No Place Like Home... Reflections

                                                 Hair, Hippies, and Here

I remember doing the radio show in the nineties.  The Hi Line Sportsman it was called.  I did an anti-environmental commentary for five to ten minutes a couple times a week.  Back in those days I was a pissed off permittee of the Unites States Forest Cervix, and pissed off and pissed on I was.  Truth be known, I did most of the pissing and in fairness to the whole deal I was, how should I put this, given a whole lot of latitude.  But that was then and this is now although I do recall taking lots of shots at the University of Montana or as I not very fondly referred to it as "the school of nuts and raisins." Between the professional apparatus at the U pumping out up and coming bureaucrats into the system and my inability to survive as a servant of that mentally vacuous machine I lost the war.  I still get pissed off thinking about that but time does have a way of softening past blows and things change. 

Like, here I am, in Missoula, Montana, a bunch of years later (doing graduate work) and it ain't as bad as I thought it might be.  Granted, I'm not ensconced in the bowels of the school of natural resources every day listening to the drivel of the environmental aristocracy lecturing to their worshiping, brainwashed pupils.  Thank God.  Truth be known, I do have relapses of PTSD as I work my through the smattering of mare hippies waiting for their sushi and latte in the UC cafeteria.  I can smell 'em a mile away.  That said, I've mellowed,  I can live with 'em, at a distance!  I shudder to think they'll be part of that corporate natural resource intelligentsia, that part of which is still so foreign, and yes, repulsive to me.  But, I've mellowed, changed.  Nevertheless, the following are some thoughts on the whole matter and more.

I'm still a huge fan of "Range" magazine, the bible of the American  West.  There isn't a day that goes by when an issue of some critical nature, whether it be wolves, climate change, private property rights, endangered species, etc. and although I may listen to any number of opinions myself, and even have a few, I ultimately lean back on the words of wisdom of "Range."  "Range is an award winning quarterly devoted to the issues that threaten the American West, its people, lifestyles, lands, and wildlife.  Range is a leading forum for opposing viewpoints in the search for solutions that will halt the depletion of a national resource- the American cowboy." Range is where I go to when I'm confused, angry, or even bitter.  I can't look to books, lectures, and the pontification

of professional intellectuals for wisdom.  I look to the working men and women on the ground on the front lines. The search for true wisdom comes from the men or women who've battled in the trenches of real life on farms and ranches from coast to coast.  Their stories are written on the pages of "Range" magazine every other month.  I urge you to google them up and see for yourself.

The wolf issue in the American West has died down quite a bit.  I can recall the subject first getting broached with me at a meeting some Forest Service officials in the backcountry in the late 1980's.  I think they thought I was of a new breed of cat, forward thinking, and probably amenable to the new world order of wolf reintroduction and recovery in the American West.  That evening may have been the beginning of my undoing as a new, fresh faced permittee of the corporation.  I'd only seen a few wolves up to that point in my entire life and it wasn't the wolf itself that initially ran shivers down my spine, it was the attendant flood of bureaucracy that I knew would follow.  The wolf issue has always been as much about the role of an alien societal presence and role of government in our lives as it has been about just the presence of the wolf itself.  That conflict still rages, even when it isn't making headlines.  That's further reason why you should always go to bed with the "bible" of the American West on your nightstand.  

And back to the county and town of Missoula, Montana.  Prior to my first school year in town I did have some apprehension about the liberal bias and makeup of the community, and certainly the university.  My nervousness hasn't been justified by the experience I've had in "Zootown."  With only some to be expected exceptions, living in and going to school in Missoula has been a pleasure.  I've found the town to be a hardworking, middle class enclave surrounding a university that hasn't lived up to the wacky reputation I gave it.  I'm all for good discussion and intelligent discourse on almost any issue and a university atmosphere is the perfect place for that.  I've met quite a few students and professionals from every discipline the college has to offer and have yet to have a heated, unreasonable discussion with anyone.  Missoula is growing at a reasonable rate, real estate prices seem to be in the norm, and trophy homes and gated communities haven't yet found fertile ground for germination.  Yeah, there's always a rub.  That lack of uber-wealth in Missoula and the surrounding area is a good thing.  Take a look at Gallatin County and the town of Bozeman and you're staring at a phenomenon that is as much a threat to the quality of life in the American West as the advent of wolf generation was twenty years ago.

It wasn't too many years ago and a ranch was worth what a ranch was worth.  That is, it was worth the price of the buildings, the number of cows, and the amount of land.  Oh to be sure, there were other items of value like water rights, hay meadows, road access, and the like.  That's changed.  Have you taken a look at the value of working ranches now, in 2015?   Well, once they're sold, the majority of them won't be working ranches anymore.  The working ranch and the families that have operated them for more than two centuries are slowly but surely disappearing, the casualties of  the erosion of the family farm and ranch to the mega wealth of American society.  I know that's a tough one to get your head wrapped around.  Success has always been wrapped up in the American dream, work hard and get rich.  I see that but I don't get it.  The plain fact of the matter is that large farms and ranches are being bought up, fenced off, and taken out of production, In many cases, the owners become absentee landlords, hire a caretaker, and visit when the weather is good, the trout fishing is at it's peak, and the skiing is at its best.  Now how in the hell does that square up with the very wisdom we were looking at when I started this rant?  It doesn't.  And all I can hope is that you get yourself a copy of Range magazine right now.  Then get a subscription, and get a real job.

Keystone Pipeline Beer

North to Polar Bears, South to Old Mexico

It's about time.  A gallon of gas in Montana can be had for a buck 98 now.  That's a helluva deal.  Diana just got home from her annual winter trip to Aruba and filled up the Mercedes for less than a hundred bucks. That's about half of what we were paying for a tank of gas just this past summer.  The price of gas is making everyone feel pretty good.  More money to buy beer.  When you think about it, a six pack of cheap beer, say Keystone for example, is about twice as expensive as a gallon of gas.  That's cool.  I always know there was a correlation between beer and gasoline.  Makes perfect sense doesn't it?  I doubt you're following my train of thought on the subject and you're probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about.  Well, I'm not too sure myself but I'll give it a better go.  Ready?

Alright, so we're getting gasoline at the pump at prices we haven't seen since the last century.  And we are feeling pretty good about that.  We've got a few extra bucks lying around and the economy is picking up even more steam as we slowly but surely emerge from the recent economic slump.  The price of oil has a lot of influence on the overall economic health of not only our economy and well being but as well on the international economic picture.  Let's face it, on those levels, oil is the world's drug of choice.  We get high when there's lots of it and go into withdrawal when it's scarce.  For the time being, however, let's just assume that we're on a good roll that may last a while.  Life is good at the pump.  Keep on pumping.

I know what happens when gas is cheap.  Guess. We consume a hell of a lot more of it than we do when it's above three dollars a gallon. I've gone months without filling up my truck and forking over a hundred and fifty bucks at $3.89 s gallon. That's a chunk of change I don't always have handy.  Now, hell, I won't think twice about filling up and heading down the highway for business or pleasure.  I've got people and places I want to go see now that I can afford to.  (And by the way, I was just pulling your drawers about Diana going to Aruba on holiday.  She went to East Glacier to get the mail).

The problem with that nifty scenario is that when gas is cheap and life is good we do act like a society of junkies.  And you know what Neil Young said about that don't 'ya?  "Every junkie's like a setting sun, (Needle and the Damage Done, 1970)."  I may be acting a bit melodramatic at this point but I can't help but be thinking about Keystone Beer and Keystone Oil.  Shouldn't the oil cost more than the beer?  If we're tallkin' Michelob Ultra, or better yet, Moose Drool, our local favorite,  I'd be drinking oil.  There's the rub. We'll be consuming oil like it's a premier beer unless and until the price of oil goes back up to where it should be.

I know, you're ready to kick my ass.  Why in the hell do I want to see the price of oil to get high and stay high?  Well, it's because many years ago I did one of the greatest hunts of my lifetime in the far northeast corner of Alberta, hard up against the Northwest Territories border and not far from Saskatchewan.  That trip to the bush of Alberta was one of the highlights of my life.  We hunted out of a small cabin on a remote lake, only reachable by float plane.  And we were in the bush, as they say.  There wasn't much in the way of civilization in front of us, in back, or to the side of us for hundreds of miles.  I think Great Slave Lake was somewhere between us and the Arctic Circle.  And when I sauntered off for a morning hunt I was pretty darned careful about checking my back track, not wanting to to be spending the winter holed up in a polar bear den.  I hunted some of the most beautiful, primitive country I'd ever been in up to that point in my life. And to top that off, I killed a big bull moose that to this day hangs on the wall of our ranch house in Montana.  The kicker to that story is that where I hunted that weekend in Alberta more than twenty years ago is where the oil for the Keystone Oil Pipeline is coming from.  I'ts coming from the Alberta Tar Sands.

I've thought on many occasions what that country might look like now and I don't want to imagine too hard.  I'd imagine it doesn't look too much like it did back then.  I've heard stories.  I've not heard good stories about the exploration and extraction of the tar sands from that once pristine region up north.  It breaks my heart.  So how in the hell can I think good things about the most likely forthcoming construction of a pipeline from there to the Gulf Coast of Texas, carrying the oily residue of a scorched earth policy of strip mining the very country I walked on when I was young?  I can't do it.

From this point on in this writing I have a bad feeling that the more I write the more I'll be getting in over my head.  The subject matter gets pretty complex from here on out so I'll keep it simple and have it said.  Hey, I know we need oil, for our cars, trucks, industry, military, the whole enchilada.  I know that.  I also know, and so do you, that we need lots of big tracts of unspoiled country with lots of fresh air and water.  We don't just want it, we need it (Jagger, Richards, 1975).  We're beginning to experience a "going, going, gone kind of mentality that should be suited to a more primitive culture than what I'd like to believe we could be.  I only have to think ahead a decade or two and don't like what I fear we might all see on this abused planet of ours. I don't want to pay three or four dollars a gallon for gas any more than you do.  I also don't want to see that precious country that I hunted when I was young treated like a whore in old Mexico a century ago.

Jobs.  Oh yeah, that's the conundrum.  They say there's thousands of jobs waiting for you, both in northern Alberta, and along the path the Keystone pipeline will traverse.  Maybe and maybe not.  I've heard both sides of that coin and for the record, low gas prices have already, right now and as we speak, slowed things down in the oil patch.  So hold onto to that thought for a bit and in the meantime, if jobs or the lack thereof, are the thorn in the side of the most ardent supporters of Keystone XL Pipeline, why not get a little forward thinking and encourage an onslaught of research and development in massive wind and solar technology. Instead of "drill baby drill, (S. Palin)" we go to "build baby build, (W. Beck, 2021))."  They both employ lots of labor and the money is good.  Neither scenario is perfect and not without it's own respective good and poor points.  But I'll bet you a case of Moose Drool beer that the environmental impact on this good earth of ours will be substantially improved if we can graduate to a more pragmatic way to move forward.

I think the whole deal is a whole lot less complex than any of us want to recognize.  I know, in my case, it doesn't take a whole lot of imagining of the landscape in the tar sands country then, when it was primitive, and in it's prime, and now, chewed up, and spit out, to know which way I want to see us go.  So I've to to take it back to Neil, "I've seen the needle and damage done, a little part of it in everyone, but every junkie's like the setting sun, (N.Young, Needle and the Damage Done, 1970)."

Here's to Keystone Beer, Here's to Keystone Oil, For what it's worth,
" Let's drink to the Salt of the Earth, (Jagger, Richards, 1977)"

The Big Muscanetcong River

"The average American child can recognize 1,000 corporate logos but can't identify 10 plants or animals native to his or her own region." Quite frankly, I can't figure out who is responsible for that quote.  It may have been my facebook friend Oscar Williams 1V.  It have been any man on the street.  It darned sure could have been anybody, period.  I've been struggling with the entire concept of the world of technology slowly but surely (and not very slowly) taking over the lives of our children, and our own lives, to be sure.  More so than ever, it's become more and more obvious that the attachment our younger generation has with technology has begun to wash away the sense and sensibility that it once had.  I didn't have to stare bug eyed at the quote beginning this writing to know that the world of cell phones, i-phones, i-pads, laptops, desktops, kindles, etc. has replaced the natural world of spiders, snakes, tadpoles, salamanders, fish, deer, rhinos, and elephants.  The world that is inside a classroom, an office, an internet cafe, a library, and even your living room, is not the living, breathing world under the blue sky and sun that started it all but appears to be fading into the past like a sunset on a bad day.

My life has changed significantly this past year.  I've begun a two year odyssey of learning at a university in Montana.  It's been forty years since I graduated from college but it seems like four hundred, particularly in the world of internet technology.  I've been operating from behind the eight ball for several months trying to catch up with the new way of doing business.  I did buy a computer in 1987 and got half savvy with it but clearly, didn't take my computer education very far.  Hell, I was busy fishing, hunting, roping, riding good horses, and thoroughly enjoying everything I could under the sun, literally.  Now I'm paying for it.  I watch my classmates barely listen to a lecture while typing their notes on computer generated power points on their Apple laptops with their facebook or hotmail app available with a quick click.  Following a class, those i-phones are out before they are out of their chairs, their fingers working so smoothly on those ridiculously small keys.  They make it look easy.  If I used a laptop in class it would be a disaster.  My fingers would fumble through those keys. I'd be missing keys and opening new programs, shutting down and starting up, cursing through my clenched jaws, and defeating the whole purpose of being in class.

But I'd rather be me than them.  To be sure, I'm surrounded by a whole bunch of good people.  Smart, savvy students who kick my ass every day in class and on exams and papers.  I'm struggling with my lack of electronic savvy.  I spent two worrisome weeks not long ago wondering how I could record an interview without a tape recorder for  a major mid-term project.  The solution was ridiculously easy.  Use a cell phone.  I did.  But I had no clue, until I asked a fellow student and lamely admitted my total ignorance of the whole process.

My whole point regarding the schism between my own lack of IT knowledge and the vast breadth of ability the vast majority of the learned populace does have is the length and depth they have had to go to acquire that knowledge they have, and at what cost.  The learning our world is doing is in fromt of a set of keys, electronically connected to the cyber world and it's particular and peculiar keyboard. I see it every hour of every day on campus.  I d

o see a Montana Sky, big tall trees, squirrels in them, deer hiding behind them.  I see the sun, when it's out, and the stars, when they are.  And I can feel the wind blow in my face on long walks, and I can hear the river flowing under the bridges I cross.  But I also see students staring intently into their cellphones, unaware of me passing by, heads down.  Many of them have earphones plugged in.  They are almost totally lost in cyber space.  Hell, they don't see me, certainly don't hear me, and wouldn't know their ass from a hole in the ground if they were gonna' get their ass kicked by a gut shot grizzly bear that came from around the corner.  They are fucking oblivious.

I was relaying a story to classmates about a particular grizzly bear that I followed one evening in hunting camp many years ago at a distance of just a few yards, as I attempted to blast a full lungful of bear spray at the renegade griz. Most of those listening had expressions of non belief on their faces.  I simply wasn't making any sense to most of them.  The story wasn't registering.  I suspect, however, that if they'd heard the same event on Animal Planet or seen it on Yahoo News it might have rung a few more brain cells.

I know we're a highly educated nation.  I know my grandson is getting a good education at a top notch public school.  He already runs the keyboard on his electronic toys more nimbly than I can only dream of doing.  I'm sixty three and he's four.  But I want Elias to know a white oak tree when he sees one.  I want him to know a gray squirrel when he's on a walk.  Or better yet, the difference between a non venomous black snake and a cottonmouth moccasin..  How about the difference between a white tailed deer and an elk he may very well see this coming summer on his visit to our ranch on the edge of Glacier National Park.

He won't know how to bait a hook, cast it into Bear Creek, and understand where the trout might be lying on that particular piece of fresh water.  Is that a brookie or a cutthroat he just caught?  "What do I do now Grandpa?  Can we eat it?"  I'll help him catch that fish and I'll show him how to clean it and get it ready for the frying pan.  But I'll only do that once.  Then he's on his own.  I'll also try to get Elias to keep his eyes open, not just to be aware of what's around him but also to keep his eyes open to the sun and the sky, to the creek and to the pasture, to the horses and to the herd of elk, to the still air and the gentle summer breezes.  He can't that get that stuff back East.  He won't get it in a classroom.  It won't happen in front of a computer screen, except in virtual reality and that doesn't really count does it?  Elias does have a real advantage however, and I am aware of that.  His Mom and Dad are pretty keen to the outdoors and they'll bring him a long way in that part of  his life  But many kids won't have that chance.  They'll get smart in school.  They may become good lawyers, builders, or teachers.  But they won't know the difference between an oak and a maple, or a black from a grizzly bear.  Or the beauty of a black night in Montana lit up by the northern lights.

I caught my first trout when I was 12 years old on a creek in New Jersey.  That was one of the highlights of my life up to that point.  I was on my own, had found the stretch of creek I wanted to fish, baited my own hook, and caught my first brookie.  I screamed with Joy.  That creek was cold and clear and far enough away from the madding crowd that the whole beautiful experience is one I remember to this day.  God I hope it isn't too late.

No Direction Home

Major Yellowstone elk herd continues steep decline

March 08, 2013 10:13 am • Associated Press

BILLINGS — A major elk herd that migrates between Yellowstone National Park and Montana continues to decline in size, with scientists reporting it now has fewer than 4,000 animals.
Scientists from the park and the Montana Department of Fish Wildlife and Parks said the Northern Yellowstone elk herd is down 6 percent this winter, to 3,915 animals.
The herd peaked at about 20,000 animals in 1992. That was just a few years before gray wolves were reintroduced to the Yellowstone area from Canada after being absent from the region for decades.
Also taking a toll on the herd have been hunters, other predators including mountain lions and bears, and harsh winters.

Part 1

Ahhhh.  Finally, as they say, "the cold hard facts."  There's no ambiguity, no distortion, no justification, just the cold hard facts baby.  And don't they just slap you in the face like a glass of cold water on an even colder day.  And I underscore the previous paragraphs' numbers as in a ball game where there is no room to wiggle.  The numbers are what they are.  I repeat, those numbers don't lie.  They are 20,000 to 3900 from 1992 to 2013.  As in the numbers of elk that have decreased in the Northern Yellowstone Elk Herd the past twenty years.  Suck on that one for a while.

And in the meantime ask yourself that cold hard question;  "how did it get this far?"  And as Don Corleone replied to his own rhetorical question of the same five words regarding the war his family was in with the other families he answered philosophically but sadly "I don't know."

Unlike the Don's answer however, we do know how we got this far as that pertains to the crushing loss of one of this nations' greatest national resources, the Northern Yellowstone Elk Herd.  And before I proceed with my personal thoughts and opinions on the matter I also want to share with you, the reader, that I do recognize the wolf reintroduction and recovery issue is an emotional, volatile, and very divisive one that not many of us will agree upon, to say the very least.  Frankly, that statement may be considered one of the great understatements of the century!  That being said, I feel that I must set my record straight on the matter and win, lose, or draw, stand up and be counted.  I have to.  I owe it to myself and anyone who is interested in listening.

It's been years since I've thought as hard and I hope sincerely, about an issue as I have about the one at hand.  And for the record, as a bit of backdrop for you and to get the following out of the way I have no professional axe to grind.  I don't hunt or outfit hunters anymore.  Those days are gone.  I don't know why they're gone but they are.  I don't even kill fish.  Believe it or not, I have no desire to kill a wolf.  None.  If someone else wants of hunt or trap wolves, for whatever reason, have at it.  Be my guest.  Yes, we do run livestcock at our place here, horses for the most part, and yes again, there is that possibility that we could run into problems with wolves in the future.  But so far, so good.  Let's leave it at that.

I'd like to come at the matter from several perspectives that in my opinion, have not been given enough attention and credence these past years.  Perhaps first and foremost, the Northern Yellowstone Elk Herd is (was) a national resource, one of the continents true national treasures.  To the national public and certainly the montana populace, the herd has given this country some of its' greatest natural experience and exposure as in the many decades long exposure in the park itself signified by hundreds of thousands of pictures of elk in the park disseminated in so many venues and becoming burned into the collective memories of so many Americans.  And on a lesser but just as critical level to the overwhelming majority of Montana citizens those elk represent a state national treasure because they are just that.  Yes, the joy that Montanans have exhibited because of the herd both as a source of pride due to its' size but also because of that presence the same joy and smile on the faces of Montana hunters in the fall.  Say what you will about hunting in Montana but say it out of the hearing of Montanans and quite frankly mind your own business.  Yes, hunting is a sacred rite of passage in the fall of each year.  And by God, I hope it remains so in the years ahead. 

Hunting is a Montana tradition participated in and enjoyed by Montanans.  Elk hunting in the Northern Yellowstone country north of the park has been part of the states' DNA for most of the states' history.  Following the North American model of modern game management the elk herd in and north of the park had grown for years in spite of the yearly hunting season.  The late season hunts that were designed to manage those elk migrating out of the park into southern Montana not only were a successful management tool but also brought much needed revenue into the state coffers and local business but more importantly, great joy to the Montana hunting public.  Those late season hunts are no more and quite clearly, the void that has been left in its place is a sad reminder of things so good that turned so bad.

I suspect that you've heard the argument I've just made in defence of elk, hunting, and tradition.  Those thoughts need to be elucidated but they are only the thin crust of the greater discussion.  There is so much more beneath the surface, beneath the crust of the debate that bores into the heart of the matter, deep into the soul of Montana and the most sacred western way of life.  The heart of that matter is that Montana, in this case, stands on its' own two feet and in its' own identity.  We can apply that axiom to any of the fifty states that pertains to their own specific and particular unique qualities that make them what they all are, separate and distinct entities.  The unique qualities that make Montana what it is should not be abridged or "tread upon" by outside forces that can in fact slowly but surely erode the qualities that have made the state and its' citizenry so attractive throughout its' history.

Well, that last paragraph may sound a bit fancy so I'll try to get to the "heart of the matter" in a less sophisticated manner if I may.  It's this; Montana is what it is because it is what it is!  How's that?  Montana, and the West, for that matter, separate themselves as a state, a region, and a way of life.  As we're supposed to.  Montana became the "last best place" because of what we've been and what we are.  Not because of our affinity or similarity to New Jersey, New York, or North Dakota.  And thank God for that!  Montana is special and unique, for right or wrong, because we are what we are.

As those last two paragraphs pertain to the modern inclusion of wolves into the web of animal and human life in Montana one must always keep in mind that the people of Montana may not always adhere to and do what you think is ethically, morally, or politically correct.  Why?  Well, to cut to the chase the answser is the following; you don't live here.  The wolf issue is not necesarily one that can be clearly debated as to its' right or wrong merits.  It only matters that Montanans recognize what they feel is right or wrong as it applies to themselves.  That is as it should be.

The future of the Northern Yellowstone Elk Herd lies "in the balance" so to speak.  The last word hasn't been spoken quite yet.  There's still time to save a national and state resource but time is getting short.  As Bob Dylan also said in addition to the title of this piece, "it ain't dark but it's gettin' there."

Horsemanship; An Unfinished Life

I spend more time than I'd like behind a desk, a computer and all the trappings of modern office work in front of me.  Winter's are the worst of all for long periods of confinement.  I'm at my desk right now and at the moment looking out the window to my left and the snow level past the half way point of the window height.  It's mid February and I've been dreaming of an early Spring.  After two feet of snow the night before last I'm not so sure!  We get blasted with winter weather up here at the ranch, which lies deep in the heart of the northern Rockies.  But ironically, within a half hours' drive east and out of the weather capturing mountains that surround us I can find bare ground and a shining sun, even during the coldest days of the winter.  I'll be heading that way tomorrow.  I've got several horses to put shoes on for a good friend and a herd of my own to check.  So I look forward to doing what I do best.

During the course of a winter at Bear Creek Ranch I do receive an enormous number of phone calls from folks interested in one of our many in- season events.  Normally, those inquiries are directed at one of our horse oriented special events that we put on about every other week during a very busy summer.  In many cases, as has been proven so many times over the years, that first call may very well lead to a booking, then a vacation and a friendship that may last a lifetime.  We do some pretty unique and adventurous trail rides, cattle drives on the Blackfeet Reservation, and even lessons and clinics in our round pen and sand arena at our ranch.  I've been at this business for a long time and if anything our existance here has always been a work in progress both from a business standpoint but also from a human service prespective.  Let me explain; 

One of the really fun and rewarding special events we offer is a week called "Pure Horsemanship." It's a week of intense and immense immersion into the world of horses.  We train, we teach, we ride, we eat well, and we visit like we're long lost cousins.   And we all have one helluva good time doing so.  Our common interest during the course of that week is the horse.  That's the thread that binds us and helps begin the relationship that will in many cases last a lifetime.  Over the course of many years of teaching and demonstrating horsemanship skills to the public I've never encountered any blatant disrespect or disregard for my equine knowledge or teaching skills.  I think one of the reasons I've managed to stay above the "fray", for lack of a better word, is because I'm pretty modest about the knowledge level I do have.   Horsemanship is one of those disciplines that never ceases to remind you that the more you learn the more you realize you don't know.  And furthermore, as I've said so many times, at about the time you begin to think you're pretty handy is about the time you end up on your back side!  So I try to remain humble and instill that same level of modesty in any guest that enters our little universe at the ranch.  That philosophy has worked pretty well over the years.

I did get a phone call a week ago from a lady interested in our week of "Pure Horsemanship."  She explained to me she was interested in doing alot of outside riding and not as keen on the teaching and training we do during our morning sessions.  After all, she was well beyond basic horsemanship and had been riding her entire adult life, or so she said.  I didn't say a whole lot back to her nor did I find myself with an opening to respond so I let it be.  I did very politely invite her to call back but rather doubt I will hear from her.  Well, that very short conversation stuck with me for days and quite frankly, troubled me.  I couldn't quite put my finger on exactly what troubled me but I think I do know now.

You see, the world of horses and the people who love them for nothing more than what they are sometimes allow things to get a little more complex than what they need to be.  In the equine world of today we've witnessed the introduction and immersion of television, video, hi profile personalities, and enormous marketing and advertising of those modern day entities into what should be a very simple, direct, and honest discipline.  Before I comment any further about that specific subject matter I want to emphasize that learning how to ride and then getting in the saddle and riding is the only way to learn how to ride.  You've got to give yourself, and give OF yourself the "want to" in the process of developing the mental and physical tools to get you started.  And when I say "start" I mean that.   I'm almost getting too complex at this moment and what I am wanting to tell you is that if you want to learn everything you can in the equine world the best way is to just plumb flat do it.  With or without help.

I want to repeat once again that the world of horses is a big one and given time will take you in any number of different directions.  You may start out trail riding in groups, then you'll begin to ride by yourself as your confidence builds.  I rode trails for years and years, by myself, in groups, leading groups on hunts and summer pack trips.  Developing that comfort level and confidence while
pounding out the miles in every type of terrain over days, months, and years isn't a bad way to get going.  In my case I can't help but feel that having that type of background both to harden up mentally and physicall didn't hurt a bit over the long haul.  When I started to rope, team pen, and even train my own and outside horses the time I'd put in and the experiences I'd had along the way, both good and bad, really cemented a foundation that I wouldn't have ever had otherwise.
Everyone takes a different path in their own equine education.  Many riders will make that turn to more sophisticated disciplines in the horse world much  quicker than I did.  Some folks will turn to rodeo, some to polo, others to eventing, polo, racing, and the list goes on.  But once again, the common thread that runs through every decent horse loving human being is their love for the horse itself and perhaps almost as critically, a respect for each others' humility in each particular field.  Those two elements are keys to the kingdom as it were and one without the other defines the title of this piece, "horsemanship; an unfinished life."

As I look ahead to the coming season we do have a week scheduled that we do call "Pure Horsemanship."  I'd imagine we'll bring together a group of perhaps a dozen guests.  During the course of the "Pure Horsemanship" week we'll ride, ride, and ride some more.  But we'll also spend time in the round pen and the arena both training young horses and then riding some of them in our large sand arena.  And we'll all do our fair share of visiting, and most certainly, once again, the biggest single topic will be exactly why we're all together, and that is to learn not just more about each other but about the horses we're riding.  I look forward to each week of Pure Hosemanship like a kid in a candy store.  We'll cover a whole lot of territory both on the ground and during our visits with each other and in small groups.  And one thing we'll emphasize right from day one will be the nature of the business and that is the humility and help we'll all show each other all day and every day.  In the horse world, as I've always said, no one is made to feel superior, inferior, or posterior!  We'll all make mistakes, look goofy from time to time, and even wish no one was watching, when in fact they were!  But that's how you get better and grow not just as a horseman, but as a human being.

I can recall doing a half day riding clinic in our arena not too many years back with about a dozen guests from all over the country.  About an hour into our morning event I began to recognize that the horse I was riding was acting a bit cold backed.  Well, I didn't pay enough attention to that condition at that time and while completely surrounded by novice riders while talking about correct riding posture and stirrup lengths I found myself airborn and quite quickly on my back looking up.  Was I embarrassed?  Hell yeah!  Talk about humility slapping you right in the face.  But you know what?  I brushed myself off, got off my rear end and mounted right back up.  A good lesson for me and a better lesson for my guests in the "what not to do category."

So back to the lady with the attitude;  I don't imagine she'd do real well here.  She'd be a pain in my rear end I think and even worse, she'd quite possibly be the rotten apple that no one would want to be around.  The flip side of that coin is she ain't gonna' be here and we'll all be the better off for it!

 

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.