| Subject: California Mountains |
Author:
Bob Mc
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Date Posted: 21:15:13 02/02/03 Sun
CALIFORNIA MOUNTAINS
Yellow jackets and hornets are not usually a problem along the mountain trails in this part of the country until the last week of August or the first week of September. From then until the first heavy frosts hit the high country, they can be a real problem for the horseman; especially if he is leading a pack string.
Hornets can make life miserable for horse and rider alike! Fortunately there are not as many of them as there are yellow jackets, and an observant rider can sometimes spot the large paper like nest hanging from a tree or bush, and make a detour to avoid the rodeo.
The yellow jackets we have here don’t give you even that much warning. They make their nest underground and out of sight. The first horse and rider to pass the spot usually get away with it; sometimes even the second or third. Eventually, sometimes a lot sooner, the jarring of the ground from the horse’s hooves will arouse the little buggers. Usually, and the key word here is USUALLY, the riders won’t be stung. The wasps come boiling out of the ground and attack the horse’s legs and bellies. Sure can liven up the parade!
Jim and I were riding up a steep and rocky trail in the Russians, heading for a mountain lake and some trout fishing. I was riding a tough little Appaloosa that was comparatively new to me. I had used him one season in the mountains, had shown him a lot of country and strange sights, and had never had him buck with me. We had hit our first yellow jacket nest together just the week before. He didn’t buck, but he darn sure changed location in a hurry.
Jim was riding a nice roan mare that he had used for the last 5 years. Normally she is as calm and level headed as they come. However, he had also encountered a yellow jacket nest in the last week or so. He found out that she not only would, but could buck! He said that he had ridden out the storm, but that had been on level ground. We sure weren’t on level ground now!
The trail goes almost straight up a ridge from where we had left the truck and trailer. It is just a steady uphill grind most of the way, and you have to give your stock plenty of time to blow. We had been riding about an hour and a half, and had the lake almost within sight. About 200 yards below the lake the trail makes a hard switchback to the right, overlooking the creek that runs out of the lake, then along a shelf of loose granite rock for a little way. Ordinarily it really isn’t dangerous; but if a man or horse should go off the switchback the drop to the creek below would darn sure break some bones, if not kill him outright. Of course, right there is where we ran into trouble.
I was in the lead, and a few yards ahead of Jim. I cleared the switchback and started up through the loose rock, when my pony suddenly tucked his tail and headed for the skyline. What had been a tired horse plodding up the mountain, was now full of energy and a strong desire to be somewhere else! I heard the buzz of little wings, and knew what the trouble was. We lost no time in moving up the trail a ways before I stopped him and looked back to see how Jim was doing.
Jim had seen the show and didn’t need to be told what was going on. His horse knew too, and got that hump in her back! Jim took one look at where he was, decided it was no place for a bronc ride, and abandoned ship. He bailed off double quick!
Jim’s mare was just jumping up and down, but not really going anywhere. Finally she spun around, and would have probably been back down to the trailer in record time if Jim hadn’t been standing in the trail right in front of her. He threw up his arms and spooked her back up the trail. She charged the hill at a dead run, and for a moment I thought I was going to be run right over, horse and all. She ran up along side of me, and I grabbed the reins. She stopped and began rubbing her head against my leg. Obviously she had a few welts that were smarting!
I heard a buzz go past my own head, and thought I might be better off a little farther up the trail; so I rode and led the mare about 50 yards farther and into some timber to wait for Jim. In a few minutes he came walking up the trail, and I couldn’t help it; I just had to laugh. Jim had his hands pulled up inside the sleeves of his jacket, and had the jacket pulled up over his head and face. He had one eye showing through the slit in the front of the jacket so he could see where he was going.
Jim walked up to where I was holding his horse for him, shrugged his jacket down into place, and gave me a disgusted look. “I sure hope there’s a different trail we can use to get out of here.” There was, and we used it. We went on to the lake and caught some nice trout that day, but we rode another trail back to the trailer. About 3 miles farther, but not as steep; and we didn’t find anymore yellow jackets that day.
******
That little incident took place late last summer when the timber was dry as popped corn from several years of drought conditions. Dead and dying pine and fir trees could be seen on every hillside, and everyone was worried about the very real possibility of forest fire. Very different from the conditions that Ed and I faced a couple of weeks ago as we listened to Mayse cold trail in the drainage below us.
There was no doubt what the little hound was after. The cat track was plain in the snow where it had crossed the road in front of Ed’s 4X4 pickup. Besides, Mayse was check dog broke. She wouldn’t open on anything but a cat or fox. Mayse opened again, and Ed let the colder nosed Molly out of the box to help get the track moving. Molly proclaimed the track workable and was soon much farther down the canyon. We began to turn in more dogs, one at a time as the track freshened. By the time they crossed the creek in the bottom, they were moving right along. By the time they topped out on the shoulder of Indian Baldy, they sounded practically jumped. Then they were gone.
Ed and I got back in the truck and back tracked around to the other side of the mountain. We knew of a road that should put us within hearing of our hounds again. What we didn’t know was that a late season logging operation was in progress on the back side of Indian Baldy. It was a salvage operation of drought killed trees. The road we had intended using was blocked by down timber, and chain saws were making a heck of a racket!
There was nothing else to do but drive back around to where we had last heard our hounds. Ed drove down to the creek, then up a little 4 wheel drive road that dead-ended about a third of the way up the mountain. I stuffed a few handy items into a backpack and took off afoot in the general direction that the hounds had taken.
Ed was chomping at the bit to go too, and I had no worries about him being up to the hike. Heck, if I live to be his age I hope I will be in as good a shape! But that would leave the two of us on top of the mountain and the truck at the bottom; and who knows where the dogs were. Besides, I knew I could count on Ed to meet me with the pickup whenever and wherever I came back down off the mountain.
As I made the climb I couldn’t help but notice a couple of bear tracks in the few inches of snow, and I made a mental note to tell a local bear hunter where they were. I finally topped out in a notch on the side of the mountain, and found an old logging road right where Ed had said it would be. I got a walkie-talkie out of the backpack and called Ed to let him know I was on top; then walked around the side of the mountain to where I could listen off into another drainage.
Below me lay several miles of country, all cut up with gullies and side canyons; and not a dog within hearing. Lord, but that’s a lonely feeling! I followed the road I was on, and headed back in the general direction of the salvage sale. I came around a corner into a big canyon and was greeted by the roar of our pack, treed solid! The road dead-ended, and I was about 100 yards from the tree.
I tried to call Ed on the radio again, but couldn’t get an answer. I guessed he was around on the other side of the mountain somewhere. I was near the top of the mountain, and I needed to be at the bottom of it. The cat couldn’t go much higher either, so I thought I would just jump him out and follow the race down hill.
I tied the dogs back, pitched a few rocks up there, and the race was on again. I got to hear one heck of a good cat race before they put him up again. I was slipping and sliding down the side of the mountain, going to the second tree, when I heard Ed holler from the other side of the canyon.
I got the walkie-talkie out of the pack and we were in communication again. Ed had driven back to the logging operation and hiked up the road. He was a long way from the dogs, and on the wrong side of a big canyon, but he could hear them treeing.
I made it to the tree, tied the dogs back, and did the same thing over again; but this time Ed got to hear the race. By this time I had one tired cat, six tired hounds, and I was getting pretty leg weary myself. Ed started back to the truck to make the drive around to pick me up. I leashed the two dogs that needed to be led, called the others close around me, and started the walk out to the mouth of the canyon.
It wasn’t long until I heard Ed blow the truck horn, and a couple of minutes later I heard his cow horn as he walked a little way up the canyon from the bottom. The dogs that weren’t leashed left me, and in a few minutes I heard the tail gate of the pickup drop. I knew Ed was loading them in the box. A little while longer and I was there myself. It was starting to get dark, a few snow flakes were starting to float down, and we still had several miles to drive back to where I had left my own pickup early that morning. It had been a long day, but they don’t come much better.
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