Man Can Move Mountains
A true rescue story
Most of my life I have found it easier relating to animals. You feel with an animal, he has the power, the instinct, and it is pure without corruption. To communicate you show, you interpret, you sense and feel. If your
requests are honest and your means of empathy correct you develop that connection between two entities. Humans gain access to another world,
a less complicated world were you also receive the
animals power and strength. This other world I believe, taps into our most primordial inner self and finds us at home and at peace.
An animal will give of himself to the very death for his master, (his god). This
is the true story of such an animals devotion to his master, and the heroic rescue mounted to save him.
My husband and I have ridden and trained horses most of our lives. We’ve shown and bred most types. My husband originally
from Tennessee had fond memories of his boyhood ridding Walking horses through the mountains of Eastern Appalachia. He had migrated north and with Walking horses not being prevalent in this area he stayed with horses working
and training other breeds. He frequently related stories of the back hills and the horses he knew as a boy with a yearning and love in his voice.
Christmas 1988, I went to his home town and obtained a young stud colt, “Pride Of Stoney”. As luck would have it the colt was named after Stoney Creek were my husband was born and raised. Al, (my husband) raised, trained and promoted the colt taking
Reserve Halter Champion. Everywhere you saw Al you saw the colt, they were a two
some right from the start. By this time we were exclusively into Walking horses and loved them. Stoney was a member of the family with all the traditions. Yes, there were the traditional baby pictures showing his growth and development.
Manners that every child needs to be taught, and we took great pride in his growing into adulthood. Al bred and serviced mares with the young stallion, Stoney always the perfect gentlemen. There were some 10 grandchildren, (so
to speak), from Stoney in his brief time as a stallion. Trail ridding was Stoney
and Al’s forte, their true love, so at the age of 5 Stoney was gelded. The Vet called frequently to check on Al . You see he knew Stoney would be fine but Al was taking it awfully hard.
 |
We had ridden the Michigan shore to shore ride traveling across the state almost
300 miles in 10 days. We had gone on numerous pack trips and in 6 months put over 800 trail miles on our horses. Trail ridding was the norm, Al and I went places only our boys could take us.
We loved the adventure, the challenge, the getting back to nature. We enjoyed
the idea we were going places and experiencing things few people could. If there was difficulty, danger, or rough going; it was Al and Stoney who lead the way, pulling the horse out of the bog, ponying the nervous colt, or trying
the unsafe trail first. The two of them concurred the seemingly impossible together. |
When planning our vacation we decided to visit "The Great
Smoky Mountains National Park". We would take the horses and visit Cades Cove where Al’s great-great uncle had been the first white settler. The Great
Smoky Mountains with it’s 850 miles of trails and all of
it’s splendor. It seemed a challenge and an adventure to be sure , but our boys
were up to it. This would be the “Mother of all trail rides”.
Friends of ours decided to come with us on this incredible journey, little did any of us know what lay ahead or how we would be grateful to come home alive.
Funds everywhere had been cut and the park service was no exception. The spring of “94” had been an especially hard one, many floods had washed roads away completely. We were assured trails were fine to check
with local rangers for specifics and to obtain our back country permits.
We headed out to find our adventure.
 |
The beauty was awe inspiring, so vast, so larger than life, and making us feel so insignificant. We started up New Found Gap road where you climb approximately 6,000ft. Your ears pop, your stomach is in your throat . Will the hitch hold, will the engine make it, will the rig make it around the switch backs? As you breathe a sigh of relief you soon realize now comes the bad part, “Down Hill”. You drop some 3,000ft. on roads that
weren't
made for 40ft. rigs. The transmission whining, the smell of burning brakes, you
hold your breath and hope they hold. We made it into the horseman’s camp ground at Towstring getting ourselves and the horse’s bedded down about midnight. Our first ride in the Smokies we managed to get ourselves lost. We traveled
cross country down the washed out side of a mountain. I have a terrible fear
of heights and Al never does admit we are in trouble to me for that truly does send me over the edge. I kept saying , “Are you sure this is a trail”? “Oh yes” was the reply, “Just follow me and you’ll be OK”. Finally when it looked like “ Man From Snowy River“ I said ,”Al this isn’t a trail ,I can’t go down this” It was a wash out . Red sand and clay with deep cuts as the rain had chiseled deep groves with the run off. Al’s reply, ”Its
a trail now”! |
My horse knows me, the more I panic and cry the slower he goes
, at times stopping completely until I regain my composure. I have learned to close my eyes or just look up at the sky and let him carry me down. We had a compass and knew camp was,
"That a way", but in the mountains , that a way
may be 10 miles up then down the mountain only to find your at some impassable divide. We found our way in about dark and with our wonderful horse’s nothing was unconquerable.
The semi tropical forest surprised me and the canopy of laurels seemed a fairy
tale come true. We traveled 15 - 20 miles a day over what is truly Gods country, also some of the roughest terrain I have ever ridden. Of the 8 million people that visit the park every year, only 10% ever get more than 100ft.
off the road, and we planned to make up for this. I had such confidence in our
boys, we had been every where done every thing and they had always gotten us out .We met people who with other breeds and types of horses lived in the surrounding states and our boys seemed to out shine them all in work and temperament. I had never seen such beauty or felt such a part of it all.
We had two back country trips planned. The first was 24 miles and the horse’s handled the packs, the equipment and us well. We had worked hard planning what to pack and the weight for each horse. Everything needed for both people and horses had to be packed in and out, even horse feed. Water was every where so that at least lessened their load. Each horse would carry 150lbs. packed
weight plus rider. On our second back country trip our friends (because of their son) decided the trails were to dangerous and would stay behind in base camp. Marianne told me latter she had a premonition the night before, something terrible would happen. She couldn't shake the feeling if they went they might
not come back. It had been raining so hard my husband and I checked with the park ranger, filling a route permit and inquiring of trail conditions. Flood warnings had been posted for all of North Carolina, but we were assured up this high the trails would be fine, and although getting through the first couple
of mountain streams might be difficult we were cleared to leave the next morning.
The horse’s were quite a sight , so loaded with feed and equipment it was difficult to mount them. They were good strong horses and up for the 32 miles of climbing to an elevation of over 6,000ft. Marianne still concerned
watched us as we left making us promise to turn around if things got too bad.
If only it had been that easy.
We had made good time in rough conditions and were ahead of schedule when we reached the Balsam MT. trail. As we started in the trail was so overgrown we couldn’t see where we were or where the trail was. We could however see the weather system below us coming in. A mounting
feeling of doom was edging into me and I kept making suggestions to turn back. We had to find a place were you could turn around with out falling of the mountain and with this weather system moving in we had to find shelter. We felt trapped as if some unknown force was sucking us in further and further.
 |
How the horses walked the trail I don’t know. Stoney led the way acting as if he
were walking on egg shells, his nose to the ground each step he tried. We found out latter the Balsam MT. trail is one of the most remote and rugged areas of the park. Even the ranger hadn’t been up there. An ice storm had toppled trees
some 4 years earlier and that was the last people could remember the trail being
used. The only death at Cattalouchie had happened on this same trail. With park funds cut no maintenance had been done in years. Places in the trail were not even a foot path, at one point nothing was left of the trail but a rock strategically placed filling the void between air. At least a half dozen fallen
trees to big and low to get under and to high to get over crossed the trail.
Other trees that had to be crawled under, or jumped while making sure you hit the foot wide remains of the trail on the other side. The Balsam MT. marks the head waters for the Big Creek and all the rain had washed what was left of the trail away.
|
As R/C, (my horse) strided across air to reach the single rock
outcropping I became hysterical, frozen in fear screaming as he balanced there. No words can describe the shear panic of what seems assured death at each and every step, feeling yourself falling hopelessly at every breath. The trail was impassable , we couldn’t turn around there was no place to make an emergency
shelter for the night ( there wasn’t enough trail left to lay down on). Al rationed surely they wouldn’t send people up here, it had to get better, this was a bad section if we get through this we would be home free.
Continued on Page "2"