Dave Killen/The Oregonian

The first thing you need to do is relax. The rest of it – keeping your feet in the stirrups, holding onto the reins, nudging the horse to move – will come naturally. But if you can’t relax in the saddle, it’s going to be a rough ride.

That’s what I learned on a three-day summer horseback excursion in the wilderness of Oregon’s central Cascade Mountains. I did my best to relax my hips into the rigid leather saddle atop Tugs, a big white mustang with whom I’d be spending the next three days.

The overnight trip was led by Jim Fisher, a Newberg man who sold a successful roofing business and now spends most of his days on horseback. He was assisted by his friend, Don Welliver, from Yamhill, who started riding horses later in life and fell in love with it.

Fisher doesn't operate commercially, but takes people out to raise money for the Home Builders Foundation, a nonprofit that renovates and builds transitional housing for people experiencing homelessness. An executive at The Oregonian/OregonLive bought a trip in an auction and couldn't go, leaving the adventure to me and our videographer, Dave Killen.



When your boss’ calendar fills up, sometimes you get lucky.

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The itinerary was two nights and three days exploring the Eight Lakes Basin of the Mount Jefferson Wilderness, riding mustangs and mules past lakes and through forests ravaged by the B&B Complex fires of 2003. Each day we would be spending two to three hours on horseback, giving us the freedom to fish or swim in the lakes if we so desired. Jim and Don had already made camp at Santiam Lake when we met them, at a spot with enough room for two tents, seven animals and the four of us.

Neither Dave nor I had ever really ridden a horse, and despite warnings from friends and coworkers that we’d be saddlesore and sorry for not practicing, we both felt pretty confident as we stepped up into the stirrups that first cloudy morning at the Duffy Lake Trailhead, about 45 minutes northwest of Sisters.

“It’s just like riding a bike,” Jim told us. All you need to do is put your weight in your feet and use the stirrups to steer. Oh, and make sure to give the horse a swift kick with your heel if he starts to lag behind. That piece of advice would come in handy.

With that, we set off into the shady forest of hemlocks and Douglas firs, our horses trotting faithfully down the trail.

READ MORE: How to see Oregon by horseback: 6 areas to explore in the saddle

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Jim Fisher on horseback during a brief stop in a meadow.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

A saddle at camp near Santiam Lake.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Lewis the mule with the bit in his mouth.

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INTO THE WILD

Tugs and I rode in the middle of the pack string behind Jim, who was leading three horses down the trail. I felt great on the horse, though he seemed ambivalent about my presence on his back. Jim turned around to check in on us and smiled.

“You look like a regular cowboy!” he barked.

He was probably just being kind, but I accepted the compliment anyway.

I would normally be hiking a trail like this, but as we made our way through the forest, up steep hills and across muddy creeks, I felt grateful not to be walking. We passed backpackers, red-faced and sweaty, and I was happy not to be in their ranks.

Tugs, meanwhile, seemed lackadaisical about the whole experience. Jim said he considers the 20-year-old mustang “his best horse” but might soon retire him. Domestic horses live only to about 30, and to my untrained eye, Tugs was already showing signs of age.

When the horse wasn’t trying to bend down to eat brush on the side of the trail, he seemed stubbornly determined to remain 20 or 30 yards behind the next horse ahead. I squeezed him with my legs to remind him to keep up, and when that didn’t work, I nudged him with my heel.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Lewis the mule drinks from Santiam Lake as the sun sets.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Don Welliver atop his mule Lewis during a brief stop in a meadow.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Saddles at camp near Santiam Lake.

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I’m not used to being rough with animals. I was raised with cats and a dog and was always taught to treat them gently. I just couldn’t bring myself to be rough with Tugs, no matter how obstinate he was with me.

And of course, sensing I would keep a loose rein, Tugs took full advantage. Later, I asked Jim how Tugs got his name.

“Get him excited and he’ll show you,” he said.

I really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

When we arrived at Santiam Lake that afternoon, we were treated to a spectacular view: Three Fingered Jack, one of the oldest Cascade peaks, standing tall over the water. Three Fingered Jack is an extinct shield volcano that last erupted between 80,000 and 40,000 years ago. Since then, it has been heavily eroded by glaciers, leaving its iconic sawtooth-shaped profile.

Clouds settled in over the mountain that night, as we sat around the campfire swapping stories and eating chicken stir fry. Jim, luckily, had stories for days. Ask him about the time he and some hunting buddies had to take down a grizzly bear that charged into their camp. Or the time he got caught up in a rockslide in Hells Canyon.

The mosquitoes swarmed our hands and faces, but the forest was quiet and sleep came quickly, the horses neighing gently in the dark.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

A campfire burns at camp near Santiam Lake.

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Horses are tied up at a makeshift stable in the trees near camp.

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The sun sets over Santiam Lake in the Eight Lakes Basin.

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THE STUBBORN MULE

The great thing about exploring on horseback is that you have plenty of time for the rest of the day.

Sure, it took Jim and Don a couple hours to water, feed and saddle up the horses, but having had our offers of assistance turned down, Dave and I had the better part of the mornings and evenings to ourselves.

We followed a trail around Santiam Lake, past backpacking campsites and meadows strewn with flowers, taking in views of Duffy Butte and the tip of Mount Jefferson in the distance. The sun hid behind a patchwork of clouds, making the days nice and cool.

At camp I lounged on logs and rocks, as Dave took pictures of the saddles and scenery. Don and I tried to identify the evergreen trees around us, while Jim made sandwiches for the group and started heated discussions about forest management.

I’m used to getting up early and spending the better part of a day on the trail, and if I’m being honest, the easy-going atmosphere was hard to get used to.

One the second day of the trip, we left camp on horseback around noon, with a plan to explore deeper into the Eight Lakes Basin. We took the trail north past Mowich Lake and Jorn Lake, passing through some of the more severe wildfire scars I’ve seen in Oregon.

The morning sun shone brightly on the still, gray snags, surrounded by sprouts of vibrant green life. Tall bear grass popped up along the trail, the cream-colored puffball plumes bobbing oddly as we passed. Silence fell over the group. It felt like we had trotted onto another world.

We got a stunning view of Mount Jefferson from the trail before stopping for lunch at Blue Lake, a small, quiet spot with beautiful scenery. As we ate, a sense of calm isolation washed over me. We were practically alone in this wilderness, I realized, in a place where nature feels more at home without us.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Horses get ready for another trip down the trail.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Bear grass grows near Jorn Lake in the Eight Lakes Basin.

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Jorn Lake in the Eight Lakes Basin on a sunny summer afternoon.

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On the way back, Don suggested I trade Tugs for a ride on his mule, Lewis. While mules are still part-horse, the riding experience was noticeably different. Lacking the strong shoulders of a mustang, he had more bounce in his step, making the ride a bit bumpier.

The afternoon sun began to dip as we made our way back to camp, crossing over logs when the animals could, climbing the hill to go around them when they couldn’t. Lewis began to faithfully follow the horses around one particularly high log across the trail, but then stopped suddenly and walked back down to face it.

He paused at the log and I paused on the reins. I didn’t think he would dare try to jump it, but suddenly he did, sending the saddle sliding sideways around his barrel-shaped body in the effort. I soon found myself dangling sideways, awkwardly braced against a tree, my legs still straddling the mule. I managed to get off safely (pulling a muscle in the process) as Jim made his way over to help.

“You just gotta control ‘em,” he said, as he tightened Lewis’ saddle back down. “Show ‘em who’s boss.”

When it came to being rough with the reins, I was starting to feel more stubborn than the mule.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

The sun rises over Three Fingered Jack at Santiam Lake.

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Butterflies investigate a saddle pad at a campsite near Santiam Lake.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Santiam Lake, with Mount Jefferson in the background.

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The next morning dawned on a cloudless sky, the sun rising behind Three Fingered Jack over the lake. We had to get an early start, so there was little time to lounge about. After a quick breakfast of sausage and eggs, Jim and Don saddled up the horses and packed the panniers.

As we trotted down the trail back to the Duffy Lake Trailhead, Jim’s words echoed in my head. Back on Tugs, I was treated to another morning of obstinance – but this time I wasn’t going to let him have his way.

I finally learned to anticipate when Tugs would bend to eat, pulling on the reins before he got too far. His lagging behind, however, still seemed to be an issue.

The horse seemed determined to keep back from the other horses, and no amount of nudging or squeezing with my legs seemed to work. He would begin to trot, showing he understood, but would immediately fall back to a walk, as if to say, “you’re not the boss of me.”

As he fell farther and farther behind, I finally put my gentleness aside and gave the stubborn horse a swift kick in the ribs.

Tugs whinnied and took the command, trotting quickly down the narrow forest trail. Standing in the stirrups to keep from bouncing in the saddle, the scenery whipped by, branches flapping in my face. The horse might have been annoyed, but it was an exhilarating ride.

Back at the trailhead we dismounted and gathered up our things. Dave turned the camera on me for an end-of-trip interview, but Jim swooped in and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“This guy’s a real cowboy right here!” he barked at the camera.

I knew he was just saying that again, but this time I felt like I had earned it.

--Jamie Hale | jhale@oregonian.com | @HaleJamesB



SEE MORE PHOTOS BELOW

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Jim Fisher tends to two horses as they drink from Santiam Lake at sunset.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Bear grass grows along the shore of Blue Lake in the Eight Lakes Basin.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Lewis the mule gets saddled up for the day.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Oregonian reporter Jamie Hale stands in a meadow with Tugs (right), his horse for the day, with Three Fingered Jack in the background.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Duffy Bluff is reflected in Santiam Lake in the Eight Lakes Basin.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

A deer passes by the campsite near Santiam Lake.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Jim Fisher tends to two of his horses during a brief stop in a meadow.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Sunsets paints light over the trees at Santiam Lake in the evening.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Duffy Bluff rises over Duffy Lake in the Eight Lakes Basin.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

Dead trees stand in a fire-scarred landscape on the trail in the Eight Lakes Basin.

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Dave Killen/The Oregonian

A saddle sits at camp near Santiam Lake, after a day's ride in the wilderness.