City slicker finds horse heaven on Pasayten pack trip

On a sunny July morning at the Billy Goat Trailhead, 20-some miles north of Winthrop and just south of the Pasayten Wilderness boundary, a composite of conversations between greenhorn humans and seasoned horses went something like this:

"Oooo. Nice horsey." (Smooch, smooch, smooch.) "Oh, what a cute horsey you are." (Pat, pat, pat.) "Oooo, you are so pretty." (Rub behind the ears, rub behind the ears, rub behind the ears.) "Ooooo, good girl, good girl, good girl."

That was Day One, moments before 10 of us mounted up for a 19-mile horseback ride to base camp on what was the first day of a nine-day pack trip into the Pasayten. All of it atop enormous beasts designed to clop up a trail with nearly a 3,000-foot altitude gain to said camp — at just above 7,000 feet — on the first day.

By the time we got to the camp — hours later, in a meadow above Crow Lake (one of more than 160 such lakes in the wilderness area) — several things had happened. We were sore. We were starving. We had figured out what "cowboy distance," espoused by one of our wranglers, really meant ("It's only another mile" equals just sit there and be quiet and we'll get there eventually). And I learned that getting back on, even when you hurt everywhere, is good medicine. That happened when I told my mount, Crazy Horse, to "get away from me" when it was time to climb back aboard after a pit stop and he came walking toward me anyway with, I'm positive, no small amount of relish.

But by then, I had begun to get Crazy's number. I was figuring out how to speak a bit more directly to this four-legged food machine. "They are big and dumb. Don't talk to 'em like that!" said Kit Cramer, after she'd heard some of our group muttering niceties to the beasts. She was the distance-challenged wrangler and she also happens to head the stables at Sun Mountain Lodge, outside of Winthrop in the Methow Valley, and is one of the best riders I've ever seen. I learned lots from her.

Oh did I learn.

Sign 'em up, move 'em out

Over the preceding months, seven of us adventurers had decided to sign onto this wilderness expedition — at the urging and to the delight of Cramer, a good friend of many in the group.

We would be going with Steve Darwood and his Cascade Wilderness Outfitters, based in Carlton, down the valley from Winthrop; cook Gale Brown, also from the Methow Valley, and Cramer. Darwood has been leading pack trips for more than 40 years, the last 30 or so as owner of the company. His family is a longtime Methow Valley pioneering group of folks. In fact, his uncle, Ole Scott, started the business, first packing into the region in 1934.

Cascade supplied the horses, the food, the tents and what looked like enough mules to supply 20 Mule Team Borax — sponsor of "Death Valley Days" way back in the day — with animals to last a lifetime of commercials.

Death Valley Days — strike that.

We had to bring our own clothes, sleeping bags and personal gear — which the mules also kindly hauled in — and also, in my case, a bit of feigned machismo. And off we went.

Welcome to a week-plus pack trip into some of the most gorgeous scenery you'll ever see, on top of some of the biggest horses you'll ever ride, up and down trails you'll swear you can't handle (but do) and huge breakfasts, lunches and dinners you'll claim you can't eat (but do).

Welcome to setting up your own tent, living in the same clothes day after day, rain, snow, sun, bugs, eye-popping hikes and rides, breathtaking climbs and descents, singing, poetry, tall tales, spritz baths in shockingly cold streams, ribald behavior, tell-all confessions, learning things about your friends you never knew and will always treasure.

And silence.

Incredible, moon- and starlit silence.

To say that we spent nine days in heaven just might be an understatement, if heaven can be an understatement.

Sprawling wilderness

Established in 1968, the Pasayten is more than a half-million acres of untouched wilderness, just south of Canada and east of Ross Lake and North Cascades National Park. Some 600 miles of trails access the area, but roads, vehicles and development are forbidden. Imagine more than 150 peaks, above flat, parklike meadows; lakes and streams galore, plus ground squirrels, chipmunks, deer, lynx, wolves, bears.

And snow. It snowed one night. Not much. Enough to remind us that we were in the mountains, that even summer is unpredictable here and that it's no less than a requirement to have wind pants, jackets, gloves, hats, boots, scarves and long underwear. Oh, and just enough of what many a cowboy would call hooch. That helped.

The rest of the week was sunny — warm days, cold evenings, colder nights made warm by campfires or a jampacked, wood-stove-heated cook tent, where we'd all crowd in, wolf down dinner and then tell stories, recite poetry and sing until even the mules couldn't stand us any more.

The days were something else.

We had the chance to ride nearly every day — except for the pesky snow incident, which had been preceded by something like 30-mph winds. We set off to several lakes, up and down more ridges than I could count — sometimes straight up, and sometimes straight down. We all learned quickly enough that riding isn't just sitting there. We learned about muscles. Ours. Ooowee, did they hurt at the end of some of the rides.

It didn't matter. Lunch and a nap in the sun by a mountain lake made up for a lot of bowlegged torture. So did breakfast and dinner. Gale Brown, who also hails from the Methow Valley, is the regular cook for these expeditions. Quickly, quietly she worked magic. And volume. She's a master with the Dutch oven, those cast-iron covered kettles that can bake things over coals. And of course we ate everything — hard work and altitude do that to you. At least we told ourselves that. Steaks, pastas, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, creamed peas, biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, pancakes, apple crisp, berry crisp, pork loin, vegetables.

Trouble-free trail

Mishaps? None, really. Although my pal Karen had the unexpected thrill of jumping a creek while riding a mule named Slim. And there was Crazy Horse, my horse, who took off in the middle of the second night with his sidekick, Smokey. The duo nearly made it out of the wilderness before they were finally caught — a couple of days later. In the meantime, I got to ride Slim. And then Barnabas, who was led in to take Crazy's place. Barnabas, who was so big his saddle seat stared me right in the eyes. That was before I attempted to get on. (There is no shame in using a boulder, a stump or even a running start to get up onto a horse. Really.) A tumbling boulder widened the eyes of a couple of our party as they watched it bounce across the trail. And the gorgeous rainbow trout in Quartz Lake absolutely hated our bait. But hey...

I'm sure Darwood watched all of us with no small amount of trepidation, amusement and maybe even a little bit of satisfaction as the week went on and we cottoned to mounting the herd for our daily rides. I have no doubt that he's seen it all and done it all with groups he's led over the years. However, he kindly and judiciously doesn't talk about it.

I have to confess that leading up to this trip, I had grown increasingly skeptical. Maybe that's not the right word. I was fantasizing of ways to get out of it. Nine days in the mountains. Nine days in dirty clothes. Nine days sleeping on the ground. Nine days on a horse. Heck, pardner, one day on a horse! What was I thinking?

Happily, in the end, I didn't have time to think. Horse day arrived and off I went. Two days in the mountains and I was worrying that nine days wasn't enough. Four days and I didn't want to go home.

And now? I can't wait to go back.

When not in the saddle,

Terry Tazioli, former Seattle Times travel editor, hosts

"Author's Hour" on TVW.