Mules, mountains, and a mystery solved

“Bells. Chiming. Church bells? Whaaaat? Though the haze of sleep I opened one bleary eye, wiggled my head out of my sleeping bag cocoon and looked around. There appeared to be a large blob standing a few meters away. Cow bells? I searched around for my glasses to get a better view. Horse. Correction, horses. And in the meadow, a wrangler clanging a bell. It was Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Or was I dreaming? I glanced at my watch. 6am. Ugh. Where the hell had this lot materialised from at this time of the morning? I clambered out and went over to say ‘Howdy pardner’, but by the time I stumbled over there, the wrangler was collecting up his train and moseying on down the trail.” 

-Curiouser and Curiouser: An Odd Day on the Trail. 9-14-2014. https://dallassierraadventure.blogspot.com/2014/09/curiouser-and-curiouseran-odd-day-on.html

This episode from a solo trip three years ago had always puzzled me. Why were there bells? Why were there horses?  As Tenaya, Tara and I set off in the early morning for the Rock Creek Pack Station (http://www.rockcreekpackstation.com/), I never suspected that the answer would be found amidst the peaks of the Hilton Lakes drainage, the destination for our first pack trip.

The idea from trip stemmed equally from a desire to take my daughters into the wilderness, and from their reluctance, nay, outright refusal, to continue our long-standing tradition of family backpacking. That would involve walking. Why not consider getting into the wilderness by other means? The girls had enjoyed shorter horse trail rides (I had tolerated them; Alistair had completely refused to sit in a saddle), and were totally won over by the idea of a longer trip, especially the prospect of fabulous meals as opposed to the usual minimalist backpacking fare. And did I mention not having to walk? It was all enough to make up for the early start.

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At 7 AM  the Rock Creek Pack Station was a hive of activity. Guests were arriving by the car load, clad in outdoorsy clothes and unloading mountains of gear.  A manure scent clung to the still air. What first appeared to be a melee in a large, dusty corral resolved into packers in cowboy attire loading mules and saddling horses. Their obvious competence intimidated me; it was far beyond my realm of experience and I felt utterly inadequate. The idea of heading into the backcountry totally reliant on others’ expertise was disconcerting.

Packers at work loading mules at the Rock Creek Pack Station

To my relief, out of the chaos emerged a strong, weatherworn older woman with kind eyes and sandy braid who introduced herself as Patty, our cook. We learned that several groups were leaving at the same time, and that there would be three families on our Parent Child trip. Over a tasty breakfast of French toast, ham, fruit and strong coffee, we met the team: 14-year-old Andre with his grandparents Patrick and Charlotte from Redwood City, and six-year-old Gwen with her mom Brecken, from Altadena (“near Pasadena”). Accompanying us would be Patty, and packers Joe and Yuki.

Patty directs proceedings at the Pack Station

Eventually we were mounted on our horses and making our way along the dusty trail to Hilton Lakes led by Patty. 

On the trail

Tenaya and Tip

Tara and Levi

A 10:30 AM ‘lunch break’ was a welcome opportunity to not sit on the horse. I had concluded that my knock knees were entirely the wrong shape for any semblance of comfort in the saddle and vied with Charlotte to be the last person mounted again: ‘Last on, least pain’. 

Looking back up Rock Creek Canyon to Bear Creek Spire

"Lunch"

The ride was mercifully short, and after a brief wrong turn ending in the excitement of fording a small stream, we arrived at camp pleasantly situated in a broad swath of forest on the shore of the second Hilton Lake. 

The party crossing the stream

Soon tents were up, the outdoor kitchen was established, and camp chairs circled a gas ‘fire pit’. Around this ersatz campfire, in that comfortable and companionable space after dinner and before bed, friendships were forged, memories made, and mysteries solved.

The Hilton Lakes Valley has all of the grandeur of the neighboring Little Lakes Valley with its own string of jewellike lakes dominated by the towering Mount Huntington…. but a fraction of the people. We set out to explore the valley on the second day with a group, including Tenaya and Tara, heading out on horseback to the third lake, and then on foot to the fourth Lake. I opted to trot along behind on my own two legs and then go gallivanting crosscountry on a quest to find Lakes 5 to 7. There really is nothing that I enjoy more than following my nose to discover high and beautiful places in the mountains. It was glorious.

Early morning at camp with Mount Huntington

At the third Hilton Lake

The girls and I at the third Hilton Lake

Iceberg in the fifth Hilton Lake

Flowers line the sixth Hilton Lake

Back at camp, conversations ebbed and flowed between clients and staff in small groups that, in the late afternoon, coalesced around the makeshift kitchen where Patty held court, the sun to all our planets. The girls warmed to her friendly down-to-earth style born of the myriad of jobs she had held and experiences that she had had, many of them in the great outdoors. “You don’t need to go to college”, she told them, “I’m a great fan of technical education, you can go a long way in a trade”. They listened and I rejoiced. Never once in their privileged Silicon Valley upbringing had they received this message. Patty opened their minds and won my heart in a single simple statement.

Patty in her element - serving delicious food and dispensing sage advice

I was fascinated to hear Patty’s stories of her time spent in the mountains on horse trips like this. As a backpacker/climber, I was no doubt biased in as self-righteous sort of way towards self-propelled exploration and adventure.  My recent forays using the most modern, ultralight gear underscored this ethic. We had been given a baggage allowance of 35 pounds yet could barely get to 15 with my tiny sleeping pad and 800 fill down bag. In contrast, Patty rolled out a bedroll that weighed about 25 pounds. The girls and I were clad in convertible pants and mosquito proof shirts of quick drying fabric, high-tech layers with names like ‘Nanopuff’ and ‘Ghostwhisperer’. Patty wore jeans, a checked shirt and broad brim hat. Not a North Face or Patagonia label in sight. Yet I sensed a kindred spirit in her love of a rough backcountry life, and in the freedom and joy experienced in roaming the mountains.

L to R: Joe, Yuki, Andre, Patrick, and Charlotte gather around our 'fireplace'

   

At the end of the day, after the horses had been watered and fed and other chores attended to, Joe and Yuki quietly joined the circle. Joe, lanky and fair, had long been a mule packer; Yuki, a sturdy Japanese-American, was on his first trip after a lengthy spell in the Marines. Joe had studied cattle nutrition at college; Yuki was preparing for a degree in natural resource management and aspired to become a Park Ranger. Both were understated but good-natured: they were willing to be drawn out after initial reticence.

Joe tethers one of the mules

From Joe, we learned about the life of a mule packer. The predawn starts, the long, strenuous days, the nights spent under the stars with their stock, the rhythm of life not much changed in a century. Sometimes weeks at a time on the trail, beyond the reach of the electronic leash that tethers too many of us today. Winters spent earning money to supplement the hard-working, hard living summers. The excitement of the Bishop, CA Mule Days held in May, when contenders from the surrounding pack outfits came to compete in a variety of seemingly outrageous events….. and how even this had become almost mainstream: “Even Berkeley has a mule packing team now”. We learned that mules were definitely smarter than horses, would harbor a grudge for months yet were loyal to their rider. We learned that there was always only one mare on the pack trip, the bell mare, that was unequivocally the boss, and that all other mules were jacks that would follow the sound of bell around the mare’s neck. We also learned that the jacks could be tricked into coming to the sound of the same bell in the packer’s hand.

A thought occurred to me, and I asked Joe whether pack trips ran down the Mono Valley and explained my experience a few years ago. He told me that it was a common route, and that parties often camped upstream while the packers drove the mules downstream to graze in a meadow near the second Mono Recess, the exact spot at which I had camped. Mystery solved.

Evening campfire

In the fireside discussion that night, Charlotte, a poet, posited the importance of poetry in our lives and asked whether anyone had anything to recite. A number of us squirmed uncomfortably…but Joe shyly offered up some cowboy poetry entitled ‘The Bell Mare’. It reminded him, he said, of the bell mare he had once had: cranky, old, nothing much to look at, but always reliable, and of how much he had loved her.

In the introspective silence that followed, I realized that Charlotte was right, that I was ignorant, that my view of what constituted a ‘Sierra adventurer’ had been blinkered and narrow. This trip had been intended as backcountry therapy for my daughters; I was just along for the ride, so to speak. Tenaya and Tara loved the experience, but I returned feeling as if, in this collision of the parallel universes of backpacking and horse packing, my world, too, had expanded.

Thank you, Patty, Joe and Yuki.

The Bell Mare – Bruce Kiskaddon

She was nothin' much to look at, that there old fleabitten gray.

She'd a cranky disposition, but you liked her any way.

Wasn't big nor wasn't little, wasn't no particular breed,

But you kep her fer a bell mare 'cause she always took the lead.

When you had to work rough country where a wagon couldn't go;

Climbin' up onto the mesa with yore pack train movin' slow.

Through the pinnacles and ledges they would foller where she led,

It was good to hear the jingle of the bell mare up ahead.

In the swampy river bottoms, in the early mornin' hush;

When you started out to wrangle in the fog and in the brush;

If you once could git the bell mare why the rest was easy found,

And yore horse would chomp the bridle while you listened fer the sound.

'Round the campfire in the evenin' when they had big yarns to tell,

Faint and dim off in the distance come the jingle of the bell.

Or a driftin' down a canyon when the sun was blazin' hot,

How she kep the bell a ringin' to her steady even trot.

Years have gone, there's been big changes, but sometimes when yore alone.

Some sound you didn't notice, makes you recollect the tone.

And it starts your memory driftin' till at last you feel the spell.

Of the country where you wrangled, and the jingle of the bell.