Every spring, as the days begin to lengthen and the snowpack melts in the high country, I begin to daydream about pack trips and days spent exploring the backcountry on horseback. Pack trips are my favorite part of working as a horse guide. I started packing through a course at Colorado State University and was hooked. I returned as a teaching assistant each year to solidify my skills and to share with others my new passion. Through this program we went on many pack trips to support local outfitters and the Forest Service. The highlight of my packing career so far has been a 500-mile self-supported expedition with a friend in southern Patagonia. We spent five months during the southern summer of 2019 riding through the wild Province of Santa Cruz on horses that I had started and trained myself. This journey was special because of the immersion in the landscape and gaucho culture we experienced and the relationship forged with our horses.

Whether heading into the wilderness solo or accompanied by others, pack trips give me a deep connection with the horses and the rhythms of nature in a way I just can’t seem to find through other rides or adventures. I have had the opportunity to ride and lead pack trips in both North and South America, and though there are many differences in the equipment we use and the landscapes we cross, the essence of the pack trip remains the same.

Taylor packing a horse into the Bighorns.

Each trip has a similar rhythm that begins with the preparation of the gear and loads. Gear is sorted, and anything unnecessary is left behind. The gear is weighed and meticulously assigned to loads, then the loads are weighed again to assure they are balanced for each horse before being slung and tied down. Once packs are secured and the horses are ready, it is time to mount up and ride out.

We ride for hours through the changing terrain, away from towns, traffic, and cell phone service as we travel deeper into the wilderness. The rhythm is slow and steady. We stop for lunch in a grassy meadow or along the bank of a creek. When needed, we make technical stops to adjust or re-tighten a load on a pack horse. When we arrive at camp, the horses are unsaddled and turned loose to graze overnight. Setting up camp is like making a temporary home in the wilderness: we cook food, gather around a campfire, and gaze at the stars before falling asleep in our tents. The next day, the rhythm continues with preparation, movement, arrival, and enjoyment.

One of the most obvious differences between North and South America lies in the equipment. In Patagonia, horses are adorned with rawhide tack, often braided or twisted into intricate designs. They wear wide leather forehead pieces on their halters, their manes are roached, and their tails are cut short. The saddles consist of many layers of leather and wool padding, topped with a thick sheepskin for comfort on long rides. Clamshell-shaped panniers made from wire and laced rawhide called chiguas are used to pack. They hang on each side of the saddle and are lashed down with a long, twisted rawhide riata. It’s gear that feels rooted in a long tradition, passed down through generations of gauchos who have lived their lives on horseback.

This contrasts with the Western equipment and packing systems used in the United States. Here, the bridles and halters are simple and workmanlike, built for durability over long miles. The leather saddles are practical and comfortable, often accented with patterns of tooling and silver conchos that give them a subtle artistry. The horses wear their manes and tails long. For packing, we use sturdy canvas panniers and cover the loads with a manty tarp, securing everything with a lash rope to keep the packs tidy and balanced for the journey ahead.

Though the designs are different, the purpose is the same: to keep the horses and riders safe, comfortable, and prepared for whatever the backcountry might bring. With my personal horses, I find myself using a combination of equipment from North and South America, choosing whichever best fits my needs.

The landscape in Argentina is sharper and starker, says Taylor.

Another difference I’ve noticed between leading trips in Argentina and the United States lies in how we access the wilderness. While both places offer vast stretches of backcountry, the way we enter and move through it changes dramatically. Riding in the U.S. has given me a deep appreciation for our public lands. We have incredible systems of trails crossing National Forests, BLM ranges, and Wilderness Areas that welcome horses and stock. These marked routes provide structure and security, making it easier to plan and travel through some of the most beautiful places I’ve ever ridden.

In contrast, my experience in South America has been one of navigating largely unmarked, privately owned landscapes. Most of the pack trips I’ve done there have followed old sheep or cattle trails across ranch land, or have simply struck out into open country with no real path to follow. Planning these trips often starts with talking to landowners or locals, asking for their permission to cross their land and their advice on the best way through. There are no trail signs, just the land itself and your ability to read it.

There is a freedom that comes with having no trail to follow, but also a responsibility. I’ve found myself in terrain that seemed nearly impassable and held my breath as my sure-footed horses picked their way across. I have also spent much time getting off and walking alongside my horses, or even turning around to seek a better crossing. Riding like this in Argentina has deepened my relationship with the land, forcing me to make real-time decisions that consider the safety of both myself and my horses. This has been a skill that has served me when riding in all parts of the world.

The landscapes themselves are wildly different, too. In the United States, I’ve ridden mostly in the Mountain West, a region of high desert, pine forests, and lush alpine meadows. The Rockies and the Bighorn Mountains rise gradually from the plains, the foothills rolling up into rugged peaks. The land feels alive and inviting, filled with the scent of sagebrush and pine, the sound of creeks running over stone.

In Argentina, the landscape feels sharper, starker. The Patagonian steppe is sparse and desert-like. The forests are made up of Nothofagus trees, and most of the plants are scrubby and spiky, built to withstand the constant battering of Patagonia’s infamous gusts. The valleys are vast and open with steep sides, carved by glaciers long ago. The lakes are deep and turquoise blue in the memory of the glaciers that once filled them. It’s a land that feels ancient and humbling in its raw beauty.

And yet, for all these differences, I’ve found that the heart of a pack trip feels the same no matter where in the world I am. It’s waking up to the sunrise in a place untouched by roads or fences. It’s sitting by the campfire, sipping coffee or mate, while the horses graze nearby. It’s greeting my horse each morning, saddling up for a new day’s ride, and bathing in cold mountain streams or alpine lakes. It’s soaking up every moment of good weather and finding resilience when the weather turns.

Pack trips bring me fully into the present. They strip away the noise of daily life and return me to something simpler, something more real. More than anything, pack trips remind me of what it feels like to be fully alive. As I ride out of the wilderness with messy hair, dirt under my fingernails, and muscles delightfully sore from long days in the saddle, I feel my mind is quieter and more content. Pack trips offer the gift of presence, of simplicity, and of self-reliance. This is what keeps me coming back to the trail, again and again.