This giant food processor won’t be happy until we get back to the barn and give him dinner.”
Street paused Prancer at a switchback where there was a small level area. She held up her map, compared it to the landscape, then pointed down the mountain. “If you look south to that descending ridge, then follow it down to where it intersects with our canyon, that point is near our destination.”
I nodded. Street started up again, and I followed. A half mile down the trail, Street stopped and studied the map again.
Paint had fallen behind, and he wheezed his way down toward them. He reached out and bit down on a Manzanita bush as we went by. And I thought horses knew their food. The Manzanita bush, tough as steel, would not give way. Paint, maybe dumb as steel, kept walking, his teeth clamped onto the bush. We rotated around it until we were facing the opposite direction, back up the mountain, at which point Paint, in danger of losing his molars, let go.
