Saddle Sore: The mountains don’t belong to you alone

Beautiful day, early September, sunshine glinting off the first changing aspen leaves on distant mountainsides. My partner Deborah and I are on a chainsaw mission, clearing deadfall from cattle trails that have become difficult for the large bovines to negotiate. We’re coming up on the Brass Knob pond, a popular watering hole and nearby salt lick, when suddenly my horse stops, curious about a camouflage nylon tent pitched immediately alongside the trail. Very unusual place to camp, we agreed, and rode a few yards farther, where I began telling Deborah about the time one of my dogs took a swim in the pond, green scum covering the water. Topper, the dog, emerged, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, his back and tail covered in clinging green slime.

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