Sowing on the Mountain

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She left her backpack at the camp and spent a day hiking with a daypack up the trails that went east to Donald Lake and the west face of the Cirque of Towers. They didn't get nearly as much use as the Big Sandy drainage, and she only found a few problems, along with lots of sheep sign from the previous year. The herders had buried a heap of empty cans that had been dug up by bears and scattered in every direction. She filled a trashbag and hung it from a tree out of sight of the trail, for future transport.

Her itinerary, handed out by her boss at the beginning of each hitch, said that she should return to Big Sandy Opening and stay at Dutch Joe. But it didn't specify what route she should follow, and she hated hiking back down a trail she'd just come up. She decided to hike to the East Fork River, follow it down to the Lowline trail, and then take that back to Big Sandy Opening, which would be all new ground.

The Highline Trail switchbacked down to the river to a sandy ford, running knee-deep. Disinclined to take off her boots and wade, Mary set off along the east bank and found a trail with both horse and boot tracks. There were ocasional blazes on trees, not standard ones but rough gouges. Not far downstream, the river swirled in deep, rockbound pools before funnelling down a short falls, which was spanned by a rough timber bridge. She checked the map: no bridge on it. She took off her pack and examined the bridge, which was framed with logs and planked with treated lumber. It looked pretty recent: the big bolts and spikeheads were barely rusted. The mat of winter-bleached sheep dung told her that it was meant for livestock. She'd ask Jet about it. She could see trails braided through the conifers and guessed that was how they drove the sheep up to the rocky plateau that extended a day's travel, north. East of the plateau was a line of peaks walling the East Fork Valley and a couple miles on, the stark granite wall of the Divide.

According to the map, the trail followed the east bank, so she jumped up and down on the bridge (it flexed) and hooted, as Gris watched with a look of wild surmise, then shrugged into her pack and set off. The trail sidehilled and skittered along rock ledges and down thin green pockets. It could be difficult, maybe dangerous, to ride a horse down here.

Gris dashed ahead, woofing. Something, a dark critter, smaller than a bear, growled and fled up the slope— what? She hollered and Gris came back. That was the second time she'd seen an animal without knowing what it was. She snapped the leash on Gris' collar and waited a bit before going on. He sniffed above the trail like a madman and she had to drag him away. She could smell a hint of something—a musky tang, not quite skunk. She thought they were above the elevation limit for skunks. That'd be hideous, for Gris to get skunked up here. Midafternoon, she reached Poston Meadows, an expanse of glacial till and sedges which was partly flooded. She picked her way around the rocky toes of the scoured slope and came to the Low Line Trail, with an actual sign: Boulter Lake- 0.2, Twin Lakes 1, Big Sandy Opening 2.5.

She had a late lunch, with scraps of pepperoni for the beast, and then set off. It was steep and loose up to Boulter Lake— the herds of sheep and horses were hard on trails. That lake was uninspiring, a broad gulley filled with water impounded by a small dam. Along the slopes on both sides were sheep trails, contouring and braiding.

From there it was another steep trudge up to a scoured upland. Twin Lakes were pretty, but shallow (like some women she'd known). Probably no fishing— where lakes froze to the bottom, there were no trout. In fact, owing to the steepness of the streams and many waterfalls, there hadn't been trout in most of the high lakes, which had been stocked by fishing outfitters using milkcans on packsaddles.

Then she started downhill, on boulderstrewn trails full of mudholes, the product of livestock use, that were no damn fun to hike, winding interminably through stands of aspen. She reached an open meadow at the toe of a rocky moraine and finally had to take off her boots to ford. Then she was looking at Mud Lake, the sweet little pond by Big Sandy Lodge.

She stopped in to exchange gossip. Arlene told her that the bridge had been built by the sheep grazers with the Forest Service supplying the material, a couple years back. There'd been high water in the river the year before and Echeverry had lambs drown, trying to cross. He'd jumped in to save them and had a heart attack. They flew him out with a helicopter and he bitched to the Wyoming delegation. Hence, the bridge. "The ranchers are always calling the Governor and the congressmen. They threaten the Forest Service and the ranchers get what they want. We've tried that, but they mostly ignore us. We're not local enough."

"Where do you guys go in the winter?"

"Sam spends ten weeks up here to run the place for snowmobile trips. I go to Tucson and soak up heat. Not built for this climate. We hired a winter caretaker to keep snowmobilers from breaking in: Trapper. You heard about Trapper?"

"Bits and pieces. He's the crazy vet guy?"

"So he claims. We did a background check and he didn't have any military service. But the problem was that he caught some snowmobile folks breaking in and started shooting. Shot up one machine so it wouldn't start, so they escaped riding double and called the Sheriff. They were carrying pistols. Trapper told the deputy they threatened him and it was self-defense. But when the deputy checked the buildings for evidence of a break-in, he found a carcass hanging in the horse barn: a cow moose. So the Game and Fish guys snowmachined up to investigate the poaching, but by that time the moose was gone."

"I heard he could be. . .difficult. Jet told me not to set him off."

"Good advice. He had the idea we'd keep him on as a guide. When we fired him, he said he'd kill us and stuff our bodies down in the rocks so even the ravens couldn't find them."

"Nice guy."

"He didn't do it— I don't think he really would. If he gives you trouble, come get Sam or Zack. They've dealt with him, and no shots fired."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"Oh— if you need to park your dog, I'd be glad to watch him for a while."