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I think I've eliminated all the ones already showing in a search, and Its odd I didn't find #1, but my aplogies if any of them are repeats. I've added a few pictures. ---------------------------------------------
The Lost Prairie Chronicles #1
I remember how Rosemary and Latigo would wolf down their breakfast, wipe mouths with the backs of their hands and run out the back door in their self-dressed, mismatched clothes....... heading for the back of the place.
Thats where the spring was, near the huge Blue Spruce, out of sight just over the rise near the pasture. Watching them walk home at the end of the day I could only imagine what they had been playing at back there, clothes wet and dirty but with glowing faces I could only envy. How many summers did they do that before the old Blue Spruce and the spring waited in vain for their return.
Now the tall grass returns each year around the spring. Rosemary and Latigo aren't there to keep it trampled down with whatever games they played on the banks.
There are several small Blue Spruce trees growning on the sun side of the old tree now. They're covered with snow this morning, branches sagging with the weight. Winter has returned to Lost Prairie.
I mentioned the spring and the old tree to Lat this morning, and he feigned not remembering those days with Pooh at the spring, but his eyes stayed on mine just a bit too long, and I knew he did remember. He virtually runs the studio now, but its not hard for me to look at him and still see Pooh and him running out the back door, headed for a serious day at the spring at the back end of the place.
Rosemary looks better these days. She's been removed from being classified as anorexic again. God, how I miss those days when they had nothing more important in their lives than getting up and heading for the spring.
Keep your children close. They're only children for such a short time.
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #8 During the week I typically rise at 3am to head for town. I get to the studio at 4am to begin working on the artwork and layouts for the day and, during the winter, I load the old firebox before I leave Lost Prairie.
I wake up around the same time on weekends but ususally go back to bed after stoking the firebox. The firebox? well............ for those who don't know, a firebox is the actual working version of a fireplace. Fireplaces are inefficient due to heat loss, but an enclosed steel, freestanding firbox will heat a large home. The point of all this? Well........ there's a story, isn't there.
This old Enan Firebox has seen some 36 winters, and it will take a number of full 2 foot logs inside. It stands in the living room of this 4,400 square foot, 2 level log home. With small transfer fans in the walls and ceiling vents it does heat the entire house during the coldest of winters.
It's glowing warmth has seen a few beloved family puppys learn how to tell us they need to go outside, seen them play with the kids, grow old and pass away. It's constant companions have been Great Danes who, one at a time, stood and slept by it's heat before passing on.
It silently watched the kids grow, watched them play on the big living room floor before it, open Christmas presents, look for their hidden Easter Baskets, celebrate birthdays, shed tears of happiness or sorrow from the occasional sore hind end of disobedience, listened to their excitement about new toys, new relationships, troubles and triumphs in school.
It stood alone, forgotten during the warm weather when the kids played outside but usually had the nightime companionship of the ever-present Great Danes that slept beside it and came and went with age.
Now there's a little Pug snuffling and snorting around it's base, sleeping on the large dog bed next to it sharing the same warmth as the Great Danes before her.
Its still here, crackling and warming the house again this morning with the onset of winter in Lost Prairie. It is, and will remain the Heart of the House.
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #15 A side trip, or..... How I Met Your Mother I was between ships back then, and I was a bit tired of sailing anyway. I joined the service at 17 after the service I went to work for MSTS, American President Lines, Lykes Brothers Lines and Standard Oil Company. I'd been all over the world by that time and I'm going to leave a bunch of holes in my early history. Too long to relate here...... but suffice it to say I was tired of being at sea all the time, so........ I signed off and went ashore to find a job to occupy my time.
By this time I was around 32 years old. Maybe 33,.. can't remember. Having left home at 15 I had signed on my first ship, so I've never had a problem with just jumping into something new feet first. I was on the west coast at that point in time, and I picked up a newspaper to look at the job section. I saw an ad that captured my imagination, and it was in an area of expertise of which I had no clue. "Exotic Bird and Reptile Shop Manager wanted" Yup. All I had to do was become knowledgeable in both areas within 5 days. I had called and made an appointment with the owner the following wednesday morning. This was friday morning, so I headed for the library and checked out 4 books. Three on Pscittacene types, nomenclature, diets, breeding habits in captivity, health maintenance and one on reptiles and their diseases.
(Short jump to the following wednesday) I was a copious reader back then and I had actually absorbed the basics on commonly available pet store Parrots, Macaws, Parakeets, Canarys and finches along with a number of lizards including Monitors, Geckos and commonly available snakes. The secret to managing that kind of an interview is to guide the conversation yourself, injecting facts and statements about the pets I could see upon entering the shop. Make hard, fast statements about diets, basic Pscittacene breeding habits, maintenance of terrariums and anything else you can recall.
NEVER make the mistake of putting forth things of which you have no knowledge whatsoever because the owner just might know that subject matter. In my case the owner knew far less that I would have imagined, and to my utter amazement I got the job!!
Long section short......... I continued my reading in the evenings and got a lot of practical knowledge from the 3 lady employees who did maintain all of the animals. Only one of them was suspicious as she handled the reptiles, but within two months she was a believer and a fan. (It pays to read and be a reasonable, "friendly" manager)
I knew the in-house pet groomer had run an ad for an all-breed grooming assitant because I had approved the ad, but promptly forgot about it. Then came.......... the DAY!
I heard the groomer talking to someone outside my office door and she told the applicant to wait outside until she could talk to me and make time for an interview. The groomer liked her, and I stuck my head around the corner to see who she was talking about and there........ swaying down the iasle away from me, was the most incredible derierre I'd ever seen in my life! Holy camoles!! Chauvenist though it may sound, I knew it was going to be very difficult not to hire her! And............ I didn't not hire her. And her name was Lyn.............. Rosemary's future Mother.
A few months went by before I asked her to accompany me to a local contest. Beautiful Salukis, Borzois, Afghans, Greyhounds and a few other pertinent breeds were "coursing"..... chasing an artificial rabbit through a pulley rigged course, and we were on our first date.
Lyn appeared to be awfully young, so I had looked at her employment profile. The solitary time I've ever known Lyn to lie was on that document. She had graducated high school very early and had assumed that at her true age she'd not be hired...... and she was right.
I felt strange dating a 20something year old at my age, but it was just a date, but that date turned into more dates, and still more dates until...... I fell in love.
Lyn's parents are old country people, Great Britian, to be exact, and I recognized there was a protocol. I opted to speak to her father as her mother's accent was not always easy for me to understand, that and her being nearly 6' tall and an overpowering presence, so I made an appointment to speak to him, asking his daughter's hand in marriage.
He asked a few cursory questions and, to my utter amazement, he agreed! I had thought that a 30something asking for the hand of a 20something would be out of the question for them. Things were put in motion, and it appeared there was a clear road ahead, until.......... I received a letter from the county explaining that we had to attend three marriage counseling sessions before a license could be issued. Huh?!?! I responded with "I don't think so. I'm free and 21 so you can forget that, lady." The response........ "Congratulations on being free and 21. Your intended, however, is not!"
A quick phone call to the county verified that Lyn was in fact 17 years old!! I went immediately to her parents, telling them that "You must be nuts!! Allowing a 30somthing year old to marry your 17 year old daughter??" Her father assured me that they had already had me "checked out" and felt I would take excellent care of their daughter. Oi weh!!
Lyn and I discussed it and I told her there was no way we were getting married that month. She had to take more time to think about this, and her parents needed more time to consider it........ so we waited. I don't remember how many months it was, but eventually it became apparent that this was indeed going to happen.... and it did.
The most difficult time for me was the first few years. I was determined not to turn this little girl into something I wanted her to be, and at that age it wouldn't have been too hard. With my careful attention to avoid forming her opinions or swaying her values, Lyn became the largely self-educated, strong willed pillar of the St.Marie Family that she is to this day. 37 years ago she was a barely 95 pound bundle of excitement, facing the world and an unkown future with me. Today she's a glowing grandmother who's world revolves around her children, little Julian Ricochet St. Marie and Scarlett Lyn........ A whole new generation.
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #16 It was Christmas in Lost Prairie, 1982. At the age of 7 Rosemary still believed in Santa Claus.
Those were the days before children were forced into growing up before their time, but that was about to end for her. Thankfully, Latigo would not be a knowing part of what was soon to transpire.
The Pleasant Valley School is still a few miles down the county road from our home. In the early days the original schoolhouse actually stood on the corner of our property, that being in the 1920's through the 1940s. A fire ended it's life and the school board opted to build a larger structure a bit further down the valley on another piece of donated property in adjoining Pleasant Valley. The old foundation still stands on the orignal site here on our place.
So Rosemary and Latigo attended the Pleasant Valley one-room schoolhouse right up until the 8th grade. In those years the school population fluctuated between 9 and 14 kids in all grades. Each year there was a school Christmas party, and all the kids and parents attended. That particluar year Rosemary had made a (rare) friend that was also 7 years old. Sally had two brothers, one six and one three years of age. They had been talking about Santa Claus and Sally told her that her Mother had explained that "Santa might not find their house this year." When Rosemary asked her why, she said she didn't know, but her Mom was pretty positive that Santa wouldn't be there. Rosemary immediately headed for her font of knowledge, a position that I've not to this day earned, but...... It did put me in a quandry. How could Santa single out Sally's family for exclusion this year? A five minute conversation with Lyn solved the problem, but the solution was a painful one for me. Rosemary had to know an early truth.
My explanation to her was that Santa and Christmas and the Christ Child were the essence of love, and that particular kind of love was given to her by Santa's appointed representatives. Us. Her Mom and Dad.
So many years have gone by that I don't actually remember the entire conversation, but in the end, Rosemary understood. With that understanding came a surprise for Lyn and me.
Rosemary wanted Santa to visit the Hargrove Family. She was determined that Sally and her brothers weren't going to be bypassed Christmas evening.
Lyn and I didn't have a lot back then, but we definitely weren't going to hand Rosemary two big disappointments at one time, so..... I passed on Lyn's Christmas present to me. A brand new basketweave saddle for Shonkin, my saddle horse. The saddle maker in town showed himself to be an incredible human being by not holding Lyn to the purchase and refunded her deposit. This allowed Miss Rosemary to do some shopping in town the day before Christmas... but then arose a situation that I should have, but did not expect. Jason Hargrove was not willing to accept her gifts!
He was a proud man who had simply hit a hard spot having lost a full 1/4 of his calves earlier in the spring to scours. Money was tight and his wife was also reluctant. Nothing I said made him change his mind, but Rosemary's determination changed his mind in the end. Her impassioned little speech made me hide a smile behind my hands and, with a laugh of his own Jason caved in to her big pleading eyes. Rosemary swore us to secrecy with heart crossing and needles and all of the other stuff she could remember. That was her favourite Christmas in Lost Prairie, and truth be told, its one of mine too. ------------------------------------------ I found a few old pictures, and this is the entire Lost Prairie School that year. rosemary's in front in the long red dress.
Two miles up the valley is the old Loney ranch. Laurie and his wife Wilma raised true Morgan horses. By "true" I mean typical in all respects. Beautiful under saddle, these 15 hand horses posessed the sort of heart that is rare in many other breeds. We came to know them when we settled in Lost Prairie and bought Lyn a gorgeous two year old Morgan named Mischief.
Mischief was one of those horses with the uncanny abilty to both single-foot and pace. A single-footing horse is as smooth a ride as it gets, and with one foot always on the ground its somewhat akin to sitting in a rocking chair. A natural pacer is the sort of horse you see in buggy races with both off-side and near-side legs moving in tandem. They trot nearly as fast as some horses run with a side to side swaying motion thats smooth and comfortable.
I didn't ride her often as I'm on the lanky side and at 15 hands she's a bit short for me. But she was the perfect size for Lyn. Today I was astride Mischief and riding across the pastures approaching the Loney Ranch. Reining in at the back door I noticed Wilma coming from the barn.
"He's not here. He headed back to the reservoir to check the drop-gate, and he's late. Would you mind checking for him? He's driving that new white Dodge we bought friday." I told her I'd be happy to do that and nudged Mischief into a brisk pace for the two mile trip to the back of the pasture and the reservoir.
Off to my left, far back across the pasture I noticed Shonkin galloping along the fence line, tossing his head with apparent irritation having been left behind. I didn't often leave Shonk and ride one of the other horses, but Mischief needed the workout. I kicked her into a dead gallop to put some distance between us and Shonkin and he was soon out of sight.
I slowed her to an easy walk and enjoyed the rest of the ride. Every so often she'd dip her head and take a swipe at the Timothy grass, chewing and worrying around the bit in her mouth, trying to swallow. I stopped and pulled her bit, reattatching the reins to the headstall she always wore. I let her grab and eat Timothy for about half a mile and slipped her bit back in place, changed the reins and loped ahead toward the reservoir. She snorted her displeasure and shook her head, but now wasn't the time for grazing.
As I approached the reservoir I saw Laurie's beautiful white truck dead ahead. As I neared, it appeared that someone's face was peering at me from under the rear axle! "Get back!" It was Laurie hollering at me, but why? "Dammit! Get back!" I reined Mischief in and glanced around, seeing nothing.
The nearest treeline was only 40 yards away and Laurie was pointing that direction. A loud snort and..... Holy Crap!! A very large bull moose burst through the brush between the trees and was on a dead gallop right at us! It didn't take much urging to get Mischief lined out in the opposite direction. She took it upon herself to kick into a dead, all out gallop with that big bull moose right on our tail for the first 50 feet.
Within a hundred yards Mischief was well ahead of him and I reined her in. He stood watching us until I saw a movement to my right. It was a cow moose and she was moving at an easy trot along the treeline away from Laurie and the truck. He snorted at us, shook his huge rack, turned and trotted after his mate. In the meantim, Laurie had crawled out from under the truck and gotten into the cab when the old bull chased after Mischief and me. He stepped out of the cab as we approached. ......... and then I got a good look at that new truck.
Laurie! Was there a hailstorm up here? Every square inch of that truck, save the very top was covered in small dents! All of it. Sides, the hood, bed rails, tailgate, wheel wells, all of it. Then it dawned on me. Hail doesn't hit sideways. Laurie was red-faced and furious, stomping around and cursing. Laurie, what the hell happened?
"I drove up here to check the flood gate and I saw that cow moose off to the right by the treeline. I looked at her for a minute and kept walking up to the dam. I heard a loud snort to my left and saw that bull running straight for me". (Laurie had walked between a bull and his cow. You just don't do that, folks) " Damned thing was almost on me and I didn't have time to open the door so I just dove under the truck. That *blank**blank moose walked around this truck for half an hour trying to get at me, rattling his rack against the truck the whole time. I came out once when he walked off a ways but he spun around and put me right back under there! He spent another half hour walking around the truck, beating against it with his rack and then moved into the brush, but not far enough to let me get into the cab, and then you showed up!"
I followed him back to the ranch and confirmed his story to an extremely shocked Wilma. Their beautiful new truck. On monday I was obliged to repeat the story to a very dubious insurance agent. "A moose??" Yep. A moose. How else would anyone explain that truck? Well.... when you live in Lost Prairie..........
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Whenever Dad wrote about a Trip Into The Tall Grass it meant it wasn't a true story, and this is definitely one of them! -------------------------------------
#18 A side trip into the Tall Grass....... One Smooth Hole It was mid-may when I set up to shoot a 200 yard target at the range out back of the place. By the time I was ready at noon the temperature was a mild 75 degrees. I rode the Rhino downrange and stapled a solitary target to the frameworks. Dead center was a black one inch paster. My shooting bench was the old redwood pic-nic table I had used for years, but it was solid and made a good bench. I set up the number 6 shot bags and took the Swiss k31 rifle out of the case, attatched the bipod to the rail under it, uncapped the scope and began adjusting the height of the shot-bags. I set up the spotting scope on the tripod, broke out the custom loads and inserted 5 of them into the magazine. I proceeded to send five rounds downrange at three second intervals. I checked the target though the spotting scope and said "Yep" to myself. "Yep, what?" came from behind me. Worden Hardy had walked up behind me just after the last shot. Hello, Worden. Yep, I put all five of them through the same hole again, sez I. "All five through the same hole?" sez he. Yep........ all five. "Let me see that scope".... and I moved over for him to look. "There's only one hole in that target. Dead center. What makes you think all five went in the same hole?" sez he. They always do, sez I. Every time. Worden is standing with his hands in his pockets rocking back and forth on his heels looking at me through half open eyes. "Uh huh. All five through one smooth hole. Right". And I never could'a proved it if it hadn't been for those five dead coyotes that had been trotting in single file, three seconds apart piled up behind that target. Yep. One smooth hole.
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #19 In our Family's early days it was a fact of life that it was necessary to supplement our income by taking deer, elk or both for the winter. Lyn and I had always said that when our economic fortunes grew large enough and we could afford to buy meat through the winter I'd stop taking game.
Those who don't live in the mountains simply don't understand the necessity for keeping the very large herds of deer under control. We've seen winters here so severe that inordinate numbers of deer and elk were starving literally to death. There's nothing worse than seeing emaciated animals dying a slow, painful death.
Hunting is a natural, humane way to keep exploding numbers of deer and elk under control. The Whitetail and Mule Deer populations in Lost Prairie and the Meadow Peak range are huge. The Department of Fish & Game never seems to issue enough hunting tags to keep the numbers down.
What did the deer and elk do before we came you ask? The same thing they do now when there are too many for an area and the winters are severe. They died of starvation. Whitetail deer and elk are territorial. In the case of the Whitetail, they never travel more than a 5 mile area from the place they were born. Elk might increase that radius to 10 miles, but no more that that. This means that as herds grow unchecked, the useable fodder in their area decreases and they face a bleak future as herd growth increases. So...........................
It was that time of the year again. The Tamaracks were nearly all yellow and shedding their summer greenery. When the wind blew they provided a slow, steady rain of yellow nettles. There was no snow on the ground yet and the forest floor softly crunched beneath my boots, sounding small alarms to everything within earshot.
It was the seventh day of hunting season and my first day out. Nobody living out here is foolish enough to enter the woods those first few days. The townies who only touch a rifle once a year were in the woods in force. *Hey Fred! There's one!! Wait Charlie!!! Its ME!!... Sorry Fred.* On opening day we could see their headlights by the dozens coming down off the pass into Lost Prairie headed for the surrounding mountains. Nope. Hot coffeee and relaxing by the firebox is where I am on opening day.
This particular day Lyn decided to accompany me on a short morning hunt. As she has no interest in the hunt itself she took a book along. After driving the truck to the top of the road entering the Gunsite Pass area above Lost Prairie, I pulled over just to take a look around and take a gander at Dahl Lake, far below us.
Rounding a small stand of trees not 20 feet from the car I was astonishd to come upon a fawn. A fawn? This late in the year? Yep. Still showing a few fading spots, there stood a very late fawn, trembling and unsure which way to run. I backed slowly away and walked back to the truck to tell Lyn she should come and take a look.
Lyn, however was sitting still and pointing off to the left of the truck window. There stood a group of 4 Whitetail deer not more than 50 yards away, all standing stock still and watching us. I looked through my scope and held on the one who appeared to be the oldest and largest. He had a huge rack, but that didn't interest me. His size meant more meat in the freezer for the winter. His antlers would give Lyn the opportunity to make more buttons. (I'll explain that one another time)
A carefully placed shot and he dropped as the others scattered. As I approached I didn't see him and though he must have been standing in a depression, but the closer I got I still didn't see him. Reaching the spot where he'd been standing and still no deer, I thought maybe I had missed him, but at 50 yards? I'd made shots 6 times that distance and never missed. 10 more feet told the tale.
That deer had been standing right on the edge of an eighty foot cliff, and it was a crevasse to boot! How the heck was I going to get him back up? Well......... I wasn't. I had no way to accomplish such a feat, but I did take my rifle back to the truck and told Lyn I'd have to climb down into the crevasse and tag the deer, retrievable or not. I wasn't about to take a second deer and ignore this one. I made the shot, it was my deer either way. Lyn had the presence of mind to tell me to take a knife and at least retrieve the backstraps so it wouldn't be a complete waste. Smart girl.
It took me half an hour to find a way down the embankment, and upon my arrival I got a mild shock. That deer was as grey as he could be. Nearly white in the face! What teeth he had were mere nubs and I wondered how he had survived with mostly just gums to feed. That must have been the oldest deer in the country! I had to wonder how tough those backstraps were going to be, but Lyn is magic in the kitchen. Thus ended an early hunt for the oldest deer in the county, and with Lyn's genius with game meat we were not disappointed. Within another six years our fortunes increased to the point that I stopped hunting altogether.
The hunt was over for me. Lyn and I had reached a point of financial well being that precluded the necessity for taking game. She had declined permission to hunt on our land many years ago. For an eight year period we had a lady moose and twins appear in the pasture every spring, and Lyn was adamant that nobody hunt our place. The Horses had bright orange ribbons tied in their manes and tales (ala Rosemary) and even our current Great Dane wore a bright orange jacket affair that had "DOG" in large black letters painted on the sides, also courtesy of Rosemary. My girls hated hunters and hated the hard fact that we'd had to do it for a number of years, but we're not vegetarians, so.................
I remember vividly an incident when Rosemary came running into the house and told us that there were two hunters on the county road watching a deer among the horses in the pasture through their scopes. Without hesitation, and before I could act, Lyn grabbed a 30/30 off the wall, stepped out the back door and fired two quick shots in the air well above their heads. Without running another round into battery, thus keeping the rifle's receiver empty, she cooly aimed her rifle dead at the two hunters. I had gotten out the door right after her two shots and noted one of them with binoculars take a quick look at her, hit his buddy on the shoulder and they both jumped into their truck and sped off down the county road.
Our place is well marked with No Hunting signs, and these two townies had been within three feet of one such sign. Ok. Enough of that. Now you understand how adamant the girls are that nobody hunt the St.Marie's place. So........... Now the main point of this story.
I can't remember exactly how I met these two fellows, but I think it had something to do with the Equity Feed Store. No matter. They stopped to visit the friday before opening day that season and asked if I knew how to get to the top of Meadow Peak, all the way to the Ranger lookout tower. They intended to leave their Jeep up there at the top, hunt their way down to our place and have me drive them back up to retrieve the Jeep. Got it so far?
I commented that it might be a bit further than it looked from the Lookout to our place, but they both turned around and looked up at the lookout and said, "It really doesn't look that far away. No more than a three hour walk back down, right?" Well, boys....... I've made the trip on horseback a number of times, but I wasn't in a hurry and its not too hard on a good deadfall horse. *This is a horse that can literally walk through, over and on deadfall on the forest floor quickly, smoothly and without missing a step.*
(Note the Lookout Tower right at the top on the center peak above the patch of snow. This is the view from our kitchen window. Latigo)
They were convinced that it wasn't going to be difficult as they were both experienced hikers. Lyn and I glanced at each other and I made a mental note not to ask them what they intended doing if they actually shot an elk. Oh well............
I drew them a map showing the rather complex logging road routes and switchbacks they'd need to take to reach the top and the Lookout Tower. I knew the entire range well enough to make a very accurate map. I told them to stop at the house before they started up the mountain from the west side. We are on the east side. "We'll have coffee, and in the meantime Lyn will pack you some dried goodies, fill your thermos and make a few sandwiches."
Sunday morning at 5:am I saw their headlights coming down the drive from the county road. I went out to meet them and intercept the Dane that stood in their way, and I noted what a beautiful new Jeep Wrangler they had. A hardtop wtih leather upholstery, a full stereo, cb radio and very expensive traction tires. Fantastic machine.
With a load of grub and two thermos' of coffee they were ready to start their hunt. I noted that the weather report on the radio mentioned the possibilty of inclement weather in the Lost Prairie area. "Look at this Jeep and these tires.Do I look worried?" Ok boys. We'll be watching for you. .......... and off they went.
By 9:30 am the storm hit. It wasn't inclement weather....... it was the first winter storm, and it did itself proud. By noon I was checking the mountain with a telescope, watching for our hunters. By 2: pm I was getting concerned and just about to call Search and Rescue, but Lyn spotted them far across the Louden ranch pastures near the treeline. I could just make them out with the binoculars, and they were making their way through a now eight inches of snow. *Patience. Its coming*
I called Bob Louden, telling him what I was about to do, jumped in the Dodge Power Wagon, opened the pasture gate across the county road and headed out to get them. I picked them up and noted they were somewhat the worse for wear and extremely tired. Realizing they were in for a real storm, they'd stopped hunting about 1/4 of the way down. From then on it was a forced march to the valley floor. At this point I asked what they'd have done if they'd bagged and elk. They both looked at each other and kept silent.
We got to the house and Lyn was waiting with hot coffee. Their pants were soaked as were their boots so she gave them each a pair of my pants, pulled off their boots and sat them in front of the firebox. As they warmed up I asked about the Jeep. It was too late to go all the way to the highway and make the trek up to the lookout station. They asked to stay overnight and fetch the Jeep in the morning, Lyn agreed, made up the beds in the guest room, gave them towels and set them to shower while she made them some supper.
The next morning in two feet of snow we got into the truck and headed for the highway. The old Power Wagon had very heavy lugged snow tires on it and I'd put the chains on it the day before after hearing the weather report. The old girl had always gotten us in and out of the valley, but......... By the time I'd gotten half a mile up the backside of Meadow Peak the snow had increased to three feet of powder. Within another 50 yards the old girl stopped. That was it. I backed into a spur on the logging road and headed back down, plowing our way out. Neither of our erstwhile hunters said a word. It wasn't necessary. They both knew the reality of it all.
Two hours later their wives picked them up at the house. It was a gloomy wait. They discussed the possibility of a snowcat to get to the top......, "and then what??" Meadow Peak had an easy five feet of snow at the top and by christmas it would have grown to seven and more. That beautiful new Jeep sat at the Lookout Tower until May the 10th of the following year. I'd heard that a friend of theirs had actually made the trip up on a snowcat in march, but extremely deep and powdered snow thwarted his journey short of the top.
Though they eventually retrieved it with a tow truck, I never did see the Jeep again. I heard the entire interior was a total loss. Those boys never came back to hunt Lost Prairie, and Lyn never said a word other than opining that Meadow Peak probably didn't like hunters either. Maybe, baby.......... Maybe.
"...there are no limits when you aim for perfection..." Jonathan Livingston Seagull Posts: 7014 | From: Highgrove via Toowoomba, Queensland, Australia | Registered: Dec 2002
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Thank you, Ian. This is one of my favourites. ------------------------------------------
#21 Laying in bed, from under the covers I could still tell that the outside temperature had dropped. Resisting the urge to stay there keeping warm with Lyn, I gently rolled to the side and out of bed. Gathering my boots and pants I quietly eased through the door and into the hallway. Listening at each door, I assured myself that the kids were asleep. Down the hall to the kitchen, turning on the counter light, starting the coffee pot, looking out the kitchen window into the barnyard I then dressed quietly and stoked the firebox. Sid Hartha raised his head from his bed beside the firebox, but made no move to disentangle himself from the blanket. It was cold and he's no fool. Head back down on his paws and a soft sigh.
The screen door reminded me it needed it's hinges oiled and squeaked a quiet protest as I gathered three more Larch logs from the porch for the fire. Even the firebox doors made a noise that seemed louder than it was as if to point out how quiet the rest of the world was at that hour.
Opening the flu and getting the old girl putting out some heat, I dressed and poured the coffee. Pulling the curtain by the door aside just enough to let the light illuminate the outside thermometer I could see the mercury hovering at 32 degrees. Not really all that cold for an early morning in May. One cup of coffee, more in a thermos and Lyn's dried fruit in a small package, I pulled on my down coat, took the 30-30 from the rack, stuck the .41 magnum revolver in the holster behind my right hip, shut down the flu, turned off the light and headed for the barn.
It was cold enough for me to see my own breath in the light over the barn doors. Entering the dimly lit barn I heard Shonkin utter a low nicker at my approach. A few of the other horses that were in the barn stuck their heads out of their stalls and watched me with ears forward and keen interest. *What the heck is he doing here this early?* No time for grain or alfalfa for the rest of them, but I poured a gallon can of Molasses Oats into Shonk's crib along with a couple handfuls of alfalfa. He ate as I slid his saddle blanket over his back, swung the high-cantle saddle into place and reached under his chest for the cinch. Knowing his favourite trick, I waited for him to exhale and quickly pulled the cinch tight. I loosely hooked up the rear circingle and checked the cinch for tightness. He swung his head to the rear, looking at me he paused in mid-chew and shook his head in appreciation as I relented and loosened the cinch by one notch. If a rider can't stay on a horse with other than a overly tight cinch he doesn't belong on the horse.
Waiting for him to finish eating, I slipped the 30-30 into the leather scabbard, tied it to the off side with the saddle strings and straps, put Lyn's dried food package into the saddle bag, tied my older lariat to the saddle, attatched Shonk's breast strap to the D rings and sat on a bale till he had eaten all of the oats he could find in the crib. I could tell he was faking it when he began pushing the hay around. He was loathe to leave that semi-warm barn, but I slid his bridle over his ears and the low-port spade bit into his mouth. Shonkin did not need a spade bit at all, but he actually enjoyed fooling with the spade wheel with his tongue so I allowed it. Tightening the headstraps, I turned him around and swung the barn door open.
By this time is was barely breaking day and we could just see the fences, the gate and the trail heading north. I paused looking at the treeline, swung up into the saddle and squeezed Shonk's ribcage with my calves. We began at a slow walk in the awakening daylight with Shonk blowing clouds of warm air from his nostrils. He was anxious to move at a brisker pace, but we were on a mission that dictated patience and awareness. We were after a very large coyote or, hopefully not..... a wolf.
I'm well aware of the sensitvity of this topic, but when you've seen a half eaten calf that was literally dragged from it's mother during the birth process you gain a slightly different perspective on things......particularly when it happens three times in a row over a three night period. This is what was happening to my neighbor, and as he had quite a few years on me, I volunteered to solve the situation one way or another. Turning up the wool collar on my coat, I patted Shonk on the neck and allowed him to pick up the pace a bit.
Stopping at the gate that opened to the lane road, I dismounted, opened the gate and led Shonk through. Closing the gate, I swung back up into the saddle and followed our own fenceline a couple hundred yards before turning north along the Louden's fenceline. We'd be passing through the reservoir area and then north to the ridge above the Louden Ranch. It was nearing full dawn by the time we reached the reservoir and so far we'd seen no sign at all.
I say "we" because a good saddlehorse will alert on things we can't see or hear, and Shonk was good at it. I've been on the trail up to Bear Springs when Shonkin suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, ears forward and snorting. Far up ahead was a barely seen black bear. (Did I really say that?) We turned off the trail and gave that bear a wide berth. Yep. Shonk was a great trail companion.
The sun was rising and birds were beginning to appear in force. I scanned both sides of the trail and up ahead as we moved at an easy pace. Crossing the ACM Road, I lined out for the spring I knew was at the base of the mountain leading up to the ridge. The ACM Road, built originally by the Anaconda Copper and Mining Company as a 55 mile truck thoroughfare from the old mines near Marion to the rails near the Thompson River Road. It still exists today and is now used as a logging road connecting various logging areas to the main highway far from where Shonk and I stopped for a break.
I dismounted, slipped Shonk's bridle and attatched a tag line to his headstall allowing him to graze a bit at the spring. I ate some of Lyn's goodies, had a short cup of coffee and sat down to double check my firearms. I gave Shonk 20 minutes to graze and drink and we were back on our way toward the ridge.
The day was clear and we took out time moving ever upward, stopping often for me to scan around us for any sign of a carcass or scavengers. We were well into the area where coyotes seem to gather and run down to Lost Prairie, but truth be told there was always a chance that often being holed up during the daylight hours we'd miss them anyway. I was primarily looking for a calf carcass. The chance that one had been carried to the area where the coyotes had this spring's litters was pretty good, and that's exactly where we were.
I spent a good three hours scouring the immediate area and found nothing whatsoever. I headed Shonkin to the top of the ridge and we arrived an hour later. At the very top is a huge, flat rock that affords an incredible view of Lost Prairie and Meadow Peak across the valley. I unsaddled Shonk, slipped his bridle and hooked the tag line on his headstall. While he grazed, I had the last of Lyn's dried fruits, the rest of the coffee and sat on top of the rock in the warm sun looking at the view.
I must have dozed a bit because I awoke to a soft, wet muzzle in my face. Shonk had had enough of the scenery and grazing on that mountain grass... nothing like our pasture grass. It was beginning to get on toward sunset and we made steady progress, much faster than the trip up. Nearing the ACM Road I decided to go home through the back end of the Louden ranch and bypass the reservoir......... and I'm glad I did.
We were just at the edge of the treeline with an open area some two hundred yards distance between us and the fence. We had just emerged from the treeline when I saw it some seventyfive yards ahead of us, and damn....... he was big! I dismounted and slowly drew my rifle from the scabbard. Cycling the lever action, gently....gently, I ran a round into battery. Kneeling down, I laid the rifle across a stump and lined up on him as he trotted dead away from us toward the fence.
Just enough daylight and a slow, easy squeeze and the rifle barked and jumped. So did Shonkin!..... but he stood his ground, not spooking. The coyote dropped right where he was. I immediately both sensed and saw movement to my left at the treeline. Coyotes! Four of them running as fast as only coyotes can. I mounted Shonk and trotted to where they had been and......... of course. A calf carcass. I had gone the wrong way up to the ridge. It had been a newborn for sure. The sac was still there in pieces.
I rode to where the big one lay and confirmed that it was indeed a coyote and not a wolf. I'd never seen one that large and from any distance it would have been an easy mistake to make. I dismounted, led Shonkin to a nearby tree, loosely tying him off. Like most horses, Shonk didn't like the smell of blood. Pack horses can eventually become accustomed to it, but it takes time. I dragged the coyote the last few yards to the fence and, with some difficulty, draped him over a stout fencepost. Distasteful as it may seem, this is done for a reason. Other coyotes will stay completely clear of an area thus adorned. Far enough away from the ranch building to not be an odor problem, it assures a good chance of the cattle in the immediate area being left alone. I'd done this same procedure on our own fences a few times over the years, and it always worked.
Remembering that after the first shot I had, of habit, immediately cylced another round into the 30-30, I drew it from the scabbard and cleared the action. It had been a long day and I mounted Shonk and headed across the Louden pastures and home. Shonkin was ready for some alfalfa, so I unsaddled him and let him feed as I vigorously brushed him down in his stall.
I was tired and definitely needed a shower. Lyn had Supper waiting by the time I was dried off. Latigo, Amanda and Rosemary wanted to hear the story so I told it between mouthfuls of roast beef, gravy and vegetables. I phoned a thankful Bob Louden and we all called it a day. And........ in case you're wondering how Shonk came by his name, he's a very tall Appaloosa/Palomino American Saddler born on the Shonkin River over east of the divide, and though he's long since passed away, I'm eternally thankful he and I had those years together. ----------------------------------------------
This is Dad on Shonk. Note the 30-30 in the scabbard. Its the same one in this chronicle.
The Lost Prsirie Chronicles #22 Yesterday. Son of a gun! Again! From Ma still in the bed, "Calm down. You'll find them. you always do."
Standing at the upstairs bedroom window I could see the gate that provided entry from the county road and driveway into the barnyard, and once again it was wide open with not a single horse in sight. There was always a possibilty that the herd was still out in the pasture, but something told me they were out somewhere down the valley. Again. For the past month I'd awoken to the same sight at least three times a week.
This excercise was becoming usual with Rosemary and me getting into the truck and beginning our sojourn to retrieve the herd. It was always a toss-up as to direction, left or right on the county road. Though he liked being included, Latigo was a bit too young to help so once again it was me and Pooh out into the cold morning air in a cold pickup. Retrieval wasn't that hard, just an inconvenience. Once located, Pooh sat on the open tailgate with a lead-line snapped to Shonk's headstall and we slowly made our way home with the rest of the herd following resignedly behind.
I had always kept a drop-wire around the gate and the fencepost, changed to a loop under the first board on the gate and then to a tightly tied rope under the first boards on both. Somehow something or someone was opening that gate sometime during the night, and I sure couldn't afford the lost sleep with vigil-keeping and it was getting frustrating. I had then switched to a double overhand knot followed up with a square knot in the rope. This was certainly not convenient for anyone having to open that gate and it could no longer be done from horseback. One week ago it appeared that this was fool proof, but apparently I'd identified the wrong fool, that being me. Going on the assumption that the culprit was not of the two legged variety, I had systematically been increasing the difficulty factor for opening that gate. Four days ago I'd installed a draw-bolt. The requirement being that the pertinent party had to lift four inches and draw a full eight inches to the left to open. It could be reached from the top by a mounted rider and was infinitely easier than untieing a series of knots, but even that proved futile. My latest effort involved a bolt that mounted on the outsideof the gate and required moving the bolt half an inch to the left, lifting up three inches and then sliding four inches all the way to the right.
There's a reason that I'm spending all of this writing detailng sequence and function of something as simple as latching a gate. I'd had my last coffee of the day rather late last evening and awoke to the call of nature at 3am. Before getting back into bed I glanced out the window and in the dim light from the barn floodlight I saw the entire herd at the gate, patiently watitng for something. That something was one of Rosemary's ponys with her small head between the first and second board of the gate. She had her head twisted up and within minutes the barnyard gate swung wide open! With Shonkin in the lead, the whole bunch thundered down the county road with that little white snot bringing up the rear.
How was that possible? I wasn't about to chase them down at that hour, but laying in bed it became apparent that her manipulation of that bolt may have been an amazing feat for a horse, but in retrospect, the untying of three knots, two of them being different, was actually even more amazing. A horse can be taught to do tricks. That's a fact, but a horse being able to rationalize a series of problems within a short time frame and manipulate those knots is for me nothing short of astounding. The fact that out of the whole herd only she was able to accomplish these feats was also puzzling.
Another aspect is the herd knew she could do this and stood patiently behind her, waiting for the gate to open. So what did this tell me? Nothing. Not a darned thing. To this day I've not heard a reasonable explanation of this collective behavior, but it's the reason I'm writing this for you kids. Snow Pony wasn't the only oddity involving animals that I've seen on the place.
Spar beacon and the goose are another example. The very day we trailered him home, that old goose followed me and Beacon into his stall, and there she stayed. I've not known a horse to intentionally throw molasses oats out of his bin, but at each graining the Beacon threw one mouthful out.onto the floor. The old goose was right there to snap it up. This ritual repeated itself at every feeding. Why? I have no idea. She never left his side. When he was turned out at night she went right with him. When he came in with the dawn she was right there waddling at his side.
January and February.. the coldest months in Lost Prairie and I mean cold. The lowest I can remember was maybe in 1982 with the thermomter bottomed out at 52 below zero. Quick calls to the few neighbors confirmed it, but none of us actually knew the real temperature. All of had the same thermometers from the Equity Farm Store, and 52 below is as low as they went. The tractor vehicles had engine heaters, but evern letting the tractor make a very laborious start and warm for half an hour didn't help. The rear axle with the light weight winter oil was frozen solid and wouldn't move. Ma and I threw a tarp over it and slid large pans of glowing coals from the firebox under the axle. Three changes of coals and three hours later with me bundled up in thick and very restricting layers of clothing, I got the old Massey Furgeson to move.
Cold or not, the livestock had to be fed. We tried to get the car and pickup moving but had the same problem. They wouldn't shift at all, so you kids had three days off school. Ok, so the scene and the cold are set for something Ma and I knew to be fact but had heretofore not heard discussed among our peers.
Hauling the Timothy hay out to the pasture, I saw the horses moving from the protection of the Jackpines walking rather oddly with short mincing steps. As they neared the tractor I noticed that each of them had a coating of ice on their withers, backs and flanks that was maybe a quarter inch thick! What the heck? They could have easily shaken it off as I knew their natural body heat would preclude it from bonding to their hair, but there they were. From experience I knew that they preferred being in the Jackpines to being in the barn, but even with ice covering their backs?
Later that day I was talking to Worden Hardy about a magnetic axle heater and mentioned the oddity with the ice and the horses. "Yep. Some of mine do it too. I'd never heard about it happening with anyone else but I can't say I'm surprised. That ice acts as insulation." As in Igloo? Well, I was surprised. Since that day I've not heard about that strange phemenon from anyone else. Maybe its just the air in Lost Prairie.
If you live at the same pace as most folks you'll probably not notice these unusual behavior traits in the untrained animals. Things happen regularly in nature that seem to absolutely amaze people when they're pointed out to the general population. If you live in the middle of it all, take life a little slower and pay attention to things close around you, simple things like those we've just discussed will give you a more meaningful appreciation of life. I love you kids. ----------------------------------------------- Dad on skis breaking Snow Pony (the gate opener) to the harness.
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #23 Lyn and the Birds
You know your Mother is a bird lover and a bird keeper. At one time the outbuildings here in Lost Prairie housed some two hundred pairs of breeding birds. Macaws, Dwarf Macaws, Kakarikis, Cockatoos, Giant Indian Parakeets, varieties of Pionus Parrots, different kinds Amazon parrots and a raft of various parrotlets. Over time she became expert in breeding, avian nutrition and diagnosing avian health problems.
She incubated her own babies, spoon fed them and raise the friendliest parrots to be found anywhere. It wasn't an easy thing for her to do. Those baby parrots had to be fed every two hours day and night. Yep, your Ma was a dedicated Lady, but then again so were you kids. You were up at 5am every morning of the week, cutting up vegetables and fruits, preparing seed dishes and assembling the feed trays for some 24 flights. Most all of them had varying diet requirements, so each bucket and tray was numbered by the flight.
Seeds of alll kinds were bought by the 100 pound bags, all stacked on a pallet shipped out of Spokane and delivered to town. You and your Ma made the rounds of the grocery stores where the produce managers had set aside still eible fruits and vegetables for the birds. Your Ma had a good reputation in town and after that TV outfit came out and did a special on her aviaries she became a local celebrity.
Remember that darned Mynah bird in the kitchen? He'd say "Are you leaving soon? Are you taking your damned kids with you?" heh...... great bird, that one. Nobody else liked him, but I did. There are probably pages of stories that I could write about your Ma and the parrots, and maybe I will one day, but this is about the Bluebirds.
We have two kinds of bluebirds here in Lost Prairie. The larger Western Bluebird and the smaller and brighter Montana Bluebird. I remember a long time back that your Mother had read an article concerning the raising of Bluebirds. I asked her exactly how the heck she was going to raise wild Bluebirds. Well, she did just that. We had a number of nest boxes around the place, most of them out on fenceposts where Bluebirds usually nest. She brought those in, had me clean them out and she painted a blue flower on a number of them. Others had a blue ribbon attatched to them. I was wondering what the heck she was doing when she explained that Bluebirds actually are more inclined to use a nestbox that has blue ont it. Well, that was a new one for me, but it turned out that she was right.
She mounted four of them in the yard. Bluebirds prefer a choice of nestboxes and only one pair will nest within one hundred yards or more of another pair. They're territorial and aggressive. So back to the question. How is Ma going to help breed Bluebirds. She brought in 10,000 mealworms! She found out that in an average clutch of five babys, only three or four at most survived. By feeding the parents mealworms before they went to nest they became more active, amorous and went to nest sooner.
Continuing the feeding of mealworms ended up wtih all five babies surviving, and they went back to nest another two times! Fifteen babies a year, but the really amazing part is how the parents responded.
To this day, Ma has a feeding station attatched to the deck rail in the yard. These Bluebirds return each year, recognize her and sit on the rail waiting for her to feed them. They're no more than a foot away from her the whole time she's filling the cup with worms. They impatiently flutter all around her head. When she's at the sink, I've seen them fluttering at the kitchen window to let her know they need more worms. I've actually seen a cock land on her knee more than once as she's sitting in one of the deck chairs watching them feed. Once the babies are hatched it gets very busy with both parents flying back and forth from the feed cup to the nest box.
200 meal worms a day to feed the babies and both parents. Once out of the nest box, the babies take their cue from the parents and sit on the rail right next to Ma while being fed. The yard is filled with flashes of blue the whole summer long. Its a real treat to approach the house from the county road and see all of that blue flashing in the sky around the house. After all these years Lost Prairie is still filled with Bluebirds every spring. A different pair shows up every so often, but I'm convinced its a pair from one of her clutches. They're waiting right at the feeding station as soon as they arrive in the valley and just as friendly as can be. Yep. Ma raises Bluebirds. ---------------------------------------------
(Ma's Bluebirds. Latigo) Father Bluebird Mother Bluebird Babies
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #24 When you keep horses, milk cows and chickens, does that make you a cowboy? Wellll............ No. It doesn't, but a simile of that lifestyle can be a real life pleasure. My early years were a mixture of being at sea, traveling the world and Graphics school mixed in to keep it all in perspective. The former and the latter are stories for another time, and both had their influences on my eventual sojourn to Lost Prairie.
Having returned to the US after Graphics School, I made one more trip to sea, and for me this trip had a specific purpose. Was I going to stay ashore or join the thousands of seamen that eventually came to call whatever ship of the moment," home". That final trip sounded the death knell of my wandering the globe without purpose. Ashore it was, and as I left that ship I do remember not looking back. I promptly bought a motorcycle and began a tour of the US to clear my head and find a direction.
You might wonder that completion of Graphics School should have been my direction, but art always came easy to me and the only import I placed on that interlude was that of a logical diversion, so....... At that point I truly did not have a clear goal.
Beginning on the west coast, I travelled south through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi and up into Tennesee for a 10 month dalliance that is yet another story. From Nashiville I made my way through West Virginai, Ohio, through Michigan to the Upper Peninsula, acrosss Wisconsin and Minnesota, through North Dakota and into Montana. Biking around the Flathead Lake and into Kalispell, I was struck by the beauty of the mountains to the east, those being the Glacier National Park area.
I spent 5 days in Kalispell and the surrounding area making a prophetic mental note that should I ever marry, this is where I'd come. and as fate would have it, I met your Mother the following month and so began the sequence of events that ended in Lost Prairie sometime in the early 70's.
I met Wilma and Laurie Loney in town while waiting for our car to be serviced, and since we all had a wait ahead of us we began talking. Eventually the conversation moved around to where they lived and as luck would have it, they had land for sale near their ranch in Lost Prairie. Ma and I were interested and within a very few days we had visited them at their ranch, looked at the property and immediately bought 40 partially cleared acres. Other stories have told you about the first and second homes on the place so I'll not bother to repeat what you already know, so.... Back to the purpose of this Chronicle.
Was I a rank greenhorn at the outset all those many years ago? As green as they come. I reverted to the approach I had for every new event that came my way....... I bought books and read. A lot. By the time I was ready for our first horses I knew enough about rigging a saddle, rigging a 4-up harness, the basics on trimming hooves, worming, diet requirements, recognizing a problem and gentle breaking a horse. So with all that book-larnin', I was ready for the real McCoy, and I was perceptive and straightforward enough to confide in Laurie Loney and ask his help.
Laurie was an honest to gosh cowboy, albeit an older one of some 68 years at the time. He and Wilma came from Great Falls east of the divide. They had run a cattle ranch most of their lives and came to Lost Prairie to wind down a bit. They kept and raised a lot of horses and, despite keeping a small herd, had quit the cattle business as being too demanding for their years. I was maybe 33 at the time and Laurie and Wilma pretty much adopted Ma and me. Your Ma was no more than 18 and looked a lot younger than that. Wilma considered her a baby that should still be at home with your Grandma, but here she was in Lost Prairie facing who knows what for a future. I spent most of my available waking hours with Laurie learning the horses, learning the tack and rigging, learning the basics of everyday equine maintenance and the basics of herding, branding and innoculating cattle, a number of which he still kept on the place.
I absorbed as much as I could as quickly as I could, and Laurie threw me right into the middle of rather rough and tumble practical application! Within a few months I was feeling pretty "salty" about horses and cattle, right up to and including cutting a stud horse! I won't go into any real detail, but after directly assisting in the throwing, tying and emasculating a stud horse I was about as salty as a former greenhorn could be. The real test came when I cut Shonkin with Laurie "assisting" this time. Using that knife without hesitation was the final test for me, and I did Laurie proud. I don't think I mentioned that Shonk was a stallion when I broke him, and that big beauty was the first horse I ever broke. He was a two year old and within two months he was beginning to behave like a real studhorse, so emasculation was a necessity. I was so concerned that Shonk would associate me with that procedure that Laurie ( laughingly) blindfolded him before I came out of the barn with the circingle,emasculator, rope and fetters.
No more than 4 months later I was a seasoned enough rider that nothing either we or the Loney's had could unseat me. By now I was comfortable enough in the saddle to help the neighboring ranches with cattle drives, roundups and branding........... and that's for next time.
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The Lost Prairie Chronicles #25 Shonk and me. The life of the true cowboy was anything but that of the exciting, flamboyant movie cowboy. It was riding and repairing miles of fenceline summer and winter, routine maintenance of tack, hardware, corrals and outbuildings, all of the everyday dawn to dusk tasks. Assisting cows with birthing, pulling calves, treating scours, innoculations, branding and feeding no matter what the weather.
To a rather small degree it was the same for Lyn and me but without the cattle. Helping the neighboring ranches with their cows kept things in perspective for me and within a very short timespan the romantic thoughts of owning any cattle whatsoever other than milk cows was quickly doused with the reality of it all. With no more than 40 acres and even with the adjoining land being some 7,000 acres of lease land, there was no temptation in the imagined romanticism of day to day working of cattle. If I wanted to truly frustrate myself I had only to go next door to the Louden ranch and get a good dose of cow-reality.
It takes both special talents and solid dedication to run a cattle ranch, but here we were with an oasis in the middle of it all. Fence to maintain, horses of our own, milk cows, chickens and plenty of cattle all around us should we feel the need to be cowboys/girls. (Lyn hated working cattle) There was a definite upside for us. Our lives changed, priorities rearranged themselves, a new appreciation of things as simple as dawn and dusk, a new respect for the land and a realization that the wellbeing of an eventual number of animals depended on our close attention..... and so the "attention" began.
Shonkin. I think the year was maybe 1976 and I remember well the first time I saw him. He was green and unbroke....... pretty much like me, come to think of it. Lyn and I went to the Loney ranch to talk about horses. We sat at the kitchen table in that very large room and discussed what we thought we wanted. We were both pretty much set on Morgans, and that worked well since that's what the Loneys bred. We walked out to the barn and Lyn immediately went up to a young Morgan mare. A beautiful Chestnut, she was and Lyn had made up her mind already. I can't remember her papered name, but Mischief was a part of it so...... Mischief she was, and the ensuing years would prove her name both fitting and prophetic.
As Mischief was barely a two year old, we'd have to leave her unbroke till next spring. That suited me anyway since I had a lot to learn about the gentle breaking of a horse, and she was a perfect candidate. Gentle but inquisitive to a fault, Mischief was more like a large dog, following Lyn around, nudgeing her from behind, pushing her very soft muzzle into her chest and face and pretty much being a gentle pest. More about Mischief later.
That same day while Lyn was getting acquainted with her chosen Morgan, I asked Laurie, that considering my height if he thought a 15 hand horse was going to work for me. I wasn't sure, but I definitely wanted a Morgan. He said not a word but motioned me to follow him outside around the back of the barn. There in an enclosure was a tall, well muscled palamino-appaloosa looking horse with a bald face. One look at him moving around that corral was enough to quench whatever desire I'd had for a Morgan. My God he was a beauty. Even with the amazing height he was well put-up and carried himself with a grace that bespoke pure power.
Looking at Laurie, I was at a loss for words. "He's out of an Appaloosa and a Palomino American Saddler, born of the Shonkin River over east of the Divide. He's a full sixteen three, pretty tall for a saddlehorse but I reckon you'll fit him." My mouth was dry thinking there was no way for me to afford a horse like this. I was afraid to ask, so Laurie volunteered... "He's still a stallion, unbroke and just come three. If you want him he'll be $500.00." Oh man! That was within reach for me. Lyn's Morgan was going to be $1,000.00 and she certainly wasn't going to balk at $500. But wait! Unbroke? Not broke. Nobody had yet mounted him. Suddenly that $500 wasn't meaning much. I'd only been on a few gentle trail horses in my younger years, so how was I going to mount this very tall, intimidating stallion? "We'll need to break him, right Laurie?" Yep. You'll need to break him". He didn't say "we". He said "You'll". I was quiet, contemplating how many bones this horse was going to cost me, and I don't mean dollars. Oh man.
Peering more closely at me he said "You don't want him?" With a dry mouth I admiitted that not having mounted a horse of this caliber, I was definitely intimidated. I knew that at some point I'd be dealing with an un-broke Morgan, but the distance from the saddle to the ground on a Morgan was a lot shorter than that same distance with this horse. Just the word "stallion" brought forth visages of dark stormy nights with a rearing black horse snorting fire. I shook my head. What was wrong with me? He was a horse, not a visage. With his muzzle pushing against my shoulder over the fence he seemed less of a threat. Laurie broke my mental arguement with "It ain't gonna kill ya. I'll be there watching if you get in trouble." He'll be there watching? I'll be on the horse, he'll be on the fence. Somehow there wasn't a lot of reassurance in that picture.
Enough of this. I wanted him. I asked Laurie if he'd guide me through the process and he agreed. It was to be tomorrow morning and Lyn and I left for home, each with a different vison of what tomorrow would bring. Being just down the county road, Mischief would be walked from the Loney's to our place, and in theory, I'd be riding Shonkin back. That was my hope. That was my prayer. Geez! What had I let myself in for?
Surprisingly enough, I did sleep well that night. I awoke early, cleared my head and remembered what this morning would bring. After breakfast, Lyn and I jumped in the truck and headed for the Loney's. Emerging from the trees and heading down the drive I saw Shonkin was already saddled and standing quietly, tied to a fencepost. Being under saddle and standing quietly he somehow looked less intimidating, but still damned big! Wilma was at the back door and waved Lyn inside. I wasn't up to drinking any more coffee anyway and, considering the state of my stomach was beginning to wonder why I'd even eaten breakfast.
I got out of the truck and walked up to Shonkin. I approached him from the front in full view so as not to surprise him. Laurie had come out of the barn and asked "if I was ready for this". As ready as I'll ever be. He told me to begin running my hands all over Shonk beginning at the withers. "Let him smell ya. All over him. Yes, legs too, but be careful around his hindquarters." I spent a full ten minutes rubbing over every square inch of his well muscled body. Oddly enough he particularly seemed to like having his belly rubbed. Without having had my head taken off by a flying hoof, I began feeling more secure about him. "Ok. Untie him and lead him around for a while. I'm going in for coffee".
Untieing him I noted that his bridle wasn't rigged with a bit. In it's place was a teardrop shaped affair that was of braided leather, stiff and with a monkey's fist at the bottom to which the reins were attatched. Having made fifty or more of them, I knew exactly what a monkey's fist was. At sea they're made with a chunk of lead in the center, nylon line woven around the lead core in a specific manner and served as a weight at the end of a throwing line, that being attatched to the end of a hawser drawn from the deck to the dock to secure the ship. At that point I didn't quite grasp the intent of what I came to know was a Bosal, but I was soon to find out.
Forty five minutes later Laurie came out of the house and I approached him with Shonkin. "Not the wild stallion you thought he was at all, is he." No, he wasn't... and it dawned on me that having led him around with me in mental meyanderings, he hadn't started, pulled or done anything other than walk quietly alongside me. I asked Laurie about the rig on his bridle and he responded that the Bosal would allow me to control him without risk of damaging his mouth if "things got exciting". When handled properly the Bosal could be snapped left, right or straight back with the stiff rawhide loop hitting the "bars", or bones that ran under his head from jaw to the bottom of his mouth. These were relatively sensitive bones and the snapping action got his attention taking his mind of whatever untoward move he was contemplating.
(This is a Bosal. Latigo)
"Take both reins in your left hand, pull that nearside rein up short and pull his head around so he's looking right at you. When you swing up into the saddle he'll only be able to turn into you and not away from you. Ya don't want him to run out from under you while you're mounting him." What happens when I get up there? "Don't just sit there. Lay those reins against the right side of his neck and squeeze your calves together. That'll get him moving, and for God's sake don't use your heels. If he starts to get away from you don't pull on those reins. Give 'em a quick snap to the rear and then let them go again. That Bosal will hit his bars and he'll stop. If ya have to do it twice, then do it, but don't just pull! He's a helluva lot stronger than you are and you won't win the arguement. If he won't turn use the Bosal with a snap either left or right, but not too hard. Try not to line out for more than a few steps. Keep him turning and stopping. I'll tell ya when, but you're going to get on and off of him a few times mounting him just like I told ya. Don't let him just stand there, but keep him moving. If you're going to lose him make sure you kick both of your boots free of the stirrups. I don't want to be chasing him down with you dragging by one foot."
Oh man! That was an image I hadn't considered, but there it was. Suddenly all of the confidence I'd acquired walking him around faded. All of these instructions were running through my head as I placed my left foot in the stirrup, then removed it. With a mental image of a wild TV rodeo in my mind I asked.... What if he bucks? "Maybe he will, maybe he won't. If ya let him think about it he probably will, so keep him moving just like I told ya, and he won't buck as long as ya don't let him get his head down. He can't buck with his head up. If he makes a move to put his head down, don't wait. Snap that Bosal, get his attention and turn him left." Ok. I couldn't justify waiting any longer with more questions. I was proably going to forget most of it anyway once I was up there.
I pulled the nearside rein up short, put my foot in the stirrup, swung up into the saddle and paused. I felt him tremble under me, his muscles tensing and I felt the sheer power under the saddle. Shonk began to dip his head and I snapped the Bosal back and then to the left. Up came his head and I immediately went into a turn. "Ok. Ya done made three full circles. Are ya gonna keep going in circles or are ya gonna move that horse?" I eased up on the reins, squeezed him with my calves and he jumped forward about six feet. I snapped the Bosal to the rear and turned him to the right. "Not so damned hard with that Bosal! You're gonna make him head-shy before ya even get started!" For a good fifteen minutes I turned him left, right, short distances forward and then right into another turn.
With a start I realized he hadn't bucked! He was responding more and more to the pressure of the reins on the sides of his neck. I was using the Bosal less and less.
"Ok. Dismount, and keep that nearside rein a little shorter than the off side." I dismounted, remounted, moved him all directions with more foward travel each time. Soon I was moving him along the fenceline. turning and returning to Laurie. "Keep working with him for another half hour but try not to use the Bosal unless you have to." He turned and walked into the house. I was alone. Shonkin snorted and shook his head. No, I wasn't alone, and the trepidation began fading away.
For nearly another hour I worked with Shonkin, and each passing minute strengthend the bond forming between us. This was a horse! Big, powerful and increasingly more responsive. I'd lost track of the time and suddenly Laurie was there again. "Looks like ya got a mount." Yep. I had a mount, and I was ready to ride him home. "Nope. Leave him here. Come back for the next three days and put some time on him. Once you get him lined out and trotting a good ways ya can take him home, and remember ya haven't saddled him yet." Thus began a very close long-term relationship with what became a very close friend of mine. Shonkin.
My Sister Rosemary with Shonkin, standing on a stump and giving him apple.
I always enjoy these stories and would love to have them on audio, as well. I can always keep the pics and your horses are very cool looking too.
The only thing is that I am sad when I see how those days go by too quickly; that's why I grab for each moment with family when I am able to get out of the busy-ness of working to survive!
keep the stories coming...
-------------------- Deb Fowler
"It's kind of fun to do the impossible - Walt Disney (1901-1966) Posts: 5373 | From: Loves Park, Illinois | Registered: Aug 1999
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posted
Thanks, Deb. This is the last one I have transcribed so far. There are about another 24 chronicles or so left to do but his handwriting deteriorated over time from chisel and mallet work. It destroyed the cartiledge in his wrists. He was a really aggressive carver. The surgeries took away the constant pain problem but left him unable to write much more than notes. Typing is really hard for him. Reading his handwritten chronicles is a real challenge.
I'll work on more of them after Christmas. -----------------------------------------
The Lost Prairie Chronicles #26
Eldon Christianson. I pretty sure you kids will remember him. When I met Eldon he and his wife Sue ran the Big Meadows Ranch, up the valley. Eldon was a cowboy's cowboy. He knew the cow business inside out, was amazing with a lariat and could cut the meanest bull out of a herd. Both he and his wife rode cutting horses, and by gosh they were riders.
All those years ago it was those two convinced me that there was riding a horse and "riding a horse!" Ma and I were lucky that we had a bunch of timber horses and not just saddle horses. A timber horse will make its way through deadfall at a pretty good clip without missing a step. All the rider had to do was give the horse his head and stay in the saddle. He'd put his head down and watch just ahead of his feet knowing just where to step.
(This is on our place and the sort of ground our horses traveled at a good clip. Latigo)
How the rear feet followed without tripping is to this day a mystery to me. When the deadfall got dense he'd slow down and concentrate on the spaces that wouldn't jam his hooves. When the deadfall was so dense there was no easy way to place his feet, he'd get right up on top of it and move forward anyway! Most riders on the coast and in middle America have no idea what a good northwest timber horse can do. To this day I appreciate seeing a good timber horse moving through the woods.
(This is Dad on Tye. He was a great timber horse. He was one of those that could literally walk on top of deadfall. His coat is shaggy because they were headed into winter then.)
Eldon. Cowboy, bronc rider, calf roper and saddlemaker of the highest grade. Eldon never did a rodeo. All of his "events" involved the day to day working of Big Meadows. Sometime in 79 or 80 Eldon was hired on as the roustabout for the movie Heaven's Gate that was made somewhere hereabouts. Can't remember exactly where, but somewhere down near the Bob I think. (He means the Bob Marshall Wilderness.) I never did see the whole movie, but I do remember turning on a channel some years later where the credits for the movie were scrolling up and sure enough, there was his name. He was about the quietest, most reticent celebrity I ever did see, but then his very nature was that of an unassuming cowboy.
When Eldon called the house he'd open with "This is Eldon". That was it. If you didn't begin the conversation there was a long silent wait until you began speaking.. It always took a few minutes for him to get around to what he'd called about. It was almost as if you'd made the call to him yourself. Strange as his nature was, he was always a pleasure to be around. His saddles were second to none but all of the accolades merely brought a smile from him and nothing else. Yep. Eldon was a cowboy's cowboy.
Lyn and I had returned from Carpenter's Auction with a year and a half old gelding that morning. Lyn had named the youngster "Twister" and that name bespoke the reason we had him at all. As a colt his mother had stepped on his off side hind foot and thew a slight twist into it. When he walked it was apparent but didn't seem to bother him at all. He ran and bucked just like any other horse. I had asked Eldon to come over the next day to see about possible corrective shoeing. Sometimes it took an apparatus rather than a shoe if the problem was too severe. Eldon agreed and showed up early the next morning, and thus began an incident that Lyn will never allow to go untold.
I tied Twister off the the side of the stock-rack on the pickup. I'd given him plenty of slack, enough slack for the 3/4" nylon tag line to droop on the ground. Eldon didn't want him to feel too pressed between him and the stock rack. If he spooked he'd need some room to take a couple of steps way from Eldon and not back into him. Lyn standing near me was very close to the tag-line and I told her, "Whatever you do... Don't step over that line. If he rears or jerks you could get seriously injured."
Eldon faced Twister's hindquarters and picked up his foot, stretched the leg toward the rear, laying it across his slightly bent legs. This is the same position used for trimming hind feet. If the horse kicked he'd pull his hoof from your lap and kick toward the rear, away from you. I knew all of these things. I'd been trimming feet for a number of years. I'd been telling Lyn and the kids about horse's feet, starting in surprise, head jerking in surprise, bolting, pulling back against tag lines and headstalls and all of the ordinary pitfalls surrounding working with horses. Yep. I was knowledgeable and willing to remind Lyn and the kids at every opportunity.
I was on Twister's near side, opposite Eldon and holding Twister's headstall firmly. "Pierre. Come around here for a minute and take a look at this." I nimbly stepped across Twisters tag-line and I know I remember looking down and seeing the top of that green stockrack. I don't remember anything until the never before heard sound of Eldon roaring in laughter and standing above me.
I remember Lyn was as white as a sheet. Yep. I knowledgeably stepped right across that tag-line as Twister pulled his hoof from Eldon's lap and jerked back, rearing straight up in the air. Being perfectly centered with one leg on either side of the tag-line, I was flipped straight up, did one roll (so I'm told) and landed flat on my back under Twister.
Lyn and Eldon told me I had instinctively rolled away to the right just as Twister, having been thrown off balance, landed on his side exactly where I first impacted the ground. Why and how I did that with no recollection of anything for a full 30 seconds after impact is beyond me. I actually remembered nothing after seeing the top of the stockrack. Nothing at all.
That's all I have to say about an occurence that your Ma insisted I relate in the chronicles. Not one damned thing more.
(This is one of Dad's colts tied to the side of that same pickup with the stockrack. It looked to be about 10' to the top.
And this is Twister. Note the corrective shoe on his off-side hind foot? Actually its in the foreground as you see it here. Twister was a timber horse too.
Latigo, have you considered starting a blogspot.com blog? (free)
I'd say these would be the PERFECT material for an entire blog's worth. Post one story per post so it creates an archive on the sidebar. Worth considering.
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
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