Metal Cloak’s Modern Jeeper

We left off Part I as I head North on the I-15 towards Salt Lake City Airport to pick up my good college buddy, Bob and head out to his family’s Dude Ranch in the Wind River region of Wyoming. “The Winds”, as the mountains are called by the locals, are famous for two things: A lot of open space. And even more open space!

The original ranch house sits on this old dirt road leading away from the current home that has been fully restored.

But all joking aside, it’s actually home to NOLS - The National Outdoor Leadership School, Rocky Mountain Division and the county seat, Lander, remains a classic gem of an authentic Wild West town. The cowboy way of life as well as Dude Ranch vacations have become all the rage among families and young folks alike. There’s something about the freedom of the open plains and the true grit required to prosper in rough country that is just as romantic today as it was in yester-year. In fact, the cottage industry has its own special non-profit org, The Dude Rancher’s Association of America, set up specifically to ensure businesses and their staff not only protect the natural lands they share with guests, but also act as stewards for the local communities and economies they help support. So it is with that spirit that I share the lore of this land with you.

Privacy Disclaimer: Bob’s aunt’s ranch is still a privately owned working livestock operation - it is not a vacation destination, nor is it available for rent on AirBnB or VRBO. So to keep it all “in the family,” I won’t be sharing the exact location of the property or specific GAIA GPS coordinates like I usually do. But I will share the grand adventures Bob and I have as I source old topo maps from the local National Forestry archives and give my buddy a tour of the enormous tract of land that has lived infamously in his most favorite childhood memories.

Quit laughin’; this ain’t no sequel to Brokeback Mountain!

To convey the true significance of this epic buddy road trip, I have to start at the beginning - where the idea of visiting “The Ranch” first took shape. How Bob got his nickname, The Barbarian, is another story entirely. But suffice it to say that, like any red-blooded 20-somethings, we took full advantage of our higher educations! I was focused on writing and producing in the movie business and Bob was getting a degree in International Politics & Economics. Now on paper, you’d never think we’d get along, but we had many mutual friends and since I have no siblings, Bob became my surrogate brother. These days, I live in Los Angeles and Bobby is based in Boston. But we still do an annual guys trip every summer to keep the good times and adventures on-tap.

The Ranch first came up when we were sophomores chilling with our pals over supper one night. In between sordid details of conquests with the ladies, Bob told me about this place that was still like the “Wild West.” Real cowboys driving cattle, working the land, apple orchards as far as the eye can see, roving mountain lions and even ancient Indian artifacts. It sounded like every eight year-old boy’s dream come true! So I just said: “Cowboys and Indians?! Pick a date and I’ll be there!” Well, here it is, fifteen years later, and we never set up the trip - until now…

As I got more and more into overland Jeeping (@overlandjournal) and doing my “epic road trips,” The Ranch became a destination that took on just as much of a mythological status to me as it did for Bob. I’d been hearing stories about the place for more than a decade and he hadn’t been back since he was a kid. So I finally just put Bob’s feet to the proverbial fire and said: “We have to do this before your aunt gets too old and is forced to sell the place. I’m driving up to Wyoming this June - and you better be there!”

“The Ranch’s” genesis began when Bob’s grand uncle purchased the land for pennies on the dollar after fighting in the U.S. Army’s famed 10th Mountain Division during World War II. A true Patriot, he believed a man’s work was his life and his life his work.

Through trial and tribulation, he managed to make just enough to pay the property taxes, but it wasn’t until he walked into the local bank for a loan to start the cattle operation that the true catalyst for his success came to be: You see, as local legend has it, the loan officer at the bank was a beautiful young woman named Nell. And Nell was a real hard-ass! So granting paper on a heap of red-rock and dust wasn’t exactly a sound investment - especially since the property was also known to feature one of the most rugged and inaccessible river gorges in Fremont County. Hell, she figured half the steers would wander off the edge of the cliff and the other half would be lost to the lions! And besides, how would one guy be able to rustle up all that livestock all by his lonesome?

But as any hard working business man knows, closing the deal often comes down to simply making the other side an offer they just can’t refuse. So Bob’s uncle went right ahead and got hitched that bossy bank lady! And sure enough, with a woman’s loving touch and a keen eye on the ‘ol books, not only did the cows get out to pasture, but they came all the way home and the family business took off like a rocket. During its hay-day, The Ranch had almost a thousand head - which for the times was quite a sizable seasonal haul.

Nowadays, Bob’s uncle and most of his long horns may be long gone, but Nell still lives on the old spread with the same twinkle in her eye as the day she first set foot on that front porch. And supposedly the river still flows through the backyard just as strong and as swift as ever - stuffed with a trout for every cast of the line. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I still have to figure out how to get Bob in SLC and then drive another five hours north without falling asleep at the wheel!

Now, I really wish I had a shot of this because it’s as true as the sun rises in the east, but I drive into Salt Lake City International Airport and literally, standing in the Arrivals lane, is Bob The Barbarian doing what barbarians do best - being a f*cking barbarian! He’s dressed in his freshly-pressed button-down and khaki slacks with his roller-board in tow, waving me down as I arrive in my Jeep Rubicon covered in mud, fresh off the trail!

What a motley crew we made. Bobby throws his roller-board on my roof and gives me our classic bro high-fives and hug: “What the hell are you doing standing in the middle of the road, you maniac?!” “It’s the Wild West, maaaaan! I do what I want!”

Oh boy, I guess this is gonna be one of those trips…

The road to Fremont County from SLC is pretty straight forward - right up the 80 and cutting across the 30. Now I have a pretty good idea what kind of a drive we’re in for, but being a city-boy, Bobby hasn’t a clue. So I keep the conversation light and after grabbing a quick dinner, we set off for the “dark part of the ride.” Bob’s curious what I mean by that so I cryptically reply, “You’ll see…”

The 30 cuts through SW Wyoming via the Seedskadee Wildlife Refuge that is just wide open country. Mostly grassy plains with very few towns and even fewer services. Jeeps are great vehicles for driving rough roads and blazing new paths, but what they are NOT good for is driving long distances between gas stations - especially when it’s 11PM at night in the middle of nowhere. The one gas station we did pass closed at 5PM and only took cash. We’d have been screwed anyway because we had a measly $20 bucks between us.

“How far you figure we got?” Bob says, holding his mobile phone against the roof as if it’ll make a difference in the total lack of reception. “My GPS is shot too,” I reply, “All I know is we stay on the 30 until we hit the 28 then head north on the 287 to Lander.” “How do you know when we get to those junctions?” Bob’s tone starts to sound concerned. “Well, there are these things called ‘signs.’ I hear they point in the right direction if you know which way you’re headed.” “Don’t mess with me, man. The last town we passed had a population of 11 and there hasn’t been a single street light or passing car in over two hours! How do you know you’re going in the right direction?” I just laugh: “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see!” I let the awkward silence take over for a good long dramatic beat as Bob tosses his phone into the console. And then, as if on-cue, my low-fuel alert chimes. Bob just turns and glares at me.

The funny part about moments like this is usually the better you know someone, the more upset they get because there’s an inverse-ratio of familiarity to patience. Knowing this little situation we’re in will quickly escalate, I take the opportunity to pull off to the side of the road and level with Bob:

“Way I see it, we’ve got two choices - we either shut it down here and try to hitch a ride in the morning or we keep driving and hope to hit some kind of a town where we can get fuel from a station when it opens. Either way, we’re spending a cold night in the rig. Sorry, buddy. It’s a Jeep thing.” The only way I can describe the look on Bob’s face is: TERRIFIED. This is clearly ground-breaking territory for him: “A Jeep thing?” he hisses.

Bob opens the door and hops out to collect himself. He immediately winces at the rush of frigid air. This is just not his night. He’s never had to sleep in a car before much less on the side of a desolate highway. “What the hell, man?!! Why didn’t you fill up when we had the chance? Now we’re totally screwed. This is gonna kill a whole day or more. And I don’t even have a way to reach my aunt to let her know where we are or ask her for help!” “Dude, I had no idea there’d be no stations out here!” Bob just shakes his head and shivers while pacing around the Jeep.

So I take my trusty Carhartt off and hand it to him: “Here, bud, take this - I won’t really need it.” Always a good buddy no matter what, Bob hesitates. “Won’t need it? You’re from California; you’re gonna freeze your ass off!” “Hey, I’m not the idiot wearing nothing but a button-down in backwoods Wyoming - take it!” He puts it on and then I say: “C’mon over here. I got an idea.”

I walk around to the back of my Jeep and un-hitch the spare 5-gallon gas canister. “Hold this - I gotta pop the fuel cap.” I shove the thing in his arms and it takes a half second for him to register that I had this prank planned all along. “You f*cking crazy sonofabitch! You planned this thing!” I just bust out laughing and give him a hearty slap on the shoulder: “Like I said, Bobby, it’s a Jeep thing!” (Click this Jeep World link if you’re laughing right now :P )

Even as you pull stunts like this, you know they’re gonna be the details in the gut-splitting stories that get told over cold beers around the campfire for the rest of your days. There’s a certain melancholy to it - you enjoy the fun in the moment, but you know it’s ephemeral. That’s definitely a Jeep thing too…

With our spirits freshly lifted, a tank full of fuel, and the wind at our backs, we drive the home-stretch to Lander. Bobby doesn’t know I have another surprise waiting for the morning, but at least for now, he gets to rest easy at The Ranch for the first time since he was five years old.

Pulling up to the place just after midnight, I can tell he’s giddy even in the dark. In the distance, I hear the rush of white-water swirling past exposed rocks now cloaked in the darkness beyond the lone, cob-web wrapped porch light. The wind picks up and catches one of the branches from a nearby tree, brushing it up against the side of the house with a thump instead of a snap. That can only mean one thing - the apples are even bigger than I’d imagined.

Inside, the house is like a heritage museum full of old Native American daguerrotypes and stuffed animal heads.

There’s something about this place that makes me feel like I am coming home. Maybe it’s because I’ve heard so many stories about it for so long that it seems familiar. Or perhaps it’s because this is the kind of place I’ve always wanted to build for myself one day that it’s almost like stepping into a dream if only for a split second.

The Welsh call this sentiment “hiraeth” - homesickness for a place you can never return to or that never was. I hope neither is the case as I fall asleep in a century-old hickory twin bed; my mind wandering through fields of green and gold into the adventures that lie ahead.

The soft morning light trickles through the windowpane and I am instantly awake. The normal heavy sense that there is always so much to do and so many things out of my control is non-existent. Nothing matters now but the crisp snow-melt water I have been longing to feel rushing around me for what seems like a lifetime. It’s one of those sensations that you think you know how it’ll feel, but you know there is no substitute for the real thing.

So I grab my trusty ORVIS fly fishing gear and head out to see if the legends about this river are as real as my imagination.

Stepping off the back porch, I’m greeted by a curious cast of characters - first a group of boisterous peacocks and then by Nell’s hospitable horses. I tell my four-legged friend I would take him with me up the river, but that kind of a thing would wear out my welcome pretty quick so he’ll have to wait until I get back to hear all the fish-tales.

Following the sound of flowing water and hopping the old split-rail fence on the far side of the corral, I get the first glimpse of what I’ve been waiting to see for all these years…

This anonymous river, famously chock full of trout, but whose head-waters are protected by an inaccessible gorge and miles of private property, has allegedly never been leased out to hunters or anglers alike. The mere prospect of casting a line here, much less catching my breakfast, is a privilege in and of itself.

Crouching along the shadowed shoreline, I tip-toe upstream so as not to spook my free-floating query. I slowly make my way around several bends until I see exactly what I want:

A riffle stretches across the width of the river with a deeper pool located on the far side. I am extra careful not to disturb any of the loose rocks along the stream-bed. Even the slightest slip of a single stone can alert those googly-eyed mothers! Carefully turning down-stream to prepare my line without disturbing the water ahead, I slip into a time-tested mindset…

Call it a stroke of luck or perhaps it was the latter half of a lifetime spent preparing for this single moment in a place this pure, but my very first cast revealed the river’s abundance! There’s a saying that every true angler is a catch-and-release kind of guy because he knows the stories he tells are only as believable as the pictures he takes and the fish he leaves behind. Others say, sure, “I practice catch-and-release - I catch ‘em then release ‘em straight into my frying pan!”

Well, fact is, if it’s been a fair fight and neither of us are injured, I’ll return the favor of a great experience by letting my finned-friend go. But if I’m in the backcountry and have to choose between freeze-dried Mountain House or fresh-smoked fillet, you best believe I ain’t straddlin’ any existential fences!

Heading further up-river in search of even more exciting fish holes, I’m soon reminded why this place lives in local legend. The topography quickly changes from a flat plain to steep cliffs on both sides of the drainage. This must be the gulch Bobby told me about.

This adventure will have to wait until later. So rather than get myself in any deeper, I decide to turn back for breakfast and meet our host. Not to mention the fact that I have that other surprise to reveal.

Walking through the creaky screen door, I am greeted with the smell of french toast, sausage and eggs on the wood-fired griddle. Did I mention this place is the stuff dreams are made of?

Over breakfast, Bob introduces me to his aunt Nell. We sip fresh ground-coffee listening to some great stories from the early days while she hand-feeds a kitten from a bottle and shows us Indian artifacts she found plowing the gardens.

After a good chat and entertaining recount of the previous night’s Jeep debacles, I remind Bob we’re on a tight timeline - we have to be out at the main gate by 10 A.M. Nell knows exactly what I’m talking about because I’ve been in touch with her friend, Charlie B, for a couple weeks setting this adventure up.

Bob looks back and forth between us with a wry grin like we’ve conspired against him. We sure have. “What are you up to, Smarg? Are you playing more tricks on me?” Both Nell and I have a laugh over this remark.

Seeing the whole spread for the first time in broad daylight, it’s easy to understand why it’s steeped in family lore. I can only imagine what Bob’s great uncle thought of the property when he first set foot on it after seeing so much death and destruction in the invasion of Italy. Talk about paradise on earth…

After a twenty minute drive, we get to the front gate and wait for “the package” to arrive. Bob can’t even remotely figure out what I have in mind, but it’s pretty obvious when I tell him to take a peek in the rear view mirror:

“Smarg, are you serious?!” I just look over and laugh: “What? You said you’ve never seen the whole property so you really think I’m gonna give you a tour without some help?”

Bob looks just like Maverick from TOP GUN as the horse trailer comes to a halt in the front yard. Nell greets us all with a friendly wave.

As it turned out, I called around to a bunch of ranches in Lander to inquire about renting a couple horses for a few days to take a backcountry trek around Nell’s property. Most figured me for some California dumbass and wouldn’t give me the time of day until I called this one guy and he asked which ranch I planned to ride them on. Well, as soon as Charlie B heard Nell’s name, I had the credibility to rent his horses. That’s just the way things go in this neck of the woods.

“Now you’re on your own, kid - I ain’t got no release papers to sign. You may look the part, but if this here mare chucks or kicks ya, don’t come cryin’ to me,” says Charlie as we lead ‘em out. I promise him we won’t take the ponies any faster than a canter and there would be “no cowboy shenanigans.” He looks to Nell and asks: “Can I trust this guy?” Without missing a beat, she replies, “I wouldn’t, but I know my Bobby will keep him in line.”

Hell, I wouldn’t trust a Stetson-donning, Rubicon-driving Californian neither, but off we rode on Charlie B’s “horses!”

I have to admit, for the price I paid him in cash, I kinda felt like a horse thief. But when it came to getting these things to actually do what we wanted, I’d a had better luck cussing at the broad-side of a barn! No matter how hard we tried, we just couldn’t get these hoofed heathens to go any faster than a slow gate. It was like Charlie trained ‘em special just to spite us.

My original plan was to circumnavigate the entire ranch on a double-overnight that would take us from the river basin to the alpine highlands above the gorge and then back through red-rock country. This morning’s ride was intended to familiarize us with these animals and hopefully bond enough with them so they could be trusted carrying our gear into some really rugged terrain. Well, as the famous John Steinbeck saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. So I decide to ditch these donkeys in the corral and come up with a Plan B.

On our way back, we pass the old ranch house - the one Bob’s great uncle built when he was a young man on his own. We dismount to take a look around and contemplate the seasons of life that have passed since the echoes of his hammer first reverberated through the canyon.

Looking back at the skyline, I see the lone silhouette of one of our rides. It must have been a similar sight for him. And I am reminded that, much like the horses’ stubborn temperaments, one’s ego is quickly humbled by whims of the weather. It’s best to admit defeat in moments like this rather than butt your head against the proverbial wall. You’ll only run your gears ragged.

Fortunately, the following morning brings clear blue skies as we load overnight packs. As I assemble my rifle-barreled 12-gauge Remington 870 Express Shotgun with Winchester slugs, Bob asks why I’m being so paranoid. I assure him, paranoia has nothing to do with it as I hand over my .45 ACP Kimber Custom II: “I just like to be extra cautious.” He looks at me, holding the pistol like it’s going to spontaneously explode. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!” “Carry it on the outside of your pack. And don’t pull the trigger when it’s pointed at your foot.”

It’s pretty simple; we’re headed into “big bear country.” And anybody who knows anything about bears knows that the first defense is offense. Your goal is to be loud enough to scare them off well before you even see them. But if you do come across one or heaven-forbid, one of momma’s baby cubs, your goal is to be respectful and give them plenty of space. No matter what, “Do not approach them.” Bob deadpans: “No shit, Sherlock, but what if they approach you?” I hand him some Counter Assault bear mace spray and tell him we’ll “hold the line” in case of a bluff charge.

The concept of a bluff charge is foreign to Bob so I tell him male grizzlies are especially territorial and will basically just want to show us who’s boss. A bluff charge comes when they assert their dominance. It doesn’t necessarily mean they intend to attack you. Most guys don’t know that so they get scared and run or even worse, shoot at the bear. Either way, that’s the worst thing you can do. You have to stand your ground, appear as large as possible and just make really “scary noises.” Bob’s brow furls, “Scary noises?” “Yeah, you know, like bear noises!” SO I growl and grunt at him to lighten the mood, but I can tell my pal is feeling reluctant. But I know the river’s ancient currents and sounds of the wild will calm his nerves and take his mind to brighter pastures…

With that, we retrace my mornin’s steps into the gorge. I tell Bobby about all the trout I caught, but of course, he thinks I’m kidding again. There’s something about telling stories really well that automatically makes people think you’re lying to them. So I’ve grown accustomed to taking lots of pictures to corroborate all the details and let the record stand for itself.

As the pitch of the landscape changes from flat to highly contoured on the old USGS map, I decide to get out of the water and head up alongside the eastern ridge. I tell Bob, “There’s a plateau that looks fairly passable.” Who knows if that’s true or not. Guess we’ll find out.

The concept of hiking completely off-trail is just as strange to Bob as a corporate board room is for me. But his tenacity is truly inspiring. I’m starting to get a bit tired and uncomfortable myself, so I know this must be hell for him. Yet he doesn’t hesitate a bit. I look down the ridge and am proud of my good buddy pushing himself so hard. At least he’s still in decent spirits and isn’t demanding we turn around yet. I do my best to encourage him knowing that either one of us could easily fall straight off this ledge!

You never really know how your buddies will do in the backcountry until you get into the sticks. The good news is there appears to be a valley on the far side of that ridge just ahead so my goal is to get us there without spraining any ankles or breaking any necks.

Yes, that cliff is just as steep as it looks. And yes, we should have a winch (or ropes), but we don’t. #itsajeepthing

The cliffs get really cliffy really fast. I double-check the contour lines and try to use the nearby peaks as land-marks to figure out how much further we have to go before we get past this really exposed section. I keep telling Bob the valley is right around the corner knowing full well that it isn’t. But that’s one of the tricks to navigating and leading these kinds of adventures - you always have to be just “15 minutes away” from the next waypoint.

And then I look down at my feet and see exactly what I don’t want to see…

Four rounded toes and a big flat center pad.

Lucky for us, this mature cougar track isn’t fresh. You can tell by the fallen pine needles and the degradation around the perimeter of the imprint that it’s maybe a day or two old. The darker color of the earth around the base indicates that he was probably moving during last-night’s rain-fall which caused the moisture to pool a bit.

As I scan the cliffs immediately to our flanks, I’m torn about what to say to Bob who is currently scratching his way up a shear drop-off above the river…

Once he’s settled on this precarious perch above the rushing white-water fifty feet below, I take my glasses off and give him a second to catch his breath. “How’s it going, Bobby?” “Not bad - you?” “Well, I’m great, but we have an interesting dilemma. I don’t have a rope to safely descend with our packs so the only way we’re getting out of here in one piece is to follow this mountain-lion trail along the base of the ridge and hopefully get to valley before he invites us out to lunch.”

Bob makes sudden eye contact: “What?” I nod. “Yeah. You’re standing right in the middle of it.” Bob snaps his foot up like he just stepped in a load of dog crap. “The good news is it doesn’t look like the lion’s been here for a day or so. The bad news is that these large cats actually stalk their prey from above and behind until they strike by literally jumping on the back of whatever they intend to eat.” He just stares at me. “The difference in predation patterns between bears and lions is that bears don’t really want anything to do with you. But lions will pretty much take on anything they think they can bite - if they’re hungry enough.”

“So your solution is to actually follow the tracks?” “Yup. Believe it or not, we’re in a really advantageous position right under this ridge because it's so steep. My guess is that the lion uses this rock ramp as an access path rather than for ambushing deer. He’d do that further down-stream where we started because, just like us, he’s not interested in doing a face-plant into the river.” Bob looks over the edge of the cliff and then follows the tracks down the ridge-line.

“Put my glasses on the back of your hat and look over your shoulder every thirty seconds to make sure we’re not being followed.” Bob is not liking this idea one bit. “What good will that do?” “It just might trick him into thinking you’re staring straight at him which will discourage the likelihood of a pounce.”

Bob looks around frantically. Rather than let fear and present uncertainty paralyze us both, I push forward - ironically, straight into the lion’s den - literally. This was definitely not my plan!

This is the look you give your buddy when you’re most likely being watched by a mountain lion and the only way “out” is to follow a narrow, cliff-lined trail which of course, leads straight into the cat’s den…

About 100m ahead, we come around a precipice and encounter an overhanging ledge. There’s clear evidence of recent “activity” all around. “Keep your head on a swivel - let’s just leave as calmly as possible. Do not act afraid and do not run. We will walk and talk with confidence so if he’s around, he’ll steer clear.”

I’m not going to pretend this is the best place to be. But it does make for a helluva “Wild West” story!

Turning the bend into the inner valley, the landscape opens up and a great sense of relief washes over us. I recall the great Winston Churchill’s words of wisdom: “You cannot reason with a tiger when your head is in its mouth.” That is such amazing advice. You can’t actually argue with a giant cat that wants to turn you into a meat-cake. But knowing the historical context in which this eloquent orator was speaking, I take the ironic liberty of assigning to our present circumstances the inherent relevance of his prosaic rhetoric.

Heading up-valley, the terrain is not looking great. I expected to find a “shelf” that would provide plenty of ideal camping spots, but what we found was just the opposite:

Rocky ridges dump into the river basin like a cascade of granite on all sides. Since we’re getting past noon and I know the sun will dip below the mountains long before night-fall, I decide to get to that grassy knoll on the far side of the river. It’s the best place to dump our rucks and settle in. Only problem is, there’s a lot of heavy flow between those banks.

When I’m in Alaska, I have no problem just fording rivers because I know there’s no way to avoid getting soaked in the backcountry. It’s a constant struggle in and out of the water. But given the run-in with the lion, I opt to keep Bobby as dry as possible.

So I propose the next move and to my surprise, he’s all about it!

Leaping across the river like a couple of kangaroos, is a great way to conclude the morning’s mishaps.

As if the universe is smiling upon our choice, a quick scout of the area reveals its most redeeming feature: The PERFECT fishing hole.

A small falls on the far side of the pool gives way to a deep lagoon punctuated by two large boulders offering steep and shady shelfs for some very large indigenous rainbow trout. I can see their sleek shadows hovering just below the surface and know that in an hour or two, the lighting will be perfect to conceal a stealthy, down-stream stalk.

So I back through the bushes without a sound to collect some firewood that will help stave off the chilly night air and warm a supper I am determined to land.

As the sun wanes in the west, the trees cast longer shadows across the pool and it’s the ideal time to strike. Just as before, I know I will only get one perfectly placed cast to ring the dinner bell!

So I align my body with the flow of the river, allowing for the cleanest back-cast and pitch. The hatch is your common terrestrials like grasshoppers and nymphs so I opt for the latter based on what I see congregating along the water’s edge. Since the falls is now in shadow, I know the best way to strategically place the entry is on the very edge of the light and dark section just below that far rock. There’s a sharp shadow cast off the edge so I want to literally hit the rock with the fly then allow it to fall clean into the water with a splash big enough to catch the attention of whatever lurks beneath the millions of tiny bubbles.

I line it up, take a couple back-casts to let the line out long enough, being very careful not to allow the end to settle more than a meter above the surface before loosing the fly unto its furled fate…

Low and behold, the ancient river yields its abundance once again!

This rainbow trout put up quite a fight. I could tell by the ferocity of the strike and the instant yank upon the line that this fellow had no intention of being caught. But alas, the victory is mine and so too is the prize.

Simple is always best when preparing fish in the backcountry. I prefer smoked to charred or baked because if you can find the right natural herbs like wild thyme or sage, the combination of pine and pre-soaked lineaments is exquisite.

Preparation Notes: Gut the fish as soon as you catch it and keep the body submerged in free-flowing water until you’ve gathered your ingredients. If I know I’m likely to catch a big one, I usually gather all my firewood and herbs ahead of time to optimize freshness.

When you’re ready to get started, harvest fresh pine boughs and weave them into a bowl of sorts. It’s easier when you create a natural frame of pliable willow or spruce that adds structure, but you can be quick about it just by weaving the limbs together at opposing angles. Be sure to place individual limbs along the base to create a heavy foundation. Then before you add the fish, soak the pine bough bowl and herbs in water for 30 minutes to get them nice and saturated. The extra moisture will be your friend when it comes time to toss it on the coals.

Next, dig a separate pit just for the coals to sit completely flat. If you put this thing straight into your fire, you’re going to regret it - you have to control the heat. The way I do that is by finding a large flat rock in the bed of the river. ***Make sure it hasn’t been submerged because rapidly boiling the water inside could cause it to explode! Place the flat rock in the base of the pit then cover it with red-hot coals. Once spread out, place the pine bough bowl along with the bed of herbs and trout right on top of it. It’ll immediately start smoking like a mother-f*cker. That’s exactly what you want.

Finally, you can clear the coals and remove the rock to keep the fish warm while you eat it.

I stand in the heavy plume of white smoke and take an exaggerated deep breath: “The best part about smoking fresh fish in the backcountry is it’s exactly like ringing a giant dinner bell for the bears.” Bobby has been around me long enough at this point to know not to laugh at my sardonic sense of humor - it’ll just encourage me to keep going.

I assuage his doubts: “We’ve got shear cliffs on both sides and a wide section of river directly below us. I picked this spot because it would be difficult for anything to sneak up.” “What about up-river, genius? Did you consider that they might just come from that direction?” “Yes I did. And that’s exactly why I placed the tent directly in the flow of fishy smoke then swapped your sleeping bag to that side so they’ll find you first!”

Even Bob has to crack a smile at that one: “You’re a maniac. Pull that thing outta there and let’s eat it before they eat us.”

Sitting around the fire drinking whisky and chewing on smoked trout off sharpened sticks like a couple of cavemen, my buddy Bob and I spend the next couple hours reminiscing about the good old days: The frat parties we’ll never tell our future wives about; the politics nobody in California wants to discuss; and plans for just how the hell we’ll deal with a bear or cougar if one really does show up in the middle of the night.

I keep watch until the early hours…Sure, I looked at the maps plenty of times. The topo lines were pretty manageable until we were face to face with the real rock features this morning. I’ve got my doubts about tomorrow, but hey, that’s what getting @OFFZGRD is all about - not knowing your way in or out.

The sun rises before we do, but when I pop my head out of the tent, I see we’re in for some more adventures. There are black clouds on the horizon and the rusty smell of petrichore in the air.

I know getting out of this place is not going to be any easier than it was getting in. But nevertheless, I lead the charge up-river towards what appears to be milder slopes leading to the ridge-line plateau a couple miles away.

To my surprise, the river actually disappears right above camp! For some strange reason, it flows underground which makes me wonder if maybe this place is some kind of mystical spot.

But by the time the “Easy-Out” slope comes into view, Bob has had about enough of this off-trail stuff. He’s hungry and wants to head home. I don’t blame him - especially considering there’s a violent lightening storm brewing and heavy thunder riding our tails. First the bears and cougars - now this!

I tell him we have two options: Shelter under a rock ledge away from the trees or try to get up and out before the storm hits. It’s hard to tell if the worst of it is upon us because the canyon is so high, it obscures the horizon in all directions.

Yup, there’s a ladybug on my shoulder - didn’t know it at the time, but that must be Mother Nature’s way of telling me she’s got my six…

As thunder cracks above, I look to the skies in search for the first signs of the torrential down-pour that is certain to strike. There is no obvious place to take cover.

I recall years ago when I was exposed like this outside Telluride, Colorado during a similar alpine storm that moved in at the drop of my hat. The lightning got so close, the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up and I actually saw lightning split a couple trees. I definitely do not want to repeat that experience today. So we both opt for the latter option and hope for the best.

As we cross the dry river bed, we are reminded that we are most certainly not alone out here…

Fresh bear scat. I am no expert, but at least the viscosity doesn’t indicate this deposit was recent. Bob is not laughing at my stupid poop jokes which means I better just shut up and get us out of here otherwise I’m going to be held responsible for whatever happens - bear or otherwise.

The thing about the backcountry is you have to go with the flow. There’s no way to control it. If you try, you’re just going to get more frustrated. So I’ve learned to do like the Marines and embrace the suck. The concept is really simple: Revel in shit. The worse it gets the better, because you are never going to be any colder, wetter, hungrier or more exhausted than you already are. So slap a f*ckin’ smile on your face and just deal with it!

I’ve had this quality engrained in me since I was a kid. I used to stay out in the cold and rain for hours knowing my mom was going to get so mad when I finally did come home. Same thing when we’d have 5AM pool workouts for cross-country - I was the guy who’d do a sprinting belly-flop into the deep-end just to motivate my teammates to join. There has always been something about voluntarily suffering that is attractive to me. I guess you’re either wired that way or not. And if you aren’t, you’re not gonna learn it in a day. Some guys never do.

Bob is no exception. And to make matters worse, he’s always had crappy knees because he’s played soccer his whole life. So climbing this really steep ridge-line with a full pack is not exactly his cup of tea.

To his credit, Bobby really pushed himself through a lot of pain.

You can’t hear him looking at these pictures, but he definitely embraced the suck the whole afternoon. And there’s a part of me that feels like Mother Nature had some mercy on us because She could see we’re learning valuable lessons and creating lifelong memories: Not a single drop of rain or lightning strike fell upon us the entire time.

Eventually, we make it to the ridge plateau. Bob is ecstatic.

Looking down over the cliffs, we can see our campsite.

I can’t help but wonder when we’ll be back down there - if ever. And that same maudlin feeling creeps into my gut again as I realize these are the days we’ll remember most when we get old. That fishing hole will still be full of trout long after the echoes of our laughs fade from the canyon walls and our footsteps lead off around the bend for all eternity.

Someday, maybe someone will come upon signs of our passing just like we found the bones around the cat’s cave. Maybe they’ll look up at those silent rock faces and wonder what we joked about. Fact is, they won’t have to hear the setup to know the punchline; all young guys joke about the same things - whether it’s this century or the next.

Turning our attention homeward-bound, we get to see The Ranch from another perspective - a bird’s eye view. Looking down upon it gives you the sense you own the place for a moment. I’m not sure if Bob feels that way too, but a part of me does.

I am glad my friend gets to see it this way. His character arc alone is testament to his personal fortitude. I’m sure some small part of him endured the fear and the pain just to hold it in his heart forever. Weather that translates to some kind of nominal “ownership” regardless of whatever happens to this place or not, is for him to decide. But one thing is for sure - Bobby is a different man now than he was yesterday morning.

We own this day. This is our time.

Walking into the yard, I trail behind Bob because he’s on-point now, leading the way. I’m not sure if it’s hunger driving him on, or maybe a secret sense of accomplishment. But I sure feel like he pushed himself more than he knew he could. I am proud of my friend.

It may not seem like much, but the last 24 hours has been one helluva adventure; we’ve seen this place from backcountry to front. It wasn’t exactly how I’d planned, but that’s okay. The experience always manages to shape you rather than the other way around. Jeeping has taught me to not only expect that, but to actually long for it.

So I hope my good buddy Bob remembers his family’s ranch the way I will - more beautiful than I’d ever imagined it…