Week 8: flat tires, mountain bikes, and misquitos

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. Apparently 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

bear hunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An exciting end to another week.

Happy Trails

branding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Trails




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