Snow Lake – Gila National Forest, New Mexico, October 8-10, 2011

Looking east at sunset, Snow Lake, NM.

After returning from our backpacking trip along the Middle Fork of the Gila River, Alex and I scanned the Gila Wilderness map, searching for ideas for our next trip.  After speaking with Monica, we decided we should go somewhere we could fish and camp near the car, rather than backpack.  There are two primary lakes in the Gila National Forest -- Lake Roberts, about 19 miles from Gila Cliff Dwellings, and Snow Lake, on the northern boundary of the Gila Wilderness about 50 miles from Glenwood, New Mexico.  The New Mexico Fish and Game Department constructed the lake to provide recreational opportunities for fishermen and other recreationists.  They stock the lake three times a year, the latest in October.  There is a dam at the southern end which acts as a gateway into the northern end of the Gila Wilderness.  The lake is the source for the Middle Fork, which runs about 45 miles to the headwaters of the Gila River.  At roughly 7500 feet, the lake and surrounding valley is in high country, with pine trees, meadows and lots of wildlife.

Originally I planned for all three us to leave early on Saturday, October 8^; unfortunately, Monica discovered that she was scheduled to work that day.  Rather than postpone the trip, Monica would drive to Mogollon ghost town, where Alex and I would drive out and link up with her mid-morning on October 9.  Once I get the idea for a trip like this, my mind begins racing preparing immediately, visualizing everything required for the trip to be a worthwhile and memorable experience.  Once this happens, mentally it’s difficult for me to entertain any possibility of postponing or cancelling the event – my selfishness kicks in.

So, Saturday at 4:00 a.m. I climbed out of bed after a long day of shopping, packing and preparation the day prior.  I finished loading our Sequoia with our pillows and refrigerated food, got Alex out of bed, and managed to leave at our planned departure time of 5:00 a.m.  Though optimistic about our travel time, these trips always end up taking considerably longer to reach our destination.  After stopping for gas and ice, Alex and I headed up I-10 towards Deming, then to Silver City, where we had breakfast at the Drifter Motel and Restaurant, a 50s-era diner adjacent to a worn-down motel.  As we arrived in the east side of town, the power was out in most businesses, but as we approached the Drifter, the stop lights were working.  After pancakes and huevos rancheros, we made a brief stop for fuel, continuing up highway 180 along the west-central side of New Mexico, passing through the small communities of Pleasanton, Cliff, Buckhorn and Glenwood, all high desert towns along the Gila River, as it makes its way towards Arizona.  As we approach Glenwood, the highway moves closer to the northwestern corner of the Gila Wilderness, with its dramatic rocky mountains overshadowing the road and towns to the west.  A few miles past Glenwood (the only reliable place for gas within 100 miles of Silver City along this route), we make a right onto highway 157, taking us the nine miles east over to Mogollon, a ghost town in high country nearby.  These nine miles were paved, but a very narrow one-lane road, hugging the mountainside with several steep inclines and declines, and a near vertical drop of several hundred feet off the shoulder in several places.  Mogollon is buried deep in a hollow at the base of the mountains – a small stream runs through the center of town, where several historical buildings still stand, along with a few restored structures housing antique stores, a museum, and a boutique.  There’s a small restaurant, the Purple Onion, which is open during weekends.  In this small town are several private landholdings, where a scattering of rustic weekend cabins and eclectic structures exist.  My personal favorite, and keeping with the off-the-grid theme: A mid-20^th century red school bus with a smoking stovepipe and solar panel array on the roof.  The stretch of downtown and cabins looked more like the setting of a town in the Smoky Mountains instead of along the Continental Divide.

School bus home, Mogollon, NM.

After Mogollon, highway 157 becomes a forest service road, where the pavement ends.  From this point it is another 27 miles to Snow Lake.  For roughly ten miles, the trail travels uphill and switchbacks to the ridgeline, allowing us to see the adjacent mountains to north and south.  Along this stretch, which runs on the north side of the hill for most of the way, several frozen potholes and a dusting of snow are evident (after speaking with a couple at the campground who arrived Friday, we learn that it snowed the night before), and our thermometer reads in the high 30s.  After this, the trail descends back down into the mountain canyon to Willow Creek, were intersecting forest service roads lead to three forest service campgrounds along Willow Creek.  In the meadows here are several horse trailers and make-shift corral, a jumping off point for packers headed into the backcountry.  There’s even a small cabin, but unsure of whether or not it’s privately owned.  Near the intersection, about eight wild turkeys cross the road and begin climbing the embankment.  From this intersection the road is nicely graded, and follows Willow Creek for a short distance before climbing uphill again.  The road enters a burn area, and for about 10 miles we pass through this before descending the last three miles to the Snow Lake valley and campground (the campground at the lake is actually named Dripping Vat).  There were a lot of cattle grazing along this stretch, and at some points, standing in groups in the middle of the trail.  

Cattle along the route to Snow Lake.

As we drive downhill, a large, high country valley opens up before us, with rolling meadows and intermittent pine trees, mostly ponderosa, with stream valleys coming from two directions north of the lake.  Looks like a great location for viewing wildlife.  As we get closer, the campground appears on the hillside on the west side of the lake.  We pull in; pay our fee at the self-help fee station, then pick a spot overlooking the lake.  From our site, we can look south towards the earthen dam and the beginning of the Middle Fork canyon.  Across the rest of the campground loop, the lake stretches to the east and north.  There’s a dense stand of pine trees behind us, north and south.  Not a lot of other campers – a couple are camped uphill behind us, then three other pairs of people – men – utilizing the area as a base camp for hunting.  Everyone is relatively quiet and is focused on hunting and some fishing.  The hunters leave before we get up, and return after dark each day.

Snow Lake, looking north from the dam.

Alex and I establish the camp site, setting up our large tent and dining fly, then sorting out the bedding and inflating air mattresses.  We’re excited about being at the lake and rather than eat a full lunch, we have a quick snack and prepare our fishing gear.  As Alex and I began making our way to lake with our rods, several packers make their way along Trail No. 142 (Middle Fork) alongside the lake north of the dam.  Several horsemen with pack mules loaded down with supplies, slowly making their way south and eventually across the dam.  A few hundred yards behind them, an elderly couple on foot has three mules, one much smaller than the others, loaded down with more modern packing gear, and appears to be having trouble getting the mules to cooperate.  We continue down the lake shore and begin practicing Alex’s cast.  After four or five attempts, she seems to understand the motion and simply enjoyed casting, despite the fact there’s no activity from the fish.  We notice several dead trout, all 10-12 inches in length.  Along the shoreline we noticed several trout swimming casually, unthreatened by our movements, only swimming away when I touch them with the end of my fishing rod.  For the next two hours we gradually work our way around the lake shore, dealing with tangled lines and my limited patience (I think I did quite well, though Alex may not agree).  At the northern end of the lake, a slow stream empties into the lake from the marshy meadow.  At this outlet, dozens of large trout are swimming slowly near the surface, with several more dead fish floating in the same area.  As we cross the meadow, we discover it’s more of a bog.  With each well-placed step, the pressure of my weight forces air underneath of my feet to outlets several feet away, creating (as Alex called it) a bubbling hot-tub sound the lasts more than 10-15 seconds.  Even Alex’s weight forces air through the ground with the same effect.  After the novelty wears off, we continue to the far side, and return up the road to our camp site.  Alex’s pants are covered with hitchhikers.  One variety looks like small black and brown acupuncture needles, and exist in every grassy area around the lake.

Alex collecting firewood, October 8.

 With no luck fishing, we return to camp and have a quick snack before departing to collect firewood.  The campground is near the forest, but far enough away from the deep woods to force us to travel two miles by car to retrieve wood along the road.  Alex and I find a large fallen tree off the road and begin to collect wood, enough to get us through breakfast the next morning.  I brought some cut-up pallets from home to supplement our supply.  We return to camp and begin building the fire.  A simple meal that night – hot dogs and hamburgers.  We’ll spend more time on meals once Monica arrives the next day.  I purchased a large Dutch oven with intent of cooking pot roast the next evening – an attempt to return to more traditional means of food preparation.  During my seven years in the Boy Scouts, one of our staples was the ability to cook in a Dutch oven during weekend camping and backpacking trips, during all four seasons.  This is a skill I lost after graduating high school, but have recently taken an interest again.  Later in the weekend we would learn that our neighbors at the campground thrived on this type of cooking, and we were able to take some lessons home with us.  My observation when camping in a public area rather than an isolated campsite, the people that keep to themselves are more likely to share much in common with us than others.  Unfortunately, unless you speak with each other, you may never know!  After dinner and clean-up, Alex and I relax by the fire as the sun set and the temperature begins to drop.  On the far side of the lake, several cows gallop down the open hillside, splashing into the water to get their fill for the evening.  Perhaps overuse of the water by livestock has made the water less than hospitable for the trout, but not sure.  The sun begins to set, creating a surreal pink glow in the clouds above the lake and surrounding hills.  The landscape takes on a solemn, peaceful, yet eerie appearance, indicating that the night belongs to the wildlife now, as the rest us settle in for the evening.  The area south of the dam becomes more mysterious, and I imagine a distinctly different world to the south, though in reality the wilderness area boundary is merely a line on the map between the wilderness and the national forest land, which is nearly as pristine.  However, across the boundary your existence is simplified, maybe not putting you on equal terms with the environment around you, but much closer to a natural state, and compels you to become more self-reliant; it requires you to develop keen senses and a natural sense of fear, possibly through instinct, maybe.  Everything that seems inanimate from afar or in a photograph is suddenly alive – the flowing river, the steep precipices of the canyon walls, the dark, narrow, tree-lined corridor – all forcing you to acknowledge their presence and consider how they could directly affect your security.

Our campsite.

Campground from the dam.

A storm approaches from the east, dropping heavy rain beyond the hill on the east side of the lake.  Alex, though tired from her early start in the morning, fights her fatigue and stays with me by the fire.  We talk about a multitude of topics – many of them Alex’s hypothetical situations – “where would you rather be stranded, in the desert or in the forest?”, “At sea or on land?”, and several others.  I can tell she’s matured during our outdoor ventures, and her normally elevated level of fear has diminished over our past few outings.  She’s content and comfortable with her surroundings out here.  She takes considerable pride in her recent accomplishments, including carrying a pack the entire way and fording the river by herself during our backpacking trip at the end of August.  There’s still the fear of wild animals at night, where she feels more vulnerable, but gradually the fear is dissipating.  My fears as a parent protecting their children is retreating too – during our first family backpacking trip exactly a year ago into the Black Mountains in Aldo Leopold Wilderness, I lied awake all night on the ground with my knife, hatchet and walking stick along side of me.  Sleeping in the open under a lean-to during a windy night in a dark forest on the edge of Mimbres Lake, a stock pond, amplified the fear for everyone, leading Monica to declare she would never sleep outside of a tent again.  Eventually Alex succumbs to her drowsiness, and she goes to bed at 8:30 p.m.  I linger awhile longer, watching the flames in the fire burn down to red coals, then turn in myself an hour later.  While still awake, I hear a bull elk bugling in an adjacent valley, the rolling hills carrying his voice to us.  Later, a chorus of coyotes on the opposite side of the lake scattered in their dens throughout the mountainside erupt in a chorus of wailing and barks.  I slowly drift off to sleep, awake two hours later, thanks to the two pints of beer I drank after dinner.  By this time the moon is centered in the sky above us, the illumination casting dark shadows and allowing me to read my wristwatch from waist-level.  In a way it’s a shame the moon is nearly full – this is surely a great location for viewing the stars.  I return to bed and throughout the night I discover that I should have laid more blankets between my bag and the air mattress, so I toss and turn until daylight, cold.  The moon is so bright that our tent stays illuminated throughout the evening.

 

Alex at day's end.

 The next morning around 7:00 a.m., I’m not comfortable, have to urinate (again) and I’m cold, so there’s no indulgence in staying in my bag.  There’s frost on everything in the tent.  The sun is still behind the hill to the east, but it is plenty light out.  With my watch cap on, I throw on my denim jacket, tie my shoes, and go outside.  After a stop at the pit toilet, I return to the campsite and begin working on the fire.  Due to my haste and carelessness the evening before, we collected only a limited amount of kindling and tinder, which we exhausted during the previous night’s fire.  Numb from our first below-freezing morning of the season (the Sequoia’s trip thermometer read 24 F), I struggled to get the fire going, so I cheated with a small amount of Matchlight briquettes. Once started, many of the larger pieces of wood were encased in a thick frost and damp from recent rains, so the fire burned slowly.  Fortunately, I had an abundance of pegboard fragments, which burn like nitroglycerine.  I brought Alex a fresh set of clothes and soon she was out by the fire.  Her joke that morning was that she was “knocked out cold – literally!”, “I mean I was cold when I fell asleep!”   She did not complain a bit – Monica thinks that maybe she’s afraid to, but eight year olds aren’t good at hiding emotion, and I can tell in her face she is “comfortable with being uncomfortable”.  Once we finish eating a light breakfast of oatmeal, hot cocoa, and coffee, I organize our tent and vehicle so there’s ample room to store firewood on the way back from picking up Monica.  Our first chore on the return from Mogollon is to load up with enough firewood for the evening and the following morning.  With this complete, Alex and I have about 30 minutes to spare before leaving to pick up Monica, so we go on a short hike to the dam to scout out the Middle Fork trail south of the dam.  Still around freezing, we set out for the dam.  Just short of the dam, on the hillside are a field of purple wildflowers, some variety of lupine.  I tell Alex to hold up, so I can climb up and take some photos.  These and several other varieties of wildflowers were still making a strong showing, despite the below freezing temperatures.  As I crouched down to take some close-ups, a loud buzzing noise circled around me – a green hummingbird was making his rounds from flower to flower.   Seemingly undaunted by my presence, he methodically made his way between plants.  I turned my camera setting to sport, snapping about 20 photos from different angles, before descending the slope and continuing up the trail.  Alex and I made it to the far side of the dam and observed the trail descending the slope on the opposite side.  A sign on the dam indicated there were special fishing waters at the junction of the Middle Fork and Gilita Creek, and a two-trout limit was posted on the sign.  Fine, I thought, and Alex and I made plans to make the trip that afternoon once we returned with Monica.  We make our way back to the campsite and depart for Mogollon.

Early morning frost and fog, Snow Lake.

Alex early morning at campsite.

Hummingbird, near Snow Lake dam.

 With the exception of more cows and a few mule deer on the stretch of road after Willow Creek, the 27-mile drive was uneventful.  We arrived about 11:00 a.m., a total of 75 minutes.  There were several cars on Main Street, and the Purple Onion was open and serving a late breakfast.  No sign of Monica, so Alex and I entered the small, purple building and ordered a coffee and chocolate ice cream cone.  Alex – it’s only about 45 degrees outside – devours her ice cream as we sit outside waiting.  Most of the people visiting Mogollon are white-haired, and act as if they frequent the small town and its handful of boutiques regularly.  A moment later, Monica pulls up in our Civic and joins us.  She hasn’t had breakfast yet, so she orders a breakfast burrito.  Five minutes go by, then ten, then twenty, and finally 30 minutes later her food is ready.  I pace back and forth impatiently, concerned the day will slip away as we wait for a burrito on a supposed pristine, wilderness-oriented weekend.  After turning the car around, Monica finally appears and jumps in, and we begin making our way back to Snow Lake.  Like the first day, it’s wavering in the 40s and there’s still ice and a dusting of snow on the sections of the road that run on the north slope of the mountains.  The aspens are beginning to turn, creating a beautiful contrast of yellow and green, intermixed between the pine trees.  Alex and I catch Monica up on all the events of the past 24 hours, as if we were old hands who had been out there for weeks.  After pointing out the hunter trailers and corrals near Willow Creek campground, we pull off on the side of the trail and begin collecting wood from a fallen Douglas fir.  The tree is lying perpendicular to the road, but partially blocking the route.  The force of the fall snapped several of the branches into small pieces, making it simple to collect.  Monica focuses on kindling and tinder while I collect and saw the larger pieces.  Alex loses interest quickly and realizes someone else (Monica) is around to do chores, so she makes her way down the rocks to the creek, and every so often brings a piece of wood back to pacify us.  20 minutes later, with most of the back of the Sequoia stacked with wood, we continue the ride back.  Five miles out, we stop in the burn area and finish collecting wood.  Finally, we arrive back in the valley north of Snow Lake and orient Monica to the landscape as we drive into our campsite. 

After a quick lunch of cup of noodles, we prepare the fishing gear and begin our walk past the dam and down the Middle Fork.  I carry an assault pack, while Monica carries a camelback and fishing rod.  Alex carries her fishing rod, and seems a little moody.  Our objective is to hike down the canyon to the intersection of the Middle Fork and Gilita Creek, and find the waters indicated on the sign by the dam.  I mistakenly leave my map at the campsite, but from memory judge we have about a mile to go past the dam to reach this point.  Five miles after reaching the Middle Fork, we arrive at a river crossing at an intersection of two streams, but I’m convinced we have not travel far enough.  Routes and crossings on maps change over time, so we decide to continue further as both rivers are too shallow and void of prospective fishing spots to be the right place.  Because of the low temperatures and the mishap Alex and I experienced along the West Fork the previous November (Alex and I both lost our footing and fell during a river crossing in sub-freezing temperatures), I wanted to avoid Monica and Alex submerging their shoes and pants, so I carry each of them across.  It’s only one crossing, I figured.  We continued down river and stop at several spots and try our hand at fishing some smaller holes.  Alex wants to practice her cast, so despite the lack of fish, she enjoys it nonetheless.  The thick willows along the shoreline challenge us to find decent spots.  We continue downriver for another 30 minutes, and then watching the time, realize that we are not going to make it to the next stream intersection.  So far we have crossed the river four times, and on the return trip change from the “piggy-back” technique to the “firemen’s carry” to ferry Monica and Alex across.  Each crossing requires three trips – one to drop my camera, hat and fishing rods, one to carry Monica and one for Alex.  After several crossings I’m wet up to my knees.  Rock hopping is too dangerous, so I slog across the shallowest route I can find.  Alex insists on carrying the assault pack back herself, which she does the entire way.  I then realize the reason for the moodiness at the beginning of the hike.  She was disappointed that she didn’t get to carry much of anything, and is proud that she backpacked 11 miles the month prior, so she thinks we’re treating her like a baby, and wants to ensure her mother knows what she’s capable of.  She doesn’t complain at all on the return trip and wears the pack like a badge of honor.  I begin to think maybe the first side stream was Gilita Creek, which I confirm is the case once we get back to camp and I review the map.  After crossing the dam, we continue back on the trail adjacent to the lake.  Alex belts out a loud scream as we startle a large group of grouse, which fly up in unison as we unknowingly get within a few feet of them.  A few hundred yards from the campsite, Alex and Monica veer over to the lakeshore while I return to camp to get some snacks and a beer to tide us over until dinner time.  After returning to the lake, we continue fishing until 5:00 p.m. then return to camp to have dinner.

Alex and Ted casting along the Middle Fork, Gila River.

 My grandiose plan to cook pot roast in the Dutch oven from a recipe I hastily retrieved from the internet sounds too challenging at this point.  We just want to eat and don’t want to exert much effort.  We start the evening’s fire in the ring and light coals in the upright grill as well.  Hot dogs and hamburgers again, and pasta, but we back out of the pasta.  After getting both fires started, our neighbors come over with a small Dutch oven with leftover corn bread.  A kind gesture, we begin talking and become less focused on our meal.  They are from Corpus Christi, Texas, and have driven 16 hours to come here to fish the area.  We immediately take to them because they are traditional fisherman, fishing with lures and bait, and enjoy the outdoors like us.  Normally in these areas you see fly fishermen – something Monica and I have always talked about doing, but never did.  During last month’s backpacking trip, Alex and I camped across the river from a couple, the husband wading in the river with his fly rod that evening and the next morning.  Our neighbor’s name is Steve Jordan, who operates a fishing business named Salty Aggie Guide Service (http://www.cbga.org/member_fishing_hunting_birding_nature_guides.htm).  He and his wife explain to us that they came here to fish, and were unlucky in the lake too.  Before they arrived Friday, they stopped in Glenwood at the fish hatchery and learned the lake was stocked this week with 10-12 inch rainbow trout, and that it would take several days before the fish began to eat bugs and show an interest in lures and bait.  This would explain the dead fish around the lake, who did not survive the initial shock of being dumped in the lake, and the fearlessness of the ones that swam on the surface next to shore (Steve had told Alex earlier that their dog managed to catch two fish by grabbing them in his teeth).  We continue our conversation, talking about Dutch oven cooking, the Cowboy Symposium in Ruidoso, and New Mexico in general.  They depart for their site, and we return to preparing dinner.  The sun sets, but unlike the previous evening, there’s no storm clouds so the sunset is mild compared to the night before.  After dinner, we take out our marshmallows and spent a few minutes eating them.  Monica starts off with a pair of tongs and accidentally drops a melted marshmallow on my shoes drying by the fire.  I carve her a roasting stick and we sit down and enjoy the fire while drinking beer and talking.  Alex, tired from the early start yesterday and two full days of activity, turns in for bed again at 8:30 p.m.  Monica and I stay up another hour and finish another beer before watching flames die out.  We don’t extinguish the coals in hopes we’ll have the makings of a fire after we get up in the morning.   Before turning in, the coyotes begin their wailing and barking in the distance once again.  Earlier in the evening I rearranged the bedding in the tent, which proved to work well – I had a decent night’s sleep.  With extra insulation on top of the air mattress, we don’t get cold at all.  About 2:30 a.m., we wake up to the coyotes barking and yelping, but this time much closer, and they are just down at the bottom of the hill in the tree line.  We fall back to sleep and the rest of the evening is peaceful.

Alex and Monica roast marshmallows.

Monday morning at 6:30 a.m., I hear another bull elk bugling far off to the east, followed by the sound of a rifle.  I climb out of the tent and notice our hunter neighbors are all away from the campground.  I get up and change jackets and go to work on the campfire.  We were successful – there were plenty of hot coals remaining beneath the surface ash in the fire ring, so I managed to get the fire going quickly, and eventually convinced Monica and Alex to come outside and join me.  Forgetting the eggs back home in the refrigerator, we settle on a breakfast of sausage, bacon and biscuits.  I purchased a roll of biscuits with the intent of baking them in the Dutch oven.  While cooking, our neighbor Steve stops by and invites Alex and myself over to their site to orient us to their cooking process.  He’s baking breakfast with multiple racks inside the Dutch oven, using only a few charcoal briquettes.  The number of briquettes you place on top and underneath the oven equate to a specific cooking temperature, applicable to a wide variety of dishes and recipes.  I take his advice on how-to cookbooks and other accessories so I can continue to practice once we return home.  Again, we get some free samples and return to camp.  Inspired by this, I experiment with our oven and cook the instant biscuits.  Simple, but a small success.  We finish breakfast and I send Monica and Alex on their way for fishing while I clean up and begin packing.  

Breakfast, October 10.

After an hour, I finish everything with the exception of the tent and dining fly, and Alex arrives back at camp to fetch me.  While finishing up and preparing my fishing rod, the hunters return with a large set of antlers rising up from within the bed of their pick-up.  I convince Alex on the way down to the lake to walk over with me to take a look.  They’ve already cleaned it and stored the meat in coolers in the back of the truck.  The head sits on the tail gate, with one eye closed and the tongue hanging out the side.  It’s a good-sized bull elk, and I ask him if that was the same shot I heard this morning as I was waking up.  He said this elk was killed farther away, but he indicates the other hunters across from us fired the rifle we heard and were successful in bagging a bull elk too.  The hunter’s name is Jemuel, there with his father and 13 year-old son for the weekend.  He’s an outfitter in northern New Mexico (www.southwestoutfittersnm.com), and is heading back home later that day as he has clients booked for upcoming hunts.  He says the hunting for big game is great in the Gila, but difficult to draw tags for the area.  They live in Abiquiu, New Mexico, a small town in a beautiful area adjacent to the infamous Ghost Ranch, where Georgia O’Keefe completed her more notable works.  Alex and continue to the lake and join Monica for more fishing.  Still no luck, we continue fishing for a few minutes and our neighbors stop by to say their goodbyes.  We exchange a few more stories and contact information, and they begin their long trip back to the Gulf.  Shortly thereafter, we decide to pack up our fishing gear and return to camp.  After packing the tent and dining fly, we do a final sweep of the campsite and begin our way back to Mogollon at 12:35 p.m.  

Overall, it was a truly enchanting trip.  We have two more adventures planned for November and December.  For November 11-14, we will travel to Canyonlands National Park and backpack for three days into the Chesler Park area with a small group through the Fort Bliss Outdoor Recreation Office.  We don’t normally travel with groups, however, for a small fee, they provide transportation for the 10-hour one-way drive and schedule backcountry reservations for the group.  December 21-24, Derrick will join us as we head to the Big Bend National Park and Big Bend Ranch State Park area, staying in Terlingua for four days.  We’ll visit BBNP and spend another day horseback riding in BBRSP.  Our accommodations will be at www.upstairsatthemansion.com, and will horseback with www.lajitasstables.com if you want to preview.  I hope you enjoyed the narrative.

Snow Lake Sunset, October 8.