Thursday, January 31, 2013

Evolution on Horseback

I think it was the fall of 1990 when it happened.  And maybe it had something to do with age.  I'd been a pretty hard hunter up to that point in time.  And prior to that time in my life I'd always been more than eager to get off my horse and hit the brush on two feet in pursuit of elk.  Many of the big bulls in the area of the Bob Marshall Wilderness, where I did the majority of our big game hunts for clients from all over the world, spent most of their days in the brush and timber along the creek beds and adjacent to avalanche chutes.  In other words, you had to get on foot and dog the heavy stuff with a cow call and bugle in hand sometimes on your hands and knees.  That kind of country doesn't suit being on the back of a horse.  It just doesn't work and futhermore you can hurt a horse taking a high step over timber with protruding stobs capable of opening up your mounts' belly and besides you just don't get too far in the thick stuff.   You'll come to a stop sooner than later.  It's just better to tie off your horse in an opening and use the legs you were given to go find elk.
There's an expansive amount of real good country directly adjacent to a mountain I used to hunt and for one reason or another Bench Mountain always seemed quite a bit drier and more open than so much of the country to the west.  I'd use one of two trails to access Bench and more so than not I'd ride up and over the top of it and hunt so many of the sparsely timbered ridges and basins that were rarely ever seen, much less hunted during the course of a year.  And the neat thing about hunting the high country is you can ride a horse about anywhere and at the same time see half the world from where ever you are and even better yet, still find an occasional bull.  Plus, the buck hunting up high is phenomenal.   And the sun shines! 

Being horseback up in the high country and riding big country mile after mile is one of this world's greatest feelings, probably the second best.  I loved just riding, cruising the alpine country at or even above timberline.  My hunting success suffered some although with some hard work I could usually find a bull or so for a client and if worse came to worse we could find mule deer in the rimrock or pocket timber.  Nevertheless, I began to recognize that my days of scratching and clawing my way through thick timber and alder thickets were over.  Enough of that. 

I got to the point within a very short time when I began to bring three horses into camp for an eight day hunt, just for myself.  A man has got to be riding a good horse all the time and if you've got access to three ponies well then all the better.  We rode 17 miles just to get to camp and each day after that was about that tough combined with the up and down nature of the riding in rugged country.  So I'd normally put two days on a horse and then switch off to a fresh mount.  That worked pretty good. 

The other thing that began to occur in the early 90's was I'd developed a real passion for roping.  I got the roping bug pretty bad.  Now believe me when I tell you that when that particular bug hits you there's some serious ramifications that occur, like buying rope horses for example.  A good friend once told me that I'd never seen a horse I didn't want.   And there was some truth to that statement.  So as you can probably imagine that is exactly what I did.  Buy rope horses that is.  And rope horses aren't cheap, even the bad ones!  I got in a little bit over my head but then again, I surely enjoy riding the good ones.  Still do!  The rest of the outfit were riding the big boned grade stock we used in the backcountry and I rode fancy rope horses.

I even remember the epiphany of sorts I had riding the Bench Mountain trail one fine Autmn Day.   Myself and a fine gentleman from Pennsylvania had filled his tags for elk and deer and with the pressure off we were just cruising the country, sun out, sky blue, nothing but rugged peaks and far away ridges in sight, and above all, riding good horses.  Old Doc didn't know what he was riding but he was happy.  And I was riding "Pos", or as his papers said, Positivio Bar something or another.  In any case, a registered quarter horse and one fine looking animal.  Pos could rope on both ends, barrel race, and rode like a champ in the backcountry.  I think at that particular moment that day I recognized that the biggest pleasures I'd begun to have were simply riding a good horse in good country.  The hunting itself had become less of a priority and as I think back on it the riding had become my greatest joy. 

During the course of our lives most of us take a different curve in the road every so often.  I did.  I was blessed for a long period of time with two separate hunting concessions in one of the most spectacular wilderness areas in the lower 48, that being the Bob Marshall Wilderness.  Those days were precious and my memories are long.  But as I've alluded, after twenty years my passion for that life in the mountains waned.  Operating a big game outfitting business in the wilderness is a tough go and a young man's game.  The flip side of that coin is we've replaced the hunts with real good riding in easier but no less spectacular country.  Our ranch is completely surrounded by mountains and we still do our occasional slow ride in the tough country just to the south but we also trailer our horses to the foothills and the rolling praire to the east of us.  Our Riding the Four Winds adventure allows us to ride in four different locations from the mountains to the foothills to the high plains of northern Montana and then even finish off the week moving cattle for two days.  How can you beat that?


Probably one of our greatest thrills is moving our operation to the Rumney Ranch on the Milk River up near the Canadian border.  We join up with Beau and Suzy and their outfit and help them move a couple thousand head of cattle over the course of the week.  Nothing but fun.  We visit, eat together, and get the job done. And talk about riding good horses.  Between our horses and theirs we're riding some real good stuff.   And moving cattle in some of the greatest country you'll ever see.  At this point in my life it doesn't get any better. 

As I write this piece in my office I'm looking out at several feet of snow and I can't help but think of the horses we'll be working with this Spring once the snow has melted and the temperature has risen substantially.   We've got a round pen adjacent to the corrals and a sandy riding arena not one hundred yards from where I'm sitting now.  The common thread to everything you've read and everything we'll be part of as we move forward are the horses we're riding and now and the horses we've ridden in the past.  They're a big part of our history and will be a big part of our future.  Thank God for horses!
 
 


















Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Takin' the Herd East

                                                                  
                                                Takin' the Herd East

 I never claimed to make all good decisions, to think things through before I did them, and in the case that you're about to read you'll probably agree. But hell, it was fun, an adventure I'll never forget, and after all these years, I'm about to write it.


A typical year back then consisted of opening up the ranch in April, bear hunting in May, beginning our pack trip operation in the Bob Marshall Wilderness in June, running dudes all summer, big game hunting in the Bob all fall, and then finally, moving our horse herd out of the mountains and east onto winter range early in November, before serious winter. Just prior to the new millenium we were running close to sixty head of horses and mules of all shapes and sizes. In addition to the older dude stock we had some broodmares, colts, and always some fancier, pricier, registered stuff, rope horses, and the like. All in all, getting all that livestock to winter range was normally an effort of one form or the other. We either ran the herd ten miles or so to a winter pasture not far from East Glacier or we'd rent a semi and haul them in one or two loads. But as our herd got bigger we needed more grass for the gang so I was usually changing pastures every other year. This particular year I'd gotten a good offer from one of my ropin' buddies, Little Ed Connelly, to winter our critters on his place. Well, his place was way up on the Milk River on the eastern edge of the Blackfeet Reservation hard up against the Canadian border, quite a distance from our place, maybe forty miles or so the way a crow flies. Great country up there and real good grass. The grass up in that neck of the woods is powerful stuff. You can turn your horses out in it and they're damned sure going to do good. The winters are tough enough but if the grass is good the horses will do good. So we made a deal to winter with Little Ed and that was that.


But like I said, I don't always make great decisions and in this particular case one could argue that running those horses out of the mountains onto icy or snow packed roads and then off into the badlands of the res wasn't exactly good thinking. At the time it seemed like a good thing to do, a hell of a plan, another adventure in the key of life. Back then, I was dumb and full of juice. Plus, my partner at the time was Dean Wagner, or Chief, as I called him. Dean was one hell of a good friend, a big, tough, Indian, a fellow I'd done alot of cowboying with and learned a hell of a lot from. Dean was also one good hand and knew his way across the reserve with his eyes closed so when I suggested we run the horses the whole way he never blinked an eye. I think Dean also got a kick out of my infatuation with the Indian way of life, his way of life. Maybe no one had ever treated him like the special person I thought he was, I'm thinking. We added Jerry (Sharkie) McNeeley and Cletus Running Wolf to the crew and on the last day of October, ran that herd out of the cattle association corrals and headed east. Oh what a day!

We had just made a turn with the herd east onto Highway 2 and had our first wreck. The grass borrow pits are wide on the two lane road but we had to cross the asphalt and ice to get good footing and Cletus and his horse didn't make it. They did a twenty foot slide together until Cletus got out of his stirrups and managed to get back on his feet, gather his horse, and get back in the saddle with no injuries to horse or rider. But it was close and we had dodged our first bullet of the trip. Cletus rode with us the remainder of the day but that was it for him.

Running horses can be a bit western. Horses run. When they're fresh, they hit a lope right away and it takes awhile before they settle and even then they are usually at a hard trot. Most of the bunch we were moving had run the particular route we were on at the moment, which helped, but we had to be on the lookout for open gates, wire, and of course traffic. We had a straight shot into East Glacier and after several miles we began to feel a ryhthm. The horses had begun to string out in an order only they understood, but it was working. Dean, Cletus, Jerry, and myself also settled into a rhythm with one of us leading, one rider flanking, and two on or near the back of the herd. As we moved into and through East Glacier and towards the Two Medicine Bridge we also began to pick up an easy breeze at our backs and the first rays of sunshine that had been missing during those first miles in the mountains. We were out of the mountains and headed east and feeling good.

The old Two Medicine Bridge doesn't exist anymore but it was a doozy and I still miss it. The old bridge crossed the Two Medicine River just east of town. There was a narrow two lane crossing and a thousand feet of space below the road and down to the river. When horses hit the roadway span they hesitate, cause they can feel the damn bridge shake underneath them. That's a helluva feeling but you've got to keep moving. What the hell else are you going to do, go back? No. After a moment's hesitation on we go. The horses feel it. I feel it. But on we go. The old bridge has been replaced by a fancy new one I'm sad to say. I guess there will be a few less car wrecks on the new outfit but that doesn't make the world any better I'm thinking.

It's time to switch horses. The mounts we're riding need a break. We're riding light and riding well but we've got the horseflesh so we look for a fence corner to gather them and make the change. Dean ropes a mare, I catch my old mount Dodger on foot, and Jerry and Cletus do likewise and off we go headed to our first nights stop at Little Ed's, two hours off. And what a pleasure that is. We hit the all gravel Durham Road and a little more than an hour after that we pull into the Connelly Ranch, halfway to Milk River. Ed's put out a fresh round bale of good hay and our horses quickly make themselves at home. It's been a good day.



Oh baby.  The next day arrives, as they all do.   No matter who you are, how good a shape you’re in, when you’ve poured it on the day before, you feel it the day after.  All three of us felt the previous day’s hard ride.  We’d just recently finished a long fall in the backcountry, every day a long day in the saddle hunting elk.  But that was primarily keeping it at a walk, not pounding that saddle for miles at a trot and a lope.  Well, no profit in whining.  After saddling three fresh horses, and minus Cletus, we hit it.



Dean led the herd out of the corral.  Sharkie flanked the bunch to keep them from backtracking and I pulled up the rear, riding Pos, or Positive, one really nice registered horse, but full of juice this morning and not wanting any part of holding up.  When I finally eased him off  it wasn’t three seconds and we were cartwheeling together, doing a 360 just out of the gate.  We both came up together, thank God, and Pos did so on four feet, and amazingly enough, seeing ourselves through Sharkies’ astounded eyes, we kicked up again and headed east cross country.  We hadn’t dodged a gopher hole but we’d dodged another bullet.



I think it must have been just after noon and we pulled up at Howard Conways’ place and ran the bunch into his corrals at the Duck Lake Highway.  Our last stop, however, was short.  I could feel the weather changing, the sky was getting grayer, and the temperature had already dropped considerably since we’d started.  Hell, it’s that time of year, Halloween day in northern Montana, good enough for sun or three feet of snow.  Roll the dice.



We’re off again, running north for several miles and then through a large gate that opens up into the back of beyond, big, wide open country, miles and miles of it.  Old Dean doesn’t flinch for a second.  He’s expressionless and I’m thinking he knows what he’s doing.  Me, I know we’re into it now and there’s no turning back.   We’ve got a big bunch of horses with us and nowhere  to turn ‘em out if we have to.  There’s that common thought we’re all there for, “let’s ride and finish the job” and none of the three of us are thinking anything but.  On we go. 



It’s gotten to be pretty late in the afternoon.  I can tell ‘cause there isn’t as much light as there was.   There’s a gray tint to the sky, the mountains, barely visible to the wet of us, and even the mildly rolling hills we’re riding into.   Plus, I’m not sure where we are in relation to Little Ed’s pasture.  It’s on Dean at this point and he’s riding his yellow horse and not talking, not flinching, expressionless.   But that’s the Chief.  I know Dean pretty well and I think he’s just doing what he has to do and when the time comes he’ll let me know.  Nevertheless, that gray sky is beginning to spit frozen rain and the wind has picked up some.  It’s at our back which is a minor blessing but good all the same.  And furthermore, our horses are at a real even trot and by all appearances, not in any difficulties.



We reach the plateau of a long steady climb and lo and behold off in the distance I can just make out a city of lights way off to the southwest.  Got to be Browning and if that’s so then we’re headed northeast and with any luck should see the Milk River Ridge and beyond that Canada real soon.  Dean gives me the look of acknowledgement so I know something is up and it isn’t minutes and I can see, out several miles, only a scattered few, but nevertheless, lights to the north as well.  They’re barn and house lights from the three ranches spread east to west above the Milk River in Canada.  By God, we’re close.  And so we are.  In the fading light I can make out a loading chute, corrals, and a stock tank.  There’s an open gate directly ahead of us and Dean is leading the herd right through it.  We’ve made it. 



It’s plumb flat dark as the ace of spades as we leave the herd on two thousand acres of shin deep grass and a half acre pond full of spring water.  We’ve done our job for those horses and now it’s us on our last leg east to Del Bonita Hwy. where Lora is due to meet us right where it intersects with Bud Hansen’s ranch driveway.  We’re late but what else is new?  We were to meet my wife at 4 PM and it’s already 8.  And like I said, it’s so dark we can’t see our feet in front of us and we’re leading our horses on foot, slowly.   Calling was out.  Hell, I think I’d heard of cell phones but there was nobody in our neck of the woods who knew about ‘em much less had one.  I sure as hell didn’t own one.  Lora was waiting patiently I’m sure but she also had two kids at home so we needed to make a move before too long.



But we couldn’t.  Do much moving that is.  Not until we got some light from the moon, the stars, from anywhere.  We walked our horses for more than two hours and cut more than two fence lines with my Handyman pliers and finally we began to get a faint bit of light from the rising moon.  And just barely enough light to get us mounted again and able to ride enough visibility in front of us to keep us out of trouble.  We dropped off  a rise at some point in time following at least an hour of hard riding and finally recognized the firm footing under us as the Del Bonita Highway, hard gravel and running straight north and south.  And two hundred yards in front of us are Lora and our Toyota 4 Runner, lights on, and slowly moving south and out of reach.  Sharkie gave it a shot and spurred his horse forward but the bad combination of a tired horse and a gas engine left us in the dust.  We were screwed, blued, and tatooed, again.



Well, let’s just say that this story does end on a good note.  The three of us continued to ride south for another hour or so and then stopped at an old homestead at 3 in the morning and after waking up the initially grouchy owner of the place we got ourselves dinner and coffee thanks to one sweet wife, made the phone calls necessary and were on our way home just after daylight.  Lora had waited from before 4 the previous afternoon until well after midnight, alone and worried but she did nothing but give me a big hug and kiss when she arrived to get us and thus one more adventure in the key of life ended well, thanks to Sharkie, Dean, and one wonderful wife.