With disappearing staff, fewer guests, and turning leaves, the fall season has descended upon the ranch. Each seasonal indicator served as a reminder of my impending departure. During my last week at the ranch we hosted world renown animal tracker, Jim Halfpenny, who taught guests about bears, wolves, and other aspects of ecology. His presentation included a daylong trip to Yellowstone where we spotted wolves from a distance and crawled in a vacant bear den. He had a handful of tales of close calls with the fuzzy critters that kept his audience captivated with each story.
Like any academic and objective scientist, he told an objective story when relating information about grizzly bear and wolves to the guests, listing facts and highlighting current research. But it was the crack in his voice and the tears that formed that showed his human side when discussing the future of the grizzly bear, and the environmental problems mounting an attack against the species. What’s more, human development seems to be putting the nail in the coffin. Will the species survive in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem? Probably, but not in its current state is his suspicion.
I wrote about a grizzly bear that ate our pigs early in the summer. As of my departure, evidence of a wandering grizzly bear still appears around the ranch weekly, but the new pigs remain ignorantly happy, oblivious to the threat surrounding them. Bears are smart and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting for them to fatten up before going in for the kill. At least that’s what I would do.
The sheep wagon held up nicely despite the leaky roof and drafty door. I already look forward to the day I have children and grandchildren and can begin the back-in-my-day lecture about how I spent a summer living in a sheep wagon in Wyoming when they start to complain about how bad they have it. They’ll roll their eyes but I’ll continue on anyway.
When it seemed like I had tried just about everything over the course of the summer, on my last week I even got to participate in a little bit of dish washing and housekeeping. Nick was also assigned to the duty and together we swept, fixed beds, and removed garbage cabin by cabin, reliving the summer and talking about our futures. It was Nick who became one of my best friends at the ranch and inspired many of my free time adventures.
Chuck remains on his feet and doing well. In addition to running the ranch like ususal, he is active in raising awareness for his cause and active in the Muscular Dystrophy Association. We parted company that evening after a couple of beers around the campfire, words of thanks, and a good, firm handshake goodbye.
Guests will remain at the ranch until Mid September. Afterwards the ranch will be closed up for the winter. In addition to the winterizing of the ranch, some major logging plans are underway to salvage much of the pine being killed by the pine beetle plaguing that part of the country.
I said my goodbyes and packed up my car under the light of the full moon on my last evening Labor Day Weekend. Disappointed to leave, but anxious to move on to my next adventure is how I would describe the feelings surrounding my departure.
What comes next? That’s a good question and one I have no good answer for. I know this. For the next year I am giving up the rural lifestyle and moving to the cities. I’ve traded in the sheep wagon for an 8’ by 10’ bedroom in a St. Paul apartment. The drastic transition comes with pros and cons. The details of a job have yet to be worked out, but as happened with the ranch job, I remain confident that something will fall into place. It always does.
People have asked if I will return to the ranch next summer. There exists the possibility, but at the moment too many variables cloud the decision to say one way or another. Either way, I’m sure I’ll find myself back in the Sunlight Basin before too long, for a visit at the very least.
Fourteen weeks ago I arrived at the ranch, knowing little about ranch life and the people I would later call my friends. My cowboy boots still looked brand new and a foot of snow decorated the ground in early June. In the time between now and then, I’ve learned how to divert a plumbing disaster, find a good fishing hole, navigate the mountains, rebuild a buck fence, hold a calf being branded, mountain bike down an actual mountain, and catch a loose horse headed for home. I’ve become a better welder, horseman, and mechanic, and those cowboy boots that were new at the beginning of the summer, there’s a few scuffs in them now.
Much of what sent me westward was the desire to discover more about the cowboy way of life and experience it firsthand. After fourteen weeks would I call myself a cowboy or a wrangler you may ask? No, is my firm answer. I believe that title should be reserved for the truly desrving, those that live it as a lifestyle and not those simply pretending during a summer job.
But it caught me off-guard two weeks ago when a four year old boy called me a cowboy as we sat on the patio drinking lemonade one afternoon. “Why do you say that?” I asked him. “Because you work here,” he responded. “But I don’t look like a cowboy,” I quickly pointed out, sure I would stump him with that one. He responded, “you don’t have to look like a cowboy to be one, you just have to act like one.” I couldn’t argue that point. He hit on one of the profound truths that some people my age and older often don’t realize. Indeed, you do not have to look like a cowboy to be one. It’s a person’s character, not appearance, that defines him or her.
Although I still wouldn’t consider myself a cowboy, the fact that I was mistaken for one leaves me hopeful that I picked up a few of the desirable traits and skills of a cowboy, ones that should serve me well the rest of my life.
Thanks to everyone who took the time to read these stories. It has been a privilege to be able to write this column each week and have it read by those that know me best, and many that don’t at all. I hope you learned a few things and had a few chuckles along the way. I know I sure did.
Happy trails.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Week 13: coyote serenade and a runaway horse
Down the road about six miles from the ranch, Sunlight Creek cuts a narrow channel through the limestone bedrock to spills over a small waterfall and into a lush, green canyon. The canyon walls are covered with small trickles of water seeping from cracks in the limestone, creating a scene uncharacteristic of this dry and barren landscape and more like that found along Beaver Creek. Nick showed me this place one day after work and it has become my favorite spot in the area.
After a long week of work, which included more babysitting, I decided a little bit of solitude was in demand. With my tent and sleeping bag I set out for the canyon for a camp out. Camping is something I aspired to do more often this summer, but a plan usually foiled by bad weather. With the sun setting and the half moon appearing brighter and brighter, I kicked back on the cliffs and let the rush of the water drown out my thoughts.
Taking advantage of the privacy, I brought along my fiddle and enjoyed a quiet practice session. After my first few notes, a coyote yipped in the distance. Whether it was in response to my first few notes, or simply a bedtime call for its pups, I remain curious.
With the campfire burning low, the coyotes howling in the distance, and the bright, starlit sky, I thought of the cowboys of old, living and working on the range and resting after a long day. The setting remains the only commonality, however. Instead of a horse, my car was parked next to the tree. My sleeping bag replaced the bedrolls of old and my synthetic tent gave me protection from the winds of Wyoming. Instead of a rifle for protection, my can of bearspray remained my weak defense. No beans or bacon for supper, either.
The following day, Jimmy and I saddled up a pair of horses and went for a day long ride. We passed through Trail Creek, where Chief Joseph and his tribe camped, and continued on into the wilderness and up a wooded draw, on the same trail the tribe would have used to enter Trail Creek Valley by Jimmy’s estimate. Once under the cover of trees, he began to point out downed logs that had been rolled or torn apart by bear. Trees along the trail marked the presence of a grizzly, sharpening her claws. And if there was any doubt that we were in bear country, piles of bear scat dotted the trail every mile or so.
Tempted by the ripening wild raspberries Jimmy kept pointed out, we paused for a moment to gather a handful. I dismounted and began to collect from nearby bushes. When the easy pickings were gone, I let go of my content, grass-munching horse’s lead rope for a moment to reach a few distant clumps. Moments later, with my back to the trail, I heard Jimmy’s voice express urgency as I turned to see my horse, Curley, trotting down the trail toward home. “I’ll cut her off,” he shouted as he turned Rowdy and chased the runaway pony down the mountain side. Astounded, having never been in this situation before, I watched in horror as my ride slipped away. I shoved the dozen berries in my mouth and chased them down the trail.
Jimmy’s plan to cut her off failed. The trail was too narrow and the brush and trees too restricting to allow for a pass. Therefore, he simply continued to push the horse further toward home as he chased it down the hillside, with me running behind in my cowboy boots. Throughout this ordeal a string of swear words that would make a sailor blush flew from Jimmy’s mouth in between the “whoa’s” and “easy girl’s.”
After five minutes of this I caught up to him stopped in the middle of the trail. “She’s gone, Greg. Give it up, she’s gone,” he said in frustration. Until now I had been pretty calm considering the circumstance. “You gave up? You can’t give up!” I proclaimed and left Jimmy behind as I continued the chase on foot. Besides the fact that it would be incredibly embarrassing to have to explain how I lost my horse to those back at the ranch, I would have to walk the eight miles back on foot. In addition, a horse with no rider returning to the barn would surely cause concern for my safety. Most importantly, in the saddle bags rested my lunch and water supply.
By now Curley was ready for a rest and stopped for a few bites of grass around the bend in the trail. Upon seeing me, she began trotting once more, periodically looking over her shoulder to judge my progress or lack thereof. When she stopped again I circled wide and landed myself between Curley and the path home. A few slow steps and I had her by the reins once more. One leap and I was back in the saddle, riding toward Jimmy to show him my success.
Thankful, we continued the ride which brought us to the top of a ridge named Lodgepole. After a brief lunch we rode home discussing the highlights and lowlights of the summer. We passed bush after bush of ripe berries when Jimmy finally asked if I wanted to stop for another handful. I graciously declined.
The afternoon I moved into my sheep wagon seems like it was years ago, yet the time disappeared so quickly. I’m down to my final week at the ranch and no matter how hard I tried to make the most of my summer, my to-do-before-I-leave list is as long as ever; one more hike, one more horse ride, one more starry night, one more evening of music around the campfire, one more letter home…
Happy Trails.
After a long week of work, which included more babysitting, I decided a little bit of solitude was in demand. With my tent and sleeping bag I set out for the canyon for a camp out. Camping is something I aspired to do more often this summer, but a plan usually foiled by bad weather. With the sun setting and the half moon appearing brighter and brighter, I kicked back on the cliffs and let the rush of the water drown out my thoughts.
Taking advantage of the privacy, I brought along my fiddle and enjoyed a quiet practice session. After my first few notes, a coyote yipped in the distance. Whether it was in response to my first few notes, or simply a bedtime call for its pups, I remain curious.
With the campfire burning low, the coyotes howling in the distance, and the bright, starlit sky, I thought of the cowboys of old, living and working on the range and resting after a long day. The setting remains the only commonality, however. Instead of a horse, my car was parked next to the tree. My sleeping bag replaced the bedrolls of old and my synthetic tent gave me protection from the winds of Wyoming. Instead of a rifle for protection, my can of bearspray remained my weak defense. No beans or bacon for supper, either.
The following day, Jimmy and I saddled up a pair of horses and went for a day long ride. We passed through Trail Creek, where Chief Joseph and his tribe camped, and continued on into the wilderness and up a wooded draw, on the same trail the tribe would have used to enter Trail Creek Valley by Jimmy’s estimate. Once under the cover of trees, he began to point out downed logs that had been rolled or torn apart by bear. Trees along the trail marked the presence of a grizzly, sharpening her claws. And if there was any doubt that we were in bear country, piles of bear scat dotted the trail every mile or so.
Tempted by the ripening wild raspberries Jimmy kept pointed out, we paused for a moment to gather a handful. I dismounted and began to collect from nearby bushes. When the easy pickings were gone, I let go of my content, grass-munching horse’s lead rope for a moment to reach a few distant clumps. Moments later, with my back to the trail, I heard Jimmy’s voice express urgency as I turned to see my horse, Curley, trotting down the trail toward home. “I’ll cut her off,” he shouted as he turned Rowdy and chased the runaway pony down the mountain side. Astounded, having never been in this situation before, I watched in horror as my ride slipped away. I shoved the dozen berries in my mouth and chased them down the trail.
Jimmy’s plan to cut her off failed. The trail was too narrow and the brush and trees too restricting to allow for a pass. Therefore, he simply continued to push the horse further toward home as he chased it down the hillside, with me running behind in my cowboy boots. Throughout this ordeal a string of swear words that would make a sailor blush flew from Jimmy’s mouth in between the “whoa’s” and “easy girl’s.”
After five minutes of this I caught up to him stopped in the middle of the trail. “She’s gone, Greg. Give it up, she’s gone,” he said in frustration. Until now I had been pretty calm considering the circumstance. “You gave up? You can’t give up!” I proclaimed and left Jimmy behind as I continued the chase on foot. Besides the fact that it would be incredibly embarrassing to have to explain how I lost my horse to those back at the ranch, I would have to walk the eight miles back on foot. In addition, a horse with no rider returning to the barn would surely cause concern for my safety. Most importantly, in the saddle bags rested my lunch and water supply.
By now Curley was ready for a rest and stopped for a few bites of grass around the bend in the trail. Upon seeing me, she began trotting once more, periodically looking over her shoulder to judge my progress or lack thereof. When she stopped again I circled wide and landed myself between Curley and the path home. A few slow steps and I had her by the reins once more. One leap and I was back in the saddle, riding toward Jimmy to show him my success.
Thankful, we continued the ride which brought us to the top of a ridge named Lodgepole. After a brief lunch we rode home discussing the highlights and lowlights of the summer. We passed bush after bush of ripe berries when Jimmy finally asked if I wanted to stop for another handful. I graciously declined.
The afternoon I moved into my sheep wagon seems like it was years ago, yet the time disappeared so quickly. I’m down to my final week at the ranch and no matter how hard I tried to make the most of my summer, my to-do-before-I-leave list is as long as ever; one more hike, one more horse ride, one more starry night, one more evening of music around the campfire, one more letter home…
Happy Trails.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Week 10: fishing guide 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.
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, 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
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
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