Since we have no snow...

Here's a poem written by cowhand John Gill in 1939, right here on my ranch. It's called, "Winter on the Little Snake."

We were crowded in the bunkhouse,
Not a soul did dare to sleep,
Twas midnight up at Three Forks,
And the snow was six feet deep.

It's a terrible thing in that land,
To be caught in such a storm,
You're forty miles from nowhere,
And no way to give alarm.

When the storm was over,
And the sun began to shine,
We scooped the snow off the cattle,
And they were looking fine.

We lifted our arms to Heaven,
Said, "Thank God for just one thing,
Today's the Fourth of July,
It can't be long 'til spring!"

Steamboat Pilot, 1910: Jap Killed Yesterday at Rock Creek Canon [sic]

While working at the slide on the Moffat road in Rock creek canon, caused by the breaking of the irrigation ditch that conveys the water of Rock creek into the Crater country, a Japanese laborer by the name of J. Shockichi Kobayaski, and recently from Ken, Japan, was struck by a falling rock and with great force was knocked against the truss of a flat car, tearing the right side of his head completely off, causing instant death. His brains were scattered for a distance of 20 feet.
The accident occurred at 7:45 yesterday morning and the body, after being placed on the wrecking train, was removed to Yampa in charge of the officials and his countrymen. The accident scared his fellow employes [sic] to such an extent that 34 out of 45 of the men working on the slide, quit the job.
There is probability of entanglements in this case with the railroad company, as the coroner of the county in which a death occurs must sign the death certificate, and Coroner Bashor was not informed of the accident until after the body had been taken to Denver on the Moffat train.
As far as is known, Kobayaski, who was 21 years of age, had no relatives in this country. He will be buried in Denver.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Newspapers had such a different way of putting things-- including such gruesome details as how far his brains were spread from the impact. One more poor young man killed in the way of progress-- the west is full of such graves, unknown or barely remembered. Do you think his fellow workers knew his family, and were able to tell them what happened? Do you think that he still lies in Denver today, or that his family came and moved his body to Japan, like so many Chinese burials were moved? This story brings to mind our own Charlie Corless, who lies buried on the hill, dead at 19. His story is unknown, and aside from the kindness of his neighbors, who bought a beautiful granite stone to mark his burial, who remembered him at his death? Who notified his family, who found him lifeless? I wish I could bring the dead back to life to answer all the questions I have for them.

Talk about run-on sentences...

This entire newspaper article is made up of two sentences. The first one is especially startling in its length. Newspaper journalism was quite a bit different from what is practiced today...
From the Snake River Sentinel of December 1, 1911:
“W. P. BLACKMORE
“Manager of the famous Pioneer Sheep Herds
“Mr. Blackmore a descendant of that sturdy class of English people who have made history in every clime and country of the world, has followed the precepts of his ancestors, and made for himself and family, a name on the river which implies success and strength of character, although less given to public enterprises in his own community than is shown by his brothers in like industries and circumstances, his citizenship with its example of thriftiness and superb management is nevertheless of the greatest benefit and well worth of emulation.
“The Pioneer Sheep Co. is one of the best equipped and one of the strongest outfits on the range today, of which Mr. Blackmore is a stockholder as well as manager and with the untiring assistance of his brother Arthur, they constitute an organization entirely harmonious and prosperous.”

The Blackmores were a wealthy English family who settled on my ranch probably in the 1890s. They may have been the first home where the Lodge sits today, which was later owned by E. Turner and then by the Charles Honnald family. Unlike most English who settled in the valley, the Blackmores appeared to be well-liked. They moved west and headquartered at Battle Creek for a time, and then may have moved further west. Some Blackmores ran a stage line between Rawlins and Baggs, Wyoming, but it is only my best guess that the family is one and the same.

"It is no trouble to raise sugar beets on Snake River that will weigh 10 lbs each. You can't raise dead beats at all for they are not allowed to grow."

Snake River Sentinel, June 21, 1907

It was negative 13 this morning, and I think I had it bad... at least I'm not a stage driver.

“The winter and spring break-ups were the most trying times for stage driving. At thos [sic] times it was humorously said that the first class passengers rode, the second class passengers walked and the third class carried poles to pry the vehicle out of the mud. During these trying times of the year it was not unusual for the stage company to keep seventy-five to eighty head of horses ready for use at the various stations, and at one time Whipple and Shaw had one hundred head of horses ready for service.
"The arrival of the stage coach was an event of importance in the early days and the stage driver himself was a man of importance. Perhaps he was not so great a man in the early buckboard days as he was a little later when he was conductor of a big Concord coach and could ‘pull the ribbons over six’ as he whirled through the valleys and over the hills. In the winter a big sleigh was used unless severe storms made a ‘single bob' advisable until the roads could be broken. Stage drivers did the shopping for scores of ranchmen and their wives and accommodated everybody. Many of these isolated settlers could not get to town and they would send by the driver for their tobacco and calico and about everything else they required. Drivers have been known to come into town with orders for the purchase of a score of articles on a single trip. Their good graces were sought by merchants and also by hotel owners for their favor meant lots of trade.
“In the spring the trails would begin to thaw out or break up, teams could travel only after night when trails were frozen. Forty years ago when a half dozen of the railroads of the state were blockaded from two weeks to as many months the Steamboat-Wolcott stage made it thru every day. If a stage did not arrive on time another team would be sent out. There were times when nine stage outfits were on the road at the same time, each trying to reach the other and carry the mail a little farther toward its destination. There was one time in a spring break-up when three men with a fresh team were four hours going half a mile. All stretches of road where drifts were likely, particularly those toward Hahns Peak, were staked with willows to enable team and driver to follow the road. Snow teams became so expert that according to stage drivers ‘they could walk on a clothes line.’” (Leckenby 58-60)

Elk in the corral!!

Those elk, always trying to pretend they're a cow... This is a vintage photo of our ranch in the 1960s.

Why Guides Make the Big Bucks

Nipped the line and kept on fishing.

Justice for Some. It depends, though.

This story shocked me not because of the murder of two white men by a "half-breed," but because I think any rapist deserves death. The author did not act shocked, nor did anyone involved in the story seem to feel for a moment merciful for the young man who was defending his mother and sister's honor. If your mother and sister were raped and left for dead, you can't honestly tell me you wouldn't shoot to kill when you met the perpetrators.

“…On October 27, 1870—John Boyer bid two local Six Mile customers farewell with a seven-dollar revolver. He fired one lead slug into William H. Lowry’s left breast and put a second round into the gut of James McClusky.
The trouble started when young John Boyer came home and found his widowed Sioux mother and sister tied and gagged. They had been raped by the two men, who were known to hang around Fort Fetterman. The next night, October 30, Boyer encountered the rapists at a dance that was held at the Six Mile ranch. He was unarmed, however, because the bartender had taken each patron’s weapons for safekeeping as he entered the hall.
Waiting until about 2 am, Boyer retrieved his pistols from the barkeep and left the building. Soon after, he mounted his horse and rode back to the entry where he called for McClusky and Lowry. He called them out saying, ‘he could whip them.’ As they appeared at the door, the twenty-six-year-old pulled his revolver and ‘deliberately, and without a moment’s warning, shot and killed them both.’ Boyer immediately fled—undeterred—and hid with a band of local Sioux. However, the Indians, fearing reprisals, turned him over to the authorities when they demanded his return.
While waiting for the First District Court, which had convened to decide his fate, Boyer threated to foil the noose when he escaped on or about March 30, 1871, from he Fort D.A. Russell guard house where he was kept pending his execution. The three-hundred-dollar reward that was offered for his capture was claimed several days later as he was arrested enroute back to Fort Laramie.
‘He was met on the road walking alone with his handcuffs off and fastened to his belt,’ witnesses reported. ‘Seeing the coach coming, he left the road and while the stage was passing a curve in the road, hiding him from view, he secreted himself under the bank of a ravine and was only discovered and recognized as the stage had passed his place of concealment.’ Fort Laramie officials quickly sent a ‘Captain Wilson’ and a detachment of Fifth Cavalry soldiers, who raced to the spot armed and ready. Boyer would not refuse the captain’s ‘invitation’ to join them for a trip back to Cheyenne. Authorities put him on the next stage to Cheyenne, where he arrived the next evening, April 2… The Evening Leader reported he went to meet his Maker on April 21, 1871, in an ‘old grout building, nearly in front of the jail,’ in Cheyenne with these words on his lips: ‘Look at me! I no cry, I no woman; I man. I die brave!’
Boyer had the ‘distinction’ of being the first of only seven persons to be legally hanged in the Wyoming Territory.”

(From The Hog Ranches of Wyoming, by Larry K. Brown)

Trophy Hunt

After downing his buck, the Might Hunter triumphantly returned home to enlist the help of his long-suffering girlfriend (we'll call her LSG) for help in packing out the meat. She considered wearing her trail runners, but remembering that rain seemed impending, she grabbed her rubber boots instead. They ventured out after dark, and LSG asked Mighty Hunter for his headlamp. However, he was hot on the trail and far too excited to pause to hand her the light, and so said, "Just stay right behind me. You'll be fine."

Stumbling along in the dark, LSG did as she was told. The sagebrush and buffalo berries made rough walking, and there were snakes in this country. With her next step, something moved. No, it didn't just move-- she stepped on it! Whatever she stepped on was moving! And now it was walking along next to her! This was just too much for LSG, who began screaming her head off. Mighty Hunter thought perhaps she'd been shot herself, and came running to her aid. She pointed and stuttered and screamed, and Mighty Hunter's light fell on a porcupine. LSG had stepped directly onto a live porcupine.

"Did it get me? Did it get me?" LSG wailed, eyes clenched shut. (In LSG's defense, she's quite a hunter herself. It was just the fright that caused her to whimper.) Thankfully, the only two quills the pair came up with were lodged firmly in the uppers of her rubber boots, far from any skin.

Mighty Hunter returned from the hunt with his trophy, and LSG with her trophy tale, so at the end of the night, all were satisfied.

Overland Journeys

With the first snowstorm of winter came the necessity of stocking up our supplies, lest we be snowed in at some point in the future. Every town with a grocery store is two hours from my mountain home, and so yesterday I set out in my modern covered wagon for Rawlins, Wyoming.

Rawlins is a funny little town- only 10,000 people, yet it feels like half that. Old buildings that have never been updated and trailer parks line the few streets, and there are no big box stores aside from Pamida (the poor man's K-mart, it's been jokingly referred to). Downtown was paused-- it appeared that once the railroad money left the original "Raw Town" near the turn of the century, things continued along with the only change being the position of the hands on the clock face. Perhaps even those stopped by 1950.

The thrift store was bustling, in an old general store with high windows and ceilings. The old floor-to-ceiling shelves still covered the walls. The patrons were self-important, and all knew one another, as they would've in 1910. The man who ran the Army Surplus was obviously an ex-Civil War soldier, and may have been an outlaw at one point as well. An incongruous bright spot lit Main Street, in a little home decorating store full of tasteful knick knacks that seemed far more appropriate to the Eastern Front than to the wild west.

The huge, Romanesque buildings of the Wyoming Frontier Prison loomed at the north end of town, presiding over all that lay below it. The buildings were grand, forbidding, stern, and utilitarian all at once. The prison was once known for its modern methods of reform: prisoners worked out on county projects, at a prison farm, and in a privately-owned shirt factory. By the 1950s, silence was the rule and reform was a thing of the past. The prisoners rioted, which brought about some change, but the facility was closed by the 1980s and moved to a modern building near the freeway.

The sleeting snow and oppressive grey clouds made imprisonment feel like the by word for a Wyoming winter. On the drive home, I watched a herd of wild horses near the Overland Trail and was thankful for my cabin in the unsettled country. I would willingly take my chances against the odds of a snowbound winter at 7000 feet, over the forced confinement of a city on the plains.

Our Panics

Financial panics come not here
Yet when the clouds and rains appear
The little creeks, so full of pranks,
Make a "run upon the banks."

(From the Hayden Pantagraph newspaper, approximately 1892)

New team of Shires

Thunderheads were boiling when I walked out in the pasture to halter the new team. They were turned out alone in a big field, and were unconvinced they should come to me. With horse cookies at hand, they relented. We got in just as the lightning and rain fell.

Their feet are horribly overgrown. They have about four inches of extra toe curling and splitting away. One walks with a big of a limp, and I can't tell right now if it's arthritis or its just from needing a trim so badly. I am so far away from a farrier, I'll just have to bute them for a week or two until someone can come get them into shape.

Their names are Jim and Jake-- one has two blue eyes. They are both black with a little bit of roaning, and lots of chrome. When I hitched them up the first time and spoke their names: "Jim, Jake"-- each one flicked his ears back to confirm to me which was Jim and which was Jake. Jake has the blue eyes, if you're wondering. I thought I vaguely remembered being told Jake was on the left, so I hooked them up on the ground. They immediately bumbled into one another, awkwardly bouncing off each others' shoulders and unable to coordinate their steps. It was pretty clear that Jim was actually on the left. Once I switched them up, I had no trouble. They are quiet under harness, at least while ground driving, and responded easily to my commands. With luck, they'll be the quiet, gentle team I need for the ranch.

The ranch photographer was here again. He said, "This DVD is going to be all about you. Are you single? Because then we could put on the screen, 'Come to the ranch and meet this girl!'" In the morning I fly fished for the cameras-- we landed three and missed three more. The largest was an 18" rainbow, missing one eye and half his tail. A blind fish-- must've been why I was able to catch him. In the afternoon, Levi and I saddled up and rode them around for the cameras. We crossed the river a thousand times, and then I took Howdy into the field behind the barn and galloped flat out, hell bent for leather, back and forth while the cameras rolled. I thought, 'surely I'm not going to be able to run towards home for long before Howdy gets annoyed and bucks me off.' My horse was perfect, and each time flew faster across the ground. He loved it. He totally knew those cameras were rolling.

Thunder Booms

A thunderstorm rolled in again this afternoon. Since that horse of mine was struck a month ago, I am feeling cautious. The lightning dropped all around us, and I made my riders walk their horses across the flats, though we were just a minute from the barn. When we got home, Scotch and I sat in the window and watched the lightning fall. It struck a tree on the riverbank right across the road from the window. The tree was way down in the river bottom-- it was not a high point at all! It was a profound, humbling sight. I do love living in a place where the earth reminds you that she will kill you, should you be foolish enough to ignore her. It's not personal, but you'd best watch your step...

One of the guides was driving home from Steamboat on the jeep trail some days ago when lightning struck the road in front of his truck. It rippled across the wet mud and under his vehicle. The steering went solid in his hands, and he pressed on the brake with both feet. His ears were ringing and dull all at once from the boom! of the strike, and he couldn't tell if the engine was still running. He clicked the key on and off-- the truck did nothing. He gathered his wits and caught his breath. Some minutes later, as the storm rolled off over the canyon, he turned the key on the truck again. It started right up, and off he drove!

Getting the horses helicopter-broke

Levi and I rode my horses, Howdy and Cleo, up the mountain to where the ridgeline meets the sky. About thirty minutes later the helicopter arrived, lifting from the valley beneath us, rising to our level, then soaring over to the lodge down below. They gave us plenty of distance on the first pass, and Howdy and Cleo hardly flicked their ears. On the second run, he swooped in and Howdy considered leaping off the mountainside, but then thought better of it. After the third and fourth times going over with the videocameras going, the pilot asked if he could come in closer for some stills. We stood on an outcropping of rock, one horse slightly forward of the other, looking off into the distance while the helicopter hung in the air only 50' from us. Howdy and Cleo posed perfectly-- neither moved a muscle, just focused with ears pricked. It was awesome. The pilot and photographer were so impressed with my amazing horses, of course. So was I!

Read the one below this, first.

BLUBABALU: Stiff pose: Victorian Postmortem photography

I'm not lying about Sarvisberries and death.

"They came by South Pass and that country up there by Lander, and came down there and then of course he died when he was about 38 years old, and they were down at Tin Cup, down at the placer mines at Tin Cup when he died. My grandmother, I knew her, she died years later, I remember they kept her in cold storage, she died around Christmas time and they kept her and took her down there next spring and buried her at Tin Cup. " (From my interview with homesteader Andy Hornbeck, 8/2011)

You know how I tell everyone about how serviceberries (colloquial: sarvisberries) are named because they are the first bush to bloom, in spring, indicating the ground is thawed enough to dig graves and hold services for the winter dead? I wasn't lying about the pioneers keeping their relatives in cold storage all winter.

(I borrowed this photo from the Blubabalu blog, which tells me this really interesting fact that I am now going to start including with my stories about sarvisberries:
-The official practice of post-mortem photography was very common through the Victorian era as a way to remember dead loved ones. With children, it was usually the only photograph of the child the family would ever have. This practice faded in the early 20th century, as advances in health and medical care extended our lifespan, and Kodak introduced the Brownie camera, making photographs more readily available to the public and less of an art form. Death became less common in daily life, and society began to shun it. Previous to the turn of the nineteenth century, funerals were commonly held at home in the parlor, or "death room." With the advent of "funeral parlors," funerals started taking place outside the home, and the home parlor began being called the "living room." I hope that is as interesting to you as it is to me! For more post-mortem or "Memento Mori" photographs, please visit this link:)
http://blubabalu.blogspot.com/2011/06/strike-pose-postmortem-photography.html

It could always be worse...

A reminder from our pioneer ancestors after my particularly trying day, that it could always be worse:

"A timber fire was burning, not very far from where they lived. Erasmus saw the smoke and fire while he was Ward [Colorado]. He hurried home as quickly as he could and found that the fire was getting very close to the house. He knew where there was a potato patch of about two acres that was plowed up, where he felt that they would be safe as the fire would be burned out when it reached the clearing.

"Anna and Erasmus talked of where to go, one place was a cave, not too far away, Anna left first, as the cave was farther away than the potato patch. There seemed to have been some sort of misuderstanding as to where to go, causing them to get separated. While Erasmus didn't find Anna and the children at the potato patch, he felt sure that she had gone to the cave. He left the children and went looking for her. He knew that he couldn't get back to the children so he told them what to do. It wasn't long before the fire was all aoround them. Lee Baxter said, 'I can still see those pine trees explode, when the fire got close to them. That was, barring none, the worst night I ever put in. I was afraid that our folks were burned and imagine how they felt. In the morning about daylight, we saw them coming towards us through the smoke. It was indeed quite a reuinion there on that burned flat. When we went back to where our house used to be, we were positively astounded to see that it was still standing.'"

-From The Snake River From Three Forks to Columbine, by Anna Mae Fleming Adams

City Slickers

(Photo does not depict the dude discussed below, but another city slicker showing off. And really, I shouldn't make fun. I'm sure we all look like this at times in our lives.)

Risky cattle drive today with a man grandly named Duke-- a Jewish New Yorker who idolizes our head cowboy. "You know the movie City Slickers? That's me." (I can't make this stuff up.) Wears special deerskin gloves to maintain his smooth lawyer handshake, and English-style full-zip suede schooling chaps. Tells me he made his own major in college, studying the communication between wild animals, "so I pick up a lot of horse behavior that other people miss out on."

Rushed cows through the brush above the dump road. When we came out, all the cowboys were complaining, "That was some jungle!" "Hellauva country to ride through!" etc. I had the feeling I was supposed to be impressed; I said nothing. A ride through scrub oak at SFR was tougher than that nonsense. While riding home, once we'd lapsed into easy silence, a cowboy complimented the machete I carry in a leather sheath on my back cinch billet. I replied, "I came from brushy country." As if that could explain the half of it...

Scrub oak always equals danger

Took my horses on an exploratory mission over the Wyoming border today. We followed fencelines and cattle trails to attempt to top out on the ridge-- and found scrub oak! The one place on the ranch that has scrub oak, and I've found it. Great. I hopped off to create a pathway for us, and pulled out my trusty machete.

Swish, hack! Crash-- another tree sacrificed to the trail. Howdy and Cleo were tied off to my belt. With the next Swish, hack! we heard a new sound: hmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!! We all three recognized the sound and leapt a startled 180 degrees to reverse course for some distance. It seems my hacked-off branch landed on a paperwasp nest that had been destroyed by a cow or bear. It was lying on the ground, torn apart, the wasps stumbling over it trying to find some order when I threw a branch on top and made angry bees angrier. We escaped alive.

The semi-tame fox was in the field on our way out-- watched us, and then came closer.

Loading the wagons and heading west

Pioneers tend to uproot every few years. It must be in our blood. Levi and I pulled up stakes and left Crawford to wander up into an even less-inhabited country north of Steamboat Springs. This valley is true west-- millions of acres of public land, and one huge dude ranch of 200,000 acres. We find ourselves amidst plains of sage, tumbling tumbleweeds, and vast stands of aspen among the world's finest elk territory. It feels like Yellowstone.

Small world full of loved ones

Just discovered that many many years ago my Grandpa Paul spent two summers with his brother Tommy panning for gold in the abandoned ghost town of Columbine, Colorado... the nearest town to the ranch I am now working for. What an amazing coincidence, and how much more special that makes this place to me!

About Being a Woman in Ranching Country

"My 95-year-old neighbor told me, 'If a man asks for your help and you tell him that you'll give it, give it your all and do it right, or you're just wasting both your time.'"

For a cow, fences are merely a suggestion.

There are “those days,” and then there are days repeatedly so awful it feels as though you're living someone's poorly written creative writing essay.

It started on Wednesday when we drove upriver to the other part of the ranch to load hay for the horses. We drove by the cattle pasture, and I didn't see a one of our ten black heifers, the cows we lease from a neighbor for the summer. As Katie backed the truck up to the barn, I watched the mirrors, waiting for the hopeful face of one of our hungry cows. Not a blade of grass moved, nothing appeared. “Rachel,” I said, “Why don't you go check and make sure the cows are still in?” She made a joke and walked off-- Katie and I straddled bales of hay. One bale, four bales, six bales... still no Rachel. Thirteen bales, twenty bales, no Rachel.

“I'm beginning to lose hope of hearing good news,” Katie said between bales thirty and thirty-three, wiping sweat from her eyes. Rachel came back shaking her head.

At the barn, we saddled horses for Katie, Kevin and I. Two hundred black cows were wandering the side of Saddle Mountain, countless unfenced National Fores acreage, and among then, our ten black cows. The farther we rode, the less hope I had of finding them. No new tracks surfaced, no hot trails or crashing brush to cue us into a herd containing our missing ten. Even if we did run into cows, we reasoned, could we honestly tell from a distance that they ours?

Finally, we split up. Kevin and I returned west down the ditch, while Katie dropped down to the road. We rode dejectedly along, until Katie radioed: “I believe I have found our girls!” Scotch started squealing-- I grabbed the radio from Kevin-- “Where are you?”-- Scotch squeals again as my horse continues to grind his paw in the dirt-- “I'm in the first meadow past the cattle guard!” I look down, expecting Scotch to have a broken paw, but he's licking it and limping and crying. If I lose these ten cows, I'm going to end up buying them, I think. I tell the dog to stay with Kevin and start loping off the same way I came.

I reach Katie in the meadow and she's holding a herd of about seventeen. Some of them are ours, some are not. I can't tell if all of them are there. Scotch appears, running wildly, no longer limping. I holler at him repeatedly, but the excitement of the cows and the running and finding me are too much for my year-old puppy, and he bursts right through the center of the heifers, scattering them. I leap off my horse and pull my halter to tie the dog to the tree. It appears he hasn't broken any bones, but I might break some for him if he does that again.

The waiting game begins.

Seventeen heifers increases to twenty-one, plus a bull. They warily circle the meadow. I am off my horse, better able to head them off in the oak brush on foot. Katie and I keep them between us. The radio calls to the ranch increase in frequency-- “I don't care who you are or what you do here, just get in a truck and drive down here.” I briefly consider gathering enough electrical tape to create a makeshift corral around the cows, from which I can load them into the trailer, but abandon the idea when I realize no one on the ranch will be able to figure out where the electric fence charger currently is. I get sick to my stomach. I can't imagine how we will possibly guide this herd of cattle from this meadow, out to the road, over a cattle guard, and nearly a mile back to their corral (not to mention separate the ones I lease from the ones I don't). I get sicker, and consider lying down and dying.

Down the road, six bodies have arrived to fill holes in fences and guide the heifers on their way home (and hopefully not scare the heifers on their way to sweet, sweet freedom). I maniacally radio each of them sixteen times, confirming exactly where they're standing, to the inch, so as to coordinate our planned attack. Eight people on ten heifers... you can tell I'm not a real cowgirl. Anyway, so figuring I was either going to throw up or move, we decided to move. I remained dismounted, and ducked through the brush, my horse tearing out trees as he followed behind. I lost sight of everything-- no cows, no people, no road-- and started radioing maniacally again: “Does anyone have a visual on the cows? I have lost visual; does anyone have a visual?” Suddenly, Katie appears in front of me. We hustle together to block a path to the south, and turn a stream of cows towards the road. Katie leaps aboard her horse, and her saddle turns sideways. I lose sight of her in the increasing jungle, bouncing off the side of her horse as she struggles to maintain control and pull herself upright... one down in this ugly battle, I think.

The cows have hit the road! We reach our first triumph! The sense of elation is quickly dulled as the cows stall up and mill about at the cattle guard. One side of the road is hot wire-- electric fence-- and the other side is Katie, bravely on her horse again and facing down the escapees. Gingerly, Jessalin, Kevin and I approach. The cows know not how to cross this obstacle. Although there is clearly a path through the creek, designed especially for escaped cows, they are too stupid to realize this. I dramatically insist no one moves toward them, lest one fall to her doom in the iron clutch of the cattle guard. After waiting, and waiting some more, I announce my intentions to ride in and through the herd, pushing them into the opening in the creek. Everything goes to hell as Kevin's horse backs into the electric fence, gets zapped and bucks him off. I retreat to regroup. Number two is down.

Katie's persistence on the edge of the field has the cows looking the right direction. Kevin and Jess' horses are just barely controllable, and so I edge mine in alongside our heifers, turning their noses to the water. Finally, one blonde cow starts her descent into the mud. We wait... our breath halted... our horses chomping and plunging... and the cows turn and follow through the creek!

The time slows as we follow the cows. Adrenaline turns back to worry, and worry to anxiety. We have a half mile of dirt road left to go, and innumerable places where the fence is no longer cow-proof. I mince along, keeping my distance and berating my wranglers to do the same, like a nagging mother or a broken record. Slowly, we proceed down the road, traveling strictly at cow-speed. Finally, the driveway appears in front of us. Chris, Holly, some neighbor dude-- they're all there, waiting to turn the heifers in the right direction. Finally, we're home-free.

Thursday.
Twenty cows in our corral, ten belonging to us, and ten belonging to a neighbor. One bull, wandering the perimeter of the fence, and one cow, not ours, in the pasture across the driveway. Now, to separate them all.

Sorting is generally done in set of tight corrals, thirty feet or less in diameter, with a gate between on well-trained horses who move instantly at the touch of a spur or lift of a rein. Our gangly, goofy dude horses just won't cut it for this kind of work, and so Rachel, Kevin and I are on foot, in the mud amidst the heifers. I read the numbers and brands repeatedly, memorizing my own cows and thanking the angels that we have all ten.

Kevin and I start cutting them out, one by one. Three are separated, four, now six! Nine cows, grazing in the pasture. We're almost home free. Number ten won't have it. Too much pressure, she cries! You're too close! She sails over the fence in a ballerina's jump, her arching back belying the pregnancy she carries under her ribs. She's free! I growl and snap and holler orders-- get around! On the road! Don't let the bull get by!

With a bit more pressure, she flies through the air again, to join the lone cow in the opposite pasture. This pasture has two strategic holes in the fence. We form a plan. Rachel will block the driveway, and Kevin and I will drive her through the gate into the original pasture. Rachel moves the truck and trailer to block the driveway. With a splash, we watch in horror as she sinks the entire underpowered half-ton truck up to the axles in the muddy irrigation ditch. Casualty. We leave it.

We dart around the cow, run headlong through willows, and leap ditches as though we have wings on our feet, like Mercury. The cow does us one better, flying over enormous piles of roofing tin and lumber as though she is Pegasus, as though she is weightless, as though cows can fly. Finally, we aim her flight back into the pen she came from. She joins her sisters, and in doing so becomes just a cow again.

The Dodge remains stuck. The plan had been to load the extra cattle in the trailer and drive them up past the cattle guard, where we would unload them into national forest, where they belonged for the rest of the summer. This plan remains impossible while the Dodge remains mired in mud. I send Rachel home to handle the guests, and ask myself, “What would Levi do?”

The skid steer surely should be able to pull the whole mess out. Could we pull it sideways? No, the Dodge has a short bed and the trailer would break out the back window. Could we pull it forward, into the opposing pasture? No, there's too much junk in the way, and we couldn't get the skid steer in there without sinking it, too, in the ditch. So we have to pull it backward, trailer and all, straight out of the ditch. The trailer refuses to cooperate. Offering only a 2” gap around the axle and no solid bumper or anything of the like to attach a tow rope to, we are left stumped. Finally, I say, let's just put the tow strap through the holes in the side, and hopefully the door will hold. It's our only choice-- pull the door off, or succeed in breaking loose the entire chain of events.

We attach the chain. I put on some cheap sunglasses I find in the glove compartment of my truck-- better than nothing, in case the chain snaps or the trailer door flies off and hits the skid steer. Climbing in, Kevin and I coordinate our cues. Jim signals for us to pull, and like magic, we hear a pop and the truck and trailer are free again. We breathe a sigh of relief.

With Jim delivering the skid steer back to her place in the garage, Kevin and I load the cattle. The job feels anticlimactic as they climb in the door without any trouble. We latch everything securely. I decide to drive all the way across the bridge before turning around-- not taking any more chances on a day like today! The Dodge is severely underpowered for the amount of weight in the 20' trailer. She chugs, and lurches. I put her in 4WD high. I am concerned about the hill past the Safari club-- it's a long one. She climbs the first half alright, slowly, but climbs. When we hit the middle of the second hill, she's struggling. The smell of smoke drifts through the cab. “Antifreeze?” I say, hoping nothing more than a radiator hose has burst. “I don't like that,” Kevin says. “Smells like the transmission is smoking.” I have this mental picture of a demolition derby at the county fair, a car trapped running between two others and unable to move. He revs his engine, pushes the rpms until the engine bursts, explodes, flames arise and the driver bails in triumph. I imaging Levi's face when I tell him I blew the engine on the Dodge. I hit the brakes.

Wait-- we're not stopping. We're not moving forward, either, we're sliding backward, down the hill, off the cliff! I spin the wheel, crush the brakes to the floor, and spin the wheel the other way to stop the trailer from pulling us off the mountain sideways. Kevin is grasping at anything to keep himself upright while I put the transmission in park, slam the emergency brake on, anything to stop our inexorable slide towards certain death! I pray, and the entire wagon train comes to a stop, the end of the trailer hanging over the edge. Kevin throws himself out of the vehicle to get to the trailer, and I fumble for my seatbelt, checking the steering wheel for an airbag and waiting for the backward slide to resume.

Behind me, Kevin can't get the door of the trailer open. It's jammed with gravity and above him as he slips on the edge of the drop-off. The cows are shuffling around, slamming their bodies against the trailer walls as Kevin finally hits the latch. The door can't swing with gravity against it, but the cows start falling against it and it opens and they pour out, knocking Kevin off the edge, bouncing and tumbling their way to freedom again.

Once the trailer is empty, I breathe a sigh of relief. Leaving the parking brake on, I slowly engage the gas, then release the brake, and the trailer pulls forward, out of danger. I turn it around, pick Kevin up, and bring it back to the barn to load hay, and move our heifers to the unbreakable steel pipe fencing of the arena. The sky opens, and we feed the cattle in a downpour.

Two hours later, I am home. Levi calls, and I pick up the phone and settle in front of the window to watch the alpenglow and reflect on the ridiculosities the last two days have brought. The sun shines on the rain-freshened grass as cattle graze below the arena. I look again-- I grab my binoculars-- there are cattle grazing below the arena. My radio is in my hand, and as I hit the button to talk, three voices blend as Kat and Rachel see/feel/hear/know the same truth that grazes the meadow before: “THE HEIFERS ARE OUT AGAIN!”

Cluckers

My new chickens adjusted immediately. They're 18 months old, and full of vigor and youth. They have no idea that things could hurt them, and cluck around me with so much innocence. I let them out for the first time today, but only two of them ventured far. Despite two kittens attempting a chase, and the dog attempting to herd them, they remained stoically protective of their freedom until I came by and picked them both up to put them to bed. Another nine eggs today-- they all like to lay in one nest together, except one hen that lays her egg in the neighboring nest. They are wonderful girls.

Road Warriors

On narrow country roads
opposing pickup trucks
stop side by side

Drivers roll down windows
aim elbows at each other
and shoot the bull
-Rod Miller

And we're down to the final three!

My new team arrived bright-eyed and bushy tailed about a month ago. They are full of spit and vinegar every day, and yet have been going by the monikers "Dick and Dan." LAME! So about a week ago we started a contest to re-name these big boys. We've narrowed over fifty choices down to just three:
Thunderbolt and Lightning
Sawyer and Finn
Timber and Aspen
Whichever names get the most votes by 5:01 pm MST will be the horses' new names! Leave your votes here or on facebook. What's it going to be?

Horses and Lions and Snow and Lightning: Spring is here!

It's been a wild spring here in the Rockies. We had a lovely, though windy, April with plenty of sunshine. The grass jumped up out of the ground, and the turkeys have been flourishing. The bluebirds were the first to return, but the robins and juncos are most prevalent as of late.

Levi and I spent nearly an hour watching three tom turkeys battle in the field of a neighbor. The three large birds would face off, one would rush in and grab another wattles, and then they would push one another around in this head-locked state. Tom #3 would puff his feathers and chest-butt the other two, or rush in for a flying karate kick! The hens, meanwhile, grazed placidly and ignored the ridiculous spectacle. Tom #2 eventually drove off the larger Tom #1. Apparently #2 and #3 were buddies, and quickly rounded up their ladies, strutting and puffing and gobbling, and moved them to a new spot. Tom #1 continued lurking in the bushes, and would rush headlong into the bunch at a run, at which point Tom #2 or Tom #3 would proceed to chase him off again.

Two mornings later, we stood at our window watching seven turkey hens feeding in the meadow around 6 am. Levi was sipping coffee, and I idly picked up the binoculars we keep on the window ledge, when suddenly the turkeys were flying and scattering and a big yellow cougar was flying through the air, arms outstretched for the hens! It happened so fast, that I hardly recognized what was happening. I had the binoculars up to my face and Levi was shouting, "Is it a coyote? Is it a coyote?" "No!" I shouted back (although we were ten inches apart). "It's a lion!" The young lion had missed his target, and the birds perched in the tall cottonwoods far from his reach. He sat down on his haunches, looking just exactly like a pouting child. He sat this way for nearly a minute, letting us get a good look at him, and then stalked off to the river. What an exciting sight! In all my years in the wilderness, this is only the second lion I've ever seen.

This morning, after three days of thunder-snow and grauple and terrible wind and rain, we awoke to a calm morning. "Santa must be coming tomorrow!" Levi announced as I left the bedroom-- the whole world was covered in a lovely blanket of 5" of snow. The horses were less than enthusiastic, as they've been shedding their winter coats already. Dan couldn't help poke his head in the barn to see if I'd let him in. Firefly (who I let wander loose around the property) had grazed all over the lawn (much to Levi's chagrin, meaning I need to put up an electric fence for her tonight...). She's finally gaining weight, however, and my once-neglected Arabian is carrying her head high, flagging her lovely tail, and trotting in a lofty gait whenever I call her for grain. It's wonderful to see her looking like a healthy horse again. That also means it's probably about time to adopt a new neglect case...

She gets her way!

"When my great-great grandmother was preparing to move from eastern Ohio to 'away out west in Indiana,' she longed to bring several items that her husband said they absolutely did not have room to bring. Among these things was a little fire shovel her husband's brother had made for them in his blacksmith shop, but my great-great-grandfather flatly said no. Nevertheless, when they reached their new home there was he little shovel-- and there was Great-Great-Grandmother sewing up a seam in the featherbed!"
-Mrs. Eyeman Turner, Portland, Ind.

"In God We Trusted- In Kansas We Busted"

"In the (18)80s many covered wagons passed by our place. Some had signs painted on the canvas covers like "Kansas or Bust," "Going to the Promised Land," and "Home, Sweet Home."

In the fall many wagons came back and the signs had been changed to "Busted, by Gosh," "Promised Land was a Mirage," and "Coming Back in the Spring." The people going west were cheerful and hopeful. The people coming east were ragged, gaunt and tired.

One evening we saw a covered wagon coming up the road, being pulled by one horse and one man! At first we could hardly believe our eyes, but as they came nearer we saw it was really so. The man explained that one of his horses had died on the road. In the wagon were a woman and three small children. They stayed all night with us, and the next morning Father gave them our old family horse. They were so grateful they cried."
-Dora Bucklin, Orleans, Neb.

"In one wagon I remember was a man and wife and three children. They had a fine team, a cow tied on behind and a dozen chickens in a box. On one side of the canvas was printed in large letters, 'In God We Trust.' On the other side were the words, 'Kansas or Bust.'

Two or three months later I saw that wagon return. It was minus the cow and chickens. On one side was printed, 'In God We Trusted,' and on the other side were the words, 'In Kansas We Busted.'"
-Mrs. N.C. Bowen, Council Bluffs, Iowa

Celebrating Life

I am big on obituaries. I think they are a beautiful way to sum up someone's life, in a way that leaves them fondly remembered or vilified or whatever the case may be. I think in most cases, it's the first time someone is being recognized for how neat their life was. I read this recently: an amazing life.

Jim Quivey, 85, passed away February 14, 2011. He was born January 28, 1926 in Columbus, OH. During the Depression, Jim's parents, James and Nona, moved Jim and his sister Jean to Pittsburgh, Pa., so they could obtain employment at a large dairy farm. Jim served as an Army 101st Airborne paratrooper in 19944-45, during WWII. He was stationed in Germany. While attending school in Pittsburgh, Pa., he met Margaret Dolinar; they were married in 1947. Two children were born from this union: Linda and Dennis.

Jim's life was the greatest after they moved to Oelrichs, SD, and he started raising draft horses at 57. For him to go to the field and work with 10 broke horses was the greatest time imaginable. In his mid-60s they had a total of 18 head of work horses.

In 1994, Jim was involved in a terrible accident at Crazy Horse Monument near Custer, SD with a wagon and team. Jim was thrown out of the wagon when the seat broke, and he was run over by the heavy wagon. The wheel pinched his spinal cord, leaving him with no feeling or control in his left leg. Two days after the accident while in the hospital, his aorta ruptured, requiring a five hour surgery and 19 units of blood. If there had not been a doctor and EMTs visiting the monument and a heart specialist visiting the hospital in Rapid City, his buckboard would have remained empty. After beating all odds at 72 years young, he won some more life.

Jim was a person who enjoyed working with kids and horses to help them learn. Whether it was learning how to harness them, lead, ride or drive them, he always had a new protege who was learning how to handle horses... He would have an electric blanket over his weakened legs, and a generator running in the back of the wagon. Jim was never one to sit and watch life go by, so he started a business called Jim's Carriage Service. He would hire out to drive a carriage at weddings and a horse-drawn hearse at funerals. Anyone that has ever hauled around a team and a wagon know it is not an easy task for a young and agile person, needless an elderly man with two legs that didn't work real well. It was a tough decision for Jim to sell the business, but he knew it was too physically demanding to keep it going.

On his 80th birthday he decided he was going to sky dive from 10,000 feet, which he did successfully just to prove he could. He would take trips to Florida driving all the way by himself at 79, 80 and 82 (he could barely walk at the time)...The doctors were always amazed by his determination, and the nurses always made sure he had a plate with special homemade cookies... One time they asked him if he had someone to check in on him. Jim quickly responded, I have a neighbor that checks in on me every morning. Little did they know the "neighbor" was a horse that came up to the window every morning.

While pulling the hearse at a funeral...it was a tight squeeze through some of the spots in Rapid City, SD, but Jim could park a team of horses better than most can park an economy car... A common sight was Jim in his scooter driving to the buggy so he could climb up there and take hold of the reins. Jim knew his days were drawing to an end, so he traded a funeral home his horse-drawn hearse for doing his funeral services. He is survived by his sister...daughter...etc... two Belgians and nine Suffolk draft horses.

Life Long Love

"There is such a thing as lovesickness for good horses and mules, and for this there was no cure. People who operate machines know nothing like it. This creaturely love can keep one interested all day long in every motion of a good team or a good saddle horse. And not only all day long, but all year round and all life long."
-Wendell Berry

When times got tough, my pioneer grandmothers would've told me to buck up.

"My great-grandfather left New York state in the early 1800s bound westward. His adventures have come down by word of mouth in our family. He married a wonderfully brave woman who went with him to the wilds of Michigan, where they operated a trading post. Great-grandmother never saw a single white woman during this period. She bore several children without the comforting presence of another woman. One day her husband went into the forest to hunt, and he never was seen again! No one ever knew whether he met with a hunting accident or died at the hands of Indians. It must have taken great courage for Great-grandmother to pack her belongings and begin the long, dangerous trek back to Wisconsin, alone except for the children. She was an old, old woman when she died and my aunts can remember stories of how she clung to her worn Bible to the very end-- perhaps because it gave her strength and courage through her terrifying adventures."
--Mrs. Leonard Kristiansen, Nashua, IA

"Father was gone for the day when Mother saw a herd of wild, stampeding cattle bearing down on their frail little shack and the precious garden she had tended so lovingly (not to mention the tiny twins in their double cradle and the two-year-old daughter watching out the window). She snatched a red-checkered tablecloth and ran toward the garden waving the cloth. The herd separated and went on either side of the house, missing it and the garden. Mother was deeply grateful for deliverance!"
-- Ella Besaul, La Mesa, CA

Trust

My mare was fresh, having not been saddled in several weeks. We loped along and her ears swiveled at each shadow, leaf twitch, and flicker along the trail. The ground cut away, the river charged 70 feet below. Above, the cliff top stood bare against the outline of a mountain behind.

In the trail ahead, several bathtub-sized boulders had tumbled from the thawing, strewn across the path ahead. It was passable, I could see at a glance, but it was not the trail my mare was familiar with from the fall before. She hesitated, just momentarily. Was it a horse-eating rock? Was there a wolf behind it? Was it a trap, a trick, a carefully-disguised predator? She is not a spooky horse, but when alone, any horse will consider a change on the trail twice before approaching. I sat calmly, ready for her decision, broadcasting my confidence and asking her to trust me. We broke to a trot, our bodies moving in unison, as I allowed her to consider her options.

My dog, an exuberant puppy, loped onward. Rocks! He seemed to say. This looks like the perfect place to lift a leg! Maybe a coyote has been here! What kind of scents might be on these rocks?! He leapt over the first one and began hurriedly investigating.

Immediately, my mare changed beat. I sensed her decision and together we moved back into a lope, stepping through and around the boulder field without hesitation, ears and neck calm, forward, and focused. A little predator, a little dog-- she saw his movement around the rocks and understood she could trust the puppy to judge the danger of the unfamiliar scene. She, a prey animal, trusted the predator's decision.

Every instance of her higher intelligence and decision-making capabilities reinforces my life's choice to work in this field, with these horses. I just wish I could communicate these little miracles to the citified humans that are sent down my path..

Native Wisdom

A memory from 2001, traveling through the Pacific Northwest:
We followed a coastal highway, letting the lay of the land dictate the direction of the car, until we spotted a grey arch rise from the water: a whale! We drove slowly, watching her swim and rise, blow and pause, between the great pines. At each turnout we would stop and watch her journey. We lost sight of her when the bay opened up, and she left us.

We came to a small logging village, quite rough-looking, within the bounds of an indian reservation. There was a small museum a few blocks off Main Street, and we stopped. Following our visit I bought a choker made of shells, and asked the cashier how much tax was. The native woman snorted. "Tax! We don't pay tax," she said. "The government has taken plenty enough from us!"

My Kind of Man

Brutal Histories

Murder? Even attempted murder? Not out here! With only a few thousand souls, surely it's not an something that happens very frequently out here on the rural western slope. I believe the last murder in Crawford was over water rights in an irrigation ditch at the turn of the century. But with an attempted murder last week in Hotchkiss and a homicide this week in Paonia, things are looking downright ugly. Perhaps it's just cabin fever. Being as entwined in history as I am, it brings to mind the most famous murders in this part of the territory...

A single father became enraged with his child, and gave him a good beating to set him straight. Sometime in the night, the boy died of his injuries. The man woke the boy's grandmother, who they were living with, and forced her at gunpoint to start a kettle boiling. Hot water, lye, everyone in those days knew how to render soap out of hog fat. Why should human fat be so different? The man chopped up his little boy into pieces, and the woman boiled all night to turn him into soap. Exhausted from his efforts, the man fell asleep. Enraged by her grandson's murder, the grandmother took up an axe and killed him while he slept. Since the pot was already boiling, she proceeded to chop him up and drop him into the soap kettle as well! Being of lesser strength than the man, the body wasn't chopped quite finely enough, I'm afraid. Sheriffs looking for the missing man discovered bits of bone in grandmother's hand soap... which eventually lead to the truth coming out. In a very early instance of a jury taking mental illness into account, the woman was institutionalized, rather than jailed, for her part in the murders, at least according to Muriel Marshall, historian and author of Where Rivers Meet. Although this recent Montrose newspaper article says she was jailed: http://www.montrosepress.com/articles/2010/03/24/opinion/columnists/marilyn_cox/doc4ba97a85a3181875348535.txt

Soap murder... I was once traveling through Washington as a young teenager, and we stopped at a beautiful state park with a large, terribly deep lake and mountains on all sides. I remember sitting at a lovely picture window looking out at the deep lake, enjoying a steak at an old dinner club dating back to the turn of the century (I remember it was steak because I was a vegetarian at the time, but was absolutely ravenous from hiking all day and decided I could make an exception). While dining with my family, I read a story printed on the menu about a young woman who worked as a waitress at the lodge many years before. A story like this one tends to stay with an impressionable teenager with a love of history: A young wife disappeared in the 1930s, and while her husband claimed she'd run off with another man, her family was suspicious because she never again contacted them. Years later, a body wrapped in blankets and tied up with ropes was found floating in the middle of this enormous lake. The body was floating not in a state of decomposition, but completely saponified-- turned to soap! The cold depths of the water had acted on the fats in her skin to slowly turn her entire body in an Ivory bar, and as we all know, Ivory floats. Matching dental records identified the woman as the missing waitress, and her husband was tried and found guilty. I thought that was true justice-- she was just waiting for the ropes and weights holding her to the bottom to decay, so she could float to the top and point one pretty white finger at her abusive husband. Here's the whole story:
http://skullsinthestars.com/2010/10/31/the-lady-of-the-lake-a-scientific-ghost-story/

It occurs to me that both of these crimes, as well as the two this past week, were domestic abuse. Both this past week involved estranged husbands committing violence on their wives. I don't know that the pioneers really had it any better than we do today-- surely, alcoholism was rampant, near-poverty conditions caused incredible stress on marriages and families alike, and the extreme work load would've caused such exhaustion that a lack of judgment was likely. Yet, nothing makes it easier to accept when it happens so close to home.