Luminous fingerlets of dawn reached across the silver‑dusted snowcaps to cast a touch of gold on the majestic pine greenery before them. The crew was quiet ‑ gingerly tracking their horses downward through the mountainside obstacles. The primitive areas of
John pulled up on the big bay mare, asking her to halt their descent with the reins and a shift of his weight. The command was heeded as his hand found the saddle horn, and he turned to review the procession behind him. Watching as each animal obediently stopped, as did each predecessor, and when the last rider and pack mules were motionless, he cupped his hand to his mouth to call back to the drag rider. He winched his face and gave a bit to the pack digging into his side in resistance to his position.
“Mitch! Bring the maps up here, will ya'?”
The drag rider responded, urging his mount into parallel with the next rider ahead and wrapping the leads of the packers from his saddle horn. There was no exchange of words as he handed the ropes to Evelyn. She dutifully, naturally accepted the shanks and recoiled them to her saddle. Mitch moved on cautiously, taking care not to disturb the procession from its uniform nose‑to‑tail coverage of the steep trail.
“Here, John”, he began, and handed over the packet. “This is NT��. The
Mitch pointed to a center‑map, outlined square mile near the
“'Here. G��”, and paused, looking at John for a response.
As John studied the map, he nodded, his mind noting the marks determining the areas that they had searched these past ten days. He pointed to the G�� block and tapped the map with his finger.
“This has got to be the ridge,” he looked up and took a far‑ sighted, squinting scan of the incline at the edge of the meadow below them, and continued, “but it has all changed so.”
Mitch reached over his shoulder to retrieve a neck‑mounted spotting scope and extended it to John.
“Thanks.” John hinged back the circular brace and slipped the contraption over his head. The mare under him shifted as he reached to focus the instrument.
“Whoa, girl”, he murmured patiently, realizing that the combination of the steep grade and weight shifts made her anxious.
The cold of the early spring morning had fogged the lenses. “Damn. It's fogged, again.”
His impatience with the search was beginning to show. Mitch shrugged his shoulders at the display. Ten days on horseback was beginning to wear on all of them.
“You know, it's been eighteen years since I found ‘The Gap’ and I know this country has grown up, but I swear it all looks the same after 10 days”, John remarked, half‑consoling his frustrations from the inability to locate the ghost town. He continued talking about that time, hoping to persuade his memory to recall the location.
“It was just like this, too.”
His voice was lower, as if not to disturb his searching eyes. He kept talking, softly.
“I was sitting on a ridge looking across a meadow for a Boone & Crockett elk. I was so sure I would find him up here.”
The tale continued as he twisted back to the original focal point of the scenery before them and carefully, methodically, began to rescan.
“I guess it was just the curiosity, and the boredom, that prompted me into exploring that dark spot in the pines.”
His slow, sweeping search halted momentarily, and then continued on.
“It wasn't until I discovered the reporting in Murielle Wolle's 'STAMPEDE TO TIMBERLINE', that I realized I had probably found the old town.”
Mitch picked up on the end of the paragraph to add his thoughts on the venture.
“Yeah, I remember when you called me and told me about it”, he paused, and lowered his head in recall. “We must have spent five years researching every lead.”
“Yep”, John agreed, “and still nothin'. Nothin' but an old miner's diary that Wolle read somewhere.”
His motion slowed as he strained to remember that pine thicket.
“I just hope we haven't been spinning our wheels up here. It could have rotted down or been destroyed in the '68 fires.”
The sun's light had been sliding down the piney wall to the West. It was as if it was focusing that ridge for John's eyes, changing the colors and sharpness as the seconds ticked by on the wristwatch beside his ear.
The lower rim of the flame colored ball snapped over the Divide, casting a full flood of light on the thicket. At that instant of brightness, John's slow motion swung in reverse. He dialed the lens and squinted at the spot that caught his eye.
“Mitch?”, his voice took on a slight hint of excitement in tone. Mitch jerked upright to try to see the ridge. John leaned forward a bit. “I think I see it!”
Evelyn had been watching the pair, trying to analyze their actions and reactions.
“John?”, she called from behind them, “What is it?”
John proclaimed to the party in response to the question they had all been hoping to answer.
“Contact the main camp. I think I see it!”
John stripped the scope from its perch and hooked it on the saddle horn.
“Let's move!”, he called back, as he signaled in a military‑styled, forward arm motion and pointed the direction of the sighting.
The meadow's edge was a welcome sight. Only a small river that had begun to swell with the spring melt‑off broke the open span of ground. A surge of adrenaline rushed through John as he began to recognize the upper West branch of
The mannerly bay sensed the excitement of her handler and tensed her body for the imminent sprint to the far side of the clearing. Her pumping start was simultaneous with John's cue, and the race was on, as Mitch let out the reins to allow his grey to challenge.
John sat a horse well, and through his excitement, voracious competitiveness, and the natural instinct for horsemanship, he leaned over his mare in a gesture that suggested that he had just taken the lead in the million-dollar futurity at Ruidoso Downs.
The wall of evergreens rushed at him as they sped for the spot he had recognized from the eastern ridge. John sat up and back, digging his hips and weight into the sliding stop, reining up the mare in the presence of the weathered portions of two buildings, standing secretively in the edge of the darkness.
The grey heaved as he slid on his haunches to stop beside the bay. Mitch looked at John and returned the wide smile of acknowledged victory, not of the friendly sprint, but in the realization of their dream ‑ to find what they believed to be Wagon Wheel Gap,
“Let's get to it!”, John said, stepping from the shudder‑riddled, gasping mare.
John took note of the horses blowing from their efforts, realizing that the excitement and the thin air at this altitude had left him a bit short of breath.
The crew straggled up, hooping and hollering as each relayed the sighting of their discovery to those bringing up the rear. The pack mules remained unimpressed with all the commotion.
“Josh, would you and Bill get the camp started? I want to have a meeting to set‑up the search plan.”
Josh was a plain sort of guy, but had a magic touch for trail camps. His knowledge and experience in this area was vital to the expedition. He was respected by his hand‑picked crew, and all depended on his capable guiding.
“Sure. And hey, I couldn't get Diamondhead on the two‑way. I'll have to try again, when we set up.”
“Okay, but the mother camp needs a report, and we need current weather conditions”, John paused and looked up. “There's a storm comin' in.”
Josh nodded in agreement as he pulled the cinch loose from the pack mule.
“I think I can get them from this western ridge.”
Evelyn was the last to pull up, dragging the heavy-laden packers to the milling group of horse and human. Her question prior to the sprint seemed insignificant after asking, but the sight of the remains in the pines, and the series of disappointments preceding this find, awed her in tandem with her 'cry wolf' hesitancy.
She dismounted and dropped the reins to the ground. The seasoned trail mount lowered his head to the new sprigs of timothy grass popping through the burnt, winter leavings of years past. It was a must to have well trained, experienced animals on the trail, and these had all been chosen for their trail wisdom and acclamation. Evelyn gave no thought to the ground‑tied gelding.
John outstretched his arm as she ran to his embrace. He squeezed his wife close to him and plucked a hard kiss on her mouth, finalizing their mutual joy in the realization of this find. His passion was in sharing this achievement with the only woman he had ever loved, but it was heightened by this strange feeling ‑ this feeling of finally being home.
Mitch stepped into the high opening in front of the first structure. The years had rotted away whatever steps had served the old building. He called back to John and his new bride of one year.
“John. Evelyn. I've got the maps and records with me. The bell is still here.”
The statement brought them out of their daze and beaconed them to begin work on the plans for their stay. Hand in hand, they stepped off the distance to the structure.
Mitch spread the G�� quadrant enlargement on the floor as they all kneeled to review it. They all stopped to marvel at the huge bell falling through the rotting floor. Tilted up to the light streaming from the tattered roof, the foot-tall numbers, ‘1864’, momentarily took them back in time. Mitch broke the silence.
“There's no symbol mark on this map for these structures, John”, Mitch noted, pointing to their exact position within the quadrant on the map, tapped it and continued, “I'll take this northern portion of the area, if you want to go south.”
Again, he paused to point the directions. Unfamiliar high country is serious business on foot. Mitch's tone accentuated his feelings.
“Evelyn, when we circle around to the West, we'll fire our flares. We'll meet here, about 4 pm.”
He pointed to the designation and looked at her eyes, reinforcing the understanding of her responsibility of the task with a concerned nod.
“That's when you'll need to bring the horses.”
Evelyn nodded her understanding. “Any questions?”, John asked.
“Nope.”
“No.”
“Let's get that weather report and get started. We're burning daylight.”
The camp was set by noon. Josh had the animals stripped, and his crew of six had the tents erected, adjoining the two rope corrals. The lodge pole pines fell with little effort from the chainsaw that invaded their trunks. The rope laced, slant‑framed structure at the camp center, roofed the mess area and supported the tarp fly over the supplies.
Evelyn surveyed the clamor of intricate movements that brought a vision of civilization to this quiet, un-invaded mountain ghost town. She thought to herself, 'I wonder what the ghosts must be thinking?', then smiled at her own imagination. Her thoughts were swayed to focus on the radio conversation. Josh had made contact with the main camp. John and Mitch had gone on without the weather report. The radio sputtered a response from the base.
“Diamondhead Baby ‑ this is Diamondhead Mother. You are coming through loud and clear...Over.”
Evelyn only half listened as Josh explained their location and gave details of the meadow for emergency rescue records. It was the same speech, with varied descriptions, that Josh had been relaying for ten days, but a routine ritual for him since the search had started.
The camp grew boring for Evelyn. The sun had begun to drop low, etching its track toward the western peaks. 'It must be getting close to 3.' She spoke aloud to herself. Her watch confirmed her suspicions.
“Josh, could you saddle the horses, please? It's time to get the guys.”
The request was readily acknowledged. Two men responded by plucking up a saddle each and moving into the corral.
Evelyn waited for the gate to drop before she reached for the reins. When she boarded, Josh handed the lead lines of the two drags to her and slipped a two‑way portable transmitter into the saddlebag.
“You might need this”, he said dryly, as he buckled the flap. “The flare gun is in the other side.”
“Thanks, Josh. I'm going to trail due West.”
She glanced at her wrist compass and nodded toward the trek.
“The maps show an open meadow just beyond that pine stand. I'll be there.”
Josh patted the horse on the rump and replied, “Just follow the sun, and be careful.”
“I will.”
Her smile told him that she appreciated his concern. Josh turned back toward the corrals just as the first hoof beats reached his ears.
The trail was slow. The West ridge was not as steep as the east face, but the grade, the climate, and pulling two pony mounts made it an effort for both Evelyn and the equine threesome. She scanned the skyline above her for any sign of the blue‑green flare, and urged her gelding on toward the crest where she could wait for the signal.
The top of the ridge flattened all at once, exposing a mile‑ wide saddleback, baron meadow that drifted northward toward the
Evelyn relaxed her full weight into the stirrups and sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the aura of the scene before her. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she shuddered at the captivating, but silent and unseen presence of something or someone watching her. The pony horses shifted and pricked their ears, startling the gelding under her. His in‑place jump of all fours preceded a stiff stance, as he spooked with the recognition of fear and blew hard at it.
Fear shot through Evelyn in a toe‑to‑top hot rush. She knew that these mountain‑wise mounts did not give way to anything short of a cougar or grizzly. Her eyes instinctively scanned the dark caves that honeycombed beneath the towering stands of deformed, air‑starved forest around her. Tuning her ears for any sound, and focusing her eyes to catch any movement, Evelyn sat...starched still.
The spook appeared unfounded, and she felt her body slowly ease the tension and relax into the saddle. The horses settled to her response.
Stepping down, slowly, she tied the horses and moved to the edge of the empty, mystical saddleback meadow. Its silence stirred only to the wisps of wind, singing in a high pitched shrill through the piney extensions, yet, the eerie silence was unscathed.
A gust blew up as she snatched her head toward the uneasy rustling of the horses, and swung back, full circle, to the explosion across the desolate emptiness in the West.
It was the flare gun. Her eyes caught a glimpse of the blue‑green ball of blaze in the sky, with its trailing smoke tail arched to map the flare's fleeting existence.
The earthshaking crackle of splitting wood turned her instinctively to her blind side, giving her only a startling response to the huge aspen trunk rushing at her. The scream in her throat emerged only half spent, and echoed through the openness she had been so drawn to explore.
The saddleback meadow faded and blurred in her mind, as if she were there, but only in a dream. Straining to focus, she felt the warmth of the sun streaks that further hampered her view of the distant stand of aspens. The heavy burden across her shoulder brought vague flashes of the falling aspen. The hard ground beneath her pressured her memory to a painful, semi‑consciousness that recalled she had been pinned by the fallen tree.
Sleep seemed a simple escape, and though it pulled at her, there was a nagging pain at her neck and temple. She drifted away as the sun‑shafted meadow began to melt from the mind's grasp. Before the blackness swallowed her consciousness, she could feel the reassurance ‑ a warming of her spirits ‑ as an intimate voice reached from the distance to touch a quieting soul. It echoed.
‘Evelyn......lyn......lyn.'
Copyright 2009 by S.M. Starkey – ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
