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.
