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1. ERFR HAS A NEW LOCATION! |
Riders On The Storm (The Story Of The Eye Reckon Freedom Ride) By Mary Allyce "Spring my ass," Hoot Gibson growled, stamping circles in the snow, fists shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. Slammed from every direction by blasts of snow and sleet driven by wintry gusts and gales, all set against a bitingly cold gray morning, he was facing a long, nasty day. We all were. It was April 17, 2004, and Muddy Pass in northern Colorado was not muddy. It was snowy and icy, in the grip of a typical Rocky Mountain spring blizzard. At approxi- mately 8,700 feet, it wasn't even the summit of the mountain. That was Rabbit Ears Pass - closer to 10,000 feet - the apex of the route from our previous night's campsite down into Steamboat Springs. Hoot and Mark were not looking forward to the ride through the steep, slick passes along highway 40 and I wasn't looking forward to the drive. Visibility was bad and get-ting worse, as were the road conditions. The biggest fear was a snowplow coming out of the blizzard without warning. After 900 miles our horses and mules were extremely road savvy, but a heavy spray of snow suddenly shooting at them from a noisy plow would certainly cause a wreck. Adding insult to injury, the brakes on my little hotshot truck were making ominous noises and cell phones didn't work in these mountains meaning I would be making repeated trips up and down the mountain highway all day with failing brakes to keep tabs on the two riders.. "That's metal on metal," Mark said earlier when he heard the scraping, groaning protest from my brakes and while I wasn't sure with my inadequate knowledge of all things mechanical what that indicated exactly, I was sure it wasn't good. " 'Springtime In The Rockies' is just a song," I reminded Hoot, making a stab at conciliation before scrambling into my truck, out of the weather and away from his in-creasingly edgy temper. "This is the reality," I hollered, my words mostly lost in the storm. He grumbled something back I was glad I couldn't hear. The snow, forecasted to fall all day, blew down on this ruggedly picturesque sector of the Rocky Mountains in fat, fluffy flakes. It clung wet and heavy to fence lines, deep green pine trees and the outline of a rustic barn in the distance like frosting on a ginger-bread village. For a stolen second, I savored the pure beauty of the scene and memories of my childhood. It might have been a picture postcard moment if I'd been able to watch it from the comfort of a sturdy cabin with a fireplace and hot buttered rum. Instead, we were facing a day of coaxing animals, trucks and trailers along a road growing more treacherous by the minute. No time to indulge in log cabin fantasies. This particular morning Hoot had drawn the thankless task of staying with the two animals being ridden that day while Mark, Jack and I moved the trailers to our next camp-site down in Steamboat. Our MO was to move camp, leaving one person back with the riding animals, set the new camp, then double back and mount up the riders for the day. It was awkward, added hours to the day and miles to the hotshot truck, but we were so short-handed it was the only way to move the ride forward while ensuring Hoot and Mark would ride horseback every step of the way from Bandera to Calgary. The two animals being ridden this miserable day were Reckon, Hoot's quarter horse and Bull, Mark's Belgian draft mule. They stood quietly, backs to the worst of the wind, icicles forming on their bellies and tails, patient and in no apparent distress. Hoot was a lot less stoic, stomping around in the growing drifts, his mustache turning white against the beet red backdrop of his face. One part windburn, one part South Texas rage against the indignity of the elements, it was safe to assume his ill humor set the tone for what would become known as "the worst day of the Eye Reckon Freedom Ride."
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