Here, Kitty Kitty (or, There’s Lions in Them Thar Hills) – Cypress Hills, June 8-18, 2023

A coupla weeks ago, I started to write a post entitled “The Beginning of the End?” because that’s how Road Trip 2023 was looking to me. Pai’s various medical issues were seeing me set off with a horse who wasn’t going to be up to tackling those South Saskatchewan hills, a horse who now came complete with a meds list that would rival the pharmaceutical stash of a live-fast, die-young rock star itching to get hopped up and trash some $1200/night hotel room.

But that post was depressing to write, and was depressingly boring to read.

So scrap that.

Let’s talk about cougars instead.

Back in 2015, on one of my first rides in Cypress Hills with Doug and Rob (known to all my friends as The Cowboys), their route included a trip to the Cougar Caves, and I was informed that Cypress Hills has the highest density of cougars in North America.

“Nay, nay,” thought I, “That statistic belongs to Vancouver Island.” Vancouver Island unabashedly touts itself as the cougar capital of Canada: of the roughly 4000 mountain lions in Canada, 3500 live in BC, and 800 of those live on Vancouver Island, a rock that is only a tiny percentage of BC’s land mass.  If you do the math, it works out to about 2.5 cougars per 100 km2. While these big cats will occasionally stroll into people’s back yards – and once, memorably, in 1992, into the Empress Hotel in downtown Victoria – they do live up to their rep of being “elusive”. While bear sightings on Vancouver Island are a dime a dozen, it is a rare day when you get to see a cougar.

But as it happens, the wee Interprovincial Park that is Cypress Hills actually does have a higher density of cougars than Vancouver Island, by far: at last count, it was 8.5 cougars per 100 km2. And yet, just like on Vancouver Island, they are rarely seen. Because they’re elusive.

So it is understandable that, on my first ride of the season with the boys, when we were gearing up to get back in the saddle after our lunch break, and our horses pricked up their ears and turned their heads and alerted us to a pair of approaching four-leggeds, my first thought was, “Oh! Coyotes!” Coyotes are not elusive.

Pai wasn’t with me on this ride. Before leaving Nanaimo, I had let Rob know that Pai’s soundness wasn’t 100%, and that I might join them in camp for a few days on Road Trip 2023 only to hang out and hike with the dog before carrying on east. Doug phoned me a few days before he and Rob were headed out, saying, “I hear that pony of yours isn’t sound. It’s just as easy for me to throw three horses on the trailer as two if you want me to bring you a horse to ride.” So I had been looking between the black ears of Doug’s horse  Ace rather than between Pai’s white ones, and I had just taken his hobbles off after our lunch break when the two surprise visitors appeared on the horizon.

My sluggish brain eventually re-interpreted what my eyes were seeing, and I said to Rob, who was still un-hobbling his horse, “Cats! Look Rob! Those are cats!” One cougar quickly slunk away the way it had come, but his friend paused and stared at us. I whipped out my phone to snap a photo before the cougar turned and ran and all I would have for a pic would be an unimpressive blurry ass end and a tail.

The mountain lion did not turn and run.

He kept walking towards us. Pleased, I snapped another photo.

He kept coming.

I put my phone away, not in small part because it would be just too Darwin Award-y to be found dead but in possession of an excellent close-up photo of a cougar preparing to leap.

He kept walking towards us.

Slowly. And with what looked like an alarming amount of purpose.

I let out my best animalistic roar and raised my hands above my head. (For the visual, picture trying to convince a five-year-old that you are a creepy monster and you are about to GET them, bwa ha ha ha).

He kept walking towards us. (For the visual, imagine that you tried the creepy monster pose on a fourteen-year-old bored AF kid, who is now giving you the “I bet that was embarrassing” withering dismissal).

I hollered at him to BACK OFF!!! with all the rage of a Bichon owner in pristine Louis Vitton snatching up her snow-white darling and bellowing at a muddy Labrador Retriever about to get overly friendly with the both of them.

The cougar kept walking towards us. This kitty had clearly not read the Cypress Hills tips on how he should be responding to my by-the-book cougar deflection techniques.

I stomped my foot like an angry doe and hollered a few more times.

After pausing at a distance of 10 or 12 paces, when I was out of ideas on how to repel a stalking cat and was becoming quite disturbed at how ineffectual my efforts had been, he finally turned 90 degrees and sauntered off all non-chalant towards a wooded coulee.

Doug, a few hundred feet away, had been opening a gate, and only noticed that a mountain lion was within pouncing distance when he heard my ruckus. “I think that cat growled at you,” he joked.

My grainy photos became the talk of the camp. Alas, I keep imagining how great the pics would have been had I not lost my cool and continued my photo shoot right until the point where he was eyeing me up for lunch.

The remaining 9 of my 10 days at Cypress were cougar-free and therefore comparatively ho-hum.

My time there was, as always, delightful. Cypress Hills has not only some of the most spectacular riding in Canada, but also has the absolute best camp, full of people who are old friends or soon-to-be new friends. When I rolled in, not only were Rob and Doug present, but so were Carol and Con, whom I’d met in 2015 and at least once or twice after that, and Jim and Cindy, whom I’d met at both Cypress and Spruce Woods.  Later in the week, friends Marjorie and Blair and Fay and Larry and Randy all turned up. The familiar faces of the Park staff – Marilyn and Mel – were there, as well as the new young Ranger Leanne, who happened to be the daughter of Theresa and Scotty Reesor. It was the usual Old Home Week, with gatherings at the central fire pit at night.

For most of my stay, I rode with Rob and Doug alone. We took our horses up steep hills, back and forth across Battle Creek, up to the tops of the ridges, and down into the valleys. We rode in open pine woods and in brushy spruce forest and through stands of poplar.

We rode through purple and blue swaths of larkspur, creamy white carpets of death camas, bright yellow meadows of arnica. It had rained copiously in the weeks prior, and the wildflowers were putting on their best show – the grasslands were painted by rose, vetch, buffalo beans, avens, flax, geranium, and dozens of other flowers. I counted fourteen different species in bloom at just one of our lunch spots.

As we rode, the scent of wolf willow was heavy in the air. Clouds of tiny blue butterflies would flutter up at the creek crossings. Dragonflies darted and hovered. Every so often, deer would bound across a hillside, their white tails raised like flags.

I have always admired Ace, and last year, when Doug and I traded mounts for the day, his horse and I got on well together.  It’s a rare day when I enjoy riding someone else’s horse as much as I enjoy riding my own, but on this trip, Ace more than made up for me having to leave my girl back in camp. My good (borrowed) boy – who never gets spoiled by the very business-like Doug – has gone back home with a new taste for granola bars.

And I did take Pai out for some easy rides on the flat every second day, just to be looking at the hills between those white ears again.

Perfect.

Camp Notes for Horsey Folk

I’ve described the camp at Cypress several times – the most recent article is here (scroll down to Camp Notes for links to previous posts). The price in 2023 is still $20/night.

In short, there are roughly 10 roomy pipe fence corrals, about eight small wooden corrals, and maybe a dozen or 16 tie stalls. There is a catch large catch pen fenced with barbed wire where you can either turn your horse loose, or set up an e-fence corral.

There is limited potable water for humans, and horse get watered at the creek. There is a very clean pit toilet, a central fire pit, and firewood is included. There are about 17 campsites that each have a picnic table and fire stand, but if camp is full, no one will turn you away – I have camped there when there have been 30 rigs on site.

Hay is not allowed – you must feed cubes, which are available from the Ranger station at an entirely reasonable $18/50 lb bag (on Vancouver Island, I pay around $26 for a 44 lb bag, so I consider the Cypress price to be an absolute steal).

Some of the best trails are not on the map, so if you can find someone familiar with the area to tag along with, you will get some great rides in.

The road in and out is impassible after a heavy rain.

2015: Splendour in the Grass – Wood Mountain Trail Ride – July 4-10

In almost every place I’ve ridden so far, I’ve said to myself, “This place is THE BEST PLACE EVER!” And then I’d say the same thing at the next place. Still, I don’t think there will be anything on this trip that will be able to top my experience at the Wood Mountain Trail Ride, in Grasslands National Park (East Block).

Back when I was at Cypress Hills, I’d mentioned to the cowboys that my next destination was Grasslands, and they said they’d be heading there too, to meet up for a trail ride, and they told me I might enjoy joining the ride. I wasn’t paying strict attention to what they described, because I was picturing a one-day trail ride that included wagons. Since the East Block is a cell phone dead zone, I phoned Mr Andrews ahead of time, on Saturday, and told him that I’d be giving the horse a day off on Sunday, would ride the trail ride Monday, and would be talking to him again on Tuesday.

That wasn’t how it panned out. When I arrived late Saturday afternoon, in sweltering above-30 heat, the equestrian campground had a few rigs parked, with most horses set up in roomy electric pens. I scored a choice spot across from the water cistern and pipe corrals, and set up an electric pen for daytime grazing, and claimed a corral for night time.

Our camp

My view every morning as I drank my coffee.

Shortly thereafter, I found that Doug and his brother Rob were already in camp, with their friends Blair and Marjorie (She Who Rides With the Exclusive Men’s Club). And I soon got filled in on what this thing was all about.

The Wood Mountain Trail Ride has been going on for something like 40 consecutive years. Originally, the wagon train and horseback riders would start at Val Marie in the West Block, and drive/ride over to the prairie to what is now the East Block. Nowadays, the ride establishes a base camp, from which riders and wagons depart for daily rides out, over a 5-day span, culminating in the Wood Mountain Rodeo on the weekend.

How fantastic is that?

I quickly found me some WiFi, and messaged Mr Andrews I’d be in Grasslands for the entire week.

The ride officially started on Monday, but on Sunday, Doug and Rob invited me to ride out with them. We ran into Miles, brother of the spectacularly hospitable Park Warden, Brenda. Grasslands National Park is made up of land purchased from area ranchers over time, and Brenda and Miles’ family owned a good chunk of that land. When we ran across Miles, he had some cows that were in the wrong place, and so Doug offered our services in moving them to where they belonged. Ride ‘em, cowgirl!

The fellas sat their horses and jawed for a while with Miles, and Miles warned us about the harshness of the storms that could come up. He told a story about getting caught in a hail storm, with hail stones coming down this big (picture a closed fist), and him taking off his horse’s saddle to put over his head for protection. He didn’t have a good hold on the horse, and the horse ran off. A few minutes later, he felt a nudge on his shoulder: the horse was back, trying to get his own head under the saddle for shelter.

Doug and Rob and I rode that day to the Red Buttes. We stopped for lunch and a snooze on a hill top that had tipi rings, something I’d never heard of: circles of rocks that the native people used to hold down the edges of their tipis.

Tipi ring

Doug at Red Buttes

Rob’s horse Frankie at lunch

Riding with Rob and Doug was perfect for me. They are quiet, safe riders who are very careful with their horses, but who ride at a good pace and love to explore new places and find new trails. They are the sort of horsemen I admire.

Rigs came pulling in throughout the afternoon and evening, and I began to get visitors. It’s kinda funny, but really, there is nothing like being a woman on your own, a long way from home, with a horse, to make you an instant celebrity. On one of my last couple of days in camp, I heard one of my neighbours informing a visitor: “She came all the way from BC, on her own. Us old fellas try to help her out where we can…” which was super sweet.

My neighbours on one side were chain-smoking Bob from Saskatchewan, and his cousin Mark from Minnesota, with Bob’s team of Morgan-Perch crosses. Mark has a deep baritone voice, ideally suited to the cowboy poetry he loves to recite. I was the happy audience to more than a few of his orations. And I got to accompany him on guitar to a pretty darn excellent rendition of “Unchained Melody.”

Oh, and also, after knowing me for five minutes, Mark gave me about 2 pounds of chocolate – a sample of the massive extravaganza of chocolate he’d brought up from Amish country with him.

And I got to drive that team by the end of the week.

Mark and Bob and the Morgan-Perch team, Debbie and Lady.

My neighbours on the other side were Loni and Jim from Manitoba, who had a gorgeous team of Percherons.

Jim’s team in the morning mist.

On Monday, the trail ride began – kicked off by two horses from a Manitoba group with a bunch of Morgans making a break for it and getting out of Dodge at a gallop. By the time the trail boss, Ed, caught them, they were almost at the US border. Once the ride got underway, seven or eight wagons and about forty or fifty riders headed out across the prairie, picking our way through sage that was ever so fragrant as the horses brushed past, with clouds of dragonflies circling about.

Wagon train in the distance.

Pai showed her Ay-rab side on the first ride, and every ride in a large group thereafter, prancing and jigging like a parade horse, and sparking comments like, “That sure is a hot horse.” Hilarious, since when we ride out alone, I often carry a dressage whip to remind her that her job is to maintain a brisk pace. Here, she was keen to be queen of the pack and ride at the front. I may have to change her career plans and make her an endurance horse.

The routine for the week followed the same pattern: get up, feed the horses, have breakfast, be in the saddle by 9:00-9:30, and head out onto the prairie. We’d be back in camp by 3 or so in the afternoon, in time for happy hour, and then dinner, and then campfire.

Stopping for lunch.

Another lunch stop.

Mule!

Brenda’s dad, who is approximately one million years old, plays the accordion, and her mom plays the fiddle. Cora, one of the other Park rangers, plays guitar. I brought my guitar along on this trip, and was game to fumble along with the real musicians. At one campfire, we had four guitars, the accordion, the fiddle, a banjo, a banjo guitar, two harmonicas, and a family of Mennonite gospel singers.

(Best. campfire. ever.)

Brenda and her mom and dad.

I broke a guitar string on the first night, and Les, a member of the absolutely wonderful (and very musical) Anderson family, somehow managed to scrape me up a new set. This family has been riding here for a couple of decades, now with their kids and grandkids. Clint was riding with his five-year-old grandson Derson, who was on top of a very talented little black team roping horse. I would have given my eye teeth to be riding the prairie with my granddad at that age…

Clint and grandson Derson.

I’m still chuffed that the cowboys let me ride with them. Doug and Rob have been riding the area for decades, and I guess they sometimes have a plan that suits them better than what the trail boss has in mind. Sweet for me, they always made sure I was there to tag along. On day two, the ride stayed up on a ridge looking over the badlands.

Looking over the badlands.

We all rode out to the USA border (keeping an eye out for imminent attack by drones), and then Rob and Doug led me down into the badlands, and rode home down below, in among the clay formations and steep draws, picking our way across sketchy footing in the gullies.

On day three, the train rode northwest onto the prairie, and then, while the wagons took the flatter ride home, Doug led the saddle horses back through the moguls and badlands.

On day four, we once again rode out to the Red Buttes.

Because I’d intended to stay for only a couple of nights, I’d failed to adequately stock my bar for the week. Happily, Grasslands East Block has beer delivery. Sadly, Grasslands East Block only delivers tragic beer. The best I could do was Keith’s IPA, which just barely scrapes into the category of Actual Beer. People far and wide heard of my no-I’m-not-an-alcoholic-OK-maybe-just-a-little desperation for beer, and beer (“beer”) was just about falling from the sky, only it was Coors Light and Bud Light and… Yeah. I was sooooo grateful for the generosity. And soooooo desperate for beer I wanted to drink.

For the first day or two, I kept Spy tethered, but when it became apparent that it was a fairly dog-friendly camp, I turned him loose. He became known around camp variably as “Dingo” or as “Klepto”, this latter because he loved to bring me All the Thingz – lead ropes, brushes, someone’s cell phone case… One night, he brought me a deer antler. Since you’re not supposed to take things like that out of the Park, I figured I’d run it down to Brenda the warden once I finished my beer. A few minutes later, he came up with another antler, this one inscribed in felt tip with “Property of Parks Canada: $500 fine or 2 years imprisonment” inscribed on it. I toted my antlers down to the campfire right some quick, where I was met by fellow riders Darryl and Marie, who were laughing their heads off because they’d totally set me up: the antlers were ones they had kicking around in the back of their truck, and they’d inscribed the one, and given them to Klepto, knowing he’d present them to me.

I met Matt, a young Anderson who plays a mean banjo guitar, and who wants to be a vet.

Matt

I met Celeste, and her two very game daughters.

Celeste and the girls.

I met Glen, and his friend Len, from the same town from which Doug hails. Any time I moved my electric corral, Glen would instantly appear out of nowhere to give me a hand.

Glen in his yellow shirt.

I met Alma, who rides with Doug and Rob and Blair and Marjorie and who has a handle on medicinal herbs.

I met Mandy and her sister, two of the Mennonite crew from Swift Current.

I met Laura, who, like me, was riding on her own for the week, and Dave, who was also on his own.

The Andersons, and Dave.

Brian Anderson, relaxing.

I met so many lovely people that I can’t remember all their names.

Taking a break.

On the Thursday evening, there were games – mostly for kids, but also for kids at heart. They played musical chairs on horseback, egg-and-spoon races on horseback, and a bunch of other races that may or may not have involved some serious cheating – I’ll never tell. I met Arliss, whose tiny cute-as-a-bug daughter was being well-looked-after by a big grey horse who plodded along at a placid pace no matter what his mistress had in mind.

On Friday, a bunch of folks packed up early and headed directly to the Wood Mountain Rodeo. I packed my gear, with the plan to turn back west, and spend a night or two at Saskatchewan Landing. After I said goodbye to Rob and Doug, I watched Doug lead his horse away (he never looked back), and Rob ride his away (he did look back), and I just about wept.

Camp and trail notes for horsey folk:

The East Block set-up at Grasslands is very much like that at the West Block, with six pipe corrals in the sun, and a water cistern. Unlike the West Block, however, there’s “people” water down at the warden’s office, and the “people” campground (very lightly used) is right there. You are free to set up electric pens or tether your horse out. There are pit toilets, garbage and drink bottle recycling, and a manure pit (no fork or wheelbarrow). Camping costs $15.70 a night.

For the Wood Mountain Trail Ride, your camping is included in the cost for the 5 days, which is $40. You read that right: $40 for 5 nights’ camping, your riding, a pancake breakfast on the first morning, and campfire with music every night.

Brenda the warden, and all the rangers, are some of the friendliest, most enthusiastic people you will ever meet. All of them grew up in the area, and they are passionate about showing it off to newcomers. On the first day, one of the rangers, a summer student, came by asking if anyone needed picnic tables, and dropped them off to whoever wanted one. They would come through camp every day or so, asking if anyone needed ice or beer or anything else.

The Park has a couple of marked trials, but for the most part, you just ride out over the countryside, figuring out how to cross draws as you come to them. There are a couple of gates as you ride west/northwest, but other than that, it’s wide open country with not a thing in sight. It looks as it would have looked a hundred years ago, and five hundred before that.

It is an amazing place.

2015: Riding with the Men’s Club – Cypress Hills – June 28-July 2

The one single place I visited on my 2012 trip to which I have had a longing to return has been Cypress Hills, in southern Saskatchewan. The riding in Cypress Hills has no equal, so far as I have yet experienced, and when I was there 3 years ago, I was scooped up by ranchers Daphne and Kelly from Swift Current, who took me under their wing and took me out on the trails. When I pulled in to the equestrian campsite on this trip, after driving through Maple Creek with the truck thermometer registering a cooking 38 degrees Celsius, I was dismayed to find all five horse corrals occupied and the catch pen dotted with horses, and the only alternative being the tie stalls standing out in the baking hot sun (note to self: procure yourself a tarp).

So this is my standard MO in places with where I’m a little out of my depth: pick the most gnarled, leather-skinned cowboy in sight (bonus points for handlebar moustache), and ask that fella for advice. Chances are, he’ll have been riding whatever hills I happen to be at for the past 20 or 30 years, and will know what’s what.

In my indecision over where to park my horse, I eyed up a group of four older fellas (older than me, maybe grizzled if you used your imagination, and a handlebar moustache evident: perfect) and briefly bent their ear about my stabling options; setting up my girl in an e-fence corral looked like the best choice. After I got her settled in and cooled myself off with a BC cider (I’ve been rationing them: half my stash is still intact), I asked the gentlemen for advice on a short stretch-your-legs evening ride, and they very kindly gave me the lay of the land.

Well. That was it – I was in the club. After my ride, Doug, the cowboy with the stash, came over and introduced himself properly, and shortly thereafter, his brother Rob came over and invited me to dinner (I had to decline, as I had fresh pickerel waiting to be fried up). The following morning, while I was still cradling my coffee at 7:30 a.m., they were saddled up and ready to go. “Where’s that pony? Get her saddled up!” hollered one of them, and though I protested that I’d take a good 20 minutes to get ready, they assured me they’d wait.

They took me on a ride over the open grassland and through creeks, up a steep ridge and back down again, with views over the rolling, pine-dotted hills all the way along, four cowboy hats ahead of me on the prairie.

Rounding out the foursome were Marv, a farrier and ex-RCMP officer who know one of my also ex-Mountie friends back in Nanaimo, and another friend, Warren.

After a post-ride beer in the shade, I was invited to dinner once again, with chili on the menu, and once again made to decline, since my Picky Eater (ovo-lacto-pescatarian) status made it a no-go, but the boys cooked me up my very own pot of vegetarian chili. I was given notice that I’d been given admittance to a Very Exclusive Men’s Club, since they don’t ride with women (not strictly true, in actual fact – they have a Marjorie from time to time).

The next day, the boys took me out on what has to have been one of the best rides of my life. Once again, we headed out in the cool of the day, and rode over to Fort Walsh, birthplace of the RCMP, and then on to the old trading post, site of the Cypress Hills Massacre.

From there we rode out onto federal land, where we saw two herds of horses, one of them with a half dozen foals at foot. Watching them gallop off over the hills was a gorgeous sight.

We carried on to the Mystery Rocks, which look like someone tossed a big bunch of boulders onto the bald hillside, like a giant dropping a handful of dice.

We rode onward, still uphill, to the highest point in the area, from which we had a 360 degree view of the prairie. The forest fires in Northern Saskatchewan had sent down a pall of smoke over the land, so the views weren’t as crystal clear as they usually are, but they were still spectacular. At the top of the plateau, in a good cooling wind, we had lunch and a nap in the sunshine.

Marv.

Rob.

Marv and Doug at lunch.

We rode home over hill tops and down into draws, through high open pine forest and brushier spruce trails riddled with deadfall, passing by an old log homestead, and past the Cougar Caves, where you could see the bones of some small critters that had had a Very Bad Day after encountering a cougar.

Between the excellent company, the sights I never would have found on my own, the spectacular landscapes, and the gorgeous weather, I don’t think I have ever had a more perfect ride.

I said goodbye to the boys on Wednesday, but not until Marvin had made sure Pai got his horse’s corral before it could be snagged by one of the approximately one bazillion other riders who came streaming in the night before. When I’d arrived on Sunday, there were about five groups on site. When I left on Thursday, there were nineteen. One of the groups was bunch of friends whose wagon train had been canceled, and who were looking for alternative fun. It was very cool seeing the wagons out on the prairie.

With so many friendly, happy horse folk in camp, there was a lot of post-ride lounging around, sipping beverages and shooting the breeze. I met Margaret and Nelson, who were staying 10 days with their friend Dave; the wagon crew and their accompanying light horse riders – Lionel, Duffy, Lorna, Rob, Paige the agronomist, Doctor Bob the vet, and several more whose names escape me; Brenda and Greg with their dog Roady; Kathy and her god-daughter Lorna; and others I just can’t recall. Nelson and Dave (and the cowboys too) were replete with local history, and told me all about the Massacre and the days of Sitting Bull residing in this country.

On Wednesday, Canada Day, I took a ride out to Fort Walsh with Kathy and Lorna.

Riding out to Fort Walsh on Canada Day.

Lorna and Kathy.

We hitched our horses (with a little pause to unhitch for cannon firing in the middle), and Kathy, as my self-appointed guide, gave me a great tour of the fort.

Mounted Police horse brand.

Vet’s office at the fort.

The buffalo skins still have their tails on.

On my final morning, I took Pai out – and Spy too, since it was cooler – for a pre-trailering ride early in the morning. It was a peaceful, dewy morning, with mourning doves cooing in the pines.

Camp and trail notes for horsey folk

The camp at Cypress Hills is in the East Block, on the Saskatchewan side of the park. There are about 32 tie stalls (uncovered, but with rails for tarps), a large grassy catch pen the borders the creek, where you can graze your horse loose or set up an electric corral, and five roomy corrals. There are about 16 pull-in sites with picnic tables and a fire grill, good drinking water, garbage, manure receptacle, and a pit toilet. Camping costs $18 per night, and firewood is free.

Looking down from a hike up the neighbouring hill.

Horses in the catch pen – startled by a cow.

When the camp gets busy, people just park wherever. It’s a pretty relaxed place. Spy could have run free, but it was busy enough that I mostly kept him tied. Dogs can go out on the trail (or rather, if they aren’t allowed, no one cares), but it was too hot for Spy to come along on most of my rides.

There are a few reasonably obvious trails through the grass, and the Trans Canada Trail is well-marked. Otherwise, you can ride wherever you like over the grasslands, following game trails, cow trails, or your heart’s desire. Once you are on high land, it’s fairly easy to orient yourself by Baldy Hill and by the location of the river.

Gratuitous pic of Spy.