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
