Back-county travel that’s built for comfort, not for speed . . .
…….

Getting back in the saddle, whether figuratively (travelling again after Covid) or literally (after falling off a horse) isn’t easy. But I wanted to see if I could do both.

My last trail ride had ended badly. The horse had slipped going up a hill and fell, taking me with her. As she lay on me, my right leg pinned to the ground, I didn’t think a 1,000-pound pressing would end well. Fortunately, the ground was soft, the horse scrambled up, and I walked away, physically unharmed but emotionally wounded. An invitation for a two-day backcountry trip to Sundance Lodge on Banff National Park’s best-trained horses seemed a good way to get back in the saddle, especially after many months of pandemic travel restrictions.

I arrived to fresh spring air at Banff Trail Riders’ staging area and the sight of several men and women, clad in Wrangler jeans, plaid shirts, and wide-brim hats saddling dozens of horses with practiced efficiency. Lined up against a red wooden barn like kids being picked for sports teams, our group of four media people waited to meet our horses.

A smiling young woman pulled a big, black horse towards me. “This is Nitro,” she offered, unaware I was expecting a steed called Pokey or Molasses after explaining my past mishap. I was hoping this was a joke, that the horse had been named by a gardener with a fondness for nitrogen, not for an explosive personality like nitroglycerin. Seeing the panicked look in my eyes she explained, “the cooks ride him. They don’t need to be good riders so they use him.”

Feeling reassured I settled into the saddle as Katie, our guide, led us west on the 16-km trail to Sundance lodge. Carrying our lunch was Pearl, a jet-black mule with dainty-looking hooves. Katie’s long braid swayed across her back as she introduced us to her steed and personal horse, Doug, that she found via social media two years earlier.

“The first line of the ad said . . .

“Piece of shit to catch”

she laughed . . .

“I knew he was the horse for me.”

Under saddle Doug displayed none of his earlier escapist tendencies, his strong sorrel-coloured legs leading us deeper into the dense forest without hesitation.

Yellow warblers trilled as a cyclist peddled past our pack train. “There’s an elk calf,” Katie yelled out, pointing to a caramel-coloured, stick figure standing motionless in the shadows. Nitro walked quickly, rudely pushing his head into the tail of Freddy, the heavy horse cross in front of him. I pulled the reins back to create space, relieved that Nitro responded quietly, none of the headshaking or tenseness I’d experienced on other trail rides when horses grow weary of amateur riders.

Lunch was two hours down the trail, in a small clearing next to the Bow River. Katie helped each rider unmount, tied the horses to a long line, and had steaks sizzling over a campfire in the same length of time I’ve waited for fast food takeout. I ate my steak quickly, washing away my earlier nerves with cool lemonade, Pearl watching intently as I finished my apple, gobbling down the core when I offered it to her.

Packing up we got back in the saddle for the long ride; 2.5 hours on a gently climbing trail to the lodge. As we gained elevation the distant hum of Highway 1 faded and the birdsong changed. The melodic whistle of a varied thrust echoed through the trees; a woodpecker tapped a Jack pine tree. The purple flowers of a wild clematis fluttered in a breeze that seemed to push mosquitoes away.

There’s a rhythm that comes from riding . . .

. . . the rocking of the saddle washing away the jumbled thoughts tumbling through my mind. The clicking of horse shoes against rocks, the heavy thump of hooves on soft soil, create a cadence that’s hypnotizing. Minutes blur into hours until the blurring stops, replaced by the screaming of knees for a straighter position and the saddle was feeling firmer with every minute that passed.

I distracted myself by renaming the horses in my mind. Tumbleweed I decided would be better called Weed-whipper for his tendency to snatch vegetation from beside the trail every few steps. Nitro seemed more like a Cookie since he carried cooks and was sweet as sugar. Easy-going Texas might be better named after a state like Vermont. Freddy, as affable as Fred Flintstone, needed no re-branding.

The sound of rushing water grew louder; spring melt swelling mountain rivers. Katie stopped to explain we were going to cross two bridges because the water was too deep to ford. “I’ll go first and when I’m across, you come one at a time,” she instructed. Nitro tossed his head. He seemed tenser, perhaps because I was.

Katie led Doug and Pearl over the first wooden bridge before calling for us to follow. The wooden deck was short and flat, and we covered it quickly. Splashing through shallow rivulets the ramp to the second bridge loomed ahead, much steeper than the first.

Doug and Pearl clambered across quickly, followed by Tumbleweed who for once didn’t stop to graze. Freddy started before the others cleared the bridge and Nitro wasn’t being left behind. With a burst of power befitting his name, he leapt up the ramp like a steeplechaser; I hung on and trusted he’d get me to the other side.

With the river behind us, the rest of the ride went quickly. A narrow gap in the forest revealed a two-story log cabin ringed by a tidy, green lawn dotted with Hoary marmots. The lodge built in 1991 had ten guest rooms, solar panels and electricity to recharge my camera, and home-cooked food to recharge me. A century-old squat building called Ten-Mile Cabin stood nearby, its wooden-shake roof offering a viewpoint for one wary marmot watching for the grizzly sometimes seen in the area.

Mule train drivers Mark and Hunter came out from the corral area to help us off our horses, and Claudia showed us to our rooms, each with a comfy mattress and soft bedding, and prepared a hearty dinner.

As we ate family-style at the long table, I learned Mark was from Ireland and had been a Life Guard of the English Household Cavalry with all the pomp and circumstance that British royals are so good at (“I was at Kate and William’s wedding,” he confessed). Hunter revealed he was a champion team penner (“I’ll be competing at World’s (championship) this fall”), and Claudia was a new hire from Australia with a fondness for Canada.

I listened to the lilt of foreign accents and laughter of friends, new and old, my saddle-weary muscles barely holding me upright. I realized this was what I’d been missing during sixteen months of pandemic restrictions, and years of avoiding trail rides. It felt good to be back in the saddle – horse and travel-wise. A little Nitro to get restarted turned out to be exactly the fuel I’d needed.

Carol Patterson travelled to Sundance Lodge in June 2021. She was a guest of Banff Trail Riders but they did not review or pre-approve this article.

More articles by Carol Patterson . . . and check out her website.

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