ARTICLES BY DON WEST
Another West Elk "Mini Adventure"
Dear fellow trail riders, and all you cowboy (lazy-boy arm chair) horseback
adventurers,
A few weeks ago I set off on another one of my backcountry, low-impact horse
camping trips. I call them my “mini-adventures” because I only stay out for four
or five days, and by then I’m ready for a long hot shower and a tall cold beer.
This time I was headed around the West side of the West Elk Wilderness with a
new client/friend from Florida as a partner in adventure. My plan was to ride a
circular clockwise rout that would take us up the Through Line Trail, swing on
around the bottom of Tater Heap, Smith Fork Mountain, Sheep Mountain, and Mount
Guero, and finish up by descending down and out to our starting point on the
Sink Creek Trail. This is a trip that I’ve made many times over the past thirty
some odd years. I especially enjoy riding through the West Elks because there
are no “fourteeners” in that mountain range, and consequently not many
backpackers or mountain climbers use the area. Except during hunting season,
it’s not unusual to go for many days without seeing another living soul out
there. I love that.
Our adventure started from the trailhead located a mile or so up the Smith Fork,
just above the serenely beautiful Hawks Nest Ranch. It’s just a few miles from
Crawford, at the head of the Smith Fork valley, the road going right under the
base of Needle Rock, a well-known local landmark to the folks who live there, or
an attraction to the tourists that visit that sleepy little cow-town. Now, just
for the record, I define “an adventure” as a rugged trip where you have a
predetermined goal in mind and a basic game plan in place, but no assurance that
that plan can actually be accomplished. Well, as things turned out, this little
expedition would surely qualify as an adventure under my definition, even when
compared to the hardest old mountain man’s litany of tall tales.
The first day went like clockwork. In the morning we got our gear sorted out,
divided up, and packed. We loaded the horses in the trailer here at West Gait
Equine Learning Center, and headed out for Crawford. We hit the trail around
mid-day. When we arrived at our camp, we turned the horses loose, on hobbles, to
graze. Our camp was down in the bottom of Little Elk Basin, a beautiful spot,
with good grass for the horses, and an up close view of Big Sand Mountain. We
unpacked and organized our gear, set up our high-lines, pitched the tent, and
cooked our dinner; all just in time to enjoy a cooling rain storm that had been
threatening us all afternoon. Towards dusk we were treated to a spectacular
alpenglow show, the mountains acting like a drive-in movie theater screen. And
then, as a grand finally to a glorious day, we went skinny-dipping in a beaver
pond. Bellies filled and souls
satisfied, we watched a large herd of cow elk casually making their way along
the slab rock that contours around the mountain at timberline. Serenaded by a
choir of coyotes, we each took a few pulls on our bottle of brandy, and crawled
into our sleeping bags. What could be better?
The second day, allowing the slower pace of the wilderness to mellow out and
tone down our societal driven inner clocks, we took our time in breaking camp,
fully enjoying drying our gear in the sun, and reveling in the experience of
just being there…and being alone. We finally left camp around ten o’clock, and
back-tracked up and out of Little Elk Basin (after indulging ourselves in
another glorious, refreshing cold bath in a deep pothole we found in a sharp
meander in the free flowing stream). At the top of the divide, we cut across an
open meadow and picked up the Through Line Trail again, following it up and over
the ridge crest, and headed back down again on a long, easy, straight line grade
that took us across a long, but well settled (talus) bare rock slope, the man
made trail obviously built years ago for driving cattle into, and through the
bottom of coal creek, and up to the summer high country. Once we reached the
stream, the trail cut through many endless tedious miles of willow and alder
bushes, impassable recent new avalanche debarred, and long sections of loose
scree and talus blocks.
Navigating cautiously over and through what seemed like endless sections of
loose and unstable clattering plates of
rock, and making numerous stream crossings, going back and forth across Coal
Creek, trying to find a way through the new array of sharp and pointy fresh
obstacles was nerve wracking, both for us, and for the horses. In numerous
sections, the creek and the trail are trapped in tight quarters between
formidable stone cliff faces. In other spots, huge avalanche shoots, coming
right down to the creek on either side, give you clear view to the tall mountain
country that lies above. The rubble that the spring avalanches carry down each
year, when they finally build up too much weight and finally let go and slid to
the bottom, gets scattered everywhere. Year to year, you’ll never know what
you’re going to encounter. It’s very impressive to see, big trees snapped like
toothpicks, blocking the trail, and forcing us to frequently seek out
alternative routes.
At last, we pulled away from the stream bottom, and scrambled up a rough, rocky
trail, finally reaching the trail intersection, right on the top of a long flat
ridge top where our trail intersected with the Curecanti Pass Trail. That put us
just a short ways East of Minnesota Pass and Mount Gunnison, a massive
stand-alone mountain that fills the landscape in that direction. After taking a
little rest and lunching on a power bars and some beef jerky, we hung a sharp
right and followed the high ground on the crest of the ridge. At first it was
impossible to distinguish the real trail from the numerous cow trails. Never the
less, staying with the ridge top, heading almost due south, we made our way
along the Eastern sides of Smith Fork and Sheep Mountains. Although there was
much more blow-down in the aspen groves than there had been in past years, we
were still able to find a way to make it around and/ or over even the worst of
the blocked spots. A beautiful doe mule deer watched us go by, standing
motionless, only ears twitching, as we passed.
Finally we came out of the aspen into a circular clearing with a little shallow
lake in the center. I couldn’t help
noticing that it had diminished dramatically in size over the years of my
travels there, muddied up and being filled in by unsupervised free roaming
cattle, but still big enough to deserve to be shown on the USGS topo maps, a
comforting landmark in an otherwise confusing tangle of blown down trees and
meandering cow and elk paths. The fact is, in my many years of backcountry
travel I’ve seen many trails disintegrate, and even disappear, their current
zigzag paths now dictated by crisscrossing cow trails and fallen dead trees
rather than by the natural contour that was the basis for the original trails;
trails that were probably cut a hundred years ago, by hand, by Basque sheep
herders and the young men of President Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps,
way back in the depression years of the late 1930’s.
We swung to the left around the lake, heading for our next camp site. We hadn’t
gone far past the pond before we ran into a herd of elk, all bedded down in an
open meadow, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. They’re had to be at
least forty elk, all cows and their cute, romping baby calves. When they saw us
they didn’t run. They only stood up, and meandered off a short way before they
stopped, turned around in unison, and stood stark still, like so many statues.
Obviously checking our smell in the breeze with their ultra-sensitive noses, and
finding that horse smell passed their test, they held their ground, just staring
at us as if to say this is our territory, and you are intruders.
They were not about to be rousted out of their comfortable resting spot
by a few horses with odd things on their backs. We, on the other hand sat on our
ponies, transfixed by the dream like quality of these majestic creatures, viewed
at such close quarters. If we had been on foot instead of on our horses, they
would have been gone in a flash.
Leaving the elk to bed down again, we dropped down over the hill and soon
arrived at the spot I had in mind, a long, narrow, flat meadow, hemmed in on
both sides by old growth aspen, with a little clear, cool, bubbly stream
meandered gently down through the lush grass and low growing willows. The water
was coming straight out of the ground, from a spring, a few hundred yards above
our camp set up. Scattered here and there around our meadow were little ponds,
and indentations that obviously had been ponds in the near past. Some had water
in them with bull rushes, horse-tails, and marsh grass growing in them. Most
were silted in and dried up, covered with various short grasses. These
indentations were created, years ago, by beaver. At one time the whole valley
had been covered in aspen, and those busy rodents cut them down and built dams
with them, creating the pools by annually cutting down the aspen closest to the
water, and renovating their dams. Eventually they ate up all the trees that were
close enough to the water for them to be able to use them as food, or for
construction. Over time their ponds gradually silted in, and willow, alder, and
native grasses took over, leaving an array of interesting potholes on an
otherwise open meadow. Note: the same thing, but on a much larger scale, is
happening right now at Lake Powel! In a few more years it will be silted in and
be one giant pot hole.
Our camp site was close by a big stand of mature, well-spaced Aspen, with plenty
of grass growing between them; a perfect place to set up our high lines for our
tired horses. Before making camp we had turned the horses out up at the top of
the valley, a ways form our camp, but not out of sight. We knew that they were
hungry and would stay put for a while, and when they got tired of eating they’d
start to drift back toward the trail they came in on… right past our camp. With
their lead lines left on, hanging and dragging, and winding up around the
hobbles, they usually don’t run very far, or for very long. Even though I can’t
run very fast any more, they haven’t gotten away from me yet. Just for the
record, I used to be an athlete. Now I’m just an athletic supporter. Note: if
you can catch the herd leader first, and put him on a high line, the rest of the
horses are almost sure to stay around. Still, be sure to bell them, and don’t
take them off the hobbles until you’re ready to put each horse on its high line.
Note: for more details on high-lining get a copy of my book Have Saddle-Will
Travel. It’ll give you more complete information on all phases of low–impact
horse camping. The book is straight forward, chocked full of useful information
and sound suggestions, as well as some funny stories based on my personal
experience, learned through the seat of my pants, in the school of hard knocks.
Hearing about my mishaps might make your horse camping end up being more fun
with less fuss.
We set up our little tent (four pounds total weight, including the tent, fly,
poles and stakes), with its two side doors, a blessing for a stiff and sore old
man to conveniently roll out of the sack to answer the call of nature without
having to crawl over his sleeping partner). We pitched the tent to face the
morning sunrise. It was nestled serenely along the edge of the aspen that were
rustling in the slight down draft that also kept the bugs at bay. We spent that
evening discussing what I call “Horse Handling-Horse Sense”, fortified with a
few sips of the brandy, as we enjoyed another beautiful sunset, the vibrant
colors reluctantly giving way to pastel shades of tan and grey, and then,
finally, pitch black. This beautiful progression was projected onto the face of
the triangular pinnacle known as Porcupine Cone, an interesting spire that
dominates the long cliff face that ends in Curecanti Pass to the Southwest.
As night set in and darkness surrounded us, we finishing off the evening with
one more cup of hot chocolate. As it began to rain we were dry and cozy,
protected from the elements by our hi-tec tent that was resting on the flat,
soft surface of those sweet smelling, deep layered, dry spruce needles, a
natural, made to order mattress left just for us by hundreds of years of
evergreen exfoliation. However, taking no chance that our beauty rest would be
disturbed, we still had rolled out our ¾ length self-inflating air mattresses.
We crawled into our ultra-soft down sleeping bags, and lovingly surrendered to
the reward that comes from physical effort, induced into tranquil dreams, safe
and secure under our very own guardian bull spruce tree, our last thoughts
anticipating that we would be gently awakened in the morning when the sun poured
across the valley and engulfed our tent.
Speaking of horse handling-horse sense, I’d like to point something out here
that I think might be important to you, and is often misunderstood; knowledge
and mastery are not the same thing! Mastery
comes from taking knowledge and putting it to work. When working with horses,
repetition is the Mother of skill, but only if it’s right repetition. Mastering
horsemanship and low-impact horse camping skills, and not inadvertently
developing bad habits, either in yourself or in your horse, habits that won't
serve you well, or make your horse happy, is best achieved by going out with a
trail buddy that has mastered those skills, and can teach them to you. If you’re
already a great rider and are getting everything you want from your horse, I’m
happy for you. I don’t argue with success. But, if you are among the many folks
that I see all the time out at the trailheads, folks that obviously aren’t
getting what they hoped for from owning a horse, and are treating their horsey
companions in a way that the horse doesn’t know clearly where he fits in the
pecking order, or what is wanted from him, or worse wet, if he thinks that he is
above his owner on the pecking order, whether or not the rider knows it,
that rider is stealing a ride on the
horse, and sooner or later they’re bound to get hurt.
I have three basic rules when I’m around, or working with horses! 1. I don’t get
hurt. 2. The horse doesn’t get hurt. And, 3. We are having fun. I know that a
comfortable horse is a happy horse, and a happy horse makes for a happy rider. I
think there are the two most important things that a trail horse needs to know
from his rider in order to be comfortable, and thus happy, and able to perform
at his best: (1) where do I fit in the pecking order with my rider/trainer, and
(2) give me clear, concise, easy to interpret commands that I can understand in
horse talk. You do this by using aids: the reins, your legs, your balance, your
weight change, your voice, and most difficult to master, the correct timing,
knowing exactly when to ask for the desired response based on where the horse’s
legs are under him. When you have mastered these “Aids” you will be able to say
that you are a real horseman. Leave out any of these aids, or use them when you
are not in balance and harmony with the natural motion of your horse, and you’ll
soon have an unhappy and unruly horse. The hotter blooded the horse, the more
important it is to follow Don West’s Basic Rules of Horse Handling Horse sense.
What are those rules?
First of all, remember that if you’re a rider, you’re a trainer! Every time you
touch your horse, you teach your horse. Every time you rein your horse, you
train your horse. Think of this partnership as if you were dancing with a
partner. To be effective, someone must lead, and someone else must be willing to
follow. In this case, you are (supposed to be) the brains. Your horse is the
brawn. To be successful, you must learn to think like a horse, but, at the same
time understand that a horse can’t learn to think like you. So… don’t expect him
to! Horses are dynamic, not static. They are always changing. Depending on how
they are handled they are always either getting better, or worse. Your job as a
rider/trainer isn’t to make every horse the best; it is to make the best of each
horse. Training horses is not “one size fits all”. But, at the same time, the
basic rules of horse training apply to all horses.
The right horse is the light horse. Light hands make for a light horse. As a
rider/trainer, your goal is to develop the right light horse. To accomplish
that, you must learn how to have right-lite hands. You must develop the right
touch on your reins; a method I call take, tug, and release. That is, first you
take the slack out of the reins. Then you give a little tug on the rein. And
then, no matter what the horse does, you immediately release the rein at least
the length of the tug, bringing you back to a slack rein. Do not yank, or pull
with steady pressure, on the reins. Your horse is stronger than you are. So,
never get yourself into a fight with your horse that you can’t win. To be a real
horseman, learn to use finesse instead of force, and patience and perseverance
instead of pain and punishment in your training. There may be situations that
require you to use a little pain on your horse, just like one horse does to
another that challenges his position in the pecking order. But there is no place
for punishment in horse training. Horses don’t understand punishment, and
consequently applying it is nothing but abuse. Remember, you want to end up
being the benevolent master, with your horse being your happy and willing
servant…and your friend, your dance partner.
While training, it is always better to do too little than too much, especially
at first. Keep your training sessions short and sweet. Don’t sour your horse by
overworking him. If things aren’t going well, and the horse sticks, or become
stubborn, hostile, or brain fried, stop, rest, and re-think what you’re doing.
Then, when you start over, back up in your training and try something the horse
already knows how do. Whenever possible, (which is almost always) reward good
behavior and ignore bad behavior. Most “bad behavior” goes away on its own if
you just ignore it, and keep the horse’s mind occupied by “riding through” these
little problems. I can’t overemphasize this point: reward good behavior at every
opportunity. Doing the wrong thing harder doesn’t usually work, and bad behavior
is usually the result of you doing something wrong anyway…not using Horse
Handling-Horse Sense. Remember the rule of holes: if you find yourself in a
hole, the first thing you should do is to stop digging. And, finally, always
find a way to end on a good note with your horse.
Our third day’s objective was to pick up the Curecanti Pass Trail and follow it
up and over the pass, then camp on the other side of Mount Guero, where the
trail crosses Sink Creek. We hadn’t gone far before we accidently disturbed the
sleep of the biggest, blackest male black bear I’d ever seen. He just sort of
popped up out of the skunk cabbage that he was sleeping in, and stared, wide
eyed at us for a moment. Man oh man, you should have seen how fast that big guy
took off and ran away once he caught our scent. Bears don’t see very well
(unless they’ve been fitted with contact lenses). But, they have a great sense
of smell, and their curious and usually hungry. I like bears. They are a lot
like us…or at least a lot like me. So I’m always interested in them, but I show
them a healthy respect. I’ve spent a lot of time living in the mountains, and
I’ve encountered lots of bears, and so far my approach in dealing with them has
worked well. No one could have outrun
this bear on foot. A good lesson to cogitate over. Also, remember, black bears
can climb trees. Scaring one off is better than pissing one off. It’s better to
have them running away from you than towards you.
We hadn’t gone much further before the trail turned away from the stream and
started to climb up and out of the aspen and into some very heavy old growth
spruce and fir… dark timber. It looked like a hurricane had blown through! Huge
trees were down everywhere, laying helter-skelter, in all directions, like a
giant pile of “pickup sticks”. To move ahead we were forced to take more and
more, and longer and longer side excursions. When we could, we used elk trails
that crisscrossed to the left or right of the blocked trail.
Our Paso Pleasure Naturally Gaited Horses (my home bred horses) were amazingly
good sports, stepping over belly high logs, and stepping delicately between
downed trees lying so close together they could scarcely get a leg between them.
As we held our breath and pushed on, things went quickly from bad, to worse, to
impossible. Unfortunately for us, elk don’t mind jumping over chest high logs.
Finding no way to stay with the trail, we were forced to leave the horses and go
scouting on foot, looking for any possible alternative elk trail that might get
us up, around, and beyond the evergreen forest, and finally onto the switchbacks
on the north side of Curecanti Pass. In the end, exhausted and frustrated, after
hours of finding only dead ends, we gave up. We’d spent the whole day crashing
and thrashing, and trashing ourselves and our horses, to no avail. Finally, we
were forced to admit defeat.
Reluctantly, with our circular route plan obviously not going to pan out, we
retreated back to the comfort of our old camp of the previous night. With the
help of a few more good gulps of brandy, the defeat of the day was erased by the
peacefulness of the evening.
The following day we decided to try a circular route in the opposite direction.
We got back onto the trail and headed toward Porcupine Cone. We only went a
short way until we picked up what we thought was the Navajo Flats Trail. There,
we took a sharp left hand turn and headed North, trying to make our way down
Navajo Canyon to where the trail intersects the Through Line Trail. From past
experience I knew we could camp in the valley bottom along Willow Creek. From
there we’d have a long, but much easier trail to navigate to go home. We hadn’t
gone a half mile before the Navajo Flats Trail turned into an indistinguishable
mess of cattle and elk trails, going in all directions. Our only hope was to
keep heading down, trying to pick out what looked like the most used paths.
There were no horse tracks to be found anywhere; nothing to help give us a clue
in our decision making process. In open areas, the skunk cabbage was belly high,
making it almost impossible to tell where the dead and downed aspen lay, just
waiting to skin up, or worse wet, break the leg of one of our brave horses.
At one point the steep, slippery elk track we were following took us and the
horses, slipping and sliding on their haunches, right down into the creek. The
rushing water was at a down grade steep enough to form a cascade of multiple
boulder strewn rapids. On the far side of the creek we were faced with a solid
rock wall, far too steep for us to climb on foot, let alone ask the horses to
try. We were really stuck. Trying to backtrack up the hill seemed to be next to
impossible. It had been hard enough just getting down this far! Leaving my
partner holding the jittery horses, I went to scouting afoot. I soon realized
that the only way we and the horses were going to have any chance of getting out
of this mess was to ride the horses about a hundred yards down that boulder
strewn stream, and try to get them out where the elk had found a way out.
We started out into the rushing water facing downstream. After the first few
steps the horses lost their footing and we were under water, swimming, and being
spun round and round as we fought for their lives. We just hung on and tried to
fend off whatever big rocks we could with our boots. Well, somehow we made it!
Both horses had blood streaming from multiple minor injuries here and there on
their legs, and a few puncture wounds along their bodies. We didn’t escape
without making our own small blood donation to the stream Gods too, but after we
let our heart rates drop down under 100 bpm and checked each other out to be
sure there were no bones sticking out, or blood squirting out, we decided
neither one of us was really hurt…we were just hurtin’. So, we cowboyed up, and
headed into the woods again.
All the rest of the way down the route I selected (I wouldn’t begin to flatter
it by calling it a trail) was miserable, constantly testing our sense of humor.
By now our horses were so tired, and used to us crazy cowboys meandering around
like drunken sailors, that they were willing to jump over waist high logs,
dragging their skinned up bellies and legs behind them, moves that they would
have absolutely refused to try only a few days before.
After many more hours of this self-inflicted torture, thrashing from one
elk trail to the next, finding what looked to be a good trail only to have our
hopes dashed as some big old downed spruce tree, having given up the ghost in a
recent storm, blocked us in again, leaving us no choice but to backtrack a ways
and try another zigzag detour. By now, we had both about run out of humor. In
fact, we were just about at the end of our ropes.
And then, in an instant, everything changed. What a relief! We had finally come
out on the Through Line Trail. We were beat up and fed up, but we were still
standing up! We got down off our ponies and symbolically kissed the ground.
Raising our outstretched arms to the sky, saluting the four principle direction,
we gave a war hoop of thanks to the Great Spirit that guides all of us
worshipers of Mother Earth. But here’s the real kicker. Our horses, having been
over the Through Line Trail before and, of course now knowing the way home, went
down on their knees and kissed the ground too. Seeing as how they weren’t afraid
to express their emotions in such an open and honest way, right in front of us
old grizzled cowpokes, and knowing that no one was around to see us and make fun
of us, we formed a circle and had us a group hug.
The last day we headed on up a steady pull to the West on the well-worn,
unobstructed, Through Line Trail. After the challenges we’d met and conquered
over the past few days, this cattle punchin’ trail looked like a major four lane
highway. We stopped atop the pass where we had been only an eternity (actually
three days) ago, took some pictures of each other, and let our ponies take a
well-deserved snack-break. From there on, all we had to do was to turn the reins
loose and let the horses pick their way through the many miles of
clatter-clatter slide rock…scree and talus, mostly dinner plate size pieces of
fresh fractured igneous rock that comes down every year with the spring wet
slide avalanches. This section of the trail is never the same from year to year,
and without the considerable trail clearing work done by local cattlemen, the
cattle couldn’t be driven up into the summer grazing high country.
When we were within a few miles of the trailhead we ran into a group of about a
half-dozen trail riders, the first folks we’d seen since we entered the
wilderness four days ago. It was easy to size up the group by the way they sat
their horses, and how they were dressed. The leader was a young Cowpoke, decked
out in a Nevada Buckaroo style cowboy outfit; low crowned flat brimmed sombrero,
a wild rag around the neck, and high heeled, tall toped boots worn over his
Wrangler jeans. He had an obvious bunch of dudes in tow, heading for the old cow
camp, with its cozy little cabin, a few more miles up the way, and a short
distance off the main trail on an inholding piece of private property that’s
surrounded by leased Forest Service supervised Wilderness. Given the light load
of gear he had on the only pack animal, I figured he was combining an overnight
outing with checking up on the cows, maybe moving some salt around to new graze,
and making a few extra bucks by guiding these nimrods on a Wilderness type
“adventure”. The way they were plodding along, he looked like a Mother goose
with a bunch of goslings following in her wake.
Right away, I noticed that the Cowboy had a chainsaw on his pack mule. I asked
him how he was getting away with using a chainsaw in a wilderness area. He
explained that Smokey the Bear had given the local cattlemen a special
dispensation to forego the Wilderness rules and regulations, and use the noisy,
but very effective, motorized power tool, to keep the trails open for the
cowboys to drive their cattle on. I thought that was a bit strange, seeing as
how we trail riders are only permitted to carry hand tools to do voluntary trail
maintenance. Also, I’d like to note that the trails cut and maintained by the
cattleman’s association go to the places they can count on finding the best
water and grazing. They’re not much interested in getting up and over the high
passes. And, after forty years of riding on a regular basis the country between
Crested Butte to Crawford it’s become quite clear that cowboys can’t count, and
Forest Service Personal don’t count. The end result is that the land the
cattlemen lease for pennies on the dollar, compared to what they would have to
pay to graze on private property, are not only being over used...they are
knowingly being abused. And no one is doing much about it; not thirty years ago,
when I cowboyed out of Crested Butte, and not now, even with the full, but
feeble, effect of the environmental movement.
What I have personally observed over my many glorious years of living, loving,
and extensively exploring the West Elk and Ruby-Anthracite Wilderness the
low-impact horse camping way…”Go right…Go Lite”, traveling quietly and unnoticed
with no pack horse, and leaving no trace of horse grazing, camp or campfire
behind me, is that there is little to none when it comes to Government oversight
once you get a few miles into the back country. Cattlemen and their hired
cowboys act like the land that their corporate bosses lease from the government,
we the people, gives them the right to treat it like they own it. People often
ask me if I pack heat on my excursion. They want to know, is it to fend off the
lions or bears?” They are naive. I pack a pistol to shoot my horse if he (or
she) needs me to end their unnecessary suffering, or to defend myself as I ride
and camp on “cattle permitted land”. I don’t just say this idly. I’m speaking
from experience.
So, when I got back into town the following Monday I called the Forest Service
to cross check this chain saw story with them, and sure as shoottin’ (pardon the
pun) the kid with the cowboy outfit was telling me the truth. I explained to the
Forest Service gentleman that keeping Curecanti Pass Trail passable was the key
factor to being able to make a variety of circular routes for backpackers or
horseback riders., Without that pass being kept open, trail riders would be
forced to ride in, and then turn around and go back out the same way they’d come
in from many of the trailheads. He said “I understand what you’re saying, and I
know that the trails are in awful shape once you ride in a mile or two, but the
Forest Service has no money for trail maintenance, that’s zero, goose egg bucks
in their budget”. I said, “Well, what if
I take my own little chainsaw and clear that trail myself?” He said that if I
got caught doing it I’d be arrested. I wouldn’t mind being locked up in the pen
for a while. I could focus on completing my memoirs! But I already suffer from
colitis, and I just can’t risk having that problem exacerbated.
So, I’ll just have to let the
vigilantism fall on the shoulders of younger, tougher, tighter butted young
buckaroos. If you share some of my feelings, but don’t have the guts to act, at
least email your congressmen and bitch. It probably won’t change things, but it
might make you feel better.
Depending on your political point of view, you may feel (as I do) that our tax
dollars should go toward things like having the Forest Service protect our
Wilderness, keep trails cleared and open for hikers and trail riders, and
especially for low-impact horse campers. (In case you’re not tuned in to my “ go
right-go lite” terminology, that means carrying ultra-lite backpacking gear,
Packing it on your riding horse, and taking nothing but pictures, and leaving
nothing but hoof prints that would last no more than a day or two. Or, you may
think that the work should fall to volunteer organizations. That’s OK too, but
it doesn’t create paying jobs, and because of the limited number of volunteers
that can get into the real backcountry, it means that only a few of the hard
core types get anything done, along with the Orange Army (hunters) who invade
the wilderness, in mass, each Fall, and leave their trash behind for us
“environmentalists” to pick up, and pack out. And these days the modern
sportsmen don’t seem inclined to go very far out of sight of their four
wheelers…bless their flabby little hearts.
There’s one thing I’d bet you, my fellow backcountry horsemen, would agree with
me on. If the cattlemen can get special permission to use a chainsaw to clear
wide cattle trails into designated wilderness areas, we should be granted the
same privilege. A few fit people with a few chainsaws, given a week, could open
up all the blow down and restore the old sheep herding trails to their original
condition, making the riding and camping much more fun (you could even look up
once in awhile, and see the scenery, for example), and at the same time do lots
less damage to the overall environment. And, isn’t that the real goal of the
rules and regulations after all?
You can call me a tree hugging, granola head, environmentalist, but I’m also a
pragmatist. I don’t want to spend days and days pulling on a two man buck saw,
not when I can take a chain saw, get in, get done, and get out, and then have my
fun with my horse riding and camping along those maintained trails. If the
Government Agencies can’t do this, I’d like the authorities to let us do it. But
odds are they won’t. We horsey folk are usually a house divided against
ourselves. We don’t seem to have the smarts to stop bad mouthing each other, ban
together as brothers in arms, and demand what we really want, and deserve… the
same political clout that the Cattlemen’s Association has. And because Curecanti
Pass is so far back into the backcountry, chances are that the trail will be
impassable again next year, unless some hunters dare to ignore the law and
chainsaw their way into their high hunting camps. And, if they do it, you can
bet that they won’t be using brush hooks and two man bucksaws to get there.
Here’s hoping for Happy Trails for all my fellow Trail Riders. Saddle-Up! Let’s
Ride. Don West
Copyright © 2004 by Donald Parker West
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