With disappearing staff, fewer guests, and turning leaves, the fall season has descended upon the ranch. Each seasonal indicator served as a reminder of my impending departure. During my last week at the ranch we hosted world renown animal tracker, Jim Halfpenny, who taught guests about bears, wolves, and other aspects of ecology. His presentation included a daylong trip to Yellowstone where we spotted wolves from a distance and crawled in a vacant bear den. He had a handful of tales of close calls with the fuzzy critters that kept his audience captivated with each story.
Like any academic and objective scientist, he told an objective story when relating information about grizzly bear and wolves to the guests, listing facts and highlighting current research. But it was the crack in his voice and the tears that formed that showed his human side when discussing the future of the grizzly bear, and the environmental problems mounting an attack against the species. What’s more, human development seems to be putting the nail in the coffin. Will the species survive in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem? Probably, but not in its current state is his suspicion.
I wrote about a grizzly bear that ate our pigs early in the summer. As of my departure, evidence of a wandering grizzly bear still appears around the ranch weekly, but the new pigs remain ignorantly happy, oblivious to the threat surrounding them. Bears are smart and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting for them to fatten up before going in for the kill. At least that’s what I would do.
The sheep wagon held up nicely despite the leaky roof and drafty door. I already look forward to the day I have children and grandchildren and can begin the back-in-my-day lecture about how I spent a summer living in a sheep wagon in Wyoming when they start to complain about how bad they have it. They’ll roll their eyes but I’ll continue on anyway.
When it seemed like I had tried just about everything over the course of the summer, on my last week I even got to participate in a little bit of dish washing and housekeeping. Nick was also assigned to the duty and together we swept, fixed beds, and removed garbage cabin by cabin, reliving the summer and talking about our futures. It was Nick who became one of my best friends at the ranch and inspired many of my free time adventures.
Chuck remains on his feet and doing well. In addition to running the ranch like ususal, he is active in raising awareness for his cause and active in the Muscular Dystrophy Association. We parted company that evening after a couple of beers around the campfire, words of thanks, and a good, firm handshake goodbye.
Guests will remain at the ranch until Mid September. Afterwards the ranch will be closed up for the winter. In addition to the winterizing of the ranch, some major logging plans are underway to salvage much of the pine being killed by the pine beetle plaguing that part of the country.
I said my goodbyes and packed up my car under the light of the full moon on my last evening Labor Day Weekend. Disappointed to leave, but anxious to move on to my next adventure is how I would describe the feelings surrounding my departure.
What comes next? That’s a good question and one I have no good answer for. I know this. For the next year I am giving up the rural lifestyle and moving to the cities. I’ve traded in the sheep wagon for an 8’ by 10’ bedroom in a St. Paul apartment. The drastic transition comes with pros and cons. The details of a job have yet to be worked out, but as happened with the ranch job, I remain confident that something will fall into place. It always does.
People have asked if I will return to the ranch next summer. There exists the possibility, but at the moment too many variables cloud the decision to say one way or another. Either way, I’m sure I’ll find myself back in the Sunlight Basin before too long, for a visit at the very least.
Fourteen weeks ago I arrived at the ranch, knowing little about ranch life and the people I would later call my friends. My cowboy boots still looked brand new and a foot of snow decorated the ground in early June. In the time between now and then, I’ve learned how to divert a plumbing disaster, find a good fishing hole, navigate the mountains, rebuild a buck fence, hold a calf being branded, mountain bike down an actual mountain, and catch a loose horse headed for home. I’ve become a better welder, horseman, and mechanic, and those cowboy boots that were new at the beginning of the summer, there’s a few scuffs in them now.
Much of what sent me westward was the desire to discover more about the cowboy way of life and experience it firsthand. After fourteen weeks would I call myself a cowboy or a wrangler you may ask? No, is my firm answer. I believe that title should be reserved for the truly desrving, those that live it as a lifestyle and not those simply pretending during a summer job.
But it caught me off-guard two weeks ago when a four year old boy called me a cowboy as we sat on the patio drinking lemonade one afternoon. “Why do you say that?” I asked him. “Because you work here,” he responded. “But I don’t look like a cowboy,” I quickly pointed out, sure I would stump him with that one. He responded, “you don’t have to look like a cowboy to be one, you just have to act like one.” I couldn’t argue that point. He hit on one of the profound truths that some people my age and older often don’t realize. Indeed, you do not have to look like a cowboy to be one. It’s a person’s character, not appearance, that defines him or her.
Although I still wouldn’t consider myself a cowboy, the fact that I was mistaken for one leaves me hopeful that I picked up a few of the desirable traits and skills of a cowboy, ones that should serve me well the rest of my life.
Thanks to everyone who took the time to read these stories. It has been a privilege to be able to write this column each week and have it read by those that know me best, and many that don’t at all. I hope you learned a few things and had a few chuckles along the way. I know I sure did.
Happy trails.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Week 13: coyote serenade and a runaway horse
Down the road about six miles from the ranch, Sunlight Creek cuts a narrow channel through the limestone bedrock to spills over a small waterfall and into a lush, green canyon. The canyon walls are covered with small trickles of water seeping from cracks in the limestone, creating a scene uncharacteristic of this dry and barren landscape and more like that found along Beaver Creek. Nick showed me this place one day after work and it has become my favorite spot in the area.
After a long week of work, which included more babysitting, I decided a little bit of solitude was in demand. With my tent and sleeping bag I set out for the canyon for a camp out. Camping is something I aspired to do more often this summer, but a plan usually foiled by bad weather. With the sun setting and the half moon appearing brighter and brighter, I kicked back on the cliffs and let the rush of the water drown out my thoughts.
Taking advantage of the privacy, I brought along my fiddle and enjoyed a quiet practice session. After my first few notes, a coyote yipped in the distance. Whether it was in response to my first few notes, or simply a bedtime call for its pups, I remain curious.
With the campfire burning low, the coyotes howling in the distance, and the bright, starlit sky, I thought of the cowboys of old, living and working on the range and resting after a long day. The setting remains the only commonality, however. Instead of a horse, my car was parked next to the tree. My sleeping bag replaced the bedrolls of old and my synthetic tent gave me protection from the winds of Wyoming. Instead of a rifle for protection, my can of bearspray remained my weak defense. No beans or bacon for supper, either.
The following day, Jimmy and I saddled up a pair of horses and went for a day long ride. We passed through Trail Creek, where Chief Joseph and his tribe camped, and continued on into the wilderness and up a wooded draw, on the same trail the tribe would have used to enter Trail Creek Valley by Jimmy’s estimate. Once under the cover of trees, he began to point out downed logs that had been rolled or torn apart by bear. Trees along the trail marked the presence of a grizzly, sharpening her claws. And if there was any doubt that we were in bear country, piles of bear scat dotted the trail every mile or so.
Tempted by the ripening wild raspberries Jimmy kept pointed out, we paused for a moment to gather a handful. I dismounted and began to collect from nearby bushes. When the easy pickings were gone, I let go of my content, grass-munching horse’s lead rope for a moment to reach a few distant clumps. Moments later, with my back to the trail, I heard Jimmy’s voice express urgency as I turned to see my horse, Curley, trotting down the trail toward home. “I’ll cut her off,” he shouted as he turned Rowdy and chased the runaway pony down the mountain side. Astounded, having never been in this situation before, I watched in horror as my ride slipped away. I shoved the dozen berries in my mouth and chased them down the trail.
Jimmy’s plan to cut her off failed. The trail was too narrow and the brush and trees too restricting to allow for a pass. Therefore, he simply continued to push the horse further toward home as he chased it down the hillside, with me running behind in my cowboy boots. Throughout this ordeal a string of swear words that would make a sailor blush flew from Jimmy’s mouth in between the “whoa’s” and “easy girl’s.”
After five minutes of this I caught up to him stopped in the middle of the trail. “She’s gone, Greg. Give it up, she’s gone,” he said in frustration. Until now I had been pretty calm considering the circumstance. “You gave up? You can’t give up!” I proclaimed and left Jimmy behind as I continued the chase on foot. Besides the fact that it would be incredibly embarrassing to have to explain how I lost my horse to those back at the ranch, I would have to walk the eight miles back on foot. In addition, a horse with no rider returning to the barn would surely cause concern for my safety. Most importantly, in the saddle bags rested my lunch and water supply.
By now Curley was ready for a rest and stopped for a few bites of grass around the bend in the trail. Upon seeing me, she began trotting once more, periodically looking over her shoulder to judge my progress or lack thereof. When she stopped again I circled wide and landed myself between Curley and the path home. A few slow steps and I had her by the reins once more. One leap and I was back in the saddle, riding toward Jimmy to show him my success.
Thankful, we continued the ride which brought us to the top of a ridge named Lodgepole. After a brief lunch we rode home discussing the highlights and lowlights of the summer. We passed bush after bush of ripe berries when Jimmy finally asked if I wanted to stop for another handful. I graciously declined.
The afternoon I moved into my sheep wagon seems like it was years ago, yet the time disappeared so quickly. I’m down to my final week at the ranch and no matter how hard I tried to make the most of my summer, my to-do-before-I-leave list is as long as ever; one more hike, one more horse ride, one more starry night, one more evening of music around the campfire, one more letter home…
Happy Trails.
After a long week of work, which included more babysitting, I decided a little bit of solitude was in demand. With my tent and sleeping bag I set out for the canyon for a camp out. Camping is something I aspired to do more often this summer, but a plan usually foiled by bad weather. With the sun setting and the half moon appearing brighter and brighter, I kicked back on the cliffs and let the rush of the water drown out my thoughts.
Taking advantage of the privacy, I brought along my fiddle and enjoyed a quiet practice session. After my first few notes, a coyote yipped in the distance. Whether it was in response to my first few notes, or simply a bedtime call for its pups, I remain curious.
With the campfire burning low, the coyotes howling in the distance, and the bright, starlit sky, I thought of the cowboys of old, living and working on the range and resting after a long day. The setting remains the only commonality, however. Instead of a horse, my car was parked next to the tree. My sleeping bag replaced the bedrolls of old and my synthetic tent gave me protection from the winds of Wyoming. Instead of a rifle for protection, my can of bearspray remained my weak defense. No beans or bacon for supper, either.
The following day, Jimmy and I saddled up a pair of horses and went for a day long ride. We passed through Trail Creek, where Chief Joseph and his tribe camped, and continued on into the wilderness and up a wooded draw, on the same trail the tribe would have used to enter Trail Creek Valley by Jimmy’s estimate. Once under the cover of trees, he began to point out downed logs that had been rolled or torn apart by bear. Trees along the trail marked the presence of a grizzly, sharpening her claws. And if there was any doubt that we were in bear country, piles of bear scat dotted the trail every mile or so.
Tempted by the ripening wild raspberries Jimmy kept pointed out, we paused for a moment to gather a handful. I dismounted and began to collect from nearby bushes. When the easy pickings were gone, I let go of my content, grass-munching horse’s lead rope for a moment to reach a few distant clumps. Moments later, with my back to the trail, I heard Jimmy’s voice express urgency as I turned to see my horse, Curley, trotting down the trail toward home. “I’ll cut her off,” he shouted as he turned Rowdy and chased the runaway pony down the mountain side. Astounded, having never been in this situation before, I watched in horror as my ride slipped away. I shoved the dozen berries in my mouth and chased them down the trail.
Jimmy’s plan to cut her off failed. The trail was too narrow and the brush and trees too restricting to allow for a pass. Therefore, he simply continued to push the horse further toward home as he chased it down the hillside, with me running behind in my cowboy boots. Throughout this ordeal a string of swear words that would make a sailor blush flew from Jimmy’s mouth in between the “whoa’s” and “easy girl’s.”
After five minutes of this I caught up to him stopped in the middle of the trail. “She’s gone, Greg. Give it up, she’s gone,” he said in frustration. Until now I had been pretty calm considering the circumstance. “You gave up? You can’t give up!” I proclaimed and left Jimmy behind as I continued the chase on foot. Besides the fact that it would be incredibly embarrassing to have to explain how I lost my horse to those back at the ranch, I would have to walk the eight miles back on foot. In addition, a horse with no rider returning to the barn would surely cause concern for my safety. Most importantly, in the saddle bags rested my lunch and water supply.
By now Curley was ready for a rest and stopped for a few bites of grass around the bend in the trail. Upon seeing me, she began trotting once more, periodically looking over her shoulder to judge my progress or lack thereof. When she stopped again I circled wide and landed myself between Curley and the path home. A few slow steps and I had her by the reins once more. One leap and I was back in the saddle, riding toward Jimmy to show him my success.
Thankful, we continued the ride which brought us to the top of a ridge named Lodgepole. After a brief lunch we rode home discussing the highlights and lowlights of the summer. We passed bush after bush of ripe berries when Jimmy finally asked if I wanted to stop for another handful. I graciously declined.
The afternoon I moved into my sheep wagon seems like it was years ago, yet the time disappeared so quickly. I’m down to my final week at the ranch and no matter how hard I tried to make the most of my summer, my to-do-before-I-leave list is as long as ever; one more hike, one more horse ride, one more starry night, one more evening of music around the campfire, one more letter home…
Happy Trails.
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