A Trip Down Memory Lane
- Marie
- Dec 7
- 4 min read
Every September during our fall counts, my mom and I have ridden in to count German in the same place for several years now- Bull Hill. He camps at the base of Bull Hill, and the sheep bed on top of the 10,000 ft high mountain.
We ride in to camp, Cristian and German with their full pack string of groceries, sheep salt, and dog food that we hauled into the trailhead to meet them with, and mom and I with our 2 two-year-old colts packed with our overnight stuff. As we ride down the west side of Commissary Ridge, we can hear the herd of sheep across on the opposite mountain, and see little white specks scattered across the rock ledges. Their blats echo across the valley and through the trees like they’re apart of the mountain harmony. It is truly one of my favorite sounds.
At the bottom of the mountain is a meadow area, there is a spring down a well-beaten trail into the trees, and German’s canvas wall tent tucked back in the pines on the edge of the meadow, facing the mountain. We set up our teepee, cots, and bed rolls near his. I pull out the folding chairs, beer cooler, and a book which I enjoy while I watch and listen to the sheep graze and look for their lambs above us. I see German up above the cliffs watching his herd, and his dogs below them keeping them from coming down. The sheep will bed up on top for the night, where we will ride up to count them at first light.
Once we have everything set up and the pack horses taken care of, we decide to go for a late afternoon ride before starting dinner for the guys. We head north, towards Contag creek that runs along the base of Mt. Isabel. Along the creek is the guys’ previous campground, and campgrounds that hunters use. To get to the creek, we ride through a patch of quakies. The trees along this well-used trail tell a story.
We first spot a TJ carved in the tree, which is no surprise as my grandpa marked every trail he ever rode. I love seeing his name in the trees, it’s as though he is still here with us in these mountains he loved so much. It was from 1996, the year I was born. He passed by on this route again in the year 2000, this was around the time my cousin Garrett and I started following him around horseback from herd to herd, but we weren’t with him this time, or else he surely would have added our initials next to his! Next to his initials though, in the same tree, my mom and I added our names in 2007. We rode this same trail again in 2019. We added to the story by carving this year’s trip, 25.
My grandpa apparently forgot he had started writing his story on another tree along this trail, ’T. Julian’, in late August of 1992, and again in 94. He wrote this above his uncle Bob Julian’s name, who rode this very trail every year from 1953-1964! How much this tree must have seen, and how many horses and men from over 70 years ago got to learn where this trail took them and how to find it.
But the story goes back even further… ABE was here in 1906, or at least I think that’s what the tree reads. Unless it is supposed to say a date instead, the reading is unclear. Who was ABE? A sheepherder, a hunter, a man lost trying to find his way back out? At this point, I guess only God and the trail know the answer…
The trees don’t only tell us who was here and when, but also of a lonely sheepherder. A man away from civilization and women for the long summer months where he saw only his sheep, dogs, and horses. Was the woman he drew his wife that he was missing back home while he was up here? A long lost lover? Or someone he only knew in his imagination?
They also warn us of sheep ahead! Written by G.L. A bored herder I assume, giving comic relief to whomever may be passing by on this trail, which appears to have been quite the bustling route. What a fitting line for this area that has seen thousands and thousands of sheep and their herders over the years.
As we make it through the trees holding the written story, the view opens up to yet more of the story, one unwritten but still present. There’s a little meadow that the herders’ and hunters’ horses graze every fall and have been long before I was around. Mt. Isabel, my favorite mountain, that I’m sure was admired by many before me, with its magnificent cliff sides, and luscious meadows on top with a spring. And Contag creek in the bottom where sheep, elk, horses, and men of the past and for many years to come all drink of its cold, clear, mountain water.
These trails, mountains, creeks, and trees all hold the stories of past, present, and future sheepherders. I will spend the rest of my life ensuring that these stories don't die with the men and women who pass on, and that there are many more to come with continued sheep grazing and the herders who spend their lives in this beautiful place we get to call home.
Meaningful story showing the passage of trails, time, beauty, and lives in the world that you love.