Carcross, Yukon - August 2002 - When 9/11 happened, I was working for a high-end adventure travel business. My wife was employed there as well, and within a month we were both out of work. We had friends in Alaska who said there were jobs, so we made plans to get there and start over.
We set out in early Spring the next year, driving our minivan and two young girls—9 months and 2 years old—from New Hampshire to Alaska. We had no savings, and while making the drive, we put what cash we had left into the gas tank or into simple meals for the kids.
When we arrived, we had an empty tank and no money left.
In Skagway, Alaska, I got a job with a tour company. They offered a 2.5-hour city tour where I covered the town’s Klondike Gold Rush history, but the excursions I really enjoyed were in the Yukon, on the other side of the coastal range, about seventy miles away. In the Yukon, the guides either did a 5-hour hike up Montana Mountain or a 3-hour horseback ride to Emerald Lake—both were in fantastically beautiful settings.
The drive there was incredible as we passed powerful waterfalls and historical sites like Dead Horse Gulch and Captain Moore’s bridge before cruising through the White Pass. Once up onto British Columbia’s Tormented Valley, at 3,200 feet, subalpine firs and spruce covered the foreground; the scenic horizon was lined with snow-covered mountains and glaciers.
But the best part was the animals. On that ride, I often saw caribou, moose, mountain goats, wolves, black bears, grizzlies and even wolverines. I must have seen over a thousand bears during my time in Alaska, many from horseback.
I remember showing up in Skagway, feeling like a failed cause. I’d lost my job and couldn’t afford to feed my family. I felt like a loser. But then, suddenly, I was on a horse in the Yukon, staring down at a brown bear, and I thought, “I can’t believe someone’s paying me for this!”
It was an incredible adventure that passed too quickly. For the last excursion of the season, I was assigned a horseback ride, and I drove to the corral with four guests in the back of the van. From Skagway, we cruised up the Klondike Highway, gaining elevation, until about 1.5 hours later, we reached the stables.
As I pulled the van up to the corral, the Yukon cowboys, Danny and Corey, were standing by a pickup in the parking lot. I pointed out the porta-potty to my guests and walked over to the truck. “Come with me,” Danny said to me. “I got a surprise for you.”
Danny led the way to the corral. He was grinning. “Look who we found,” he said and pointed at a young mare named Timber. She was saddled and standing by the rail with her lead tied to it.
I had been riding Timber all season, but she had gotten loose a few weeks ago, and with so many bears in this area, I didn’t think I’d ever see her again. On one of my last rides, I’d witnessed a thousand-pound grizzly, slowly lumbering down the horse trail while it tried to sniff out caribou that had calved recently—it was an imposing sight.
But riding Timber had never been easy. It was as if she was determined to shake me from the saddle at any cost. On my first ride, I was talking with Corey when suddenly she charged full speed at an old pine with a low cluster of dead branches. I narrowly kept my bearings until she slammed into the branches—then I was thrown clear of the saddle.
I sat on the damp forest floor, trying to catch my breath. Twigs and sticks were sticking from my hair when Danny rode up. My guests were watching me from their horses, and Danny was grinning; I knew I had to get back in the saddle.
Timber, whose reins had gotten tangled in the branches, stood a few feet away and stared down at me curiously. Danny grabbed her lead and handed it to me. My legs were quivering as I swung up into the saddle, but I was determined not to be thrown again. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a long battle between the two of us.
On the next ride, once in the saddle, I squeezed my legs into Timber´s sides without nudging, and in a stern voice warned, “You behave this time.” She whinnied in response, then seemed to settle down. Ten minutes later, one of the guests commented on the lovely smell of the balsam forest, and as I looked over my shoulder and said, “The Yukon is…” Timber bolted forward and unseated me again.
This time there was just a fast whoosh of air as I toppled backward. When I landed, my first emotion was relief that I'd come away shaken but unhurt. I had no insurance at all—my employer in Alaska had warned me that he would claim he had no idea who I was if I even tried to file a claim—and I had two little girls in our wall tent who depended on me.
I simply couldn't take that kind of risk. Yet, I couldn’t pass on the challenge.
“Maybe you should stay behind next time,” Danny suggested. “You know, help with the pie and ice cream after the ride.” I stood and brushed myself off. “She won’t get me like that again,” I said. Danny stared at me, a skeptical look in his eyes. “We’ll see,” he said through a smile.
After that, I signed up for the horseback rides every chance I had, and on almost every ride, Timber would somehow throw me. I tried to be prepared for bursts of speed or sudden stops. I watched for trees with low limbs. I kept my knees clamped tightly against her sides. I wish I could say I fared better; Timber simply had a lot of tricks I didn’t know about.
“I figured we might never see her again,” I said as I stared at her on that final run of the season.
“Us too!” said Danny. “She had a rough time out there on her own.” Danny paused, remembering a few of my past rides. “Might want to pass on riding her today.”
But I didn’t heed the advice. It was the last ride of the year, and I wanted to end my adventures with Timber on a good note. Maybe I thought I could soothe her—or she might be glad to see me—and this ride would be different.
The four guests walked up, and I helped Danny get them on their horses. Timber was dancing nervously; she glanced around, snorting with flared nostrils. I kept a constant vigilance and did well for the first half of the ride. We paused on the big grass-covered hill that overlooked the Watson River while dark clouds raced overhead.
From here, the trail slowly slanted down to a place near the water where we usually stopped for a break. It was a tricky part of the ride, because the horses got excited and often wanted to run the last bit—and if one tried to pass the others, it could crowd them off the trail.
Willows and buckbrush lined the water in a yellow band, and dried leaves were blowing in a rising breeze. Suddenly there was a distant crack of lightning, and soon the dark clouds unloaded a torrent of rain. Timber began to step nervously. I gently nudged the horse´s ribs, and we began to walk down the long hill, the rain pelting the wet grass.
I was riding drag, and I watched the guests ahead of me following Danny. They were still descending toward the river when another bolt of lightning hit and Timber jumped forward, trying to pass the horse directly ahead of us. The tourist riding in front of me looked alarmed.
I pulled hard on the reins, turning Timber up the hill to steer her away from the steeply dropping slope to the left. It began to pour. I managed to pull her head right around, so she had no option but to continue up the hill.
But she wasn’t willing to be reined in and instead began charging up the hill.
It was a long way to the top and very steep, and I doubted she could make it in a sprint. I leaned forward in the saddle, making sure my feet were solidly placed in the stirrups.
Timber began to tire, but just as I started to rein her in again, a bolt of lightning struck a tree at the top of the hill. Timber bucked into the air, and suddenly, we were falling backward. The next seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. I felt strangely detached, like an observer, as the horse twisted in the air…
…and we were falling… with the rain… upside down at one point.
I glanced over my shoulder at the steep slope of wet grass angling down. Timber stiffened as we fell, and I braced myself for a rough landing.
I thought of my daughters…
And then we hit the wet, slippery earth.
Timber somehow landed on her feet, and amazingly I was still in the saddle, but as the momentum carried us forward, she bucked into the air again.
I held on like a barnacle; luck, skill, and faith all forgotten. I squeezed my legs as tight as I could, gripped the reins with my right hand, and grabbed the saddle horn with my left.
We reached the trail twenty feet ahead of Danny, and Timber turned right onto it and then bucked three more times on the way down to the Watson River.
Somehow, I remained in the saddle. When we reached the river, I slumped to the ground.
Danny rode up next to me and grabbed Timber’s reins. I groaned, panting.
After a few minutes, Danny said, “We can switch horses for the ride back if you want.”
I slowly stood, looked at Timber, and said, “No thanks. I’ve got this.”
We watched the horse together for a minute while I caught my breath. Eventually I asked, “What happens when other people ride her?”
Danny smiled wide, his expression tinged with a little guilt as he said, “Well, we don’t let nobody else ride her—that horse is crazy.”
