The horses lunged forward as we spurred them on. They climbed easily enough as we changed direction and followed the switchbacks up the side of the mountain, noticing the many trees bearing the graffiti letters "T.J.", remnants of my grandpa's younger days when he'd have leaned over from the saddle to carve his initials in an aspen as the horses rested on this well-worn trail.
I could hear him talking as he leaned back in the saddle: "When we get around here, there's a bad spot up ahead, so pull your feet out of the stirrups in case the horse goes down. I remember, my mother would never get off her horse. Ever. She'd say, 'A horse has four legs, you have two, now who do you think is more likely to fall?' Besides there's a huge difference between riding a horse and sitting on one, you'll be alright as long as you pull your feet out of the stirrups."
Even though I was always leery of his infamous "shortcuts," my grandpa's words always kept me in the saddle as they did this day, riding up and down mountains on the backs of panting horses.
He started to laugh suddenly, then continued, "T-Texas." He used the nickname he'd given me as a boy. "T-Texas, do you remember that time Maxy's horse went down with him. I thought it was a sleeping bag rolling down the hill! Poor bastard! Thank God he wasn't hurt."
He kept talking as I remembered the scene from one of the many pack trips I'd been a part of as a boy with my grandfather and the Forest Service. I spent many days in the summers of my childhood crisscrossing the Bridger-Teton National Forest as we rode from allotment to allotment where we grazed sheep. Some of my most cherished memories are of me riding a big black gelding through the pines, up and down hills, and listening to the stories my grandpa had to tell.
We were riding now on a Sunday and wouldn't be back down the mountain for several days yet we carried on our own Mountain Mass as we rode. We talked about Heaven and Hell and life in general, in communion with nature, the horses, and each other, talking to the steady cadence of horseshoes on rock.
We stopped again to rest the horses as he pulled an apple out of his saddlebag and cut it in half and passing me part, saying, "I've always felt closest to God out here, in the mountains."
We sat in silence letting the trees absorb the words, listening to the horses sigh, and I remembered the time a documentary was made about Wyoming ranches. The movie opened with my great grandmother, the same one who never got off her horse, explaining how her grandfather had been shot and killed and how life in Wyoming had changed since then, even as ranching seemed to stay pretty much the same: a deep communion between man and animal, man and nature, man and God. But, what I remembered well was the next scene that had my grandpa behind the wheel of a red pickup talking to the interviewer as sagebrush raced by outside the window.
"Scripture talks about the Good Shepherd, tending his flock, tending the lambs. It means something to me. I can relate to that. I kinda associate myself with that," he said smiling at the camera as it bounced up and down on some dirt road back down the mountain.
In the present, we sat quietly and listened to the sounds of the forest, the wind in the trees, the crunch of the apple we shared, the soft sound of the horses moving weight from leg to leg.
"Yeah, I always feel closest to God out here," he said again as a final benediction on the day and added, "Come on, T-Texas, let's get going; we've got lots of miles left."
Through all the miles, I have had a mentor, a companion, and a great friend. No matter where the switchbacks of life take me, my grandpa will always be along for the ride, as a voice in the back of my mind giving me a profoundly simple piece of advice that cuts to the point and keeps me in the saddle.
