The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, Jr.rnWith Jeb Stuart in thernRocky MountainsrnHorses, like people, are naturally lazy andrnessentially perverse; habitually unreadyrnor unwilling to do what duty requires ofrnthem. But in midafternoon of this hot,rnstill day on the desert mine came willinglyrnwhen I called them, perhaps in hope ofrndouble rations or else recalling idyllicrnmountain parks and alpine basins coveredrnwith the sweet green grass. I stiffedrnthem with a handful of grain and loadedrnthem into the trailer, adding a full measurernfor the road to the mangers.rnA horse pack trip is comparable to arnminor cavalry campaign, without thernshooting. Mostly it is about logistics—rnfood, equipment—climate, and terrain.rnEspecially at the beginning of the seasonrna two-day venture requires a couple ofrndays’ preparation, and the better part of arnfifth day to ready the gear for the nextrntrip. Today we had stowed in the pickuprnfood enough for four days (in case of accidentrnor delay) and sufficient booze forrntwo nights; as much water as we couldrncarry; cooking utensils; a three-man tent;rnbedrolls; several changes of clothing, includingrnlong underwear, wool sweaters,rnand ponchos; a groundcloth and tentrnstakes; two hatchets; a small cookingrngrill; a collapsible bucket; grain for thernhorses; two 30-foot picket ropes; mapsrnand a pocket compass; a small saw; arngood hunting knife and stone; matchesrnand other fire-starting equipment; and arn.41 magnum revolver and 50 rounds ofrnammunition, much of it already packedrnin the new horsepacks purchased thernweekend before at A.A. Callister in SaltrnLake City.rnFrom Kemmerer to the jumping-offrnplace below the head of the Smith Forkrnof the Bear River is just over 100 miles,rnthe last 25 by winding gravel road intornthe mountains. It was midsummer, therntemperature in the low 90’s. We rodernwith the truck windows rolled down andrnthe sliding one in the back of the cabrnpushed open, letting through straws andrnwisps of hay lifted from the bed by thernwindstream. The desert as far as SagernJunction and for ten miles north of it layrnburned and brown, giving way at last tornthe rich alfalfa fields outlying the Mormonrnvillage of Cokeville. Between thernsagebrush hills, golden with sunshinernand lavender in the shadows, central pivotrnsystems hurled silver sprays of waterrnacross the green valley of the Bear Riverrnenclosed in a faint summer haze. Beyondrnthe valley the snow-pointed peaksrnof the Salt River Range lifted above thernmountain country, where spring was stillrnin progress and summer only a rumor.rnWe followed the highway west aroundrnRaymond Mountain, climbed north overrnSalt River Pass, and turned into thernSmith Fork road short of Smoot, wherernwe put the windows up against the whiterndust boiling thickly behind the trailer,rnprisming the sunlight in segments ofrnpale rainbow.rnT’he road followed Smith Fork in thernnarrowing canyon, deeply wooded onrnthe right and descending on the left inrnsteep grassy cliffs to the creek, whichrnfoamed clear over boulders and shortrnfalls and tunneled under carapaces ofrncompacted snow and ice where thev coveredrnthe channel over. More snow lay inrndrifts higher on the steeps, and behindrnthese snow cornices along the high westernrnwall of the canyon ended against thernblue sky. We reached the trailheadrnwhere the road hairpins to cross thernnorthwestern reach of CommissaryrnRidge at a little past six o’clock, and hurriedrnto load the horses for the short ridernup to Sheep Pass.rnThe air was blue as we started in, andrnthe down-canyon wind gave it an edgernthat was pleasantly cool and refreshingrnafter the desert heat. We rode in file,rnkeeping to the trail above the creek,rnacross largely open country broken byrntimber stands and croppings of rock.rnThe last time I had been up Smith Forkrnwas on foot six years ago with the Flemingrnfamily in tow and Tom breasting therntrail beside me as he taught me most ofrnwhat I know about Greek theories of justice,rnincluding the belief that the manrnwho shoots an arrow into the air and hasrnthe bad luck to have it fall on someonernand kill him is guilty of murder. Whilernthe conversation was less stimulating thisrnevening, the trip itself was considerablyrneasier. Arriving below the pass in underrnthree-quarters of an hour, we picketedrnthe horses on good pasture and maderncamp in a stand of whitebark pine overlookingrnthe valley through which we hadrnascended. “Would you hx us a drink?”rnNorma asked.rnWhile I poured the drinks and cutrnthem with snow gathered from an outlyingrnsnowbank, Norma brought outrncrackers and a smoked Alaska salmonrnsent to me the Christmas before byrnDoug Kluender in Las Vegas. Doug hadrnmailed the fish to Kemmerer, where itrnwas forwarded care of Jim Rauen in Belen.rnNew Mexico; having left it out in thernhorsetrailer over a freezing night inrnMoab, Utah, on the way home at thernstart of February, I was in doubt as to itsrnfreshness, which was why it remained uneatenrnfive and a half months later. SincernNorma insisted that the fish, havingrnbeen smoked, should be safe to eat, I favoredrnher with the first piece, and alsornthe second, and the third. When thernfourth seemed to do her no harm I aternthe fifth, and found it delicious. Togetherrnwe ate half the hsh with the crackers,rndrinking bourbon. “Do you want anotherrndrink?” “No.” “No?!!” “There’s arnman named Alton Windsor in Wisconsinrnwho will write another letter to thernmagazine if I do.” “Why would herncare?” “I don’t know. But he does.”rn”Oh, come on and have another one.rnHe’ll never know.” “He will if I writernabout it.” “Then don’t.” “All right, I’llrnhave another drink. Here’s to AltonrnWindsor.” “Mr. Windsor. Cheers!”rnAdmiring the cloudless sky, we leftrnthe tent in the pack and spread thernbedrolls on the grass at the edge of therntrees away from the fire and the snubbedrnhorses. I woke several times in the nightrnand lay with bag around my ears, staringrnup at the Milky Way in brilliant crosssectionrnand watching the flashing mete-rnOCTOBER 1996/49rnrnrn