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!

 

 

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.

Wicked Good Rides of 2012

                                                    

 On the rope!

Oh yeah, we did some wicked good rides this past season and I'm going to tell you why and how and throw in some of the the really good stuff that makes a great ride.  You might think you've got a good idea what makes a super ride but I assure you you don't!  I guess if you start the ride and get home with everyone that started and no broken bones you're on the way but there's a whole more to a great ride than meets the eye. 

Rides come in every imagineable form you can and can't envision.  I've had some good rides right in the round pen as an example.  Getting that first ride under your belt on an eight year old green mare can be a great ride.  I had a mare named Josey Wales back at our place this past summer and I can think of one training session that got western on the far side of the pen and didn't stop until she she stopped, putting the fear of God into me initially, but then leaving me with a rush of achievement and adrenaline, having survived one more back breaking bullet from a horse I should have spent more time with on the ground.  That was a short ride but you got to do them once in a while.  Those kind of rides keep you honest, you learn from them and become a better hand.  You don't get to that point in your career by riding only the good ones.  But you're got to be careful cause the wrong kind of wreck can do you some damage.  I've spent more than a couple weeks in hospitals as a result of bad rides.  That's no fun.  By the same token, if you can figure out how to make a young, green horse better, you'll make yourself better as well.  Be that as it may, although that ride lasted maybe twenty seconds, it was a good one, and obviously, I haven't forgotten about it.

Well, there's more.  I haven't ever done a ride, with or without company, and in real good country, that I haven't always had my eyes wide open, looking, like a hawk, for critters.  Over the years, I couldn't count the number of grizzlies I've seen from the back of a horse.  Probably well more than a few hundred.  A bunch for sure.  And in all shapes and sizes, some way off and some too damned close for comfort.  In all that time I've only had one poor encounter with ursus horriblis from the back of a horse and to this day I still can't figure out why and I assure that we didn't stick around to ponder the experience.  My late wife Lora and I were horseback on Autumn Creek on our first ride since we'd gotten married, several weeks prior in early June.   Autumn Creek (Crik) is a spectacular gem of country just a few mile to the east of us.  It unfolds from the top of  Marias Pass westward to just above the ranch in Glacier National Park.  And in case you didn't follow that, Autumn Creek is about in our backyard.  I've ridden, skied, and hiked that drainage countless times and even did a TV show there with ESPN sports called Photo Safari years ago.  The ride down Autumn Creek is always a good one cause it's easy on the eyes and yes, full of big game, ie; elk, deer, sheep, goats, moose, and even some of the rarer stuff like griz, wolves, lynx, and wolverine, et al.  And as cool as that country is, plus being in the park, I rarely see people in it.  Hell, I think they're scared of the bears.  I've seen four adult griz in a day on the six mile ride.  And that doesn't count the bears you don't see! Well, to make a long story shorter, after riding a few miles in a primarily lodgepole pine forest, that drainage opens up and looks a whole lot like similar type country in Alaska.  You can see a few miles in three directions and the "seeing" is good.  Hell, it's as good as you can get.

I don't remember what or how much we saw on the ride in question, atleast up to the point, about four to five miles down the trail and there, four hundred yards across the creek and up against a stand of quaking aspen is a sow and an older cub grizzly.  And they're looking directly ahead, in our direction.  At that distance I doubt if the two of them knew what we were but they sure as hell knew we were something.  Cause, here they come and I kid you not.  I'm watching this scene play itself out and I'm thinking, four hundred, three hundred, two hundred, and "honey, let's get the hell out of here."  And so we did.  In a hurry.  We hit a lope, crossed the creek, then an opening, and turned our horses and faced up.  I don't know about you but I like to face my aggressors and bring it on for better or worse.  We'd put some distance between us and the bears I think so let's see what's what.  To this day, I have no idea what started that rumble nor did we ever see hide or hair of that pair of bears again, and we made no effort to find out.  But they were pissed off at whatever they thought we were and I suspect anxious to see us leave!  And so another "bullet" dodged and the excitement, experience, and memory of another great ride etched into that less than nimble brain of mine.

I think it's too tough to call what the best ride I was on this past season.  There were some real good days moving cattle on the Rumney Ranch with Beau Michael, his wife Suzy, Dutch, and the boys up close to the Canadian border.  I always love riding with the Johnson boys, Tuck and Collan, on their place just east of town.  And then spending some time with Mouse Hall down on the Two Medicine Breaks and River never dissappoints.  If you're riding in good country, on a good horse, and in even better country, you can't lose.  But, I'll tell you this..................

Diana (my new girlfriend!) and I spent a day with Bill and Chris Perkins in the Buffalo Lakes country of the Two Medicine and that was as good a day as you could have.  They turned out to be really fine folks.  They rode well enough but were even better compadres.  We just got along well.  Plus, the day was perfect, the horses were well behaved, and yes, we had one conflict free encounter with a big boar grizzly.  I think the combination of all three elements just added up to one of those riding days where life is just smooth.  Not only were we covering the country real well but when I did manage to see that big bear two hundred yards ahead I could tell pretty quickly he was a massive headed male with no axe to grind.  I could tell he had some idea we were  there but he didn't seem bothered in any case and continued eating berries by the mouthful while occasionally glancing up in our direction.  I'll bet he was pushing 800 pounds, a massive brute.  Chris and Bill were getting a good look at their first grizzly and what a look we had.  For atleast ten minutes the four of us horseback watched that big sumbitch go about his way.  He did finally catch our scent real good and hit a canter in the opposite direction.  And that's the perfect end to that type of encounter with a potentially dangerous animal like a griz.  We didn't want anything but a good look at him and all he wanted was lots of space between him and us. It all worked out and we got some good pics as well.  You can't beat that.

Well, I'll sure relay to you in the future some less than satisfying rides I've been on but for starters what you've just read is a good way to begin.  As I've always said, "the only good ride is the one that gets you home safely."  Getting bucked off or chased by a bear is OK if you make it out in one piece but the older you get the less likely it is that getting in a jackpot is gonna put a smile on your face.  Been there, done that.  Stay tuned!





 There's that big griz!

No Expectations

Well ain't that a handy title for a gig about starting horses under saddle.  But I think starting horses and finally getting them comfortable under saddle is a mixed bag.  There is a degree of uncertainty about the final product that no amount of knowledge and experience can overcome.  As Forest Gump's mom said about life and a box of chocolates, you're never quite sure what in the hell you're going to get.  And that same wisdom holds true for horses.  Never has that been more true than with the three months I spent with "Pink" the five year old filly I started this past summer. 

And for the record, I think she's five and from what I've gathered she is a registered horse, has a good pedigree, and even got some size on her.  But who knows.  The fellow that sent her here is a bit of puzzle himself.  He may have given me the real scoop on the filly but who knows.  He'd called me to inquire about having her started and trained and after a bit of discussion we agreed on two months at $500 per.  Little did I know!  I thought from the little he told me about her, she'd been with her mom for the entire five years and had just been weaned the previous spring and had never been touched by human hands until I loaded her from her pen into my horse trailer the old fashioned way.  I backed into the gate and used a crop to jump her into the front end of the trailer which I'd loaded up with hay.  I got her home OK, carefully fit a pink halter on her while working over the top of her from a rail in the round pen and then turned her out into a smaller pen with water and feed. 

Now back to the fellow who owned the horse;  usually you can get a decent handle of understanding about the horse in question from the owner.  Using even that small bit of background I can normally start a horse with that information in mind and slowly progress to a level that I understand and from where I can continue on.  But Pink didn't follow anything close to the pattern that had been described to me by the owner.  I don't think Pink had ever been out of the pasture she'd been born in and there is a good chance she'd been with mom for five years.  She was terrified of the new surroundings, of me, and anyone else she began to come in contact with over the following days.  I kept her in a smaller pen directly adjacent to the big corral and the bulk of our herd for company and companionship.  And when I turned the big bunch out to pasture that first night Pink busted through the two by six rails of her pen in a frantic effort to stay with her kind.  I put a couple of our older, gentler horses in with her and that did seem to calm her down.  At that point, however, I was really beginning to recognize I had a real project on my plate.  An owner who didn't have a clue what his mare was all about and a trainer who very possibly had bought himself a job he didn't really want.  And no expectations!

A week or so go by and I haven't heard from the owner nor have I gotten the standard deposit fee for training.  But true to my word to the owner I've begun to spend some time around the horse.  I've had my hands all over her, taken her halter off and put it back on a number of times and I'm beginning to recognize some acceptance of the mare to the human touch and my presence.  And she is putting on some weight.  That says something about her as well.  Time to get her to the round pen and let the show begin!

I normally start a horse in the round pen and today is no different.  Pink isn't even halter broke but I manage to lead her that short distance to the round pen where I take that halter and lead rope off and slowly begin to move or longe her around the inside circumference of the rails.  It doesn't take a whole lot of prodding to get her moving and with the help of a crop with a cracker at the end of it I'm sure to get her attention and keep it.  But I don't push her hard.  She's full of adrenaline and fear and looking hard for a way out.  When she tries to duck between two rails I pop that crop and move her past that distraction.  But I'm a little slow on the uptake and on the sixth or seventh trip around she jumps the six foot pen and takes out the top rail doing so.   You've got to see it to believe it.  I've never had a horse jump over the round pen, not this one.  Over the gate, yes, but not over the top rails.
Well, she jumps out twice, and then over the gate once.  We've got a wreck on our hands.  Ya' thnk?

I attach a longe line to her halter and move her out some more with the added control and as she runs by her by- now- normal escape route I can jerk her back on track and keep her in the pen.  We're making progress.  She's beginning to fix that inside eye on me and less on escape routes and I'm even getting her to a slower, less frantic speed while switching directions.  But she bears watching.  I'm not putting any more pressure on her today and so I slow her down by slowing my body language down.  After a few minutes, I lead her in slowly and face her up to me while rubbing the front half of her body.  She's shy and suspicious but with patience and deliberation and with a good workout under her belt she's more accepting of the direction I'm beginning to take her.

After several weeks of round pen work, and as you can see in the photos below, Pink begins to make some real progress in her training.  The shot of her going over the gate on her second training day is her last real stunt.  I'm pushing her through her round pen distractions and helping her develop good habits and an easier disposition.  When she strays into distraction I can bring her back into focus with a verbal cue or the crack of the crop.  She's begun to get very attentive with both eyes now and in most cases I can get her to hook on and face up.  I'm amazed at the relatively quick turn-around she's made.

The five year old mare bears with me through the next sixty days with several one to two hour sessions per week.  Pink doesn't jump the round pen rail again.  I can catch her almost at will and I've begun to saddle and bridle her regularly while sacking her out or desensitizing her to motion, noise, ropes, and tarps.  And by the way, she's put on some good weight and is beginning to look like the quarter horse she is.  Plus, she's mine.  You know, possession is nine tenths of the law!  The owner never has contacted me, nor has he sent a check for board or training.  I'm going to keep the horse, put our brand on her, and that's that!

I've been procrastinating to some extent for a while.  It's getting close to that time to get on her back and under saddle.  Let's see what kind of horse we really have.  Contrary to some of my earlier thoughts, I am beginning to feel pretty good about Pink.  Yes, she was a mess early on in her training but she's come a long way on the ground, as they say, and if my instinct is now anywhere close to solid I am thinking she's become a helluva prospect.  But I always exercise lots of caution anymore when I do that first ride.  You never know for sure how a horse is going to act that first time.  They can blow up, flip over, who knows.  Getting hurt is the last thing I want to have happen at this stage in my life so time, patience, and caution are the keys.  And so is the proper training and ground work.  From the very start of a horse's training regimen, you can learn an enormous amount about a horses' normal behavior from what it shows you on the ground.  Pink has steadily displayed not only a calm demeanor under rigorous training but I've seen a learning curve that only continues to improve.  Judging from those observations I'm thinking she'll acept me being in the saddle with her calmly.  We've worked together well.  She's gotten to know me, developed a respect and trust for my training methods, and yes, I for her increasingly improved responses to those methods.  It hasn't all come real easily but it has come.  We've prepared each other well for that first mounting.  We've gone well beyond what I've able to write in this piece.  There's that subliminal relationship that we've built over a period of time that covers so much more than the mechanical and physical skills of sacking out, saddling, and bridling.  We're there!

And as you might imagine that first swinging up of my right leg over the saddle and into my stirrup is flawless.  Pink's eyes are clearly wide open and focused on me to the rear and on her back.  I give her time, don't make a sudden move, and within minutes I can see her begin to realx and settle.  As she goes, I go.  We've made it.  There's more to come and I'll be keeping you posted on the life of Pink.  She's become a marvelous addition to our herd.  Stay tuned!

 Photos courtesy of our good friend from Defiance, Ohio, Mike Fronk.

Into the Mystic (part 2) Horses I've Rode

                                                                     
There's some damned fine horses out there.  And there's been a bunch of good ones over the years.  I've been lucky enough to ride a few.  Good ones that is.   They're all good to some degree.  But there's no doubt, if you're riding a counterfeit sumbitch and you've got a bad feeling going the entire time you're on his back it ain't worth it.  As we all know, there's too many good horses out there to be riding bad ones.  I was given a real good looking nine year old registered quarter horse a few years back.  A grandson of one of the famous foundation studs of all time, Doc Bar, and to this day I can't get around that horse.  I might have a good ride on him on a particular day and then he'll be off his game the next and be plumb dangerous to ride.  There's a few of you reading this that know the horse.  You may have ridden with me on a day I was on his back and so you damned well know what I mean.  He's a headcase there's no doubt.  But I'll keep him and maybe age will slowly but somewhat surely will him down.  I wouldn't bet on that last statement, however.  I'd say it's a 50- 50 deal with him.  One of us will die first and I hope it ain't me!

Speaking of dying, I started a big colt a bunch of years ago and his name was Casey.  He was a 1200 pound three year old breeding stock paint when I started him for a real good fellow from South Dakota now living in the Flathead Valley of Montana.   Casey was named after the famous bronc rider Casey Tibbs.  Actually, there were two colts, full brothers, and both were pretty similar in looks and temperament.  But Casey, for whatever reason, possibly, the heavier set of hindquarters and ass end, captured more of my attention than his partner, and was the first of the two I crawled up on.  I mounted both of those nice geldings after a few weeks of ground work and got around them well enough.  Hell, they were both real nice, even tempered colts so one could say they helped me out a fair amount.  Casey was the first of the two under saddle and rider, however, and handled those first rides in the round pen real well.  It wasn't long before I had him out doing longer rides in the hay stubble and over to the Flathead River and along the banks and through the brush of that scenic body of water.  All was good.  Casey was progressing real well and rarely showed any lack of confidence in his abilities to understand his environment or me.  He didn't have any "issues" that I could see and in any case those horse "issues" that are so often referred to are in many cases people "issues."
But that's another story.  Casey and me were doing well.  And we continued to do well until I jerked him up and over and onto me one icy morning in the round pen.  I'd been having trouble getting him to flex to the left and doing so in an icy round pen on a December morning didn't help matters.  I was too harsh and unyielding and in return tipped that big colt up onto his back legs and over onto me, the majority of his weight and momentum ending up in big woomp on my pelvis.  Casey might have been able to get around me but being on ice he was flailing for balance and I'd bailed out of the saddle and stirrups but had undoubtedly pulled on the reins as I was dismounting so there was the perfect storm for one helluva wreck.  And it was.  Casey's owner found me a few minutes later on and ultimately got me to the hospital where I spent the next couple of weeks recovering from major surgery.  I think if the saddle horn had hit me square in the chest instead of the pommel on my pelvis I'd be growing daisies.  So there's a story for you and a lesson to boot.  Ride with a light hand, take your time, and if you have to bail out don't take the horse with you!  By the way, I hear Casey is in Wyoming and has become one helluva calf horse.

Well, as Augustus McRae said to his gal Lorena, during what was becoming a morbid conversation about life, "it ain't about dyin,' it's about livin'.  I couldn't agree more.  But we still have to be careful out there.  We put our health and lives on the line sometimes when we're horseback.  Getting hurt or killed ain't worth it.  Alright, "that's all I have to say about that."

I did alot of horsetrading with "Papoose" Rattler years ago.  Not as much lately since the price of horses has dropped through the floor and apparently so has Phillip.  But not too many years back I'd pick up a couple good mounts from Phillip, or as we've called him for years, "Papoose."  Doesn't matter what their creed or color is, if you're horsetrading for a living you bear watching.  "Papoose" was no different than any other horse trader I've known.  He bore watching.  But he was a good guy and I did get a kick out of him even while he was sticking it to me.  I used to meet "Papoose" at his place on Two Medicine.  We'd exchange pleasantries and then get down to business.  He always had a bunch of horses for sale.  On the particular day in question he did as well.  But one of them really stuck out and that was Positive (Positivio, out of Amber Su Cat and by a local stud named Sensitivio). Boy did he stick out.  Positive was one good looking animal with the kind of conformation that made your eyes bulge.  I bought him on the spot.

Pos had been trained up north, on the border, by Tracy Vaile, a very well known and exceedingly well respected trainer  Why she got rid of and unloaded him on "Papoose" I have no idea but then again folks in this part of the country can run out of money in a hurry and horses can be good trading collateral so who knows.  It wasn't long before I began to recognize I was riding a real different mount. A damned good horse but a real bundle!  When you mounted Pos you had to be ready to rock and roll.  He was a hand full. Safe for the most part, soft in the mouth, attentive to leg aids, but a rocket nevertheless.  Pos, as I began to recognize, could run barrels, rope on the front or back end, break away, and certainly leg up on the variety of trails in the mountains.  I wish I'd been able to use my body language better while I was in the saddle cause  I was often too heavy handed on his face.  I used a correction bit to a fault with Pos and didn't use a light handle and physical cues well enough.  But, we got around each other and over a period of time we did good together.  I learned how to stay off his face in the roping box and use my body language to cue him to a hard stop and sometimes a slide.  He was real good on both ends.  I think he was probably the first horse I'd ever ridden that was close to a pro on so many levels.  I even won money on him!

As I look back on the horses I've ridden Pos definitely stands in the top 5.  You know, making that kind of a statement is so judgemental but whether he was first or fifth he'll always stand way out there to me.  Pos collicked a few years back and is mostly buried in our back pasture.  I say mostly cause I saw a sow and a cub grizzly dig him up and feed on him late one fall.  I guess that's as it should be as well.  His last act was providing those two bears with some good protein prior to a long winter sleep.  Vaya con Dios Pos!

Well hell, I really get sentimental recalling some of the fine horses I've known.  They've taught me alot and provided lots of some of the best memories I have of years gone by.  And you know what, there's lots of years left and lots more good horses to ride!

Positive and Bill (We won that night!)

Giz (Gizmo)

Tucker (Doc Bar Grandson)

Hombre (quiet and humble like Paul Newman in "Hombre")

Money for Nothing

                                                         Money for Nothing (Chicks for Free)

I've loved two women in my life.  Lora was certainly a very special person who a man is lucky enough to meet in a hundred lifetimes.  There won't ever be another like her, not for me anyway.  I think I've stumbled more than a bit trying to find her twin the past bunch of years but finding that gem ain't too likely.  I did ask her sister Sue Sue to marry me but she turned me down like a badly burnt pancake.  Said she knew too much about me!  Well, then there was the woman who did enter the scene a while after Lora and as I've described that affair to a few good friends, "I went from the robin's nest to the bees nest with that one."  I'd have to be drunker than a waltzing pissant to pass along the story on that one so I'll let it be.  Be that as it may, the point of it all is to recognize that they're (women that is) a different breed of cat.  I know what you're thinking, "tell me something I don't know Bill."  I might add as well that when you the reader figure out the feminine gender please write the damned book and kindly send me the first copy.  I want to be the first to know.

I do know this however.  Women aren't just a different breed but each and every woman is singular.  There aren't two women in this universe that are alike.  I don't know if God had it planned that way but he surely put his cards squarely on the table and said, "you think you're so smart, well you go figure 'em out."  I've done a better job trying to figure out horses than women and that's really the gist of the following subject matter.  I've had more success with horses but the plain fact of the matter is that like women, there aren't two horses that are alike either.  And to add a bit more to that not very profound statement, both women and horses offer very similar exercises in frustration, and yes, in joy!

Now then, before I get myself in too far like the none too deep character Pea Eye in the Larry McMurtry novel, Lonesome Dove, as he lamely tried to explain away his reluctance to chase buffalo with a tale about the neighbor lady's husband and his misfortune with bison, to Augustus McRae, who responded by telling him he was getting in over his head,  I do want to gently move the topic at hand squarely back to the world of horses.  I'm a whole lot more confident passing along to you the loves of my life, horses that is, than the women I've loved.  We're back in safe territory and quite frankly I'm looking forward to sharing those with you.

When I think back there have been a bunch of good ones.  There was Charlie, a middle aged thoroughbreddy lookin' gelding, mountain wise, fast enough on his feet, and handy enough in a jackpot.  We hunted the Hoback Range country south of Jackson when the elk hunting was in its prime.  There were fourteen thousand elk on the refuge in town and many more scattered on refuges throughout the area.  On more than a few occasions I can recall riding into more than two hundred head in a herd.  Those kind of numbers are unheard of anymore.  I rode Charlie pretty steadily during that period of time in the mid 1970's, before environmeddlers began their campaign to reintroduce wolves back into the picture.  Charlie took good care of me.  We covered hundreds of miles together in some wild and pretty country.  I don't know what that Willow Creek drainage looks like today.  I do know that Charlie was my good partner in those early years.  To Charlie;  long may you run.

Cody, (Ko Dee Jo Bonanza) .  I bought Cody, a registered Bonanza bred quarter horse as a three year old from a fellow down in the Bitteroot Valley south of Missoula.  I should have bought two of him!  Cody was a fine looking, muscled up fellow who was good to go from day one.  His owner had done a great job starting him.   He wasn't at all cold backed, never offered to buck, and although a bit slow on the get go, he sure as hell never made a bad move.  It wasn't but his second ride with me in some rugged country in the Selway-Bitteroot Wilderness, easing our way through a lodgepole pine thicket, we killed our first bull at no more than forty yards.  I swear that bull, hard in the rut, walked in on Cody's footfalls, mistaking him for another bull.  We got off to a great start!  Shortly after that episode we were on our way to Bear Creek Ranch and what was to be my home for the following thirty plus years.  In retrospect, as wonderful a horse as Cody was  there's no doubt that horse was bred to be on cattle.  He always did the job I asked of him but perhaps with some element of resignation.  He didn't fire up on the trail and one needed to keep a leg on him to keep him attentive and moving.  But on those days when we were moving horses or on occasion, cows, I could feel a horse under me.  His ears went back and his lights went on.  I'd love to have had him down the road when we started to rope.  He'd have been in his element.  He wire cut the back of his rear foot down close to the bulbs of his hoof and never quite made it back to full health,  We put him down in his tenth year.  Cody was a good one.  When you've spent hundreds of hours on the back of a horse over the course of a decade one doesn't forget.

I think that my life with horses really began to accelerate as we recognized and put into place a very horse intensive program at the ranch.  From late April until December, we emphasized activities that took place on the back of a horse.  Beginning in the mid 80's we put on the miles big time and as we did so purchased one horse after another.  I think we reached more than sixty head of horses with some mules to pack as part of the string as well.  And believe me, even with that number of horses, we still found ourselves short at times.  If you're running sixty head there's mares with colts one has to hold out.  Then there's a few lame ones, several that are sore, and then those that just need to be rotated out for rest.  When you get down to it, maybe there's forty that are good to go.  But then again, out of that forty, there's always a bronc or two in the   bunch.  And who wants to ride a horse that's likely to blow up when you've got a half dozen guests to take care of.  See what I mean?  We're down to thirty eight head out of sixty.  That's alot of grass!

Be that as it may, as I've often maintained, there's only one way to learn how to ride and that's by swingin' a leg over and putting on the miles.  Our guests came to the ranch to ride and so we obliged them to the best of our abilities.  We rode, rode some more, and rode till we dropped.  And then got up and did it all again.  Those were some good days for all of us.  Alot of the folks that came to us were pretty green.  But when they left us they weren't.  I swear we ran through lots of good people who never would have imagined they'd do what they did on the back of a good horse.  Like I said, we rode hard, we rode in hard country.  And we got it done. Those years were a kick in the pants.  Many of those guests are still in touch and a bunch of them will be back here this coming summer.

As you might well imagine, during the course of a very horse intensive bunch of years there were a few real bright lights as that pertained to my personal choice of horses.  There was Dodger, first and foremost arguably the finest horse I'll ever have the privilege and honor of riding. Dodger was a horse among all horses.  I got Dodger from Rick Lucke in the late 80's.  Rick had got him from the Gustaffsons down in the Two Medicine country.  He was a locally bred registered quarter horse with the +3 brand on his left hip.  The Gustaffsons make some nice horses.

Dodger was also the Richard Farnsworth character in the movie, "Comes a Horseman" and came to me as a three year old.  Rick sold me the horse because as he explained to me, "the horse crowhops a bit when you first get on him."  Uh huh.  We've all heard that one before.  Rick had some horse trader in him as you might have already guessed.  And yup, Dodger could "crowhop."  He was juicy enough that first season I rode him but when he came back off of winter pasture as a four year old he'd muscled up a whole lot and it wasn't long before I discovered he could buck.  And I mean plumb break in half I kid you not.  The redeeming factor with Dodger is that he was predicable.  He'd buck in the morning when he was cold backed and I could usually feel it coming.  If I could catch him before he got his head down I could talk him out of his "condition" and on we'd go.

Dodger and I travelled together for more than a decade.  We covered more country than most horse folks cover in ten lifetimes I kid you not.  We ran horses, moved cows, rode the park, the Bob Marshall Wilderness, killed elk, got ourselves into more than a few jackpots, and spent many nights together in primitive spike camps well above timberline.  Dodger was my pard during those years.  He bucked me off atleast twice a year or more and sometimes it wasn't pretty.  He could buck hard. I rode him in a single rigged Hamley saddle with a deep swell.  It didn't make any difference.  He'd bust in half, dump me on my ass, but he never quit me.   I was directing a horsemanship clinic for some folks one time in our sand arena and I had a leg swung over his neck as I was explaining gaits and lo and behold I found myself airborne after one good jump.  There I was, on my butt,  surrounded by a bunch of ladies beginning to think I was the second coming of Ray Hunt. Right!  I didn't say a word .  I brushed myself off, got back in the saddle as if nothing has occurred and carried on.  What could I say?  Dodger is still alive.  He's twenty seven years old now and swaybacked to beat hell.  That's no wonder.  But he's a wonder.  I'll be one lucky man if I ever find another horse even close to his calibre.  See, there is an analogy there.  Horses and women.  Lora and Dodger.  Hard to find two like 'em!

Ahhh, Gambler.  Yup, he was an Appaloosa, registered to the breed and introduced to me by Carol Many Quills from the Blood Reserve in Alberta.  Probably the kindest horse I've ever ridden over a long period of time.  Gambler was a rope horse extraordinaire.  He was a big horse, probably twelve, thirteen hundred pounds and a good sixteen hands.  What an animal.  Sixteen years old when I took possession of him after getting my ass kicked in that horse trade.  Carol asked for a pretty tidy sum of money for Gambler and she didn't back down.  I felt like Captain Woodrow E. Call, Texas Ranger, also from the same McMurtry novel I've mentioned, after he got financially raped by that fine woman Clara, Bob's wife, and damned well knew it.  Remember?  The Captain, after having his wallet emptied by Clara, was additionally perplexed by her gracious gift of a horse to the Captain's son Newt and in fact asked Newt why he thought she gave him that horse as a gift after being so tight during the sale.  Newt had no clue himself why he was bestowed with that fine horse by Clara and finally, the Captain just started off into space and in a confused manner replied "women!"  Well, that about says it all.  I rest my case.

The plan fact of the matter is however, that Gambler could rope.  He was good in the box, rated a cow right on the money, handled a rope real well, and was smooth with the handle.  Most of  my first ropings with Gambler were up at Sam Lanes -X6 arena on the top of Hausman Hill north of Browning.  That was a cold winter and I recall roping on more than one occasion at well below zero.  That quonset hut arena was maybe 120 feet long and 40 wide.  Made for some pretty tight roping and it was prone for good wrecks.  But those Indian boys (and girls) know how to handle a juicy horse with or without a rope and although things could get a bit western at times I can't recall any real disasters.   But it was colder than a witch's tit a good part of the time. You couldn't see from one end of the barn to another there was so much steam from horses and warm bodies mixing it up with below zero temps.  Hey, that was the only game in town back in those days and we all roped hard and didn't complain.  And Gambler was always steady .

I paid her full price but then again, never regretted it.  Gambler was worth every penny.  The first good steer I ever turned on Gambler was at the Hell's Half Acre Mother's Day rodeo down on the Two Medicine River.
Those out of the way Indian Rodeos like "Hell's Half" are always tougher than you'd think. Some of the very best local cowboys and cowgirls bring their best stuff with them.  Team roping entries might go to sixty or seventy teams and once the roping began to warm up the times went down in a hurry.  At "Hells Half" that first year with Gambler I turned a steer pretty quickly but my heelings partner's horse stumbled moving into the catch and that ended ended some very temporary glory.  Nevertheless, I roped on Gambler pretty hard the next couple years and one might say, really cut my teeth on the back of that exceptional animal.  Even later on, after graduating to some younger, faster mounts, Gambler remained a tough competitor with a heart as big as a tank.  Oh, Gambler wasn't the quickest cat in the bunch but he was the kindest, most forgiving horse I've ever owned.  He is missed.  End of Part 1.

Stay tuned to Adventures with Positive and Hombre.  The True and (Untrue) Tales Tales of Horses and Women in the Key of Life.

Rockin' in the Free World

I've got the park circus back in my cross hairs again.  That cycle has repeated itself rather consistently over the years following my epiphany in the late seventies as I became aware, much like the character in the pinball wizard.  It doesn't take a genius to "become aware," especially if you're anywhere near a park circus operation.  Can you believe those sons a bitches are now trapping lynx in the park, pretty damned near our back yard?  And wolverine I think.  I've got to confirm that one to be sure but they have been trapping wolverine for sure until very recently, once again, just to the north of us.  They're probably in a holding pattern for God knows what other species they decide to target.  God probably can't figure them out so I doubt if he knows!  Their days of setting up big, stinky bear bait stations may be a thing of the past but I wouldn't put that past them either.  I've seen those horrible looking cables snares in those bear baits and I assure you they take you back quite a few centuries into the medievel ages.  I think there's more than a few of them bugologists that need to be snared.  Wouldn't that be a hoot.  Snare'em, live trap 'em, then send them on their way and there's a good chance they'd never show their faces around here again.

Grizzly bears, lynx, and wolverine, to list just a few are in good shape around here.  By here I mean the entire Glacier National Park ecosytem including the Bob Marshall wilderness complex.  I'm talking about alot of undisturbed country.  There's no shortage of those critters around here I can tell you but there will be if they're continually fucked with.  Anyone with any brains around here knows damned well the populations of those animals is real good.  We live here, we see them from time to time.  We see their tracks and scat and we're all aware no one's trapping or shooting them much anymore.  So where's the problem Mr. Bureaucrat- Biologist?  "well, we're operating under a grant underwritten by the Center for Biological Diversity and very intent on determining the role of bifurcation in ecosystem management for species of special concern."  Oh make me puke why don't you?  I've heard it all before and I'll hear it all again and again. But the bottom line is that if it isn't broke don't fix it.

And by the way Mr. Ranger Man, if you continue to piss me off I'm bound by honor to piss you off as well.  I may have to run fifty head of horses through your study area (again!) this spring when I bring them all home.   It wouldn't be the first time.  Yup, we'll spill 'em and ride west with the canners and when we get to the pass we'll take the easy way back to the ranch.  Hit the trail at a lope, mud flying, elk scattering, all hell breaking loose.  But I swear, the lynx, wolverine, and griz will thank us.  Hell, they've had enough of the trapping business and anyway, they aren't as dumb as the folks trapping them so they'll hear us coming and give us our space.  And if the Park Circus boys get wind of our little adventure we can always wait until dark.  Wasn't it Ed Abbey who said never do during the daylight hours what you can do under the cover of darkness (or something close to that)!

We ran 'em back to the ranch a few seasons ago and I swear, I had a smile on my face the whole go round.  It wasn't a conscious decision to hit the park trail with the ponies.  I just felt that pull within me.  Kind of like flirting with a woman who's going to get you in trouble sooner than later but you just can't help yourself.  I'm speaking very hypothetically of course.  Or like cotton candy when you're a kid.  You know that stuff is going to rot your teeth but you just can't help yourself.  In any case,  I'm a man of principle and my better judgement prevailed so we hit the trail hard and never looked back.  And no one was any wiser for it.  Well, the trail didn't look quite like it had for a few years after our little escapade and if the subject ever came up in my presence I was sure to praise the Park Service for maintaining such a fine herd of elk in that area.  But, boy, do they do some damage to the existing trail system!

Well, back to the trapping practices of the boys (and girls in green) in OUR park.  I've bumped into some of them in the area and they're friendly enough folks.  But they're stupid.  Most of them have a connection to the University of Nuts and Raisins in Missoula and naturally, they're wildlife management majors and budding bureaucrats of the twenty first century.  They're young.  Hell, I was hunting the primary prey of lynx, lepus americanus, the snowshoe hare, at about the same time they were getting weaned off the tit.  They've been at this particular project for a few weeks now and haven't scored a lynx.  Good.  I'm rooting for the lynx.  I'm all for the wolverines as well.  They've had to endure an onslaught of trapping the past few years as a result of  just one more study that was somewhat successful from their perspective.  Check out Doug Chadwick's book, Wolverine Days.  I know for a fact that one of my pards very strategically attached his pubic hairs to one of the non-confining scent sites.  Apparently, the DNA from that hair didn't exactly match up with some of the existing data and did create a bit of angst at Park Headquarters.  It did me as well.  I had a nasty smile on my face for a week.

I guess you can tell by now that not everyone in the area is in applause mode as that applies to the continued and unnecessary trapping of so many species of animals, particularly sensitive species like lynx and wolverines.  Hey, we'll trap you and see how you like it.  There may darned well be solid justification for trapping some of our animal species for specific reasons at specific points in time.  But that ain't the case with this one.  The populations of those two species in particular and certainly the griz as well are robust and healthy and they don't need any fucking with by a bunch of masters degree driven students who should know better.

I have a funny feeling some of you reading this deal (like you Nicholas!) know damned well where the trail is I speak of.  Let's stay in touch.  We may have to cross the river after dark and visit Pedro Flores.  Get your horse saddled Newt.  Your coming, too!