THE TRAIL OUT FROM HELL

Trailing horses out of the mountains after a long hunting season is never easy. In my current Outfitting Concession, I enthusiastically greet my crew at the trail head after their grueling ride through swamp, old burns and paths overgrown with willow. The older guides sometimes ask sarcastically, “have you ever done anything like this?” Not wishing to upset their ego, I sagely reply, “not recently”.

The Following is a condensed diary of what was for me an extremely difficult trail experience. September 1980 was one of the wettest months on record in the Cassiar Mountains of Northern British Columbia. At one point it rained for 14 days straight. Horse trails became a muddy, gooey mess. For the first time in my guiding career, I was asked to guide for moose and caribou instead of stone sheep. I considered this to be an insult and a demotion. I was a very grouchy 24 year old guide. We were hunting from my Grandfathers Eaglehead Lake camp, with ten horses. Doug Fenton was the young horse wrangler and camp helper. In late September leaves were starting to drop from the Aspen, small ponds were forming ice, and it was high time for us to “hit the trail”. The trail being a 125 mile ride to Horse Ranch Lake, where the horses spent the winter. On the map it was supposed to take about six days. Well….it took a lot longer!

Successful hunters at Eaglehead Lake, September 1980

October 1st, 1980

We saddled up in pouring rain and rode out toward the western end of Cry Lake. Sticking to my Grandfather Dal’s motto of travelling light, we took only one packhorse, no radio, and food for about three days (we planned on re-supplying at the Ewe Lake Cabin, about the half way point of the trip). The area around Eaglehead Lake is not great horse country. It’s very rocky, marshy, and has little top soil. Our sturdy mountain horses made slow but deliberate progress. In early afternoon I could hear a bull moose grunting ahead of us. Riding through a patch of high willow, there he was standing right on the trail glaring at us. Our Appaloosa pack horse, Preacher, must have had a bad experience with rutting bulls in the past. He gave a wide eyed snort, turned tail, and galloped, bucking his way back toward Eaglehead Lake. It took us several hours to catch him and gather up our scattered pack box gear. This day was done. The temperature was dropping fast and the rain had turned to dreaded “freezing rain”. We set up our 8 x 10 canvas tarp, hobbled the horses and tried to dry out our wet clothing.

October 2nd, 1980

We awoke in the early morning darkness to a sagging tarp and six inches of wet snow. My damp leather boots had frozen stiff, as were the diamond ropes. We cooked breakfast over a blazing fire and soaked up the warmth. The sound of horse bells could be heard just up the valley. It was still snowing like crazy, with visibility only about a 100 yards. We really needed to get moving, so we saddled up and headed in the direction of the pass to Beale Lake. A month before, we had ridden in on this trail. Now fresh snow covered both our old tracks and the actual trail. Blowing snow soon reduced our forward visibility to almost zero. Still we forged onward, gradually gaining elevation. I was leading solely by instinct and prayed that my horse knew the way in these whiteout conditions. Suddenly, my pinto horse Blaze came to a full stop and turned around. He simply refused to keep going forward. At that point I really didn’t know where we were anyway, so we retraced our steps. Reaching the first decent stand of trees, we unpacked, set up another wet camp and prepared to wait out the storm.

October 3rd, 1980

It didn’t stop snowing until nine o’clock in the morning. Gradually the fog started to lift and I could make out a few mountain peaks. I sat on a cold wooden pack box and intensely studied my topo map, questioning and second guessing our exact location. When you are lost it does take awhile to figure out where you are, even with a topo map! We had ridden into a dead end valley, miles from where we should have been travelling. It was now going to be a very long ride to Beale Lake. The sun was just starting to come out, quickly melting the fresh snow. Off we rode again, all the horses loose in single file. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when we finally rode through the correct pass. Ten hours and twenty-two miles later we caught sight of Beale Lake cabin just as darkness was falling.

October 4th, 1980

There is nothing like a warm cabin with a wood stove to cheer up wet, tired guides. We spent a leisurely morning drying clothing, boots, diamond ropes and bridles. As we were saddling up for the next leg of our trip, it started to rain again….really rain. It’s not easy leaving a warm, dry camp, but we had many miles to go. Hypothermia is a constant threat when you ride for hours in a cold rain. I told Doug to get off his horse and walk whenever I did, which was often. It’s hard to keep blood circulating in your limbs sitting on a horse for hours at a time. We were forced to stop and make camp near Red Mountain pass, the rain was just too intense. Our well worn horse trail was like a muddy world war one battle trench. The trees around our camp were all scrub balsam, not the best firewood. As we slept under the small canvas tarp, smoke from the damp fire enveloped us. A strong wind blew moisture under the tarp and over our sleeping bags. It was impossible to keep dry. I gathered a couple of horse blankets and threw them over us to add some protection. It was a long night.

October 5th, 1980

Oatmeal and the last of our coffee for breakfast. Our food supply was dwindling and most of the staples like eggs, bacon & bread were gone. I told Doug that we would be at the Ewe Lake cabin before dark. There was a good stock of canned food there. We cautiously led our horses up and over Red Mountain pass, slipping and sliding in the mud. A group of nannie goats appeared through the fog, looking like white ghosts. Goat meat is always quite tough, but a vision of barbeque goat ribs went through my head. As we made our way down out of the mountains toward the Rapid River, I was looking forward to another night in a warm cabin! It was not to be. I heard the river long before I saw it. From a distance it sounded like the roar of a jet. I could actually hear boulders being swept along the bottom by the powerful current. As I tentatively led my horse to the rivers edge, I knew that we would not be crossing here anytime soon. Same old routine, we unpacked the horse and set up camp as best we could. It wasn’t a bad spot, an old burn with lots of firewood and horse grass. However, our food supply was very low, we were behind schedule and had no communication with the outside world. Things were looking grim.

October 6th, 1980

The noise from the river kept us awake most of the night. Around dawn the rain stopped and the sun threatened to come out. I made my way down to the marker stick I had stuck on the river bank in the evening. To my dismay, the river had actually come up another six inches. We had no choice but to be patient and wait for the water level to drop. Breakfast was a pilot biscuit with margarine and powdered tang mixed with a good amount of river sediment. Lunch was pilot biscuits and a half can of tuna each. Supper was one small can of Puritan Irish stew between us. By Early evening the river was still rising. We needed a plan B. Once again I studied my crumpled, damp, topo map. I decided that we would bushwack it up to timberline and around a mountain to one of our sheep spike camps. We would overnight there and then follow a well used trail straight down to a wider section of the Rapid River. My hope was to find a better crossing for the horses there.

October 7th, 1980

Day seven would turn out to be a physical nightmare. On the map it looked like a simple eight mile ride with a few thousand feet elevation gain to timberline. I soon realized that the whole route was through an old burn with numerous deadfalls. It was also rocky and steep with no natural game trails to follow. I ended up swinging an axe, cutting downed trees for about 12 hours. Our horses were great! They plodded along single file, winding around or jumping over the stuff that I couldn’t cut with my axe. They were also in prime physical condition, as the grass was still green enough to hold nutrition. Doug and I were not so great! We were gradually getting worn down through lack of food, damp clothing, and too many long hours in the saddle. It was getting dark when we pulled into the primitive spike camp, basically just a fire ring and some old tent poles. I glanced off to the north and could see Looncry Lake far below us in the distance. With any luck, we would reach the small cabin there tomorrow and maybe, just maybe, find some grub.

A very welcome sight, Looncry Lake cabin

October 8th, 1980

A few years previous I had guided a sheep hunter from this timberline spike camp. There was a good, but steep trail straight down to the Rapid River. Here it connected with the “trail of 98”. The “trail of 98” was the route used by Klondike gold rush stampeders in 1898, walking from Edmonton Alberta to Dawson City, Yukon. When they reached the Rapid River, stampeders built rafts to cross on a relatively wide, calm stretch of water. To this day it is called the “raft crossing”. As I led our group of horses down to the waters edge I could see that it was still very high and discolored. I am not the world’s best swimmer and the thought of plunging my horse into deep water was frightening. As I was surveying the situation, Preacher the Packhorse, stepped out in front of me and started to cross. All the other horses obediently followed in single file. Doug and I held our saddle horses back. A few of the horses appeared to be swimming. When the last horse reached the far bank safely, Doug and I nudged our horses into the river. Riders should never look down at fast flowing water, even when it creeps up your legs toward the saddle horn. You can quickly get dizzy and disoriented. Sit square in the saddle, hold onto the horn, look to the far bank, and trust your horse! I breathed a sigh of relief when we completed the crossing. It was now a relatively pleasant afternoon ride to Looncry. Unfortunately the only food we found there on arrival was, two cans of baked beans, four cans of King Oscar sardines, and more god damn pilot biscuits.

October 9th, 1980

I stepped outside at daylight to find our old mare, Honeydew, standing in front of the cabin. No other horses were in sight. After a quick cowboy breakfast (a piss and a look around), Doug and I split up and went our separate ways looking for the remaining horses. I walked down the main trail carrying my trusty 30-30 rifle. When I reached Red Lake I had found no sign of the missing horses. But I did smell something very rank. Along the lakeshore I could see a huge mound of fresh dirt….with part of a moose antler sticking out the top. A grizzly kill! Instantly I made a hasty retreat. I had never fired my 30-30 in defense and was not eager to try it out on an angry bear defending his kill. When I arrived back at Looncry cabin I found no Doug, no Honeydew, no pack saddle gear, no sleeping bags and no grub. I was confused and angry! Apparently Doug had taken the lone packhorse and started out by himself toward Horse Ranch (probably thinking he would catch up to me and the rest of the horses). This was a problem, as he was not at all familiar with the next part of the trail. I had to question his judgement and sanity. I was left with no choice but to grab my rain gear and start the 44 mile walk to Horse Ranch Lake. Around mid-afternoon I came across tracks of hobbled horses. They had cut cross country from the cabin and eventually joined the main trail. I soon caught up to them grazing in a meadow, looking perfectly content. Doug and the packhorse were nowhere to be seen, which added to my stress level. The horses lined out ahead of me on the trail toward Horse Ranch. I knew that if we could make the old Red River trapping cabin by nightfall, I would at least have a roof over my head.

My horses at Mike Johnny’s old trapping cabin on the banks of the Red River

October 10th, 1980

The Red River cabin was about 50 years old. It was built by legendary Kaska trapper Mike Johnny, during the great depression. Mike trapped by dog team throughout the Cassiars, often using deadfall sets rather than traditional steel traps. I slept very well in this old cabin, even without a sleeping bag. There was an ancient but functional wood stove. I boiled up a package of dried chicken soup that someone had left years ago. My horses stayed in the field beside the cabin overnight. They knew the program. By the end of the day they would be back at Horse Ranch Lake, their traditional winter range. But, we still had twenty six miles to go. At this point I was exhausted and basically starving. So, I broke down and rode bareback. Shorty was the best horse in this group for bareback riding without a bridle, calm and steady. However, he was as wide as a 45 gallon barrel. I would ride thirty minutes and then walk, bow legged for 45 minutes. I was young and didn’t have a lot of meat on my backside. By the time we rode into the ranch at suppertime, I was very sore! My Grandfather Dal was there, along with a full camp of hunters. Dal asked in his understated manner, “what took you so long?” I replied with a question of my own, “have you ever trailed horses out from Eaglehead?” Unfortunately, Doug and the packhorse were still lost somewhere out there. The plan was to send a plane out looking for him in the morning. Early the next morning he came limping into camp, very apologetic. I was just happy to have a good meal and it was hard to stay mad at my wrangler. We had made it safely and the horses were back where they should be for the winter. In retrospect I am astonished and proud of what we accomplished. Writing this story today at age 65, I know my trailing days are over. Yes….I have trailed out, just not recently!

Our final destination, Horse Ranch Lake