Wrangling at the Spotted Horse Ranch (Hugh)

Until recently, I did not know what “wrangling” was, nor what the “Wrangler” name meant on the back pocket of poor quality jeans. Now I know. The job of a wrangler, at the Spotted Horse Ranch at least, is to look after the horses, lead trail rides, and lead packhorses up to the various backcountry camps.

But this is complicated by the way that they do things here. The horses are not kept in stables, or even put out to pasture on fields around the ranch; they are sent out into the 750 acres or so of National Forest which surrounds the ranch. Each evening at around 4pm, the horses are gathered up in the corral, have bells put around their necks, and then sent out across the river and out into the Forest with a wrangler at their heels.

The next morning, two lucky wranglers get to rise early, at about 5am, and go and find the horses and bring them back in to the ranch so that folk can ride them (or use them as pack animals, etc. etc.).

Having got to know the wranglers a little on our first few rides, I ask one of them, Wes, whether any guests ever get to go wrangling. He doubts it very much, but sees no harm in asking the boss, Christian. I pluck up courage in due course, because I think this sounds pretty fun, and receive a cautious “yes”, in that 3 or 4 guests go out each year. He says that he will ask the wranglers what they think about my riding, and then potentially I could go later in the week.

Somehow or other, I get the go-ahead, and so 5am on Friday morning sees me waiting at the yard, dressed in thermals + two layers, jeans, boots gloves and my trusty cowboy hat.
It is pitch black and there’s a heavy frost. My company is to be Dakota, a very jolly soul from Michigan, who is brilliant with the kids and also knows a thing or two about horses. I am useless with the tack etc., so she saddles up my horse Whiskey for me, and we are off, at a slow walk. It really is completely dark, but I am assured that Whiskey will look after me, as he knows the way well enough. He has apparently not wrangled for a while, but used to do it “plenty often”.

We head up the steep bank above the ranch and through the low aspens at a slow walk. Soon enough we hear bells (or Dakota does, I don’t hear anything until we get pretty close). I can just see a few shadowy shapes, about 8 or 9, trotting around in a flat clearing in front of us. Whiskey is a real loud mouth and whinneys at his pals; they all whinney back. You really get the sense that these horses are semi-wild, although they are perfectly well schooled. Dakota and I trot on to the end of the clearing, and then break into a lope back up, driving the horses before us with cries of “git”, “git”. I guess that is “get” rather than some pointless derogatory term, but being English I am not very good at this. It’s enough to hold on, let alone yell things out loud as well. The loose horses all react pretty well, however, and soon we are caning it along behind them, along single track trails through the trees. There is no slowing down, you simply have to keep behind them, driving them along, and if they run, so do you. And they do really leg it, all the way home. They slow at one point, to go through a stream and some very thick trees, but then they are off again, at full pelt. Because we are at the back, once our horses get across the stream, they seem to charge along even faster to catch up with their mates, and it’s all quite exhilarating. The one really scary point was seeing two large aspens straddling the trail ahead, while charging along at a full gallop. I’ve passed them since, and when you walk your horse past, you generally have to be ready to budge your horse one way or another to prevent one or other leg being knocked. You don’t get an opportunity to do this at full gallop, but somehow Whiskey looks after me, and we didn’t touch on either side. I can’t imagine what would happen if you did – I doubt whether you would be doing any jogging kids up and down on your knee again.

Once these 9 were sent down to the ranch, we turned around for the rest – we were looking for 23 or so in total. We found another 3 almost immediately, and sent these on their way, but much to my relief, did not chase them down to the ranch along the route between the aspens.

The pace of things then quietened down significantly, and we spent the next 90 minutes or so wandering around looking for more horses. It got very cold, and I wished I had brought along more layers. But the sun finally rose over the mountain, and by 730 we had got high enough to get little warmth from it. At about the same time, we bumped into Wes, who was covering a different area, but he had found nothing.

We rode along for 30 minutes or so, then he split off and went looking amongst the low and middle aspens. We moved higher, right up to the ridge above the ranch, probably 400 or 500 metres higher, and tracked back along at this level. I knew we had to find these horses, but this was not looking promising for the Goodfellow skill set. I have done plenty of hunting in my time, but most of the running is on the flat. There are a few fences and hedges, sure, but you can see these coming in good time and lash yourself on. Out hunting with Jonas with the Ledbury, I was prize entertainment for them all - the whole field would get over the big hedges and then turn to watch me go over. I generally stayed on, in some fashion or another, but it was always quite a good show for everyone else to watch. But now, if we found the horses up here, we would be facing a good 3 or four mile run, and all of it downhill. This was not going to be comfortable.

But right on time, as these thoughts were percolating through, we heard the sound of bells. It was now 8am, and about the time that the wranglers generally turn around and go home, hoping that the horses have been found on the other flank by the other wrangler. We blundered off the trail, and soon found them a little to our left. Again, we yell “git” enthusiastically, and I potter about on Whiskey trying to make myself useful and get behind a few of them. It’s interesting to see the horses together in a group, because they are all different characters, with leaders and followers, friends and enemies, and it seems that once you have persuaded the leaders to move, then they all go together. And so they did. It loot a while to get them going, but soon enough, off they go at a healthy canter, with us caning it along behind.

It was definitely pretty hairy, but probably the best fun that I have ever had on horseback. Basically you are doing what you are never ever allowed to do, which is to charge about like a lunatic. When I first wanted to go hunting, I remember being told that I shouldn’t really go along until I was happy to canter downhill. “Well how do I learn?” I would ask, to be told that to learn I had to go hunting.

On this occasion, there could be no concern about riding style, it was all about holding on. And that’s what we did. We ran back to the ranch, taking all of 10 minutes over ground which would normally take at least an hour. Eventually, we career into the fields opposite the ranch. Dakota went off to fetch a couple of runners, and I chased the rest over the bridge and into the corral. Sarah and Jemima were there to take some pictures, and I did my best to look the part.



Unfortunately, my “git”s weren’t too great and the horses wandered slowly across the bridge, in contrast to their usual charge, but I’d had a serious amount of fun and was dosed with adrenaline up to the armpits.
Trail-riding was going to come a very distant second place after this.

Yellowstone highlights

A bit too close for comfort. We decide to purchase bear spray.
Canyon is called Canyon for a good reason.
This is the "Lower Falls" at Canyon. We have now purchased bear spray so have more of a spring in our step.
The kids amuse passing tourists.
Jemima gives Mummy the heeby-jeebies.
We arrive at Old Faithful and realise that we have selected the same day to visit as one Barrack Obama. There are some dodgy characters in the crowd that we suspect are not just listening to the cricket.
Finally, he has the good grace to go home. We never get close enough to point our laser pens at his forehead, unlike BIO 2003 in DC and that lovely man Bush.
Old Faithful goes off just after he left.

Mammoth Springs is a funny old place. No President here.

The chocolate monster.
We have tested out a lot of these things and we think that this is the perfect firepit. Expect to see one down on Polecat Pitch for next summer.
Monty goes feral at Bridge Lake in the snow.
Eliza tries to keep up.
We see a Bison only on our second day and take a gazillion photos, only to drive over the next pass and encounter a herd of some thousands.

Now where did we put the car?
Tower Falls
We wake up in Yellowstone and it is only 43 degrees in the van. It snowed overnight. We head for the ranch.

Boating in Grand Teton National Park

We are tempted to stay another day here at Fremont Lake but the delights of Grant Teton and Yellowstone still await us and we are running out of time. We rise late and wash Monty in the washing up bowl while the other two make us breakfast.

We drive North, and make good time from Pinedale so decide to stop off briefly at “The Spotted Horse Ranch”, where we are scheduled to spend a week in 5 or 6 days’ time. We meet Kevin the manager, Christian who heads up the wrangler team, and Zach one of the wranglers. It all looks tickety-boo, and the kids’ excitement levels rise discernibly now that they have something tangible in their heads to look forward to.

We move on, though, and pass through Jackson Hole, which we all recognise from Christmas 2007. We continue North into Grand Teton National Park and after an hour or so, we finally reach Colter Bay campsite; another public site with no hook-ups, but huge and not one of our favourites. But here there is a bit more “stuff”, so we can hire boats and kayaks for the next day.

Sarah and Eliza are tasked with making a fire while I cook. It starts ok but soon goes out and Monty and I rescue it just in time (I won’t hear the last of that one). We end up eating in the dark, to an accompaniment of 20 or so concerned fellow campers who are wandering about looking for their lost dog “Ace”, a sheepdog with only three legs. Some concerned soul had heard their dog barking, felt sorry for it, and had let it out, and Ace then disappeared over the horizon, never to be seen again. The initial search goes on all night, which becomes slightly tiresome towards the early hours, and the dog is actually never found, as far as we know. Not ideal, at least not for Ace or the dispossessed family, but perhaps quite jolly for the local bears and wolves.

The next day we rent a motorboat, which packs a fair punch with a 9bhp engine, and could probably exceed 10 knots with a following wind. We find a deserted island for breakfast
and Sarah goes swimming, which given the temperature of the water impresses everyone. Then we get out the fishing gear and the worms. Eliza likes that bit.
A Golden Eagle watches over us and we buzz about in the boat trying to get a better look.
Finally it flies off, and we stop for lunch.

Once full of fizzy drink and chocolate, everyone has a go at driving. Eliza whistles constantly;
Monty sticks out his tongue.

This arrangement is predictably chaotic, and in due course I have to tow us out of trouble.
Sarah recalls my description of the “pista” technique that Pelicano used back in Corcovado and she tries this with the 9bhp that we are packing, only forgets one crucial part which is that you pull the propeller out of the water before beaching. This leads to an engine stalled in the drive position which takes a bit of fiddling to get started again.
We all go swimming here, and the water is indeed super-cold, but very refreshing. Afterwards, Jemima and Eliza want to push the boat off, so I oblige, but add a bit of fun by ramming the 9bhp into reverse on full throttle just as the beach lets us go. Jemima lets go straight away, having had 10 years’ experience of this kind of jape, but Eliza holds on grimly until a worried Mum pulls her on-board. Jemima is left behind on the beach
but rather touchingly, Monty gets highly worked up and insists that we go back.

We return the boat after a full day, return to the campsite, and prepare for an early start to Yellowstone the next day.

Fremont Lake - we head north

We leave Browne Lake reluctantly, wondering rather if we have found the most perfect campsite, and whether we will regret leaving this place behind. But in truth we have probably exhausted its attractions and it is time to move on. Our plan is not to go far, and just find somewhere on the lake at Flaming Gorge within an hour or so of Browne Lake. I am tired, so let Eliza drive for a while.

As we drive on, though, we realise that the best part of this Park is now behind us. We are now back in the desert, and all the camp sites are full of people with huge boats that use the lake for general gadding about. We drive on, for miles and miles and miles, and ultimately resolve just to give up looking for somewhere nice, get some miles under our belts and see if we can get up towards Jackson Hole, and the attendant delights of the Tetons and Yellowstone. The kids end up watching Star Wars in the back. Eventually, the desert gives way gradually to green stuff, and Sarah spies another lake on the map which looks good and should have some camp sites around it. More following our noses, but as the afternoon turns to evening, we find Fremont Lake campsite and Site number 11. A corker this one, with a great firepit and terrific view of the Lake. The bear warning signs are getting more and more serious and I wander down to a neighbouring site to get some intel from the locals. The message is yes, there are bears here, and yes they are grizzlies, but you should be just fine. The chap I ask eventually admits to having been “cuddled” by one at some stage in the past, so I am not sure that his advice was super-trustworthy, but we sit outside by the fire anyway and indulge in some Pinot Noir from a it further west. The kids simply go feral.

Flaming Gorge – we enter bear country

We leave the world of “hook-ups” behind and head for the wilderness. A “full hook-up” is an RV-er’s term for an arrangement whereby one plugs in one’s water, electricity and plumbing to an assortment of various plugs next to your site. All very convenient, and it means that you have the facility to shower, wash up, charge our multitude of electrical appliances, toast bread, and most importantly make coffee. I am in charge of the plugging and the unplugging. The girls help me here and there, and Monty loves watching the black and grey water emptying process. Other than driving the Reconnaissance Vehicle, these are my only jobs. At the first RV site (Zion), I was given the laundry job too, but I applied Clarkson philosophy and lost all the clothes. Completely disappeared – mountains of kids’ underwear and a couple of Sarah’s shirts. I am not given this task again.

So entering the world of camping proper is a different kettle of fish. In a 30 foot RV, it is never going to be roughing it exactly, and we still have our gas fridge and cooker. However, we no longer have our electrical mattress inflaters (separate) and the kids seemed to have played with them before we left the world of hook-ups, so Sarah is now committed to sleeping on top of a convex mound, while I slumber at the bottom of a concave pit.

We left Moab with a plan to head for somewhere where nobody else goes and we found it – Browne Lake in Flaming Gorge National Recreational Area.
The weird thing about this one was that Sarah saw some pictures of a campsite on the internet in the Flaming Gorge area that looked cool, but there was no clue where this place actually was.
We stopped here and there and looked at a few places (Eliza , ibid), but finally found this site on a lake 10 miles down a dirt road off the main highway.
We were up at 8000 feet or something so the morning temperature in the Reconnaissance Vehicle went from well over 100 degrees (Moab) to 55 degrees (Browne Lake) overnight. In due course, at Yellowstone this reaches 43. We stayed here for a couple of nights and only on the second day Sarah realised that our very site was actually the one from which the internet photo had been taken. A great, peaceful place where we spent the days walking, playing in the lake, hunting for bears, collecting firewood and generally having a very chilled time.