Burnt Forks Lakes Pack Trip
August 2008

by Sally Altenreid

Show season was over in mid July for us this year, so when we saw the e-mail about the pack trip we eagerly looked forward to going. Since we did not have packs, hobbles and rain slickers we scoured the ranch stores until we found all we needed. Dick and I decided to go to the starting point the afternoon before we were to meet Tim Rodee and Dale Cameron as we did not know how long it would take to get there, and we did not want to be looking for forest service roads in the mountains after dark. We arrived in the late afternoon, and with nothing much to do we explored the area around the lake, and hiked a short distance up the trail. Beaver Meadow Reservoir is a picturesque lake set in the High Uintah Mountains near the Wyoming border. The lake, though somewhat low in late summer is quite beautiful with its expansive meadow and bordering dense forest. The air was cool at that altitude, and it misted rain off and on during the evening. After the horses were taken care of and we finished our simple meal I walked to the knoll overlooking the lake. The last rays of the setting sun set the tree tops ablaze with its dying glory and rimmed the edge of the lake in soft shades of red and gold.

The next morning about 10 AM Dale drove in with a six horse trailer and his son Jake right behind him with a four horse trailer. Introductions were quickly made, and then began the process of unloading horses, saddling and packing for the six mile ride to base camp. Shortly after Dale and Jake arrived, Tim Rodee and Jeff McNeil rode in from base camp with two more pack horses. While Dale and Jake were packing, Dick told me to, “go take a look at Dale’s horses.” So, I walked over to where they were tied and was amazed by their size and beauty. All the horses were over 16 hands tall and weighed 1400 plus pounds. I asked if they were crossed with a draft breed and Jake quickly assured me they were all blue papered Fox Trotters.

Preparations were soon accomplished and we were ready to ride. We followed Tim and Jeff and their two pack horses as Dale and Jake were to follow with the pack string later. The trailhead began with a gradual ascent through an old burn area dotted with Pine Tree saplings. We soon rode out of the burn area into a Lodgepole Pine and Yellow Pine forest with an occasional Quaking Aspen tree. Indian Paintbrush and other wildflowers grew sparsely along the trail. The trail, though quite rocky in places, and with many detours around downed trees was generally easy.

Base camp was situated just below Fish Lake at the edge of a narrow park perhaps 400 yards long with a small stream meandering through the meadow. The location was perfect for a horse camp. The meadow was luxuriant with thick grass and the only outlet was at the head of the park where we had come in on the trail. Camp was set up just inside the tree line, so Dick and I found a nice location for our tent and a place to highline the horses. Jeff and Tim were busy sorting through the packs so we sat beside the fire under a canvas shelter as we waited for our gear to arrive with Dale and the pack horses. The shelter that Jeff had erected was made from two large heavy canvas tarps attached together by snaps with a strong rope underneath, and tied high in the middle to trees with the corners staked on poles. The shelter was simple, but quite ingenious, and very efficient at holding the warmth of the fire. We would soon come to appreciate this haven from the rain.

Dale and Jake arrived with the pack horses about an hour later, and we gathered our gear, set up our small tent and high lined the horses just as a steady rain began to fall and continued the rest of the afternoon. The rain eventually let up, and as Tim and Jeff began to prepare supper Dick and I led our horses out to the meadow, hobbled them, and watched for a few minutes as they learned to maneuver in the unfamiliar restraints. Before long the meadow was dotted with horses contentedly cropping grass. Dale’s pack horses were led out and turned loose in their hobbles, and we were astounded as we watched them canter down the meadow. They could canter, jump the steam, lie down and roll as easily as if they were not hobbled at all! They were dubbed, ‘the thundering herd’ as they seemed to take great pleasure in running up and down the meadow in a tight packed group trying to intimidate the other horses. There was an occasional squeal and a warning kick, but when we realized no major altercations would occur we turned our attention to the intriguing aromas coming from the dutch ovens and various pots as Tim and Jeff served a dinner of chicken and wild rice. Since Tim and Jeff did all the cooking a few of us pitched in to help clean up. We spent the rest of the evening under the tarp enjoying the cozy fire and getting to know one another.

The next morning we awoke to leaden skies, but it was not raining as we led the horses out to graze. After a leisurely breakfast we saddled for a day ride with Dale. Dick and I were the only ones going as Terri Griffith and her family elected to hike to the lake, and the others chose to ride elsewhere or ride to the lake later. Dale led up the meadow and across the rocky outlet to Fish Lake. The Lake was quite large for such a high elevation lake and very picturesque. It began to rain lightly, so we donned our rain slickers as we worked our way around the end of the lake and across the ridge above, and down the other side skirting a large boulder field. The descent was steep and rocky, and about halfway down there was a tree lying across the trail about knee high to the horses. It looked pretty knarly to me, but the horsed stopped, took a good look, stepped over the log, and negotiated the rocks and steep decent without faltering. From there Dale left the trail and led through the forest and across a very wet meadow, which was actually more like a marsh. My mare was nervous, but trusted Dale’s horse and obediently followed, sometimes sinking halfway to her knees. The gelding my husband rode seemed to take everything in stride and was confident in whatever terrain we rode over. I realized the marshy areas were safe to cross if one rode where the large tufts of grass grew thickly. We continued to work our way through trees and across marshy areas climbing higher above the upper Burnt Fork Lake often called Boxer Lake. Dale had a destination in mind as he led out onto a small finger ridge and down into the wet meadow to ride around a protruding tree. He kept his horse as close to the bank as possible and passed the tree safely, but as I rode around the tree Splash made a wider arc, and before I could urge her closer the bank she sank to her knees. My heart leapt to my throat, and I called to Dale thinking she was bogged down. She was frightened, but did not panic, and quickly found firmer footing and worked her way back to the bank. Dale looked on passively as I rode up to him, so the situation must not have been as scary as I had thought. From that time on Splash did not step one inch further into the marsh than she absolutely had to. She had learned her lesson.

We rode down the ridge and out onto a small park dotted with stunted Pines. Dale estimated the elevation to be about 10,800 feet. The peaks of the Uintah Mountains loomed barely more than a 1000 feet above, and there at the base of the barren and crumbly slope the headwaters of the Burnt Fork Drainage was born. Within just a few yards from the spring a sizeable stream flowed swiftly down to be joined by other rivulets to tumble into the lakes below. The sun began to peak through the clouds as we turned to ride back to Boxer Lake, and as if to tease us, Nature seemed not to be able to make up her mind, and one minute it would rain, and the very next the sun would break through the clouds to shine brightly. We tied the horses at the lake, and Dale and I conversed as Dick excitedly rigged his fishing pole and made his way to the bank. As long as the sun shone the fish would bite, but as soon as it began to rain the fish no longer showed an interest. It was really quite comical as the rain showers came and went about every ten minutes and so did his luck catching fish. He finally gave up, and we mounted and rode back to camp without incident.

Camp was deserted except for Tim when we arrived, so we turned the horses out on the meadow and relaxed by the fire until everyone began to trickle back from their excursions. The afternoon was far advanced as Tim and Jeff began to cook. Terri and her family, father and daughter Greg and Nicole, Mike, Jake and the others joined us under the tarp, or ‘dining fly’ as we were treated to tri tip roast seared over hot coals and sliced thin, baked potatoes and cherry cobbler baked in the dutch oven. There was much laughter and storytelling as we toasted our soggy pant legs, boots and socks before the fire and ate our wonderful meal.

The skies had begun to clear, and the day looked promising as we saddled for Saturday’s ride with Tim and Mike. They led out of ‘our’ meadow in the opposite direction we had taken the day before into McCoy Park. The high elevation meadow was huge, consisting of many hundreds of acres. Dense forest of Pine, Fir and Spruce covered the ridges and the barren peaks towered above us. The beauty of the park was only slightly marred by the presence of cattle. We followed large rock trail markers along the edge of the park for perhaps thirty minutes before we saw the wooden sign indicating the trail to Tamarack Lake. The trail led down a sloping draw in and out of the trees, and I was completely captivated by the stunning beauty of my surroundings. I whispered my profound gratitude to God for the privilege of health and the means to bring our horses to such an incredible place. We continued the decent for another mile or so and rode out onto a ridge overlooking the lake. Tamarack Lake lay in a deep bowl perhaps a thousand feet below us framed by steep ridges and dense forest; a lovely blue jewel amidst a setting of dark green. We descended a steep, zigzagging course down to the lake and continued along the bank until we came to a section of the trail that went through an old rock slide. Tim decided it was not worth the risk to the horses, though they could have crossed, so we turned back to a place along the trail where we could tie the horses and have lunch. We sat on a log at the edge of the lake conversing and laughing, but continually gazing about us to take in every detail of that majestic landscape. Tim and Mike set a fast pace back to camp, so we were gaiting wherever the terrain was not too rocky or broken. Both of our horses have a fast flatfoot walk, so we had no trouble keeping up with them. About a mile from camp we spotted a young Bull Moose feeding at the edge of the park. He looked at us curiously as we rode by, and nonchalantly stood as I snapped a quick photograph.

Once back in camp and the horses turned out to graze, Tim complimented us by remarking, “I think your horses did great.” We had told him shortly after we started in to camp on the first day that our horses were show horses, and that we had done quite a lot of trail riding, but they had not been on a pack trip before or experienced the type of trail that one would encounter in the backcountry. Tim had been unobtrusively watching our horses, and probably Dick and I as well, so it was a compliment indeed. Both our horses had very successful show careers in Missouri, and we are continuing their show careers in the west; and we are firm believers, and I hope good ambassadors that excellent show horses can also be excellent trail horses. We do most of our trail riding after show season is over, and then we hit the trail with as much enthusiasm, well, maybe a little more, as we do the show arena.

Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny, and after breakfast everyone busied themselves packing for the ride back to the reservoir. We all helped Tim and the others sort and organize the packs. Dick and I watched as they carefully weighed and arranged the packs on the horses and secured them with the diamond hitch. Terri and her family said their goodbyes and left shortly before noon. It was nearing 2 o’clock before all the horses were packed and saddled, and they stomped impatiently to be on their way. Dark clouds scudded across the sky and the air grew perceptively colder heralding a swiftly approaching storm. Thunder clapped and rolled as Dale and Jake made last minute adjustments to the packs while the rest of us took shelter under the trees as a furious hail storm swept over us. Hail the size of peas quickly covered the ground as we rode out of the meadow and climbed to the park to connect with the trail. The hail storm passed as swiftly as it had come and left the rarified air nipping cold. Low lying clouds shrouded the tree tops and peaks in white obscurity. Seven pack horses and seven riders rode in single file barely making a sound in the soft blanket of hail that covered the ground. Steam rose from the backs of the horses, and the packs bobbed up and down as they trotted rapidly knowing they were headed home. I wished with all my heart that I could have somehow captured the image of that ride across the meadow. It was magical in its beauty, and for a few brief moments I was borne away to an era long past, and I shared the thrill of adventure of those intrepid early explorers who opened the West.

The pack string slowly snaked its way down the trail halting often so adjustments could be made to slipping packs. There was very little conversation on the ride back as each person kept their thoughts to themselves. My own reflections centered on the past three days with people who share a like passion, a love and appreciation for the wonderful Fox Trotter horse. But, it is not mere diversion that brings people to the backcountry. Perhaps it is the need for something elemental, simplistic; perhaps it is to challenge one’s self and one’s horses, but surely in the end one realizes that one’s soul is lifted, enriched, and somehow changed by the sublime beauty of God’s creation.

The ride back to the reservoir took about three hours. We removed our packs with benumbed fingers, and loaded the horses so they could munch hay in the trailer out of the rain. We were cold, wet and bedraggled, but thoroughly content. We thanked Tim, Dale and Jake for a wonderful experience, and told them we were ‘hooked,’ and eagerly looked forward to the next trip. I felt almost melancholy on the long drive home knowing it would be next year before we could go on another pack trip. For me, once a year into the backcountry is not enough. I long for it as a starving person longs for food. The opportunity does not present itself very often, so I get my wilderness ‘fix’ in small doses riding the mountain and canyon trails close to our home, and I have my memories of mountain peaks and meadows, and sharing the warmth of a fire with friends.