bear hunt

Summer weather has arrived. The 80 degree days we’ve been having feel warm to the unadjusted body. The irrigation pivots on the neighbor’s property spray the fields with arcs of water around the clock. Dry potholes are the bumpy reminders of what were once driveway mud puddles. The ranch vehicles I washed now sport a coat of dust rather than mud, and the river runs high and overflows its banks in a few spots. The heat speeds the process of melting snow in the mountains. Despite the excess of water in the river, I fear that soon we will need to begin watering the lawn, the onset of a summer long battle with tangled garden hoses.

This is week two of guests staying at the ranch. A family reunion comprises most of our visitors. As tradition dictates, each year they visit the ranch they challenge the staff to a game of ultimate frisbee. As I learned driving a few of them from the airport to the ranch on Sunday, the staff typically wins the competitive battle. Their tone of voice led me to believe they were pleading for a bit of mercy this go round. Monday evening, wearing our matching staff t-shirts as our uniform, we hit the field. Most of our competitors were either from the East Coast or California and best of all not yet acclimated to 7,000 feet. In addition they had two middle aged guys playing, another handicap.

Both of those handicaps proved to be insufficient, however, as the family tacked up the points quicker than we could catch our breath. They had a 6’ 4” ogre who cherry picked in the end zone and grabbed the disc from the air with ease. Meanwhile, our middle aged cook regularly took a break to smoke a cigarette leaving us a man down. Two other staff were athletically challenged leaving three of us to do all of the running. The game ended no better than it started and we hung our heads in defeat, speechless at our failure.

Pig wrangling was not in my job description, but this week it was one of the small tasks I tried my hand at. Unlike cattle who will move away at the slightest motion in their direction, pigs are too dumb (or too smart) to react in such a simple manner. We might as well have been herding cats. Half an hour is what it took five of our staff to get our four philosophers back into their pigpen.

Not but a few days later the pigs were once again the center of our attention after a grizzly bear found the critters and made breakfast out of one unfortunate pig. The local Game and Fish department was contacted. The carcass was left half uneaten as daylight and ranch activity undoubtedly scared the bear back into the woods where one of our wranglers saw him during the morning wrangle.

Game and Fish set up a bear trap next to the entrance of the pigpen. A 7’ by 3’ steel box on wheels, baited with the remains of the dead pig, was set in hopes of catching the bear for relocation purposes when he returned for another easy snack. As expected he returned the next evening, but saw the three remaining pigs as a more appealing catch than the bait in the trap. The disappearance of all three pigs, along with the tracks indicate he drug them off into the woods for a snack.

Not wanting to underestimate the bear again, the Game and Fish officers returned with two more steel traps, and added two snare traps to their arsenal next to the pig the bear cached near the creek. They remained confident that he would return and the 5:00 A.M. knock on my wagon door Sunday morning brought news of the capture. I tossed on my work clothes and headed down to the scene.

At sunrise two conservation officers darted the five year old male grizzly, caught in a snare trap, with a sedative. Moments later we gathered around the slow breathing but otherwise still lump of brown and silver tipped fur to admire one of North America’s most amazing creatures, and pose for a few pictures in a once in a lifetime photo shoot. The claws were perhaps the most impressive feature on the bear but I learned it is usually the teeth that do most of the killing. Once staff and dudes alike had their fill of pictures, the conservation officers took measurements, drew blood, and attached a radio collar.

After over an hour of unconsciousness, the bear began to blink. Soon after we could detect a quiver in his lip every now and then. Not wanting to give him a chance to become too aware of his surroundings, four of us each took a leg and hoisted the 375 pound bear into the trailer. Some wildlife CSI background checking told the officers this bear had already been captured once, tagged, and relocated after an incident with beef cattle in another part of Wyoming. This being the bear’s second strike, he would be relocated to Yellowstone. It is only after the third strike that bear will usually be terminated.

Although disappointed in the loss of the four pigs (and what would have been a lot of pork in the freezer), the ranch managers understand it as a part of living in this area and show no anger, just disappointment. One a small scale, what happened at our ranch characterizes the struggle between predatory species in the west and ranchers. The allure of the exotic wildlife like wolves and bear bring tourist dollars to the state (in our case, guests to the ranch), while money is lost in the occasional livestock killed.

Few ranchers are friends with conservation officers in this neck of the woods as most view their occupations as mutually exclusive. At our ranch they are not just friends but cooperative allies. After a cup of coffee and a gracious use of their time educating our guests, they hit the road for the journey to Yellowstone while the staff rushed to post their pictures on Facebook.

An exciting end to another week.

Happy Trails

branding

Spring time on any farm or ranch marks the beginning of new life. Out here our meager herd of 25 heiffers gave birth to 11 calves this season. In addition to the regular vaccinations, ear tagging, and castration, these critters get the ranch brand cinged into their left side. Branding cattle has always been a western tradition. Originally used to keep cattle identified on the open range, the brands are still used for similar purposes even in the age of barb wire fences. Our purpose for branding stems from federal regulations that require each animal grazed on National Forest land have a brand.

Our 277 acre ranch is not large enough to provide the year round fodder for our three dozen cattle and 80 horses. Therefore, for much of the summer the cattle and horses are turned out to the bordering National Forest land to graze. Meanwhile, our pastures are irrigated in an effort to get one cutting of hay by the end of the summer. Currently, due to the cooler spring, the Forest Service has delayed the start date of our lease until the grass has a better chance to become established.

With the branding irons hot, we moved the 11 calves into the wooden railed round pen. I expected a hot burning fire to heat the irons like the days of old, but propane is the modern fuel of choice. Our entire staff came out for the experience, housekeepers and all. Some simply watched, but many jumped in and took their turn at tackling a calf including the assistant cook. To the inexperienced cattleman, it seems a simple task. To catch a small calf should be no more difficult than chasing down a little kid one might reason. But it quickly becomes apparent the difficulty in catching something that would rather not be caught and has four kicking legs instead of two.

A couple of the wranglers set out for the first one. After a few misses, they finally settled on one of the smaller calves and got him into the debilitating hold. The irons were passed through the gate one at a time and after the vaccination was given thick smoke rolled off the calf as the iron made its mark. The smell reminded me of the smell emitted while watching my dad dehorn cattle when I was younger. The calf struggled but the wranglers’ hold on his rear legs and neck remained steadfast. When the second iron was pulled the calf scrambled back to his feet and instinctively rejoined the group.

After carefully studying a couple of more captures, I jumped off my perch on the top rail of the fence and decided to give it a try myself. I have no embarassing or heroic tales to tell of the capture, just a muddied pair of jeans that resulted from the three minute chase and hold.
When each calf had its turn under the iron we set them back out to pasture with their mothers. One of the wranglers got his ribs banged up pretty well bulldogging a couple of calves so I got to take his horse and help push them back to pasture. For the first time in my life I was riding a horse not strictly for leisure, but for an actual purpose. Keeping the herd constricted by the fence, we rode alongside shouting a few encouraging words as we pushed them half a mile. We closed the gate and turned our horses toward home and crossed the snowmelt swollen creek with supper on our minds.

Fly fishing is another popular activity in this region of the country. The rivers and creeks are still too high with snowmelt to yield good fishing but many of the guests this week are eager to try despite that fact. I am a relatively inexperienced fisherman, but in the past year have acquired much of the necessary gear and a little know-how.

Two nine-year-old boys were trying to learn the tricks necessary for a good cast. I gave them the few pointers that had been given to me my first time fishing but after a few more of my non convincing suggestions they nonchalantly gravitated toward the actual fly fishing guide, seeking his wisdom instead. I don’t blame them, it was only a few minutes longer before I worked my way closer to catch the suggestions he was giving the others and suddenly it turned into a lesson for me, as well. I am eager to get on the water, but with the promise of good fishing later in the summer I wait for better opportunities lest I get frustrated early on and prematurely break my rod over my knee.

My good intentions of getting into a jogging routine have finally come to fruit. After a couple weeks getting used to the elevation, I now being each day with a couple mile jog as the sun lights up the mountains. With the fast paced ranch life the time stands as a precious opportunity to clear my head and prepare for the day ahead. The early morning jog means less sleep, a sacrafice I’m not sure I will be able to maintain throughout the summer. Already I’m exhausted. Much of our day is devoted to guests leaving us limited time in the evenings for our own enjoyment and socializing. But don’t feel sorry for me. The droopy eyelids are worth it.

Happy Trails




These same boys quickly tired of the casting after an hour and set off to explore more exciting pastures. They ended up on the creek bank of the small stream that tickles through the ranch. For hours they explored the banks and the properties of moving water, potentially hydrological engineers in the making. Childhood memories of myself spending entire afternoons doing the same reminded me of the virtues of growing up in a rural area and how a little moving water and a good pair of rubber boots is enough to keep any young man entertained.

trip to town

After our late season snowstorm last weekend, guests trickled in and filled the ranch with a new life. This week has allowed for some larger projects to be completed. Myself and a few others knocked down and replaced an old buck fence. A buck fence is the wooden railed fence with leg supports, characteristic of the western landscape.

A walk along one of those fences will make obviously clear their inherent benefits. The rocky ground in many locations makes sinking a post impossible without a drill and a few sticks of dynamite. Tough terrain combined with plentiful pines makes the buck fence the appealing method for keeping stock fenced in. The legs are notched to fit together and rails are nailed to the face in an alternating pattern. A simple enough design that even an amateur fencer like myself can build a solid structure that will last 15 to 20 years.

Since my first horse ride I’ve been in the saddle a couple more times. Sandy was my steed of choice. A draft/mustang cross he’s a big guy, and perfect for keeping my feet dry on cold stream crossings. He’s well suited for this type of terrain and makes a walk up a hill feel like an elevator ride. Many of the horses, particularly the mustangs, were once wild horses on BLM land as much as deer are wild animals in Minnesota. They were adopted from the U.S. government and tamed. I learned that more recently, abandoned horses have become an issue in parts of the west where owners turn their horses loose when they can’t afford to care for them anymore.

Atop of Sandy we rode through Empty Saddle Meadow (historically named in honor of dudes unable to keep their feet in the stirrups while galloping across the field) and continued up to Screaming Woman overlook, where, as legend has it, a rancher’s wife ended her life with a leap after he left her. Other trails have less threatening names such as Big Skyline and Sarah’s Meadow but the all promise great scenery.

Bear tracks are quite obvious along many of the trails, but the animals themselves remain unseen. Mountain Bluebells, Forget-Me-Nots, and Indian Paintbrush include some of the many wildflowers popping up that add some color to the greyed sage hillsides. Nearby limestone cliffs are dotted with caves and the depth of the river changes daily depending on temperatures and high elevation snowmelt.

Traveling the country side here gives me the feeling of living in a movie set. The distant mountains, cliffs, and meadows seem like an oil canvas backdrop. While working on the buck fence I looked up at the muddy truck in the pasture, and with the mountains in the background it was easy to envision a truck commercial. In fact, I’ve been told that the Chevy Volt commercial that is currently airing on TV was filmed just up the road from the ranch. The commercial depicts a time lapse with different scenes, like an old gas station, fading in and out of the background.

Living an hour from Cody makes any trip to the big city a special occasion. Twice a week the ranch sends someone to town to gather and deliver mail, dump garbage and recycling, and pick up supplies, both for the ranch and personal use. This week was my chance to get a tour of where the essential stops in town were, for future reference. As my guide was Jimmy, another ranch hand. Unlike myself, he’s seen quite a few dudes come and go from this place in his 15 years on staff. He’s 60 years old, give or take a few sunsets. A person would never guess he was originally from Illinois since for the past 30 years he has called Wyoming home and can blend in with most of the locals.

In describing Jimmy, one must explain a few things. First, he likes to talk. Secondly, he’s got a lot to say. That combination of traits makes for an overwhelming car ride. He is a very nice person and goes out of his way to make a person feel at ease. His conversation skills are incredible and his humor and wit are responsible for the many friendships he maintains. Finally, he’s worked quite a few long days in his lifetime and therefore has no qualms about encouraging a person to take it easy, slow down, and save some work for the next day. During one instance he nearly yelled at me to drop the fence rails I was hoisting into my arms because it was close to quitting time. I believe him to be the biggest threat to my Midwestern work ethic I’ve ever encountered.

In town we were slowly checking the stops off our list. The weather was warm and our windows were down. At a red light downtown we pulled up next to an idling truck when I saw Jimmy begin to stare at the much younger girl in the driver’s seat. Horrified and embarrassed by his behavior, I quickly became uneasy. Then, much to my worst fear, he started talking to her. “Hey lady, you need to stop watching all those young guys cross the street and pay attention to where you’re going before you hit somebody,” he shouted over the idiling engines. “Jimmy, knock it off,” I boldly and nervously yelled, but he paid no attention to me as it quickly became apparent that he knew this person. She laughed off his comment as if it were to be expected from him and for a few more seconds they engaged in conversation like old friends before the light changed.

At the post office he bumped into a friend in the parking lot. At the liquor store he knew the clerks and a couple of the customers. At the grocery store he chatted with the cashier like they were neighbors, and of course, he was best friends with the lady at Cowboy Cuts, his barbershop (where I read the paper and caught a nap while he got his ears lowered). He knew everyone, everywhere we went.

His knowledge goes beyond the layout and occupants of the town. He knows horses in and out and the landscape better than anyone I’ve met thus far. There’s a lot to learn from this man and his accumulated wisdom, and I know one summer won’t be enough to soak it all in, even if he were to talk non stop. Now that’s a theory I hope remains untested.

Happy Trails

June Snowstorm

After a warm and dry start, the cool June rains have begun to fall here in the Sunlight Basin. Each day this past week has dropped at least half an inch of rain and the forecast reads more of the same. The beautiful snow covered mountains surrounding us have gone into hibernation for the week as overcast skies seem to have disguised their presense. Occasionally when the clouds do retreat, a person can see the tree covered hillsides and the advancing precipitation gradient of rain to snow.

Sunday morning I had to look no further than out my wagon window to see the white stuff, six inches worth. I guess it’s a good thing we got the lawn mowed the day before. The snow continued into the afternoon and in total we received about one foot. As the sun came out later in the day, the snow seemed to retreat nearly as fast as it arrived. The pine tree above my wagon periodically dumped piles of melting snow. While writing this I noticed a small leak above my bed. The duct tape patch job I inherited isn’t quite doing the trick. For now, a pot will have to contain the leakage.

It has been my observation that Minnesotans generally like to think they’re tough for enduring long, cold, northern winters. Out here winter really does last nine months of the year and as a Minnesotan I tip my hat to those who endure these summertime snowstorms while the rest of the nation heads to the lake or beach and fires up the barbeque. After experiencing a couple snowless months this spring, the day almost had a feeling of the first snowfall of the season rather than the last. I even caught myself unintentionally humming a couple of Christmas Carols as I went about my chores. This cooler weather makes obvious the fact that most of the staff hail from warmer climates as they gravitate toward the fireplace whenever they enter the lodge.

Sunday was supposed to mark the arrival of the first guests of the seasons, the owners and extended family members of the ranch, but due to travel conditions we get a short reprieve. Many roads in the area, especially those surrounding Yellowstone NP, are temporarily closed.

I have yet to see first hand any notable wildlife, but other staff have reported seeing a black bear and a black wolf on separate occasions. With the snowfall came a grizzly bear that my neighbor reported seeing through her wagon window at three o’clock in the morning. Unfortunately, I slept through it.

On a morning hike this week I noticed plenty of fresh bear tracks on the trail up the gulch. With 38 cattle, wolves and bear hanging around is something we pay close attention to. I found the remains of one unlucky horse near the neighbor’s property. Bones were scattered over a 50 meter radius where a group of grizzlies filled their bellies last fall.

For the next couple of weeks the cattle will stay in the pastures. Starting June 16, the ranch’s National Forest lease begins. At that point, the cattle will be turned out to graze sections of the National Forest and our cowboy, Chris, will periodically check on them, traveling on horseback.
We have taken advantage of some pre season down time to prepare the woodpiles for the summer’s demand. Each cabin is heated strictly by wood stoves and with cool weather like this, we burn through the soft pine and spruce like wildfire.

After nearly two weeks at the ranch, I finally hoisted myself upon a horse. Up until now the unavailability of horses and rainy weather have made riding opportunities scarce. We went on a three hour loop around some of the prettiest country in Wyoming. We followed a trail up into the high country through the pine forests and swung down through a large meadow. At the bottom we crossed Sunlight Creek, a rushing torrent of snowmelt this time of year. I estimate the water was four to five feet deep at it’s deepest point. This was my first attempt at crossing a substantial body of water on horseback and I couldn’t help but be a little on the edge.

I prodded my medium sized horse into the cold water. He took that first step more easily than I would have. We made good time moving across the creek but after a few yards my long legs did me a disservice as the water topped my boots. A couple more lunges and we made it across to join the other dripping horses on the opposite bank. I had cold feet but no longer was it for fear of crossing the river. During our next pause in the ride, I emptied my boots and wrung out my wool socks, but wet feet were a small price to pay for the new experience, one that I hope to repeat soon.

Wrangler training began a few days ago. Despite my position as ranch hand, I am being included in the wrangler training as a fill-in incase they ever need an extra hand or a current wrangler gets injured. The wrangler position is perhaps the most coveted job at a guest ranch if not in the entire travel industry.

I have horse experience, but that experience is mostly limited to a couple of summers at a YMCA summer camp in northern Minnesota leading 10-16 year olds on 45 minute trail rides through the woods. It was a challenge enough to get these kids to keep their horses moving in the appropriate direction at an appropriate pace but required little skill beyond a loud voice, clear directions, and enough horsemanship skills to keep myself safely on a horse.

Here, when they call a person a wrangler they literally mean it. Each morning the wrangler’s day begins with a ride across the creek to the pastures to gather the herd and push them into the corral. The day ends in opposite fashion, at a gallop either pushing or leading a herd of horses eager to make tracks for greener pasture after being confined to the corrals all day.

The ranch gets half a dozen calls some days from people still looking for summer work, a regular reminder of the outside world and economy that suddenly seems distant and irrelevant. Out here safely crossing the creek, keeping the fence wires tight, and listening for the dinner bell mark our most pressing concerns.

Happy Trails.