Gate? What Gate?



Kristy with her first buck. Her brother was her guide.

 Hunting Season. I hate it. I hate it worse every year. Now, before I get myself shot, let me say that I have nothing against most hunters, and the ethical sport of hunting. Some of my favorite people are avid hunters. (I didn't say “drive-by shooters”.)

It might have something to do with the fact that no matter where we lived on the ranch, with the exception of five years across the creek, we've always been right in the thick of the heavy traffic that begins two weeks before hunting season, and reaches bumper to bumper status by opening day.



Clayton and another successful hunter. Nice!



At Sage Creek, the traffic went right through our yard. Some stopped, some didn't. Since that time of year also happens to be one of the busiest on the ranch, I was frequently by myself, out in the middle of nowhere, with 3 babies. I kept my loaded .22 under the bed. At least until one day, when I was on the phone, and heard my three-year old, who's been a gun nut since he was a few months old, saying “bang, bang” in the background. Yes, he had discovered my hiding place. Fortunately I always left the chamber empty, and the safety on. Ray built me a gun rack that night. Both our son and his wife are avid hunters now-- bow and rifle.



Having to drive by these big boys didn't help matters...



I've just seen too much of the bad stuff. The blatant disrespect for others, for game itself, and for private property. I've been pleasantly oblivious to hunting this year since we're no longer on a main access route. I heard a couple of gunshots the other day, which reminded me how nice it is not to hear them blasting away all day long. It's amazing how often I would hear 6 to 10 shots at a time—like, maybe they should think about going to a shooting range and learning to aim, or maybe sighting in their gun. Or maybe they need to get within range...

One fall we were bringing some calves down the road, and we had to hold traffic up at a gate. A very pleasant out-of-state hunter in a pickup with a canopy was in the lead. He was very excited about his success, and was more than happy to show off his two “mule deer” he had just bagged. When he opened up his canopy, there were two very nice...elk calves.



A couple more of Clayton's hunters and an elk.



Those kind never bothered me as much as the blatant vandalism that goes on. One year in cowcamp, hunters began shooting before daybreak in an area that was closed to hunting-- our horse pasture. They killed a horse that they thought was an elk then drove off when they realized their mistake. A guy sitting up on a hill above them told us about it. That same year they stole a spare tire off one of our trucks that we'd left along the road where we unloaded horses to gather cattle off a mountain.

When we were building our house, our contractor watched from the roof as someone drove up to the locked gate that was meant to keep people out of the yard, barnyard, and construction area. Finding the gate locked, the “hunter” got back in his truck, turned around, backed up to it, hooked a chain onto it, and ripped the gate, brace posts and all, out of the ground. They melted plastic into the lock on the gate going into cowcamp. The cowboys had to dismantle the gate to get home at the end of the day.

The past few days, Ray's been helping gather and trail cattle off the opposite side of the mountain from our old stomping grounds. He told me that the gate that separates the two sides of the mountain between this ranch and the old place-- is gone. Not torn down, not cut up, not left open-- simply stolen.

It's like the hunters that were constantly driving by three or four big “No Trespassing” and “Private Road” signs always said when confronted: “Signs? What signs? We didn't see any signs...” What a relief not to have to deal with that anymore!

Housecall.  Ray had an ingrown toenail during weaning  and

couldn't get to town during the day.  Preacher brought Doc

by after their hunt.

To be fair, I've seen plenty of good, honest, respectful hunters over the years as well. The kind you are glad to call your friends, and the kind you are more than happy to have come and enjoy getting out for a good hunt. The kind that make you wish you could pick and choose who gets to hunt.

They stop and let you know where they've seen cattle that were missed during a gather. They let you know if they've come across damage done by vandal “hunters”, and to let you know that they closed a gate that had been left open, in case cattle had gone through in the meantime. They stop when they see you trying to turn a herd of cattle off the road, through a gate, and patiently wait.

They have a kind word as they pass, instead of a dirty bird and a trail of beer cans. They ask if they can do something to help. There were even a couple of guys from Missoula who would come back in July armed with weed spray and a sprayer, to help get rid of knapweed during the County's annual Weed Day.

They don't consider their hunting license a license to stomp all over other's rights. They consider it a privilege.

For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.  I know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine.
 Ps 50:10-11

(Note:  Most of these photos came from Clayton's wife, Kristine, or the hunters.)

Thank You Ma'am



Beckie and Gary were at Sage Creek after
us. Beckie made great rolls!



When I married Ray, he was foreman at Sage Creek. It was part of the main ranch, but on the other side of the mountain, so we were basically on our own. There was 80,000 acres, and Ray usually had one or two hired men, and me. I was also the cook.

I'd grown up helping Mom cook for the family, as well as for haying crews, so I wasn't totally new to the concept of feeding a crew of hungry men, although my experience had been at a much lower elevation. There's a reason why cake mixes have “high altitude instructions”. But I usually cooked every thing from scratch, so I didn't even think about that, at least to start with.

Feeding Ray and the hired men was pretty routine, but during branding and weaning, the entire crew from headquarters would come, and I would stress out planning meals. On branding days I only had the crew for lunch. In October though, they would all bring their bedrolls and stay in the bunkhouse for three days, and eat three meals a day in our living room.

That took a little more planning, because it was 50 miles to town. There was a little store and Post Office 10 miles up the gravel road, but I only used them for emergencies. Ray always said that “Old Bud”, was the only guy he knew that could take a grapefruit and turn it into a kiwi. After I found weevils in the bottom of the bag of noodles I'd bought, and got tired of sour milk, I started being more careful.

The big old house we lived in had originally been set up for feeding crews, so it wasn't too hard to extend the table out all the way in order to seat all 14 men. There was old brown linoleum that I would get all shined up-- at least the first year. I learned real quick that the time to shine it up was after the crew left. Cowboys were very polite. But a lot of them wore lace up boots, and most of them didn't take them off.

Once I got into the swing of things, cooking was actually kind of fun. Except I was the first one up in the morning, and the last one to bed at night. I always lost my appetite when I cooked, so I didn't usually check the food I was putting out. I'd put the food on the table, then go back in the kitchen and start cleaning up while they ate.

I had pans set up so when they were finished, they'd bring their plates to the kitchen, scrape them off, put the plates in one pan, and silverware in another. As they filed through they were always very polite and complimentary. “Thank you ma'am. That was excellent!”, or something similar. That always made it worthwhile for me.

Until one day when I made my refrigerator rolls. I'd made them many times, but this was the first time I'd made them at Sage Creek, which sits at about 6500'. As the crew was driving in, I pulled the pans of golden brown rolls from the oven. They looked great, and smelled even better. I popped them in baskets, and set them on the table.

After they'd gone back to work, I went in to clean off the table. I was hoping there were some rolls left so I could try one. My heart dropped when I saw the table. The baskets were still full. I took one of the rolls and broke it open. The centers were raw dough.

I was so embarrassed. Not one of them had said a word beside the usual, “Thank you ma'am, that was very good.” Ray didn't even tell me. It wasn't until he was cowboss, and I watched cowcamp cooks come and go, that I figured out that the crew I'd fed was sincerely appreciative, and not just being polite. Cowboys had a certain code about cooks, and when they had a good one, they took care of him.

“...the workman is worthy of his meat.” MT 10:10



There haven't been cowcamp cooks since 1990. The crew is responsible
for packing their own lunch. Once in awhile they get to
stop at Yesterday's Cafe on their way home.





Cattle gathered up for fall work. The elk calf had lost his mama, and lived with
the cows all summer. He had to be run off when we brought the cattle in.
Antelope also like the protection they get from cows-- especially during hunting season.

 

High, Wide, and Lonesome. Early morning gather, 2010.



Harvest Time

If it weren't for the huge temperature swings, and the land going dormant, I think fall would be my favorite time of year. As a kid, we'd come home from school and drive the old Chevy dump truck for Dad while he was combining. We'd chew handfuls of raw wheat until it turned into gum. We'd race our ponies bareback across the freshly harvested hay and grain fields on the way out to bring in our little dairy herd for milking. We'd rake up piles of leaves from the old Silver Willows around the yard, dig the spuds out of the garden and store them in a bin in the basement, along with the shelves and shelves of canned fruits and vegetables and bins of apples meant to get our family of 8 kids through another year.

We'd load up in Dad's big old orange “logging” truck, and go to Grandpa's to find a nice buckskin tamarack Dad and the boys would cut down and split before we all starting pitching the chunks onto the back of the truck. Mom would send a coffee can full of her beef vegetable soup to heat over a campfire for lunch.

One time the brother most known for trouble-making, was pitching wood on the opposite side from Dad, and accidentally pitched one a little too hard. It came down on Dad's head, knocking him down, and almost out. When little brother rounded the end of the truck to see what had happened, he saw Dad staggering up from the ground, trying to get rid of the stars-- and started laughing. Big mistake. Dad failed to see the humor...(It was the same brother who, when he was in line for a paddling at our little country school, got some boys to hold the door shut on the teacher long enough for him to escape out a window. The teacher, and his dog, chased him down the highway for about a half-mile. Little brother was a hero!)

For the past 37 years, harvest has been primarily of a different nature. It's weaning time on most ranches in this part of the country, when the calves are separated from their mothers. It's noisy, it's dusty, and often it's bone-chilling cold. It's payday that, like any other enterprise, correlates directly with the type of management the business has received, not only in the past year, but the years spent designing genetics and developing grazing systems that have long-term effects.

And this year...well, being retired puts a whole new spin on things. We went to a health fair this week, and Ray was utterly shocked to find his blood pressure had dropped 40 points in four months, from the highest it had ever been, to the lowest it's ever been. Made his day. We're trying to finish up painting, staining, frost-free water tanks, and the like, but Ray's still getting a little antsy. There's cows across the road.

We do miss being out in the hills, and all the horseback activity. Although I confess, I've been getting more and more fair-weather the last several years, and I really don't miss having frozen toes and fingers, not-to-mention 20 pounds of clothes to peel off just to get rid of my coffee! We've got some opportunity to do some local daywork, and that will be just enough to keep things fun for now.

“...but God meant it unto good...” Gen. 50:20

Ray, Clayton on Alpo, and Marion

Counterfeits

One of my favorite cowboys came to work about Ray's 2^nd year as cowboss. He was older than the typical cowboy and had a lot more sense than most of the less experienced ones. He didn't have much schooling and could barely read, but what he lacked in book knowledge he made up in character. He was a hand, and savvied cattle. I learned to heel calves in a branding trap a lot more consistently just from watching him. He was like a machine: Swing, catch, drag. Swing, catch, drag.

I'm not going to say his name because he's pretty well known between here, Wyoming, and Nebraska. I know he's still around because Clayton ran into him when he worked on the Padlock. He didn't recognize Clayton, even though he'd taught Clayton a lot of cowboy things before he was even old enough to be in school. He missed his own 2 sons, and enjoyed having Clayton or the girls ride along to “help” him.

Cowcamp during weaning.

The guys called him Gram-ma because he was always cold, and didn't like to ride bucking horses. He was the only one that really suffered when Ray shut the cookhouses down, leaving the guys to cook for themselves. He was from the old school, where women or cooks did the cooking, and he didn't know how. His favorite sandwich was bologna and peanut butter. And, he was a bit of a chronic complainer.

Regardless, he was the real deal. If he said something, you didn't have to wonder what he meant. He wasn't a pretender. Either he liked you, or he didn't. He might cuss, or murmur, or complain, but you always knew where he stood.

He was a pretty good team-roper on the heels too. The last time he came back, we picked up a few horses from Bob Douglas in Wyoming, including one Bob's wife Lee had ridden, called Charlie. A well-built pinto that also happened to be a pretty decent rope horse. The cowboy got to have him for his string, and for the most part they got along pretty good. Except anytime he'd ride him into a roping box, old Charlie would mash his leg into the fence. The cowboy told us a few times how counterfeit Charlie was, but we just chalked it up to his normal complaining.





Jim and Charlie on the right, with Ray on Nugget, Kristy on Alpo
and Clayton on Old Yeller, at the county fair, 1988

When he left that fall, I got to use Charlie to help doctor the feedlot, and I was liking him pretty good. Until I roped a big calf that was leaving in a hurry, by one hind foot. I got my dally, but Charlie took a pretty good jerk. That counterfeit bugger crow-hopped and spun around to the left, taking his own dally around my ribs before I could turn my rope loose. The calf on the other end, frapped me to the ground so hard I thought I'd never get my wind back.

Clayton, who was 6 at the time, was riding around with us on Alpo. He watched me flat on my back, desperately gasping for air, with his dad lifting up on my waistband trying to help. Then he turned and rode off to the end of the pen and started crying. When Ray and I rode over to get him, Ray asked him why he left. “Because”, he sobbed, “I thought my mom was dying, and I didn't want to watch.”

Anyway, I figured the old cowboy had been right all along, and I decided I didn't really like Charlie after all. Besides, I knew that Ray was not going to let me continue to ride something we couldn't trust.

That's the worst kind regardless of whether you're talking about 4-legged critters, or two. The ones that act perfectly fine 98% of the time, then about the time you've let down your guard and are really counting on them, they turn and “gitcha”.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. PV 27:6



Me, Mike, Jim, and Pete using "dead-men" at a branding.