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
