by Laura Crum
I nodded. Sounded like it would be a busy time in the backcountry. Well, mid-July, what did I expect? With any luck at all, though, I would still find myself alone at some of the high country lakes and meadows.
Taking another sip of my vodka tonic, I wished suddenly to be out of this bar, out of this crowd. I looked at Lonny.
"You ready to go?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"I'll buy you dinner," Dan Jacobi offered.
"I'll buy you all dinner," Ted said. He finished his drink and grinned at the group of us, seeming restored to good humor. "Steak on the house."
No use protesting. I was clearly in for a social evening. I followed the men out of the bar and down to the lodge, listening to Lonny and Dan talk about team roping horses. Ted added nothing to this conversation.
Ted didn't rope, or rather, he didn't team rope. He roped enough to catch and doctor his cattle when they needed attention and no chutes were handy. But, like many ranch cowboys, he disdained the competitive rodeo sport of team roping, considering it impractical, for dilettante cowboys with no real chores to do.
Lonny, on the other hand, had never been a rancher. Unlike Ted, when Lonny'd owned the pack station he'd kept only the horses and mules. Lonny roped for fun and was a keen competitor, although he was also perfectly capable of roping cattle out in the open, in order to help Ted or some other ranching friend.
We settled ourselves in the cowboy room and were served dinner and beers by a silent Harvey, to the accompaniment of a nonstop conversation about horses. I contributed the occasional question or story, but mostly I just listened.
Dan Jacobi had a knowledge of horses that was wide and deep and eclectic. Though he was primarily known for cowhorses, particularly team roping horses and ranch horses, he appeared willing to deal in any kind of horse, as long as he could make a profit. He talked of buying Thoroughbred horses off the track and selling them to be jumpers; he mentioned buying horses from the livestock auction, destined for the killers, and sorting through them to find which might be suitable pack string and dude horses for Ted.
"And you've been buying those gaited horses, what do you call them?" Ted asked him.
"Pasos. Peruvian Pasos. People with bad backs like 'em. They've got real smooth gaits."
"Where did you say you got them from?" Ted asked.
"South America."
Ted grinned at me. "Old Dan's a real wheeler and dealer."
Well, sure, I thought. Dan was a horse trader. Where you could make a dollar on a horse, there he would go.
Seeming to catch my thought, Dan Jacobi smiled at me. "I was raised by the gypsies, back in Oklahoma," he said. "I grew up buying and selling horses. Sometimes I like it; sometimes I hate it. But it's what I know how to do." He was quiet a moment. "I sure am gonna miss Bill," he said reflectively. "He was a friend. And he knew a hell of a lot about horses."
I nodded sympathetically.
He smiled at me again. "Sure you wouldn't like to move to Oakdale?"
Before I could reply to this sally, Lonny asked Dan a question. "Do you have any idea what was on Bill's mind to make him do a thing like that? Was he sick?"
"Not that I know of," Dan said.
"Maybe it was seeing Blue," Ted interjected.
"Seeing Blue?" I asked.
There were a couple of seconds of quiet. Lonny looked uncomfortable; Dan Jacobi looked impassive. Ted's eyes were sharp with prurient interest. I had the distinct sense all three men knew something I didn't.
"Seeing Blue?" I asked Lonny. "You mean that guy, Blue Winter? What does he have to do with it?"
Lonny looked at the remains of his dinner, then at me. "When Bill's wife left him, she lived with Blue awhile."
"That's right," Ted said. "She left him for Blue. And then she left Blue and went back to Bill. And then she left Bill again."
"I thought you said Bill's wife left him because of his drinking." I was addressing my remarks to Lonny; Ted's gossipy tone got on my nerves.
"She did," Lonny said. "Blue just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I don't think Katie was ever very serious about him. She left him within a year and went back to Bill."
"Blue was pretty broke up about it," Ted said.
"But then she left her husband again?" I asked Lonny.
"That's right. He was drinking a lot."
"What happened to her?"
"She left the country," Dan Jacobi said. "Nobody knows where she went."
"Oh."
"Maybe Blue shot Bill," Ted said. "Over Katie."
I looked at Ted. "You don't like this guy Blue much, do you? And Bill Evans told me he was trying to kill himself."
"Maybe Bill was covering up." Ted said.
"Why would he do that?" I was feeling fairly annoyed at Ted. "And what is it you have against Blue Winter?"
Ted shrugged. "He thinks his shit don't stink."
Belatedly it occurred to me that Ted had had several drinks in the bar and a couple of beers with dinner. He was now more than a little drunk, his straw cowboy hat tipped back on his head, his eyes slightly unfocused, his voice sloppy. There was no way I was going to get a straight answer out of him.
Besides, I thought I could answer my own question. No doubt Ted disliked Blue Winter partly because Ted didn't make any money on him. Blue packed his own horses into the mountains; he didn't use Ted's stock or his crew. And more than that, I imagined that Blue Winter probably didn't kowtow to Ted the way most of the customers did. Ted was a czar in his little fiefdom; he didn't have much use for those who weren't interested in paying homage.
So what's the big deal, I asked myself. You know Ted's that way. What do you care about Blue Winter? You're getting to be a grouch in your old age, Gail.
It was true, kind of. Once again I was getting tired of the situation I was in. I was bored with Ted's gossip and posturing; I wanted out of here. When I was younger I was more patient, more enthralled with the lengthy business of cowboys talking about horses-and other cowboys.
I stood up. "I think I'll go check my horses. Nice to have met you," I said to Dan Jacobi.
He stood up. "Likewise, ma' am."
Lonny stood up, too. ''I'll go with you, Gail"
Ted remained seated and didn't meet my eyes.
Turning, I walked out the back door, Lonny following me. I wished he weren't. I wanted to go into the Sierra night alone, check my horses in peace and solitude.
Well, you will, I told myself silently. You will. You'll be alone soon enough.
EIGHT
Sunday passed uneventfully. I spent it going over my gear, checking my lists, packing the last of my food items. My horses rested, the dog rested, I rested.
Monday morning I was up early. Dressing in the cool, sharp air, I went over my mental lists one more time. Had I forgotten anything? If I had, I would be doing without it. There were no convenience stores, no human habitations of any type, where I was headed.
I selected my clothes with a little more care than usual, thinking not about looks but comfort. Comfort and safety. I picked a soft cotton tank top in dusty brown, a faded sage-green shirt, and some old jeans. I wanted clothes that wouldn't restrict me at all, and in the unlikely event I needed to conceal my presence, would help me blend into the landscape.
The issues to do with being a woman alone had not escaped me when I planned this trip. Of things that were genuinely a threat to me, there were few: rattlesnakes and bears, in the way of animals; lighting and trail accidents, in the line of natural phenomena; and of course, other humans.
The likeliest danger was probably a slip on the slickrock, but I had tried to prepare for other possibilities as well. Were I, for instance, to be camped alone at a lake with a party of drunken men nearby, I wanted to be able to hide if need be. And if that didn't work, to defend myself.
So I had chosen the colors of my clothes with care, and my .357 pistol was at the bottom of my saddlebag, under my rain gear. It wasn't, strictly speaking, legal; howev
er, the law wasn't going to be much help to me where I was going.
I zipped a shelled pile jacket (dark green) over my shirt, and pulled my boots on. Creaking down the stairs, I could feel my heart thumping away, adrenaline rushing into my system. I was getting ready to ride into the mountains alone. For two whole weeks I would be completely on my own, cut off from civilization, dependent on my own resources. I was excited and scared, both at once.
I let Roey out of the camper for a brief run, gave her food and water, and locked her back up, hoping she'd eat as much as possible before we left.
When I got up to the horse corrals, I found that Gunner and Plumber had already been fed. Lonny leaned on the corral fence, talking to Ted.
The pack station was much quieter this morning, most of the parties having gone in on the weekend. Ted's crew was saddling a few horses; I didn't see any pack rigs in evidence.
Ted himself looked wide awake as usual; I heard him tell Lonny that he would be packing Dan Jacobi in himself.
I made a mental note to stay away from Huckleberry Lake, and smiled at the two men. "Morning," I said.
Lonny grinned. "So, are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
He slapped my shoulder. "You'll do just fine."
"The horses look good," I said, running my eyes over my two happily munching equines.
"You bet. You go on in and have some coffee and breakfast and I'll saddle and pack 'em for you."
I started to protest and shut my mouth. I would be leaving soon enough. Why argue with Lonny now? "Come on in and have a cup of coffee with me first," I said instead. "Let these guys finish eating."
"All right."
We trooped down to the cowboy room, Ted in our wake. So much for a few romantic moments together before I left. Instead I had breakfast with virtually the whole crew; the cowboy room bubbled with laughter and jokes.
Ted was telling Lonny about the horses Dan Jacobi had brought with him. I listened with half an ear.
"Best-looking gray gelding you ever saw in your life. Big and strong and pretty-headed. I told him he was crazy to take that ten-thousand-dollar horse up here in the rocks. Take one of my horses, instead, I told him. But he just says, 'That's what I own 'em for.' " Ted snorted. "I'd say he owns 'em to sell 'em, and there's no use crippling 'em up. But him and those two boys of his are riding those three fancy geldings to Huckleberry Lake."
Lonny shrugged. Ted had made the same point to me-I ought to ride his horses and leave my flatland ponies at home. Lonny didn't agree.
"I like riding my own horses. Maybe Dan does, too." Lonny grinned at Ted. "So you make a little less money."
Ted's turn to shrug.
I worked my way through a plate of French toast, more or less forcing myself to eat despite my chattering nerves. My mind flipped constantly from item to item-had I brought enough dog food, would I wish I had a heavier jacket, did I have enough painkiller in the vet kit?
Horse talk drifted past me; I barely heard it. Soon now, I would be on my own. Lonny got up and poured me another cup of coffee. ''I'll go get your horses ready."
"I'll go with you."
I stood up, carrying my coffee, and followed him out the door. Cold, clean early-morning air washed over me; the ridge line glowed in the pale gold sunlight. The Sierra Nevada, the range of light.
Lonny was catching Gunner and Plumber; I began ferrying my gear up from my truck. I'd packed the panniers yesterday, weighed them to be sure they were even, and organized my top load. Packing Plumber up this morning would be a relatively simple process.
I lugged my saddle up to the corrals, wondering yet again if I was making a mistake. The heavy roping saddle was familiar and comfortable, both to me and Gunner, but it weighed much more than necessary. Built to tow six-hundred-pound steers around, the saddle was certainly nothing a long-distance endurance rider would choose. But I reckoned the comfort factor was most important, and I wasn't planning on any really long rides. Twenty miles was the most I intended to cover in a day.
Lonny put the pack rig on Plumber while I saddled Gunner. Working as a team, we lifted the pack bags onto the forks, set the top load in place, and covered the whole deal with a plastic tarp. Lonny watched as I lashed the tarp in place, using the diamond hitch and the trucker's knots he'd taught me.
Plumber pinned his ears crossly when I cinched everything tight; like most horses, he disliked that part.
Almost ready now. I tied my saddlebags to the back of my saddle, let the dog out of the camper, locked the truck, and handed my keys to Lonny.
"I should be back two weeks from today," I told him. "You know my route."
"That's right." Lonny was bridling Gunner, and didn't look at me as he spoke. "If you don't show up, I'll come looking for you."
"Okay." Watching his back, the long muscles strong despite the roll over his belt, I felt a surge of affection. "Give me a hug," I said.
He turned, holding Gunner's reins with one hand, and hugged me roughly. "Have fun," he said. Then he handed the horse to me. "You'd better get going."
I smiled at him, knowing from long experience that he disliked protracted farewells. Well, so did I.
Setting my foot in the stirrup, I swung up on Gunner. Lonny put Plumber's lead rope into my hand and our fingers touched. He met my eyes, and his own eyes crinkled at the corners. "I envy you," he said.
I smiled. "See you soon." Taking a half turn around the saddle horn with Plumber's lead rope, I clucked to Gunner and called Roey, feeling slightly light-headed. Here we go, I thought, here we go.
The sun shone in my eyes as I rode out from under the pine trees; I was headed east. I turned to wave good-bye to Lonny, saw him standing in front of the old corrals, waving to me, and my heart twisted. Why so many choices, I wondered, not for the first time. To fulfill my dream, I had to leave Lonny behind. Just as he'd had to leave me behind in order to fulfill his. Why did life have to be like this?
I didn't know. I only knew I was riding down the trail on a bright summer morning in the High Sierra, headed for Snow Lake. This was the here and now, the present moment. It was time to toe that line.
Relief Peak glowed ahead of me; the ridges rose around me. I was where I'd wanted to be for so many years.
I reached down and smoothed a strand of Gunner's heavy black mane over to the right side of his neck. He walked down the trail, looking alert. Roey swished through the meadow grass beside us, a wide grin on her face. I grinned back at her.
So here we were. I began, slowly, to lapse into the trail rider's mind-set. Part of my attention stayed on the horses; I guided Gunner to the safer, easier parts of the trail, looked over my shoulder every few moments to take note of how Plumber was doing. I admired the scenery meanwhile, watched the dog scampering through the rocks, enjoyed the sun on my face. At the same time my mind drifted, going over the route ahead, touching on Lonny, wondering briefly what was happening back at the veterinary clinic.
In this way we progressed uneventfully up Camelback Ridge. I felt some trepidation as we approached the bridge, but did my best to hide it, knowing my own attitude would influence my horses. I talked out loud to the dog as we neared the spot, speaking in a light, conversational tone as though I were talking to a companion about the weather. Nothing settles a spooky horse better than the sound of his rider's voice sounding happy and unconcerned.
So I told Roey what a nice day it was, and sat easy and relaxed in my saddle, and though Gunner hesitated briefly and snorted, at a gentle thump on his ribs, he stepped forward onto the bridge. Snorting again and cocking a watchful ear at the odd-sounding thunks his hooves made on the wood, he tiptoed forward, as if he were walking on eggs.
But he went. Plumber followed. They'd been over this bridge before. They knew it could be done.
Once we were on the other side I heaved a deep sigh of relief. There was nothing too scary ahead, as far as I knew.
Upwards, ever upwards we went. Then, topping the ridge, we came down to the t
rail fork that led to Wheat's Meadow. I let the horses and the dog drink at the creek and then continued on, headed over the next ridge.
I was starting to relax now. The horses' necks were slightly damp with sweat; they appeared to be handling rocky areas easily and confidently. We climbed a small area of switchbacks that had been dynamited into a solid granite face, and despite the rock and the exposure, neither horse hesitated or slipped once.
Good. Very good. I let my eyes wander over the rock-and-pine-tree country spread out around me. In some ways, the Sierras, through dramatic and beautiful, were repetitive; how many ways can gray stone, blue sky, green pines be arranged? The tumbling streams and startling lakes and meadows were a motif constantly repeated. Although I never grew used to the flicker and dazzle of the aspen, or the human-sounding voices in the white water, or the stark moonscapes of the granite passes, they became familiar.
We were approaching a small meadow called Saucer Meadow. Relief Creek ran along the far side of it, and the whole thing was a blaze of brilliant wildflowers. Bright red-orange, sharp yellow, deep blue-violet, brilliant magenta pink. As the trail dropped into the little basin and flowers were all around me, I could identify some.
Lupine and paintbrush and asters in impossible profusion, wild columbines and leopard lilies, penstemons, larkspur, and monkey flower-to name only the ones I recognized. Arranging themselves in perfect harmonies and rivulets of color along the stream, colonizing a fallen log, grouped around a solitary gray granite boulder. I stopped Gunner and stared in amazement and delight.
There were no more flowers than butterflies. Small brown ones and blue ones the color of forget-me-nots, slightly larger ones like bright orange mosaics, large black-and-yellow striped swallowtails, and lots of monarchs. In the mid-morning sunshine, the meadow was a blaze of green, slashed with colors and flashes of colors.
Roey was delighted. Despite the five miles or so she'd covered already, she gamboled about, showing me the proper way to appreciate a meadow. Rolling in the long grass, wading in the creek, chasing and bounding after the butterflies-I laughed out loud to see her.
