Fall Mountain Ride

Hunting season is coming quicker than it seems possible.

It’s time to get ready.

Last week was all about legging up the horses.

Well, it might have been a little about mental health, too.

Drizzle had blanketed the ranch and clouded my mountain view for three days.

Still, a friend and I buckled on our chaps and loaded the horses to check out the fall colors.

The relaxed air sang.

The sticky mud cooed.

I have never been so happy at the potential for being wet and cold.

I led a packhorse just for fun.

After all, somebody needed to carry the lunch and the saw.

Our plan was to make a loop over a high pass, hoping to have lunch on the top of the world.

I wanted to spread my arms wide and dance among the boulders at one of my special places again.

On the way, we spotted two moose lumbering over a fence, a good prophecy for the day.

At the trailhead, we set the 27-pound paniers on the packsaddle. I needed each panier to be weighted evenly so I brought a lot of snacks.

The heavy clouds threatened.

I grinned at the closed air, daring it to attempt misery.

The trail was silent.

No wind howled across the sands of the parched, empty reservoir.

The leaves glowed orange and yellow. Even in the dim light, glitter-drops twinkled the colors brighter.

When we turned up a less-traveled trail, we discovered downed trees.

This trail wasn’t a major thoroughfare, but it wasn’t a faint, rarely-used trail.

Trail crews had all summer to clear this area, yet they hadn’t.

Fires from six and seven years ago keep those crews busy and secure their jobs for years into the future.

We rode around the first downed tree.

On our next fork in the trail, we turned up to the pass, searching for signs of the trail as we rode.

Bright fresh saw cuts revealed that the trail crew – or someone – had been here recently.

A stack of logs lay nearby, off the trail.

Then we came to a grove of matchsticks scattered among the fireweed. Apparently, the sawyers had quit for the day.

And the week.

And the month.

And the year.

We wandered through the burned and downed limber pines until we could see that the matchsticks wouldn’t end.

Looking high, we could see the pass -- the blue sky peaking through slow-moving clouds.

So close, yet so far.

We turned the horses and headed down to the creek to spread our picnic.

We wouldn’t spread our arms to the heavens today.

The mountains had different plans for us.

Just as this entire summer has had plans that did not coincide with mine.

As always, I was humbled by the power of the mountains.

I need this feeling, even more than I need coffee.

I’ve been craving it all summer, looking for a window to self-medicate among the walls of desperate attempts to keep my animals fed and watered during one of the hottest, driest summers on record.

Craving feeling my vulnerability amidst such power.

Knowing the mountains remind me that my only chance for survival is to take responsibility for each step I take.

As I rode through the cool air, breathed in the damp leaves, admired the colors flavored with grey clouds so different from bluebird days, my soul sighed.

On the way out, a black bear foraged among the rocks and sand that normally rests under 20 feet of lake water. His gangly legs swayed to his own inner rhythm as he sniffed, turned rocks and investigated his world.

We sawed the downed log and moved it out of the trail.