Free Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) by Laura Crum Page B

solitary backpacking expeditions that I could tell time well enough for my own purposes by the sun, and it was an extraordinarily freeing feeling to do without a watch.
    We should hit Lunch Meadow between noon and one, I thought. I would eat there and let the horses rest for half an hour, then push on and hope to reach Snow Lake in time to make camp before dark. Today's ride was the longest one I had planned for the entire trip. But I felt that the horses were fresh, and I wanted to get as far into the backcountry as possible right away.
    The farther I went, the fewer people there would be. More or less. As a matter of fact, the way to avoid people was to avoid the lakes and the big meadows with good fishing creeks. The trouble was that like most of the other folks in the back-country, I really liked the lakes. And I needed to camp where there was plenty of feed for my horses. So I was liable to run into a few other travelers.
    Amazingly enough, I hadn't seen anyone yet. This was probably because it was Monday. Weekends in the mountains were a lot more crowded than weekdays.
    The trail was following the banks of Relief Creek now, and the terrain was leveling off. I passed the old Sheep Camp, knowing Lunch Meadow wasn't far ahead.
    It was getting warm. I’d shed my jacket several miles back; now I took off my overshirt and tied it around my waist. The sun felt good on my bare arms. Absently I brushed flies off Gunner’s neck.
    The landscape was opening up and I could see the wide spaces of Lunch Meadow ahead. I rode until I was out of the forest and then sent the horses off the trail to a pocket-sized hollow by the creek. Here the water made bathtub-like pools in the rocks, perfect for soaking feet.
    Dismounting stiffly, I tied Gunner and Plumber to trees, and hobbled around, taking saddlebags off and loosening cinches. Damn. I wasn’t used to riding this many miles. God knew how stiff I would be when I got into camp this evening.
    Settling myself by the banks of the creek, I cut hunks of dry salami and mozzarella cheese and rolled them in a flour tortilla. Humble but very satisfying. Long swallows from my water bottle washed it down. I eyed the icy cold water of the creek, but didn’t drink it. Giardia, an intestinal parasite, was a problem in these mountains. I would only drink from springs that had not had a chance to become contaminated. Either that or pump my drinking water through the filter I’d brought.
    Once my hunger was satisfied, I took off my boots and socks and soaked my feet in the creek. The water was so cold it hurt, but my skin tingled and I felt invigorated. I let my feet dry in the sun with my soles pressed against the warm, scratchy surface of the granite.
    Time to go. I put my boots on, tied the saddle bags back on the saddle, and tightened Gunner’s cinch. Plumber nickered at me. I looked him over carefully. The sweat had dried on his neck and flanks and his eye was bright. He was my chief concern on this trip. I had used Gunner a lot in the last couple of years, and knew him to be a trooper--a horse who traveled well and was tough. Plumber was more of an unknown quantity. Younger, smaller, and perhaps less tough-minded, he was also somewhat inexperienced. Although he’d been shown quite a bit as a youngster (by someone else), he’d spent his last few years turned out because of a lameness. Since he’d been sound, all I’d done with him was some gentle trail riding and the legging-up necessary for this trip. I wasn’t sure how he would tolerate it all.
    He looked okay, for the moment. I untied both horses, climbed on Gunner, and headed off across Lunch Meadow.
    It was really more of a desert than a meadow. A big, open flat, covered with low-growing, scrubby sagebrush, Lunch Meadow had been decimated many years ago by sheep. The four-footed locusts, who were both tended and decried by John Muir, had spent many summers here, while their shepherds relaxed and played cards at nearby Sheep Camp. Too