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The Lostrider Part III—The Conclusion
“A
NNIE, TELL ME HOW THIS COUNTRY lays out!” My appreciation for the magnitude of the Bob Marshal Wilderness was changing from awe to concern. This particular chunk of federal ground stretches almost 150 miles south to north from Lincoln, Montana, to Highway 2 and Glacier National Park. Then it’s almost as wide east to west from Choteau to Missoula. “If you were one of those horses where would you go?” We hunkered beside the early morning campfire. It was still dark and we needed a plan. The horses and mules had given me
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the slip the evening before while I set camp, and now the only riding stock available was Tom and my wrangle ponies. “Well...” the girl looked at me roundeyed and worried. “There are some old mares that might lead them home, but that’s more than 40 miles. If they crossed the bridge and headed the other direction to Benchmark, they might be at that trailhead eating grass.” My gut cramped. The cowboy coffee didn’t taste good. You couldn’t tickle a smile out of me with a Bob Hope road movie. Then one of the guests wandered in looking for breakfast. “What are we going to do? We’re stranded in the wilderness!” “Naw, ya’ll take your fishing poles and figure out this part of the crick. We’ve got plenty of food. You’ve got dry clothes and tents. Cold weather ain’t due for a few more weeks. And I’ll be back in a jiffy with yalls’ riding ponies. I bet they didn’t go far,” I lied. There was no telling where those outlaws went.
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A bird chirped in the brush along the river and Tom led our wrangle horses up to the fire. The new day was lending us light and the whole crew felt the urgency to begin. It was time to go. We trotted out of camp and followed the tracks down river to the pack bridge. There the horses had milled until they figured out their order, then single-filed across. They were headed to the Benchmark trailhead. But, a few miles down this trail they milled again and took a dim branch trail back towards the north. “Tom, you know what we’re seeing? ” I spoke my thought aloud. “One of the new horses was in the lead but it didn’t know where it was going. Now, one of the mares has taken the lead and they’re headed home.” The clutter of tracks contained several hoof prints that were easily distinguishable. There was a small gelding with pie plate feet and rolled heels and one of the mares had an odd shaped foot. It was simple to see we were following the right crowd despite the multitude of horseman fishing the Sun River. Tom didn’t say much and I didn’t feel like talking. The miles plodded by and my self-esteem sank like an anchor to become wedged in doubts. My personal failures glared at me and shouted that I wasn’t even smart enough to be a cowboy. I was broke, disgusted, dirty, and now had this screw up to amend. Slowly, my conscience sucked me deeper within myself. Guilt burned my mind with smoky visions of the little daughter in Texas. That reminded me of a blundered marriage and here I was bumbling around lost in the wilderness - what a dumb jerk. The errant horse herd left the trail but then picked it up again. They were still headed north and passed the confluence of the West and North Forks of the Sun River. Tom finally started chattering and became philosophical about his demons. His wife pulled him out of a jam years ago when his tongue got stuck in the neck of a