Free At Last

The Inlaws just drove off, on their way back to Bellingham via Garfield (and the boomerang museum which will probably not be open), Elberton, and a night’s camping in Vantage on the Columbia River. Four nights, three full days, three long rides, a visit with an extraordinary modern-day pioneer, dinner at the Hoo Doo (smokeless, much to our joy, and full of bikers—that is, Harley-type bikers—much to Janet’s delight), and a beautiful view of a sunset five twisting miles and a couple thousand feet up a gravel road, seem to be the perfect amount of visit for everyone concerned. So yes, the entry title is sarcastic. I fully enjoyed their stay.

I would also like to say that yesterday’s ride, to old Jerome City (ancient mining settlement marked by a giant slag heap and a log box that used to have a second story and a roof) and beyond, with a gallop up to Calin’s Loop (so named because the hosts had not discovered this particular modest trail in their 20-30 years of riding here), was completely successful with no getting lost, no stress on my part, and a great deal of beauty and varied terrain.

The day before, however, was a tetch different.

Like any good hostess, I had everything planned out. I had gotten lost once already out there, so I had carefully studied the satellite photo to see where I’d gone wrong. It was a simple matter of roads not actually existing where I thought they did, and roads existing quite obviously in only a slightly different place.

We set out confidently about 5:30 pm. Sunset here has been 8:45ish, so I figured we’d have plenty of time. N the pioneer joined us on her gorgeous 3-year-old Palomino, Strider. Dan was on Shadow again, Janet on her trusty Toby, me on Sikum. There’s no love lost between Sikum and Strider, as I was quickly reminded as early on the younger horse attempted to maneuver his hindquarters into position to kick my mount (last fall when the pioneers and I rode together Sikum kicked Strider, but hit N on the ankle, fortunately not injuring her too grievously . . . do horses hold grudges?)

It’s of course obvious that we got lost.

For a long time everything was fine. The weather was beautiful, the glades and meadows and narrow trails picturesque. I felt a little like a chaperone on a junior high field trip—while N and Strider are learning quickly together, they are still learning and Strider really is a teenager, with a teenager’s unruliness and gawky uncoordination. His high spirits were infectious, riling up our usually staid horses into prancing and other antics. Dan and Janet, who are quite competent at staying with their horses, nevertheless have had little experience riding in several years, so I hung back with Sikum, watching the pack, wary and ready to rush to the rescue should anyone’s experiences prove to be a bit too much.

Our road petered out—in a huge clearcut—without ever reaching the intersection I was looking for. I knew the satellite photo hadn’t been taken this week, though, so there was a chance things had changed. So, obviously, we rode into the clearcut. And around it. And through it, searching for an obvious way out, horses picking their footing with varying degrees of skill through concealing brush and sharp, dagger-like fallen limbs. I mean, if logging trucks had gotten out, very recently from the looks of the devastation, horses should be able to get out. I started to be concerned, and said so (no longer quite the perfect hostess, who should never admit uncertainty when others’ comfort is in question). Janet replied that she wasn’t worried in the least, because none of the responsibility was on her. While it was comforting to know that I could cross worrying about her worrying off my list of things to worry about, it was all the more worrisome to be so trusted. N the pioneer was, unfortunately, as lost as I. We eventually found that the best road out of the clearcut was the road we rode in on, but soon after leaving the logged area we found an intersection—I said fondly “Wouldn’t it be nice if this were the intersection I had planned on all along” . . . and I really thought it might be (it wasn’t)—and a very clear road. Our choices were to go right, or west, which was the ordinal direction we knew we needed to go to get home, or left—the wrong way. Dan loosened Shadows reins on her neck to see what she would do (always my tactic in the past when faced with such choices) . . . but she was inconclusive. N and I, for some reason, felt that left was right, so we turned east.

To make a long story end, left was right and we made it home without further ado, although I didn’t recognize that we were on the Potlatch Road—the major road of the logging company—until we were almost home. We arrived before sunset, having been on the road not quite three hours.

N took Strider home then returned to join us for dinner, which I cooked; baked fish, asparagus, polenta (the Inlaws created an excellent salad). At 9:45 Ian called, wanting to reach us before we all went to bed. “We’re just about to sit down to dinner,” I said. “WHAT?” he exclaimed, Taylor through and through and shocked that the evening meal—necessary for the regulation of blood sugar and moods—was still to come. “My dad hasn’t had dinner? How is he surviving???”

The wine that night was really good.