Memoir
Bob Hall
A HORSE WITH NO NAME
August, 2016
I was outside of the lookout cutting fire wood. The hum of my bow saw biting
into the dead, pole-sized pine muffled the sound of the approaching horse and
rider. I was startled to see unannounced visitors so close. I barely had time to
look them over as they approached. The horse was a bay or brown with a dark
mane and tail. He was a bit small with no distinguishing marks. He was, in a
word, ordinary. The rider was a middle-aged man of average size and build. He
wore Levis, a blue shirt and a western hat. He, too, could be described as average
or ordinary. There was nothing at all about the two that suggested they were
about to lead me into the most stressful and risky adventure of my young life.
The visitors quickly covered the last few yards to the lookout. The rider stepped
down and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I'm John. Are you the lookout?” We
exchanged handshakes. “Yes, I'm the lookout, but just call me Bob.” John and
Bob. Even the names were ordinary.
John explained he was visiting the sheep camp down where the road ended and
the trail started up the mountain. His sheepmen friends knew John liked to fish.
They loaned him the horse and directed him to follow the trail to the lookout
where he could ask me for further directions. I was happy to help a fellow
fisherman, and it was easy to do.
We tied the horse to the railing that kept human or horse from falling over the cliff
toward the lakes below. We stood by the railing while I pointed out some good
fishing spots. Next we discussed getting around the cliffs, ledges, and rock piles.
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John and I quickly agreed that this was not horse country. The horse should stay at
the lookout. (Did I just imagine it, or did I see the horse breathe a sigh of relief?)
I was never properly introduced to the horse, so he will just be known as “Horse.”
There we stand—Bob, John, and a horse with no name. Unknowingly, we're
looking down at danger in the darkness!
“Good luck with the fishing; get a bunch!” I called to John as he headed down the
ridge toward the lakes. John gave a big grin and a farewell wave, obviously
looking forward to his adventure. I watched with more than a little envy as John
disappeared into the trees and rocks below.
After John was gone, I had a brief chat with Horse. “How are ya, Horse?
Everything OK?” I said as I patted his neck. Now, it may seem a bit strange to
carry on a one-sided conversation with a horse, but I had learned to do so growing
up on a farm. My father always talked to the animals, especially the horses. He
taught me to do so. Don't surprise them, he admonished. They might become
startled and kick. They learn the sound of your voice, so say something and they
will know you belong. “Good morning, horses. Let's go to work.”
For the next several hours I went about my normal lookout duties, but I also used
my binoculars to check on John. He was moving around the lower lake fishing
spots I had suggested. He was too far away for me to see if he was having any
luck. There were plenty of fat, cutthroat trout in the lake, and he was probably
having a day that would put a smile on the face of a fisherman.
I hadn't seen John for a while and it was late afternoon. I assumed he was on his
way back to the lookout. I was stacking wood when something caught my
attention. I spun around to see a column of smoke boiling up from the lower lake.
“What has that fool fisherman done?” I growled as I sprinted to the lookout.
“Fire!” I bellowed loud enough to be sure my wife heard me inside the building.
She had already spotted the fire and was ready by the firefinder in the center of the
lookout. I grabbed the radio and called “4-11, 4-11, DF 25 with a 4-ll (Red
Mountain reporting a fire)!”
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There was a quick response from Forest Dispatch. “Go ahead with your report DF
25.” Working together, my wife and I quickly gave the report. “Thank you, and
let me know if there's any change,” dispatch responded.
I grabbed the binoculars and scrambled back down to the railing for a better look.
I immediately found John, and it didn't look good. He was lying motionless on his
back near the fire. He looked dead, and I didn't know what to do. After a forever,
he raised his head and looked at the fire. Once again, he became motionless, but
he was alive.
I fly back to the lookout. “The fisherman's hurt. He's on the ground by the fire,
barely moving—looks bad,” I blurted to my wife. “I've got to get down there and
help.” I grabbed my fire pack and told my wife, “Call dispatch. Tell them what's
happening. No idea when I'll be back.” I was out the door. I'm almost running
down the rocky ridge toward the lakes, and my mind is racing too. What
happened to John? Most likely a fall—a broken leg? Head injury? Who knows?
Whoa! Suddenly I realize my reckless run down the ridge could end the same way
for me. I'm taking too many chances, so I slow a bit for safety but continue to
move quickly toward John and the fire. As I approach, I can see that the fire is
surrounded by rock and there's no threat of spreading. John heard me approach
and raised himself up on one elbow. I see no trauma, yet something's not right.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I had a heart attack,” John answered weakly. “I had just started back up the
mountain and got so totally out of breath and weak that I had to lay down. Then it
was on me. It felt like my own chest was crushing me. I was totally stopped,
thought I was dying. When the pain and pressure finally eased up, I realized I was
in deep trouble. You were the only help around. I had to get your attention, so I
crawled to this spot and lit the fire. Sorry about the fire.”
I told John, “Forget about the fire. You did the right thing. Let's take care of
you.”
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I'm trying to sound calm and reassuring for John, but my brain is a scramble of
questions and I'm not coming up with any answers. Worst of all, it will be dark
soon. It looks like we're stuck for the night. The only way out tonight would be a
long, strenuous hike over very rough ground in the dark. I fear a man with a heart
attack would not make it out alive. I'm feeling very small and inadequate and up
against a very big problem. Finally my brain started working again, and I came
up with a plan. I explained, “John, here's what I'm going to do. I'll hustle back up
to the lookout and call for a rescue party, but they probably won't find us until
daylight tomorrow. So after I call for help, I'll grab a couple of sleeping bags and
we can bed down here for the night and wait for help.”
“No!” John barked. I was shocked at the strength of his refusal and concerned
about the stress. “Get me out of here! I don't want to die in this godforsaken
place!”
“OK, OK, we'll think of something else,” I quickly agreed. Now I'm thinking that
if I insist on sleeping on the mountain, I may wake up beside a dead man. What
next?
It was John who suggested the next idea. “If you can get my horse down here,
maybe I can ride him out of here.”
I feel cornered. I don't like the idea. I don't like it a bit. We already agreed this is
a bad place for a horse. Now, in the dark, I have to lead a horse with a heart attack
victim on its back out of this nasty country. I think we're asking for trouble but
finally agree.
I must hurry back up to the lookout to get Horse, but I don't just hurry, I explode
up that mountain. I use every bit of go that I have to save time. Minutes might
save a life. Minutes might save a few shreds of daylight for Horse and I to find a
way back to John. The effort also helps me burn off anger and frustration that I
feel from being trapped in a bad situation.
I reach the lookout so out of breath I can barely gasp out my message to my wife.
Heart attack - - - -taking Horse down to get him out - - - taking him to the sheep
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camp. Tell dispatch, understand? A very worried-looking face nodded
affirmatively, and I was out the door.
I hurry to Horse, quickly untie him, and we head down the ridge to the East, the
dark side of the mountain. I already have my firefighter headlamp on, and I flip
the switch to the on position. The little cone of light looks terribly small as we
descend into darkness. I am leading Horse, not riding. It is just too risky to ride
through this terrain at night. I know this part of the mountain well, so I hurry
when we can.
“Come on Horse, move it! We've got to get to John.”
Soon we reach the predicament I had feared from the start. We need to get off of
this ridge and go North, but I don't know a route through the rocks for a horse.
We make several attempts but have to turn back. Finally, I see a gap through the
trees and boulders, and I lead Horse there for a closer look.
The gap is a strange formation of granite. It is like a giant sidewalk, perhaps 10
feet wide and 50 feet long but it slopes steeply downward. On both sides, there are
barriers of boulders and young evergreens – not a route I would normally take but
maybe tonight. I tie Horse to a tree and explore. It's steep but I can walk down it.
At the bottom, there is open country. This is our chance. If we can walk that
sidewalk, we can be on our way to John. It's risky, but we have to try.
I go back and get Horse and lead him to the sidewalk. Whoa! Horse stops the
minute he feels his hooves on rock. I pull hard on the rope, but he doesn't budge.
Perhaps Horse is smarter than man. We've got to get to John! I retie Horse and
go back to the sidewalk. It's still our best chance. Finally, an idea. If Horse can't
tell he's on rock, maybe he'll let me lead him down the sidewalk. I kick a lot of
dirt and pine needles out on the rock and go back for Horse. When we approach
the sidewalk, I hurry the pace.
“Let's go Horse” I call and march right out on the rock. Horse is fooled and
follows me. My idea works. It works too well. Horse starts sliding; he quickly
sits down on his butt and picks up speed. Now I have an avalanche of dirt, pine
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needles, and Horse coming straight at me. I barely have time to dive clear as
Horse brushes by. I have a lucky soft landing in a thicket of small fir trees, but I
hear an ominous loud crash as Horse hits the bottom.
What have I done? Now I have an injured horse. Now how can I help John?
These are the thoughts racing through my mind as I go down to see how badly
Horse is damaged.
(To be continued)
Return to the Literary Review Aug 2016
Bob is a long time resident of Lake Wildwood and an active participant in the Writers Workshop. He
and his wife have been known to host festive gatherings of the group. Email to Bob can be addressed
to [email protected]
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