You know the quintessential cowboy who says “yep” and “nope” and who despite a broken leg climbs back on his horse to go after the bad guys who stole his cattle, dented his hat, and insulted his sister? That’s my kid. Quinn is a lifelong outdoorsman, hunter, packer, and horse trainer who has been making horseback trips into wilderness areas for well over fifteen years.
Accompanied by Dean, a newbie packer and fellow firefighter, Quinn saddled up Squishy, Blue, and Woodrow the mule, whistled up the dogs, and rode into Huston Park Wilderness in the Sierra Madre Mountains in early August. They set up camp, hobbled and belled the equines, and went flyfishing. For anyone not familiar with flyfishing, it involves, among other things, swishing a fishing line tipped with a fly back and forth in the air. All was well until Quinn moved into just the right position to catch his buddy’s fishhook in the pupil of his left eye. Being emergency responders, they didn’t freak out. Being guys, they took photos before and after Quinn removed the hook from his own eye. Yeah, the optometrist got a little freaked out when he heard about it, too. The photos are impressive, but I won’t be posting them here.
Before heading back to the trailhead in search of medical care, they decided to prepare a quick meal. In the time it took to cook and eat a serving of eggs, all three equines went walkabout and got lost in the Huston Park Wilderness where phone reception is limited to the highest peaks. Not a hoofprint, not a hair, not the sound of a single bell indicated the direction they’d taken. Even Red and Janie, the dogs, couldn’t find them. They did spot a black bear, who was probably the reason the equines hesitated to return to camp.
Quinn and Dean walked six miles back to the trailhead in case the equines had returned to the horse trailer. Nope. Since the pack trip had taken an unexpected turn, Quinn suggested Dean cut his losses and head back to town. Dean said he’d rather stick around and look for lost equines. He and Quinn trudged six miles back to camp, then spent the next two days following trails, beating their way through thick timber, and inching across talus slopes. Obviously, Dean is Totally Insane and therefore One of Us.
Dean had to work that weekend, so Quinn drove him back to Casper Saturday morning. The optometrist he called advised him to cover the injured eye with a patch and rest until he could contact the office for an appointment on Monday. With Squish, Blue, and Woodrow still lost in the wilderness, Quinn didn’t regard rest as an option. He stopped at the ranch long enough to pick up Yeti, who he describes as “part horse, part bloodhound, and part mountain goat,” and headed back up the mountain.
He called me from a mountain peak at 10:30 on Saturday night to tell me what was going on. That I did not freak out upon learning about the hole in his eye tells you something about what life with my kids has been like. Toward the end of the conversation, he said, “Oh, look. There’s a big black bear coming this direction.” Me: “Please do not get eaten by a bear on top of everything else.” Him: “Mom, as irritated as I am right now, he can bring it on because he won’t stand a chance.” Me: “Don’t fight a bear.” Him: “You gotta live life.”
My daughter, Carolina, and I drove to the Sierra Madre on Sunday morning, and traversed dirt roads in the car, looking for stray equines in meadows and along lakesides. On every truck/horse trailer rig we saw, we left notes about the missing horses and Quinn, who we hadn’t heard from as promised that morning. Mind you, two weeks earlier he hurt his back when a horse threw him. A week after that he shattered his big toe when he dropped something on it, and then he got a fishhook in his eye. By noon, Carolina wanted to call search and rescue. She’s a former cop who doesn’t panic, but his less than perfect physical condition and failure to call us that morning concerned us. She reluctantly agreed to wait a couple of hours before summoning aid. We went back down the mountain to Saratoga where we’d be sure to have phone reception if he tried to call.
Quinn called fifteen minutes after we got to town. He intended to camp that night, then spend the next morning searching. I asked about his eye. He said it was fine. I pretended to believe him. We agreed to meet at the trailhead early Monday afternoon to consider the next move. Carolina picked up Quinn’s truck and horse trailer and we drove back to Saratoga.
At the hotel, we hadn’t even turned off our respective vehicles when her phone rang. Some people returning from a day ride had seen the note we placed on their truck windshield. Bless their hearts, they headed right back into the wilderness to look for our lost equines. Sharp-eyed Joie eventually spotted Blue’s butt; the rest of him was hidden by thick timber. Upon closer examination, the searchers discovered Squish and Woodrow as well. Tony, Joie, and Matt brought the equines to the trailhead, put them inside an air-conditioned horse trailer, and called us. (Obviously these folks do horses on a slightly more elegant scale than we do.)
Back we went to the nearly 10,000-foot mountain pass for the third time that day. Twilight moved in as we thanked the rescuers, loaded up our weary equines, and drove five hours back to the ranch in Natrona County. Quinn had no phone reception at his camp, so we couldn’t tell him the animals were safe, albeit abraded and bruised by the hobbles. First thing Monday morning, I drove back to the mountain pass to pick up my son, Yeti, and the dogs. By then both Carolina and the rescuers had contacted him. He was waiting for me, propped nonchalantly against a tree like he hadn’t just spent five days traversing over a hundred and thirty miles of rough terrain.
Squish required some recuperation time, but the other two animals weathered their adventure well. Woodrow, who never liked me, is now my best friend, maybe because he associates me with the apples I provided after his rescue. “Equines before eyesight” Quinn visited the optometrist who gave him drops and said the vision in his left eye should gradually improve. A few days later, he and his intrepid wife, Cynthia, headed back up the mountain to pack out the abandoned camping gear. Quinn was back at the fire station in a week.
And that, my friends, is the definition of Cowboy Tough.