So many people enjoyed the fictional story my son wrote about a horse pack trip he, my father, and I took back in 2001, that I thought I’d write up the non-fictional story of what really happened on that ill-fated trip. Sadly, I don’t have any photos of that trip.

What got the whole thing started was a trip I took with the youth from my church way back when I was 16 years old. We were hosted by the Wit’s End Ranch at Vallecito Reservoir, near Durango, Colorado. Their wranglers packed us in to Emerald Lake, in the Weminuche Wilderness Area, on horses, left us for five days, then packed us out. It was a great memory and one I simply could not shake. Many years later I found myself living within an hour’s drive of the trail head. Naturally, I began making plans to head back to Emerald Lake on horseback, and I wanted my father to go with me. Dad, then age 67, and I, age 42, had spent some of our best memories on horses, and I wanted him to take this ride with me. Knowing my oldest son’s love for fly fishing, I invited him along as well. Despite his healthy dislike for horses, and their apparent reciprocation of those feelings, Nate couldn’t resist the chance at casting a line into the crystal clear waters of Emerald Lake.

At the time, I owned one  horse, a mustang named Max. Max was about 14 hands tall, stocky and uncommonly strong. He could carry me and all the gear I could pack on him all day long for days on end. I borrowed another mustang from a friend for my son. This one, named Roany, was around 20 years old, from what I was told, but he was tough and solid as a rock. Nothing in the world could rattle this little gelding. He stood about 13.2 hands and was only about 600 pounds or so, but he was a tough little horse to whom I could trust the well-being of my son.

Now for Dad’s horse. Dad brought his horse up from Eagar, AZ in a stock trailer, about a four-hour drive. Dad’s horse was a registered Quarter Horse, out of a mare we used to have. That mare had carried me through some of the roughest country I’ve ever traveled, and her son, Royal, had proved to be a good trail horse as well. The problem was that Dad hadn’t used Royal for a trip in several years. He was now 17 years old and had spent the past several years at pasture. He was fat and sassy and out of condition. That proved to be the undoing of our trip.

The pack horse I had been trying to borrow fell through at the last minute, so rather than scrap the trip, we decided to cut down our supplies and pack everything behind the saddle and in saddle bags. We figured we could cut down on our food supply, counting on fishing to supplement our dehydrated meals. We bought a pump filter for water and carried simple aluminum mess kits for cooking utensils. With our sleeping bags and ground sheets tightly wrapped we were able to make room for our pack fishing rods, waders, and minimal tackle. We were optimistic and looking forward to fly fishing and dining on fresh trout.

I tried right up to the last minute to borrow a pack horse, but was unsuccessful. We ended up packing up and leaving Farmington late, and arriving at the trailhead near Vallecito Reservoir around 3:00 pm. We unloaded and packed up the horses. It was past 4:00 by the time we headed out.

Our first hint of a problem was when Dad’s gelding balked when Dad mounted. He really didn’t like all that stuff loaded on his backside. After a bit of correctional instruction, Royal headed out in the right direction. About 200 yards down the trial, however, Royal simply exploded! Round and round he went, finally falling over backwards, pinning my dad’s leg against the ground and getting his own back legs tangled in the lower strands of a loose barbed-wire fence. While Dad tried to get his leg out from under the floundering horse, I leaped off my horse and dove on Royal’s neck and head to keep him from getting up before Dad could get loose, and to keep him from getting more tangled in the barbed-wire.

Royal continued struggling for a few seconds, during which my forehead came into sharp contact with a conveniently located rock several times. So here we are, Dad stuck under a struggling horse, who is stuck in a barbed-wire fence, with me on top of his head, banging my head against a rock, and blood streaming down my face. I can only imagine what Nathan must have been thinking about his choice to come on this trip in the first place, as he sat there on good old Roany, just watching the show.

We eventually got both Dad and Royal back on their feet. Dad had a badly bruised leg, but nothing was broken. He must have been hurting more than he let on, but he insisted he was ok. Royal had a couple minor wire cuts on his hind legs, but nothing that required attention under the circumstances, so we mounted up again and headed on up the trail. A few short yards down the trail, Royal again began to act up, so Dad dismounted and walked for a while, which kept his leg loosened up. We finally decided to mount Dad on Max while I walked and lead Royal.

By now it was getting on to evening, so we started looking for a camp site. A little before dark we found a nice little camp area down about 30 feet or so lower than the trail, right next to Pine River. It was a beautiful spot. There was a steep trail down from the main trail to the camp, but it was no problem for the horses. Having carried little feed with us, planning to let the horses graze, we turned them out on what grass there was in the small area, which wasn’t much. Three tired horses and three sore and tired men settled down for a dry camp. We spread the ground sheets and sleeping bags, then sat down and had cold pork and beans right from the can for dinner. After dinner we gazed at the stars, talked a little, and finally slept.

I remember that one of my last thoughts before I fell asleep that night, was a feeling of foreboding, sort of a warning from the Lord that this trip was not going to be an easy one. I often wonder how things might have been different if I had just called the whole trip off at that point and headed home the next morning. Maybe it was just a warning that we needed to be careful. Regardless, it was a powerful feeling and one to which I have since learned to give more heed.

We arose the next morning to a glorious day. It was simply beautiful. There we were, in the mountains with our horses, waking up to the sound of Pine River chuckling along next to our beds. What could be better? We ate a quick breakfast of instant oat meal or something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very memorable. Shortly thereafter we were packed and ready to head out.

We sent Nate up the trail on Roany first. Like I said, it was a steep trail 30 feet or so up to the main trail. After Nate, I went on up. No problems so far. Then Dad mounted Royal and started up the trail. Just before reaching the main trail, Royal stopped and froze in place. We knew what was coming next. Just like before, he simply exploded! Over backward he went, tumbling head over heels down the hillside strewn with granite boulders and fallen trees. The last I saw of my father were his eyes, wide open, looking at me, as he disappeared beneath the horse. I watched in horror as Royal tumbled, rolled, and tumbled some more, down and down, until he came to rest at the bottom where we had camped the night before.

I jumped out of the saddle and threw the lead rope to Nathan, who was off his horse and looking down in disbelief at where Dad had disappeared. I told Nate to hold my horse because I figured if Dad was alive, he would be hurt badly and would need help. I figured I would have Nate go for help. I stumbled and ran down the slope and found Dad unconscious on the downhill side of a huge log. It was apparent the log had saved him from being crushed by the horse. As Royal had gone over backwards, Dad had landed next to the log, which had taken most of the weight of the horse. The horse had passed on over Dad and tumbled on down the hill.

Dad started coming to his senses as I got to him. I told him to just lie still until I could determine whether he had any broken bones. To my indescribable relief, as incredible as it seemed, Dad appeared to be uninjured, other than being shaken up and bruised a bit. Royal, as well, had escaped serious injury, and was standing, shaking, at the bottom of the hill. I was able to get Dad up to the main trail with some help from Nate, after which I went down and led Royal up the trail to where Nate, Dad, and the other two horses were waiting.

I tied Royal to a tree next to the trail and began to get his packs re-secured to the saddle. As I did so, Royal again blew up, jumping forward against the lead rope, which pulled him back toward the tree, he spun around, knocking Dad to the ground with his rump, then leaped forward again, off the trail, down the hillside on top of a jumble of granite boulders, where he came to rest with his neck outstretched against the lead rope. After quickly checking Dad, I jerked loose the lead rope from the tree, releasing the pressure on Royal. Royal, afraid to move, laid there in an awkward position on a pile of boulders below the lip of the trail. I descended to him and began stripping the gear off him. As soon as I released the cinch, Royal bolted up the hillside, clambering through the granite rocks. He reached the lip of the trail, terrified out of his mind, just as Dad stood up at the edge of the trail to see if he could help. Royal hit Dad full tilt with his chest, as he scrambled up onto the trail, knocking Dad off his feet and into the bank on the opposite side of the trail, as Royal tromped all around him.

Again, unbelievably, neither Royal nor Dad was seriously injured, although I could see with one eye that both were hurting. I got to the trail, left Royal to stand where he was, and helped Dad to a sitting position on the side of the trail. We just sat there for a few minutes while we considered our bad fortune at the wrecks and equally good fortune that both man and horse were still in one piece. I remember looking at the place where Royal had fallen and wondering how it was that he escaped without a broken leg among all those huge boulders.

At this point, I decided the feeling I had experienced the night before was a warning to turn back before someone got killed. I told Dad I was ready to turn back if he wanted to. Nate was more than willing to head home. Dad, however, worried that he might ruin a great experience for Nathan and me, said he would rather continue on. He promised that if anything else happened, or if he began to feel he was more injured than he thought, that we would turn around and head for the trailer.

Rather than be absolutely stupid and try to ride Royal again, I put Dad on Max and moved my pack to Royal’s saddle along with Dad’s packs, and I walked, leading Royal. Good old Roany never batted an eye at all that happened, for which I was grateful. At least I didn’t have to worry about Nate.

I walked the next seven miles or so from about 6,000 feet elevation, to Emerald Lake at about 11,000 feet. It was quite a hike, but at least I wasn’t carrying a back pack. We took several breaks en route, where we let the horses graze and fill their bellies. Dad was getting sore, but the movement of the horse seemed to keep his bruised muscles from stiffening up and was a relief to him.

At one point we came to a narrow wooden bridge, that was quite elevated above a roaring tributary of the Pine River. Being early summer, the spring runoff was still in full swing and the water was running high and loud. Neither Max nor Royal wanted anything to do with crossing that bridge. Luckily, we had Roany along. Roany hardly even noticed the roaring torrent of water, as he calmly walked across the river.  Upon seeing Roany cross the bridge, Max decided he could do it as well. Royal, however, having been left ground-tied while I got the other horses across, decided the trailer was where he wanted to be, so he turned around and headed back down the trail with me in hot pursuit.

One thing I have learned, that has saved my bacon several times on pack trips, is to ride with a halter under the bridle, with a loooong lead attached. I keep the lead coiled over the horn while riding. I had been leading Royal by the lead rope and had his bridle hanging over the horn. When he walked off, the long lead trailed behind, causing him to step on it several times, thus slowing his progress. After about 50 yards of chase, I was able to get close enough to grab the end of the lead. With the other two horses waiting on the other side of the bridge, I was able to coax Royal across,

We arrived at Emerald Lake late in the afternoon. We were tired. We picked out a camp site were we could dump our packs and relieve the horses a little, while we looked around for a place to graze the horses and maybe find a better campsite. After unloading the horses we mounted and rode down to the lake. There were signs indicating no camping within 1/4 mile of the lake and that grazing horses was prohibited, except at a place at the other end of the lake. We decided that under the circumstances, if we could find a patch of grass, we would graze the horses regardless, and set up camp were we had dumped the gear, outside the 1/4 mile radius from the lake. Dad decided he would try Royal one more time, since he had carried a light load and been walked all day long.

Dad mounted and Royal was the perfect gentleman as we made our way down to the shores of the lake. The trails had been changed since I had been there many years earlier, so we could not get to the place I remembered, where there was grass and a very nice campsite. We dismounted and tried to find a way through, but the Forest Service had very effectively blocked all the old trails and there was no way for us to pass through. We headed back to the horses and I mounted. I looked over as Dad mounted Royal and saw that Royal had tossed his head and had flipped his bit upside down in his mouth.  As dad mounted and gathered the reins, Royal began to back and act up, due to the bit problem. Dad, however, was not waiting around for Royal to explode again, and he left the saddle in a long dive as Royal spun around. Dad landed flat on his back on a rock about the size of a football. I don’t know how he did it, but he sat up, hung his head for a minute, and simply said, “Tony, I don’t think I can take another fall like that.”

“Dad”, I said, “We’ll head back up the hill, make a dry camp, and head down the mountain tomorrow morning. I put Dad back on Max and I walked Royal back to camp.

Once back where we had dumped our gear, we simply laid out our sleeping bags and laid Dad down to rest. I gave him a handful of Ibuprofen from my first-aid kit for the pain and to keep swelling down. Nate got a fire going while I went to the lake for water. We cooked a dehydrated meal and settled in for the evening. I can remember how surprisingly good that dehydrated meal tasted. The horses were restless at not having feed for the night, but they were tired as well and eventually settled down. We spent the evening talking and enjoying each other’s company, as we talked about our disappointment at the problems of the trip and not being able to spend our three days fishing, as we had planned.

The next morning we packed up and headed down the mountain, Dad on Max, Nate on Roany, and me on foot, leading Royal. About half way down the mountain, we came upon a lush green pasture, where we unpacked the horses, loosened the cinchas, and let them graze until they were filled. We napped and rested while they grazed.

We made our way down the mountain by early afternoon and were back home by nightfall.

Back at home, Dad went to clean up. Shortly thereafter he called me into the room. What he showed me scared me to death. He was bruised literally from above his waist to just above his knees. His lower back, rump, and back of his legs were solid black where he had bled internally and the blood had gathered under the skin. No doubt he had suffered some sort of internal injury, as this was not normal bruising. There was no talking him into going to the hospital. He figured that he had survived this long, so what was done was done and wouldn’t get any worse. Had I known he was hurt that bad, or had I seen the bruising while we were on the mountain, I would have cut the trip short long before and gone for help.

Yes, my dad is one tough old cowboy.

P.S.

Just for information, I later did some research to figure out just what happened on that trip to Royal. I learned about a malady which is becoming more and more common among Quarter Horses and is also showing up in other breeds. It is called Equine Hyperkalaemic Periodic Paralysis. It is a genetic malady which causes a horse to “bind-up” and become momentarily paralyzed. According to some studies, the disease is currently manifesting in as many as one-in-twenty five Quarter Horses, particularly those descended from a stallion named Impressive. Once a rare disorder, it is becoming more common in recent years. I have concluded this is what happened to Royal. His dam experienced this same problem later on in her life, after having been the best trail horse I have ever ridden. In my experience, I believe it is similar to when an athlete suffers a charley horse. Muscles knot up, causing the horse to “bind-up” or freeze, and the pain increases until the horse simply explodes to try to escape it. After this experience, I tried to “fix” Royal through exercise and training, but was unsuccessful. Eventually it simply became too dangerous to ride him. After a bit of riding, he would suddenly, without any warning, freeze up, then explode, rearing over onto his back every time. He got worse as time went on and I had several narrow escapes. After a friend of mine was killed by a horse rearing over backwards on him, I decided to have Royal put down. There was no sense in continuing to cause him pain and putting peoples’ lives at risk. We had a lot of good trips with Royal. It was sad that our last ride with him turned out to be such a disaster.

Sadly enough, as well, we failed to take even one photograph on this trip. The photos you see with this post are from subsequent trips we have taken.

TH