Trails Where Legends Are Born

There is an equestrian trail in Tahoe Donner (Truckee, CA) that is a favorite of the guides. As riders enter this trail, the guide will say, “if you touch one of the giant aspens and make a wish, it will come true.”

Maybe this ersatz legend is a way to get city-slickers to literally get in touch with the natural world. Or it could be the usual entertainment hokum most dude wranglers tell their guests, finding them a captive audience for jokes and stories that add to the Old West flavor horse activities inspire.

Such is the stuff of the West, taking a normal daily occurrence and stretching it so far out of proportion, it becomes Legend. Cowboy poetry festivals have spread across the modern West with great success, building upon people’s love for stories from those with a gift for embellishment. Mark Twain made an illustrious career with such a mind.

This oral tradition isn’t bounded by the Old West or other specific cultures. Everyone has the capacity for storytelling. Riding or hiking this trail among the giant aspens always recalls for me a growing collection of tales drawn from folks that live in the high Sierra Nevada around Lake Tahoe.

Cell Phone Diva

My daughter, Val, has been a trail guide for many years and has regaled us with amazing stories. The one that astounds me the most, perhaps, is about a woman riding near the back of the line who could not separate herself from her cell phone. On and on she yakked until her pony wandered into the dense willows beside the trail. “OMG!” she screamed into the cell phone. “My horse is in the willows. OMG!”

This trail happened to be on a steep hillside with a treacherous drop off. Val had to dismount, pick her way between horses and the cliff, and pull this woman’s mount, untangling the reins in the process, out of the willows. The woman continued to scream into her cell phone about her dilemma, unaware that my daughter was at the rescue… and risking her life as well.

Anytime someone complains about drivers glued to their cell phones, I tell them this story. And the Legend grows.

Dedicated Law Enforcement

There is a police officer that will never live down his citing of two trail guides for RUI - riding under the influence. These guides rode to a favorite thirst parlor near where Lake Tahoe empties into the Truckee River. There’s a well-maintained asphalt trail along the river that goes all the way to Olympic Valley where these ladies lived and worked as trail guides.

Anyone horsey person knows that the horse will always return home. That's where the hay, oats, and cookies are. This particular officer, however, was unfamiliar with this Universal Truth. As soon as these two inebriated wranglers mounted their steeds and started down the trail, the officer pursued them, issuing tickets for their offense. They’re actually quite lucky he didn’t use his siren. That would’ve been a real rodeo.

Months later, I heard another officer say that Our Hero will be remembered forever for his actions, but not in a good way. Apparently, there’s no law on the books, at least one that’s seriously enforced, about riding horses while drunk. Cowboys have been doing that for eons and have never caused a traffic mishap.

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

The trail of giant aspens also holds other “legends” of a more personal nature. I’d ride my mare, Abby, up this steep grade, listening to her huff and puff as she worked her way up the trail. Then we’d wander across Hawks Peak, coming across deer and the wafting aroma of bear and cougar. To Abby, they were always there, crouched in the Manzanita, awaiting her arrival. Had it not been for my dog, Checkers, thrashing back and forth through the woods in front of her, Abby would’ve reacted constantly to these smells and imaginings, giving me a rough ride.

One night, her suspicions came true as she, Checkers, and I rode out to catch up with the equestrian center's full moon ride one summer evening. The moonlight cast eerie shadows under the trees as we followed familiar trails. We never found the rest of the group, but all went well until we headed back to the barn.

Even though Checkers still “rode point” ahead of us, he didn’t sense the danger there. Abby did. Her ears perked up and she stopped, every muscle tense. I knew enough to trust her when she did this and waited.

She stared straight ahead, looking way beyond where Checkers sniffed the underbrush. I followed her gaze, looking through the half-light until I saw it too.

Fifty yards up the trail a lumbering shape crossed the trail, making its way toward the houses that bordered the trail system. It was garbage day the next morning and this bear was headed for the smorgasbord.

As the bear ambled through the trees, I relaxed. We waited a few more moments, giving the bear time to move further up the hill and out of sight. Then I tapped Abby’s flanks gently. She walked slowly onward. I didn’t rush her, trusting that she’d know the danger was clear.

I didn’t tell anyone at the barn about this adventure. I felt embarrassed enough at having gone out alone at night -- prime hunting hours for bears and cougars. It's not the first time my stupidity has risked my welfare, but I've always had a dog or horse whose greater intelligence has saved my life.

The Legend of Crystal

Everyone in Bear Country has a story or two of seeing a bear outside their cabin or on the patio. One story, though, tells of a bear that haunted the woods and neighborhoods around the Trail of Giant Aspens. It holds all the pathos and fantasy that lifted it to legendary proportions.

The bear was orphaned when she was a tiny cub. The Bear League cautioned residents to leave her alone. Let her fend for herself and if she makes it through winter, she’ll be okay. And she won’t be imprinted on humans, a major problem in the Sierra Nevada.

One snowshoer told a story that circulated widely that she came down from a tree and approached him on the aspen trail. She pawed and nipped his leg, a gesture of begging for food. Others saw her wandering the neighborhood or sleeping in snow caves formed under eaves, decks and between buildings. One man said she looked like a little cinnamon bear, almost elfin in appearance.

Such natural things often lead us to be fanciful about the harsh realities of Nature. The little bear survived and became known as Crystal because of her faery-like appeal. I never saw her, but I’ve often wondered if she would emerge from the thick aspen and willow growth whenever I hiked the trails on Hawk’s Peak.

In fact, I’ve fantasized about meeting a cougar on the trail. A few people in Tahoe have told me their experiences, speaking in reverent tones.

One young man said he was sitting on the lakeshore and heard a noise behind him. Looking back, he saw a cougar drinking just a few feet away from him. His movement betrayed his presence and the cougar fled. The man said he felt privileged for this rare opportunity, although many who have lost relatives to cougar attacks would consider him insane.

Fantasies of Crystal and mountain lions are much more fun than the actual face-to-face contact. Even deer can be deadly. And I’m just balmy enough to envy the young man’s glimpse of the elusive cat. Who knows how I would react if it actually happened. Yet I continue to dream.

Thus lies the span between legend and fact. Nature is dangerous if not respected, but our embellished experiences linger over the trails, marking them with a sense of Literary Place. Perhaps most stories will only last a short time among those who heard them directly. Others will venture out and return with sagas that will linger for generations.

Such is the stuff of the oral tradition. Humans soften reality with a padding of literature. It's much safer to hear or read a wild tale than to actually experience it. That's why fairytales, myths, and legends are important to tell children because it a protected way to reveal the dangers of real life. It’s especially exciting, though, to walk the trails through the aspens, listen to the sounds, and smell the fresh air, knowing that our own legends can emerge from the wild wood, even if it's just a chattering squirrel.