The trail was as beautiful as ever. The high mountain grass of the White River National Forest seemed taller and greener than when I last saw it. A huge Red-tailed Hawk was sitting atop a giant fir tree watching our every move as the nine of us traversed the Main Marvine Trail to the lakes. We couldn’t help but notice that same Red-tailed Hawk landing atop a huge dead tree further along the trail. I guess it was his way of escorting us out of his territory.

breath, and let my mind wonder. The smells, sounds, and feeling of being one with nature was incredible, when a sense of panic overtook my body, and my brain was thundering with one intruding thought, “What am I going to write about for this issue of American Cowboy?” Try as I might, I couldn’t get rid of that thought!

Back at camp, the familiar surroundings took over and with them came the feeling of being home again. Jim and I have been visiting this area for 18 years. This particular trip we were pleased to have the company of several of our close friends: Lynn, Lynette, Nicole, Larry, Johni, Kathy, and Becky. (The last names were purposely left out to protect the embarrassed—details to follow.) The days were fun-filled and the nights were full of great conversations and storytelling. On the fourth day of our adventure we decided to take a ride up to the Lily Pond. Although it’s an out-of-the-way ride with a few rough areas to navigate, there wasn’t anything this band of experienced trail riders hadn’t faced before, so off we rode. The trip up went quite well with only a few downed trees and a boggy area to dodge. Once we arrived at our destination, we had a nice, long enjoyable lunch. But once again those thoughts intruded: “What am I going to write about for American Cowboy?”

Soon we were on our return trip down the ridge from Camel Peak. All went well until we came to the very last descent of this trail. After the first riders descended from the park (meadow) into the densely wooded downward slope, they yelled back for us not to make the trek down the hill. They said there was was too much deadfall to get over, and they couldn’t find a way around it.

Heeding their advice, the rest of us sought a different descent, only to encounter our own dead end of fallen timber. At this point, Becky dismounted and, while retrieving her hat from the ground, received several stings from disturbed bees. Toby, her horse, was soon displaying his own discontent for the stinging pests by jumping and kicking.

In a flash, Becky removed Toby’s bridle, as she has done many times before while in such a predicament, but this time when she did so he went flying down the embankment to where some of the other riders were. “Catch my horse!” was the next thing I heard. Not that any of us were going to attempt that chore—not then, anyway. Jim, Kathy, Lynn, and I had heard the reports of downed timber, and so we were trying a third route down the mountain. But again we were stopped by an insurmountable “blow down.” Heading back up to where we’d been, we observed others above us waiting. I could clearly hear the words, “Do you have Toby?” Well, of course we hadn’t seen him since he went galloping down the trail from the bee incident. Seems that he found the others and had even gone up to the other horses to say hello. Unfortunately, he was bridleless; therefore, the riders had no way of grabbing his head. Larry, being the cowboy he is, reached for his lariat. Toby, being a horse, thought he’d outsmart the humans by running off.

Well, to make a long story short, Toby sure wasn’t thinking like a lone horse. The normal solitary equine doesn’t want to be eaten so he will stay close to the herd. That not being the case with Toby, it was hard to guess what might be going on in his equine mind. It was a task clearly beyond the reasoning of eight adults and one smart teenager. As a consequence, we ventured back to the Lily Pond and down another trail to the very point where we should have arrived if all had gone as planned, and we had been able to traverse the blocked trail. Toby was nowhere to be found. After hours of looking and tracking, we figured he was, in all likelihood, back at camp wondering where his next meal was. We split up into two groups to cover different trails and headed back to the campground.

Unfortunately, we didn’t all get to ride back. Others shared their horses with Becky so she wouldn’t have to walk all of the way, but the distances are longer when your ride turns into a hike.

Upon our return to camp it was disappointing to find Toby had not found his way back to his corral. It was too late to return to the woods, and we were sure he would be there in the morning. After a quick bite to eat, most of us were in bed early, and we arose the next morning looking out the window to a still-empty corral. We would spend three days scouring trails and roads and worrying about where he could be. Finally, some other trail riders in the area spotted him—in fact, not far from where we had looked the previous day.

The trip to find him was a short one. Not more than a quarter of a mile from camp Toby spotted Becky and his favorite red feed bag. He obviously was tired of his adventure and was ready to go home. He returned to camp, his trailer, and his security like he had never been gone. All was well, and everyone was relieved. Life was good. This story turned out well with a very strong moral. Horses are like children: each time you think you know your child/horse well enough to predict what they will do in any situation, they will pull a stunt that will totally take you by surprise. My moral to the story is— life has a way of giving me enough stories for the next issue of American Cowboy. See you on the trail.