2026

Cummings Creek Work Project

April 2026

Written by AJ Renzelman

Sunday started the way good backcountry days usually do—early, a little chilly, and full of quiet anticipation. Billie and Connie pulled up to grab me and Grinch after my husband, who had planned to come along, ended up stuck at home with a nasty cold. Not quite the plan we started with, but that’s how these days go sometimes. Before long we were rolling toward the Tucannon, swapping stories and pointing out wildflowers like we hadn’t seen them a hundred times before.

“Why are arrowleaf balsamroot called that? They’re sunflowers.”

 “I don’t know… I just call them sunflowers!"

By the time we hit the staging area, the air was crisp—57 degrees and clear, the kind of morning that makes you glad you showed up. Horses came off trailers feeling fresh and a little opinionated, dancing around just enough to remind us they had opinions about the day ahead. Grinch included. He’s still figuring out what it means to be a solid mountain horse, so we took our time, shifting positions throughout the ride and letting him learn from the rhythm of the group.

The trail up Cummins Creek didn’t waste any time reminding us what kind of winter it had endured. Between the atmospheric rivers and the wind, the canyon had taken a hit. Still, it was hard not to get distracted. Arrowleaf balsamroot—sunflowers, obviously—lit up the hillsides, mixed in with lupine, camas, Indian paintbrush, and the occasional burst of something you couldn’t quite name fast enough. We slowed more than once just to take it in.

Not far up, we passed the remains of what had clearly once been a homestead. Lilac bushes still bloomed stubbornly, and old apple trees stood like sentinels, holding their ground long after everything else had moved on. It was the kind of place that makes you wonder about the people who once called it home—and what it took to live out there.

The scars from the Schoolhouse Fire were still written across the canyon. Blackened snags reached skyward, stark against the blue, while young ponderosa pines pushed up through the aftermath—proof that the land doesn’t stay down for long.

About halfway up, it was time to get to work. The trail was starting to disappear under new growth, and we weren’t about to let that happen. Tools came out, and just like that the group spread into a rhythm—cutting, clearing, hauling, stepping back, then doing it again. The horses dozed where they stood, ears flicking lazily as butterflies drifted through and the occasional bug reminded us we weren’t the only ones enjoying the day.

Eventually, someone said what we were all thinking—we could spend the whole day right there, but we had unfinished business further up. Last fall, a massive tree had stopped us cold. Today, we meant to at least face it.

The climb didn’t let up. Up and up we went, leaving the burn behind and pushing into the shade of older timber. The air cooled, the light softened, and the trail narrowed as we worked our way toward the top. And there it was—waiting just shy of the summit like it had all winter. A massive ponderosa pine, sprawled across the trail, unmoved and unimpressed by our return.

Rod and Ardel took a long look and didn’t rush the call. Sometimes the mountain wins the round. The tree was bigger than what we’d come prepared for, so the plan shifted—reroute the trail, and keep it passable.

About that time, someone (rightfully) pointed out it was 2:00 p.m., and priorities adjusted. Saddles creaked, lunches came out, and we claimed a patch of ground in the shade. Rod surprised us with Karen’s homemade chicken noodle soup—what a welcome treat after a long climb!

And honestly—that’s the part people don’t always see. The sweat and the sawdust matter, but so do the quiet moments in between. Sitting there, enjoying the the peace of the woods, horses resting nearby, the canyon stretching out below—these moments of camaraderie are some of the best parts of the day. All of us sharing a log, enjoying lunch, and chatting about nothing in particular—those are the moments that stick with you long after the work is done.

After lunch, we went to check out Rod and Ardel’s solution to the giant ponderosa across the trail. They had rerouted the path and carved out a notch—almost like a low bridge—just enough clearance for horses and riders to pass through safely. Ardell and Pam put it to the test with their horses, easing through while the rest of us watched. Part of the group continued on to the end of the trail, while the rest of us packed up and got ready for the ride back down.

By the time we headed out, the canyon felt a little different than it had that morning—more open, more cared for. Days like this are never just about clearing trail. They’re about the people who show up, work side by side, and share the load without needing it said out loud. It’s not just the work that sticks with you, but the people you share it with. There’s a quiet kind of satisfaction in that—good company, honest effort, and a trail left better than we found it.