Being up in Moose Creek last week brought back memories. It is a hard- to- get- to- area on our summer grass range, and automatically means many horseback miles. I recall quite a few times coming back out of there horseback by starlight”¦and one ride in particular sticks in my mind.
It was several years ago on a cool late August day when I had my young teenagers Melanie and Linnaea up there horseback. We were gathering about 60 cow-calf pairs from the big country of upper Park and Moose creeks, an area dissected by Douglas-fir and aspen forests, but rich with the green grass of high summer. It’s a wild country that few folks see, except on horseback, and its rich volcanic topography offers up a nutrient density found in few other places in North America. Here, grass ranges intersect forest, and the high elevation snowmelt and summer rainfall makes it highly productive.
Our job was to split up while maintaining sight distance, locate pairs in the 8000 acre pasture, meet on the high saddle between Park and Moose creeks, and then trail the 120 head down to Moose bottoms and over the next gap to Little Hat and Texarkana where the rest of the herd was. Things were going perfectly as we met by midafternoon, each of us with a small bunch of cows that added up to the 120 we were looking for. We crossed Moose Creek after those moms got a bellyful of water (after all, they were lactating, and their kids pulled quite bit of moisture off of them) and headed them up the timbered draw across the creek.
It was nice to be in the cool park-like shade of the stately conifers as we worked our way up the canyon. The forest floor was verdant with a carpet of thick pinegrass, braided with elk and deer trails that wended their way across the mountain slopes above. Eventually, when the canyon boxed out, we would have to turn the herd almost backwards, pick one of these elk trails, and use that to gain elevation to get out of the canyon bottom and up and across the mountain slope to the high gate that led to Texarkana.
It was old number 59 that gave us the problem. Something in the dark timber above freaked her out, and she cut out from the bunch. I thought I saw a flash of gray in the brush—perhaps a wolf, coyote or lion. She saw it too, turned a cowardly tail on her baby (I was not impressed), and made a run for it. Melanie got right on it and pushed her gelding, Pumba, hard to get ahead of the bunch-quitting cow and turn her back. Gypsy-Dave, the border pup, put on a little too much gas in the attempt to help Melanie, and further freaked the cow out. Meanwhile, Linnaea and I kept the rest of the bunch together and continued to gain elevation, figuring Melanie would be back soon with the cow.
She never did rejoin us. Linnaea and I had the herd to the next high saddle in a couple of hours, and dumped them through the Little Hat gate. Our job was done. We called for Melanie”¦but to no avail. Gypsy-Davey was gone too. We worked our way back down to the canyon bottom, called some more: nothing. Even our horses called for their equine companion.
We were hard pressed to decide what to do. Should we ride up the canyon in the gathering dark again and try to cut a track in the forest in dry vegetation? I unholstered my .357 and pulled off a few rounds into the air to try to signal her. The crack of the pistol reverberated back from the timbered country above us. After that, only the quiet of the wilderness could be heard: the distant bubbling of Moose Creek and a wood thrush’s lute-like call in the fir forests.
Darkness was coming fast. I went through the possibilities: perhaps Melanie was down, possibly hurt and off her horse (Gyp or Pumba should have been back to alert us, but you never know what kind of jam they could be in). Maybe they were lost (very unlikely as Melanie practically grew up riding this county and is one of those people who build maps in their heads). Or maybe there was a misunderstanding of where we were headed and she couldn’t find us and figured we headed back to road’s end, where the truck and trailer were parked. I also considered the fact that Melanie’s obsessive tenacity (where did she get that from?) may still have her pursuing that cow into the ever darkening forest.
My light was almost gone. I dismounted, and got down on my hands and knees. Crawling across the several cow and elk trails that lead out of the Moose Creek country via the canyon bottom and shining my little pocket flashlight, I was looking for a broken twig, a dog print, or any sign that she had passed this way. After scoping the ground on one side of the creek, I went to the other side. I was almost to the foot of the steep mountainside when I spied a faint impression of a horseshoe print in the duff”¦pointing the way home. It was Pumba’s size. Soon I found several more, and noted by the angle of the track that she was moving out quickly. My only concern was that she was not on Pumba’s back, and knowing the way home, the gelding was going riderless back to the truck and trailer.
The only way to find out was at the Moose Creek gate”¦several miles downstream. Linnaea and I trotted hard down there in the starlight and found ramshackle wire gate closed. We sighed with relief, as we knew then she was certainly ahead of us, and closed the gate behind her like any self-respecting cowhand would. We slowly picked our way down rock-strewn Little Hat canyon trail back to road’s end, about another 4 miles.
When we finally arrived at the corrals, it was 3 am. Melanie had left for 20 mile trip back to the ranch without us—probably to get help for us, as the truck and trailer were gone. I was, I’ll admit, a little worried. At 15, she was already a good hand with the pickup and 20 foot gooseneck trailer, but the road off the range includes a curvy difficult stretch of extremely narrow two-track that clings precariously to a cliff high above the Salmon River, hard enough for a seasoned driver in the daylight.
We built a little fire, pulled our horse’s gear, and tucked under our slickers for a short night’s sleep. Caryl found us just as it was getting light”¦all was well. Melanie had come home worried about us because I had miscommunicated the meet-up ridge and she went to a different spot, several miles away from where Linnaea and I had ended up. She had done well navigating that wild and dark trail and road and going for help. Linnaea and I were tired and a little cold, but it was time to start another day.
All of our days are not like that, but they do happen occasionally when grazing on 46,000 acres of remote mountainous rangeland. We have learned certain things over the years that ensure safety for rider and horse, but there are many variables that come into play that are unpredictable. The worth of it, though, is that we believe the nutritional density of our beeves which have grazed for a portion of their lives on these remote pristine areas far exceeds that of their farmed and feedlot counterparts.
Thanks again, friends, for being our partners in this ranching endeavor. We are doing it the best way we know how, and never lose sight of our primary purpose: to connect the health of the wild land and the animals we care for with human wellness.
Leave a Reply