Indian Summer

On an Indian Summer morning in 1989, Ty and I turned a string of pack mules onto a trail that climbed among conifers and tumbled granite at the head of a canyon, high on the eastern rim of the Sierra Nevada wilderness. The air was thin but warm, pine needles crisp under hoof, and the sun cut the ridges in gold.

Ty rode steadily in the lead, reins loose in his hand, his hat weathered and shaped by years of use. He was a dozen years older than me, and it showed — not just in his gray whiskers but in the way he seemed to belong to the saddle, like the leather had molded itself around him. He didn’t so much ride a horse as exist with it, a single creature with four legs and a mind steady as stone.

“You’d think this view would never get old,” I said, twisting in the saddle to take in the canyon dropping away behind us.

“Don’t,” Ty answered without turning his head. His voice sounded like gravel and strong coffee.

The pack mules clinked along behind us, carrying tents, bedrolls, coffee pots, a cast-iron skillet, and enough beans to feed us for a month. Mules are honest company. They don’t gossip, don’t argue, and don’t brag. They just put their head down and climb.

Still, “honest” doesn’t mean “easy.” By midmorning, the October sun turned sharp and white, burning the canyon walls. Each thud of a hoof sent up tiny explosions of granite dust that sifted onto the shrubs and into our throats as we gulped the thin air at ten thousand feet.

Ty rode ahead, calm as a pine tree, while I fought to keep my mule from treating the trail like a buffet line. If there was a blade of grass or a scrap of lichen growing out of rock, my mule aimed for it.

“You’d think a mule would know the difference between a rock and a cliff,” I muttered, jerking the reins away from the edge.

Ty chuckled. “They know exactly which one’ll make you dance.”

Sure enough, the lead mule, a stubborn gray named Clementine, decided the middle of a switchback was the perfect place to sit down. The mules behind her froze. Packs shifted. Bells jingled like a tiny orchestra tuning up for a panic.

“Clem!” I barked, tugging the reins. She looked back at me with the serene disdain of a philosopher who had concluded long ago that humans are ridiculous.

Ty swung down slowly, unhurried, not scolding. “You’re too tense,” he said. “You’re arguing with the wrong creature.”

I glared at the mule. It didn’t blink. Ty leaned close, whispered something in her ear, and I swear she rolled her eyes before standing up, shaking off a ghost of dust.

He winked. “Sometimes the trail teaches patience the hard way.”

I huffed, adjusting my hat. “I’ll remember that when she dumps me in the canyon.”

The rest of the ride was quieter, Clementine smug in her victory, the others shuffling along as if they’d witnessed a coronation. Ty hummed a tune, steady as water in a streambed, while I chewed on both dust and humility.

We stopped at a spring midday, where cold water bubbled from stone. The mules dropped their heads, tails swishing, while Ty sat on a rock and unwrapped jerky from a brown paper sack. I dug out a half-smashed sandwich.

“Funny thing,” Ty said. “Down there in the valley, folks go on about luck, fate, or coincidence. Up here, it’s just common sense. Keep your canteen full, tie your knots right, and respect the trail. You do that, and you’ll be fine. Forget, and you’ll be sorry.”

I nodded, trying to decide if I’d just heard a rancher’s proverb or a sermon. Either way, it landed.

After lunch, we pushed on. The trail narrowed, squeezed between granite outcrops and thick pine. A chipmunk darted across the rocks, sending one of the younger mules into a snort-and-dance routine that nearly tangled the lead rope in my hand. I yanked, cussed, and tried not to tumble into the canyon. Ty never even flinched. He just kept moving, steady as always.

Later, the trail pitched upward into switchbacks carved so tight it felt like we were folding ourselves up the mountain. My thighs burned, my throat was dry, and sweat ran dusty streaks down my neck. Clementine marched on, ears flicking, satisfied she had already established dominance. I began to suspect she enjoyed watching me suffer.

By late afternoon, the air cooled, the shadows stretched, and the trail finally spat us out onto a granite plateau. A meadow spread beyond, rimmed with lodgepole pine and lit by the fading sun. The mules dropped their heads to graze what little grass clung to the ground, grateful for the break.

Ty unpacked them with patient hands, pulling ropes, shifting leather, setting each bundle where it belonged. I fumbled along, still learning the rhythm.

“Don’t fight the knots,” he said when he caught me yanking at one. “Work with ‘em. They’re like people — pull too hard, and they just get tighter.”

Camp came together slowly. The tents, pitched on the flattest ground we could find, a fire pit, cleared, and water, hauled from the spring, and by the time the fire popped to life, the canyon had gone quiet but for the low shuffle of hooves and the soft hiss of wind through pine.

We sat side by side, chewing beans from tin plates, the smoke curling skyward into a night already dusted with stars. My body ached in places I didn’t know existed, but my head was clearer than it had been in months.

“You were right,” I said at last. “The mules don’t complain about the view.”

Ty chuckled, eyes glinting in the firelight. “The trick is not to be the fool who does.”

I leaned back, letting the stars spill across the black sky. The rhythm of the day — hoof, dust, sun, stubborn mule, laughter, silence — folded around me. For once, I didn’t need to name the feeling in my chest. It was enough.

Clementine flicked an ear in the firelight, her silhouette cut sharp against the meadow. She had tested me, embarrassed me, and maybe even taught me something. Out here, even the mules were philosophers.

And I was beginning to learn the language.