COWGIRL-UP

COWGIRL-UP
                                            
Chapter One

Bertha Daye sat at the bar of the Irma Hotel in Cody, Wyoming finishing a shot of whiskey. She and her husband, Charlie, had just spent three months down on the South Fork of the Shoshone working for the government scouting and counting what remained of small bison herds. She had been too long in the saddle. Fixed up she was fair-looking with a fine figure for a 30-year-old. Her blond hair, usually long and wavy, was now ingrained with sweat and dirt, making it as stiff as a horse’s tail. She threatened to hack it off short whenever it fell in her face while fixing chow or shoeing her horse. But her husband liked it long, so she acquiesced to his wishes—on this matter.
She always told him he was the boss. “It’s easier that way,” she would say, “then we don’t have to waste time arguing. He knows men, mountains and mules; I take care of the rest and he doesn’t complain.” Bertha was best known for her independence, spunk and feistiness, as well as her honesty and hard work.
Charlie was a handsome tall drink of water with long gray-streaked hair and a short gray beard. His weathered wrinkles revealed he was at least 12 to 14 years older than Bertha. He downed his second shot and said, “Hey, Dave, let’s have another round. Been long time in them mountains and worked up quite a thirst. This here bar is sure somethin’ special, ain’t it? Smells purty too, like wood flowers in the spring.”
“You old fool,” Bertha said, “that’s cherry wood, come clear across the ocean as a gift to Bill Cody from Queen Victoria herself…so I heard tell. And look at them wall-to-wall mirrors in back; hope they don’t get broke in some rowdy brawl. Just finished up building her recently. Let’s get us a room upstairs; heard they’s real fancy. And we could try out one of them feather beds,” she added with a wink.
“First, I need a long hot bath,” she said as she climbed off the stool. “I stink worse than a mule’s rear end. You got tubs up there in one of those rooms don’t you Dave?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have Doris started carrying some hot water for you.”
“Now don’t go calling me Ma’am; sounds like you want something when you do that.”
“Okay, ma’am. I mean, Bertha. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Now Charlie, don’t you be drinking too much or you won’t be no good to me. I’ll be expecting you in a couple of hours, cleaned up and shaved, if you want some goodies.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered with a grin.
                                                 
That evening as Bertha and Charlie sat eating at the Irma, Bill Cody charged through the double doors. “Hey, Charlie, Bertha, nice to see you again.”
The three had met at the town of Cody’s incorporation celebration the summer of 1901. Bertha had tried to bargain Bill’s white Arabian stallion from him after winning a high-stake poker game in which he ended up keeping the stallion but owing her money. He’d paid on the debt every time they’d met after that. They had become good friends though Bertha still chided him about wanting to own his stallion.
“You like the hotel now that it’s finished?” he asked as he strode over to their table, shaking their hands vigorously before grabbing a chair beside Charlie. “Named it for my daughter. . .ain’t it something? ‘Best in the West,’ so they say.
“So, how long you folks around?” Bill spewed out before either had a chance to answer his first question.
“Bertha and I just rode into town this mornin’ from being down on the South Fork; actually, we passed your TE Ranch a couple days back. We may head up the North Fork in a few days.
“Say, I heard there’s gonna be some big doings west of town in the canyon…somethin’ about the Reclamation Service building a dam between Rattlesnake and Cedar. You have anything to do with that?”
“Yep,” Bill said. “I belong to the Wyoming Board of Land Commissioners, and we’ve been after the federals to step in and help with our irrigation development. They’re supposed to start blasting next year, creating a huge water-storage reservoir. Be a mess for a while, but eventually it will be a godsend to the valley ranches, mine included.
“By the way, been looking for someone to take four city-folk guests of mine packhorse camping for a few days, or a week. They’re holed up at my lodge in Wapiti right now. They hail from Virginia, come up from Denver coupla weeks ago. Are you folks interested in making some money? You say you’re headed that direction anyway.”
Every since Yellowstone had become a national park, people from the East had been traveling to the West to recapture the feelings of nostalgia for bygone days. As Nathaniel P. Langdon described Yellowstone, “. . .your memory becomes filled and clogged with objects new in experience, wonderful in extent, and possessing unlimited grandeur and beauty.”
No wonder “greenhorns” (or “dudes”) were paying high prices to come west to experience a somewhat edited version of the pack trip life of mountain men or ranch life of cowboys.
“My eastern guests say they want excitement! Speaking of which, you two want to come to my Wild West Show tomorrow? I’ll introduce you to Annie Oakley. She got hurt real bad in a railway crash a year or so ago, but she’s back with the show for this one last season. What a hotshot! You’d like her.”
“What time and where?” Bertha asked before Bill could begin another nonstop spiel.
“The parade begins here at the Irma around noon and ends at my showground, set up east of town, where we entertain for a few hours. Here’s a couple of tickets. Let’s meet here for dinner tomorrow evening and talk some more. Give you a chance to decide whether you want to guide this group of mine.”
And with that, he was gone like a tornado cutting across a prairie.
“Whew, he’s a man in a hurry, Charlie. . .makes me dizzy just listening to him; he talks so fast.”
“So what do ya think, dear? Want to take Bill’s guests into the mountains?”
“Sure; the money would be welcome. Give me and the animals a couple days to rest up and we’ll be set to go.”
                                       
On his “water-smooth silver stallion,” Bill led his “Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World Parade on Horseback.” Following him were a variety of participants including the U.S. military, American Indians and performers from all over the world, all in their best dress. There were Gauchos from South America, Turks, Arabs, Mongols, and Cossacks, each displaying their distinctive horse breeds and colorful costumes.
The show was intense—just like Bill—speed and noise abounded. Authentic western personalities appeared, like Sitting Bull with a band of 20 Sioux warriors. Buffalo Bill and his troupe re-enacted the riding of the Pony Express, Indian attacks on wagon trains and stagecoach robberies. Annie Oakley and her husband, Frank Butler, put on shooting exhibitions along with Gabriel Dumont.
“Did you see that, Charlie? Oakley just put five bullet holes from her .22 in a playing card before it touched the ground. Amazing!”
“Yep. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Do ya want to meet her later? Bill said he’d introduce us.”
         “Nah. I’d rather think of her as someone mystical, not a real person; she’s too perfect. Let’s go back to town and start preparing for another trip.”
The Wild West Show ended with a melodramatic re-enactment of Custer’s Last Stand; Cody himself portrayed General Custer.
                                       
After another luxurious respite in the hot-water tub, Bertha sauntered downstairs in her new outfit: a cream-colored, front-ruffled, long-sleeved blouse and a light-brown suede, split skirt she had purchased at the Cody General that afternoon. Looking around the dining area, she spotted Charlie and Bill at the bar.
“Wow, don’t you look like a ray of sunshine all gussied up!” Bill commented as she joined them. “Charlie, you’d better keep a snug hold on her; she’s a looker and. . .ouch,” he said as she slugged him, half kidding, half serious, on the arm.
“Let’s find a table and have some dinner before the shit gets any deeper,” Bertha said leading the way.
During dinner, they discussed the show and performers and finally got around to Bill’s proposed pack trip. “Bertha and I have decided to guide your guests. Ya say there are four of ’em; any idea where they’d like to travel?”
“Whereas they’re already in Wapiti, why don’t you take them further up the North Fork to Eagle Creek into Three-Mile-Meadow?”
“Good idea. We could continue over Eagle Pass down the Yellowstone into the Thorofare. That’s a nice trek, plenty of game…good fishin’. We could lay over a day or two there and see how well the dudes’ survivin’ before we decide about the return trek.”
“Three of them will do fine; the fourth I’m not too sure about,” Bill said.
“We could come back through the valleys of Pass Creek into the Ishawooa, then drop them at your TE Ranch on the South Fork if they turn out to be real wimpy,” Bertha added. “Or if they want excitement, we can return by way of Rampart Pass; that trek is sure to give them a thrill. Then we’d follow Elk Fork Creek back to Wapiti.”
“We’ll just have to play it by ear. Sounds like we’ll be out eight to ten days,” Charlie said. “Is that the length of trip your guests are looking for, Bill?”
“Yep. I’ll send a rider up to Wapiti Inn to tell them to be ready to travel in…what, four days?”
“Make it five. My horses and mules need a few more days’ rest, and I need to look over and repair gear and harnesses.”
“These dandies are going to need some pampering and special handling, so why don’t you look up young Larry Motts and see if he’ll come along to help free me up some. And I need to purchase food staples, and check the stock’s hooves,” Bertha added.
“I’ll leave you folks to handle the logistics. My guests are prepared to pay plenty, so don’t spare the expense. My show is moving on to Cheyenne for the winter the day after tomorrow, so if I don’t see you before I go—have a great trip.”
“Thanks for the business, Bill.”
Bertha added, “And if you decide you ever want to sell that stallion of yours, you know I want first dibs at him. He’s one helluva piece of horseflesh.”
“Not much chance of that,” he countered good-naturedly as he sped out the door.

                                        



Chapter Two

The mules and horses were rested, feet trimmed and shoes replaced if needed, harnesses mended, food staples like flour, sugar, salt, coffee, beans, bacon and carefully stored eggs packed in panniers beneath buffalo skins to keep them fresh. Other panniers, containing cookware and maintenance supplies, hung on the mules’ packsaddles, covered with canvas and tied down with rope. Axes, shovels and bulky items slid securely in between the ropes. Rifles, bedrolls, and saddlebags for miscellaneous items, hung from the riding horses’ saddles.
Charlie had found Larry Motts working at the livery; he was more than willing to hire on for the trek. Larry was a good-looking man in his early twenties, honest, muscular and not afraid of hard work. He’d worked for the Dayes’ on a trek to Jackson Hole the previous year.
“Move ’em out,” yelled Charlie. It was his traditional way of commencing a trip and motivating his mules, tied head to tail, to move forward. First came Charlie riding his buckskin mustang leading his five pack mules, then Bertha on her smart-looking bay quarter horse, Rocky, leading two of the guests’ horses, followed by Larry riding his own black-spotted Appaloosa leading the other two guests’ horses. Not knowing beforehand the size or weight of the guests, Charlie had brought along part-draft horses for them to ride, and being sturdy animals, these horses could also be used to pack if necessary.
Charlie found the canyon west of Cody passable but congested with surveyors, engineers and construction equipment. Folks from the North Fork will have to cross the Shoshone and come into Cody from the south if this canyon gets anymore crowded, he thought to himself.
As they left the arid land surrounding Cody, following the Shoshone north, they began seeing broad pastures of cattle and horses, hand-hewn fences, fields of rich alfalfa grass, hay stacked outside barn corrals and windmills pumping stock water from the river. A land of plenty, Bertha mused as she rode contentedly behind her husband and his mules.
Hills on both sides of the dirt road grew steeper as the pack team continued west at a ground-covering walk. While stopping to water the stock at the river’s edge, they took advantage of the cottonwoods’ shade to break for a light lunch and briefly rest the animals. “We should arrive in Wapiti Valley by late afternoon,” Charlie said. They were making good time, as the road winding between the hills was still fairly level.
They pulled into Wapiti Inn’s stock corrals at feed time, unloaded their packs and stored them under canvas tarps. After feeding and watering their horses and mules, they entered the lodge hungry for some grub themselves—a vacant table caught their eye.
As they sat down, a well-endowed matron in a blue gingham dress and white apron came from the kitchen with her hand outstretched. “Howdy, I’m Cora. You must be the Daye outfitters.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlie stood and shook her hand. “This is my wife, Bertha, and extra hand, Larry Motts.” Everyone exchanged “hellos.”
“The Masons are all sitting right over there; I’ll introduce them to you after dinner. We have plenty of beef stew and homemade bread; hope that’s okay. I’ll bring it out shortly,” Cora said as she retreated into her kitchen.
“Charlie,” Bertha whispered, “two of them’s women and fancy ones at that! I wonder if they knows how tough a horse pack trip can be on even the best of men riders.”
“Well, guess they’ll find out purty soon, won’t they. Bill said they wanted a mountain trek experience and we’ll give ’em one—men and women. Wyoming is an equality state, right? Women can vote—women can horse trek.”
“Oh my,” was all Bertha could say.
Cora made brief introductions after dinner, “Alice and Albert Mason, Louise and John Mason, meet Bertha and Charlie Daye and Larry Motts.”
It was easy to note that the two men were brothers but hard to tell them apart with their fair skin, medium build, and blond hair cut the same length, although Albert was a mite taller. The ladies were very different; dark-haired Alice appeared the picture of femininity, small and dainty while Louise was a strapping redhead. 
“Pleased to meet ya,” Charlie said. “I’ll keep this short. We can socialize once we’re at campsite. Ya need to pack light: bring one extra set of clothes, a heavy jacket, boots, gloves, hat, and rain slicker; that’s about all you’ll need.  Meet at the corrals shortly after daybreak. See ya in the mornin’.”
An early start was necessary so they could take an hour break to rest and eat lunch and still reach their campsite near Eagle Creek trailhead by late afternoon. The guests arrived punctually. Louise wore an appropriate split skirt; Alice wore a dress.
Bertha groaned as she left saddling her gelding to go correct the situation. “Alice, you look wonderful for a day in Cody, but not to ride horseback 25 miles a day, up mountains and down. You need to be wearin’ a split skirt or pants.”
“But all I have are dresses; I’ll be perfectly okay in a sidesaddle.”
“Ma’am, we use only stock saddles. Borrow a pair of your husband’s breeches and you’ll do fine.” With that, Bertha whipped around and stomped back to her horse cursing under her breath…city slickers be damned.

The first leg of the trip continued to follow the trodden road to Yellowstone. Hills turned into evergreen- and aspen-covered mountains upon leaving Wapiti Valley. The scenery was magnificent and the riding easy. Everyone rode in relative quiet simply enjoying the views, the blue sky and warming sunshine. The lady guests rode with one leg draped around the horn imitating a sidesaddle pose. Bertha held her tongue, as their riding position would not matter until they hit the mountainous trails tomorrow.
Many outfitters packing into the Yellowstone area used the trailhead at Eagle Creek; therefore, corrals and hay were readily available for the animals. They set up camp on level ground next to the creek. Two guest fly tents, consisting of a canvas tarp held up by two poles and ropes tied to tree limbs, were erected on the perimeter for their comfort. Bedrolls spread atop a second tarp. The pack crew slept on their saddle blankets with a buffalo robe pulled over for warmth when necessary.
That evening, Bertha, designated social director, spoke to the women about personal comforts (or discomforts as they might be). “There are no outhouses in the forests,” she began, “so when you feel the urge to relieve yourself around camp, you’ll take the spade and a wipe to the woods with you and bury your waste—no exceptions. The rule of pack trips is that ‘you leave the forests as you find them.’ There are no bathtubs either, but you can fill a washbasin with hot water from the kettle we keep on the fire at all times or use cold water from the creeks we’ll camp beside. Any questions?” The ladies said nothing, clearly intimidated by her candor.
“Oh, one more thing. Alice, for your own safety, you will ride astride your horse beginning tomorrow. From here on, we leave the road and ride trails across rivers, up banks, over blowdowns, across ledges, up mountains and down. Keeping your own balance and not interfering with your horse is vital, especially on an 18-inch trail along the side of a 9500-foot-high mountain cliff. We want everyone to enjoy themselves but be safe.” By now, the ladies’ faces were pallid.

Soon after sunrise the next morning, with Charlie leading three mules and Larry leading two, the group immediately crossed Eagle Creek from the trailhead. The guests followed, and Bertha brought up the rear.
Eagle Creek proved too deep for the last and smaller mule (named Stump) Larry was leading. He lost his footing and would have been swept down river except that his lead rope held, allowing Larry’s horse and the other mule to pull him across. Stump’s pack kept him afloat. The robe covering his pack got wet, but it would be dry in a short time once they got moving up the trail. He wasn’t upset and he quietly grazed while waiting for the rest to cross.
That was too much excitement, too soon, for Alice. She refused to ride across. Bertha rode forward and grabbed the horse’s reins, yelling, “Hang on and do not move. It’s either stay in the saddle or swim. Here we go.” They traversed the river, no problem except visible tears running down Alice’s cheeks. The other guests made it across with no mishaps.
Bertha felt she needed to lighten the mood so she said, “Good job, ma’am. See. . .that wasn’t so bad. Trust your horse. His name is Jocko and he’s a seasoned pack tripper; he’ll keep you safe. Now let’s cowgirl-up and join the others, okay?”
Once they were on the trail things settled down. The trail wound up and down through tranquil forests. A lone moose partially hidden behind some swamp brush watched in curiosity as the trekkers passed. Charlie frequently startled deer from his lead position; however, they sprinted off the trail and out of sight before the guests saw them.
Stopping only long enough for a short rest, water and cold lunch the group reached Three-Mile-Meadow in good spirits by late afternoon. Mountains rising 9700 feet above sea level flanked both east and west of the meadow, with Eagle Peak at the far south, standing tall at 11300 feet, staring down at them in aloofness. The group would traverse Eagle Peak Pass and down into Yellowstone National Park tomorrow.
Everyone had jobs to do before they could think of supper. Charlie and Larry unpacked the mules and then turned them loose to graze the meadow. A small creek running through the meadow provided water. Bertha “un-tacked” the horses, turning all but two loose to join the mules. She staked Charlie’s mustang gelding and Larry’s Appy mare close to camp, as they would be used to round up the other animals in the morning. Then she set about arranging the cooking area and making a campfire. Charlie chopped wood for the fire while Larry went to hunt for supper. Game was plentiful in the long meadow, from moose and deer to beavers, muskrats, marmots and hares. John and Albert set up their own tents to help; Louise and Alice gathered kindling wood.
Work helped bring the group together, and that evening, stomachs filled with rabbits cooked on a spit, beans and biscuits, they sat around the campfire and swapped stories. Louise told of her experience back in Virginia as head mistress of an all-girls school. “I can’t wait to relate all my western adventures to the girls when I return teaching next spring,” she said excitedly.
“You don’t have to tell about my foolishness this morning,” Alice, now able to joke about her earlier panic in the creek, chimed in.
Albert, it seemed, was president of the Old Dominion Bank in Richmond, and his brother, John, was editor of the Richmond Tribune. “I intend to publish a series of articles about our journey by train to Denver, stage to Cody, wagon to Wapiti and now horses through the mountains. It will have great public appeal! Everyone back East is hungry to learn if there are any Indians or bison left and crave tales about Yellowstone and mountain men.”

Morning brought ground fog and two young moose playing behind the tents. Bertha left her cooking area to quietly wake the guests so they could watch the moose butt heads and chase each other in the tall grasses.
“Is coffee ready?” Albert asked as he stood by the blazing fire. “Alice would like me to bring her a cup.”
“Nope, but the water’s boiling; so here, if you want to help, just dump in a handful of these coffee grounds and set the pot aside to simmer. I’ll throw an eggshell in to settle the grounds in a minute, then it’ll be drinkable.
“Better hurry the others along, too, as eggs and bacon are ready and we need to get an early start over the pass today.”
The Eagle Pass trail climbed steeply through forested switchbacks until just before reaching the summit. There, the trail crossed a series of open ledges. Looking down at a 100-foot vertical drop caused most first-timers to become anxious. Alice, not only anxious, was terrified. She said, so softly that Bertha, riding behind her, could hardly hear, “I can’t do this…I’m scared; I want to get off and walk.”
“You cannot do that, ma’am; there is not enough room to dismount,” Bertha told her firmly. The trail was only a couple of feet wide—no room to pass in order to lead her across. “You just stop Jocko right where you are and look to your right, up the mountain. When Charlie sees we’re not coming, he’ll be back and help you across…do not look down to your left. Time to cowgirl-up again.”
Charlie tied his horse and urged the others to find a shrub and tie-up at the summit. He walked back to the ledges and just short of losing his temper and threatening Alice with bodily harm, said, “Ma’am, stop cryin’, hang on and I’ll lead ya safely to the top.”
They all took a welcomed rest break and enjoyed the vista. Bertha commented to Charlie, “You know, every time I stand here on this summit I feel akin to being an angel in heaven, overlooking other mountains, valleys, rivers and creeks. It’s as if the whole world’s spread out below us.”
“The only thing wrong with that is, you’ll never be like an angel, dear,” he said with a grin, his previous anger obviously cooling, “at least not in this lifetime.”
“Well, I see you’re getting to be your ol’ sweet self again…welcome back.”
“I got angry because I was scared Alice might do somethin’ stupid like try to get off, or worse yet, yank on Jocko’s mouth tryin’ to turn him around. Aw, hell, suppose I ought to go apologize to her; after all, she’s from the East and never’s been up a western mountain.”
“That would be the nice thing to do, dear.”
“I’ll go talk to her now while you’re pretending to be an angel,” he smirked.
Feelings soothed, feathers smoothed, they descended to Howell Creek and easier riding. Charlie placed Alice between his pack mules and Larry where she felt cared for and safe, looked after by two strong and mildly handsome mountain men. Her husband smiled to himself. Bertha was relieved to ride behind the trekkers where it was peaceful and quiet again. They were now in Yellowstone Park.
Charlie planned to camp on the Yellowstone River and fish for the legendary Yellowstone cutthroat trout. However, the guests expressed their interest in reaching a campsite—as soon as possible—therefore they camped a few miles before the river along Mountain Creek. Exhausted, the guests retired early while Bertha, Charlie and Larry stayed by the campfire enjoying the closeness of the stars, the echo of howling wolves and sounds of other night creatures.






Chapter Three

Later the next morning, following the Yellowstone River south, Charlie pointed out a female grizzly and her cub climbing the hillside across the river. During their lunch break, Bertha walked along the riverbank and noticed fresh grizzly prints in the sand and a nearby pile of large grizzly scat almost the size of a horse-manure pile.
“I think we’d better hang our food supplies tonight,” she remarked to her husband later.
“Yep. I was thinkin’ the same thing after we saw that sow and cub this mornin’. The park patrol is recommendin’ that all food supplies be hoisted ten feet high between trees whenever we bring guests campin’ into Yellowstone. I hear they’re considerin’ makin’ it a park law in the near future. Too many people invadin’ grizzly country; don’t want the beasts gettin’ used to associatin’ people with food. Bad for business.”
They followed the river valley to a point near the confluence of the Thorofare and Yellowstone Rivers and made camp early. Larry went fishing and brought back cutthroat trout for supper. Around the campfire that night Bertha announced, “We’ll layover an extra day here so everyone, including the animals, can rest a spell. It’s a beautiful spot to trout fish, hike, relax here in camp or take a bath in the quiet pool over in the shallows of the Thorofare. And you can sleep as late as you want if you don’t care about breakfast.” The guests smiled at that news.
“There’s a history to this valley isn’t there?” asked John.
“Yep,” Charlie volunteered. “This valley’s fourteen miles long and three miles wide. Indians, traders and trappers held their annual ‘rendeevu’ here for several years before movin’ the get-together southwest over near the Tetons. Hundreds partied and palave’d for weeks until all their goods had been traded and money spent. ’Cause it’s wide and easy to travel, Indians, fur trappers and mountain men the likes of Jeremiah Johnson, John Colter, William Sublette and Jim Bridger often used the same trail we were on today and may have camped right here where we’re at now. There’s a small lake just yonder off the Yellowstone, named after Bridger.”
“Charlie, that’s the most words I ever heard you say at one time,” Larry said after the guests tucked in for the night.
Bertha chuckled, “Guess you ain’t seen him after a few shots of whisky, have you—talk your ear off without saying a thing of value.”
“Ya better watch what you’re tellin’, ol’ lady, or I’ll start relatin’ some tales about you.”
“Go ahead. I’m going to find a buffalo robe and crawl under it.        ’Night.”

Dawn brought a spectacular sunrise along the Thorofare. Bluing skies and warming sun welcomed the well-rested guests as they crawled out of their bedrolls. A pair of golden eagles circled majestically overhead; trout jumped enticingly in the river—signs of a good day to come.
With no set schedule for the day, the atmosphere was tranquil. The horses and mules came into camp out of habit. Charlie gave them some grain cubes to keep them quiet as he walked among them examining the animals’ legs and hooves. He haltered a couple that needed tending to and tied them to nearby trees.
Larry shot a young doe early that morning and was digging a ground pit in which he would cook a venison roast for supper. They would pack the remaining carcass for future meals.
Albert and John went hiking to check out Bridger Lake east of camp. Louise had washed some delicates in the river and was draping them over bushes to dry. Bertha decided to join Alice, who was sitting on a large rock at the river’s edge. “Howdy, cowgirl. How are you doing today?”
“You know, I don’t remember ever being this relaxed and content. I’m real sorry for being a problem guest and irritating like a burr under a saddle at times; however, I’m going to take pleasure in this piece of heaven here by the Thorofare, and from this day forward I promise to cowgirl-up, as you say and enjoy the remainder of the trek.
“Are we going to climb more mountains?” Alice asked hesitantly.
Bertha smiled at the lady’s courage, resolve and timidity. “We haven’t decided our return route yet, but I think we can find an easier trail than the one we came in on.”
“Oh, thank you. I do enjoy riding and sightseeing; it’s just that I’ve never climbed mountains on horseback—but, I’m determined to ride wherever we have to, without complaining, from here on.”
That evening, after the guests had retired to their tents, Bertha related this conversation to Charlie. “She’s determined to be a real trooper, but I don’t think she could handle the Rampart…so why don’t we pack the alternate route following Pass Creek up to the Ishawooa? Then it’s an easy trek to the South Fork.”
“I agree. Albert asked me this afternoon if we could take the shortest, easiest route back. He said he and John had seen and done more than they expected, and he’s concerned about his wife. She didn’t really want to come on the trip but he talked her into it. Now he’s thinking maybe that was a bad idea.”
“She’ll be okay,” Bertha added, “though I expect she’ll be some happy to be back sleeping on a feather bed, between cotton sheets, in a couple days!”

Come morning, Charlie told the guests about their travel plans: “It’ll be a long but easy day’s ride today. We’ll climb over one more mountain with a nice view and no ledges, then we’ll make camp on the other side. It’s elk country so keep your eyes open and your talk soft.”
Alice rode relaxed and with a smile, chatting with Louise about the mountain flora and fauna along the trail and asking questions—too many, according to Bertha who trailed the ladies. “Is that mountain phlox?” Alice asked. “Do Indians use the Indian paintbrush?” Louise wanted to know. “What do elk eat?” And on and on.
Finally, having reached her social limit, Bertha said politely, “If you want to see some elk today, you’d better be looking more and talking less until we get to our campsite.”
They had just begun climbing switchbacks when Charlie stopped the team and pointed right—there on the far slope was a herd of nearly 30 elk grazing, cows, calves and a magnificent bull. They watched the trekkers but did not move off. After a spell, the team continued up the mountain, with the guests hoping to see more.
As they crossed the somewhat level crest, a thunderstorm threatened. Bertha said, “Hold up ladies. You might want to get off and don your slickers; it looks like rain ahead, and there’s no proper place to dismount once we begin the descent.”
The men had halted also and were putting on their slickers.
Within minutes the sky opened up, winds blew cold rain, lightening flashed and thunder boomed. The trail became slippery—the topsoil quickly turning to greasy mud making it difficult for the animals to keep their footing, many times sliding on all four feet at once. After negotiating a particularly steep turn of a switchback, Bertha called to Alice, “Hey cowgirl. How’re you doing so far?”
“So far, so good,” was her remote response. “Do you ever stop and wait out a storm?”
“Nope. Have to make camp in time to set up before dark. Hang in there; you’re doing fine.”
“Okay,” Alice replied. “I was just wondering.”
Halfway down the mountain the rain stopped, clouds passed and sunshine appeared, as did smiles on the guests’ faces. Luckily, the packs had time to dry before reaching camp in the Ishawooa Valley. The site was not even damp, since the rain had been limited to the mountains, as were many such storms in the Rockies.

Seven horses, five mules, twenty-four thundering hooves coming down the valley into camp woke the guests the next morning. The animals had strayed during the night causing Larry and Charlie to ride three miles one way to find them and bring them in. It gave Bertha time to pick berries she added to the hotcakes she was preparing specially for this last day on the trail.
The aroma of hotcakes, eggs and bacon frying permeated the air drawing guests out of their tents. “I think I’m getting used to riding all day, up and down mountains and across rivers. I feel really good today,” Alice said all bubbly and smiles.
“That’s because you know we’re nearing the end of our trip and you won’t have to sleep on the ground tomorrow, or get soaked in the rain,” her husband chided her.
“And I can use an outhouse,” chimed in the usually quiet Louise, flushing a bit.
It was a perfect day for the guests’ last ride, following the creek to the South Fork and then north to Bill Cody’s TE ranch on the Shoshone. No traumatic mountain trails, ledges to cross, or inclement weather to contend with—only scattered herds of bison peacefully grazing the hillsides along the river valley. Great way to end a trip.

“My words can’t justly express what an outstanding excursion you gave us,” exclaimed Albert when it was time to say good-bye. “My life’s outlook has changed for having gone with you. Thank you very much.”
“I am going to put it all down on paper; it’ll make for wonderful tales in the Richmond Tribune,” John said enthusiastically. “And, I add my thanks to my brothers.”
“I must say that it was a once-in-a-lifetime adventure for me, and I thank you for it,” Louise said with genuine sincerity.
“Thank you so much for putting up with me and getting me back safely,” Alice said with tears in her eyes. “I’ll always remember this experience and hope to be a better person for it.” She gave them all hugs, even Bertha, who bristled a bit but endured.
As the outfit departed for Cody, Bertha was still sputtering. “I ain’t never been hugged by no woman afore.”
“Well then, guess this trip will be memorable for you, too, won’t it dear?” her husband teased.