I thought my summer travels were over. I’d seen enough, climbed enough, and risked my life enough times for one season. But 24 hours after touching down in Santa Barbara, I was on the road again - this time with my partner Kitty, two dogs and a black horse named Merlin. The five of us traveled west, to the scarlet pinnacles and eroded badlands of Utah’s Red Canyon, where Kitty and Merlin tested their combined mettle during four days of endurance racing.
Their bond had developed two years ago when Kitty was recovering from breast cancer and chemotherapy. Merlin had suffered through emotional trauma and injuries after being abused by previous owners, but the horse and rider found solace in each other’s company. They healed together and eventually became a formidable team. During the Red Canyon race, the duo covered 150 miles of beautiful redrock scenery before the week was up and it was time to make the long, hot journey back to California.
To break up the drive, I suggested spending a night at Panaca Warm Springs – an oasis in rural eastern Nevada where the water bubbled up from the sand at a refreshing 80° temperature. I had fond memories of rainbows arcing over a pristine pond and children jumping from rope swings into the midst of the minnows swimming below. The reality fell far short of my expectations. Since my last visit, one grassy bank had been replaced with concrete steps, whole trees had vanished, and a depressing amount of garbage now overflowed out of three trash barrels on the premises.
I got a bad vibe while walking the perimeter, and it wasn’t just from the stench of the animal carcass rotting in the bushes. Kitty, on the other hand, was quite content with the location, because she was able to erect an electric fence corral for Merlin in the shade of a cottonwood tree. Before I could feel comfortable myself, I had to spend forty-five minutes collecting refuse that had been strewn about by scavengers and blown by the wind into the water.
At 2 a.m. that night, I was startled awake by the sound of Merlin’s hooves as he galloped past our tent at full speed. We fumbled with the zipper and rushed outside, only to find fence posts scattered everywhere and the rope of the electric fence stretched out into a straight line on the ground. Kitty immediately took to the main road and followed it in the direction she thought her panicked horse had gone. I surmised that Merlin had dragged the fence behind him for a short distance, so the rope should point towards his most likely whereabouts, or at least to a set of fresh tracks. Sure enough, I found hoof prints in the sagebrush, and by the light of my headlamp I saw that they led to another fence… a fence of barbed wire that had been bent halfway to the ground by the impact of a large animal running at full speed. Oh no.
My mind quickly pieced together what had happened. Merlin had been spooked by one of the coyotes that visited the trashcans of Panaca Warm Springs regularly to look for scraps left by careless humans. He made a mad dash through the perimeter of his corral, and the electrical shock sent him into an even greater state of panic. The barbed wire fence was invisible in the dark, and the Tennessee Walker galloped straight into it, twisting the metal posts and tangling up several legs in the vicious wire. He escaped, but at a heavy cost to his hide, and then fled down the road to some supposed place of safety. Confirming my fears, I discovered black hair and pieces of skin attached to one of the fence posts. Merlin was in serious trouble.
For two hours, Kitty and I drove and hiked every ranch road in the vicinity, but the terrified creature could not be found. Eventually, Kitty admitted that trying to spot a black horse on a black, moonless night was an exercise in futility. We returned to the tent to try and get some rest so we might resume the search at dawn. I decided to keep knowledge of Merlin’s torn skin to myself, for if I told my girlfriend, she would have lain awake the rest of the night, too upset to fall asleep. Instead, I shivered on a cold mattress and worried enough for the both of us.
At the first glimmer of daybreak, we climbed the hills around our campsite and searched for signs of the wounded steed without success. None of the local ranchers we passed along the country road had seen him, either. We were about to head into town to contact the authorities when I scaled one last hill near where we thought the road ended and saw that it actually snaked around a ridge and disappeared into a narrow, steep-walled redrock canyon. The gap in the mountains looked like the perfect hideout for a band of outlaws on horseback, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids. Perhaps Merlin had taken shelter there as well.
When we reached the mouth of the canyon, Kitty hopped out of the truck and discovered hoof marks amid the ruts and mud puddles. A sign at last! More disturbing, however, were the coyote tracks that overlapped those of Merlin’s. The smell of blood had attracted predators. Possibly the poor horse had wanted to return to camp, but could not stop moving forwards, out of fear for his life.
Gently, we rolled ahead into the canyon. Willow trees crowded the road on both sides and scraped fresh scratches into the sides of Kitty’s Chevy Silverado. I wanted to stop and admire the ribbons of pink minerals that decorated the cliff walls above our heads, but we pushed on through the vegetation until the canyon abruptly opened into a wide, open valley with spectacular rock outcroppings that descended from the hills to a cottonwood-lined stream. The ruins of a stone tower guarded the entrance to this wild country, and a cluster of rock-walled fortifications - which I later learned to be the remains of an 1872 silver ore mill - made the valley feel like the final refuge of a tribe of 19th-century Native Americans. Bathed in rays of morning sunlight, this basin shone with primordial energy. If nothing else, Merlin had discovered a beautiful region that we never would have found on our own.
