The Ghost of Schafer Meadows Read online

  “Oh, well. Another time. You’ll be around, though, won’t you, Allie?”

  Allie shook her head. “My family’s camped at the Spotted Bear Campground and we’re leaving this afternoon.”

  “Bummer.” I looked at the ground. There went my ideas for fun.

  Will saw the look on my face. “Hey. There’ll be plenty of time this summer for the three of us to get together.”

  “Yeah, right.” I wondered how often anyone would go as far back in the wilderness as Schafer Meadows just to visit. “Well, guess it’s time to see our house.”

  Getting Oriole to walk up the spiral staircase in Will’s house was easy. Getting her down took some work. Looking down must have frightened her, because she took the first two steps and then backed up. I was behind her. She nearly knocked me off my feet trying to return to the loft. I gently nudged her back end to start her down the stairs again and then had to coax her step by step as she slowly wound her way toward the first floor. She wrinkled her brow, panted hard, and licked her lips, looking tortured. About halfway down she relaxed a bit, and by the time she hit the bottom step, her tail wagged once more.

  I followed her into the living room. She turned around and raced back up the stairs.

  “Oh, no!” I said. “You’re not going to make me do that all over again?”

  But Oriole spiraled down the stairs as fast as her four legs could carry her. She had found a new and interesting game.

  Allie laughed. “Your dog’s nuts. Is she always like this?”

  “She has her moments, especially when trying something new. Guess she just couldn’t resist.”

  We laughed as Oriole raced up and down the stairs two more times, obviously having a great time.

  “I hate to leave, but we’d better be going,” I finally said. “Hope to see both of you soon. Come visit us at Schafer if you can.”

  “Can’t wait,” Allie said. She was still talking as the door closed behind Oriole and me. I heard her say, “Will said there’s a pretty active ghost back there.”

  I opened the door again. “What?”

  Will grinned. “You’ll see.”

  T W O

  The Swimming Hole

  Mom was poking around in the house. It had a large kitchen, storage room, dining room, living room with a big picture window, three bedrooms, and a bathroom. It was furnished, so all we needed was food, bedding, and our own belongings.

  “Hey, Mom, can I have the bedroom off the living room?”

  “Check with Jed, but if he doesn’t care, it’s fine with me.”

  Dad and Jed arrived right then. As it turned out, Jed liked the bedroom next to Mom and Dad’s, so Oriole and I moved into ours. Oriole slept on my bed, but I kept a foam pad with a blanket on it next to the bed for times when she wanted her own space. I hung a few pictures on the wall of June and Julie, the Two J’s, my best friends from New Mexico. Then I was ready to explore some more.

  “Can Oriole and I go down to the river?”

  “Sure,” Mom said. “Just be careful. Rosie said the South Fork can move pretty fast this time of year.”

  Jed came along. The three of us went out the door and followed a trail close to the river. We came to an abrupt edge above the river, which was over a hundred feet wide. A long swinging bridge spanned the water.

  “Wow!” Jed said. “This must be what Rosie meant when she said we’d find the river interesting. Let’s check it out.”

  Jed and I ran to a path that led to the bridge. Oriole sniffed around behind us but soon caught up and raced past us.

  Suddenly she stopped. The bridge was made of long wooden boards. Heavy cables supported the sides. Four-foot high wire mesh ran the length of it, so we couldn’t fall off. The bridge was sturdy, but the whole thing swayed, up, down, and sideways, and we could see clear to the river, 20 or 30 feet below us. Oriole had never seen anything like it, and she froze with fear. She looked more scared than she had on Will’s staircase.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I told her. “It’s safe to walk on. Watch me.” I walked around her and moved about ten feet in front to coax her. “Come on, Oriole.”

  She started forward but stopped the moment the bridge began to move. “Come on,” I called. Oriole took a few steps but then turned around and headed to the end of the bridge and the safety of land. Jed was there, and he stopped her from running back up the hill.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Get her started toward you again. I’ll stay behind her so she can’t go back. We’ll just take it slow so she doesn’t get too spooked.” He turned her toward me.

  When I called her this time, she timidly got onto the boards. She crouched, all four feet splayed out, the nails on all four paws digging into the boards. “Come on Oriole,” I said softly. “It’s all right. We won’t let you get hurt.”

  As she inched forward, Jed inched behind her. We made slow but steady progress until we were about halfway across the bridge. Then all of a sudden, as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary, Oriole stood erect, pulled in her claws, got her legs under her, and trotted past me to the other side of the bridge with her head high. She stood wagging her tail until Jed and I caught up to her.

  Jed shook his head. “I can’t believe what I’ve just seen.”

  “She’s a fast learner. Always has been. Now that she’s crossed it once, she’ll be fine on the bridge.”

  We found a sandy beach on the other side of the river. The icy water cooled all thoughts of swimming, but a group of eight people sunbathed. They laughed at something and waved to us. I was surprised to see them. I wondered if they worked at Spotted Bear.

  Oriole had learned to swim in New Mexico and took to it from the start. We went a little upriver from the sunbathers to toss a few sticks in the water for her to retrieve.

  “This will be great exercise for her.” Oriole swam after a stick Jed threw, grabbing it in her mouth and slapping her tail on the water like a beaver as she turned to bring it back to us.

  Stepping out of the river, soaked and dripping, she held the stick in her mouth and shook herself. Water sprayed in every direction. Jed and I let out war whoops as we jumped back to keep the cold water from soaking us.

  Jed threw the stick a little farther out, and Oriole paddled after it. The stick entered some rapids, and she swam into the current, intent on retrieving it.

  “Oriole! No!” I cried.

  It was too late. Oriole caught the stick at the same time she hit the rapids. She swam with all her might, but the rushing river carried her quickly downstream, bobbing like a cork. A large rock caught one shoulder and spun her around, banging her hard on the head. She thrashed about, still paddling and holding onto the stick, barely staying above water. Then suddenly her head dropped. She stopped struggling.

  The swift current carried Oriole’s limp body downstream. She started to sink. I chased after her at the water’s edge.

  “Help! Someone!”

  One of the sunbathers closer to her than Jed or I saw what was happening, ran to the water, dove in, and grabbed her just as she reached an even faster current. Somehow he hung on to her collar and pulled her to shore.

  Oriole lay on her side, her soaked coat clinging to her. She had stopped breathing. I dropped to my knees. Tears rolled down my face and splashed onto her beautiful yellow fur.

  By this time a small group of people had gathered around us. Someone leaned over and put a hand on Oriole’s side. From what seemed far away, I heard a man’s voice say, “She’s got a heartbeat.” Then large, gentle hands pushed on Oriole’s chest.

  It only took one push. Oriole coughed, sputtering water from her mouth. Her large brown eyes opened and she took big gulps of air. Her tail thumped, slowly at first and then faster. The next thing I knew, she was on her feet, reaching for the stick that she had somehow clung to throughout the rescue.

  “Oh, Oriole,” I squeaked. “I thought you were dead.”

  I grabbed her, giving her a huge bear hug of relief. She wagged her t
ail and licked my face. Then she wriggled free from my grip and raced to the river, dropping the stick so we could throw it again.

  “You’ve got quite the determined dog there,” said our rescuer.

  I looked at him for the first time. He was about 25 years old and over six feet tall, with brown eyes and dark brown hair that reached to his ears. Water dripped from his hair, nose, and chin. Goosebumps covered his muscular arms and legs and he shivered. One of the women onlookers put a large beach towel around his shoulders. He hugged it tightly.

  Still barely able to speak, I finally stammered, “Thank you…thank you so much!”

  He nodded, smiled, and ran his hands down his face like a squeegee to wipe the water away. Oriole came over and he knelt next to her. She wagged her tail and leaned her soggy body against him.

  Jed sat on the sand behind us, pale and staring. I leaned over and put my hand on his arm. “Jed, it’s all right. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know the river would be so strong.”

  “Yes, I did,” he mumbled, taking off his cowboy hat and dropping his eyes to the ground. “Mom told us to be careful. I could have killed Oriole.”

  Our rescuer stood next to Jed. “In remote areas like Spotted Bear you always have to be aware of what’s happening around you. Take anything for granted and you can get into trouble fast.” He reached out a hand to help Jed up. “But I bet you’ll be more careful from now on.”

  “No kidding,” Jed said, looking a little less pale. “By the way, I’m Jed Scott, and this is my kid sister, Jessie. Our dad’s the new ranger at Schafer Meadows. Who are you?”

  He smiled and wiped more water from his face. “Pete Randolph. I’m the assistant ranger at Schafer Meadows. I’ll be your dad’s right-hand man. Looks like we’ll see a lot of each other this summer.”

  I looked up at Pete, unable to stop grinning. What luck to have found someone so willing to just jump in and help. Plus it didn’t hurt that he was really cute. And he’d be at Schafer all summer. At that moment I felt like I’d found my new best friend.

  A sudden screech from one of the sunbathers made us look in their direction. A soaking wet, very happy yellow and black bundle of fur stood in the middle of the group, shaking herself from the tip of her nose to the end of her tail, spraying water all over everyone.

  Jed laughed. “That’s Jessie’s dog, Oriole. You’ll see lots of her this summer, too. Hopefully not because she’s in more trouble.”

  “We’d better get back home,” I said to Jed, whistling for Oriole to come. “We might have a murder on our hands if one of those wet sunbathers wants to get even with Oriole.”

  “Thanks again,” I said to Pete as we left. “I owe you one.”

  Oriole raced across the bridge, grinning at us from the other side.

  T H R E E

  Schafer Meadows

  Dad and Jed left for Schafer Meadows with the trail crew to spend a week opening the ranger station while Mom and I stayed behind at Spotted Bear. I called New Mexico every day and talked with my best friends, the Two J’s, knowing it would be a long time before we could do it again. I also wrote them a couple of letters, trying to ward off my homesickness. Finally Dad and Jed came for us.

  We left on a Saturday. Brad Peters, the main Schafer packer, had left early in the morning before us with his mule string, carrying all the gear we thought we might need for the summer.

  My horse, Red, was the last in the trailer, so I unloaded him first when we got to the trailhead. He backed out easily, feeling for the end of the trailer with one back hoof before taking the first step down to the ground. Once out, I tied him to the side of the trailer, brushed him, put his saddle blanket on, set the saddle on his back, and cinched it tightly. He took the bridle bit in his mouth and then stood waiting patiently. I rolled up my raincoat and tied it to the saddle. Then I put my lunch, water, and Oriole’s treats in my saddlebags and dusted off my brown cowboy boots and white straw cowboy hat, knowing they’d soon be covered in dust again. Mom, Dad, and Jed finished saddling their horses and our mule, Kitty, who carried what trip gear we didn’t have in our saddlebags. We were ready to go.

  When we started out on the trail, Oriole scouted ahead with me riding behind her. Red’s brown coat shone in the sun and his black mane flowed as the breeze picked up. Occasionally Oriole would stop and let out a “Roooooo!” She sounded happy and excited. Mom followed me on Smurf, her small dapple gray horse. Jed rode behind Mom on Rocky, Red’s brother who looked like his twin. Dad took up the rear, riding his buckskin Dillon and leading Kitty, our black mule.

  As we rode up the Big Bill Trail, Dad said, “You know, Schafer Meadows is in the Great Bear Wilderness, part of what’s called the ‘Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex.’ The Great Bear, Bob Marshall, and Scapegoat wildernesses together total more than one and a half million acres. That’s larger than the whole state of Delaware. Pretty big if you ask me.”

  We reached the top of the ridge and rounded a bend in the trail. A huge basin spread out before us filled with hundreds and hundreds of tall white flowers rising from what looked like large tufts of grass. The ground looked covered with snow.

  “What are those?” I asked.

  “Lilies,” Dad said. “They’re called beargrass. Aren’t they incredible? I don’t know why they’re called that. Bears don’t eat the flowers or their bulbs.”

  We rode through a sea of beargrass until we reached a large wooden sign that marked the entrance to the Great Bear Wilderness. Excitement hit us all, and we talked and laughed and stopped to look at the scenery.

  Dad smiled. “Welcome to your new home.” The wind ruffled his black hair. Sitting astride Dillon with such ease, his medium frame leaning on his saddle horn, Dad looked so much like the wilderness ranger he was—like he belonged there. All I could think was, now we’ll never go back to New Mexico.

  “Look around you. Look at this!”

  I looked around. Mountain peaks filled the skyline. New Mexico’s mountains were mostly hilly and open, with well-spaced shrubs and short oak trees or towering ponderosa pines. These mountains had jagged peaks and were covered with evergreen trees.

  “Boy, I wouldn’t want to have to go off trail in this country,” Mom said. “The trees and shrubs are thick in there. You’d have a terrible time getting through them.”

  “What kind of trees are those, Dad?” Jed asked.

  “The large ones are mostly Douglas-fir and spruce. The small, straight ones are lodgepole pine.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “They’re called that because Native Americans used them to make poles for their teepees or lodges.”

  Whitcomb Peak towered over us, not thick and green like the other mountains but rocky and open. A few small crystal-clear streams crossed the trail, gurgling down the mountainside. Oriole had plenty of chances to get a cold drink as she trotted along.

  “Hard to believe there can still be snow in late June,” Mom said as we carefully guided our horses over slick patches of heavy wet snow left in Whitcomb’s shadow.

  Jed laughed and pointed. “Look at your crazy dog, Jessie.”

  Oriole had never seen snow before. She sniffed it before gingerly walking on it like it was fragile and would break. She slipped and flopped on her belly, sliding downhill about five feet. Looking startled but pleased, she jumped up and ran back to the trail, got down on her stomach with all four legs spread out, burrowed her face in the snow, and slid straight downhill again.

  She dropped a stick in the snow and pounced on it with her front paws, burying it. Then she furiously dug and dug in the snow until her head disappeared like an ostrich and her back end stuck up in the air with her tail wagging wildly. When she retrieved her stick she raced ahead with her trophy.

  “I hope there’s not a lot more snow on the trail to Schafer Meadows,” I said, shaking my head. “It’ll take us days to get there at the rate Oriole’s going. She’s having way too much fun.”

  The trail was about 20 miles long, a
nd Oriole ran up and back, up and back, sticking her nose between rocks, looking for any sign of rodents. Later when we started down Schafer Creek and huge trees hovered over the trail, she kept us safe by barking away any squirrels that had the nerve to cross our path.

  Dad inhaled deeply. “I love the crisp clean scent of pine and fir. Nothing makes me feel more alive.”

  I felt that way, too, but Dad didn’t need to know that right now. Instead, I ignored him and birded with Mom. A grouse shot up from the trail like an explosion and flew off. Its wings drummed such a racket that it scared us all to death. Panicked, I jumped in my saddle, Mom gave a startled “eek,” Dad ducked, and Jed pulled his heels into Rocky’s side so hard that Rocky thought Jed wanted him to run. It took some work on Jed’s part to calm him down. We all had a good laugh when we realized everyone was fine.

  The grouse perched in a shrub next to the trail, so Mom and I got a good look at it. The bold, dark bars on its flanks and the dark tail band identified it as a Ruffed Grouse. They didn’t live in New Mexico, so we excitedly added a new bird to our lists.

  As we neared Schafer, we had to cross some clear streams. I still worried about Oriole in water after her near drowning in the South Fork River. She waded through the streams with no problem, but as we neared our final crossing, the Middle Fork of the Flathead River, my unease increased.

  We heard the river before seeing it. The water sounded fast and dangerous. I felt the blood drain from my face as I remembered Oriole lying limp as the raging river carried her downstream. But when we came out of the trees to the water’s edge, it didn’t look as bad as I feared.

  “Why don’t Oriole and I go last so we can see how deep and fast it is?”

  The water reached to Smurf’s belly when Mom took him across. Smurf’s a short horse—I can almost see over his back—but he’s still way taller than Oriole.

  They crossed the river easily, and Dad waited for us on the other side, letting Dillon and Kitty drink at the water’s edge.