Crater Lake
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Sonny tightened the rigging on the mule. He had designed a BioThane breeching system to hold the saddle in place on steep downhill grades. Experience had taught him that the simple crupper with the loop going around the base of the tail and attaching to the cantle wasn’t nearly good enough. He’d yet to find a saddle that wouldn’t slide forward onto the mule’s ears when the going got dicey, so stabilizing the rigging meant safety for him and comfort for old what’s-his-name.
Michael sneered at Sonny’s colorful tack. “You got something against leather?” The man squinted, clearly taking umbrage with the BioThane tack in eye-watering dayglo orange.
Sonny shrugged, not sure why his guide cared one way or another. “It’s easy to clean. Just toss it in a dishwasher.”
“Dishwasher. Yeah, I can see how that’s handy, considering how many we got out here.”
Maybe that wasn’t the best selling point. Sonny tried again, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to belabor the point. “It’s stronger than leather. It won’t break and leave you dangling.” Strong. Good word. Score.
“Seen horses with broken necks getting hung up with those damn plastic halters. Sometimes you need for it to break.” Michael made a snapping motion with his hands.
Sonny’s mental basketball rimmed and popped out. He needed a save. “It enhances visibility, even at night. Makes you and your mount easier to spot.” He held his breath.
Michael considered and dismissed the effort. “You got a sixteen hand and change mule that looks like a Dalmatian. Ain’t nobody ever gonna miss seeing him.” Tilting his head, he assessed the mule. “Whaddya call him, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
Sonny shrugged. “On whether or not he’s bitten me, stomped on my foot, or dumped me.”
“So?”
“I quote scripture.” His mom called it blaspheming. His sisters called it lame and taught him how to be more creative. It didn’t keep the mule from doing a number on him whenever it suited, but it usually made him feel better while he contemplated his next move. The saying, get right back on the horse, didn’t mention mules specifically. Sonny figured there was a good reason for that. It was also a good excuse not to carry a firearm when he was out messing around on a recreational trail ride.
“Spot.”
Sonny stared at Michael. “Say what?”
“Spot. That’s his name.” He grinned. Sonny cringed. “Short. To the point. Sounds like STOP you yell it loud enough.”
“He doesn’t speaka da English.”
“He will if you mean it.” Michael patted the mule on the nose and wandered off to recheck the panniers on Sonny’s little mare and a mousy brown Mustang gelding.
After more fussing, Michael finally seemed satisfied with the distribution of weight on the canvas bags hanging either side of a pack saddle where he’d stored the two-man tent on the gelding and Sonny’s instruments on the mare. Sonny would have much preferred the security of a hard-sided case but Michael knew the terrain better so, like Ranger George had suggested, he was content to leave the details to the surly warden.
Handing the lead lines to Sonny, Michael said, “I’ll go open the gate. George and his brother are coming.”
Greetings and the transfer of keys, along with instructions on how to contact someone when they were ready to head back, took only a few minutes.
Sonny watched the rig and the ranger’s truck exiting the old lodge area, kicking up sand and dust. Idly he mulled over the fact they needed rain. Of course, he knew better than to ask for it. Sometimes you got more than you bargained for. In the meantime, he had a couple bandannas he could use to cover his nose and mouth until they hit the shelter of the forest.
Michael vaulted into the saddle. No stirrup, no mounting block. He simply bent at the knees, then he was straddling the chestnut tank with the ease of a man born to ride. With his heart in his throat, and a gauntlet clearly thrown down, Sonny stared at his mule. Assessing the demon-named-Spot, he wondered if today was the day the SOB took off with him having a left foot in the stirrup and an ass-downward center of gravity. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Patiently Michael waited, the lead lines for the pack animals grasped in his left hand. If he was going for casual, it was an epic fail. Smoky blue eyes shot through with devilment and anticipation belied the nonchalant set to his shoulders. That he was also positioned to body block a loose mule running amok, and loaded down with their tranquilizer gun and fishing tackle, was a clue that Brooks had expectations.
Dithering, Sonny did the crow hop in preparation. Spot’s ears twitched. That wasn’t a good sign.
Michael asked, “Want me to hold him?” The tone of voice was carefully neutral.
Sonny barked, “I’m fine,” but thought, I’m not. I’m going to die, maybe not for real. Nobody ever died of embarrassment, did they?
“We could walk a ways, maybe find a boulder for you to stand on.”
Maybe he could climb a tree and drop down on Spot. Yeah, that would work. Except... he’d likely land on the horn—change to a tenor instead of his baritone. That would sure cut this trip short.
At over sixteen hands, not even his six-two and change was going overcome his lack of athletic ability. I’m a thinker, not a doer. Barking, “Stand,” he took advantage of the mule’s temporary distraction and swung into the saddle, his knee grazing the rolled up blanket and raingear tied behind the cantle.
“You ready, Tex?” Michael handed over the lead line attached to the mare’s halter. “It’ll be lunchtime before we get to the trailhead, rate you’re going.” The man’s lips twitched.
Glancing at his watch, Sonny humphed to himself. It was coming seven o’clock. They had a half mile of road, then another third of a mile on the other side of route 101 to the beginning of Deep Creek Trail. Realistically, they were looking at a couple hours in the saddle before reaching the turnoff to Crater Lake. After that, there was a steep climb to the summit judging from the tightly packed contour lines on the topo map.
The awkwardness from the night before, when they’d sat silently opposite each other, staring into the campfire, faded as Sonny asked, “Can you give me a clue what to expect?” He urged his mount forward so they could ride side-by side.
Michael answered, his tone of voice even. “You’ve looked at the topo map. What else do you need to know?”
Sonny allowed himself the fantasy that his companion was pleased he'd asked and admitted honestly, not ashamed of his own lack of knowledge, “Everything. Otherwise I’m going to be a liability neither of us can afford to have, wouldn’t you agree?”
Michael’s expressive mouth puckered, then relaxed as he described the trail up ahead. “As canyons go, it’s cut like a vee, maybe a thousand or so feet deep. At the Arlington end, the creek spreads out into a marshy area like it does here, mostly open with hills and remnants of old mine tailings. We won’t be going that far, though.”
Sonny asked, “Is the trail well-maintained?”
“It was. Back a few years this section was designated a National Recreation Trail. They had enough funds to build bridges and such, but George said lately there’s been a lot of erosion and trail damage. Enough to recommend this area be designated Wilderness.” He pointed to his pack horse. “I packed some folding saws in case we run into deadfall. We each have one, right side panniers. Might get interesting in those sections where it narrows.”
Michael took point, feeding out enough line to keep his pack horse just off the chestnut’s flank on the Creek side. Sonny thought he’d rather have his mare against the rock wall to keep the gear safe, but on second thought realized if she spooked it was better her going down the steep incline into the creek rather than him and his mule.
Sonny was used to packing in the relatively open areas in the Absaroka Range where first order of survival was don’t let your mount graze on the downhill slaloms. Beyond that you just trusted your horse to do the right thing.
The canyon narrowed significantly as they tiptoed along the rocky path, making slow time over the two mile stretch before reaching the spur that would take them up to Crater Lake. For Sonny it was time well-spent watching Michael’s body sway with the motion of his gelding. He was relaxed in a way Sonny hadn’t seen in the short time he’d known the man. For once, Michael wasn’t on a short fuse, and although Sonny admitted to himself that the man’s scowl lit him up and turned him inside out with greedy lust, this new Michael was even more... more... He grasped for the word, finally muttering, “Alluring,” though that seemed girly and not quite appropriate.
Michael twisted in the saddle just as the word left his mouth. Sonny thought the man had heard him and was going to lay into him again. Instead he said, “Twenty yards ahead, take a left. Watch it though. There’s a bank. Give your mare her head.”
Nodding he understood, Sonny stayed back, giving Michael and his animals room to maneuver. When it was his turn, the mule lunged easily up the bank, though Sonny’s shoulder was wrenched as his mare struggled with the weight of the panniers and her shorter length of stride. Michael shook his head in disgust but refrained from making a comment.
Sonny recalled Ranger George assuring him the warden would bring him back alive. While that was a comfort, it did little to prop his rapidly failing self-esteem, especially when he seemed intent on self-destruction without any help from Mother Nature.
Do as he tells you. Don’t argue.
Right. Score one for stupidity.
****
They followed the trail paralleling the small creek spilling down the hillside from the lake above. It was a four hundred foot plus climb, a third of a mile of tough going, more suited for hikers than for pack animals. When they reached the top, Michael moved his animals out of the way to allow Sonny to come alongside.
Sonny asked, “This isn’t volcanic, is it?”
“Nope, not at all. Looks like it though, which is probably why it got the name, Crater Lake.” He pointed out the surrounding curved wall of rock soaring a couple hundred feet above the pristine lake. “What you’re looking at is a hanging lake, left over from when the glacier receded. In case you’re wondering, it’s spring fed and I don’t rightly know how deep it is.” He dismounted, asking, “You hungry?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it.”
“Good. Let’s follow the shore away from the campground. There’s just enough space over there to tie these guys up while I catch us some lunch.” Sonny looked perplexed, so he explained, “This here lake has some nice pan-sized brooks according to George.”
“Oh, okay. What do you want me to do?”
Stepping carefully on the loose gravel, Michael led the way toward the uphill side of the lake. Pointing to a cleft in the trees, he said, “That path leads to another trailhead. It’s about two miles out. We won’t be taking that.” Flicking his chin in the direction they just came from, he said, “We’ll be heading back to Deep Creek to see if we can spy that snowmobile trail further on.”
“Is that how we get to Timber Lake?”
“In theory.” Michael smirked at Sonny’s expression. “Go on, do your thing. Days might be getting longer, but that doesn’t mean much when you’re down in a canyon. We got us a ways to go before we can find a place to camp.”
He’d expected to find a few anglers hogging all the best spots, but mercifully they were alone. Withdrawing the hard shell carrying case protecting his fishing tackle from the pannier, he berated himself for not picking up a soft side version the last time he’d been in Laramie. Up to now he hadn’t worried too much about excess weight since he tended to travel light, catching his meals, and using his portable water purification system to handle his hydration requirements.
He’d been tempted to force Sonny to abide by his own minimalist standards, but good sense and a guilty conscience overrode his baser instincts. Just because the man drove him batshit nuts with those bedroom eyes and an ass that might as well be wearing a neon sign flashing do me, do me hard wasn’t a decent enough excuse.
Besides, one thing he’d grown sensitive to was how his own hair trigger temper was often misdirected at folks who didn’t deserve a shitload of ugly coming down on their heads. People who succumbed to that behavior were called bullies. He despised them. Sometimes that meant he despised himself, but it was something he was working on.
Dr. Seamus Rydell had him considering he might want to work harder at it.
That wasn’t the only thing he needed to work on. It had taken every ounce of self-control he could muster not to jump the fire pit the night before and strip blondie down to his creamy flesh, licking his way from the man’s toes to...
Crap, down boy.
As he cast his line, Sonny came up behind him, chattering like a magpie. “Found a level spot, but it’s too close to the trail. I don’t think this would be a suitable location for the instrumentation we’re looking to install.” He held up a compact camera. “Took pics, just in case.”
The tall drink of water looked so kissable, Michael considered dropping the tackle and showing sex-on-a-stick the meaning of suitable. Reluctantly he suggested, “How about getting a fire going. There’s aluminum foil in the saddle kit.”
“You certainly came prepared. Sounds like you brought everything but the kitchen sink.”
Michael huffed, “That’s why I bring a horse, not a pony, to the party.” He wrist-flicked the line again, sensing some interest. “Go on, lab rat, or we’ll be having sushi instead of nice fried brookie.”
Sonny carefully wrapped the remains of the trout in the aluminum foil and tucked it into a plastic garbage bag for disposal when they got back to civilization. Michael concentrated on dousing the small fire and generally making their temporary picnic area look nearly as pristine as when they arrived. It took his mind off his misery, since watching Sonny lick his fingers, one at a time, had been almost more than he could take.
What nagged at Michael was the question... was blondie completely clueless about the effect he was having, or was he deliberately taunting him? Clueless he could almost buy. The man was only four or five years younger than him, but he acted naïve and guileless most of the time.
Rydell had mentioned he was the youngest in a family of women. Most times being the baby in the family meant you got coddled and spoiled rotten, but instead of growing up a selfish little prick like you’d expect, Sonny displayed amazing sensitivity. Sensitive and clueless made for an interesting combination.
But then there was that harder edge he’d caught a glimpse of in the parking area. Sonny had let his inner devil loose, just a fraction, when he’d taken off with the rig, leaving him to hoof it all the way to the lodge grounds. He’d been pissed purple at first, but all it took was one look at the guy’s guilty puppy dog face and all bets were off.
George had reminded him, none too kindly, he had deserved it. Besides, turnabout was fair play, especially when he hadn’t been on his best behavior since their formal meet and greet from way back in the conference room. Sussing out his reactions to Seamus Rydell was proving to have a lot more entertainment value than he’d first planned on.
They made quick work of checking girths and adjusting the panniers. Michael gave each horse and the mule a handful of Calf Manna. It was a good source of protein and highly digestible. Their problem in this section of the National Forest was finding sufficient forage for the animals which was why he was so anxious to get back on trail to find their layover for the night.
Sonny was scanning the topo map, his brows knit tight in concentration. When he looked up, he remarked, “Looks awful steep. You sure this is the way to go?”
“Not that way.” Michael traced his forefinger in a southerly direction. “See how this contour line bends around?” Sonny nodded. “The snowmobile trail follows that. Or it did at one point. I’m banking on it being clear enough to serve our needs.”
“What if it’s not passable?”
Michael shrugged. “In that case, we turn around, head back to the campground, call George and have him send his brother back up to the lodge.” Disappointment flooded Sonny’s face. Michael hastened to reassure the man. “Buck up, bucky. We’re not calling it quits. We take these guys home, then grab us some decent backpacks, heavy duty hiking boots and extra wool socks.”
“You mean walk in?”
Michael grinned. “You’re brighter ’n you look, Rydell.”
The man beamed, his face writhed in a dazzling smile. “I was afraid...”
“Afraid I’m a quitter? Not on your life, Tex. You paid me to take you to Timber Lake, so Timber Lake it will be.”
He gave Sonny a leg up onto the mule and gently placed his foot in the stirrup, then smoothed down the roughout leather chaps to lie flat against the fender. He liked the feel of lean muscling on legs long enough to wrap around him and hold him tight. Maybe he liked it too damn much. He needed to get a grip, and not the kind that would net him a boot heel in his gut.
Sonny mumbled, “Thanks,” and settled his butt in the saddle. As Michael handed him the lead line for the mare, the tall man cocked his brow and said, “I think you’re confused, Warden. I haven’t paid you.”
Looking up at amber eyes darkened to a challenge, Michael purred, “You will, Tex, you will.”