Bar 10, Cowboys Unlimited

Here is a great mule Story. 80 miles straight South of St. George, right near the edge of the Grand Canyon, lies Heaton's Bar 10 ranch. The Heaton family has ranched the Arizona Strip for 5 generations, but Tony and Ruby consolidated and expanded their ranch holdings to the edge of the canyon. As was common in these isolated expanses, access to the ranch house was simplified by adding an airstrip to the property. Coincidentally, about this same time tourists began running the Colorado River in rubber rafts. Soon, many hundreds of people were floating down the river through the Grand Canyon, just down-wash from the Bar 10. When cattle prices fell, and interest rates soared, Tony recognized a business opportunity in the Colorado River. By the time river rafters got to a point near his Bar 10 Ranch, they had already been on the river for seven days, the length of time most people budget for a vacation, and near a person’s maximum enjoyment of the cold water, hot sun, and camping conditions on a Colorado River raft trip. Tony offered rafting companies the option to end their trip a few days earlier – just below the climactic Lava Falls Rapid, and use his airstrip to catch flights back to Las Vegas. He quickly organized teams of mules, and he and his four young sons were soon bringing wet, sunburned, awestruck tourists up from the river to his ranch. (Italics from Bar 10 Website)

The Heaton's pulled people out of the river by mule for about 10 years. By 1985, they had built a lodge and traded mules for helicopter service which helped accomodate the ever growing numbers of rafters that visit their ranch each year.

Our boys hired on at the Bar 10 for summer work this year. I envy them. Their job is hard work, but in a vacation sort of way... We followed them around this last weekend--what a cool job! The photos show their typical day.

Flying into the Canyon (no flight on earth can compare!)

Assiting river runners and their gear onto the heli, after arranging weights for best balance

Flying back out... (I'd work for free all summer just for the heli trip)

Guiding horse and ATV tours

Telling tall tales...

Teaching guests about ranch education, "Out behind the Barn."

Washing the dinner dishes for guests and crew

Performing "Devil went down to Georgia" for after dinner show


Sharing the life with Mom

*Important note... one need not float the Colorado river to enjoy a Bar 10 experience. It's worth the drive!

Calf -n- Carry

In the bottom of a steep ravine, a small stand of cedars offered the only shade for a mile in any direction. Molly picked her way down the bouldery walls, slipping and sliding in the loose rocks. We were hunting cows in the lower benches of the Grand Canyon. With summer nearly here, it was time to gather the cows out of their winter range land and push them to the cooler, upper plateaus that are now part of the Parashaunt National Monument.

Sure enough, I could see cattle, camouflaged among the shadows of the rugged, boulder-strewn ravine floor. With an infinite number of hiding places in the vast reaches of this shelved, ledgy country, I felt relieved to find four heifers seeking coolness under the protective branches of this solitary cedar grove. Finding the whole herd on round up day ain't easy.

As I carefully made my way toward the cows to get them moving, I noticed a little black calf wedged between two boulders. From the looks of things, it had probably been born that morning, but was unable to get loose from its position among the rocks. I got off Molly and carefully freed the calf from its trap. It was full of life, but unable to stand on its own.

I tied the calf over the saddle and started pushing the cows out of the ravine toward our gathering spot a couple of canyons over. The cool of the morning was wearing off. My spurs jingled and the calf bawled its slobbery cry as we scrambled up the loose hillside. We made our way through yucca and sage to the assembling herd in a large flat at the mouth of two canyons. The other cowboys were converging there with the rest of the herd where they had to be sorted. One herd would go up the steep and ledgy Dan Sills Canyon. The other herd's trail to the upper plateau follows the long and rocky Andrew's Canyon.


The calf in my saddle would never survive the treacherous ride with the herd that was going up Dan Sills Canyon. So we left it with its mother near a watering hole where she began to encourage it to live. If it does, the mother will bring it up the trail on her own when it gets strong enough.


Men as tough as the rocks in the canyon own these ranches. They are Arizona Strip cowboys with generations of heritage and experience to guide their survival. The land they ranch on is as thirsty and unforgiving as it is beautiful. Many of these cowboys are my neighbors. They live in town (sometimes), and drive nearly 100 equipment-eating miles of nasty dirt road each direction to-and-from their ranches. No one lives permanently on the Strip any more.


Denice Hughs and his two sons, Dusty and Cody, pushed their herd up Andrews Canyon. I rode with Dan Snyder, pushing his cows up the Dan Sills trail. Pushing a string of animals up a steep, nearly single file trail is akin to pushing a rope. It took a full day to gather the herd, then make the slow climb to the top. After fire grilled steaks and a night of deep and sound sleep under the stars, we spent the next day working calves. They all had to be roped, branded, ear-notched, and the bull calves--castrated.

Dan is a gentle giant of a man. Even in the midst of the danger and aggravation of our weekend drive, I never saw him raise his voice in anger or heard him curse. I've known him for nearly 12 years and can say the same thing looking backwards in time. I've watched him return good to those who have done him ill, and I've seen him treat others fairly even when he thought no one noticed. We all should have, and be that type of neighbor.

I hope that little calf finds its feet and joins the rest of the herd in Pin Valley on the Snyder Ranch. T'was an honor to work next to such fine men.

Butch Cassidy's Shangri-la

The more I see of Bryce Canyon country, Escalante, the Grand Staircase, and the San Rafael Swell, the more I think I know what drove Butch Cassidy into a life of crime.

The Cenozoic aged rocks of the Paunsagunt Plateau eroded into colorful and fanciful hoodoos, surrounding the plateau in horseshoe fashion. The Eastern slope of the plateau formed Bryce Canyon, a natural amphitheater. Headward erosion created exquisite scenery from Bryce Canyon around to the South end of the plateau, and back to the North along the Western Slope towards Panguitch. You drive through Red Canyon which is part of this formation as you climb up onto the Paunsagunt traveling toward Bryce Canyon. Butch Cassidy is rumored to have used Red Canyon for one of his super-secret get away trails.


Chantra, Sunnie, Preston and I took the Cassidy trail 10 miles up onto the Sevier Plateau toward Mount Dutton just North of the Paunsagunt for an overnighter. Preston claims it was his favorite campout, bragging to all who will listen about how he handled that 3 year old mustang all by himself.

It is not difficult to imagine how hard it was to explore these beautiful places at the end of the 19th century. Even if your farm or vocation allowed the spare time for it, riding your mount for days or weeks just to get there had to kill the leisure side of it. Robbing banks, trains, and payroll stages was about the only career that afforded one the opportunity to chase all over this incredible land. Butch had it pretty much to himself back in those days, and he knew it better than anyone else--a true professional. The lawmen who had real jobs only scratched the surface of Butch's haunts. Even today, some of his trails are very difficult to find.

Honest work and modern technology make much of Utah's remote country accessible these days. Checking eyes 4 or 5 days a week lets us load up the trailer and be there in hours. Sure glad we don't have to rob banks, trains or payroll stages to experience the majesty of Southern Utah.

Escalante's impromptu Theatre

For an audience of just two, the Author of this critically acclaimed masterpiece spared no expense, every detail proving the transcendency of His production values. From the entrance to the theatre, to the pre- and post-show entertainment, each human sense was pleasantly invited to participate until the storied climax lifted our spirits to their feet in thunderous applause. It was choreography of universal magnitude that played just once--and that once, offered exlusively for us.


We entered the canyon by mule and mustang after a day of hard rain, with the promise of more to come. Broken clouds filtered the sunlight on the sandstone cliffs and the sweet smell of Russian Olive wafted through the canyon against the fresh smell of wet-desert. Dense foliage along the silt-laden river made passage difficult for mule and rider. We were in the foyer of the grand amphitheater and the decor consisted of an arch, a natural bridge, panels of ancient art, and a cliff house safely ensconced above our reach.


Crossing the river a couple more times, we found ourselves inside the main hall. Just in time for the grand entrance, we took our seating, box-style in an alcove under an overhang in the red rock. Camp had been struck, the mules cared for, and dinner prepared at our feet. As if on cue, the house lights dimmed as dark clouds gathered. In the pit, the orchestra rewarded our anticipation with a clap of thunder that reverberated up and down the canyon walls. It was Act I. The soft sound of the wind rustling through the cottonwood trees was soon replaced by the dissonant, white noise of rain beating against every instrumentality in the theatre. A sudden chill brushed our faces while the smell of ozone and rain mixed with the scent of Russian Olive and tamaracks. For about 20 minutes, we watched the plot unfold.

Act I faded as quickly as it started, and Act II entered above stage. The grand thrones across the canyon began to shed their water, ending the momentary silence. The high-pitched, percussive sound of impromptu water falls lifted our eyes upward while the dancing and splashing of pure, life-giving water followed ancient courses sculpted in the sandstone by rains past. For about 20 minutes, we watched and listened to Act II as it crescendoed to a fevered pitch, then softly faded back into the base silence of the Escalante river.

Act III, the grand finale, entered below stage. A flash flood of muddy water came charging down the canyon, boldly altering the topography with its abrasive force. The quiet background music of the Escalante built into a climactic roar as nature displayed her mighty power. BRAVO! For another hour, the domed river ran high and thick and our ovation lasted long after night's curtains were drawn and the stage emptied.

The post-show glow flickered against the alcove walls as our campfire held the darkness of night outside. Eventually, we retired to our sleeping bags, anxious for the morning so we could explore Sand Creek canyon--dreaming of what surprises lie around the next bend.


We were boyhood pals who grew up in Mona at the foot of Mt Nebo. David Jones and I spent our childhood brushing against the forces of wind, water, season, and storm. Our profession back then was that of explorer and we hunted, fished and scaled all the wild places on whatever conveyance we could find. Our profession changed to Optometrist as we came of age, and we battled chiggers and ticks while feverishly exploring Missouri where we went to school. Now blessed with businesses and families, it takes monumental effort to do what used to come so naturally.

David hadn't been on horse since we were kids and he had never been on a mule. He's a smart kid and he quickly learned how to take advantage of Molly's sure footedness. Our journey was a complicated trail that wasn't fit for dudes, but Dave refused to be intimidated. The result was a chance to see the power of the Almighty on display and the time to enjoy the miracle of friendship.

C'Urban Guttered Mule

Curb and Gutter... like a plague, meticulous landscaping stifles childhood development and breaks the circle of life that teaches valuable common sense. Doubt me? Count up all the wilderness retreat programs and youth rehab ranches in this country and ask yourself why they don't do "inner city experiences" for troubled youth.

Nearly 8 years ago, we built our now-too-small house on an acre-plus in an AG zoned subdivision beyond the edge of town. Nestled in a "Little Valley" contained between the Fort Pearce drainage, a vaulted ridge line, and a solitary mesa, we could brag that nothing stood between us and the Grand Canyon, some 90 miles to our South. We chose to build here for the solitude, the opportunity for an AG lifestyle, and for the Master-planned promise that future development would be additional AG friendly neighborhoods.

It all made sense back then. St George, once a rural community, was struggling a little to find somewhere for it's residents to go who wanted AG living, but who were finding themselves increasingly relegated to small, scattered pockets of traditional rural life, surrounded by hostile densities. Self contained Little Valley was the perfect fit--backing right up to the vaulted ridge line that bordered St George's planned replacement airport, it was a natural area for AG type density. And so it was promised. City Fathers privately assured many of us of this promise and codified it in the city's general plan.

We loved it. Living amidst rolling fields of alfalfa, and open desert, we were tucked nicely within protective geography; existing together with salt-of-the-earth neighbors who came for the same freedom to raise 4-H hogs, horses, and kids. There was room to spread our wings, and chores without the possibility of parole. A quiet place without urban sounds, our world was filled with the silence of morning's Rooster.

It was short lived. Boom times were here and the developmental tsunami started at the top of Little Valley. My neighbors with AG zoning on the North end soon found themselves surrounded, and rancher Blake's feedlot which he had relocated 3 times to avoid hostile density found himself facing petitions from the new subdivisions across the street. Schools, parks, and dense neighborhoods flooded nearly half of Little Valley with almost no warning. All of a sudden we get notice from the city that they want to meet to get our input on the future development of the rest of Little Valley. We went. To our chagrin, the city spent 2 hours explaining what the new master plan looked like, and then got offended when we unanimously (except for the developers) rejected the notion. They were planning the highest single-family density in St George history to fill in and surround all the existing AG neighborhoods. At our behest, they codified this new master plan anyway, and publicly claimed that we were absent from the planning process when it was over.

Seasons change. A new majority got elected to city council just about the time the economy turned south. Unfortunately, one new subdivision had already been approved under the new plan, and 100 new homes on 30 acres next to me is underway. It has 100 foot buffers, but it lies squarely between our AG zoning and the Southernmost neighborhood that also has AG zoning. To this point, we felt completely powerless as we had lost every single battle we had with the city. Then we get notice of a 90 home subdivision plan on the beautiful 14 acre pasture across the street from me. At nearly 7 homes per acre, 10 of the homes were platted to be within 10 feet of my neighbor's corrals across the street.

My neighbors and I went to war again, feeling a bit hopeless. After arguing for years, to no avail, that we feared a backlash from such high densities, I stood in that particular meeting and said, "You know, its not just their intolerance of us we worry about. We don't tolerate high density housing around us either. Having AG use next to manicured subdivisions is like farting in an elevator--even if the new neighbors don't complain, we are going to be mighty uncomfortable with our smells and noises in their presence." (Someone whispers, "Does Dr. Gooch know he's on TV?") We finally won our first battle. The new city fathers said, "Hmmmnnn...do we really want to pave over every last little bit of fertile soil in our city? Is it really fair to crowd out the existing property owners with hostile development? Maybe we should have somewhere for this to exist. Perhaps we should re-visit that new masterplan." They voted no--even though the developer had met every single requirement of the new master plan. The mayor about had a heart attack and muttered out loud (but off the record) that he hoped the city didn't get sued.

So six months later, (just this week) I get an invitation from the city to sit on a committee to re-evaluate the balance of Little Valley's development. I said yes. I'll let you know how it goes.

Up Short Creek without a Camera

STOCK PHOTO

One of the headwaters of the Fort Pearce drainage is Short Creek. A true desert spring, it runs through the sandy washes of Hildale and Colorado City, then spills over the Hurricane Fault and into Warner Valley before meandering to its convergence with the mighty Virgin. Most of the year, the washes remain empty from Colorado City and beyond--occasionally filling with the flash flood waters of a desert rain somewhere upstream.

Above Colorado City, Short Creek is alive with water all year long. The creek isn't more than a trickle most of the time. It follows a deep canyon carved into the Navajo sandstone. The head of Short Creek percolates right from the base of a towering amphitheatre at the top of the narrow, winding canyon. Known mostly to the locals, it is an extraordinarily peaceful place, with a deep emerald pool at the foot of the over-arching wall. Protected from wind, the acoustics of the place are that of a great tabernacle, and the choir is a chorus of frogs with a rich variety of voices.

They say it is nearly impossible to get stock up into the amphitheatre at the top of Short Creek. Two walls stand in the way. The first wall is its own small amphitheatre. Some of the local teenagers who wanted to get their own horses up the creek carved a chute into the wall for portage to the next level. The second wall is an angled slab with slanted steps that rises about 20 feet up to the final level.

Yesterday, three of my kids and I got our stock to the main amphitheatre--2 mules and 2 mustangs. The mules did well, but the the mustangs scrambled and fell more than once. I took several photos of my kids working out the difficult spots and some short videos of the animals coming back down the two walls. I even had some video of the frog-chorus inside the amphitheatre which I eagerly anticipated posting on this blog. The video and pictures were proof that we actually did it.

Somewhere on the way back down the canyon, after all the fun parts, the camera bounced out of my pocket and was lost. I rode back and looked, but soon realized the futility of the effort. My kids had stayed on the trail, but I had meandered all over the place--cutting my own trail in and out of the creek in such a way that I could never retrace my steps. My tracks in the sand were indistinguishable from the cattle in the lower canyon where I lost the camera.

So, I'm up the creek with out a camera. And here are some stock photos that kind of match our tale. The amphitheatre of our story looks a lot like Lower Calf Creek Falls--minus the falls. You'll just have to believe we were crazy enough to get where we got without picture proof.

Life is Swell in San Rafael

A large Anticline buckled up in the Eastern part of central Utah, forming one of the Colorado Plateau's most fascinating geological formations. Utah's San Rafael Swell is a breathtaking break in the high desert that forms a difficult barrier with few crossings East to West. It is a land rich in mineral, oil and natural gas that is home to some of Utah's heartiest residents. Economic boom and bust are routine and the arid landscape on the Western slope of the Swell is dotted with small towns far from the accoutrement's of city life.

Besides fascinating geology, the Swell tells a story rich in pre-historical indian life and modern outlaw haunts. Its remoteness and complexity made it attractive to the infamous Butch Cassidy. Many pioneer era horse-thieves and bank robbers used the Swell to hide from the law. Even today, an occasional bandit takes advantage of the great cover there.

Brother Mike, Larry Dunn, and I traveled into the Swell to do some riding this past weekend. We were really there for a Back Country Horsemen of Utah state meeting, but we hauled our mules along and rode as much as our chapter duties to the meeting, and the fantastic Friday night BBQ would allow. The Back Country Horsemen of America is a tremendous service organization that works to preserve equine access to backcountry trails.

Scott Oliver, Jim Jennings and Jim's 11 year-old son Justin were our guides in the Swell's back country. After watching young Justin ride, I concluded that he was in the middle of a classic identity crisis--he was riding his surefooted little horse like it was some kind of mule. This kid wants to scramble over ledge and boulder worse than I do! Sensing the need to help him find a little surer footing in life, and trying to make the wilderness a safer place to ride one lost kid at a time, I began to allow subtle suggestions that maybe he ought to switch to mules. For example, I offered, "Justin, anyone ever teach you how to measure equine intelligence?" No. he replied. "Well, you just hold a ruler to its ears. The greater the ear length, the more brains inside the equine's cranium." I explained gently.

At first, he bristled at my pitch. But soon, curiosity got the better of him and he climbed aboard both of my mules, one after the other. Very non-chalant like, I muttered as if to myself, but loud enough for him to hear, "Incredible how much better lookin' a person is on a mule...!" Flash bulbs were popping all around as everyone attempted to capture the moment and remember his improved looks. For just a moment, I hesitated, worried that he isn't even 12 yet, and I'm sure his parents don't want all the girls in town hanging around the house. But I realized he'll probably need quite a bit more wilderness-mule therapy before he will ever recover from his horse fixation.

Justin? Get your dad to hitch the waggons up, and make a trip to St George. We'll ride the Haslem trail together. Minnie Pearl is just your size...

The Optometry Intern

Over the past four or five years, a couple of Optometric interns from the Optometry school in Southern California have rotated through my office. It isn't something we get to do on a regular basis...I guess our clinic is sort of a last chance rehab for the toughest cases (just messing with you Damon).

So Damon Mortenson comes along about 2 months ago. It is his final rotation. The school doesn't warn their interns that I'm a salty young cowboy who doesn't know a thing about golf. You know, in my chosen profession, golf is high art, and mule skinners are extinct. I never met another skinner that writes, O.D. after his name. Damon soon learned that it wasn't a test in high society that he needed to pass for my final signature, but a ride up the Haslem trail with me. The Haslem trail puts hair on one's chest (unless you are one of my daughters), and stimulates a dizzying array of emotions based on height--but rewards the effort with the grandest spectacle on earth.

Congratulations to you, young graduate. I have enjoyed your stay with us immensely. I rode your ass for a while, and then you got to ride mine up the Haslem trail. You'll find your ride through the red ledges and cliffs not too different from starting a practice and serving your patients. No one is better prepared for that than you... be bold and break your own trail.

(I'm really gonna miss that kid!)

Calamity got a Haircut and a Job

Calamity Jane. She loves attention, but can be full of spit and vinegar when she doesn't get her way. She's a little head strong and not afraid to go do her own thing--herd be damned. Calamity was born that way. I think she hit the ground on her feet, and she was kicking up her heels within minutes of birth. If she doesn't like her circumstances, she plays along, calculating her escape. It has happened more than once.

We have taken her everywhere since she was born--small trips, big trips. She has packed coolers with lunch, and camp gear all over creation since she turned one--all weight appropriate for her age. She usually doesn't mind and takes any noisy, clanky, flapping-in-the-breeze things we load on her back, willingly.

She's at that age to start saddle time with her. So, Saturday morning, I climbed on her back in the vacant field next door. Several times she tried to buck me off. I stayed on (she's not that talented,) but I began to wonder by her behavior if she was hating the training bit I was using. I changed to a more advanced bit and her whole attitude softened up at the hitching post.

Shoot! Lets go for a ride then, I think. I had all these plans to work her up slowly, try the arena first, get a good handle on her before going anywhere. But riding this close to home just ferments all kinds heartburn in all of my barn-sour buggars. Every animal I have is an angel on the trails, and a demon close to the farm. Maybe she'll be good with this new bit out on a trail somewhere, I contine to think.

She was...

I did go where I was least likely to fall on something painful. And I did take all the kids with me in case they needed to perform an extraction from the desert. But she was completely content to take me where ever I wanted to go out in Warner Valley. Good stops, good turns--she's almost neck reigning already. Smart little Calamity, she's like a kid with ADHD--just don't bore her with mindless tasks. Get her busy and she'll learn as she goes.

Rusty is a Dad again...

Omer Davis's mare, Desert Dancer, delivered this fine, fine John colt on 3-11-2009. I finally got the pictures. He's a friendly little fella. He was so curious and anxious for my attention, I could hardly get these photos. Fantastic MULE! They just don't come more well-built than that.

Boys Will Be Gone...

Boys and Men everywhere, a moment of silence please... ... ... This is a story about losing your boys (careful not to let her see your grimace or watery eyes.)

Few things in this world can make a grown man cry. Fewer still can knock him on his back into a primordial fetal position and make him wish for a swift, merciful death. The thought of injuring or losing ones family jewels can do it, and Ladies just don't get that. Oh, I know that they have collectively learned where to place a disabling kick. I know that they understand in a very superficial way how carefully we guard our boys. But what women will never comprehend is the way the entire universe trembles at the mere thought of testicular mutilation.

For all of you who suppose that I am jesting or reveling in jocularity, please stop it. No matter how robust our sense of humor, and no matter how great our capacity to belch out a courtesy laugh for social purposes, guys cannot take testicular humor. Doubt me? Watch what happens the next time some female blithely mentions the proverbial groin kick in a room full of guys and you will carefully notice how forcefully she penetrated their stoicism. One by one, they will eventually get back on their mental feet and the room will return to normal--but you will know that they felt a deep, universal shudder and may exhibit signs of post traumatic stress for days after.

So this morning, I have Dr. King on the phone. "I can be there at 4:00 this afternoon to get that John Mule castrated for you." says he. "Boy, I hate to do this to such a sweet little guy. I'll try to be mentally ready by then," thinks I. Chantra, washing the morning dishes, throws her chin over her shoulder and casually insists, "Ask him if he has time to do yours too."

I think I swallowed my cell phone.

Doc King came and went. Chantra watched Doc King perform the surgery on my prize mule with a keen and hopeful eye. I think I feel like my mule. Nausea, groin pain beyond mortal description, depression...and tomorrow, probably some PTS.

Thank you for your reverent and empathetic attention as you listened to my story. If I sleep on the couch tonight, its because I wanted to. Little Mule? I feel your pain...