Even squinting he couldn’t see beyond the horse’s head. He trusted Buck’s night vision, the darkness impenetrable to his human eyes. He could feel the downward slope of the trail and imagined he was descending into the bowels of the mountains. It was quiet under the trees, the forest seemed to absorb all sound, even the animals’ hoof beats were muffled. The quiet added to the sense that he was inside some organism.
A chill breeze came from behind bringing with it a sharp, clean whiff of pine sap and an eye watering blast of ripe mule. The horse grunted.
“Pfff,” he exhaled, “I’m with you on that, old friend.” He yanked on the lead rope to keep the mule on course and flexed his fingers to get the blood moving, hoping for a little warmth, and hunkered deeper into his duster.
The cold dark fit Jim Taylor’s mood. He’d left camp at four a.m., fueled only by reheated coffee and granola bars. Bob had sent him off on this errand because the campers, Chet Stevens, Jr., to be exact, had insisted on special supplies for his wife’s birthday dinner. This meant a four hour ride down to the trailhead, a hundred mile round trip drive to the nearest big town, and a four hour ride back up. All in one day and back to camp in time for “cocktails”. Silly, spoiled rich people.
Bob’s camp was in the middle of the Big Horn wilderness. The campers were surrounded by majestic mountains, awesome trout streams, and miles and miles of untouched forest. Two days in camp and all they did was gripe and moan about no television, no hot running water, and spotty cell phone service. Why come to the wilderness if all you’re going to do is complain about it? These people were idiots, rich twits who served no useful function in society except, he supposed, to spend gobs of money. He suspected that Bob agreed to send him on this errand so Jim wouldn’t tell Stevens off.
He was fed up beyond belief. He was stuck here a thousand miles from home and all those things he wanted to do. Jim was sixteen years old and had just got his driver’s license. Home meant driving, Face Book, X-Box, hanging out with a certain girl, and chilling with his friends.
His parents had sent him out here for the summer with his horse, Buck. They said it was because their friend, Bob, needed help/ But he had overheard their late night arguing about money, selling the horses and the farm, and something called bankruptcy. He figured they just wanted him out of the way.
He sighed. At least he’d have this day to himself. Solitude. That was the good part of this errand.