Tribune reporter Mark Davis rides Stetson, a Morgan gelding owned by Bre Fagan, on one of many trips to the backcountry of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem.

Photo courtesy Frank Fagan

Mark Davis

• 
• 

We didn’t talk much, but when we did, he was a great listener. Sometimes I don’t give others the opportunity to respond during my constant blathering.

Others told me he didn’t even know English, yet I’m sure he could tell by my tone how appreciative I was that he was willing to carry such a heavy load during our time as friends. Language barriers are often crossed with kindness.

He took me to some of this area’s most beautiful destinations and hidden gems. We had been up Russell Creek to Hole in the Rock unintentionally following in fresh footsteps of grizzly bears through beautiful meadows and mountain passes. I felt safer knowing he was there.

We made the summit on Windy Mountain a few years ago, where we dined on sandwiches and apples, gazing upon 360-degrees of unimaginably spectacular views. And we traversed the rocky crags surrounding Heart Mountain together — places only the adventurous will find or even bother to search for.

While on our last outing in November I was preoccupied with elk and the first real cold of winter. I whined about numb fingers and toes, but he kept me moving without complaint. Actually, I’m pretty sure he enjoyed the outing. He had a spring in his step that day, always wanting to lead the pack.

I felt bad for hastening the goodbye when we got home that day. All I could think about were dry socks and hot coffee. Regrettably, I can be unbelievably shortsighted.

He died last week, somewhat unceremoniously. You won’t find news of my buddy’s passing in the paper or on the internet.

I always felt a little guilty about the heavy load he had to carry for me. We met when I was closing in on nearly 300 pounds and he was already a senior citizen. Stetson wasn’t my first friend of his species, but he was by far my best horse friend.

To call me an experienced rider is a long stretch. While I have improved ever so slightly, Stetson always made it easy to stay in the saddle and not too far from the pack while on long rides. I’d been lucky enough to spend many of the best days of my life with him in the surrounding mountain ranges, a guest of his owners, Bre and Frank Fagan.

I met the couple while covering the Shoshone Back Country Horsemen during several of their trips into the Absaroka Range. Stetson was Bre’s horse. She was extremely generous in giving me a chance to experience his gentle, sure-footed nature. The reason she offered was because Stetson was a short horse and I, equipped with bad knees and plumpish stature, had trouble getting in the saddle.

I’m sure I offered plenty of comic relief on the trail, always looking for a tall, flat rock for a boost and sometimes requiring an extremely personal push on my fluffy end.

Stetson was special to Bre. About a decade ago she was bucked off by a different horse, breaking her pelvis. Stetson was there when she was ready to climb back in the saddle.

The couple had purchased Stetson with the hopes their two young children would have a gentle caretaker on the mountain trails, but Stetson chose Bre.

“He’d follow me around. When I stopped he’d put his head on my chest,” she said.

But Stetson looked just like her previous horse, which made her “nervous,” triggering memories of the fall. The full-blooded Morgan born in Kalispell, Montana, made it easy.

Stetson, through Bre, was a constant volunteer for the Shoshone Back Country Horsemen. The group volunteers to clear trails, keeping them easily navigable for all who seek solace in the wilderness. Bre is currently the secretary for the hard-working, all-volunteer group and served as vice-president in 2022. She’s also a paraeducator at Powell Middle School.

I’ve been an admirer of the Horsemen since riding with them to an old section of rusty barbed-wire fence near Ishawooa Creek. For at least 50 years the fence stood to divide lush pastures. Unused at the time we arrived, the mile-long fence had become nothing more than a danger for wildlife. The creek is an important wintering ground and migration corridor for elk, deer and pronghorns.

Just getting there was an adventure that found me making a fool of myself falling in the creek and being too sore from the ride to actually do much of the back-breaking work.

Removing the fence was torturous. Still, none in the group complained. They just got to it, got it done and said little of their injuries.

Despite my obsession with watching western movies, not once did it occur to me riding a horse would hurt so much. Even a plump John Wayne made it look easy in the original “True Grit.” I remember not being able to sit up without a helping hand for three days after that first ride with the group. The muscles hidden beneath my thick layer of fluff protested my every move and my knees were looking for replacements.

I never blamed the horse. It was my own fault for going soft. It was then, seeing me struggle on a taller horse and wanting to help make future trips more comfortable, that Bre offered up her own horse. Several years have passed since then and Stetson was always (seemingly) happy to see me heading his way. I brought him sweet treats; an apple, carrots or horse cookies. He was 26 this year.

The dreadful morning before sunrise when Bre found Stetson dead in the corral she had a hard time stopping the tears. “It was heartbreaking,” she said.

Frank was away on business so she called a family friend, Heath Worstell, who generously offered to come bury Stetson. Bre could have called off work for the day to mourn, but instead — showing her true grit — she put on a smile and headed to school.

I wish I had that kind of strength. When my beloved Vizsla died, I blubbered for days. Damn, simply writing that last sentence brought a misty glaze to my eyes and it’s been eight years now.

“Lookin’ back is a bad habit,” author Charles Portis wrote in his 1968 novel, “True Grit.”

Bre will have a hard time replacing Stetson. Their relationship, built on mutual trust, was truly special. But not much can keep her from the mountains — not even the constant pain from previous injuries.

I always thanked Stetson for carrying me safely through situations that made me uncomfortable — always carrying on a one-sided conversation for hours while we sought adventure among the peaks. Some friends have a way of inspiring you without a word.

Yet I can never thank Frank, Bre and the rest of the Horsemen enough for giving me the opportunity to find the true beauty of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem.

“Don’t mention it,” Bre often says.