Chapter Five
Grandpop knew these mountains, hills, valleys and trails like it was his own backyard which it was. He had been born and raised on this land exploring every inch of it for almost eighty years.
The further in we rode, the more he retreated into the mindset of the Old Ones. He stopped speaking English and spoke only in Sioux and as he did so, he became a teacher rather than a runner.
“See the tracks the horses make, Lakan?” he asked. “If we stop and cover their feet with rags, they will leave next to nothing that a white man can see. Also, follow where I go, I pick out places where my horse does not press as deeply and leave a tell-tale track. Watch the birds and the squirrels, they will tell you if anyone is near. They have special calls to warn each other of men, another for hawks or bears.” We listened and I heard them laughing as the dogs tried to chase them. They barked at their jeering from high above on the tree trunks.
“Quiet,” Grandpop said and both Heelers hushed. They were named Zig and Zag by my mom because they were always zigging and zagging endlessly as puppies. The horses were called Tango and Cash after some movie my grandfather had liked. I rode the one called Tango.
We had ridden all night between a fast walk and a steady trot and by dawn, I was ready to call it quits. My butt was rubbed raw, my legs ached and I was so tired that the last two hours I had been yawning wide enough to near crack my jaws.
We had climbed the first ridge, descended into a narrow valley and were climbing what Grandpop called Sheep Meadow Peak which lay west of the mountain called White Tooth. It was over 14,000 feet high and still carried patches of snow on its North face.
The predominant trees growing this far up were pines and firs, the footing underneath a carpet of needles that muffled the horses’ hooves. Granite shot with quartz surrounded us. One side of the slope was scree and treacherous footing yet that was where Grandpop led us.
For every step over, we slid one down and the horses struggled. Once we finally made it across, I looked back and our passage was clearly marked as darker rocks turned over by their hooves through it. Yet, I knew the sun would lighten them in hours hiding our escape trail. Once across on the other side, we emerged in a meadow below the huge white finger of rock that gave the peak its name. We rode over the crest. I gaped.
Mile after mile after mile of mountains, valleys and land entirely covered with evergreens stretched before me. Millions of acres of wilderness, some of which men had not stepped foot on in over a century. No logging had been done here, no commercialization of any kind.
I couldn’t even see a glint of silver or blue to mark the presence of a river. It was a wilderness and I thought that no one could find us in all that even with helicopters.
Grandpop smiled. “This is my true home and yours, Lakan. The land of our ancestors. It will protect and harbor us, give us food and shelter.”
“It’s so…big,” I said at a loss for words.
“There are places down there that no one has ever stepped foot on, boy. You ready? We can camp in a draw about halfway down. Up here, we are too exposed.” I swallowed and rubbed my butt. “Sore?” he asked with a small smile.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have much meat back there. If you get off and walk awhile, it will help. Grab the horse’s tail and let him pull you.”
I slipped out of the saddle without groaning although I wanted to complain but I knew Grandpop would be disappointed if I gave in to it so I bit my lips as my feet hit the ground with a jar. Everything seized up.
My first few steps were awkward and painful but after a few yards, it felt good to stretch my muscles and walk.
The little bay gelding followed Gramps’ horse eagerly as I held onto his tail. Mostly downhill, it was merely a question of keeping my balance rather than exerting my muscles having to climb.
I walked for a half hour until I was gloriously warm and loose, admiring not the view because all I saw was the butt cheeks of the bay horse.
Without warning, the gelding stopped and I nearly ran into him. Peering around, I saw the sides of a rocky outcrop covered with trees and scrubby brush, mountain laurels and a sort of rhododendron heavy with flowers.
Bees were just starting to drone as they fluttered from petal to petal, the sound of wildlife created a background noise that told me we were an accepted part of the surroundings.
Grandpop told me to mount and as I put my foot in the stirrup, every muscle cried out in rebellion. The minute my butt hit the saddle, I cringed. He grinned at me and pointed to the rock wall.
“In there.”
“Huh?”
“Look with your senses, Lakan, not just your eyes,” he said cryptically. I rolled mine at his ancient Indian wisdom.
I stared, watching the bees and saw them disappear against the rock wall. Intrigued, I kicked the gelding forward and found to my delight that there was a fold of the outcrop concealing a narrow opening. Steering the bay horse inside, I followed the sandy wash for a short distance.
It opened up into a small meadow surrounded by hanging cliff walls. A small stream meandered through the center and disappeared into a crack in one wall.
Before my wondering eyes was a hidden valley, what Western writers had called a ‘hanging valley'. The grass was knee high and tasseled out, the seed heads blowing in a gentle breeze that smelled of fall. I saw sign of wild horses but the manure piles were old.
Grandpop led me over to an area under a particularly large overhang and there, I saw the remains of a campsite. He dismounted, unsaddled and told me to do the same.
Taking his rifle, an old .22, he walked back towards the hidden entrance. I knew he was going to remove all traces of our passage.
He did not tell me to do anything but I knew what needed to be done. By the time he returned, I had unpacked our gear and set up camp, made a small fire from which the smell of roasting coffee greeted him. Firewood wasn't tough to find; a blowdown had brought over a hundred trees to the forest floor down at the far end of the meadow. I saw squirrels, deer and sign of other game animals.
The creek had fish but they were minnow sized. There was a small pond near the middle of the field and I could see the ripples as fish broke the surface. We would not go hungry. I handed Gramps a cup of bitter dark coffee and he drank cautiously.
“Come on,” he said and I followed him. The Blue Heelers trod on our heels as we wove our way through the deep grass. The horses had found a spot under some trees and were grazing heartily.
In the trees, I could see a curious doe looking at us but Gramps ignored her to head straight for the east wall where I watched the sun climb over the cliff face. I caught a smell I knew well. Sulphur. My eyes widened and I hurried forward to find a series of shallow pools from which rose steam and bubbles. Hot springs.
“The ones to the east are cooler and get progressively hotter,” he explained. “The last one is hot enough to boil an egg.”
I stripped in record time and picked a middle one, easing my body in an inch at a time. He laughed at me. “Just go for it, Lakan. It just prolongs the agony.”
I screeched when it hit my nuts but it felt good too. The feeling of my tired and achy muscles just disappeared. I leaned back in the hole that was as deep as my waist and big enough for me and the two dogs. They of course, took one sniff and ran.
I spent a couple of hours in the natural spa and fell asleep, waking when the dogs licked my face. They had been hunting, I spotted blood on Zig’s muzzle and guessed he’d caught a rabbit. Or Gramps had and fed them the parts I wouldn’t eat. My mouth drooled, I loved rabbit stew almost as much as lamb.
Dressing took forever because I was wet and limp so I just bundled my clothes together and walked back naked. There wasn’t anyone around to see me and I could care less, modesty wasn’t part of my hang-ups yet.
Grandpop had made rabbit stew and he handed me a towel and a bowl. I ate first and then dried myself off, pulling on a t-shirt, boxers, and jeans after eating. Funny how everything tasted so much better when you camped out. I took three enormous bites, remembered yawning and the feeling of the bowl slipping through my fingers. I fell asleep as if someone had pulled my plug and didn’t wake up until the moon was high in the night sky and the stars as bright as searchlights.
The fire crackled nearby and Grandpop was sitting with his back to it working the blade of his grandfather’s knife on a whetstone. It winked in the firelight.
“Go to sleep, Lakan.” His voice was mellow and kind. I rolled over in my sleeping bag and took his advice.