An Unofficial Journal of the Back
Country Horsemen of the Flathead
8/1/22
by Jennifer
Abelle
6/1/22
by
Brünhilde
On the afternoon of Thursday 27 May, 2022 the annual pilgrimage of the Back Country Horsemen of the Flathead began, with several stock rigs ascending to the Meadow Creek trail-head especially favoured by Horsemen on this particular weekend of the year. By the morning of Monday, 30 May, the following had been accomplished: an (possibly optimistically) estimated 372 snags across 9.5 miles of trail cleared; three escaped head of stock apprehended; two wrecks; several pounds of BBQed country ribs, BBQed beef sandwiches, flapjacks, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs consumed; several gallons of coffee and fifths of wet goods imbibed; the District Ranger and Game Warden and his trainee toadied and fed; and the tribute of a grateful, non-equestrian Public received.
By general consensus, the east side road was found to be in
excellent shape, facilitating effortless transportation to and
from. Somewhat surprisingly, the only snow seen going in
was over about a one tenth mile stretch, with snow banked
alongside the road, and patches in the surrounding
forest. By Monday, on the way out, that snow was
gone. On the evening of the 27th, fully seven Horsemen,
and and nine horses/mules were ensconced in their respective
bivouac sites at the trail-head. Once camp was
established, the first priority was to cut, carried-out by the
Project Leader, and stack firewood in order that we might
propitiate the Fire God who provides us with our only
remaining raison d'être.
Although it had been a pleasant partly-sunny and upper sixties
Fahrenheit during the day, the fire was appreciatively
worshipped by all, and toasted in wet goods generously
provided by the Project Leader.
The best and most rehabilitating sleep can only be had while sleeping on the ground in a tent, or under a manty, deep in the back-country. On Friday, Horseman rigs began progressively arriving. Meanwhile, an advanced party, led by the Project Leader, headed out to reconnoitre, and pave the way for the chainsaw aficionados to come. This is when the first loose stock incident occurred. A molly mule, loaded with chainsaw and gasoline, led by one of our novice riders, while descending the steep trail to the Gorge Bridge, took it into her head to mount the embankment on the left side in order to corkscrew the rider out of the saddle, and proceed on her own way up the service road to the main road. Our rider, in declining to be unhorsed, was nonetheless obliged to release the lead rope, and subsequently pursue and apprehend the errant mule. This done, the string proceeded across the bridge and up the trail rejoining the rest of the party at the first impassable blockage, which had occurred at the Lost Jack Creek ford. Two trees had fallen parallel to each other and the ford and perpendicular to the tree trunk serving as a footbridge, effectively blocking both. The snags were chainsawed clear. Continuing on, the team cleared about fifteen more snags before returning to camp.
Saturday morning the second loose stock incident involving
the same mule and rider, later drawing in a third,
occurred. The recalcitrant mule pulled the same trick,
simultaneously wiping-off a hard hat on some overhanging
branches. While the first rider dismounted to retrieve
the gear, another Horseman of the party dismounted, ground
tied his horse in order to apprehend the mule, re-stabilize
the load, and hand off same to a third Horseman while the
first remounted. Meanwhile the second horse, discovering
he was not hard tied, decided to head up to the outfitter
corral to visit his compatriots, leading his rider on a wild
goose chase, while the third rider handed back the mule to the
first. It sounds complicated, but all was eventually
straightened out satisfactorily with each rider and mount in
his requisite place. This day was destined to be a
veritable Chainsaw Bacchanalia, with five sawyers and three
swampers working the same trail (past the airstrip)
simultaneously; the sawyers sawing like madmen, each trying to
out-saw the others in order to saw the most and progress up
the trial as fast as possible. Chainsaws screaming, men
cursing, chips, sawdust, branches, and logs flying everywhere,
horses whinnying; the joyful cacophony rising to the heavens,
certain to bring a smile to Loki's face. By
mid-afternoon, the party reached the Harrison Creek trail, and
a confabulation was held to determine whether to call it a
day, or continue on. The puniest sawyer, whose butt was
dragging pretty low, voted the former, but the rest were all
gung-ho to continue on, come Hell or high water. The
majority headed on across Harrison Creek, but the Project
Leader and two others gallantly opted to accompany the puniest
sawyer back to camp.
Concomitantly with the foregoing, a second party, led by our
own Packing Professor, headed up the Lost Jack trail intending
to clear up to the wilderness boundary. This is when the first
wreck occurred. While leading his pack string, loaded
with chainsaw, inadequate gasoline, and other cutting
implements, the Professor actually fell off his horse!
We know this sounds rather incredible, but witnesses have
corroborated the story. Of course, it wasn't his fault,
and the pack animals survived the disaster just fine.
When the amount of gasoline packed was found to be less than
enough to run the chainsaw for a significant length of time,
the party fell back on (or perhaps preferred) hand tools,
clearing over one hundred trees on that trail in two working
days by hand, which
is not shabby.
The highlights of each day for Horsemen on these pilgrimages
are when the chuck-wagon triangle sounds, summoning all to
breakfast and dinner. Our Boss Chef slings some pretty
mean hash, and she and her assistant cook saw to it there were
piping-hot victuals and coffee 6 am and 6 pm each day to
rejuvenate bodies and spirits. Flapjacks, sausage,
bacon, and coffee consumed while sitting around a roaring camp
fire are hard to beat. At the end of a strenuous
workday, after the horses have been unsaddled, watered,
picketed, and tack stowed, the aroma of barbecued country ribs
and baked beans emanating from the chuck wagon is an
irresistible draw. A bottle of five-star cognac,
provided by one of our One-Day-Wonders, was the the ultimate
touch of perfection. Representatives of state and
federal officialdom were entertained too; the District Ranger
appearing in time for breakfast on Saturday, and the local
Game Warden and his trainee stopping-by to say hello Sunday
afternoon. When, in the ensuing conversation, these two
let slip the fact that they were reduced to but one hot dog
each to sustain them until the morrow, they were promptly
invited to return at dinnertime and partake of our feast along
with us. This they did, and having been surfeited with
barbecued beef sandwiches and potato salad, declared our Boss
Chef's grub to be "better than" that of a certain Famous
restaurateur bearing the moniker Dave.
Working in hot sun, cold drizzle, and providing sustenance
for sundry horse flies, mosquitoes, and wood ticks, our
altruistic slogans, "We keep Trails open for you," and "Trails
are common ground," keep us spiritually motivated to endure
and continue on. How heart-warming it is then, to see on
this Memorial Day weekend a grateful non-equestrian Public
exercising its God-given right, for which our soldiers
throughout history have fought and died, to roar around in the
primordial forest, mounted upon various motorized
four-wheelers and side-by-sides, on the very trails we have
cleared for them. On Sunday afternoon the sylvan
serenity was assailed by a distant rumbling like unto the din
of over-powered "off-road vehicles." Sure enough, a
gaggle of four-wheelers travelling south on the main road
turned onto the service road on the north side of the
trail-head area leading to the gorge bridge, disdaining the
boulders placed there to indicate its closure to wheeled
traffic. A maverick of the group entered the trail-head
area proper, and parked among the vehicles of the hikers and
gambolers. Three entities dismounted the
contraption: a tall adult male wearing an incandescent
orange pullover with color-coordinated shoelaces in his floppy
shoes, a pre-pubescent girl similarly attired, and a Saint
Bernard dog. The orange apparition favoured us with the
following oration, roughly translated from the original Moron,
our knowledge of that language being admittedly faulty:
"Hi-my-name-is-Nevada-and-this-is-my-daughter-Vegas-and-my-dog-Reno-don't-worry-he-won't-attack-you-in-fact-he-could-save-your-life-only-he-hasn't-got-his-whiskey-barrel-if-he-bothers-you-just-kick-him-in-the-teeth-no-just-kidding-I-don't-want-you-to-kick-my-dog-in-the-teeth."
("Likes" omitted for clarity.) Having uttered several bon mots along similar
lines, the threesome turned and headed down the trail toward
the gorge for a pleasant afternoon's gambol. Given this
man's infatuation with names originating in a notorious gaming
state, he only lacks a tin horn in order to represent a
perfect example of a tin-horn gamboler. These people
disappeared quickly from our view, but not from our lives, as
they will figure prominently in the future of this
narrative. Meanwhile, the four-wheeled invaders having
crossed the Gorge Bridge and accelerated up the trail toward
the airstrip, revelling in the low-gear torque and small
diameter tires of their vehicles' power to dislodge rocks,
dirt, and raise a plume of dust, while modifying the trail
tread to something less than its original ideal, were
nonetheless interdicted by a knight-in-shining-armour—one of
our own mounted sawyers. Our Horseman demanded of these
pariahs what they thought they were doing? They replied
they were only trying to get to the airstrip. Our man
informed them diplomatically that the only way to properly do
that was via wings, hooves, or feet. Beneath our man's
disapproving gaze, the mechanized monsters turned and meekly
retreated, metaphorical tails between legs, but not before one
of their ilk ignominiously rolled his vehicle down an
embankment, requiring to be winched-out by his comrades.
God bless America.
Comes now one of our mule-borne Doctors, innocently wending
his way back to camp after a strenuous day of swamping.
Fate is the hunter. Rounding a bend, he is confronted by
none-other than the Orange Threesome, ensconced on the high side of the
trail. Attempting to nonchalantly pass by, the doc and
mule are nonetheless attacked by the whiskey-less dog,
launching himself toward the mule's head. Executing a
simultaneous four-legged jump and pirouette, which only mules
can do, he removes in the opposite direction, leaving our
doctor momentarily airborne, ultimately alighting firmly upon
a pile of flint. Later, the Orange Threesome insist on
accompanying our doctor as if advertising a
trophy-of-the-hunt. Arriving at the bridgehead, they
encounter, as fate would have it, our own Packing Professor
who, viewing the untethered dog though narrowed eyes,
remonstrates with the Orange One for his negligence. The
latter, having none of it, sends back in kind, and WORDS are exchanged;
'nuff said. We were not quite through with him yet,
however. Back at the trailhead, he endeavoured to
purchase of our Horsemen some butter, "for our pizza
sandwiches;" we kid you not. The Project Leader gave him a quarter pound
to be rid of him, and the orange problem disappeared in a
cloud of dust. Seated at last at the comforting
camp-fire, our sore doctor, in lieu of tea and sympathy, had
to make do with beer, backslapping, and barbecued beef.
But he is a good sport.
The saddest part of a horse-camping outing is when the time
comes to strike camp. After consuming a banquet of
surplus food, we remaining gung-ho Horsemen pitched-in to
strike the canopy, fold chairs and tables, wash dishes &
etc. in order to button-up the chuck wagon; then striking,
folding, and mantying our personal gear and loading it into
trucks and stock into horse trailers for the all too short
trip back to the madness that is American civilization.
The road out was still in good shape, but the little snow we
saw on the way in just a memory. All that remains of the
outing is the quandary lodged in the minds of some of
us: what was the point of it all?
8/27/21
by Jennifer AbelleExtending between Skyland Road and Zip's cabin lies the Mule Ridge Trail, passing through a variety of vegetation and land forms which provide interesting potentialities for riding or hiking. This trail has been a subject of BCHF attention as recently as August, 2019, when Horsemen Rick Madje and Stu Sorensen cleared the ascending portion prior to the Challenge at Challenge event of that year. On Saturday, August 7, a reconnaissance party, consisting of Horsemen Dan Oursland, Rick Madje, and Jennifer Abelle, hiked the trail on foot to ascertain what might be necessary to make the trail usable by equestrians. We found much brush encroaching the tread; groundwater oozing to the surface in places making the substrate soft and treacherous; old log sleepers having been placed in years past to provide a means of traversing such areas, but now rotted, soft and treacherous in themselves; and many fallen trees, small and large across the trail.
At 7:00 am on Friday morning, August 13, Horsemen Jim
Thramer, Dan Oursland, and Jennifer Abelle met at President
Thramer's house, and from there proceeded northward toward
Skyland Road and Challenge cabin. Horseman Rick Madje
had preceded us Thursday evening as an advance party of one
to unlock the gate and establish our bivouac site for the
weekend. We three arrived at about 10:00 am, pitched
camp, prepared coffee and lunches, and loaded gear for the
day's work. Arriving at slightly before noon, the four
of us had barely an hour to accomplish anything due to the
prevailing level 2 fire restriction which forbids the use of
internal combustion engine powered equipment past one
o'clock. (To be continued.)
1850
by Herbert Spencer
§ 1. As a corollary to the proposition that all institutions must be subordinated to the law of equal freedom, we cannot choose but admit the right of the citizen to adopt a condition of voluntary outlawry. If every man has freedom to do all that he wills, provided he infringes not the equal freedom of any other man, then he is free to drop connection with the State,—to relinquish its protection and to refuse paying towards its support. It is self-evident that in so behaving he in no way trenches upon the liberty of others; for his position is a passive one, and, whilst passive, he cannot become an aggressor. It is equally self-evident that he cannot be compelled to continue one of a political corporation without a breach of the moral law, seeing that citizenship involves payment of taxes; and the taking away of a man's property against his will is an infringement of his rights. Government being simply an agent employed in common by a number of individuals to secure to them certain advantages, the very nature of the connection implies that it is for each to say whether he will employ such an agent or not. If any one of them determines to ignore this mutual-safety confederation, nothing can be said, except that he loses all claim to its good offices, and exposes himself to the danger of maltreatment,—a thing he is quite at liberty to do if he likes. He cannot be coerced into political combination without a breach of the law of equal freedom; he can withdraw from it without committing any such breach; and he has therefore a right so to withdraw.
§ 2. "No human laws are of any validity if contrary to the law of nature: and such of them as are valid derive all their force and all their authority mediately or immediately from this original." Thus writes Blackstone, to whom let all honour be given for having so far outseen the ideas of his time,—and, indeed, we may say of our time. A good antidote, this, for those political superstitions which so widely prevail. A good check upon that sentiment of power-worship which still misleads us by magnifying the prerogatives of constitutional governments as it once did those of monarchs. Let men learn that a legislature is not "our God upon earth," though, by the authority they ascribe to it and the things they expect from it, they would seem to think it is. Let them learn rather that it is an institution serving a purely temporary purpose, whose power, when not stolen, is, at the best, borrowed.
Nay, indeed, have we not seen that government is essentially
immoral? Is it not the offspring of evil, bearing about it all
the marks of its parentage? Does it not exist because crime
exists? Is it not strong, or, as we say, despotic, when crime
is great? Is there not more liberty—that is, less
government—as crime diminishes? And must not government cease
when crime ceases, for very lack of objects on which to
perform its function? Not only does magisterial power exist because
of evil, but it exists by evil. Violence is employed
to maintain it; and all violence involves criminality.
Soldiers, policemen, and gaolers; swords, batons, and
fetters,—are instruments for inflicting pain; and all
infliction of pain is, in the abstract, wrong. The State
employs evil weapons to subjugate evil, and is alike
contaminated by the objects with which it deals and the means
by which it works. Morality cannot recognise it; for morality,
being simply a statement of the perfect law, can give no
countenance to anything growing out of, and living by,
breaches of that law. Wherefore legislative authority can
never be ethical—must always be conventional merely.
* (Ed. Note: Spencer's original title is, The Right to Ignore the State;
however, as the Forest Service, which did not exist in his
time, is the arm of the State with which we are most likely to
come into contact, we have opted for this slight modification
to make it more relevant to our experience.)