The last time I had been camping in the Big Horn Mountains was probably about 16 years ago. I was still young and camping was one of my favorite things to do. I could hike, traverse streams and help set up a tent with the best of them.


    Therefore, when a young friend asked me to go camping recently with herself and her children, I jumped at the chance. Betsy, Colton, Shelby and Jack Wardell and I left on Sunday, July 20, at noon and headed up the mountains. I was ready.


    One problem: My clothes were in an open tote bag. I put it into the back of Betsy’s pick-up, where it wedged against the tire of her 4-wheeler. Once on the mountain, it began pouring. When I finally checked out my clothing, I found that the pure white shirt on top was now wet and quite dirty on front and back, and I still had to wear it!


    First off Betsy needed to move her camper as it had been in the same spot too long. She quickly gave me a crash lesson on how to drive her big beautiful four-wheeler, as she needed me to drive it while she pulled her camper to a new site. I figured I’d better ride alone, so if I died, no one else would die with me. I discovered it was relatively simple to operate, but couldn’t bring myself to drive above 10 mph to begin with. However, 11-year-old Colton, risking his life, jumped on with me anyway and did his best to get me to rev it up! He didn’t succeed. I wanted us to live!


    It had stopped raining and the sun had come back out by the time we were set up at our new campsite, I hung my shirt and wet sweatshirt out on a tree trunk to dry. About all we had time left to do that day was to visit with Betsy’s friends from Powell, Christy and Larry Larsen and their children.


    When the Larsens left for home, Colton, Shelby and I played dominoes. Then we roasted hot dogs and marshmallows around the campfire as night descended. Life was good.


    The next morning, Betsy had a treat in store. She wanted to take us on a four-wheeler ride down Little Horn Road to the bottom of Wagon Box. I was thrilled at the idea, as many years ago our family had camped down there. I had loved the area and hadn’t been down there since. Since the road was pretty rough, she felt it wouldn’t be safe to try to fit all five of us on the four-wheeler. Colton agreed to stay behind with the promise that he could pick our next activity.


     With Colton settled in camp with a book and a fishing rod, off the rest of us went. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking, made even more so by being out in the open on a four-wheeler. Betsy’s 3-year-old, Jack, wanted her to race through any puddle in the road. At first, out of consideration for her “older” passenger, she refrained. But finally, when we came to a particularly big puddle, she gunned it, and away we went! I braced myself for a drenching (I was wearing my dirty white shirt, so what difference did it make?). I was pleasantly surprised at how much fun it was, and only a few drops landed on us! I was sold on four-wheeling after that.


    After spending a little time at the bottom of Wagon Box and a stop or two on the way back, we headed back to Colton. He had decided he wanted us to take a hike down to Bucking Mule Falls. That sounded good to me. What’s a small hike? After lunch and a brief rest, we mounted the four-wheeler around 4 p.m. and headed out again. This time, Colton and his little basset hound Peanut rode on the front of the four-wheeler, with Jack, Betsy, Shelby and I in sandwich fashion behind him. We were comfortable and safe enough as we all had something to hang onto.   


    Arriving at the trailhead, the sign said it was two miles to the falls. Betsy had brought her pedometer along to clock it. It ended up being a little over three miles instead. Gamely we walked in, enjoyed the view of the falls and headed back out, hoping to be back by dusk.


    The trek back seemed never-ending. 3-year-old Jack had gamely walked all the way there. About a third of the way back, he started begging for his mom to carry him, which Betsy, being the good mom she is, was willing to do off and on, hoisting him up on her shoulders. By this time, my 60-year-old toes, feet, legs and knees were starting to cry for me to quit. I would have liked to, but when I asked Betsy to carry me, Jack told me I was too big! I had liked him before that!


    Meanwhile, Peanut pulled Colton along the trail in front, Shelby courageously and uncomplainingly, walked with us to keep up our spirits, and on we went, slowly, dying with each step. We finally made it out by 8:30 p.m. It had taken us 4 1/2 hours to make the “small hike.”


    With glee and relief, we got back on the four-wheeler and headed back to camp, where we ate quickly and crashed for another night.


    It was time to go home the next day, as Betsy needed to take the camper down so she could get it ready to take her children to the Basin Fair.


    Did I have a good time? Was I glad I went? You bet! Pain and agony notwithstanding, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!