The wind blows hard and the snow is shoved down my mouth, it taste like shaved ice, but a little bitter. I close my mouth and bury my face in the shaggy neck of my ride welcoming the relief from the blowing snow, but it smells like wet dog that just came out of a fetid swamp. The mammoth head sways left and right in cadence with each step, the massive curved tusks looking like the tines of a forklift, but so much more sinuous and elegant. I’ve learned to ride with the rhythm leaning left as the mammoth head sways to the right, leaning forward on the uphills and leaning back on the down.
Our mounts follow each other in a perfect line, one after the other, each following in the wake of its leader, the front of the line I can barely see in the thick-flaked, blowing snow. Our herd walks quickly and with determination on the trail that cuts deep into the side of the Sierras, ten thousand foot peaks on our left and dry, deep desert valleys on our right. Hikers on snow shoes and cross-country skiers are wise to give these intimidating creatures a wide berth as we pass by, though these intelligent, well-trained behemoths, are unlikely to trample anything. I love the little trail sign that has hikers yielding to bikers yielding to horses and everything yielding to us. What an amazing adventure, sitting on top of these mammoth ten ton beasts, with their fifteen foot tusks. I think foraging fearless black bears are not going to be much of a problem on this trip.
The wind comes in waves down the side of the mountain. I can hear a wind wave start its descent down the side of the barren slope picking up speed the snow blowing frantically to get out of its way. As it closes, the ground shakes, I lean down trying to hide behind the leeward side of my mammoth friend, letting him take the brunt force of the wave. The world is a complete white out, my jacket flaps violently in the wind, I lose sight of the ground some ten feet below. The wind wave drops in pitch as it races away leaving a foamy carpet of swirling and settling snow. The line is still intact and the pace unbroken, these creatures seeming to have a sixth sense for navigating the snowy terrain.
The beast ahead of me takes a mammoth dump. I try to steer Tembo Wa Kale, the name of my woolly friend, away but maintaining the cadence is of the utmost importance, we have to cover over two hundred miles in a week.
After a long day of riding, we arrive at our campsite. Our tour guide company “Mammoth Undertaking” has yurts and fires ready for us, and piles of hay and grasses for our fuel-depleted transportation. Straddling the wide back, no matter how soft and comfortable, I’ve used muscles that I rarely have use for in temperate, bland, comfortable chairs in offices and rooms of the city. My whole body is sore. I down a couple of shots of Jack Daniels to dull the soreness of my legs and warm the fires of my core before calling it a night.
Tembo Wa Kale and her herd, settle into the snow faces turned down wind, the snow acting like insulation against the wind, perfect weather for these winter creatures. I can already see the snow melting beneath them. I walk over to Tembo Wa Kale, reach up to scratch the top of her head, even though she is laying down, with my mittened hand, and then walk to my yurt, already riding the next day and planning my next mammoth trip, in my head.
(Picture courtesy of google. Source listed as “unknown”)