We arrived at Dutch Creek Ranch 25 miles northeast of Steamboat Springs on a mid-summer Saturday afternoon. The ranch is a 100 acre spread surrounded by National Forest of great evergreen, birch and aspen trees. The day had been extremely hot in town and we expected the higher elevation of the ranch to offer cooler temperatures but there was little relief. The horses were lazy from the heat.
As we set off on our ride, the team of beautiful creatures that carried us coughed and wheezed as hooves kicked up the drought dust. No rain for weeks had been seen. “Only one heavy snow,” Trisha, our wrangler mentioned “fell just four weeks earlier,” as she pointed to the birch and aspen leaning from the weight of the stuff. Many had cracked and fallen over. Many were about to go—you could see them leaning toward the ground.
Minutes earlier before we set off on our ride, the family was getting ready at the lodge—putting on gear, sunscreen and bug juice. We were all hanging out on the great, wrap-around, wide-cut pine porch. A voice in my head tapped me, “Be careful.” “About what?” I wondered turning myself toward nothing. Immediately images of something terrible about to happen on the horses raced in my brain. “Is it dangerous?” I shook a bit and thought maybe we shouldn’t go. The voice returned “Just watch out.” It didn’t say don’t go. My senses sharpened. Ok. We’re going.
Then we were in the leaning tree forest and heading up higher into a stand of aspen that was sublimely beautiful. There were hundreds of white skinned beauties over 80 feet tall. We learned that the Native Americans used the white powder from their bark to protect their skin from sun. Tilda and I rubbed our open palms against the trunks as our horses lazed by and smeared nature’s sunscreen on our arms, our necks.
Sheepherders from Central and S America had come through these woods. These were traveling, migrant workers who came to trade work for some food, a little money and a quiet cabin in the forest. The brands of their stories were carved into the canvas of the trees. A man’s face, a woman’s voluptuous body, eyes everywhere. They were leaving their trace for whoever would pass to see. Tricia said it wasn’t good that they carved the trees but I looked at the images and considered the trees’ response. I don’t think they minded really.
It was still up there and the quiet was impossible. No white noise. No wires. No city. No other people. We continued on up high into this silent place. Then wind. It came swirling through and was pleasant and cooling. But wind means storms and the mountains brew bad weather as fast as a cloud can pass by. Everything changed within a couple of minutes.
The sound of the wind is what you notice when it grows and becomes strong. It cries and then shouts. The tall trees began to shake as we held onto our hats. Suddenly a cracking sound, THE cracking sound that was the beginning of a giant about to fall. The next thing I knew there were splinters and aspen bits hitting my left cheek and face and a hugh “Boom!” just beside me. My horse spooked. I felt no fear as he reared up, but instinctively and quickly restrained him with a tight pull on the reins. My thighs gripped his belly and I kept my seat as he landed back on all fours. It was all so quick. There was no time at all to think. Just do. Molly’s horse directly behind me had turned and run the other way. An 80 foot tree had just cracked and fallen within 10 feet of me and my horse. We were literally steps away from getting crushed. “Be careful. Watch out.” There it was.
In the yoga of the moment, my sharpened senses heard the crack, gripped the reins, and I saw the fear in the eyes of my animal. But I held him fast and we landed safe. I remember feeling no fear, just presence of mind. What I do remember is the feeling of sharp aspen splinters grazing my face. It was close. Very close. And the voice of our wrangler in an anxious and hurried voice as she called out, “Everyone now, we are getting out of here fast. Move along quickly. We have to walk fast now.”
So we did, and that was fun, getting a chance to gitty-up along home.
