Wild Wonderful Weekend
My daughter, Abby, and I knew the next 96 hours would be wild, but we didn’t have any idea of the range of emotions, the variety of weather and the demands on our physical and mental strength.
On Wednesday evening, we hugged my youngest cousin, Steve, and four of his kids.
None of them had ever been to the ranch so the horses and a night in the tepee were highlights for all of us.
Steve is a special cousin because without him, I wouldn’t have Abby. If his mom could have a baby late in life, I could, too. Turns out, I was even later than she, but everything worked out just fine. We bonded by comparing very different histories within the same family for the first time.
By Thursday evening, we had loaded the horses and gear to camp at Swift Dam, prepared to pack nine women and 13 horses into the Bob Marshall Wilderness the next day.
Abby joined the music around the campfire after we watched a grizzly mosey through the nearby pasture. Elk followed soon after.
We picked up our scraps of food before we went to sleep.
The next day, the horses made easy tracks on the trail in the warm sunshine.
An unseen threat spooked the horses enough to dump one of the riders, but she climbed back into the saddle with no broken bones.
Abby and I left the others at camp for a quick trip back out that evening.
By 3 p.m. on Saturday, we had learned of a young man’s fatal accident and were seated for a tea party wedding shower.
This was not just any wedding shower, but a celebration for a woman I like to claim as another daughter.
I’ve watched her learn to ride a horse, help on the ranch, and travel through other countries with and without me.
I avoid showers as much as possible, but I wasn’t about to miss celebrating another of Carly’s milestones.
Oh, the journey they are about to take.
Abby and I finished evening chores before we saddled horses and headed up the trail again.
Our chaps and raincoats kept us dry for the first couple of hours.
Dark approached gradually, just as the rain soaked our boots and our songs became sillier gradually.
I appreciated the shimmering puddles that kept me on the trail and intuition that helped me spot the turnoff to camp.
Abby didn’t feel my joy at stretching beyond our comfort zones in the pitch blackness.
When we pulled into camp at 10 p.m., my friend climbed out of her sleeping bag to help us tie up the horses.
Some of our crew needed to clock in at work by Monday morning, so our Sunday breakfast was quick before pack scales started balancing loads.
We all took a few minutes to grieve the young friend who had died.
They cried. I cut down a dead tree.
We needed the firewood.
As I swung into the saddle, I realized my sopping leather cinch had betrayed me. My saddle slipped sideways faster than I could throw my leg over. The ground greeted me politely.
I was on my feet by the time a bucking pack horse charged through the trees, scattering marshmallows, forks and pretzels through the forest.
Both horses and riders needed a few minutes to reset as we shuffled riding and pack horses according to skill and attitude.
Nobody got hurt so we joked at the calamity.
By the time we were loaded again, the imposing mountains gave us a grand view of mysterious caves, laughing creeks, fragile and resilient wildflowers and minty-fresh fens – offering all of life’s emotions if only we embrace them.