from Elsie Stanley (Glen Stanley’s
wife), who was responding to a note that I had sent her along with a piece in the Prince George Citizen that referred to “the mystery” of two horses being up on Mount Renshaw for what the article suggested was a six-week period.
“My husband,” she wrote, “spent a couple of days hiking in the Renshaw in mid-September and saw the horses—took pictures of them. He was concerned about them so contacted the RCMP. They put him in touch with the Alberta owner, and they had a chat. . . . Glen volunteered several times to go with him to retrieve the horses, and the owner suggested which day he would be coming out again. . . . Glen was out on the highway the day the fellow was supposed to be coming, and saw a red pickup from Alberta with a two-horse trailer so assumed that was him, but never heard from him again so had to assume the mission had been accomplished.
“I just happened to be talking with someone on Friday who knew of a mutual friend who had been up digging on the trail, so heard about the horses still being there. I told Glen and he’s quite ‘sickened’ by the neglect. . . . Just wanted to tell you that the horses have been up there on toward four months, and nothing mysterious about it.”
What was beginning to sink in was that several people had seen the horses alone on the mountain that fall. But for various reasons, the plight of the two horses was never brought to wider attention.
Hiker Glen Stanley did call the RCMP, but he was under the
impression that the situation would be taken care of. Had Glen, or anyone else, known that it hadn’t been taken care of, they might well have called the brand inspector, put up flyers or mentioned the find to other horse people in the valley. I, for one, would have happily ridden up there in the fall with others to get those horses down. It would have been fun. But assumptions had been made, too much time had lapsed, and the logistics of any successful rescue had become much more complicated.
That morning, thankfully, my truck started. Elated, I headed to Monika’s house to pick her up for that day’s shovelling. In the truck, we talked about sundry matters: who might show up to shovel, the condition of the horses. Sometimes, we just drove along in silence as old friends will do.
While waiting for others to show up at the Renshaw parking lot, Monika and I talked to a group of sledders from Alberta. We asked them to come help shovel for a while.
“We’re here to ride,” said one.
“Believe me,” I replied, “we have other things to do as well. But we can’t let these horses starve.” I continued giving them a hard time, but nothing seemed to come of it.
Afterward, Monika laughed to herself. “They’re not going to come now,” she said, “the way you talked to them.”
Dave then showed up, followed by Leif. Stu had stayed behind to deal with frozen water lines at home but would try to come later. Liz and Jesse Trask had bowed out for the same reason. The intense cold was taking its toll. Dave had told me that Stu wasn’t feeling well either, but later that day—a measure of his commitment to the mission—Stu came up and put his shoulder to the trench.
As we loaded hay bales onto the two sleds, I talked to Dave about Lisa’s concern that the trench posed a hazard to sledders.
“The trench winds through the trees,” he said. “Really, only locals know the area. I don’t think we have to worry about it.” I agreed.
I rode in with Dave, while Monika rode with Leif. Ice chunks still marred the trail. In the light of day, I could see the extent of the ice jam: some of the hundreds of pieces of ice were the size of portable televisions, others as big as desktops, and they were scattered over a twenty-foot section of the trail.
I had no helmet today, but even with my toque and two balaclavas, I was freezing. The wind chill on a sled in this kind of cold is mind-boggling. It felt as though somebody was
wife), who was responding to a note that I had sent her along with a piece in the Prince George Citizen that referred to “the mystery” of two horses being up on Mount Renshaw for what the article suggested was a six-week period.
“My husband,” she wrote, “spent a couple of days hiking in the Renshaw in mid-September and saw the horses—took pictures of them. He was concerned about them so contacted the RCMP. They put him in touch with the Alberta owner, and they had a chat. . . . Glen volunteered several times to go with him to retrieve the horses, and the owner suggested which day he would be coming out again. . . . Glen was out on the highway the day the fellow was supposed to be coming, and saw a red pickup from Alberta with a two-horse trailer so assumed that was him, but never heard from him again so had to assume the mission had been accomplished.
“I just happened to be talking with someone on Friday who knew of a mutual friend who had been up digging on the trail, so heard about the horses still being there. I told Glen and he’s quite ‘sickened’ by the neglect. . . . Just wanted to tell you that the horses have been up there on toward four months, and nothing mysterious about it.”
What was beginning to sink in was that several people had seen the horses alone on the mountain that fall. But for various reasons, the plight of the two horses was never brought to wider attention.
Hiker Glen Stanley did call the RCMP, but he was under the
impression that the situation would be taken care of. Had Glen, or anyone else, known that it hadn’t been taken care of, they might well have called the brand inspector, put up flyers or mentioned the find to other horse people in the valley. I, for one, would have happily ridden up there in the fall with others to get those horses down. It would have been fun. But assumptions had been made, too much time had lapsed, and the logistics of any successful rescue had become much more complicated.
That morning, thankfully, my truck started. Elated, I headed to Monika’s house to pick her up for that day’s shovelling. In the truck, we talked about sundry matters: who might show up to shovel, the condition of the horses. Sometimes, we just drove along in silence as old friends will do.
While waiting for others to show up at the Renshaw parking lot, Monika and I talked to a group of sledders from Alberta. We asked them to come help shovel for a while.
“We’re here to ride,” said one.
“Believe me,” I replied, “we have other things to do as well. But we can’t let these horses starve.” I continued giving them a hard time, but nothing seemed to come of it.
Afterward, Monika laughed to herself. “They’re not going to come now,” she said, “the way you talked to them.”
Dave then showed up, followed by Leif. Stu had stayed behind to deal with frozen water lines at home but would try to come later. Liz and Jesse Trask had bowed out for the same reason. The intense cold was taking its toll. Dave had told me that Stu wasn’t feeling well either, but later that day—a measure of his commitment to the mission—Stu came up and put his shoulder to the trench.
As we loaded hay bales onto the two sleds, I talked to Dave about Lisa’s concern that the trench posed a hazard to sledders.
“The trench winds through the trees,” he said. “Really, only locals know the area. I don’t think we have to worry about it.” I agreed.
I rode in with Dave, while Monika rode with Leif. Ice chunks still marred the trail. In the light of day, I could see the extent of the ice jam: some of the hundreds of pieces of ice were the size of portable televisions, others as big as desktops, and they were scattered over a twenty-foot section of the trail.
I had no helmet today, but even with my toque and two balaclavas, I was freezing. The wind chill on a sled in this kind of cold is mind-boggling. It felt as though somebody was
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