by Birgit Stutz
When we got to the spot where the trench was to meet the groomed snowmobile trail, Stuart and I stopped and put up the two signs, one facing each way. We also left a few shovels there and put flagging tape around some of the trees to make the area more visible.
Just before noon, we stopped at the Renshaw cabin to warm up for a few minutes. I told a group of sledders inside about the horse rescue and asked them to come help shovel.
“You’ll generate heat doing it,” I said, hoping to entice them.
“We’ll go ride first and then we’ll come help for a while,” said one.
I had my doubts. They were already drinking beer.
Once we reached the horses, I put my balaclavas and gloves under the hood of the sled, on top of the still-warm engine so they could dry before I started the day’s shovelling. I had learned my lesson from my first day on the mountain.
As for Belle and Sundance, they already looked quite a bit better than they had two days before. When we got there, they were clearly happy to see us and gave us a soft, low whinny as a greeting. Horses housed in a barn or corral and fed according to a schedule know when breakfast comes even a minute late, and they inform everyone of their displeasure. The whinny from Belle and Sundance that morning was more of the pleading kind: “Feed us. Please, please feed us.”
Jamie Wiltse had given us two more horse blankets, these ones made of thick canvas. I fed the horses and then put an additional blanket on each of them—the mare, to my pleasant surprise, actually stood still this time.
Stu, meanwhile, gathered firewood so we could melt snow to water the horses. And then we set to work on the trench.
With only two of us digging, and my having to trudge back to the campfire several times throughout the day to refill the bucket and tend the fire, we didn’t make much progress. Nevertheless, we had fun. We joked with each other and teased each other, doing our best to lighten the work. “Got to keep laughing to keep from crying” best defined the day. Thursday I had felt down, numbed by the impossibility of our task. Not today. Besides, the sun was shining, the sky was a deep azure, and there was not a cloud in sight on this gorgeous clear day. And I liked Stu. He was not the sort to laugh out loud, but he seemed always to wear a smile on his face. He struck me as a man content with his lot and alive to the glories of nature. Over a Thermos of coffee or while breaking for lunch, we talked about the splendour of the alpine, the horses and their predicament, and what their owner had and had not done. Stuart was an easy man to talk to. And, like Matt, content to let others grab the spotlight.
Stu presented an idea—typical of him, it was offered as a suggestion, not issued as an order—that we quit work at the top end of the trench earlier in the day so we could spend time starting a new trench at the bottom to give people an incentive to dig from that end as well. So we worked away where we were until almost three o’clock and then returned to the horses.
Sundance still wasn’t drinking, and I was a little concerned that he might suffer an impaction colic—blocked intestines from a solid mass of food. A horse needs water when fed hay. But the gelding did seem to eat quite a bit of snow. Not the same as drinking water, but better than nothing, I figured. It’s true what they say: you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. After feeding the horses more hay, watering them and checking their blankets, Stu and I headed out.
I had not minded the ride in as much that day, but I was dreading the cold ride out after working up a sweat shovelling. When we got down to the groomed trail, we found a snowmobile parked to one side. The machine belonged to Jesse and Liz Trask, a young couple from McBride. Having seen our signs, they’d started work on the bottom part of the trench and had already dug from the groomed snowmobile trail to the creek. Jesse was busy flooding the creek bed to make an ice bridge.
I was pleased by the initiative, but hardly surprised. Handy and hard-working, Jesse is a mechanic by trade and a farmer. He and Liz knew exactly what had to be done, and they did it.
Under all the snow, which had acted as an insulating blanket, the water in the creek hadn’t frozen yet, so it would have been impossible to cross the creek with the horses. Only a thin layer of ice lay between the snow cover and the water in the creek, which, beneath all that snow, was still flowing straight down the mountain—virtually north to south. Jesse’s solution was to shovel a path about three feet wide and four feet long—running east to west. He left about a foot of snow, then made a hole in the ice, just above his path, and scooped out water, which he poured over the snow where the crossing would occur. Mother Nature would do the rest overnight; before morning, the new path would be slippery but rock solid.
Stu and I worked alongside Liz and Jesse for a while. Soon after, we heard voices. Two snowmobilers who had seen the signs we had posted had walked down the trench to investigate. They promised to talk to other sledders and come help shovel the next morning. I was skeptical. Monika had had little success mustering volunteers back in the parking lot. Owing to the bitter cold, few people were going sledding. Like me, many no doubt had had trouble starting their snowmobiles and trucks. And the beer-drinking sledders I had tried to coax into helping earlier that day never did show up. Not everyone is moved by the plight of stranded horses.
The ride out was worse than Thursday’s. My toes went numb. I tried moving them around but still couldn’t restore feeling. The trip seemed to take longer too, and literally it did. Stu stopped every once in a while to make sure Jesse and Liz were still behind us—a matter of courtesy and safety that, while necessary, also prolonged the journey down the mountain.
When we got to about kilometre five on the logging road, Stu stopped suddenly. In the near darkness, I couldn’t see much, but I thought we were stuck. The creek, we discovered, had flooded the trail, and huge ice chunks were scattered everywhere. The water must have encountered an ice jam, and when it broke, the creek overflowed its edges. I got off the sled so Stu could manoeuvre it across the ice. By the time we arrived at the parking lot, darkness had descended, and I could hardly feel my extremities anymore. Stu’s beard and moustache were white with hoar frost.
Fortunately, Stu’s old Chevy—about the same vintage as my venerable Ford—started right away. While he loaded up his sled from the loading ramp, I pulled out my cellphone and was surprised to find I still had battery power left. It was a challenge to dial Monika’s number with my numb, uncooperative fingers, but I got through. She was going to meet me at Stu’s house and give me a ride home.
A welcome sight greeted us when we got into Stu’s truck: a plastic container stuffed with sandwiches. The sandwiches were from Joette Starchuck, who had come out to the Renshaw parking lot with food and hot coffee and to keep Monika company while she tried to recruit sledders as diggers. This was one more example of someone in the community finding a way to help the rescue effort—by helping the helpers.
Stu and I didn’t talk much on the way home. I was already looking ahead, laying out all the chores I had to get done.
Once at Stu’s place, I positioned myself in front of the wood stove and didn’t move until I heard Monika’s truck pull into the yard. I was still frozen, still unable to feel my toes, and I barely warmed up during the twenty-minute ride home, even though the heater in her truck was blasting. Instead of just dropping me off at home, Monika kindly stayed and helped me do chores.
Reg and his wife, Krys, had invited me to their place for a Christmas party that night, but by the time I got inside after taking care of the animals, I was too tired and chilled to consider leaving again. What I needed most was a hot shower. As well, I had no vehicle: my truck probably wouldn’t have started (I had once more unplugged it so the horses could have water). On top of that, countless phone messages and emails awaited replies, which would consume most of my evening. The audience for this story was growing steadily, and people wanted the latest information on the rescue and on how they might help.
After my shower, I seated myself at my computer and read th
rough my emails. Joette, I saw, had been beating the drum. She had contacted all the local hotels, and staff had advised her that several sledders were going to help. Her email had come in that morning. I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t seen it before heading to Dave’s, for the message hinted that more diggers were coming. I would have gone up the mountain full of hope, only to see that hope dashed. Joette had also alerted major TV and print media in Prince George, Vancouver and Edmonton. A national broadcaster, CTV, planned to run the story very soon—using my photos sent by Lisa Levasseur, who had also been spreading the word. As well, Joette said, an SPCA official had apparently eaten breakfast at a local hotel and talked up the rescue to sledders at the counter, who seemed keen to volunteer.
In another note, Lisa wondered if the trench we were digging posed a hazard to sledders unaware of the rescue effort. She worried about sledders getting seriously hurt, creating a major liability issue for everyone involved. Her suggestion was to place bright marker flags on wire, flagging tape and danger signs along the entire length of the trench. I questioned whether the risk was real. The horses were in a steep and heavily treed location; only the most reckless recreational sledders would go in there. Rescuers had tried describing the terrain to others back down in the valley, but you really had to see it to truly understand it.
Emails and phone calls from people offering help poured in all evening. I sought advice on handling volunteers from Rick Maitland, who had many practical suggestions: how publicizing photographs of the horses can stir involvement, how a nurse or ambulance worker at the base of the mountain could be useful, how the sledding community was key to the rescue. “PLEASE USE THE MEDIA!” Rick wrote, using capital letters to drive home the point. “Contact all of them. Put a plea out for help. Let’s make this truly a Christmas gift to remember—a gift of life! The media is what is going to bring the volunteer helpers out. . . . MOST OF ALL, DON’T GIVE UP.”
That evening, I checked the sledders’ forum to see what people were saying about the rescue. Some correspondents worried that the trench was too narrow; one or two again argued that the money being spent on the rescue should instead go to charity. Many others were brimming with ideas: putting homemade plywood snowshoes on the horses, packing down a trail with sleds, hauling the horses out on a skimmer, using the groomer to break a trail, pulling a trailer behind the groomer, and clearing the trail with snow blowers. One correspondent wondered if we could put water on the snow to make a narrow path of ice before laying down a series of trailer mats for the horses to walk on, with the last mat being brought to the front as the horse walked over the one behind. Another suggested tying the horses to a platform of old mattresses overtop heavy plywood. Rick Maitland proposed getting a bobcat, cat or backhoe up to the logging road and digging from that end. He was not the only one suggesting the use of heavy equipment, but unfortunately, as I knew from being up there, the steep terrain and deep snow—snow that due to the extreme cold would not pack down—made that option impossible.
This kind of brainstorming offered a measure of the widespread concern in the community—and indeed, across the nation—for the horses. Although most of these ideas had already been voiced by the volunteers actively involved in the rescue—again, one had to be on the mountain to understand what we were up against—the moral support, the keen interest that so many people took, was heartening.
A McBride horsewoman (recovering from surgery and unable to help with digging) offered to provide stabling, feed, hay, medications, horse supplies and doctoring for the horses if needed. A horsewoman from Valemount spent several hours going from business to business putting up Lisa’s flyers, and Marc put flyers up all over Jasper. A growing number of people in the Robson Valley and beyond were now working behind the scenes.
Four days before Christmas, the weather warmed up somewhat. It was still cold, but probably ten degrees warmer than the day before.
Over breakfast, I read an email from Elsie Stanley (Glen Stanley’s wife), who was responding to a note that I had sent her along with a piece in the Prince George Citizen that referred to “the mystery” of two horses being up on Mount Renshaw for what the article suggested was a six-week period.
“My husband,” she wrote, “spent a couple of days hiking in the Renshaw in mid-September and saw the horses—took pictures of them. He was concerned about them so contacted the RCMP. They put him in touch with the Alberta owner, and they had a chat. . . . Glen volunteered several times to go with him to retrieve the horses, and the owner suggested which day he would be coming out again. . . . Glen was out on the highway the day the fellow was supposed to be coming, and saw a red pickup from Alberta with a two-horse trailer so assumed that was him, but never heard from him again so had to assume the mission had been accomplished.
“I just happened to be talking with someone on Friday who knew of a mutual friend who had been up digging on the trail, so heard about the horses still being there. I told Glen and he’s quite ‘sickened’ by the neglect. . . . Just wanted to tell you that the horses have been up there on toward four months, and nothing mysterious about it.”
What was beginning to sink in was that several people had seen the horses alone on the mountain that fall. But for various reasons, the plight of the two horses was never brought to wider attention.
Hiker Glen Stanley did call the RCMP, but he was under the impression that the situation would be taken care of. Had Glen, or anyone else, known that it hadn’t been taken care of, they might well have called the brand inspector, put up flyers or mentioned the find to other horse people in the valley. I, for one, would have happily ridden up there in the fall with others to get those horses down. It would have been fun. But assumptions had been made, too much time had lapsed, and the logistics of any successful rescue had become much more complicated.
That morning, thankfully, my truck started. Elated, I headed to Monika’s house to pick her up for that day’s shovelling. In the truck, we talked about sundry matters: who might show up to shovel, the condition of the horses. Sometimes, we just drove along in silence as old friends will do.
While waiting for others to show up at the Renshaw parking lot, Monika and I talked to a group of sledders from Alberta. We asked them to come help shovel for a while.
“We’re here to ride,” said one.
“Believe me,” I replied, “we have other things to do as well. But we can’t let these horses starve.” I continued giving them a hard time, but nothing seemed to come of it.
Afterward, Monika laughed to herself. “They’re not going to come now,” she said, “the way you talked to them.”
Dave then showed up, followed by Leif. Stu had stayed behind to deal with frozen water lines at home but would try to come later. Liz and Jesse Trask had bowed out for the same reason. The intense cold was taking its toll. Dave had told me that Stu wasn’t feeling well either, but later that day—a measure of his commitment to the mission—Stu came up and put his shoulder to the trench.
As we loaded hay bales onto the two sleds, I talked to Dave about Lisa’s concern that the trench posed a hazard to sledders.
“The trench winds through the trees,” he said. “Really, only locals know the area. I don’t think we have to worry about it.” I agreed.
I rode in with Dave, while Monika rode with Leif. Ice chunks still marred the trail. In the light of day, I could see the extent of the ice jam: some of the hundreds of pieces of ice were the size of portable televisions, others as big as desktops, and they were scattered over a twenty-foot section of the trail.
I had no helmet today, but even with my toque and two balaclavas, I was freezing. The wind chill on a sled in this kind of cold is mind-boggling. It felt as though somebody was pressing ice cubes to the top of my head.
As always, Belle and Sundance were happy to see us. They looked more chipper than they had the day before and whinnied a “where’s my breakfast” greeting. Apparently in good spirits, they were a little spunkier than the last time I’d
seen them. Although each of the horses had a flake of hay, sometimes the gelding would push the mare to one side.
“Move,” he seemed to be saying.
“Make me,” she seemed to reply, but ultimately she would comply.
Neither horse was shivering; the two blankets each wore seemed to be doing the trick. After feeding the horses their hay, I placed the new cardboard sign beside the hay bales, stored a few feet away from the horses.
Eight of us dug that day. Dave, Monika, Leif and I laboured at the top, and Dean, Barry, Steve Iben (another resident of McBride) and Stu, at the bottom. Mother Nature bestowed on us another stunning day up in the mountains. It was a lot warmer than the day before and, again, completely clear and still.
This day, though, was the toughest day for me so far. I started out already very tired, so every shovelful seemed like a huge effort. I kept hitting snags. At one spot, where the trench turned a narrow corner to avoid trees, I encountered roots and had to dig around and underneath them to reach the ground. Because we had milder temperatures, the snow was also starting to compact, which made for harder digging and lifting.
As well, we didn’t dig according to the system we had used on Thursday (with three or four volunteers spreading out as a team and digging only a few feet down before moving on) because circumstance cut into our numbers. At the bottom, Steve had to leave early and Stu came late. At the top, Leif, who had been using a chainsaw to trim branches that stood in the way of the trench, left when his back got sore. Monika and I, both only about five-foot-four, had a hard time throwing the snow beyond the six- to seven-foot-high walls of the trench. The snow kept falling back in, which was very frustrating. I can’t say why we decided to forgo the stairway system that had been serving us so well. Maybe we succumbed to psychology. Having three diggers spread out made it seem as though we were making more progress. So Monika, Dave and I were the only ones left at the top by the early afternoon.
