5/19/16
James had the particular good fortune to find something both
exceptionally pungent, and hard to wash off before we set out for the horse
camp. We were off to a spectacularly
late start, after a deep and thorough dog washing in the utility room sink.
James was excited, and very proud of his now pleasant odor and exceptionally
soft coat. That’s one way to get what
you want I suppose, I thought, as he wagged and peered out the passenger’s side
window.
I headed west on highway 14, up the Columbia River
gorge. The old blasting tunnels, carved
by the Chinese rail road workers in the early turn of the century, are always
somewhat scary to drive through. Their
irregular texture, some without cement and even more irregular shape, makes
them intimidating. It’s hard to tell if
my RV will fit through some times. James
and I just hold our breath, hit the accelerator, and hope for the best. So far we have always come through ok, though
sometimes it does take a while for my butt to let go of the seat if there is an
oncoming semi.
We arrived at Mt Adams horse camp without incident. The high clouds covered the mountain and most
of the tree tops. The massive field to
the north of the camp was bright green and glistening with moisture in the late
evening sun. The light sprigs of green
grass an homage to spring having sprung on the mountains. A horse trailers and campers dotted the NE
corner of the field. The grass rippled
in the wind as the clouds slid lazily over the tree tops, offering glimpses of
the slumped hulk that is Mt Adams. I
parked in the site that dad had requested I hold for them. I was in the middle of unhitching the jeep,
dusty from being towed through several sleepy farming communities, and up the
gravel roads we had traveled, when a park ranger approached me. “Excuse me.” she said curtly. “If you don’t
have horses, you cannot stay here.” Even though she was making things up. There was no law, ordinance, or posting
corroborating her statement, I did what we in the US are supposed to do. I rolled over, showed her my belly, and submitted
to authority. “The rest of my group will
be up tomorrow, or the next day.” I said, laying out the time frame. The sites, about 20 of them were all empty.
“Oh, ok she said. If you didn’t have
horses I would have to kick you out.” I
thought about the words on her green and gold badge. Parks Service. “Well, that would not be very nice of you.” I said,
as I continued wrestling with the dusty hitch and cable connecting the jeep to
my bus. “Well, we need to keep these
sites open for equestrian use.” She retorted as she strolled back to her white
truck, her medium sized dog who looked a lot like James hung out the window
smiling at me his tongue waging in the breeze as she drove off. The logical part of my brain began running
through the signs on the campground sign post, and on the box where I
paid. NOPE! She was making things
up. I contemplated my recourse. Well, I thought, I could file a harassment
suit. Nope, too much work and not enough
money. Besides, I thought, they won’t
change how they interact with people any way.
They will just think I’m complaining.
Honestly, I do not care about money, or being right. However, customer service is important. I returned my focus to the grimy hitch,
coated with what seemed like all of the dust from every mile of gravel road we
had traveled. It had been a long day,
and no breakfast. I was getting
hangry. James and I just needed some
linner (lunch and dinner, it’s kind of like brunch but later).
We finished linner, and took a nap. Yes I let my puppy sleep in my bed. It seems silly, but it helps me sleep
better. James quickly fell to
sleep. His linner of bacon bits boiled
in water and buried in dog food put him in to a deep food coma. I began to drift off. The still and calm of the grassy meadow was
hypnotic. The gentle breeze rustling
through the tall grass and fir boughs, and the whinny of horses was almost
surreal. The horse’s conversations were part
of the twilight sleep right before I drifted in to unconsciousness.
I woke to a shock jock DJ talking loudly, followed by a
radio call signal. I took a deep breath
and let my anger become my bell of mindfulness.
The camp site next to me had bon fire going. I looked out to see what was going on. The pickup truck, which had most of the back
end smashed in, was blaring out the local country station. The two men were hacking feverishly at some
log rounds. On their picnic table the
meal of Coors light mountain men stood as a monument to their efforts. One fifth gallon of crown royal and one
bottle of Pendleton whisky, mostly finished with about 4-8CM in the bottom of
each. Empty bags of potato chips, and nacho
cheese dip finished out the center piece along with several empty 12 oz.
domestic beer cans and used paper plates and napkins. I smiled, I was one of them once, I thought.
The hint of frustration that was left melted away.
James and I left camp.
We took the jeep up towards trail #183, the south climb. The road was well rutted from the run
off. Mother Nature has a way of
reclaiming what is hers without too much trouble. The ½ m deep ruts would make it hard for the
young hipster climbers to get up here, I thought as I straddled several of them
with the jeep crawling forward in 4 wheel low.
A slow crawl and some flex was necessary in some areas to keep from
bottoming out, or losing a tire completely.
I was glad I brought the jeep.
James was in the back with the seats folded down, both windows down he
alternated sides taking in the view.
About half way up the mountain the clouds dumping big snowflakes. The contrast of the white snow, and the black
standing trees left over from the massive forest fire the year before was quite
stark. The grass shown green, almost fluorescent,
against the setting sun in the char black forested areas where the low growing vegetation
had reestablished its foot hold. We
reached the trail head, and hiked several hundred meters in. The south climb approach seemed
passable. I decided we would return to
base camp and try a climb in the morning.
Upon our return I watched the clouds roll in. I decided it would be better, and safer in
regards to avalanche danger, to wait until the clear weather on Monday. This would also give me some time to
acclimate, since camp was at about 4,000ft.
When we returned to our camp our ‘neighbor’ came over to
visit us. He wanted to pet James who,
like me, could smell the now 1/5th gallon of crown royal on
him. The jugs of booze stood empty on
their picnic table. Without further adue
or formal introduction, Chuck, began telling me his life story. The most recent portion of which involved him
“skidding around a fucking corner on the 180 road, you know the 180 road?” then
“fucking smashing the ass end of my truck in to a fucking tree! Fucking pulled
the spare tire off the bottom of it and everything! I have had this thing since it was brand
new. Done everything to it, kept it like
brand new, you know? The frames smashed
all the way in to the bed! That’s a
Sweet RV. You want a beer?” He continued to rant for a while about how worthless
horses were, noticing that I did not have any with me. If only he knew I had six at home. I looked at him. The problem with being a recovered alcoholic,
and a member of AA is that to live the mission of alcoholics anonymous you have
to ‘help the alcoholic who still suffers’.
I have never been one for tough love.
Chuck was petting my dog, in my camp site. He and his cousin did not have horses, and it
looked like they had been there a while.
I understood why the ranger was so nitpicky. “No thank you, I do not drink alcohol.” I
said as politely as possible. We were
both crouched down petting James. It is
truly amazing how the presence that comes from a dog can disarm people. Chuck, who resembled and sounded like the
brother in law from National Lampoons
Christmas stood up. “Well, have a
good evening.” He said with a
smile. He needed to tell someone about
his truck. I was someone, James was
someone. Perhaps we did not cure cancer,
or save a life, but to be kind costed us nothing. Twice Chuck came over and knocked on my door,
asking to buy soda pop. I told him I did
not drink that kind of thing, but I would happily give him a glass of
water. He told me he would drive in to
town and get some soda. I told him the
store was probably closed, thinking it was doubtful he would make it down the
mountain side safely. I took some deep
breaths, and hoped he would buy my bluff.
He eventually went to bed in his truck.
James and I went on with making our dinner. I could not believe how hard we were roughing
it. I had to make a spinach salad with only two types of tomatoes! To make up for it I unsuccessfully tried to
sever my pinky and add it to the salad with a paring knife I had sharpened
before we left home.
5/20/16
I awoke at six am to the low rumble of diesel engines and passing
silhouettes from clouds of dust in the strengthening daylight that filtered
through my closed blinds. I opened the blinds all the way. The sun flooded the
bedroom of my tiny home burning my sleep filled eyes. It seemed like the horse trailers had
multiplied during the night, spilling out their equine cargo as well as their
riders. The meadow was full. Trailers and tents had spilled out of the
main encampment at the other end. The
field was teaming with riders, horses, and dogs. Temporary fencing, and arenas dotted the open
spaces, punctuated by the occasional area cordoned off for grazing by only
flagging. The once empty campsites
around me were now all full. Wow! I thought,
as I poured my morning corn flakes, granola, and dried fruit. I made my bitter instant coffee and contemplated
my next move. I love riding, and I love
climbing, but I was not sure this was going to work out. I had really wanted to write about a second
Mt. Adams solo climb. An early season
climb would certainly be more interesting than my last climb on the blunt
12,000ft + nub that made up Adams.
I have attended the biggest horse shows in the PNW. I have also attended many equestrian show events, at the request of my friend Kate. I had
never seen anything quite like the circus shaping up outside my kitchen
window. I resolved to do some
investigating after I hitched up the jeep so I could make a quick escape.
The first people I came to were camped across the road,
which was in a loop with sites in the center.
They were quite friendly. They had
just finished setting up a bright blue awning next to their pop up camper. Their truck and camper were well used, a white pop top camper on a 1990’s gold dodge diesel. Their older straight load horse trailer was oxidized
blue, and the whole rig had clearly been used enough to pay for its self,
unlike some of the brand new rigs parked nearby. They looked like they had been bought right off of
the show room floor yesterday. I introduced myself to them.
Kurt and Kristina told me that this was the first big
endurance race of the season. It was sanctioned
by the AERC every year at this time. I had heard a lot of bad things about endurance racers. There were lots of rumors in the mouths of
people I had met that endurance racers would run their horses to death if it
meant winning. I asked them if that ever
happened.
Kurt chuckled, and Kristina frowned. “No.” said Kurt “if you did that, you would probably get
stoned to death. People would not like
that.” Kristina chimed in “There are vet
checks every so often at pre-determined places.
The races are 30 miles, 55 miles, 75 miles, and 100 miles. Your horse has to be back to the base line
that is established when it gets checked in at registration before you can
leave the check point.” “What kind of
horses are you racing?” I asked. “They
are both Tennessee walkers.” Kurt replied.
“That’s Friday, and that’s baler.” He said pointing to them as he told
me their names. “Friday was born on a Friday,
and Baler got himself trapped under a baling machine when he was little.” “My family is on the way up with my Tennessee
walker, and their fox trotters” I said, “but I did not know it would be so
crowded up her. I think I will tell them
to meet me at a different camp.” “If you
want, I bet we could find you a horse to ride.” Kurt offered. I quickly thought about it. It would be a good story since, thanks to the
inclement weather now blanketing the mountain, climbing was now out of the
question. “Thank you for your offer, but no thanks. I appreciate your time.” I said.
As I turned walking toward the center of the massive circus forming in
the center of, what had been yesterday, a peaceful meadow.
Walking down the now well-trodden path, now covered with several
inches of brown dust that was about the consistency of baby powder, I met
Brian. His horse, a pure bread Arabian,
was munching contentedly on the grass.
Adorned in some purple and green boots, and a blue halter, the brown
mare looked quite regal. In big red
numbers 100 was written on her backside.
Brian told me that he was not the owner.
That would be his wife Marie. “She
has been a jockey for other people a lot.” He told me, “This is the first time
she will get to ride her own horse, it is the first year she is old enough to
race.” The young Arab looked good. Her straight back, braided main, and well-trimmed
feet accentuated her youthful beauty. “Do
you ride?” I asked Brian. “No. I leave that to Marie. I just work as the pit crew. I carry heavy things, lug water, and clean up
poop.” He told me that they were fortunate
enough to have caught a ride with a friend who was on their way up to the
race. “We dont have a trailer. They had a space in their three
horse live in trailer, and invited us.” He told me, adjusting his thick rimmed hipster glasses. He could not have been more than 28, but he
had a substantial Grizzly Adams beard.
His skinny jeans, and baseball cap certainly did not match the ‘horse
riding look’ that most of the people here had.
“What race does she run?” I said, looking at the mare. “She races the 30 mile. She’s pretty good at it.” He told me. The mare pulled on the lead rope, straining
for a patch of grass in the knee deep field that must have been especially
tasty. “Good luck on with your race.” I
said as he turned to move with the horse, and I continued down the trail.
Coming nearer the center mass of, what could only be
described as horse city, I saw some spendy rigs. License plates ranged from all over the country adorned the bumpers of the trucks and trailers. I am not a horse person, but as someone who
lives in his RV full time, I know how much rigs cost.
Some of the set ups were well over $500,000. The people in those camps were not very
talkative, their noses tended to look towards the sky as James and I
approached. We certainly did not fit in
with the horse proud set the way we were dressed. I wished I had brought my press ID. No matter. There were plenty of people there
to talk to. The encampment was surprisingly
clean, and there were several porta johns located along the main trail.
Coming to the end of the clearing I saw a line of horses
about 35 long waiting to go through their vet check. The veterinarian, dressed in a suit and tie, was in the center of a
cordoned off area performing assessments as horses moved through. The highest number I had seen so far was
140. Someone later told me that there
were well over 100 horses at the event. Surprisingly
I had not yet stepped in a steaming pile of processed grass. In fact, it was downright impressive how
clean the area was. Chuck and his cousin could learn something from the equestrian. The night time storm had strewn garbage all over their camp ground.
I walked back and got ready to head out. I called dad, and let him know I was heading
up to horse thief butte state park.
Perhaps some free climbing was a better idea, given the population
density at Mt Adams. The Tardis roared
to life, and away James and I went. On
to our next adventure.
and we arrived just in time for a perfect sunset.
and we arrived just in time for a perfect sunset.
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