Packing Light

The rock walls of the cabin had been laid up many years before, but the roof still shed water and the door would still close. The fireplace was not too well constructed as there was no wind shelf so the rain fell straight down onto the fire, but that wasn't a serious problem if it was kept burning briskly. My three kids and I had moved in that afternoon, not long after the rain started, a steady ground-soaking drizzle. Outside was total darkness and very wet and I was thankful we were in this old cabin and not out under a tree somewhere. When we first entered, I'd looked around carefully for rattlesnakes, but found none, so we brought in our saddles and camp gear. After making a fire, we ate some trail rations, then crawled into bed.

This cabin was the original home-site of the Blake and Gubler Ranch. St George had appropriated the creek water for culinary use, leaving the meadows and fields to grow weeds and a few bunches of grass. Our horses were hobbled inside this fenced area. As I lay watching the firelight flicker on the walls I wondered how long it had been since the old pioneer builders had lived here with their children and watched the play of fight and shadows on these same walls. The patter of rain with the glow of the fire made us feel snug and safe with anticipation of adventure on the morrow. It might rain steady for several days as it sometimes did. The horse feed wasn't very good but they would have to get by with what there was no matter how long as it rained. It was good to be here with my kids, away from the heat and drudgery of town and work life. Just earning enough money to pay the bills and buy food, then head for the hills or mountains with the youngsters, that made life tolerable for me and was my mode of operation for quite a few years.

Before daylight the storm moved on across the mountain and when I opened the cabin door the fresh clean smell of the good wet earth and sagebrush filled me with gladness. I hollered for the kids to "rise and shine." Really though, I wanted them to have that great feeling of exhilaration that this beautiful day brought to me. We made a fire then heated up a pot of Brigham tea; some buttered hardtack and dried fruit completed our breakfast.

While Cathy prepared camp to move, Linda, Clay and I each got a bridle and went to find the horses. There was no sound of the bell that was strapped to Shaggy's neck. They must be standing quietly or else down at the farther end of the enclosure. Clay walked north up into a little cove and Linda and I went toward the rising sun. Over against the east fence we found them standing on an open slope, snoozing and drying off in the warm sunshine. At the sight of us, they perked up their heads and the bell ding-a-linged loud enough for Clay to hear it. Linda put the bridle on black Shorty as I took off the hobbles and led my bay gelding toward camp with all the rest lined out behind.

We followed an old road as it wound through the brush. Linda felt so good and happy that she lay out on Shorty's fat back with her feet on his rump singing as he followed along. Of the four horses, we had, Shorty was third or fourth in line and when he passed by a big bush Cathy jumped out and hollered "BOO!" Shorty jumped sideways and Linda landed hard on her back on the ground. It hurt her and I know Cathy didn't mean to do that, but with my instant temper I spoiled the morning with a harsh scolding.

In a little while, though, we recovered from the effects of the incident and went about tying the bed rolls and food behind our saddles in preparation for the ride up the mountain trail. Cathy was riding Shag, a little brown mare that belonged to all three kids. Clay had a light yellow colt, a long yearling of Don Brinkerhoffs. I had borrowed a green broke three year old colt from Milo Blake's that needed riding. Clay's bed and the extra grub went onto Shag for she was the most dependable. Shorty, a stout pony/Shetland cross was Linda's mount. We were traveling light with not much camp paraphernalia. Clay rode bareback on the colt with a leather headgear and no bit.

Mahogany and oak brush with scattered pines covered the mountain side for the first nine hundred to one thousand feet of altitude climb to where the quakin' asp' growth began. Here the grade slacked off as our horses traveled through heavy shadows of over-growing aspen. It was a most beautiful place of nature, not often disturbed by the passage of man. Ours were the first horse tracks that summer The trail now was crossing the lower west elevation of the mountain as it made it's way toward Pine Valley Town. At the summit the trail forked where we turned to climb east up through thick snow stunted and twisted aspen. The grade was steep and heavy here and we stopped every little way to give the horses a breather. The higher we climbed, the smaller and more bent grew the aspen. Their lower part bending horizontal a foot or so away from the mountain slope, then turning a 90 degree angle, upright. This phenomenon caused, I suppose by the heavy weight of the winter snow and its natural shift and pressure down grade.

Our course now led more to the south face of the mountain where we could see to the west, south, and east a hundred miles or more. A rough broken dessert land with range upon range of jagged mountains reaching to the limit of our vision. At the upper edge of the aspen elevation the mountain grass grew green and luxuriant, so we pulled off our saddles and lay in the warm sunshine for an hour or so while the horses filled their empty bellies. From here on to the top, the mountain side was open, being covered with grass and small bushes over which the zig-zag of the trail was clearly visible. The last pitch was a scramble through the break of a four foot ledge.

On top at last! Lightening-scarred timber of the high elevation variety was scattered along the level grade for a hundred yards or more. The south brink broke away at a 70 to 80 percent grade to vertical ledges and on down to the head of Cottonwood Canyon, 7000 feet below. Our horses rested as they moseyed along. I could see Diamond Butte, Poverty Knoll and Poverty Mountain, Grassy, Trumble, Kiabab and distant mountains on the far side of the Grand Canyon; Mormon Mesa and Barkley Mountains to the west over in Nevada and other ranges beyond; Zion Park and Glendale Bench to the east, a vast land that the "low-landers" never dream of.

The trail descended down through the fir trees to the east a couple of miles where we entered the upper end of Further Water, a narrow grassy meadow at the bottom of a mountain draw. Here we made camp under some tall firs and set up a small tent for Cathy and Linda's beds. A lean-to canvas provided a place of shelter for Clay and I. We hobbled the horses with the bell on Shaggy. By the time the sun tipped over the western ridge we could see 20 or more deer up the meadow south of us and about that many down stream to the north. As we sipped Brigham tea and chewed on jerky, several big bucks with large antlers came out of the trees to mingle with the other deer as they grazed along-side our horses. This was the most deer we had ever seen at one time.

During the night, the horses snorted and whistled, with the pounding of hobbled feet and clang of the horse bell as they bunched up for security, probably a mountain lion was prowling around out there somewhere, so I got up and fired a couple shots from Clay's .22 rifle to scare him away.

Morning came bright and clear. Up the meadow to the south were the horses lazing in the early sun rays, with a faint tinkle of the bell now and then. Brigham tea, bread and honey with dried fruit made a good breakfast. Clay found some old cans and set up targets on the west bank of the little stream. A large, half-buried rock, 30 yards to the southeast provided a good dead-rest for his rifle. Here we entertained ourselves and perfected our shooting ability. Such a pleasant, beautiful place, as yet not badly marred by mankind. Nearer to heaven by 10,000 feet than where we were most of the time. Tall stately fir trees covered the steep slopes on each side of the grassy bottoms. A small creek wandered its way down through the meadow as it trickled north toward Pine Valley Town. We explored to the south end of the meadow, then east where other hidden pastures lay, then north to Deer Flats and west to Lower Further Water.

That evening, Norman Blake, with his nephew, Hollis, rode into camp leading a pack mule. They had come up from Pine Valley to clean the downed timber from the trail. We were invited to eat supper with them, a nice pine hen (freshly killed) was the main course. Our food supply was skimpy so we enjoyed Forest Service grub with canned peaches for dessert. A big government tent was set up and Norman insisted that we all sleep in it as some heavy clouds looked like they had water in them, but no rain fell that night.

Next morning it was bacon and eggs for breakfast with store-bought bread and jam, canned milk and Postum sweetened by sugar that made the meal sumptuous. By now my three young ones were completely spoiled. Dried fruit, jerky, hard tack, and Brigham tea didn't sound adventurous at all anymore. The next time we made that trip, we brought along 2 pack horses, loaded with tasty grub.