The Puzzle Hills Conundrum

8/1/22

by Jennifer Abelle

Midsummer heat and drought decree it is time for Back Country Horsemen to devote attention, sweat, blood, and horseflesh to High Country horseflies, snags, rocks, and brambles in the Skyland Road/Challenge Cabin territory skirting the Continental Divide.  On the afternoon of Friday, July 29th, Horsemen Jim Thramer, Dan Oursland, Jennifer Abelle, and Mule Skinner Dr. Steve Milheim, rallied to the cause.  Although the cabin itself was known to be occupied by several Fish & Game types engaged in trapping and tagging grizzly bears in the area, the corral was available for our stock, and a comfortable camp was established in the open consisting of stock trailers, trucks, and just plain bivouac bags on the ground, the cynosure of which being the all-important Coleman stove.  Afternoon temperatures had reached upper-eighties F, but past sundown the air cooled rapidly to a more tolerable level for all.  In the corral, mares and mollies flirted with johns and geldings providing an entertaining background soundtrack of squeals and whinnying to our supper of linguiça sausage, canned chilli, and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.  Sounds proletarian, but to us, up there, it is haute cuisine not even Escoffier could pass up.

Saturday morning, soundly slept, breakfasted, coffeed, stock saddled and packed, our redoubtable crew made its way up FS Road 5282 to the east Puzzle Hills Trailhead.  The road was in passable shape up to the trailhead, which, although since clearly marked with a new sign, is pretty much the same as when we saw it in past years—initial part oblique and sloughy, then trail narrowed by new-grown weeds and brambles.  The morning, cool, clear, calm, made for a pleasant ride with no obstructions up to the badlands portion of the trail.  This strange area, steep, open, dry, friable soil and talus—not even knapweed can grow there—has changed little over the years and likely never will.  Visible trail tread does not survive the winters, so the optimum route has necessarily been marked with cairns.  Even these had been partially obliterated, but since last year persons unknown, possibly Trail Elves, have rebuilt these so that they now stand-out.  Job well done, whoever you are.  The sun grew hotter as we finally made the wooded ridge above, and the effects began to tell on humans and stock.  Still no reason to unlimber the saws even as we passed through the stretch of spillikins cleared last year by this same basic crew.  Onto the fire-break and the sun now high and hot, our beasts hot and tired, we opted to dismount and lead them up the more difficult part.  Fortunately, no new downfalls intervened to impede our progress.  Arriving at last at the point where the trail re-enters the woods, we remounted and proceeded toward our destination, the former fire-lookout and its mesa and commanding views.   We hadn't progressed a hundred yards when, lo and behold—a snag!—fat, implacable, blocking the trail, defying us to come ahead and just try to pass!  Now we are faced with a conundrum:
To saw, or not to saw, that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The snags and leaners of outrageous fortune,
Or to take trimmers against a sea of brambles
And by opposing end them?  Ay there's the rub:
Unfortunately this reporter, owing to an earlier misunderstanding with her stock, the details with which we shall not bore you, became separated in time by about two hours from the rest of the crew and believing to have lost the way, returned to camp and did not witness the ensuing decision.  Having debriefed the crew upon its return, it was revealed that they had opted to circumvent the subject snag and others, bushwhacking where necessary, in order to reach the lookout sooner.  Having regaled themselves with the gorgeous scenery, they returned by the same route, clearing as they went.  In all, about ten snags were cleared on the way down.

2022 BCHF Meadow Creek Memorial Day Weekend Season Opening Project an Accomplished Fact

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?

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Back County Horsemen Redeem Worthy Trail

8/27/21

by Jennifer Abelle