Red Horse Trail

Now with the western end of Little Rock Pond in sight, it is time to start thinking about returning to the Red Horse Trail for a few days. The trail remains just due west, so bushwhacking there should not require any fancy navigating, as long as I avoid a slim wetland in between the trail and my current location. However, often easier said than done.

It has been four days since I left the trail behind after a brief encounter, so it will feel good to return for a day or two before heading back into the forest on the way back to my car. With the darkening clouds beginning to intrude on my earlier blue sky, rain looks likelier, so the Trout Pond lean-to near the trail’s southern terminus may just be what the long-distance hiker ordered. The warm temperatures and humid air, a high contrast to the previous day’s cool temperatures and frigid winds, portend thunderstorms in my near future.

I inch a little farther along Little Rock Pond’s northern shoreline until the ideal spot to start west presents itself. Although I would like to revisit Witchhopple Lake today, whether and where that happens is still in doubt. For now, I enter the surrounding forest and begin my bushwhack away from the pond and towards points west.

The forest quickly becomes dark and dreary, whether this is due to the darkening sky or the dense forest overstory, I am not sure. White pine dominates the upper canopy, while young red spruce, beech and red maple own the space below. Downed logs, rocks and boulders are frequent obstacles, but all become sparser as I put distance between myself and the pond. The soft whoosh as the wind flows through the pine foliage adds to the forest’s mysterious nature, plus contributing to my ominous trepidation.

Section Stats:
Date: June 30, 2015
Length: 3.9 miles (5.6 total daily miles; 34.1 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Easy

As I glance at my GPS, it is obvious I am heading for an open boggy area that separates me from the Red Horse Trail. Despite the threatening weather conditions, I decide to switch gears and head north for Witchhopple Lake’s prominent southwest bay, which is not too far from me. Seeing this beautiful lake from an entirely different perspective is worth the risk of a sudden downpour, or so I believe when I am dry and warm.

It takes another twenty minutes of bushwhacking through a rather uniform white pine forest before I finally see Witchhopple Lake through the trees. After a steep and short descent, I find myself at the lake’s shore, in the southwest corner, maybe two-tenths of a mile south of campsite I visited in the morning of day three of this trip. The view is quite outstanding, with much of the western end of the lake visible, including the island and the mountains in the background.

The view is not the only thing to catch my eye however. Five common loons bob along the surface of the lake, apparently just enjoying the late morning. Three are close together, while the remaining pair is aloof and farther away. The ménage a trois are very vocal, calling constantly while I observe them from shore. Whether they are vocalizing their displeasure with me, or the other pair, it is impossible to discern. Adding to their calls, a lone pine warbler sings its heart out up in one of the large white pines along shore, nearly impossible to spot it such a high in the tree canopy.

Dark clouds hover over the lake, making me even more uncomfortable and anxious. The when a sudden rumble breaks through the loons, I nearly panic, with the distress only slightly dissipating after the source turns out to be an airplane overhead (this experience is why rumbles of any kind in the backcountry makes me anxious). Regardless of the false alarm this time, rain is starting to seem imminent, so getting on my way and finding the Red Horse Trail is a prudent course of action if I want to remain dry today.

According to my GPS, the trail is only about one-tenth of a mile away to the west; a short distance indeed. From the trail, I should make good time hiking south to the Trout Pond lean-to, especially after bushwhacking for the last few hours. Hopefully, the rain holds off for a little while longer.

After a short hike over rolling terrain with a decreasing understory, I finally see a brown ribbon of dirt undulating through the forest; the Red Horse Trail. It is my first sighting of the trail since leaving it just north of Witchhopple Lake about three days ago. Surprisingly, we reunite just about twenty feet south of the intersection where the old trail to the campsite parts from the new trail section to the log bridge. I have nearly come full-circle, old friend.

White pine forest west of Little Rock Pond

With the sky turning even darker, I waste no time, turning south and hiking at a furious pace toward the Trout Pond lean-to. It feels like I am flying down the trail now that I no longer need to navigate through the forest or detour around frequent obstacles. Hopefully, the brisk pace is enough to keep dry.

Shortly after starting south, a large bird flies across the trail from a nearby conifer tree. It vanishes with such surprising speed for a creature of large size that there is little time to think about retrieving my binoculars before it is gone. The growing darkness deters me from dawdling for too long before I once again begin hiking, each step taking me closer to safety from the approaching storm.

Sights pass by rapidly at my fast pace, with little time to stop and enjoy the views. The trail borders a wet meadow for a while before reentering the forest again for a long stretch. After a short distance, a side trail leads to the Salmon Lake inlet, which I check out for some photography opportunities despite the threatening clouds. The main trail enters the forest again after the inlet, though occasionally I can see the lake through the trees to the west. A boardwalk weaves through a wet area about halfway down the length of Salmon Lake, where a single section floating in the open water requires a little fancy footwork.

Witchhopple Lake

It is nearly one o’clock when the rains begins. The rain starts with just a random drop here and there, which motivates me to pull out my rain gear and put it on in an attempt to use its magic to prevent the weather from escalating. The attempt is futile however, as the rain slowly grows harder, with thunder rumbling in the distance.

And then, a downpour ensues.

A flash of lightening, a deafening crack of thunder quickly following, making me step up my pace as the trail continues to roughly parallel along Salmon Lake. Although not in a full-blown panic, my levels of apprehensiveness and anxiousness start growing, a long-term effect of being caught in the 1995 derecho storm those many years ago. Getting to the lean-to, which at least offers respite from the rain, becomes my laser focus.

Despite the anxiety and my renewed focus, I notice some deer tracks in the trail. Half of the tracks are large but the others are fairly tiny, suggesting a doe and her young fawn. The depth and direction of the prints suggests they are running down the trail in the same direction as myself. Whether they are fleeing the storm as I am, or fleeing me, is unknown.

Red Horse Trail

When I reach a wet, swampy area, I know exactly where I am thanks to my familiarity with the trail from working in the area in the summer of 1997 for the Wildlife Conservation Society. The old Salmon Lake lean-to site lies just a short distance farther south, with the lake itself just off to my west, the surrounding thick forest obscuring all views of it.

A series of log boardwalks (i.e. a logwalk) winds through this wet area, with a short gap between each of the logs. The logs are large, old and moss-covered in part, many looking so ancient they might disintegrate from a single step. They glisten with wet now, just waiting to slip a hasty hiker such as myself.

And they do just that!

My first step proves to be my undoing. The logs may look just wet, but they are as slippery as if covered in ice. My foot slips right off the log, disappearing into the surrounding muddy ground before I can reobtain my balance. Luckily, I recover my composure, reestablish my balance and gingerly make my way across the remaining boardwalk, making it to the other end without a replay of my original incident.

Within a short time, the trail brings me to the old lean-to site. Apparently, the lean-to was burnt down many years ago, but has never been rebuilt. The small clearing, with its stone fireplace still present, remains despite the lean-to’s absence, offering a beautiful view of Salmon Lake as it stretches off to the north. Unfortunately, the rain and subsequent fog obscure some of that view today.

In the back of the clearing, off to the east, right next to a herd path that once may have led to the privy, lies a row boat broken completely in two. The two pieces look torn apart, the stern and bow lying side to side, their broken ends facing the trail. The jagged edge suggests the boat was violently torn in two, like something out of the movie Jaws. Perhaps it was the Salmon Lake monster, a legendary mythical creature whose existence I am now going to promote.

Salmon Lake inlet

Before leaving the old site, I check the lake’s outlet to see check for any possible fording possibilities. The creek is fierce; leaving me wondering if getting across will even be possible in two days’ time. If not, I am in for one Hell of a bushwhacking detour.

Returning to the trail, I continue south, constantly checking for fording sites when the creek is in sight and the wet rocks and roots underfoot allow. Luckily, the trail parallels the creek, allowing for numerous opportunities for observing it. Unfortunately, opportunities to ford it are not any more promising than it was at the Salmon Lake outlet.

Occasionally, human footprints appear in the mud along the trail. Despite the falling rain, the footprints appear fresh, putting the fear of a fully occupied lean-to into me. I find it difficult to discern whether the tracks are from a single individual or many, but I expect the worst. Then again, perhaps they moved on to Witchhopple or Clear Lake for the day, so I try not to give up hope completely.

It is just after one in the afternoon when I arrive at the Trout Pond lean-to. With the footprints observed on the way down, I thought to find it full of stretched out and stinky hikers occupying every square inch. Luckily, and surprisingly, it is completely empty and just waiting for my soaking wet self to stink up the place.

Floating boardwalk

After entering the lean-to, I strip out of my wet and damp clothing, changing into what little extra clothes I brought with me. Luckily, I always bring a lightweight change of clothes for around camp, although after six days even these are starting to smell a little ripe. I quickly occupy every nail, peg and hook with something wet, be it clothes or equipment. I just hope no one shows up anytime soon or all this work will be for naught.

Being relatively dry and comfortable again, I set about spending my afternoon in the lean-to. First order of business is lunch, which has now been put off until nearly two in the afternoon. Unfortunately, with the damp conditions my tuna sandwich just is not quite filling enough. To quell my hunger, I fire up my homemade soda/beer can alcohol stove and cook up a Lipton cup-of-soup that I have carried with me on every backpacking trip since the late seventies, at least by the look of it.

Now satiated, my mind turns to getting across the Red Creek for the trip to the trailhead and my (hopefully) waiting car. The deafening roar coming from the creek as it enters Trout Pond is enough to put the fear of God in me, and with today and tomorrow’s forest of off-and-on rain showers, the likelihood of it getting better is looking pretty slim.

If I ford the raging creek, some extra precautions are necessary. The ideas include half inflating my air mattress and wearing it under rain jacket (cinched up as much as possible), tying a rope to myself and a tree as I cross, using two sticks as poles (just in case they get swept away) with Crocs on, or any combination of these. Finally, I decide the creek is too rocky and swift to risk it, at least currently. Another option is hiking back up to the Salmon Lake outlet looking for a better place to cross along the way, just in case I missed a promising spot today.

Slippery logwalk

If fording is not an option, then detouring around the creek is the only other choice, at least after ruling out waiting for a boat to come in and hitch a ride. I contemplate hiking north to Witchhopple, crossing there and returning to Higby, then heading southwest passed two unnamed ponds before turning west to a ladle-shaped pond south of Dismal Pond. Finally, from there I could head southwest to Ginger Pond, where it would be possible to follow an old logging road out. This includes some backtracking and a lot more bushwhacking then I originally planned, though much of it I did some years ago.

The rain continues off and on for the entire afternoon. When raining, I stay in the lean-to relaxing, just watching the surrounding forest as the rain drops drip off the foliage. At one point, a deer mouse comes out from under the lean-to and runs straight for the fire place and then disappears. With little else to do, I continue watching; waiting for the little rodent to reemerge again, which it does minutes later. This time the little rodent hustles from the fireplace to the surrounding forest, vanishing again at the base of a giant yellow birch tree.

When not watching the view outside like a television screen, I spend time writing and eating. Eating down my foods stores is important, as I only have three more days to go, one of which is going to be spent in the lean-to, so it is time to consume any extras and avoid carrying them back to my car. Nothing is more relaxing than enjoying snacks, while leisurely catching up on my notes at the edge of a lean-to during a rainstorm. Occasionally, the sweet flute like song of the Swainson’s Thrush penetrates through the din of the falling rain, adding further ambience to my afternoon.

Salmon Lake fireplace

After such a long and wet bushwhacking trip, this is pure paradise.

Occasionally, the rain stops, or at least tappers off enough to walk around and stretch out my old legs. My route usually takes me down to the creek, over to the trailhead register at the edge of Trout Pond and sometimes down the trail a little waits to Big Burnt Lake.

On one such trip, I check out the register. There are only about ¾ page of entries since February and none recently. Whomever made those tracks between here and Salmon obviously did not want their business known. Those that did journey along the Red Horse Trail indicated they were headed to Higby, Negro, Beaverdam, etc. I have been to most of these places just on this single trip.

The afternoon flies by quickly between my times in and out of the lean-to. As afternoon gives way to evening, I move all my damp stuff from around the lean-to to a single side, just in case some wet stragglers come in later and need a place to stay. This proves unnecessary.

Torn apart boat

When it gets late, and darkness begins engulfing the surrounding forest, I set up my interior insect netting that I usually hang under my tarp. Its many tie-offs occupy most of the nails on my side of the lean-to, yet it leaves the other half completely untouched for others. The food bag, I hang off an exposed limb some distance in back of the lean-to, where it should be safe from bruin and rodent alike.

My day ends as I lie comfortably in my sleeping bag listening to the rain drops as they continue to fall from the surrounding foliage. My final thoughts are about what I will do on my first rain-day at this location tomorrow and whether I will get bored.

Based on the restful afternoon I had today, it is not likely.

Salmon Lake

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