Below the Wall
Looking North
On the previous day's hike by the time we got to where we could see the wall the sun was so high in the west most of the wall was in shadow. So we wanted a relatively early start (for us), to catch the wall with sun on it. Nothing as radical as setting an alarm, but we did get up about when the sun did.
We still had a frustrating start. I was off in the trees pooping when I heard the dreaded sound of bells clanging and hooves thump-jumping. Sky and Scheba, although hobbled, were making a beeline towards the lake and the main trail. By the time I got myself put back together they were out of sight. I found hoof tracks headed back the way we had come. Running up that way I couldn't hear anything so turned back to camp, threw a saddle on Sambo, and was about to start up the trail when Dona yelled. They had circled back through the trees and were now almost back where they started. I breathed a sigh of relief and we filled up with breakfast. Then we packed up and headed over to the wall.
You are no longer allowed to camp below the wall because it is easily abused high alpine terrain that takes decades to heal. Disappointing, but a good thing.
I had a terrible time taking pictures from the saddle. My camera, my father's Nikon D80, is ok; but the zoom lens that came with it is a piece of junk. The lens is cheaply made and has a huge amount of play in it, both at the outermost element and in the middle of the body. Something is stretched or bent inside and doesn't make good contact, so the electronic connection to the body is intermittent. In order to take pictures I need both hands free — one to hold the body and the other to push the lens back so it makes good electrical contact. That doesn't leave any hands for the pack horse lead rope or the Sambo's reins. It's kind of a dance sometimes...
We kept our eyes peeled for goats or sheep up on the wall, and sure enough, we finally found them.
The Chinese Wall is miles long. We first met it just south of My Lake; it extends to the north for miles. We were riding South, and followed it for another ten miles before turning east down Burnt Creek and the West Fork of the Sun. The Scapegoat massif thirty miles further south is part of the same formation.
At last we had to leave the wall. It went on as far as we could see, but our trail headed down Burnt Creek into the timber. As we headed down I kept looking over my shoulder. It's an inspiring sight... a memory for long winter evenings dreaming up things for the coming summer.
We wound our way down and down, keeping an eye peeled for a good camp; there wasn't much grass. Dona was hiking; I was riding Sambo, leading Scheba and Sky. Every so often we waited for Dona to catch up. I would get off, stretch my legs, grab a snack, and consult the map. I sometimes wear a day pack while riding as I can't fit everything I want handy in my saddle bags. On one occasion I took my pack off and when I got back on I forgot it. Grrr. Luckily we hadn't gone too far when I noticed it. Dona and Max rested patiently while I rode back and retrieved it.
Eventually we got to some good grass in the trees. We unloaded the horses, belled and hobbled them, and turned them loose while we heated dinner. When we are both riding Max usually stays a little in front, coming back periodically to check on us. But when Dona is hiking he puts in a lot of miles going back and forth. He was pretty pooped. Great horned owls were hooting as we drifted off to sleep.
