by Michael Hofferber Copyright © 1989. All rights reserved.
Jagged spires of rock guarding the eastern horizon caught the red glow of a midsummer sunset. They gleamed like spotlit temples against the azure sky. Darkness settled into the valleys far below, but up there -- perched along the Continental Divide at 10,000 feet -- we enjoyed several more hours of the evening's afterglow.
We were two dozen weary travelers camped in a mountain meadow. Half of us were horses and mules. The rest -- five women and seven men, some experienced riders and some not -- had come together from across the country for five days of horsepacking. That day we had touched wilderness.
"Our lives are usually so planned that there's hardly ever any surprise," said our guide and outfitter, Richard Clark. He stood against the majestic backdrop of the Grand Tetons, a great bear of a man with a soft voice. "The wilderness is a place where life isn't so programmed. You can still feel a sense of risk."
We all nodded knowingly. Earlier, 20 miles deep into the wilderness with storm clouds menacing, our horses and mules dashed off in a stampede as we were setting up camp. One mule, loaded down with food and kitchen gear, had stumbled in a creek. The others, spooked by his struggles, ran back the way we'd come, and our unsaddled horses -- let loose to graze -- followed after.
Stunned and amazed, we watched our pack animals disappear over the horizon with tents, clothing and camp gear. Dark thoughts crossed our minds. What if our stock ran all the way back to their home ranch? Would we have to hike out? Or seek shelter from rain or snow? Were there bears in this area?
Clark gave us some calm instructions. Then, while we set up camp with what supplies were left scattered across the meadow, he rode off after the renegades on the one remaining saddled horse. Two hours later he had all the animals back in our meadow, safely tied to hitch ropes and picket lines.
Despite its risks, horsepacking is one of the best ways to visit some of America's most remote wilderness areas. Four hooves can cover more territory than two feet, and with pack animals carrying tents and supplies, riders reach camp with energy to fish and explore.
On horseback, a person shares a special communion with the natural world. The rider feels his mount struggling up a steep mountain trail, hears its snorts and whinnies of protest, and appreciates its eagerness to reach the top of the grade. Newly attuned to the horse's sharp senses, the alerted rider is more likely to notice badgers scurrying for cover or mountain bluebirds darting through the trees overhead, and, after a hard climb, to enjoy a cool stream or the sight of lush, spring-fed grasses on a high plateau.
Our ride began at a pack station near Driggs, Idaho. Sponsored by the educational, non-profit Yellowstone Institute, it started with instruction in saddling and packing mules. The outfitter showed us how to tie bowline and half-hitch knows, then had us apply them to the pack saddles. By the end of the day the 12 of us -- working in teams of two or three -- were able to tie up camp gear in respectable box and diamond hitches.
"Mules are not mean or ornery, like a lot of people think; they're just terribly bright," Clark told us as we packed. "If they get in trouble, they'll stop and think their way through the situation. He gave us an example.
Returning from a long pack trip late in the evening, Clark was nearly yanked from his saddle when the mule train he was leading came to an abrupt stop. Angry and tired, he pulled at the lead rope of a mule named Buck, but Buck refused to move. Clark yelled and yanked and was about to slap Buck across the flanks when he noticed in the dim light that the mule's packs had come loose and were dangling from his belly.
"That taught me which of us was smarter," he said.
Clark cautioned us to work slowly and carefully around the mules, and not to crowd them. Mules, he said, are "one-man animals" that don't take kindly to group meetings. But as we loaded 50-pound panniers and tightened up cinches for the 11th time, the outfitter's well-trained stock stayed calm and composed.
Many outfitters will saddle all the horses, pack all the mules, prepare every meal in heavy black skillets, and build a huge campfire at night. Their guests just ride along and enjoy the scenery. But Clark believes that chores are an important part of the horsepacking experience. On his pack trips, riders groom and saddle their own horses, set up tents, and take a turn at the cookstove.
"If my riders don't leave here feeling more self-reliant, then I'm dissatisfied. I encourage them to participate," Clark explains. "And if they learn how to do this for themselves and don't need me any more, then so much the better."
Clark advocates minimal impact horsepacking. His goal on any pack trip is to leave behind no evidence: no litter, no fire rings, no over-grazed meadows. Such habits are to his own advantage as well as that of the land. Many areas abused in the past are now off limits to horsepackers.
By the end of the week, we had crossed over 9,000-foot Fox Creek Pass and traveled along the breathtaking Death Canyon Shelf. Tremendous bowl-shaped valleys, scoured by glaciers, fell away below us while rocky pinnacles, still draped with snow and ice in late June, rose like monuments above.
Coming down off the mountains, our horses crossed streams swollen with the frigid run-off from melting snowbanks we passed hours before. Their strong legs found sure footing on rocky riverbeds where a grown man might easily be swept away.
Heading into the last leg of our journey, the pack train quickened its pace. Our horses knew the trails and were eager to get home. We drank in the sylvan beauty one last time and filled our lungs with pine-scented mountain air. Though sore and tired from long hours in the saddle, each of us were wondering, "When will I get to do this again?"