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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.
Dough Creek Work Project and Ride
May 2026
Written by AJ Renzelman
Every spring the local Back Country Horsemen chapter spends a weekend cleaning up and preparing Dough Creek Cabin for the year ahead. This year, when the trip came up, I was excited to go and quickly volunteered.
It was on the drive home from our meeting that the voice in my head finally spoke up: “But is Grinch ready?”
If you haven’t met Grinch, and trust me, you would remember if you had, he is one of those horses who entered the world already determined to do things the hard way. Somewhere along the way he also developed a goofy, endearing personality that has earned him his own following of people.
Grinch is a 16’1 Arabian-Mustang cross who just turned seven this spring. He wears a large scar down the left side of his stifle from an argument with a gate as a yearling, and if I’m honest, both the scar and his education reflect a horse that has had life happen a little faster than his training.
He’s an almost-solid chestnut, complete with all the opinions chestnuts are rumored to come with. Under saddle he’s all long legs, forward ears, and just enough self-confidence to occasionally make questionable decisions. True to my endurance riding roots, Grinch is decked out in biothane tack and enough lime green to make him impossible to miss.
Over the last year, Grinch has progressed from “feral toddler with opinions” to “mostly employable citizen,” though the transition is still ongoing. This would be his third campout, but the first one where we wouldn’t be tucked into some type of campground. I was excited to see how he handled the trip, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t carrying a little healthy apprehension about which version of Grinch might decide to show up for the weekend.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I checked the weather forecast almost daily, watching it evolve from beautiful spring conditions into a miserable combination of snow, wind, and cold. Yuck.
The morning of the trip I rode up with longtime BCH member Billie Havens. The weather leaving Clarkston was fairly decent, but as we got closer to the trailhead darker clouds built across the ridgelines. Along the way we noted the downed trees scattered along the ridge tops, leftovers from the terrible windstorm that tore through the area back in December.
About twenty minutes before reaching our destination, large snowflakes started falling along with strong winds. Did I mention yuck yet?
Our group met at Madden Corrals before continuing farther down the road. A couple campers waved Billie and me down to warn us the road ahead had only been cleared wide enough for side-by-sides and they weren’t sure the horse trailers would make it through. With the rest of our group already ahead of us and no cell service to reach them, we decided to continue and hope for the best.
Luckily everyone made it through the tricky sections without incident, and we parked near the top of the ridge above the Dough Creek trail. The wind was howling, and the horses, who had only recently shed their winter coats, stood shivering as we hurried to unload.
We worked together to get everyone tacked up, the pack animals loaded, and headed down the trail. As we dropped through the first couple switchbacks, we finally escaped the worst of the wind and the full view of Hells Canyon opened up before us. It was beautiful in the way only country completely indifferent to your survival can be.
The canyon was bright green and dotted with wildflowers, while the twisting ridgelines and layered basalt cliffs resembling chocolate cake, looked almost unreal in places. Along the trail we spotted a bird’s nest tucked into the rocks with babies and a single unhatched egg, an odd patch of flowering rhubarb, and plenty of fresh grass and water for the horses.
The cabin itself sits on a wide bench about halfway down the canyon with incredible views stretching in every direction. Dough Creek bubbled along one side while hitching rails spread across the other.
Rod Parks explained that the current Dough Creek Cabin was built by Twin Rivers Back Country Horsemen members and friends after earlier cabins on the site were lost to wildfire over the years. Since then, BCH volunteers, with support from Idaho Fish and Game, have continued maintaining both the cabin and surrounding facilities so places like this remain available for the public to enjoy.
Once we arrived, Rod, Don, and Lorelei immediately went to work weed-eating and clearing a fire break around the cabin, outhouse, and hitching rails, while Billie, Pam, and I tackled months of dust and mouse leftovers inside the cabin itself.
With the initial work completed, we settled down for lunch before Don and Lorelei headed back home. Rod and Billie spent a couple hours brushing out a nearby trail while Pam and I stayed behind at the cabin to continue working and care for the horses.
While we waited for them to return, Pam dusted off my long-forgotten cribbage skills. I hadn’t played in probably fifteen years, but somewhere between the banter, the cabin, and the rain drifting in and out of the canyon, it felt like exactly the right way to spend the afternoon.
That evening we settled in with a fire crackling in the stove, a fried chicken dinner with tasty sides, and the sound of rain softly tapping against the metal roof. Absolute bliss.
The second morning we woke to a chilly cabin, but fairly rested after listening to rain patter off and on against the roof all night. We were all happy, and honestly relieved, to find our tack still dry on the cabin deck.
While we enjoyed breakfast, we discussed plans to ride toward Billie Creek for the day. Somewhere during the conversation, Rod casually announced his decision to leave the pack animals at the cabin. That probably should have been my foreshadowing for the day to come, but the significance of that statement flew clean over my head and landed somewhere in the next county.
We tacked up the horses and climbed out of the canyon past tall patches of flowering vetch and steep basalt outcroppings resembling crumbling castles from some bygone era. Gradually the trail shifted into increasingly steep sidehilling with a very, very long drop below us.
It was along this stretch that Grinch decided to demonstrate he occasionally possesses the grace and situational awareness of a one-legged goose. An “oh look at that” gawking moment here, a misplaced foot there, meanwhile I was being reminded of my deep dislike of heights and beginning to reevaluate several of my life choices.
Farther along we reached a point overlooking the confluence of the Grande Ronde and Snake Rivers. We also spotted several small herds of elk moving through the draws before eventually arriving at the top of an unnamed canyon.
Rod pointed down into what appeared to be the bottomless depths below us and casually informed us that we were headed straight down.
Now, I have enough history hiking and hunting around Hells Canyon to possess a very healthy respect for just how steep that country can become. So when Rod announced we were going down there, my mind immediately flashed back to hikes that had made me nervous on my own two feet, let alone trusting the four feet of my occasionally questionable horse.
Off down the hillside we went, following what appeared to be a seasonal creek bed past an old piece of rusted equipment that looked suspiciously like some sort of abandoned Bigfoot trap.
Grinch, who has not yet mastered the art of navigating extremely steep downhill terrain with grace and dignity, felt a bit like riding a giraffe down the hillside. I was focused on encouraging him to drop his nose and use his hind end properly, while he seemed far more concerned with staying uncomfortably close to his horse friends should any unfortunate life events occur.
At one point we stopped while Rod and Billie discussed the best way to handle a particularly steep gravel descent. That was about the moment I really began questioning several of my life choices, and briefly pictured a very Calvin and Hobbes-style cartoon of Grinch and me flying down the hillside on a pair of skis.
The next thing I knew, we were all carefully picking, scrambling, and occasionally sliding our way down the slope.
After several more steep descents, sidehilling through yellow blooming cactus patches, and a few heated discussions between Grinch and me regarding appropriate trail etiquette, we finally arrived at Billie Creek.
By that point I grabbed my lunch, loosened Grinch’s cinch, and informed him we both needed a little time apart before I said something unkind. He responded with the equine equivalent of a dirty side-eye while I headed toward the cabin.
The group enjoyed lunch on the idyllic back deck of the Billie Creek house beneath large shade trees overlooking the river. While we ate, Rod shared stories from his thirteen years serving as caretaker of the place, along with bits of local history tied to the canyon and surrounding homesteads.
As we prepared to leave, Billie announced, “Rod, this was fun, but I don’t want you to bring me back here again!” Pam and I both laughed and nodded in agreement.
Somewhere during the ride back, Grinch apparently decided it was finally time to put on his model citizen pants. We climbed back out of the canyon and returned to the cabin without any additional giraffe impersonations or major negotiations regarding appropriate trail behavior.
That evening we settled in with bowls of Billie’s homemade chili before wrapping up the night with another game of cribbage.
Unlike the weather that greeted us on the ride in, the final morning was absolutely stunning. Large white clouds drifted across bright blue skies as we worked our way back out of the canyon, finally able to slow down and enjoy the country around us.
Trips like this are a good reminder that places like Dough Creek don’t stay special by accident. Neither do the friendships and relationships built while sharing hard work, good horses, and adventures with like-minded people in country like this.
This trip wouldn’t have been possible without the hard work and good company of fellow Twin Rivers Back Country Horsemen members who spent the weekend helping prepare Dough Creek Cabin for another season of use
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