Stories from my Summer as a ranch hand on a Wyoming dude ranch
Week 14: Summer's Farewell
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
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
Week 12: Haying
As if haying wasn’t hard enough given the unpredictability of the weather, antique machinery can provide added challenge and frustration. After pulling the hay cutter out of the weeds, replacing a few broken sickles, greasing the zircs, and tightening the belt, we fired the red faded mower up for the first time in a year. Three hours and two broken belts later the thing sat idle in the field, 40 acres to go, awaiting our next trip to town and the purchase of replacement parts.
Hardly deterred, we decided to concentrate on getting the cut hay baled in the meantime. One trip through with the hay rake began the drying process that ended with the approach of storm clouds over the neighboring mountains. A few days later, when the forecast looked more promising, Jimmy raked the field again only to have the drive shaft driven hay rake seize up near the end of his rounds. The gear box seemed to have run low on oil much to our neglect.
As may already seem evident, the ranch invests as little as possible in the process with so few acres of hay to bale each summer. This also translates into no hay wagons. The baler simply drops the small square bales on the field, a phenomenon unknown to this Minnesota boy. With the flatbed truck we wove our way around the field, behind the baler. We stuck Jenny in the driver’s seat, a lesson in driving a stick shift for her and a balancing act for the individual stacking on the back of the truck (me) as it lurched forward and to a halt. Two people followed and lifted the bales onto the truck. With a full load of about 50 bales, we’d head to the hay barn and manually stack the bales 15 rows high without an elevator.
So far, we’ve stacked approximately 850 bales in the barn, nearly half the total desired. Although difficult manual labor, haying provided a much needed break from the routine of herding guests around the ranch. With the cool 60 degree weather, we hardly broke a sweat. Moving bales under a clear blue sky with the mountains in the background provided the western farming experience I always imagined a part of ranch life.
Happy Trails
Week 10: Fly Fishing and Line Dancing
When I filled out my job application for the ranch last winter I mentioned my interest in fly fishing, making specific note that I was an amateur. Despite my disclaimer, I’ve been the go-to guy when Nick needs an assistant fishing guide. Mostly my help has been reserved for the Monday afternoon casting clinic, which is within my capabilities. I simply teach the dudes, most of whom have never held a fly fishing rod before, the few basic pieces of advice given to me when I first started; hold the line with your left hand and rod with your right, swing the rod ten to two with a pause in between, try to avoid snapping the line, and most importantly, don’t try to imitate the casting in the movie “A River Runs Through It.”
Thursday I was sent on an all day fishing trip with Nick and a British family. Following Nick’s lead, I shuffled up and down the stream bank checking on our rookie fishermen and offering a few words of encouragement as he did the real coaching. After lunch he took one of the young boys to catch a few Cutthroat and instructed me to set the other three family members up with a good fishing hole. With them standing there I had little room for protest to convince him of his error in judgement. Off we went upstream as I scoured the water for a promising spot, trying to remember the details of my Aquatic Biology course in college for some inspiration as to where the fish might be.
When a person spends the money these people spend to come to the ranch for a week, and they take an entire day to go fishing, they expect to catch fish. The responsibility for their success falls on the guide, which at the moment was me. One by one I set the trio up with spots with as least limited potential and held my breath. Therefore it came as quite a relief when five minutes later a fish went after the mother’s fly. I walked downstream to discover the father landed one from beneath an overhanging cliff as I suggested might happen. With fish on the hook, you might say I was off the hook.
The weather has been warm some afternoons. The neighbor’s cattle huddle around the pivot irrigator for a refreshing cool down. Despite the warmth of summer, a few days ago I felt the first hint of fall. Out here, snow commonly flies for the first time between Labor Day and mid September so it came as little surprise that the brief cold front and waning days triggered thoughts of my favorite season. It also served as the necessary motivation to split some wood before demand surpasses our dwindling supply.
Last week I used the tractor the consolidate a burn pile. Given my track record with flat tires, I ended the task thankful all four tires were still inflated, somewhat a surprise considering the terrain I was covering. Nine days later I noticed the rear left tire overnight had gone flat and nobody had driven the tractor in the meantime. So now it sits in our wood lot, another tire awaiting repair as a result of my bad luck.
For the first time this summer, I saw a wolf. Mid morning myself and a few others were on a trail ride when we caught the black lone wolf slinking through the neighbor’s cow pasture. At its closest, we were approximately 20 yards away. Every other time I have spotted a wolf was either from a vehicle or alongside 50 fanatic wildlife photographers and tourists with cameras in Yellowstone. For five minutes it traveled alongside our trail before finally curling up in the grass, likely waiting for a critter to appear from a nearby hole it sniffed out. Compared to grizzly bear, mountain lion, and often moose, wolves are nothing to be afraid of. Our horses didn’t seem to notice or if they did, didn’t mind the lonely stalker to our side.
One of the evening activities each week at the ranch is line dancing. A dance instructor comes and with the aid of a stereo and her I-pod, teaches the basics to a bunch of dudes in cowboy boots. Over the summer I’ve worked my way through the “Electric Slide,” mastered the “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and am a couple weeks away from getting Alan Jackson’s “Goodtime” under my belt. I am a slow learner, which is nothing I am embarrassed to admit considering the topic. Perhaps it would be more fun if the setting were a rowdy roadhouse in Texas, but at least for now I can’t say I’m much of a fan of the grape vine, boot scuff, and my least favorite line dance move, the tush push.
We’ve reached the part of summer where the staff is not only physically tired, but mentally exhausted as well. After a heated confrontation at breakfast Saturday morning over a simple little misunderstanding, a wrangler left the ranch and spent the day fishing as a way to clear his head following threats to quit. The following day, one staff member gave a two hour notice as she quit and then proceeded to load her truck. For most staff, this was a pleasant surprise since now tips will be divided amongst fewer individuals. For the most part, however, everyone still gets along pretty well by my assessment.
The new roster of guests each week keeps things a little interesting, despite the exact same routine each week that makes life here seem like the movie “Groundhog Day.” As one might imagine, we get a lot of guests from the East and West Coasts, some of whom have no clue about the rural lifestyle so common in the West and Midwest. Their naivety inspires some pretty fun questions such as; at what elevation do deer become elk?, is this part of the Grand Canyon?, do you guys haul in the dirt for the horse trails?, how far is it from Yellowstone to San Francisco?, is that snow?, and my favorite, how did you guys get this rock here?, as they point to a natural rock outcrop near the ranch. I restrain my laughter knowing that were I in New York City or L.A. I would likely make a fool of myself in similar fashion.
Nine thousand feet is the elevation deer become elk. At least that’s the response we tell the dudes gullible enough to believe us.
Happy Trails
Week 9: Zeke and Midwestern Dudes
The grizzly is back. Nearly four weeks ago when the problem bear that killed our pigs was captured, we loaded him in a trailer, sent him to Yellowstone, and crossed our fingers that he wouldn’t return. A pile of bear scat near the pig pen prompted a phone call to the local Game and Fish Department. They nearly confirmed our suspicion when they reluctantly admitted the most recent report from the bear’s radio collar showed him heading toward the ranch. When the neighbors had a run in with this bear along the river bank while fishing, and the yelling and stone throwing induced growls rather than a quick escape by the bear, we concluded this must be our ferocious pig killer.
Of course this comes as perfect timing, now that we have tracked down new pigs and are prepared to bring them to the ranch.
In other news, some fellow Midwesterners have arrived upon our doorstep. A couple from Illinois and a family from Wisconsin. For a summer characterized by wealthy East and West Coast clients, folks from “back home” were a welcome relief. Easy to please, polite, and good humored include a few of their characteristics.
For the first time this summer a family from Minnesota is staying at the ranch. When I introduced myself as a south easterner I learned the father does quite a bit of fly fishing in Bluff Country and was familiar with all of the small towns and popular creeks like the Whitewater, Winnebago, and South Fork. Bumping into somebody else at the ranch who has eaten at the Redwood Café seems deserving of the cliché, it’s a small world after all.
July 25 marked National Day of the Cowboy. In celebration, our dress code for the day included anything and everything western. While for the wranglers this meant little adjustment to their wardrobe, it served as a nice opportunity for the rest of us to pretend for a little while. For the most part this summer, I’ve stuck to the more practical work boots, t-shirt, and baseball cap. My cowboy boots and hat remain reserved for those occasional instances I’m on a horse.
Our cows continue to graze the National Forest lands surrounding the ranch. Currently, one cow is unaccounted for. For the past few days a rider has gone out in search of the missing animal, in hopes to find at least a clue as to whether it is still alive or not. If dead from a wolf or bear kill, a carcass can mean reimbursement from the state. It remains our responsibility to prove the loss and cause for death.
This morning the chatter at the staff breakfast table centered around a horse that was put down at daybreak. The neighbors called notifying us that one from the herd got stuck in a cattle guard while grazing the night before. With a halter, ropes and a gun the ranch managers reported to the scene, not sure what to expect from the vague description of the scene over the telephone. The horse’s two front legs were caught in the steel grid. If the legs didn’t break when the incident occurred, they broke a few times during the ensuing struggle to escape. In addition, the horse’s head was bloody and skin wore off from rubbing against the cattle guard brace.
Given the fragile condition of the horse, what to do next was obvious, making an inherently tough decision at least a little easier. The halter would not be necessary.
It took three bullets to the head to end the struggle. With the neighbor’s backhoe, the animal was loaded onto a flatbed trailer to be taken away so as not to attract bears and other hungry wildlife to the ranch. Why the horse defied instinct and attempted to cross the cattle guard remains a mystery.
The ranch dogs continue to be an endless source of entertainment for guests of all ages at the ranch. One in particular, Zeke, a border collie and blue healer mix, gives chase to anything on the move including but not limited to soccer balls, footballs, tennis balls, butterflies, sticks, squirrels, birds, and floating sparks from the campfire. The wild black barn cat remains a favorite target and dares not tread too far from its safe haven high in the hay loft. With his nearly four foot vertical he jumps at the lower tree branches at any squirrel gutsy enough to tempt fate. The phrase “get ‘em Zeke” will send that dog toward the nearest tree in search of the elusive tree dwellers whether they are actually present or not.
I wait for the day he is successful in his hunt. Outside my sheep wagon reside a few squirrels that typically serve as a frustrating six o’clock wake up call. They have a shrieking bark like nothing I have ever heard come from the inner branches of a tree. The piercing noise sounds like a cd skipping through a Brittney Spears song. It repeats as reliably as a metronome while their belly moves in and out with each repetition. Unlike earlier in the summer, however, the noise is easy to tune out as I bury my head in the pillow for a few more minutes before the beginning of another exhausting day.
Happy Trails
Week 8: Flat Tires and Mountain Bikes
Apparently the misquitoes are bad this year here in the Sunlight Basin. I would disagree, but few places are able to compete with the misquitoe population along the Mississippi River or in northern Minnesota where I spent the past two summers. I can’t help but smirk and shake my head when I hear of complaints or see a dude basting themselves in bug spray.
I put my new mountain bike to practical use this week. Nick, the fishing guide, and I hauled our bikes up a nearby ridge in search of an adrenalin rush. Wearing helmets but no other protective gear, we rode down the hill on the horse trail. Riding the brakes the whole time we skidded our way down, occasionally losing control and tipping our bikes, Nick more often than myself. We reached the bottom without any serious injury as I fearfully remembered the details of my high deductible and essentially useless health care policy. Workman’s compensation probably won’t cover such foolish injuries were they to occur, unless we could convince the insurance company we were doing trail maintenance. This could be an expensive hobby.
Besides mountain biking, Nick and I have teamed up at the horse shoe pit. Horseshoes is a game I want to be good at someday when I’m old. For now, I figure there are higher pursuits that involve more athleticism while my legs are still young. Despite my indifferent attitude toward the sport, I’m quickly becoming hooked. Our first competition pitted us against an old farm boy from Indiana and a local man. In a best out of three game we lost one to two. With a little post game coaching from Nick, I changed my throwing style to the underhanded method. Since then, we’ve won all four rounds as we demolished the past week’s dudes from the East Coast. Already we scheme as to how we can continue the streak and perhaps win more than simply bragging rights during the next match.
Flat tires plague the fleet of ranch vehicles. This week I drove our 1991 Chevy Suburban filled with dudes up a trail on our way to the trail head for an all day hike. It was no surprise when I stepped out of the vehicle and heard the characteristic hiss of a deflating tire. With the sharp rocks and bumpy roads flat tires are about as common as seeing white tail deer in Houston County. Disappointed but undeterred, we left it for later and continued on our journey up the mountain. After our summit, I intended to hustle down the hill ahead of the group, change it, and be ready to leave when the dudes arrived at the trail head. I made this plan known to the group only to have a few tough guys decide to tag along and help me out. Somehow they managed to keep up with my tedious pace. So, it was with two middle aged guys looking over my shoulder and offering unnecessary advice that I changed the tire.
First the hood latch stuck. After five minutes of jiggling I finally propped it open to retrieve the jack. Next, I discovered the tire iron in the suburban was the incorrect size. Luckily, Ford and GM have the same size lug nuts as I retrieved an iron from our fifteen passenger van, also at the trailhead. The spare had air in it. Unfortunately, it didn’t have much. The droopy tire kept the rim off the ground and given the circumstances that was good enough. I loaded the nervous dudes into the suburban, most of which were impressed that I was able to change the tire in the first place. The suburban limped the eight miles back to the ranch on the rough road. Afterwards I discovered that if the spare didn’t have a leak before, it had one now. Up on blocks I pulled it off and added it to the pile of tires already destined for the tire shop in town including one off the Ford Ranger from the previous day, and one off our horse trailer. I’ve been told that the tire shop in town can tell where the county road grader is judging by the ranches bringing in tires for repair.
By this point in the summer a pretty good routine has been established when guests arrive. The first question guests usually ask me concerns the location I was raised. Of course I introduce myself to guests as a Minnesotan and most times their response includes the phrase, “I thought I recognized that accent” as they try to mimic how I pronounced Minnesooota. Ocassionally an uffda slips from my mouth during opportune moments throughout the day. The staff have taken to repeating the “oh yah’s,” “you bet’s,” and “jeepers,” deep down wishing they had a similar vocabulary, I’m sure. I take the teasing in good humor and remain thankful that at least its not a Texan accent.
This week provides some well needed, mid-summer relief in that the dude population is half our normal capacity. For the wranglers and house keepers this means less work. For the ranch hands it means the opposite as projects put on hold for less busy times get bumped up the priority list. In addition to cutting and square baling 30 tons of hay, we have ten pine trees to buck up, a burn pile to torch, a water heater to replace, and some leaky plumbing to fix in addition to the usual ranch hand chores. If my next letter appears shorter than normal, you’ll understand why.
Happy Trails
Week 7: Elkhorn, Music, and the Shop
The wranglers from the south have finally quit complaining about the cold weather. Either they’ve grown accustomed to it or the 80 degree days are finally warm enough for their blood. The Cottonwood trees have let loose a flurry of white seeds that now edge the lawns. Despite the warmer weather, hauling wood is still a constant chore as people accustomed to electric and gas heat take advantage of the ample wood supply to heat their cabins to unnecessarily warm temperatures all in the name of having a fire for the sake of having a fire.
With 20 minutes notice one morning, I was made aware that I would be leading a hike up Elkhorn, the tallest and most prominent peak near the ranch at 10,600 feet. This was pleasant news considering my original assignment was to mow and trim the lawn that day. In a frantic rush I changed my clothes, grabbed the necessary water bottles and first aide gear, packed a lunch, and studied the map. For the second time in one week I would be guiding a hike I had never actually done.
Five others and myself set out at nine in the morning for the four hour ascent. Originally following horse trails, we wove our way up the lower valleys. After passing through a couple of distinct meadows, we crossed some snowmelt and climbed our way up a ravine. Over rocks and tufts of grass we switch backed our way to the peak on game trails in time for a late lunch. A hiker from Switzerland beat us all to the top. We paused for pictures and a picnic lunch before the four hour descent.
The view from the top gave us a panorama of snow capped mountains, green meadows, pine forests, and not a hint of human development. Indeed, it is a relief to know there are still a few such places that exist. Despite a few minor diversions from the intended route, we made it up and back safely. Our exhausted legs at day’s end left us puzzled at how we ever motivated ourselves to undertake such a strenuous hike.
Each week the ranch hosts a singer/songwriter from Wyoming named Bryan Ragsdale. With a recent record deal, a hectic tour schedule, and a single released in May, he is slowly making a name for himself. Each week we get to hear his cowboy music in the tradition of Chris Ledoux and John Denver. His top 100 song is entitled Modern Day Mountain Man. In summary, it describes exactly that; the modern day mountain men who travel west. These days, however, he points out they carry cameras and come seeking pictures of unique wildlife. In good humor it pokes fun at the tourists and dudes who come to hear him play each week. Listen carefully and perhaps you’ll catch it on the radio this summer or fall.
If anything has made me nervous during this new experience, it was an evening of playing music with Bryan around our staff campfire. With fiddle in hand I attempted to add some music to his guitar and vocals. He played the usual favorites by Brooks and Ledoux, before picking a unique edition of Piano Man and Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Despite the occasional wrong notes, I was invited to bring the instrument back next time.
The ranch machine shop has become my safe haven these days. With 36 guests last week and 30 this week plus 17 staff members its difficult to find a quiet place to relax. As the summer continues on and we enter our fifth week of guests, any moment of quiet and solitude is cherished. I’ve found the doorstep an inviting seat when accompanied by a beverage from the shop fridge.
Never one with much mechanical aptitude, I am quickly learning the ropes and feel at home behind the work bench. One of my first chores at the ranch was to clean up the shop one rainy afternoon. I took it a step further and organized the entire place. Since then the shop has been my domain. People ask me when they are in search of a tool and send apologies my way for any mess created. It is a small source of power but one I hold on to in a place where the ranch hand is pretty low on the hierarchy.
Last week I learned the difference between the transmission fluid pan and the oil pan. More specifically, I learned that on certain vehicles they look similar. Instructed to change the oil on the Ford F250, I slide underneath with a bucket and wrench. A few twists and a steady stream of liquid began filling the bucket as I pondered the viscosity of the red fluid. With the gut feeling it was not the oil pan, I searched for a better alterative. But before I discovered the hidden target a few quarts of tranny fluid had drained. Oh well. It needed to be changed anyway, I reasoned. A coworker confirmed my confusion as he had a difficult time finding the oil pan himself. I drive a GM, not a Ford, so for now that’s my excuse for the folly mistake.
Our shop includes a refrigerator, table, and chairs. Two snowmobiles and a couple of dirt bikes clutter one corner. An air tank, welder, and acetylene torch fill another. We have most any power tool imaginable, a table saw, ban saw, and bench grinder. A full shelf of paint that ought to be thrown out and cubby holes full of bolts without the appropriate size nuts. It’s an enviable work space although it could use a few improvements, such as a couch for those desperately needed afternoon naps and after work socializing.
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
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
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
Then there lies the fact that I grew up in a farming community. Milking cows is quite different from wrangling cattle on horseback. No matter how hard you try later in life its hard to hide your roots and mine are colored black and white Holstein. Taken together it seems any childhood dream of mine to become a cowboy is just wasted thoughts distracting me from more practical undertakings.
Fortunately, I’m not one to give up that easily and I’m not always so practical. With no steady job, no house payment, and not much else to loose, I went in search of a job at a western ranch to fulfill this teenage dream of mine. And I found one.
Its not exactly your typical ranch, and I’ll admit by summer’s end I’m not likely to be a cowboy. It’s a guest ranch. People, usually from East Coast cities, come for a week to get a taste of ranch life. One might argue a guest ranch is not representative of the true west, but at least it’s a start, I reasoned. For some unbeknownst reason they offered a job as a ranch hand.
I left shortly before Memorial Day. Of the 1,000 mile drive, the last few were the hardest. As with many new experiences, nervousness overtook reason and suddenly I began second guessing my decision. After all, most anyone can tell I’m not a cowboy. Now here I was with my Midwestern flannel, cheap cowboy hat, and nearly brand new cowboy boots walking into a setting where my lack of authenticity would be sniffed out by others more experienced. I can ride a horse, but I can’t train or shoe one. I can tie a fly to my fishing line, but what fly to use is beyond me. I can water the lawn, but designing an irrigation system for the hayfields is a foreign concept to a Southeastern Minnesota boy. Turning back now, however, was not an option. It would be an embarrassment and the regret of a lifetime. I drove down the driveway determined to take full advantage of my Midwestern work ethic to pull me through and use the next three months to learn everything I could about ranching, cowboys, fly fishing, and the west.
The ranch I work at hosts up to 32 guests each week. Activities include fly fishing, skeet shooting, day trips to Yellowstone, campfires, music, hearty food, and of course, horse back riding. The ranch raises its own beef and pork with 38 head of Black Angus and a four pigs named Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, and Homer. We have 80 horses and plenty of neighboring grizzly bear. I’ll spare you the names of the horses since I have yet to learn them all. It sits on 277 acres along a currently flooded creek and is surrounded by National Forest land in the Sunlight Basin in Northwestern Wyoming.
Upon arriving I was met by the head wrangler, Chay. He took me directly to my housing. Most might imagine a cozy bunkhouse the accommodations for ranch staff. That’s where this ranch masters the unexpected. Upon my arrival, I was escorted across the property to my very own circa 1912 sheep wagon. Four wooden wagon wheels, one door, a window front and back, and a tin roof with a faded red exterior. Lengthwise the wagon measures about 15 feet. At its widest width, 6.5 feet, just enough room to let me stretch out on the queen size bed in the rear. The height of the interior is only about five and a half feet, not enough for me to stand upright. Inside are some storage units painted white. Scattered on the frame are nails and hooks. A coat rack is fastened to the frame near the door. An electrical outlet powers my lamp and small space heater. I’m sure the wagon was level at one point in time, but now it leans a little toward one corner. Not two yards from the wagon is a small stream of cold mountain snowmelt. That’s the fridge. Milk crates hold the belongings we wish to keep cold. Beyond the creek is a bath house. Fortunately, it’s a little newer than the wagon.
Since this is prime grizzly territory, I asked Chay about keeping food in the wagon. He answered my inquiry by recounting an occurrence he had two weeks ago. Rather matter-of-factly he noted a grizzly knocked open the front door of his cabin while he sat watching TV in the evening with his dog. Noted, I thought to myself. No food in the wagon, ever. While making my bed I discovered a half eaten bag of Sun Chips tucked beside the mattress from the previous inhabitant. I’m glad I found them before the bear.
Breakfast is at 7:30, dinner at 12:30 and supper at 6:30, signaled by a dinner bell. Every meal is five star restaurant quality and my first taste of ranch food was salisbury steak wrapped in bacon. Then it was eggs and bacon for breakfast. Lunch hosted turkey sandwiches, with bacon, and the leftover bacon from that was chopped and thrown into the green beans for supper that evening. Around here, I think it reasonable to say bacon has reached condiment status.
In my short time at the ranch I’ve already discovered that without owning a truck, dog, my own saddle and tack, a Carhart vest, and a pair of chaps, I’m in the minority. There are 16 other staff members, some of them wranglers, some housekeeping, some wait staff, an irrigator, and one a fishing guide. They come from Texas, Idaho, Nebraska, Montana, Georgia, and California. Not all have arrived yet, but so far, they seem a pretty friendly bunch. No guests will arrive for another two weeks.
The weather is surprisingly warm. Humidity is low but temperatures have been climbing into the 80’s already. The aspens have just started to leaf out but the threat for snow has not yet vanished.
My long dreamed about western adventure is beginning to unfold. The days seem to go by like a blur but already I’m getting the hang of which direction to turn the unfamiliar shower faucet handles, what’s the latest I can sleep and still make it to breakfast on time in presentable fashion, and what darkness covered objects and shadows are actually pieces of lawn furniture and not a prowling bear.
It’s going to be a good summer. It seems it would be impossible not be good when the view from my office window is snow covered mountains, the stars are my nightlight and my morning commute is a 20-yard walk.
There’s the supper bell now, time to eat. I hope they’re serving bacon.
Happy Trails
Week 7: Elkhorn, Music, and the Shop
The wranglers from the south have finally quit complaining about the cold weather. Either they’ve grown accustomed to it or the 80 degree days are finally warm enough for their blood. The Cottonwood trees have let loose a flurry of white seeds that now edge the lawns. Despite the warmer weather, hauling wood is still a constant chore as people accustomed to electric and gas heat take advantage of the ample wood supply to heat their cabins to unnecessarily warm temperatures all in the name of having a fire for the sake of having a fire.
With 20 minutes notice one morning, I was made aware that I would be leading a hike up Elkhorn, the tallest and most prominent peak near the ranch at 10,600 feet. This was pleasant news considering my original assignment was to mow and trim the lawn that day. In a frantic rush I changed my clothes, grabbed the necessary water bottles and first aide gear, packed a lunch, and studied the map. For the second time in one week I would be guiding a hike I had never actually done.
Five others and myself set out at nine in the morning for the four hour ascent. Originally following horse trails, we wove our way up the lower valleys. After passing through a couple of distinct meadows, we crossed some snowmelt and climbed our way up a ravine. Over rocks and tufts of grass we switch backed our way to the peak on game trails in time for a late lunch. A hiker from Switzerland beat us all to the top. We paused for pictures and a picnic lunch before the four hour descent.
The view from the top gave us a panorama of snow capped mountains, green meadows, pine forests, and not a hint of human development. Indeed, it is a relief to know there are still a few such places that exist. Despite a few minor diversions from the intended route, we made it up and back safely. Our exhausted legs at day’s end left us puzzled at how we ever motivated ourselves to undertake such a strenuous hike.
Each week the ranch hosts a singer/songwriter from Wyoming named Bryan Ragsdale. With a recent record deal, a hectic tour schedule, and a single released in May, he is slowly making a name for himself. Each week we get to hear his cowboy music in the tradition of Chris Ledoux and John Denver. His top 100 song is entitled Modern Day Mountain Man. In summary, it describes exactly that; the modern day mountain men who travel west. These days, however, he points out they carry cameras and come seeking pictures of unique wildlife. In good humor it pokes fun at the tourists and dudes who come to hear him play each week. Listen carefully and perhaps you’ll catch it on the radio this summer or fall.
If anything has made me nervous during this new experience, it was an evening of playing music with Bryan around our staff campfire. With fiddle in hand I attempted to add some music to his guitar and vocals. He played the usual favorites by Brooks and Ledoux, before picking a unique edition of Piano Man and Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Despite the occasional wrong notes, I was invited to bring the instrument back next time.
The ranch machine shop has become my safe haven these days. With 36 guests last week and 30 this week plus 17 staff members its difficult to find a quiet place to relax. As the summer continues on and we enter our fifth week of guests, any moment of quiet and solitude is cherished. I’ve found the doorstep an inviting seat when accompanied by a beverage from the shop fridge.
Never one with much mechanical aptitude, I am quickly learning the ropes and feel at home behind the work bench. One of my first chores at the ranch was to clean up the shop one rainy afternoon. I took it a step further and organized the entire place. Since then the shop has been my domain. People ask me when they are in search of a tool and send apologies my way for any mess created. It is a small source of power but one I hold on to in a place where the ranch hand is pretty low on the hierarchy.
Last week I learned the difference between the transmission fluid pan and the oil pan. More specifically, I learned that on certain vehicles they look similar. Instructed to change the oil on the Ford F250, I slide underneath with a bucket and wrench. A few twists and a steady stream of liquid began filling the bucket as I pondered the viscosity of the red fluid. With the gut feeling it was not the oil pan, I searched for a better alterative. But before I discovered the hidden target a few quarts of tranny fluid had drained. Oh well. It needed to be changed anyway, I reasoned. A coworker confirmed my confusion as he had a difficult time finding the oil pan himself. I drive a GM, not a Ford, so for now that’s my excuse for the folly mistake.
Our shop includes a refrigerator, table, and chairs. Two snowmobiles and a couple of dirt bikes clutter one corner. An air tank, welder, and acetylene torch fill another. We have most any power tool imaginable, a table saw, ban saw, and bench grinder. A full shelf of paint that ought to be thrown out and cubby holes full of bolts without the appropriate size nuts. It’s an enviable work space although it could use a few improvements, such as a couch for those desperately needed afternoon naps and after work socializing.
Happy Trails
Week 6: Hiking and History
This week I left the horse unsaddled, the cowboy boots in my wagon and pulled out my hiking shoes. The limestone cliffs that characterize the local topography host a few caves, dubbed by locals as the Indian caves. Each week we host a hike to these caves where children are given a chance to explore. In addition to the kids, an older gentleman from Massachusetts came with. The trail followed the creek and eventually ascended a steep talus slope. As we bushwhacked and switch backed our way up this hillside I could tell he was beginning to tire and his footing become unsure.
We paused for a rest at what would be our summit, at least a few hundred feet below the caves. Not wanting to abandon him, I sat and enjoyed the view and his company. Below Little Sunlight Creek flowed past humming a familiar tune aside a sage covered meadow. Across the draw (valley) we could see the limestone cliffs opposite us. Above them were the distant peaks at 11,000-12,000 feet with outlines of snow yet to melt.
Had I been traveling by myself, the failure to reach the top would have been a disappointment. Expecting this older gentleman to be equally disappointed, I was taken aback when his comments focused on the amazing view. Though we were only halfway up the hill, he didn’t feel the need to continue on to the top to enjoy the hike. What lay before us was as equally amazing and provided the enjoyment without quite as much effort. Additionally, we were able to sit and enjoy the details longer than those who continued up the mountain. A small lesson, but an important one was learned that day. One need not wait until the top to enjoy the view, an indeed might be foolish to do so.
Not all of my travels are on foot or horseback. I discovered an abandoned mountain bike in our fishing shack. The bent front wheel and tweaked handle bars seem to indicate a wreck, probably discouraging further use. Fifteen minutes in the shop and one beer later and I had it fixed up nearly as good as new. During last week’s gymkhana games on horseback, I entered in the unofficial exhibitionary round and won the barrel racing on my bike with some sharp turned skids around the barrels with a time of 26 seconds.
Even more fun have been the bike rides on some of the horse trails. Rocks, creek crossings, and sage brush characterize a few of the challenges not found on the streets of Caledonia. I’ve always been one to admire the idea of mountain biking, but when it comes to peddling up steep mountains I am quick to admit that a road bike is where I should invest my money and keep my wheels on the asphalt.
During one of our horse rides this week, Tom, a big draft horse, decided to lay down on the trail. As a staff member witnessing this unbelievable trick right in front of me, there was little I could do but yell “get off” to the 275 pound passenger as the big beast hit the dirt. Fortunately the rider took it in good spirit as I struggled to get the lazy horse back on his feet as he whimpered his protest.
An afternoon horse ride with Jimmy, an older ranch hand, led us to a nearby valley named after the creek that flows through it, Trail Creek. As we rode through the valley Jimmy recounted his knowledge of the historical significance of the isolated location. As Chief Joseph and his band of Nez Perce fled the U.S. Army after escaping from Fort Mammoth in Yellowstone, they paused for two nights near Trail Creek to rest their 2,000 horses and over 200 people.
Trail Creek was chosen for it’s isolation and from there they believed they were undetectable to the U.S. Army. Eventually they were discovered by scouts on a distant mountain. Some quick thinking led Chief Joseph to run off half of their horses as a diversion while the rest moved in another direction on a chase that would eventually end with a surrender 40 miles from the Canadian border and Sitting Bull’s tribe. “Chief Joseph is quoted for saying ‘from where the sun now stands I will fight no more,’ or something to that effect,” recited Jimmy from memory.
It was difficult to imagine the ground we walked on played such an important part in history. Even more impressive was the likely notion that the valley looked much like it did over 100 years ago when one of the country’s last free tribes of Native Americans resisted capture. No parking lots, no road, no signs, no interpretive center to describe the events like so many sites of historical significance, just an oral interpretation and a good imagination.
For our Fourth of July celebration we shot off a couple hundred dollars worth of fireworks for the guests. Out in the cow pasture we set off a show worth a few ohhh’s and ahhh’s. Guests seemed most impressed, however, by the potato gun launching spuds skyward by Chuck, the ranch manager. It was a nice evening, but memories of Eitzen’s celebration gave me the slightest longing for home. With one month of summer already over, my thoughts turn toward making the most of my precious days in Wyoming. Summer passes quickly enough. Out here the calendar pages flip even faster.
Happy Trails
Week 5: Bear Hunt
This week I left the horse unsaddled, the cowboy boots in my wagon and pulled out my hiking shoes. The limestone cliffs that characterize the local topography host a few caves, dubbed by locals as the Indian caves. Each week we host a hike to these caves where children are given a chance to explore. In addition to the kids, an older gentleman from Massachusetts came with. The trail followed the creek and eventually ascended a steep talus slope. As we bushwhacked and switch backed our way up this hillside I could tell he was beginning to tire and his footing become unsure.
We paused for a rest at what would be our summit, at least a few hundred feet below the caves. Not wanting to abandon him, I sat and enjoyed the view and his company. Below Little Sunlight Creek flowed past humming a familiar tune aside a sage covered meadow. Across the draw (valley) we could see the limestone cliffs opposite us. Above them were the distant peaks at 11,000-12,000 feet with outlines of snow yet to melt.
Had I been traveling by myself, the failure to reach the top would have been a disappointment. Expecting this older gentleman to be equally disappointed, I was taken aback when his comments focused on the amazing view. Though we were only halfway up the hill, he didn’t feel the need to continue on to the top to enjoy the hike. What lay before us was as equally amazing and provided the enjoyment without quite as much effort. Additionally, we were able to sit and enjoy the details longer than those who continued up the mountain. A small lesson, but an important one was learned that day. One need not wait until the top to enjoy the view, an indeed might be foolish to do so.
Not all of my travels are on foot or horseback. I discovered an abandoned mountain bike in our fishing shack. The bent front wheel and tweaked handle bars seem to indicate a wreck, probably discouraging further use. Fifteen minutes in the shop and one beer later and I had it fixed up nearly as good as new. During last week’s gymkhana games on horseback, I entered in the unofficial exhibitionary round and won the barrel racing on my bike with some sharp turned skids around the barrels with a time of 26 seconds.
Even more fun have been the bike rides on some of the horse trails. Rocks, creek crossings, and sage brush characterize a few of the challenges not found on the streets of Caledonia. I’ve always been one to admire the idea of mountain biking, but when it comes to peddling up steep mountains I am quick to admit that a road bike is where I should invest my money and keep my wheels on the asphalt.
During one of our horse rides this week, Tom, a big draft horse, decided to lay down on the trail. As a staff member witnessing this unbelievable trick right in front of me, there was little I could do but yell “get off” to the 275 pound passenger as the big beast hit the dirt. Fortunately the rider took it in good spirit as I struggled to get the lazy horse back on his feet as he whimpered his protest.
An afternoon horse ride with Jimmy, an older ranch hand, led us to a nearby valley named after the creek that flows through it, Trail Creek. As we rode through the valley Jimmy recounted his knowledge of the historical significance of the isolated location. As Chief Joseph and his band of Nez Perce fled the U.S. Army after escaping from Fort Mammoth in Yellowstone, they paused for two nights near Trail Creek to rest their 2,000 horses and over 200 people.
Trail Creek was chosen for it’s isolation and from there they believed they were undetectable to the U.S. Army. Eventually they were discovered by scouts on a distant mountain. Some quick thinking led Chief Joseph to run off half of their horses as a diversion while the rest moved in another direction on a chase that would eventually end with a surrender 40 miles from the Canadian border and Sitting Bull’s tribe. “Chief Joseph is quoted for saying ‘from where the sun now stands I will fight no more,’ or something to that effect,” recited Jimmy from memory.
It was difficult to imagine the ground we walked on played such an important part in history. Even more impressive was the likely notion that the valley looked much like it did over 100 years ago when one of the country’s last free tribes of Native Americans resisted capture. No parking lots, no road, no signs, no interpretive center to describe the events like so many sites of historical significance, just an oral interpretation and a good imagination.
For our Fourth of July celebration we shot off a couple hundred dollars worth of fireworks for the guests. Out in the cow pasture we set off a show worth a few ohhh’s and ahhh’s. Guests seemed most impressed, however, by the potato gun launching spuds skyward by Chuck, the ranch manager. It was a nice evening, but memories of Eitzen’s celebration gave me the slightest longing for home. With one month of summer already over, my thoughts turn toward making the most of my precious days in Wyoming. Summer passes quickly enough. Out here the calendar pages flip even faster.
Happy Trails
Week 5: 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
Week 4: 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
Week 3: 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
Week 2: 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
Week 1: Home Sweet Sheepwagon on the Range
Every young man dreams of being a cowboy. At least that’s my perception of the matter. I must admit that its always seemed an appealing occupation to me; the freedom, ruggedness, work ethic, horses, unique apparel, and even its own genre of music round out some of the positives. Of course, the definition of a cowboy has changed over the years and many would argue the authentic cowboy has rode off into the sunset for the last time.
Then there lies the fact that I grew up in a farming community. Milking cows is quite different from wrangling cattle on horseback. No matter how hard you try later in life its hard to hide your roots and mine are colored black and white Holstein. Taken together it seems any childhood dream of mine to become a cowboy is just wasted thoughts distracting me from more practical undertakings.
Fortunately, I’m not one to give up that easily and I’m not always so practical. With no steady job, no house payment, and not much else to loose, I went in search of a job at a western ranch to fulfill this teenage dream of mine. And I found one.
Its not exactly your typical ranch, and I’ll admit by summer’s end I’m not likely to be a cowboy. It’s a guest ranch. People, usually from East Coast cities, come for a week to get a taste of ranch life. One might argue a guest ranch is not representative of the true west, but at least it’s a start, I reasoned. For some unbeknownst reason they offered a job as a ranch hand.
I left shortly before Memorial Day. Of the 1,000 mile drive, the last few were the hardest. As with many new experiences, nervousness overtook reason and suddenly I began second guessing my decision. After all, most anyone can tell I’m not a cowboy. Now here I was with my Midwestern flannel, cheap cowboy hat, and nearly brand new cowboy boots walking into a setting where my lack of authenticity would be sniffed out by others more experienced. I can ride a horse, but I can’t train or shoe one. I can tie a fly to my fishing line, but what fly to use is beyond me. I can water the lawn, but designing an irrigation system for the hayfields is a foreign concept to a Southeastern Minnesota boy. Turning back now, however, was not an option. It would be an embarrassment and the regret of a lifetime. I drove down the driveway determined to take full advantage of my Midwestern work ethic to pull me through and use the next three months to learn everything I could about ranching, cowboys, fly fishing, and the west.
The ranch I work at hosts up to 32 guests each week. Activities include fly fishing, skeet shooting, day trips to Yellowstone, campfires, music, hearty food, and of course, horse back riding. The ranch raises its own beef and pork with 38 head of Black Angus and a four pigs named Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, and Homer. We have 80 horses and plenty of neighboring grizzly bear. I’ll spare you the names of the horses since I have yet to learn them all. It sits on 277 acres along a currently flooded creek and is surrounded by National Forest land in the Sunlight Basin in Northwestern Wyoming.
Upon arriving I was met by the head wrangler, Chay. He took me directly to my housing. Most might imagine a cozy bunkhouse the accommodations for ranch staff. That’s where this ranch masters the unexpected. Upon my arrival, I was escorted across the property to my very own circa 1912 sheep wagon. Four wooden wagon wheels, one door, a window front and back, and a tin roof with a faded red exterior. Lengthwise the wagon measures about 15 feet. At its widest width, 6.5 feet, just enough room to let me stretch out on the queen size bed in the rear. The height of the interior is only about five and a half feet, not enough for me to stand upright. Inside are some storage units painted white. Scattered on the frame are nails and hooks. A coat rack is fastened to the frame near the door. An electrical outlet powers my lamp and small space heater. I’m sure the wagon was level at one point in time, but now it leans a little toward one corner. Not two yards from the wagon is a small stream of cold mountain snowmelt. That’s the fridge. Milk crates hold the belongings we wish to keep cold. Beyond the creek is a bath house. Fortunately, it’s a little newer than the wagon.
Since this is prime grizzly territory, I asked Chay about keeping food in the wagon. He answered my inquiry by recounting an occurrence he had two weeks ago. Rather matter-of-factly he noted a grizzly knocked open the front door of his cabin while he sat watching TV in the evening with his dog. Noted, I thought to myself. No food in the wagon, ever. While making my bed I discovered a half eaten bag of Sun Chips tucked beside the mattress from the previous inhabitant. I’m glad I found them before the bear.
Breakfast is at 7:30, dinner at 12:30 and supper at 6:30, signaled by a dinner bell. Every meal is five star restaurant quality and my first taste of ranch food was salisbury steak wrapped in bacon. Then it was eggs and bacon for breakfast. Lunch hosted turkey sandwiches, with bacon, and the leftover bacon from that was chopped and thrown into the green beans for supper that evening. Around here, I think it reasonable to say bacon has reached condiment status.
In my short time at the ranch I’ve already discovered that without owning a truck, dog, my own saddle and tack, a Carhart vest, and a pair of chaps, I’m in the minority. There are 16 other staff members, some of them wranglers, some housekeeping, some wait staff, an irrigator, and one a fishing guide. They come from Texas, Idaho, Nebraska, Montana, Georgia, and California. Not all have arrived yet, but so far, they seem a pretty friendly bunch. No guests will arrive for another two weeks.
The weather is surprisingly warm. Humidity is low but temperatures have been climbing into the 80’s already. The aspens have just started to leaf out but the threat for snow has not yet vanished.
My long dreamed about western adventure is beginning to unfold. The days seem to go by like a blur but already I’m getting the hang of which direction to turn the unfamiliar shower faucet handles, what’s the latest I can sleep and still make it to breakfast on time in presentable fashion, and what darkness covered objects and shadows are actually pieces of lawn furniture and not a prowling bear.
It’s going to be a good summer. It seems it would be impossible not be good when the view from my office window is snow covered mountains, the stars are my nightlight and my morning commute is a 20-yard walk.
There’s the supper bell now, time to eat. I hope they’re serving bacon.
Happy Trails
