Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery)
Page 7
Gunner gave an impatient tug on the reins. Either let me eat some grass or let's get moving, he said. I thought about it. Saucer Meadow was lovely, but we still had roughly fifteen miles to go. I had planned to stop for lunch at the aptly named Lunch Meadow, another five miles ahead. Better keep moving.
I clucked to the horses and rode on. The breeze brushed my face gently, as I tried to take it all in. The sunny expanse of green and flowers, with the wind blowing through the willows and cottonwoods that fringed the stream banks. Such warm, open, friendly greenness, so free and full of light. It was an amazing contrast to the hard stone country all around it; it seemed almost magical.
I looked over my shoulder as we entered the pine forest once again, saying good-bye.
Another rocky ridge ahead. Pine trees and granite. The wind moved, that clean, lonely Sierra wind that blows in the pines. Around me the rocks seemed to tumble in a frozen cascade, a jumbled silver granite landscape ever restless in its heart. The meadows and lakes were tiny flecks of stillness in a great, rough tapestry of hurled rock.
I rode on. Slowly the feeling of being alone in these mountains was coming back to me. Each mile that took me farther from the pack station, from civilization, from my real life, brought me closer to that old feeling, that elusive sense of place.
I’d been here alone before; I knew these mountains. They weren't a place of close, warm, familiar beauty, they won't cuddle up to you as some gentle hills and pretty valleys will. I felt dwarfed, always, by the roughness of this place, by its indifference.
And I felt honored to be here. To be tolerated by these bizarrely lovely mountains-this place not made for man. Only in the meadows, and in those little pockets of meadows on the shores of the lakes, did I ever feel briefly at home, as though perhaps I could really live here.
I clucked to the horses, called to the dog. For now, I was a sojourner; for the present moment, my home was on my back. Or, more literally, on Plumber's back.
I was getting hungry. By my reckoning, it was almost noon. Reckoning was all I had to go on; I hadn't brought a timepiece. By choice, not error. I'd learned from my solitary backpacking expeditions that I could tell time well enough for my own purposes by the sun, and it was an extraordinarily freeing feeling to do without a watch.
We should hit Lunch Meadow between noon and one, I thought. I would eat there and let the horses rest for half an hour, then push on and hope to reach Snow Lake in time to make camp before dark. Today's ride was the longest one I had planned for the entire trip. But I felt that the horses were fresh, and I wanted to get as far into the backcountry as possible right away.
The farther I went, the fewer people there would be. More or less. As a matter of fact, the way to avoid people was to avoid the lakes and the big meadows with good fishing creeks. The trouble was that like most of the other folks in the back-country, I really liked the lakes. And I needed to camp where there was plenty of feed for my horses. So I was liable to run into a few other travelers.
Amazingly enough, I hadn't seen anyone yet. This was probably because it was Monday. Weekends in the mountains were a lot more crowded than weekdays.
The trail was following the banks of Relief Creek now, and the terrain was leveling off. I passed the old Sheep Camp, knowing Lunch Meadow wasn't far ahead.
It was getting warm. I’d shed my jacket several miles back; now I took off my overshirt and tied it around my waist. The sun felt good on my bare arms. Absently I brushed flies off Gunner’s neck.
The landscape was opening up and I could see the wide spaces of Lunch Meadow ahead. I rode until I was out of the forest and then sent the horses off the trail to a pocket-sized hollow by the creek. Here the water made bathtub-like pools in the rocks, perfect for soaking feet.
Dismounting stiffly, I tied Gunner and Plumber to trees, and hobbled around, taking saddlebags off and loosening cinches. Damn. I wasn’t used to riding this many miles. God knew how stiff I would be when I got into camp this evening.
Settling myself by the banks of the creek, I cut hunks of dry salami and mozzarella cheese and rolled them in a flour tortilla. Humble but very satisfying. Long swallows from my water bottle washed it down. I eyed the icy cold water of the creek, but didn’t drink it. Giardia, an intestinal parasite, was a problem in these mountains. I would only drink from springs that had not had a chance to become contaminated. Either that or pump my drinking water through the filter I’d brought.
Once my hunger was satisfied, I took off my boots and socks and soaked my feet in the creek. The water was so cold it hurt, but my skin tingled and I felt invigorated. I let my feet dry in the sun with my soles pressed against the warm, scratchy surface of the granite.
Time to go. I put my boots on, tied the saddle bags back on the saddle, and tightened Gunner’s cinch. Plumber nickered at me. I looked him over carefully. The sweat had dried on his neck and flanks and his eye was bright. He was my chief concern on this trip. I had used Gunner a lot in the last couple of years, and knew him to be a trooper--a horse who traveled well and was tough. Plumber was more of an unknown quantity. Younger, smaller, and perhaps less tough-minded, he was also somewhat inexperienced. Although he’d been shown quite a bit as a youngster (by someone else), he’d spent his last few years turned out because of a lameness. Since he’d been sound, all I’d done with him was some gentle trail riding and the legging-up necessary for this trip. I wasn’t sure how he would tolerate it all.
He looked okay, for the moment. I untied both horses, climbed on Gunner, and headed off across Lunch Meadow.
It was really more of a desert than a meadow. A big, open flat, covered with low-growing, scrubby sagebrush, Lunch Meadow had been decimated many years ago by sheep. The four-footed locusts, who were both tended and decried by John Muir, had spent many summers here, while their shepherds relaxed and played cards at nearby Sheep Camp. Too many. Overgrazed and beaten down, the meadow had never recovered.
I rode across it, thinking about the ecological issues the sheep brought to mind. For the subject wasn’t ancient history—far from it. Sheep were no longer pastured in Sierra meadows, but cattle, Ted’s cattle, for instance, were. And there was a vociferous group of folks who thought that this should not be so.
An even more extreme contingent wanted to ban livestock all together, including saddle horses and pack horses. Their thinking ran along the lines of preserving the meadows, and looking at the waste of Lunch Meadow, I couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for their position. Trouble was, they didn’t seem too long on facts.
I’ll admit I’m prejudiced. I like horses; I like riding in the mountains. I’ve backpacked a fair amount, and I prefer taking my horses. These issues aside, I didn’t see that the occasional use of livestock to travel through the mountains was likely to do any great and irreversible harm. Pasturing them in the meadows for the summer was another thing altogether.
Though Ted would hate to hear me say it, I’d several times wondered if his contented heifers were slowly turning Wheat’s Meadow into the desert that Lunch Meadow had become. I didn't know. I was pretty sure Ted didn't either.
I could see the steep slopes of Brown Bear Pass in front of me; my horses were on rock again. Red-brown lava rock now, rather than silvery granite. Brown Bear Pass was hot, dusty, exposed, and bare, the long slog up it a matter of plowing steadily through the scree. The trail was good, though.
Stopping to let the horses rest a number of times, I progressed steadily toward the ridge line. No trees up here. Several small, chattering creeks made green rivulets. Wildflowers clung to the dusty slopes-blue flax, white yarrow, bright red California fuchsia-all lovers of dry, well-drained places.
Everything was empty and quiet. A hawk circled in the blue. Gunner snorted. Roey trudged behind the horses, starting to look tired.
The jagged red-brown crags around us were peaceful with the peace of supreme unconcern. These constant, ever-changing, ever-similar vistas-stone in sunlight-seemed prehistoric in their inviolate
purity.
Steel-shod hooves clicked sharply against rock; Plumber grunted as he struggled to haul the pack up the steepening trail. I could see the pass ahead of us-a curious collection of rosy pink, more-rounded boulders marking the spot.
Slowly, and then suddenly, we were there. Over the top, the wind in our faces, and all of Emigrant Meadow and Emigrant Lake spread out in front of us. I grinned in sheer delight.
Brown Bear Pass might have a steady slog of an ascent, but it also had a breathtaking view from the top. Looking over my shoulder, I could see the long vistas of granite and pine trees--the country I'd just ridden through. Relief Peak raised its head in the middle ground; in the distance were the shoulders of the mountains around Sonora Pass, where the pack station was.
And ahead of me was a vast, treeless meadow with a sheet of blue water in the middle. Beyond that the sharp outlines of the little ridge between Emigrant Meadow and Summit Meadow. And right next to Summit Meadow was Snow Lake. We were getting there.
I clucked to the horses and called the dog, who had plopped herself down in the shade of a boulder. She got up slowly, looking tired and a little footsore. Damn. I'd been afraid this long day might be hard on her paws.
Still, everybody seemed to be moving okay as we worked our way down the gradual slope to Emigrant Meadow. As I got closer, the meadow began to appear as blue as the lake-wide swathes of wild lupine carpeted it, the sweet, elusive fragrance as heady as the deep blue-violet color.
Riding through heaven, riding through the sky, I thought, as the lupine surrounded us. Flowery images, for sure. But what else could one say? How many people had ridden through fields of lupine, solitary on horseback, alone with the wind?
I sang. The dog pricked up her ears and lapped water from a stream. The horses drank; I took a long swallow from my water bottle.
"Not too far now," I told them all.
And it wasn't. Not too far, and not too steep. Just a gentle dirt trail, running through a series of small meadows and pot-hole lakes, climbing only briefly here and there. Until, an hour later, we reached the wide, grassy openness of Summit Meadow, with the peaks of Bonn Pass hovering above it.
I stopped to let the horses water one more time by the old stone cabin in Summit Meadow. Still plenty of daylight left. And Snow Lake was just ahead. No problem.
No problem at all. In fact, all my problems seemed to have dropped away as I'd ridden. I forgot about my job, I forgot about Lonny and our strained and tired relationship. As for the dead man in Deadman Meadow, he'd never crossed my mind, even once.
NINE
Snow Lake was a quarter of a mile from Summit Meadow. I rode over the little ridge that separated them, and was unprepared for the feeling of apprehension that hit me at my first sight of the lake.
I’d camped at Snow Lake before, with Lonny; I’d chosen it for my first camp on this trip because it was the right distance away, and there was a particular campsite I liked. I called it the lagoon camp. But I’d forgotten how dark and forbidding Snow Lake can seem.
Every mountain lake and meadow has its own particular character. I never wanted to camp by Emigrant Lake, for instance; it always felt too exposed to me. Snow Lake was sheltered enough, in a rocky hollow near the ridge line, but it seemed darkly opaque, mysterious, and even ominous. It never struck me as a pretty, sunny mountain lake.
This evening, already in the shadow of the ridge, riffled with little waves, Snow Lake looked more forbidding than welcoming. Oh well. We were here and we were staying, I told myself. Just ride on to the lagoon camp; you've always liked that spot.
The lagoon camp was half a mile away; we skirted the lake, riding west. And sure enough, as we rounded the tip, where Forest Service workers had built a little stone dam in the forties, I saw the small lagoon below the main lake lit with evening sunshine. It was empty; I hadn't seen another soul so far.
Once again my heart lifted, my mood as mercurial as the light. There was a meadow next to the lagoon, and a campsite in some boulders near the meadow. This was all going to be just great.
I tied my livestock to trees near the campsite and unsaddled the saddle horse and unpacked the pack horse. Judging that both were tired and hungry enough not to wander, I left them turned loose while I strung a picket line out in the meadow between two pines.
Both horses lay down and rolled right away, choosing a sandy spot near the lake. I smiled, watching them. Once they'd gotten up, shaken off, and taken one more drink, I caught Gunner and tethered him to the picket line. He was tied long enough to reach the grass, and short enough that (I hoped) he wouldn't tangle himself up.
Methods of dealing with livestock while camping were as various as the people who went. Some hobbled their horses, some staked them out, some built rope corrals, some tied everything up, some left everything loose. The last method was a bit fatalistic in my opinion: the traveler trusting to his horse's loyalty and love of grain to stay in camp.
I didn't care for hobbles; many horses could move along at a fair pace in them. Nor did I like staking out; I'd seen too many horses get tangled up. Rope corrals were notoriously unreliable. My preferred method was to keep one horse on the picket line and one off, during the daylight hours, and tie both up at night. Generally speaking, a horse is very reluctant to go off on his own; I had no doubt that Plumber would stay within sight of Gunner.
Keeping half an eye on the horses as I worked, I unpacked and set up my small dome tent, unrolled and laid out my pad and sleeping bag, gathered firewood and built a fire. Then I tied Plumber up and turned Gunner loose.
Next I fetched a pot of water from the lake and pumped it through a filter, unfolded my collapsible chair, got out some salted peanuts and a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and made myself a drink.
The light slanted low and golden over the meadow and the lagoon, raising bright sparks on the surface of the water and gilding the feathery stems of ryegrass. In fifteen minutes or so, the sun would drop behind the rim of the canyon behind me. I leaned back in my chair, watching the fire flicker, and took a long swallow of bourbon and branch water. Ah, the cocktail hour.
The horses cropped grass peacefully; the dog lay sacked out flat on her side, taking a well-earned rest. I put my feet up on a boulder, ate a handful of peanuts, and sighed with contentment. I was here.
Content lasted until dark. I had two drinks, not because I'm so fond of Jack Daniel's, but because it was all I had. Wine and beer are prohibitively heavy to pack in, and nothing seems to mix as well with lake water as bourbon. So I drank my whiskey and water, ate peanuts, and watched the light die out of the sky.
When the air began to grow dim, I caught Gunner and tied him up, made myself another tortilla with salami and cheese, and gave the dog a bowl of dried dog food, which she disdained. All she seemed to want was to sleep.
I put another log on the fire and thought I'd do the same. This long day was trailing its way toward night, and I was tired. I'd brought some steak and cans of chili, and other more labor intensive dinners, but I really didn't feel like cooking.
What I felt like, suddenly, was having somebody to talk to. Dusk gathered around me; smoke rose from my small fire and curled out over the lagoon. Flickers skimmed over the water, hunting flying insects. A fish jumped with a splash, making a ring on the still surface of the lake.
I could go fishing, I thought. If Lonny were here, he'd go fishing. If Lonny were here, he'd be sitting next to me now, happy to be in camp. And whether I felt frustrated with him or not, I'd also feel safe. And I'd have someone to talk to.
I made myself another drink and put my jacket back on. Why the hell had I wanted to come on this trip alone, anyway? Had I forgotten just what it felt like to be alone in the mountains as dark closed in?
I got up and got my gun out of my saddlebag. There was still enough light to see by. I checked to make sure there was no shell in the chamber, though I knew this was how I'd left the gun. Five bullets were what I had; I'd brought no spare ammunition. The pistol was for s
elf-defense in an emergency, for scaring off bears in the unlikely event it was necessary, for shooting a horse in what I hoped was the extremely unlikely event of a broken leg. I sincerely believed I would get through the whole trip without using it.
Putting the gun back in its leather holster and snapping the safety strap over the hammer, I hung it on my belt and sat back down. The pistol was bulky and awkward there around my waist, but comforting, too.
I took a long swallow of my drink. Bright against the darkness, flames crackled in dry pine boughs. I could hear something moving in the trees and scrub, probably a deer.
What is it about sitting by a fire and hearing animal noises outside in the night? Despite the fact that I knew perfectly well that deer were the likeliest cause, I felt nervous. Fixing my eyes on the fire, I listened to the sounds of brush breaking and wondered what exactly was out there. Bears? Bigfoot?
I took another swallow of my drink. You knew this would happen, I reminded myself. You’ve been alone here before. Some kind of caveman instinct kicks in as it gets dark. The animal noises seemed to scare me almost automatically, a reaction as simple and primitive as hunger.
Time to go to bed. I put another log on the fire, wanting the companionship of its flickering light as I went to sleep. Roey looked up at me as I dug my flashlight out of my duffel bag, her first sign of life since we’d made camp.
“You can sleep with me,” I told her.
Clicking the flashlight on, I followed its beam out to where the horses were tethered. They stood quietly, unperturbed by the deer or whatever it was. I ran the light over them. Plumber looked pretty ganted up, his flanks sucked in high and tight. Damn. This was not a good sign.
I checked him over closely, but he seemed okay otherwise, one hind foot cocked in a horse’s typical resting pose. I’d just have to see how he was in the morning.
Back to the fire. I took off my jeans and boots, left my underwear and tank top on, made a pillow of my jacket, put the pistol under it, and crawled into the sleeping bag.