[Missed Part 1? Read it here!]
Pucker Point Trail
As Atlas and I cantered along the flat road away from Robinson Flat, I expected we’d plunge quickly into the first of three canyons. But, we didn’t.
Instead, we followed some road, then some singletrack down a gentle slope, and eventually came out on a steep hillside. Our track, just a few feet wide, led across the hill, which plunged hundreds of feet down to our right.
I pulled out my map. Oh yes, this part! The Pucker Point trail. Right.
We had a good 15 miles or so before the first canyon, plus the vet check at Last Chance. Alrighty, then. Settle in, folks, it’s gonna be a long day!
We trotted along on solid footing, between other horses but not squeezed into an endless, frantic train like we had been in Granite Chief. I felt comfortable here, despite the spectacularly exposed trail. Atlas clearly wasn’t worried, either.
The rider leading our little group made the same decisions I would have regarding pace. We walked in a few spots, including a particularly narrow one that I thought must be Pucker Point. It wasn’t nearly as stomach-turning as I’d anticipated. My left stirrup didn’t touch the rock, and my right stayed over dirt instead of thin air. That was good enough for me!
Swinging Bridge Canyon
At Last Chance, Atlas vetted through with all A’s. While he munched hay, I forced myself to eat, knowing I’d be on foot for much of the hot canyons ahead. A salted peanut butter UCAN bar – tested as easy on my stomach even while running a tough half-marathon in spring – plus a squeezie pack of applesauce felt like plenty.
Then, we were off again! Into the canyons. For real this time.
…weren’t we?
In my imagination, the canyons began abruptly, like dropping over the rim in a photo of Grand Canyon. Reality, however, was that the trail descended pretty gradually at first. I stayed aboard Atlas, walking or trotting slowly, wondering when the moment to dismount would come.
There was never a clear and obvious moment where the serious descent began. The switchbacks simply grew sharper, more frequent. The treetops below, visible between nearby trunks, sank away toward the creek that I knew ran somewhere in the invisible bottom.
Eager to save Atlas’ strength – and having downclimbed plenty of canyons with a pack on my own back – I dismounted. I was glad I had, because the next few switchbacks included some very steep drops on hairpin turns. A horse that stumbled could easily overshoot and tumble over the edge.
My job, besides keeping my own feet beneath me – which wasn’t always easy – was to be sure Atlas didn’t cut the corners or select a poor route in the technical spots. Together, we navigated down rutted, rocky sections, hopping over gnarls of roots and sliding on sheets of stone.
I was just wondering if the descent would ever end when, finally, I glimpsed water below. At last! Five more minutes of switchbacks and we were there – picking our way down the little goat trail to the creek.
You would think that, given the heat of the day, I would be eager to plunge in. But I wasn’t!
I really hate being wet, and the thought of soaking my boots and breeches, which I’d be wearing all the way to Foresthill, did not appeal. However, there wasn’t really a safe way to get Atlas into the water without joining him, so in we went.
Atlas couldn’t be bothered to drink much. Other horses splashed in the water, picked their way down to it, or skipped it altogether and clopped straight across the Swinging Bridge. Atlas just wanted to look or move — or preferably both.
I made him stand for several minutes of sponging. Since I was soaked anyway, I wanted to be darn sure we were both relatively cool as we began our climb.
We scrambled out of the creekbed as another group of horses arrived to take our place in the water. I tried to mount up in a small, flat spot before crossing the bridge, but Atlas spied horses climbing the hill on the other side and kicked into competitive brain.
This was not the place for a disagreement!
For safety’s sake, I led him across the bridge and prevailed upon a kind volunteer on the other side to hold his head while I swung aboard.
Atlas climbed. He put his head down and climbed and climbed and climbed that unrelenting trail. I understood why, at the first-timers pre-ride meeting, it was said that some horses just up and quit – because the canyon most certainly does not.
Atlas, though? He embraced it. Despite the narrow trail and ever-growing drop, I gave him his head. He marched steadily upward, blowing in time with his footfalls. Sweat fell from my face to run down his neck with his own.
We passed several riders in wide spaces on the switchbacks. I nodded to them. Atlas didn’t bat an ear. He was focused. Born to this. Resolute.
We topped Devil’s Thumb and jogged into the shade at Deadwood. So many smiling faces! Somebody commented on how fantastic Atlas looked, and I couldn’t disagree. He felt fantastic!
Volunteers rushed to offer assistance, encouragement, watermelon, mash, and hay. We accepted them gratefully. Vetted through. Rested just a little.
El Dorado Canyon
And then, it was time to push on. Down into Eldorado Canyon – the longest and most brutal of the three.
I dismounted again near the top, wanting to spare Atlas my weight even though the footing was better, the slope a bit less steep than the trek down to the Swinging Bridge. At one point, it leveled out for so long that I nearly mounted up, but then we were dropping again. And still, no bottom in sight.
A few times, when the trail offered us steep steps down, Atlas hesitated. He cocked a hind foot and let me tug on his halter before finally coming forward.
Uh-oh. It wasn’t like Atlas to refuse. Was he getting tired? Sore?
There was nothing to do but trudge on, trying to replace the worry that clawed at the edges of my mind. Worry wouldn’t help. Awareness, yes. But not worry. Plus, I had my own body to care for.
Out of the entire ride, it was in that stretch I suffered most. The descent at Eldorado was endless, the heat deeply oppressive. I later heard that it topped 110 degrees.
Additionally, starting just outside Foresthill, my lungs had succumbed to the mysterious “lung thing” that occasionally haunts me on long runs, at altitude, or when I talk too much during exercise. It doesn’t seem to be asthma, but the effect is similar in that I feel unable to fully inhale.
I remember putting one foot in front of the other, telling Atlas to hang on, we must be nearly there. I sipped water and electrolytes, hoping my pack and bottles contained enough to get us out the other side.
I also remember knowing, deep down, that I was okay. It wasn’t comfortable – not even close – but this kind of pain was familiar. Manageable. I’ve run half-marathons despite the “lung thing” flaring. My heat training and aerobic fitness was paying off.
Finally, finally!, we reached the bottom. A handful of amazing volunteers manned some tanks of sun-warmed water. Atlas drank deeply. I accepted a leg up, and Atlas was off!
How was he so enthusiastic still, sixty miles deep into this blazing, technical ride?
Atlas power-marched up the singletrack trail with absolute confidence. I felt it, too. Despite the crumbling drop-offs that fell first to one side, then the other, as we zig-zagged up the canyon wall, I never once felt fear.
It was late afternoon now, and the sun raged overhead. Only alpine bushes, freshly grown after wildfire stripped the canyon bare, knitted together the rocky slope. No shade fell from the charred snags as we clawed our way up and over the western edge.
Michigan Bluff
And then, what was this? A road! A gravel road leading up a hill under green shade trees! There was a fence. Chickens. A wooden sign: Michigan Bluff.
My ears perked up just like Atlas’. Mr. Sweaty was up there! And food and water and rest!
We rounded the corner to an absolute environmental whiplash. From the desolate, endless, dirt and sweat of the canyon, we crossed into a bustle of pavement, people, and water.
There was cheering and clapping. Someone taking Atlas’ bridle and my elbow as I dismounted. A delightfully kind woman holding a massive pan of mash to Atlas’ nose.
“I need to sit down for a minute,” I told Mr. Sweaty, gesturing at my chest. “Lungs.”
He found me an upturned bucket in the shade. Handed over a chilled bottle of unsweetened tea, which might have been the very best beverage in the entire world. Replaced the water bottles on my saddle. Came back to find me unwilling to eat and unable to speak much, because I didn’t have breath to spare.
Atlas, meanwhile, plowed through that mash. I’ve never seen him eat so fast before or since. Crew member Bev and several amazing strangers sponged him over and over.
I took the pre-mixed electrolytes Mr. Sweaty produced and lurched to my feet. Time to dose Atlas and hit the trail! I syringed the pink goo down his throat and handed the messy jar back to my longsuffering crew.
Feeling the energy of the crowd rubbing off on me, I mounted up and set off, waving gratitude to them all.
The ride through town at Michigan Bluff was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Townspeople lined the road – in their yards, on porches, raising beers from outdoor bars – all cheering this motley parade of grimy, sweat-soaked horses and riders.
What fun! Atlas clopped along the sidewalks, nodding at his well-wishers, until at last the trail markers led us over the edge of town and back into our solitary, wild world.
Chicken Hawk
We trotted a little descent, a bit of a climb, and popped out just a couple miles later a Chicken Hawk. It felt strange to see crowds and support again so soon – but then, we were due for a vet check.
I expected to handle this one on my own, having chosen to send my crew to Michigan Bluff instead. But there, waving from among the volunteers, was Jen! Accompanied by a friend from someone else’s crew, she had made it here after all.
Atlas pulsed down quickly and we went straight to the vet. He scored well, but I noted his trot-out was less perky than usual. He trailed behind me a bit instead of bounding at my side.
Well…he had just covered 64 brutal miles, including two, massive canyons in the heat of the day. But still. Something to keep an eye on.
Jen helped me and Atlas refuel for a few minutes. My lungs, though still uncooperative, hadn’t gotten any worse. I felt refreshed overall as I mounted up once again. Foresthill – complete with a full crew and an hour hold – was just four miles away.
…four miles of Volcano Canyon.
Volcano Canyon
Volcano is the smallest of the canyons by far, but it hits when horse and rider are deeply weary from all that has come before. One experienced Tevis rider had warned me that, for her, it seemed the hardest. “Watch for the manzanita,” she said. “When you see it, you’re almost to the top.”
I did see the manzanita. It made me smile – not just because it’s one of my favorite trees, but because I saw it much sooner than expected…as I led Atlas once more on the way down. Ha! Definitely not almost there. Oh, well!
I recall seeing just one other rider in Volcano Canyon. He passed us on the descent, and we passed him on the way up the other side. The whole thing smeared by in a scorching blur, and suddenly I was riding down a paved road lined with hundreds of people. Somewhere in there, I knew, were Mr. Sweaty and Layne.
I grinned and rubbed Atlas’ withers. We had made it to Foresthill!
Next up: Part 3!
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I’ve been waiting for your report, and it is NOT a disappointment! Awesome job.
I crewed Tevis for a friend of mine just once in 2018. I wanted to be at Michigan Bluff and I will never forget it. Every rider was so thrilled to see the town, such a flurry of activity, and so fun to see how the town was involved. It was blazing hot when I was there, and my friends and I were talking to a nice guy who lived in a house there. I said something about “damn a cold beer would be nice about now”. A few minutes later, he comes up with a Dunkin Donuts cup with a lid and offered it to me. I said “thank you but no coffee”. He said “honey, this ain’t coffee”. Mercy!!!! I shared it with the rest of my crew.
Looking forward to part 3!
Oh goodness, that’s amazing! Isn’t it the coolest town ever?! I was blown away by the kindness and enthusiasm of the folks whose weekend we so thoroughly disrupted.