I never knew how much work goes into saddling a horse until I tried it at 10,000 ft. when I experienced the pleasure and terror of a five-day pack trip in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in Colorado with Bear Basin Outfitters. Since this is a “roughing it” type of vacation, we saddled and cared for our own horses, set up tents and generally helped around camp as much as we could. Roughing it also meant when you inquire into the nearest “facility” you were handed a shovel and roll of TP and pointed in the general direction of a clump of trees!
The first morning out, this flatlander eagerly set out to brush and saddle my horse….now you could swear she must have been of draft horse stature since I had to take breaks between brushing each side, not to mention after hefting my saddle over her massively tall 14.3 hand body. I glanced over towards my tent mate to see her in the same predicament….we promptly declared in one voice, “Altitude stinks” and sat down for a break to slow our labored breathing and pounding hearts.
The Sangre de Cristo Mountains are about as rough and beautiful as I’ve ever seen. As part of the Rocky Mountain Range, they live up to their name with boulders ranging from baseball size to entire mountaintops and anything in between, and lots of them. The horses navigated through the tricky rolling deathtraps with great agility and finesse. Hiking past altitudes of 12,500 ft., by the way, is a feat I actually accomplished… but it wasn’t pretty. A high mountain lake inaccessible by horseback was our goal if that gives you any clue to the terrain. We unfortunately didn’t quite make it to our destination but I sure didn’t complain when that hailstorm and lightning came along and made us beat a hasty retreat back down the mountain. Going downhill is much easier than up as long as you keep your footing. My guide cautioned us, “If you kick a rock loose make sure you warn anyone below. Someone sent one tumbling last week and it’s still rolling.”
The pleasure of the ride came from sharing time with great newfound friends who shared my love of horses and the pure splendor of the mountains. The magnitude of the 14,000 ft. peaks towering above us washed in brilliant sunrises each morning were as delightful as the tiniest of flowers blooming prolifically at its feet. Elusive elk and bounding deer found their movements frozen within my camera lens along with countless horses, trees and scenic views. Scat signs and the grunting noises of a black bear somewhere within the dense forest but never visualized kept us on our toes as we traveled past trees bearing their massive claw marks.
The terror came as we scaled the passes along narrow trails through treacherous rock slides. The pass we scaled the last day was the worst, in part because it occurred shortly after riding past a tombstone for some poor chap dated 1913. Visions of just how that pioneer must have tumbled to his final resting point went crashing through my head as Dan the guide warned, “This ain’t no disco, ride as light as you can.” For once, my camera sat idle as we traversed the crumbly switchbacks. Riders behind me were “the size of ants” on the trail far below. We were so high, even the marmot we saw was hugging a rock for safety on his high perch. I looked at Dan and he chuckled at my extremely wide-eyed ND Flatlander Scared You-Know-Whatless look.
That look and my terror were quickly exchanged for pleasure once again, along with a gasp of extremely thin air as we reached the top and enjoyed the splendor of the mountain valley and clear blue lake far below. I grabbed my camera and after vowing “these are pictures I’m never going to show my Mom,” started snapping photos of the stragglers working their way up This Ain’t No Disco Pass.
