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Stehekin Wilderness Ranch
Ingrid grabbed a couple of apples from the bowl on the dining hall serving counter. Breakfast was wrapping up, and the guests wandered out to face their days’ adventures. Some would be hiking, others riding bikes, some playing badminton with their kids behind the cabins. Others pulled out books long meant to be read and sat beneath a tree, freed from all their daily responsibilities to read unapologetically at last.
“Have a good day, Gret.” Ingrid peeked into the kitchen where Greta washed dishes.
“Yeah, right.” Greta pushed hair out of her face with one soapy hand, then dried her hands and walked over to Ingrid. “The only good thing about working in the kitchen...” Greta whispered. “Oh wait, I take that back, there’s two good things. The food, and then the chef, who is as delicious as the food.” Ingrid glanced over Greta’s shoulder to the back of the kitchen where Sam, the chef, stirred a large pot sitting on a gas stove. With short sandy hair, he had a boyish appeal. He looked trim and fit in his jeans and T-shirt beneath his white apron.
“He is cute,” Ingrid whispered back, pleased that there was something pleasant about Greta’s job.
Greta grinned and stole a look at the chef. “He’s really nice, too. It makes working here kinda fun, actually.”
Ingrid gave Greta a hug. “I’m glad. Gotta go, kiddo.”
She released her friend and stepped out of the cookhouse into the crisp morning air, leaving behind the aroma of bacon and eggs and pancakes, and headed through the meadow on the grassy path toward the stables. She had been feeling bad for Greta, stuck with the drudgery jobs of kitchen clean up and maid service, while she got to spend her days outside with the beautiful and gentle Norwegian fjords. But at least Greta liked Sam. Knowing Greta, that made work much more tolerable.
Ingrid spotted Brady Yates in the distance, the old guy who managed the stable and the trail rides. Gray hair was just taking over more real estate than dark hair. His stubble, too, was salt and pepper, not quite obliterating a cleft in his chin. He was nice, but not exactly sociable, except with the horses. He seemed to be sweet-talking one of the horses as he slipped on the bridle.
“Morning, Brady,” she called out, waving as she approached.
Brady pulled back from the horse. “Howdy,” he said gruffly, looking half embarrassed that she had caught him horse talking, and half just downright uncomfortable.
Ingrid held up the apples as she walked up to him. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought some treats for the horses.”
“Two apples ain’t going to go far with twenty horses.”
“I’ll be as equitable as I can,” she said.
“There’s a group of six showing up in an hour for the Bridge Creek ride,” Brady said.
“Am I going along?” Ingrid asked, hopeful.
“Not today. You can clean out the stables and groom the horses. Then let them into the pasture when you’re done. The tack could use a good cleaning.”
“Sure,” she said, a little disappointed. She took a Swiss Army knife from her jeans pocket, sliced the apple, and headed toward to the horse paddock next to the barn. Five horses ambled toward her as she walked toward them. They’d already figured out she was generous with treats. She leaned over the split rail fence and placed an apple slice on the palm of her hand, reached out and kept her hand perfectly flat. One of the horses, a mare, took the slice gingerly, her velvet lips gently grazing Ingrid’s hand. As she chewed, the mare gave a deep sigh of contentment. The other four horses pushed in toward Ingrid, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, you guys. Everybody gets a slice. Don’t worry.” The horses knickered in reply. God, she loved this job.
“How long you been around horses?” Brady asked, walking toward his horse, Boone.
She glanced over her shoulder, surprised. Brady was rarely chatty. “Most of my life. My parents bought me a horse when I was six. I named her Pumpkin, because she was a rusty-colored quarter horse. We live in Bellevue, so we boarded Pumpkin in the country. I spent every weekend at those stables until high school, when things got a little crazy. And even then, I made time to be with her and show her.”
Brady squinted at her. “Your horse still there, at that fancy stable?”
“Yeah. That was the hardest part about deciding to come here for the summer. Missing Pumpkin. But I have a little sister who promised to spend as many of her summer days as she could taking care of her.”
“Well, that should work out just fine.” He threw a wool blanket over Boone and walked over to the tack shack, hoisted a saddle off its stand and saddled up the fjord.
Ingrid returned her attention to the horses clamoring for the next apple slice. When the last slice was gone, she turned to Brady. “Can I help saddle up?”
Brady looked grateful for an instant. “’Preciate it,” he said.
She took off for the tack shack and hauled out several blankets, then saddles, hoisting them over the fence rail and going back for bridles and reins. By the time the first guest riders showed up, seven horses were lined up side by side, ready to go. Six were saddled, the seventh had soft packs to carry food, which should be arriving any second. A picnic lunch was included in the cost of the ride.
“Welcome, hello,” Ingrid greeted two couples. One couple, who introduced themselves as the Woodwards, looked to be in their fifties. The husband appeared to be in good physical shape, but the wife was what you might call a plus-size woman. The other couple, the Palmers, were in their forties, also in good shape, accompanied by a teenage boy and girl. The boy appeared less than enthusiastic, but the girl was all smiles. Introductions were made all around.
Brady stood in front of the group, looking them over. “Who has riding experience?”
The woman in her fifties held up a hand tentatively. “I rode as a kid a few times in the summer at my cousins’ ranch. But that’s been a few years.”
“Anybody else?”
Uh-oh. Ingrid could see by Brady’s posture and expression that he was not pleased. He glowered at the group. “Folks, you’ve signed up for a full-day ride here. You’re going to be in the saddle until we get back this evening. We’re talking nine hours or so.”
The husband of the older couple muttered to his wife, “I told you this was a dumb idea.” But his wife stood taller and ignored him.
Brady glanced at Ingrid. “Miss Ingrid,” he called. “Will you saddle up and join us on today’s ride?”
Ingrid grinned. “Yes, sir.” She headed toward the tack shack and saddled up Bella, the horse Brady had assigned to her. She threw the blanket over the mare’s back and looked the beauty right in the eye. “Bella, you and I are going to spend the day together,” she whispered, stroking the gentle creature’s long and sturdy neck.
Brady was giving instructions on how to mount the horses, carrying a plastic stepping stool around to those whose legs weren’t quite long enough to reach the stirrup.
As Ingrid led Bella out to join the group, Greta came walking down the path from the cookhouse, large paper sacks cradled in each arm. “Hey,” she greeted Ingrid. “I’ve got seven lunches packed here.”
Greta’s hair looked frazzled from laboring over a sink of hot water and dirty dishes. “Thanks, Gret, but we’re going to need one more. Brady wants me to go along today, so we’ll be gone all day.”
Greta shoved the two bags of lunches toward Ingrid. “Fine, I’ll be back.” She turned and trudged back down the path.
“Thanks!” Ingrid called after her, then loaded the lunches into the pack.
When Greta returned with one more lunch, everyone was mounted on their horses and ready to go.
Brady had chosen all gentle, mild-mannered horses who were used to walking this long trail together. He made sure the horses were in a particular order. They had minds of their own. Certain horses were leaders while others were followers. He mounted Boone. “I’ll lead,” he announced. “Miss Ingrid here will be the sweeper. She’ll go last.”
And with that, the horses ambled after Brady toward the beginning of the trail.
Ingrid breathed in the fresh, clean air, brimming with excitement for the day ahead. God, she loved this job, she thought for the second time that day. How lucky that she had experience with horses, or she might have ended up working the kitchen and cleaning rooms like Greta. Poor Greta was beginning to doubt their wilderness adventure, and who could blame her?
The teenage boy was on the horse in front of her, and he glanced back surreptitiously every few minutes.
“How you doing?” she called out.
He turned to look her more fully in the face. ““Uh, this is kind of stupid,” he said. His voice cracked and he blushed.
“It’s not stupid at all.” Ingrid flashed him a full-on smile. “It’s magic.”
***
Hours later, the group neared Bridge Creek, their destination, for lunch. The creek, swollen with spring runoff, gushed with white water rushing headlong over boulders, churning up foam. Brady stopped at a flat spot, a grassy meadow about thirty yards away from the creek and tied Boone loosely to a tree limb, leaving plenty of rein so Boone could munch on grass. The loud rush of water filled the air as the riders climbed off their horses.
“Remember,” Ingrid called. “Get your feet out of your stirrups, swing your right leg over, put your tummy on the saddle and slide slowly to the ground.” They turned to watch as she demonstrated the move. She easily swung her long leg over and dropped the few inches to the ground.
The teenagers followed suit and were on the ground in an instant, and their parents clumsily did their best to follow Ingrid’s instructions. Ingrid looped Bella’s reins around a tree limb and hurried over to help Mrs. Palmer, the woman in her forties who seemed pretty nimble. She reached up and grabbed the woman by the waist, and gently helped lower her to the ground.
Brady went to help the older Mrs. Woodward.
After sitting on a horse for hours, she was stiff. At that instant, the teenage boy who thought the whole ride was stupid pointed to the forest near the creek and shouted, “Bear!”
Everyone stopped and looked up. A black bear stood at the base of a tree as two cubs clumsily made their way down the trunk. The Palmers sang a chorus of oohs and ahs and their daughter said, “Cool!”
Mrs. Woodward had a different response. She was lying over the horse, ass-end skyward, and still she managed to suck in enough oxygen to shriek, “Bear!” loud and long. Her horse, Goldie, jerked her head up, ears laid back, eyes wide and rolling around in alarm, and began to prance. Brady struggled to hang on to Mrs. Woodward’s waist.
“Quiet down, Mrs. Woodward,” he panted. “Those are black bears, more scared of us than we are of them.”
Mrs. Woodward was having none of it. She flailed around on the saddle, and in the process kicked Brady in the gut, then managed to wallop her horse’s front left leg behind the knee. The horse’s leg buckled and collapsed.
Ingrid stood, helpless, watching the slo-mo disaster like an underwater ballet.
Goldie was kneeling on her front left knee, and the hefty weight of Mrs. Woodward pulled the horse farther to the side. Brady managed to extract Mrs. Woodward off the horse and toss her to the side.
Quite a feat of strength for a sixty-year-old geezer, Ingrid thought.
Betty Woodward landed with an “oof,” but Goldie was going down, slowly dropping fully to her side, with an “oof” and a fart of her own. The momentum rolled her onto her back momentarily, but right on top of Brady, who hadn’t been able to scramble away himself after tossing Mrs. Woodward.
Even from a distance Ingrid heard, with nauseating clarity, the distinct crack of Brady’s femur as it snapped.
The bear and her cubs, meanwhile, had disappeared into the forest, eager to put as many miles between themselves and this noisy and catastrophic scene as they could.
Lunch was forgotten as Ingrid grabbed the first aid kit from her saddle bag, knowing what it contained would in no way help in this situation.
Mrs. Woodward started to complain until she comprehended what had happened. Then mercifully, she snapped her mouth shut and joined her husband and the others, bears forgotten. Ingrid grabbed Goldie’s reins and talked her gently into getting back onto her feet.
Brady sat up. “Shit! Damnation! Radio Kathy and have her contact the park ranger and get me the hell out of here.”
While Ingrid called for Kathy, the group sat despondent, enduring Brady’s intermittent groans.
After what seemed like an eternity, the thwap thwap thwap of helicopter rotors sounded overhead. As soon as the chopper settled on the meadow, medics jumped out.
Ingrid rushed to meet them, panting. “Brady’s about sixty, broken leg. Horse rolled on him.” She led them to where Brady lay back, propped up on one elbow.
“Hello, fellas,” he said through gritted teeth. “Looks like I got a broken leg.”
“So we hear,” one of the medics said. After a brief examination they prepared to place Brady’s leg in a splint. One of the guys pulled traction on the leg, and Ingrid heard wet, crackly sounds as flesh and bone fell into place.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Brady bawled, then a second later glancing toward the tourists. “Excuse my French.”
Ingrid was glad she hadn’t eaten lunch, because if she had, it would be lying on the grass in front of her.
The medics loaded Brady onto a stretcher, and as they picked him up, he crooked a finger, beckoning Ingrid to his side. “They’re all yours now, little missy. I know you can get them all back to the Ranch safe and sound.”
Ingrid was grateful that he had taken a moment to show his confidence in her, because as she looked up at the four adults, two kids and eight horses, she felt a hollow punch to the pit of her stomach.
After the copter rose into the sky and disappeared out of sight, she turned to the group. “I know we’ve probably lost our appetites but let’s try to eat a little something, and make sure you drink water. It’s already been a long day, and we’ve still got half our ride ahead of us.”
