As it turns out biking up mountains in Montana all day exposes your newly muscled legs to more sun than one might expect, so SB and I both ended the day with funny red streaks down one side of the backs of our calves or on the other side of the tops of our thighs. This might have remained an issue for our vanity had we not already planned to go horseback riding the following day – an activity that requires rough jeans rubbing between your sunburned calf backs and the saddle. Since we were already hesitant to sit when unnecessary SB and I decided to down more than the recommended dose of Aspirin before heading out to the Bar W Guest Ranch.
The Judge stepped out of our rental at the ranch and immediately noticed that it smelled like horses. SB and I were less surprised than she seemed, which may be due in part to our extensive beginner experience with trail rides. Each of us attacks rural vacations with a determination to discover a trail ride, but neither of us have ever experienced more than the accidental trot of an excited horse. Impressively I am now at the experience level of “knowing to wear my torn jeans to ride horses because I will inevitably rip them in the crotch area when lunging up during the mount”. Yesterday when SB winced at the sound of my pants ripping I cheerfully said, “It’s okay, that’s why I wore these jeans!”
The Judge suggested I toss them before our return to Georgia so I wouldn’t have to carry useless jeans on the plane, but I knew better. I’m saving those babies for the next trail ride.
Our guide (Horse Lady J), who was shorter and younger than I, let the Judge choose which horse would go with which rider. I imagine Horse Lady J should have assigned us horses according to our experience level (I obviously demonstrated that I deserved the most difficult horse) but, like most people, was too intimidated by the Judge to cross her. The Judge gave SB the tallest horse, a white-gray gentle character named Cayoose (sp? – Blackfoot for “horse”). She took Ike, the shortest and plumpest, for herself, and I was left with Kernel.
Kernel (the Judge kept confusing his name with Colonel and occasionally accidentally referred to him as “General”) was a troublemaker from the start, which I enjoyed thoroughly. For the first mile he kept trying to snatch bites of the leaf buffet and sneezed in consternation when I pulled him back. I think he was used to riders who paid less attention to their rides. Kernel also liked to follow so closely behind Ike that he once ended up sneezing in earnest when horse poop dropped right past his nose. I laughed at him for that a little and he glared at me but then started paying attention to me when I asked him politely to stay back.
Cayoose remained relatively calm but Ike sensed the Judge’s lack of comfort with horses and pranced around more than necessary. It didn’t help that the Judge occasionally removed a foot from the stirrup and propped it up on Ike’s neck. Kernel and I giggled when Ike took such opportunities to snack or trot, and the Judge would hear us and holler, “What are you saying to the General?”
We rode mostly through the woods and the trip really turned out to be a great success, and when I dismounted for good I told Kernel I’d come back to ride him again, at which point he sneezed on me. I think that was his way of saying he’d miss me.
After the mandatory beer run on the drive home we changed and headed back toward Whitefish to hike around what the locals call “Big Mountain” and the guidebooks label “Whitefish Mountain”. It doesn’t open to bikers or zipliners until June 26 this year and the Summit is closed still because of snow, so we made like mountain goats and just hopped around various trails and commented on how weird ski mountains look without snow. Rain and fog cloaked the mountains in the distance and threatened our sense of dryness so we weren’t too disappointed that the peak was closed and once we felt exercised we quickly grew bored of Big Mountain. The Judge declared it half past beer time and we trekked down to Great Northern for a reward.
Today we’re heading back to Glacier via Polebridge, apparently renowned for its fantastic bakeries. Our driving route consists mostly of a dirt road marked by a dashed line on our map and occasionally the Judge and SB stop to argue about whether we’re going the right way or whether Ted Turner owns the ranch were passing. We just drove by a sign that advertised $2 beer and internet at the Home Ranch Bottoms, so SB is pulling in. Polebridge seems a distant goal.
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