Longears and Sourdough

Cattle Punchin' Facebook

2012-01-15T23:40:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of noise that dull the senses. Both are found in the city. And both can be avoided in the places where cattle range. One type of noise is of the discordant, analogue variety which rattles against your eardrums like the loose exhaust on an old pickup driving down a washboardy dirt road. The living city pulses with this type of noise as the sound of traffic, sirens, and frenetic movement bang, clank and rumble until your ears finally become brittle and wear out.

The other type of noise is of the digital variety which rattles in your brain like the skywave chatter one finds while scanning the AM radio dial after dark. Today's city throbs with bits and bytes, pushing information to boxes that sit on our desks and fit in our pockets until relevant truths get lost in the white-noise of it all. Nearly every human and every piece of information on Earth is accessible to me through the iPhone in my hand, at light speed! No wonder driving cows is such a relief. Even in the quiet of this place, tinnitus rings in my ears, and my brain chomps at the bit for the next piece of news. It almost takes great effort not to hear it.

I waited a long time to join the smart phone revolution. The fear of breaking an expensive computer kept me in the dumb phone market because I could get mil-spec toughness there. My old Casio is the first phone that outlasted me. But in my profession, it isn't wise to get behind the technology curve, so I finally wandered into the Verizon store and wrapped an iPhone in an Otterbox with the hopes that it will survive what a mule-skinner can dish out.

So as I sat on my mule Saturday punching cows, I realized my new phone will take pretty good photos... which led to the next realization that I could push those photos to Facebook with the help of my new digital secretary, Siri. Before the mules were loaded back in the horse trailer, much to my delight, friends and relatives from diverse time zones saw my cattle drive through the buck-horn sights of Calamity Jane's ears and had their say-so. And from the mesa tops East, above the Hurricane fault, Ballard's cows unwittingly punched Facebook.

My sweet girl-kid

Little Uncle Sam in the duster.

Leon and Andy hidin' under hat

Back in line you leather headed heifers

Kolob formations dead ahead

All is well... Preston on his own self-broke mule, Senator

The view from Canaan

2011-12-26T23:26:00.004-07:00

Arizona Strip

To say you can see Zion from Canaan is to make a declaration of Biblical proportions. If Zion is Heaven on Earth, then I think we found another piece of it today. In fact, we not only saw Zion to the North and East, but we saw Pine Valley Mountain (largest laccolith on Earth) to the West; the Arizona Strip to the West and South; and Bryce Canyon's Paunsegaunt towering over Zion to the East--each of which are destinations in their own right.

Andy Ballard and Leon Gubler knew the route to the abandoned lumber drop off the West face of Canaan Mountain. Getting up on Canaan Mountain from Short Creek canyon is a bit rough, and the light snow on the sandstone was slick as ice. Between icy streams and snow covered sandstone, we had about 4 or 5 fall-downs. Thankfully no persons or, even more importantly, no animals were harmed in the making of this story. (Got that PETA?)

We took the Outlaw Trail up out of the deep Short Creek canyon into the newly designated Canaan Mountain Wilderness. The trail gets its name from its illegal construction by some 4-wheeler enthusiasts who hacked the trail out of the mountainside with heavy equipment and concrete saws. God bless 'em too, because there just isn't any other good way to get to the lumber drop now that the feds have closed the roads into her heart. The Squirrel Trail, which we accessed to come back off the Canaan, used to be the only way up--and it definitely isn't for the faint of heart. The year-old Outlaw Trail makes getting where we went and back a one-day project, where before, it was too risky or too far.

The pioneers who named her Canaan knew, from the view on her forested sandstone tops, that such a name was more than just hyperbole.

Zion

Pine Valley Mountain in backdrop

Paunsegaunt (Bryce Canyon) over Zion

Canaan Gap, Arizona Strip

Mule Skinner

Lumber drop

Dizzy Much?

Cable Spool at the lumber drop

How'd they do it?

2011-12-20T17:32:00.000-07:00

150 years ago, on December 2nd, a group of roughly 300 pioneers arrived in St George to establish a cotton producing settlement. The group had been called to leave their current homes by Brigham Young for a fresh start in, what many considered, the next closest terrain to Hell . It wasn't as big as some of the other westward migrations, nor as fraught with tragedy, but we still came home after trying it ourselves, asking, "how'd they do it?"

Originally, the Dixie Cotton mission wagon train reenactment planned to start in Salt Lake City and make the 300 mile journey South to St George. But as tough as it must have been for the original settlers to move their lives across distance and hostile high-desert topography, it turned out to be virtually impossible to make it in wagon train form today. Too much infrastructure in the way. And more importantly, too many entities to please. The regulatory burden caused St George City to trim the journey to the final 100 plus miles from Parowan to St George--and that, across a different path than the original settlers took. We spent 8 days in October making the journey.

The single most difficult part of moving across the landscape the way they did had to be taking care of the animals. We had it relatively easy...we brought our own hay along with us, and the city delivered water right to our individual camps. The city also cooked our meals. Even with the reduced work load, we were up early and late to bed just taking care of our mules and horses. Our pioneer ancestors had to live on their own supplies, cook their own meals, make their own repairs from whatever was on hand, find their own water, and... somehow... make sure the animals for all 300 of them got enough to eat each night in preparation for the next day's travel. The sparse forage in the late fall was fairly poor in nutritional value, and the competition for it must have been fierce. Who stayed up all night making sure the animals could range enough to get fed?

I don't know if our predecessors enjoyed their trek. But we sure did! How'd they do it?

Childhood and Mule Trains

2011-09-18T12:48:00.000-06:00

Among the rich traditions surrounding The Dixie Lion's Roundup rodeo in St George, Utah, the Grand Entry is the most inclusive. Each night, for two hours before the rodeo starts, the Dixie Lion's Club opens the arena to all riders, who, add a festive air to the historic SunBowl while jealous fans guard their seats. From rough-riding Arizona Strip cowboys to bejeweled rodeo queens, from Dixie newcomers to native sons and daughters, the rodeo opener is an important social gathering where old friends catch up while riding side-by-side to the sounds and smells of Rodeo. Live country music competes with human chatter and the soft pounding of hooves in freshly tilled dirt. The savory smells of rodeo-hamburgers wafting over earthy-livestock, fill the arena. It is heady stuff, for riders and spectators alike--who come under the influence of anticipation . Moments before showtime, as if breaking a spell, the smooth voice of professional rodeo announcer, Reed Flake, takes control of the random gathering and empties the arena in preparation for the Grand Entry. After a pregnant pause filled with thoughts of welcome, patriotism and sponsors, his command brings the random gathering back into the arena behind billowing flags--running the traditional serpentine pattern that kicks off the beginning of the greatest show on Earth.

After leading a string of pack mules in the Saturday afternoon parade, I went directly into the Dixie Sunbowl to participate in the Grand Entry. Behind me, Calamity Jane carried abeautiful pack job, sporting a real canvas manty with anice symmetrical double-diamond hitch tied over her load, while Minnie Pearl caboosed our train, packing two coolers full of ice and drinks slung over her sawbucks. Mule trains are not something one usually sees at the Dixie Roundup--in fact the only mules one would normally expect to see are the ones that professional-funnyman, Randy Munns, dresses up clown-style with coveralls and a bobbly cowboy hat riding on a spring between its long ears.

Last night, along the edge of the arena, throngs of children lined up to get autographs from celebritous beauties, dressed in sequined ribbons and tiara clad hats. Youngsters hoping to touch the soft nose of a real live horse stretched eager arms through the fences. Curious kids of all ages wondered about my train of longears and I began pulling the string along side of the cabled wall to let one smallkid after another climb into the saddle in front of me for a lap around the arena--with the approval of parents who eagerly helped them over the fence. We would gointo the arena's center and turn the train in a circle so tight that we were nose ontail for a couple of turns. I would sing out,"GIDDUP MULE TRAIN! HYAAAAAH!" Then we would pull up next to the stands and trade riders. Most of the kids giggled and talked happily--which I could barely hear over the din as I worked to keep the train moving in proper fashion. One 3 year old boy asked me with grown-up politeness, "Mr. What is your name?" Another 4 year oldgirl heard me yell at Calamity to, "Get back in line!" For the restof the ride, she kept yelling back, "Get back in line! Get back inline!" doing her best to help me out. Even from the grandstands after her turn was over, I would hear her yell each time I pulled thetrain up to switch riders, "Get back in line!" It was a piece of magic that I will likely never forget, and I suspect most of those cute little kids won't either. One group of parents tried to thank me as the call came to empty the arena, and wondered aloud why I was willing to spend the entire time giving rides when it was obviously a bit of a handful. I just tipped my hat and rode out of thearena with a lump in my throat, and alightness of heart that comes with the sweetness of childhood and mule trains.

File photo from last year: Too many of my hands were full of rein, rope and kid to take pictures last night. If something turns up--I'll replace this one with the real thing. :)

The Great Divide: A tale of two oceans

2011-09-08T15:31:00.001-06:00

Lightening intruded aggressively, breaking into the darkness in the most painful way. Before our eyes could re-adapt to the dark, another blinding flash would tease some tiny detail out of the foreboding blackness of the forest. Every tree looked like a bear and the thunder that followed added anxiety to the taughtness of Molly Mule's muscles. She felt like a coiled spring between my legs. It was late Saturday night... and we were headed for camp much later than we had planned. Three blown trailer tires in the middle of the previous night as we traveled across central Utah, a return to the trail-head for a dog that stayed under my trailer after getting halfway to camp, and two runaway horses that had to be chased and re-caught, had put Nephew Adam and I several hours behind the rest of the already-late group.

As the staccato snap of rain hitting my hat gave rhythm to intermittent claps of thunder, the push and shove of the wind made pine trees groan, but filled our lungs with the sweet taste of rain-washed mountain air. We hadn't slept now for two nights and fatigue didn't help us penetrate the thick WindRiver blackness. If we could locate camp, we still had animals to unpack and care for before we could make shelter for ourselves. What a rush! Adam's fear was palpable as he queried, "Do you have a flashlight Uncle Paul?" In my saddle bags there is one if we need it I replied. "So how are we going to find camp?" he wanted to know. It was a good question. I was pretty sure we were on the trail, but we couldn't see it. The Winds are big enough that a wrong turn in the dark could put you far from your goal. We'll figure it out was my tired reply. I had a hunch the mules knew where they were going. After what seemed like an eternity, Molly took a sharp left turn into a small tree lined clearing. We picked our way through the vacant darkness on what seemed like even less of a trail, down a steep hill, over some boulders. Suddenly, we broke into camp on the edge of the meadow along the NorthWest corner of Raid Lake. Everyone else was holed up against the storm, and their horses and mules nickered their welcome.

It was the beginning of a perfect week in the prettiest of mountain ranges. While exploring about 70 miles of country that was new to us, we made a cowboy out of Adam, and schooled the very young Preston and Trevor. Only the fishing was sub-par. We made our trek this year with 12 animals and 7 people.

Getting your kid permission to have a week out of school takes an act of congress these days. We applied for an "educational leave" this year and so a geography lesson was in order for our 2011 WindRiver's trip. Hands on lessons being what they are, I don't think any one of us will forget the significance of standing on the Great Continental Divide. Just pee a little to the left and you are leaking into the Pacific ocean...a little to the right and you will probably end up watering the Atlantic via the Gulf of Mexico. It made a deep impression on 8 year old Preston's mind. The strong wind on Washakie pass that day made watering both oceans a difficult task.

Like each year in the past, getting ready for the WindRivers is a big task. Animals, equipment, gear, and food all have to be prepared. These aren't relaxing vacations in the normal sense of the word. There is a bit of stress involved, a few cuss words, and a lot of work--but they recharge life's batteries in a way that sitting on the beach can't touch. Riding through Washakie Pass was elevating to the soul. Seeing and peeing down both sides of the Great Divide is a mans prerogative and it allowed us to touch this country from sea to shining sea. Two oceans--both falling from one lofty mountain pass.

Post Script: A hearty thanks to Trent Harmon for getting up after midnight to open his store and sell us tires in Nephi (Harmon Tire). Thanks to Jim Wallick, Brandon Larson, and my good Brother Mike as well for a fabulous trip. And big thanks to Roy over at Jaxonbilt Hats for keeping our heads covered in every condition imaginable--and that is no paid endorsement.

Buckles and Beauty in Atlanta

2011-06-12T22:32:00.008-06:00

"Wow! What is that on your belt buckle?" she exclaimed as she peered over her reading glasses from behind the cash register. I was in Atlanta, connecting to Nashville, with a 3 hour layover. Its a mule, Ma'am. "A mule!? What's a mule?" A mule is a cross between a donkey and a horse. I raise them and train them. "Really!... I never heard of that! Now what you go and do that for? I mean, why you do that? Is it like...a...business?...hear that girls? He raises MULES!" By this time, the line behind me has started to get impatient. Airports aren't places to hold up traffic. So I stepped aside and said, go ahead and take care of the line and I'll answer your questions when there is a break. "OK. But don't you go anywhere, til you tell me what you do with those mules now, ya hear?"

For the next half hour, I watched Kim take care of customers, one at a time. She found one special thing about each person to whom she served refreshement--their hair, their dress, where they were headed, and then she paid them a sincere complement, usually getting a surprised look. Several times we tried to catch a moment to resume our conversation, but the line kept coming. I marveled at the smiles she pulled out of each customer inside one of the most impersonal places of American Life--an international airport. Finally, I just ordered my smoothie and explained that the mules were partly for raising my kids, and partly a way for me to explore the wilderness that surrounds my home in the West. But that answer seemed to provoke even more curiosity. Since the line of customers behind me was never going to allow us to fill in the details, I left her with a handwritten note and directions to see "Longears and Sourdough" for its pictures and stories.

As I walked away, I thought about how beautiful it is to see someone who conducts their job, whatever it is, with such grace, that you feel like you have been in the presence of greatness upon the observance of their expertise. Kim, I watched you bring a moment of happiness to everyone you served--strangers all, but friends when they left your deli in concourse C, grinning. For me, it was a mule on a buckle and your curiosity that sparked my smile. But it was the milk of human kindness you showed for the masses of strange faces who you will never see again, that made my smile last far after I boarded my flight to Nashville.

Green Energy and Mule Fuel

2011-06-08T23:59:00.011-06:00

In the Wilderness Economy, there is only one way to transport goods and services. By law, transportation in the wilderness must use technology that pre-dates the wheel. That means all internal combustion engines must burn hay, mitochondrial style; and all locomotion must be ambulatory. So by logical extension, railroads, stagecoaches and semi trucks are illegal in the back country, leaving the mule train as the only real option. Turns out the mule train is environmentally friendly. They eat green fuel and have the greenest emissions my eye-meter has ever seen. The carbon foot print of a mule train can't be bigger than a mule's hoof.

Over the past couple of months, I took a job hauling a little over 2000 lbs of water, food and gear into the new Red Mountain Wilderness area for some archaeologists who are surveying for antiquities.

Mule Train work is good honest work if you can get it, really. Not that it pays well. I can make better pay while bending light in an Optometric sweat shop. But it makes for a pleasant day. Mules are smart, and they have a love language all their own--profanity, which makes for an artful conversation that one would never hear in an eye doctors office. It sounds like, "Molly, you leather-headed jackhorse, get back in line," or, "Minnie Pearl! You half-brained, half-assed horse--stop kicking Maggie!" or "Calamity, you long-eared sumbeeeech, GIT along and quit pulling back on your ROPE!" It may sound rude to your ears, but to the MULE, these are terms of endearment.

Now I got myself thinking about the mess our world is in today while I was locomoting that mule train through the woods. My friends Patty and Jackson (not their real names) are always trying to help me save the world from too much freedom and too much heat. I want to do my level best to help out, so, as I was thinking, I realized something quite profound, right out of the blue...er green. Profanity has some useful thermal properties that could be used as a type of refrigerant. I've known it since I was a small child, too. I'll never forget the icy stare that froze my mother the day I said in a commanding 8 year-old voice to my 3 year-old brother, Mike, "Com'ere you little Bastard!" And the fact that she used Tabasco sauce to unfreeze my tongue, like a university physics experiment, taught me some tangible thermodynamic principles that you could never learn from a book--like Don't ever say what ain't true! and Never insult your Parents. So today, while Patty and Jackson sat in climate controlled comfort somewhere, googling a bunch of CO2 into the atmosphere, I was gently burning hay instead of coal or oil, and cooling the atmosphere with my artfully profane mule talk.

Who gets paid to camp? Sweet!

Frank Parish leads Maggie

Kissin Kate Barlow, Sulphur Mustang Extraordinaire

Molly and Kate

Unable to find another load for the return leg, the mule-train comes home empty

Mule Fuel

Filling the barn

Happiness is refueling

Two Seasons and the Beginners Rodeo

2011-05-29T15:20:00.012-06:00

Here, where the Great Basin tangles with the Colorado Plateau and the Mojave Desert, there are only two seasons: Desert Season and Mountain Season. For the last 8 months, we have been riding the desert, but the short Mountain Season has started and its time to crawl up out of the furnace and start enjoying the cool comforts of pine, aspen and meadow.

Going into the wilderness, one-on-one with my 8 year old son is paternal happiness at its best. Getting there with pack mules is a test of will power and teaches some important life lessons. Every time we saddle up, we have what we call the beginners rodeo, in which everybody is excited and full of energy until they settle in to the rhythm of the trail. On this trip, it was the pup who wouldn't follow, and four spirited mules that wanted to move. We finally had to tie the pup on top of Preston's pack mule, Minnie Pearl. Minutes later, Minnie Pearl got loose and ran full steam back toward the truck, pup and pack in tow--then full speed back to where she left us. But we got it worked out. Just like life, if you can stay in the saddle through the tricky phase of doing something new, things smooth out and find their place. Then the frustrations are forgotten and the trip is mighty enjoyable.

As twilight settled over the meadow where we camped that evening, the mules alerted us to some deer that were grazing upon the fresh spring grass. Ears forward, all four mules were fixated on the intruding deer, and our hearts pounded as we strained to see through the graying light to see what was coming our way. When we finally crawled into our tent for the night, Preston asked me to wake him up early to go look for more deer.

As soon as the horizon began to soften the next morning, we saddled the riding mules and headed towards Quaking Aspen Spring and the Comanche cabin. The morning air smelled still and cool, laced with pine and sage. Deer moved all around us while we rocked in our saddles. As we came to the Kolob overlook, the stately red towers that form the Hand of God beckoned, come hither, from across the valley below.

Here, where fatherhood tangles with boy and man, there are only two seasons: Formative Season and Independent Season. Like summer in the high country, the Formative Season is short--sometimes stormy, but always beautiful. I wouldn't trade one minute of the time I get with my kids during their formative years for lands or gold. This boy is learning to be fiercely independent, and the long season of life where he will walk his own path is ahead of us... somewhere not too far off, at the end of summer.

The pup, Little Joe, riding on Minnie Pearl

White Rocks Meadow, Preston on Senator

Filet grilled in garlic and olive oil, Dutch Oven style, for breakfast

The Gusts came up 2nd day, Kolob in the background.

The Kolob Fingers from Pine Mountain

The Joy of Fatherhood

2011-04-03T20:55:00.003-06:00

It was warm for the first time this year as we left the house, headed for an overnighter on the Arizona Strip. Both of us rode saddle mules, while leading a pack mule with camping gear and coolers full of ice cold drinks. We rode far enough to find a starry night-sky. Spring's green carpet covered the desert as a token of thanks for an extra wet winter.

My boy did a man's job getting our coolers safely to camp. Minnie Pearl had her moments, so he learned what it means to get rope-burned hands. He also laughed at me when I tried to catch her loose lead right as my molly lunged up a hill--leaving me in a backwards somersault into the soft dirt. As we plodded along, he chortled his 7 year old conversation, and sang--mostly "Ride Cowboy Ride." He says it is one of his favorites, and he thinks Riders of the Purple Sage sings it best. His palpable sense of accomplishment when we wrapped it all up the next day animated my manhood . Ahhhhhh... to be the Sire of fine sons and daughters. There is no other privilege on Earth that compares. And there is no high that stacks up to the Joy of Fatherhood.

So, will they have Bacon in Heaven?

2011-03-05T21:18:00.009-07:00

Pretty much, the question we all ask at sometime or another, is...do they have Bacon in Heaven? Perhaps, knowing the answer will help those souls who still haven't made up their minds to try for yon Glory. So...we saddled the mules this weekend and headed up the hill, determined to find out once and for all, the answer to that most important question. And here are the pictures--they tell the story. No photoshop here, just vivid proof that there IS pork in paradise. Hmmnnn...come to think of it, we didn't see a bunch of virgins waiting for Achmed the Dead Terrorist either.

Thanks Natalie for smelling up facebook with your bacon bouquet. This morning makes two days in a row!

Bacon! Essential Nutrient, and the only way to fry eggs.

First Date

2011-02-12T23:19:00.014-07:00

At first blush, this may appear to be off blog-topic. It is not. File this one under the consistent thread of parenting that adorns Longears and Sourdough. Tonight, I send Daughter Number One, who just made sweet sixteen, off on her first date. Dressed in a modest formal, she and her date join two other couples for a Preference dance at her high school. As she leaves the house, the thought strikes me, "I just sent my first daughter on her premier date and I'm totally comfortable with it." I must really take it for granted that she is on the right track. Poised, confident, graceful...Daughter Number One moves with purpose and is constantly up to something good. Suddenly, my shirt feels too tight. But the story doesn't end there.

While Daughter Number One is on her date, her Mom and I are first-time chaperones at a church dance for all the youngsters in our region. We enter the church and I begin to sweat. Twenty Six years have removed me from the teenaged dance scene. The dance hall is full of young people swaying oddly to music completely alien to my ears. Our instructions are to see that the young dancers adhere to standards of modesty and decency at the dance. One young lady dances into view, obviously stretching the rules with a revealing dress. I can ride herd on the girls at home if they stretch their modesty, but I'm not a very good cop in this foreign environment, so I look away as she repeatedly adjusts her uncomfortably, low cut top. The rest of the room is packed with youth dressed in their best Sunday-go-to-meetings.

The sea of youth gyrate in alternating cycles of chaos and synchronicity. They move at random mostly, then like a leaderless school of mackerel, the room becomes a unity of saltatory motion. I try to remember my own au courant swim to find my youthful purpose in life, but I have forgotten how to act in this water.

Milling around, I see Mom surrounded by a group of boys. She has their undivided attention, so I saunter over, trying not to collide with the graceful leaps and frenzied kicks of the dancers. Drawing near, she points to me saying, "and this is Kailee Gooch's dad." With all the fainting enthusiasm of teenage girls at an Elvis concert, they turn to me, grabbing my hand, one by one. "Really!? You are Kailee Gooch's dad!?" one boy cries. Another violently shakes my hand, "SO glad to meet you!" A third exclaims, "Kailee is the COOLEST person on Planet Earth!" In a flash of silver light, the mackerel reverse direction and I go from faceless chaperone to celebrity extraordinaire. Nothing in life has prepared me for the sudden, soul-piercing swell of parental emotion that floods the little I-am in my core. And Life's greatest mantle...Father, adorns my purpose.

She Rode a Stately Jack

2011-01-30T07:56:00.006-07:00

I think a couple of my nieces will just never be satisfied to see the world through a pair of short ears again after the spectacular day we spent yesterday on the Red Mountain trail above Snow Canyon. Brother Mike and I took Sister Susie and her whole family to the scenic Kayenta overlook.

Sister Susie was nearly overcome with anxiety at the prospect of us putting her kids on mules and going somewhere a little fun. And she was a bit worried about her own fun as well. Mike and I have been grown up for so long, we had forgotten how much fun it is to torment a younger sister...

The video was shot in HD. Click "Watch on Youtube" and see it full screen for better quality--not sure why it is so grainy on the blog. A few of the photos are from the Christmas Eve ride to the Goblin pots and were added to complete the picture.

The Places we go with Jim: Base Jumping

2011-01-24T22:52:00.003-07:00

For the past couple of years, I have tried with photos and words to describe some of the fantastic places I have been blessed to enjoy atop my mules. But with a new pocket sized wonder-of-a-camera, I can now shoot up to two hours of HD video. So for something a little different, I am going to post a few short videos that tell their own stories...

This is part one of a series I call, "The Places We Go With Jim." He rides his horse in places that few dare trod. We ride together often. They aren't all high angle like this one, but they are all beautiful. Enjoy a little base jumping here. Sometimes I wish I had a parachute just in case.

The Roar of the Mammoth

2011-01-21T14:41:00.003-07:00

Rusty's bray is no heehaw. It is the tone clear, guttural call of the wild, and from the saddle, it penetrates the soul. So for something a little different, enjoy Rusty's signature cry from the saddle-eye view.

Merry Christmas! or The Desert sheds its water!

2010-12-24T21:37:00.016-07:00

Eight inches of rain per year is about all we ever get around this dry desert. But this week, we got nearly 13 inches of rain in just 4 days--causing the second "100 year flood" in just 5 years.

We rode into the Goblin Pots above Snow Canyon today, knowing we were going to see some water. The sun was out and the rains had finished with us a full day earlier. But we didn't expect it to be THIS spectacular! Watching the desert shed 13 inches of rain from the Kayenta overlook was the chance of a lifetime.

Fort Pearce Wandering

2010-11-19T20:03:00.022-07:00

Raiding parties of Ute and Navajo horsemen travelled in and out of the St George basin along the Fort Pearce wash during the Utah Blackhawk-Indian wars. The wash provided excellent cover for men on the sneak and was a source of water, although an unreliable one--especially during the warmer months of the year. The only dependable water along the Fort Pearce Wash upstream from St George is found in a brackish, spring-fed puddle about 15 miles away from the center of town.

During the 5 year war, which wasn't more than a series of raids, Mormon colonists built a stone fort overlooking the spring. Perched in an easily defended position, it gave the settlers a tremendous advantage against raiders during the summer months and other times of the year which saw extended periods without precipitation. Like most typical desert washes, it is dry until rains fall somewhere upstream, and then, it becomes a raging river, taking out everything in its path. Upstream for the Fort Pearce Wash includes a large portion of the Arizona Strip--so the flash floods can be substantial.

We decided to ride the old Ute raiding-trail to the fort today, leaving from home and working our way past the new airport and new highway that has gotten between us and the wilderness. It was 20 round-trip miles of linear contrast...nature verses progress, old pathways next to shiny new ones, and quiet hoof beats plodding against the fresh whine of tires on blacktop mixed with the frantic efforts of heavy equipment... crossing the trail of the ancients.

True Grit

2010-10-31T14:33:00.031-06:00

The Eastern sky was just turning gray as we left the pavement and nearly all signs of civilization at the Arizona border Friday morning. Pulling heavy horse trailers full of livestock, Dan Snyder and I were headed South to his remote ranch on the nethermost reaches of the Arizona Strip. 78 miles of primitive dirt roads separate his summer pastures in the upper forested elevations above the Grand Canyon from the comforts of home in St George. It is a bone-jarring, equipment-eating drive that he makes nearly every weekend, to an inhospitable land from which generations of his family have scratched a living.

From the upper summer pastures of Pins Valley, Dan's grazing allotment runs another 10 miles South or so, as the crow flies, to the lower winter plateaus along the rim of the Grand Canyon below Molly's Nipple. But, we aren't crows, and the terrain turns 10 beautiful air miles into 30 punishing saddle miles. Getting there ain't easy. No one, in my humble opinion, runs their cattle in a more inaccessible corner of what is now the Parashaunt National Monument, than Dan Snyder.

I marvel at Dan and the others like him, who raise their cattle on the edges of the Grand Canyon. Water is the real rub. There isn't any, or so it seems until you realize that these gritty cattlemen can turn a seep on a distant ledge into a drip that flows through miles of plastic pipe to fill a tank for their cattle. Without those tanks and those little trickles of water, vast stretches of the Grand Canyon would be worthless to the tenacious cowboys of the Arizona Strip. Keeping the pipes flowing, and the tanks full is a constant battle. One vandal's bullet could drain a tank and kill an entire herd of cows; and nature lives to plug the piping that carries life's water from spring to tank. Dan often has to follow miles of shallow buried pipe, digging it up at intervals to find the source of blockages that dry his tanks. And patching leaky tanks is a herculean job because sand and mortar have to be hauled in, a little at a time.

They call it the Dan Sills trail, and it defines the grit of the man who moves his herd in and out of his winter range by pushing his cows down this very difficult, single file trail, and then, impossibly, back up each year. But Dan does it, often by himself. I've been there in the spring to help punch them up the hill, and getting the tired lead cow to start moving again way above you, from far below the lazier cows in back is futile. One long stretch of it is so steep, a man needs both feet and both hands just to negotiate the trail. This weekend, we came along to help him get his cows down to the Mud Springs cabin at the bottom of the Dan Sills trail. Later, he'll go back and push them further South to the next water tank on his allotment at the edge of the canyon. Denice Hughs who runs a bigger outfit that adjoins part of Dan's allotment, actually owns 40 private acres along the Dan Sills trail and often threatens his boys that he'll bequeath that 40 acres to them if they marry Dan Sills-women (or daughters-in-law that he doesn't like).

Brother Mike's wife decided that she wanted to go on a cattle drive and talked my wife and her son's girlfriend, Jessica, into going along with us. Three fairly pampered, and pretty girls riding some of the toughest country a person can ride made me a little nervous, but I'm always up for sharing the adventure. So they came, along with young Preston who usually does anyway. No offense, Dan, but that was the best trip down the Dan Sills trail I've seen yet. The sun was brighter, the air crisper, the birdsong prettier, the campfire warmer, and the prickly pear sweeter than I ever remember. In fact, I'll be picking the cactus spines out of my hands, lips, tongue and roof of my mouth for days to come.

Earlier this fall, after spending two days with Dan, repairing the water flow into one of his tanks, I watched him lean over, sweep some of the bigger floaters out of the way, and plunge his face down to his ears into the tepid water. Straining through his teeth and mustache he sucked up a belly full of the brackish water that had long been standing in the metal tank. It wasn't the first time I had seen him drink from his tanks--one day he did the same thing in a tank that had a dead rat floating on the far side from where he drew his drink. Seeing my grimace, he offered this thought in his uniquely gentle way, "Those water bugs swimming about down in there tells me the water isn't poison. If they can live on it, I can." Just call it True Grit.

Thanks Cindy for the great photos!

The Silver Light of the Moon

2010-09-28T10:01:00.012-06:00

The trail was barely visible beneath our mules feet as we rode through the thick darkness of starlight. We watched night steal the red from the canyon walls and repaint them in shades of black and white, as if we were riding in an old western movie. We were climbing out of Hop Valley late Saturday night after a day of riding through the narrows of LaVerkin Creek. A warm breeze changed the Day smells into night smells and hooves falling on rock echoed off the cliffs above us as we swayed in our saddles, without visual reference to help us maintain perfect balance.

Emerging from the canyon to the terraced table tops of Smith's Mesa, we could see a brilliant white blanket laying over the desert savannah far to our west. Our trail disappeared in the sage and scrub oak while our muted sense of direction caused us to wonder how we would find that one gate in the miles of barbed wire fence standing in our way. But the mules knew and we let them pick their own way across the landscape. Suddenly Molly stopped. Like an apparition, the gate came into dark focus just inches from her flaring nostrils.

The white blanket to our West seemed to be moving closer to us. Brilliant as a hard frost in the dead of winter, every tree, bush and towering sandstone rock sparkled with a cold, white luster. The view caused an inevitable sensory conflict with the pleasant warmth of the gentle draft. As we neared the trailhead, we stopped and turned with fascination to face the advancing silvery frost. A distinct line separated our blackness from this faux winter and it began to hasten until we were on the verge of being overtaken by its chill. Abruptly, we were in the light of day as the nearly full moon peaked its edge over the hill whose shadow had kept us in the dark. The world, still painted in shades of gray, was promptly in full view and our mounted silhouettes cut a sharp moon-shadow below our feet... And that physical anticipation of feeling winter's cold was warmly unfulfilled by the silver light of the moon.

WindRiver Wolves

2010-09-03T18:56:00.026-06:00

She trotted along the boulder-strewn clearing, parallel to our trail which hugged the treeline above Upper Silver lake. With a hunter's instinct and canine curiosity, she monitored our progress as we coldly made our way back to camp. August's end in the WindRivers is a confusing time for the weather. Summer is showing her age and winter intrudes, fighting for turf and hoping for an early kill. It had just rained an icy-hail as we climbed out of the Washakie river, and the sun was throwing rainbows at the stiff wind that had us burrowed into our oilskin coats. Jim suddenly stopped. "Is that one of our dogs out in the clearing...?" Appearing out of some low brush, she turned to face us as we peered through the trees. Tall, gray, and fitted with a massive head, she stood in the open, staring for a moment. Knowing she had been seen, she casually loped over a rise and out of sight into a shallow ravine.

It is the talk of the town. A morning earlier, we sat in the only cafe-slash-saloon in Boulder, Wyoming, having our traditional last-chance breakfast before penetrating the wilderness. One table away, a lone, weathered cowboy sat nursing his breakfast. Hearing our meal-talk, he glanced over his coffee and peered wistfully through the brim of his trailwise hat, "The wolves have come back. They are up there. Damn shame too. We sure went to a lot of trouble getting rid of them the first time. Just last week, Buster Johnson's crew had a whole pack trailing them as they pushed their cows off the mountain just North of here."

We spent the next 7 days exploring and fishing. Winter advanced in the battle with summer for the first six of those days, one storm after the next. Summer struggled to melt the frozen darts that were thrown, but returned some clear skies and warmth on the day we came back out. Jim, Landon, Brother Mike and three of my kids racked up nearly 88 miles of saddle sore, much of it with heads bent into the wind, rain, and snow. It felt like we were traversing hallowed ground, and a distinct sense of the Divine pierced the biting air inside the peak-ringed basins of Middle Fork Lake and the Bonneville.

On day five, at first light, I stood shivering in my long-johns at the edge of Raid Lake, casting my Jake's spin-a-lure repeatedly while everyone else slept. Preston finally woke and came to be by Daddy's side. Suddenly, my ultra-light pole bent in half, nearly being yanked from my hands. I had spooled it up with that fancy Fire-Wire stuff that won't break no matter how hard you pull on it. The drag on my reel screamed for about three seconds while the power of a submersed giant pulsed all the way to my core--then SNAP!.. About 40 feet of line and lure gone. Preston and I just stood and stared at each other, mouths open, in total dis-belief. Nothing in my life's experience of catching fish in high altitude lakes prepared me for this--I didn't think fish could get that big all the way up here. I'm sure no one believed my story, until later that evening when Preston came back to camp with more fish than he could carry, and it was just ONE fish. "Dad, I think I snagged a rock, can you help me get it unstuck?" Just a minute kiddo, wait til I... OH MY GOODNESS, THAT'S NO ROCK! Hang on... reel it carefully...don't force it...easy there...wait wait, don't drag it out of the water yet, let me grab it...

10 pounds. She fed all eight of us that night, and made one little kid feel like King of the Day.

Each night, laying in that fitful sleep that only comes in a sleeping bag, while straining to hear the comforting sound of cowbell, and hoping that our livestock will be fine by morning, the wolves howl. Somewhere nearby, in the thick blackness, they watch our camp, and the dogs growl. The hair on the back of my neck raises. It is an emotional debate. My heart goes out to the stockmen whose livelihoods are threatened by wolves and I understand the naturalists' thrill of sharing the wilderness with them--it sure made our trip extra meaningful. After growing up on Jack London wolf stories, I feel awfully alive laying here in the dark with wolves circling our camp... and awfully glad for the cold magnum steel under my pillow.

Preston's Mule, by Gary

2010-08-08T17:59:00.008-06:00

This is a short poem that I made up one day on a trail ride with the Gooch family in Forsyth Canyon, Pine Valley, Utah. It started out as me teasing Preston about having a girl friend and him fervently denying it. With the help of his sister Sunnie, we really got him worked into a lather over the deal. I changed the subject after watching Preston do acrobatic moves and maneuvers on his little mule "Doc" and this is what I ended up with.

August 7, 2010

There is a boy named Preston who has a little mule,

He got him from his Dad, you know, and he's really kinda cool.

Preston decided to play a trick one day and rode him into school,

The teacher , she got hoppin mad and quickly recited him the rule.

"You should know better than to come in here on that little mule!"

It didn't bother the little skinner much cause all the girls thought him cool. (especially Austin)

The teacher grabbed him by the ear and said "listen here sonny!"

"When we get to the principles office, you won't think this is so funny!"

The principle just sat there with a smile 'tween his lips,

as the teacher retold the deed with her hands upon her hips.

The old educator laughed, slapped his leg and declared, "I'll be darn,

I think this here boy was raised in a barn!"

The story told and judgment passed with an evil grin,

Preston stood there a quiverin and took it on the chin.

Thirty days servin chow in the luch line was the punishment for his crime,

but it didn't bother him that much cause he and Doc had a real good time.

When you spend much time in the saddle up by the timberline,

a ridin' through the aspen or in the mighty pine...

The more time a man can spend up there he really starts to see,

that he is in God's creation and that is obvious as can be.

And if per chance, when yer out a ridin on your own favorite mount,

you come across a little skinner named Preston, your blessing you will count.

--Gary L. Christensen (Good friend, compassionate bishop, and Escalante Cowboy, living farther from the night sky than any small town kid should have to)

BMDRA: The Boulder Mountain Donkey Ropin' Association

2010-07-04T15:59:00.030-06:00

Day two wasn't supposed to be a 30 mile ride. Nor was the climb supposed to be that brutal. We were on the Boulder, peering over the edge into Escalante's tangled chasm of slot canyons, riding through herds of elk and deer, while surprising a hapless bear. It was scout camp... Cowboy scout camp.

We left a little late on day 2 thinking we had plenty of time to get to our next campsite, figuring on an 8 hour ride or so. I knew my jack, Rusty might not pull the hills without giving out, so I took a spare mule just in case. Rusty is a great ride in the suburbs. He has the suspension of a Lincoln Towncar, the steering of a '54 International truck, and he can go all day with me astride his flat back. But he climbs hills like a windup toy.

By mile 10, we topped out just as Rusty tapped out. And then he just hung his tired head, refusing to move any farther. We were a little behind by then, so I sent my buddy Kent to catch the lead group and bring back my spare mule. I got off and started walking, Rusty reluctantly following. Leather chinks slapped the trail-weary denim of my jeans to the beat of my steps. Dust from each foot-fall rose to mingle with the beads of sweat that were lining up under the brim of my old slouch hat. Time passed. A lot of time. Rusty, leaning back on his lead rope, turned the flat terrain into a strenuous climb and I began to tire. Suddenly, like a scene out of a spaghetti western, Kailee and Preston came galloping up in a cloud, my extra mule in tow. Quickly, we traded saddles and Rusty got to wear an empty pack saddle for the rest of the trip.

Tired donkeys don't lead or herd well. Thank goodness for the talented and charming Colton Gust. We had 20 more miles to travel, thanks to a wrong turn or two in some heavy timber stands with nearly impossible tangles of deadfall. Colton cast his spell as he swung his rope, true, over and over. Heading, healing, and sometimes missing, he kept Rusty on track until we made camp. Rising in his saddle, Colton sang out in perfect pitch, "Yeehaw! Its the Boulder Mountain Donkey Ropin' Association!"

It was nearly dark by the time we got our final bearings. With 6 or 8 miles to go, there was some talk of a survival camp that night. We ferried our camp gear between camps each day and didn't have most of it with us. Nerves started fraying a little, but we decided to ride on. As we descended from Jacobs Lake toward our camp at Cow Puncher flat, it started to rain lightly through broken clouds. The setting sun cast its golden net into the throat of the canyon as our mounts strained against the gravity of our tired weight. The temperature quickly changed, and cool, mountain scrubbed air filled our lungs with the scent of rain and pine. We were in heaven. Ahead, 7 year old Preston, who hadn't complained the entire day, finally called out, "Dad, I don't feel so good."

Just breathe a chestfull of that celestial air, son. I called back. For the next two hours, we rode in total darkness. Gary Christensen led the tired troops down the hill while Dave Gust worried about ever-cheerful Colton and Rusty bringing up the rear. Just drop your chin in your chest and go to sleep, Dave. Those mules know where to go :)

Preston was smiling when we finally arrived at camp, apparently healed by the ozonated draft. Kailee did a wrangler's job of getting the animals squared away for the night, the tack stowed, and the tent set up. Soon, we were enjoying a little dinner and the best night's sleep of the trip. It was a ride to remember, complete with the three things that make any ride unforgettable: good company, good scenery, and GOOD adventure.

I love...

2010-06-26T22:29:00.017-06:00

I love clear mountain mornings, little warm puppies, and the bawling of spring's calves weaned from their mothers.

I love granite peaks, verdant mountain meadows, and the reverb of summer thunder as it echos above treeline on a rocky pass.

I love the smell of rain in the desert, the feel of wet sand between my toes, and the roar of solitude that hangs over wet creosote.

I love the smell of marshgrass and wet corrals against the song of the redwing blackbird.

I love the strike of hungry trout in a clear Uinta lake, the smell of mountain scrubbed air, and the bugle of bull elk bouncing off of bally peaks.

I love the smell of hard-ridden horse lather, the feel of a mules breath on the back of my neck while trimming her feet, and the sound of a child's giggle behind me on the trail.

I love the smell of fresh cut alfalfa, the itch of hay leaves against my sweaty back, and the squall of a startled pheasant exploding from a ditchbank.

I love warm milk squirted against the back of my tongue on a cold winter's morn, the swish of her impatient bovine tail, and the insistent meow of the cat wondering if I'll share.

I love the agony of climbing Mt Nebo's triune peaks, the struggle for breath at altitude, and the sound of an airplane flying below our hard fought ascent.

I love the thrill of buck fever in the fall, the aroma of golden quakie leaves scattered along the hillside, and the sharp crack of rifle against the sunrise.

I love the steeled complaint of a kid resisting chores, the sullen glare of defiant eyes, and the "Thanks Dad" from that same growing up kid.

I love a rainsoaked felt hat, the smack of rain against my slicker, and the sound of hooves squishing through the mud below my wet saddle.

I love pushing longhorns through shoulder-high sage, the grandeur of Escalante's twisted maze of canyons, and the sound of the campfire's crackle at sunset.

I love watching hens scratch about for their daily bread, the taste of just-laid-eggs, and the brilliance of morning's rooster.

I love the feel of cold wet feet, the iron grip of wet jeans, and the tinkly sound of sprinkler heads beating across the rows of just-changed sprinkler lines.

I love the taste of hanging summer clouds that have just shed their moisture, the smell of ozone along sandstone cliffs, and the rush of wind across my face while soaring through still, wet air.

I love the smell and feel of lanolin from a lamb's wool, and the joyous sound of bleating as they jump and butt heads in mock battle.

I love the soft breeze in a narrow, red canyon, and the chorus of frogs against the lonely bray of a young mule after dark.

I love seeing a mountain lion leap from its perch, powdery snow flying, and the baying of bloodhounds in hot pursuit.

I love the staccato bark and pitchy howl of a mamma coyote who follows us along a ridgeline, worried about our proximity to her den of spring pups.

I love the unspeakable glory of stars reflected on a glassy WindRiver lake at 2 a.m. after the mosquitoes have gone to bed.

I love the shock of standing naked in icy alpine water to wash off several day's trail grime, a warm fire, and the feel of fresh clothes for a new day's trail.

I love crawling into a cold, but soon to be cozy bed roll and drifting off to sleep to the gentle sound of cowbell hung around Molly's neck as she grazes the meadow next to camp.

I love flying through Hop Valley's meandering narrows, climbing out of her pine scented bowels, and gazing down upon the miracle of Kolob's handlike tangle of thrones.

I love the look on a 5 year old's face that is seeing the world for the first time, and the tears on a Mom's face when the child wonders about the cracks in the sky during a thunderstorm.

I love the way moonlight paints a night canyon in shades of gray, stealing the redness of her rocks until the sun steals the red back and repaints them in the morning.

I love the youthful cadence and buoyant pitch of my seven year old son's voice when he recites the story of the cross-eyed bull.

Most of all, I love the miracle of friendship.

Ah... but what little pleasure is found taking these things alone. Everything is better in good company. Well, except for the naked part... I like to bathe in shrivelingly cold lakes all by myself.

The Harvest Begins

2010-06-13T21:16:00.004-06:00

Just look what comes out of the dirt. It is time for an update on this little garden of eatin'.

Besides the pastoral beauty this neighborhood garden has lent us, we've enjoyed working together and dinner just got a whole lot better.

Working Like Rented Mules

2010-04-04T21:54:00.012-06:00

Its coming together, this thing. The fence is up and painted, the garden taking shape. For the past month, we enjoyed an old fashioned barn raising of sorts--neighbor helping neighbor, BBQs, a whole lot of fun, and kids learning that work ain't so bad after all.

Some people make fun of Mayberry USA, but I love living in it. Off our asses and working like rented mules--its what's for dinner.

Spontaneous Generation

2010-03-02T20:38:00.030-07:00

Abiogenesis: the hypothetical process by which living organisms develop from nonliving matter; also, the archaic theory that utilizes this process to explain the origin of life. Pieces of cheese and bread wrapped in rags and left in a dark corner, for example, were thus thought to produce mice, according to this theory, because after several weeks, there were mice in the rags. Many believed in spontaneous generation because it explained such occurrences as the appearance of maggots on decaying meat. Encyclopedia Britannica

I have mostly written around the edges of modern community development trends over the past couple of years on this blog. As a topic, it is indirectly relevant to the work we do around here--the use of small scale agriculture for parenting, and for the sheer joy of living. Planning, Zoning, and development style are city things that normally would bore me to death, but for one thing--when we built our home 8 years ago, we veered into a head-on collision with our city over those issues. In short, if you haven't seen the few other posts about it--we settled on an acre in an irrigated 20 home subdivision with AG zoning at the edge of town. The area was masterplanned, and traditionally promised, to remain the large lot, AG zoned part of the city. Then property got expensive. City Fathers soon changed their minds and a tsunami of micro-lot developments began popping up in our "Little Valley." We are now on the verge of complete developmental isolation, agriculturally speaking.

Now I know a lot of biology and medicine, but I have no academic or practical background in matters of building or developing. What I do have is a farm kid's sense of right and wrong, and the mulishness to wade into a fight. I also have the naivete to think that everyone wants to do the right thing for its own sake, so I joined my neighbors in protest. Being the loudmouth in the bunch, the city eventually put me on some committee to examine their new plans, and I spent an entire year trying to convince the city that a contiguous corridor of AG zoning and large lots would add beauty and diversity to the increasingly homogenized pleasantvilles that were flooding our city. I also tried to articulate how the activities that occur in AG zoned neighborhoods benefited the whole community. From the economic impact of AG with the complex network of business that it supports, to its aesthetics, to its role in generating good citizens--it has intrinsic value that transcends short term dollars.

"Beautiful curb and gutter, a nice community make," they argued. "Not the acre weed patches you guys live on."

"Au contrare," I defended. "Good neighbors who love the land and weeds to pull, a nice community make. Where else can the dads among us who want to give our kids chores without the possibility of parole go these days?"

Vision is a remarkable thing, and there are several types of it. Sometimes we see things that might go unnoticed because of contrast. It works that way in the visual world with colors, shapes, movement and lighting. So too with human behavior. I swear we live in Mayberry, USA. Everyone watches everyone Else's back, and just about anything will get everyone together for a barn-raising or a potluck. There is always work to do and people are usually out and about. In contrast, the newest neighborhood next to us is the most micro-lotted of them all so far (100 starter homes planned for 30 acres--mostly filled with nice young families.) But wander around that place and it feels like a ghost town! For months, I have been asking myself, "where are all the people at?" Cars go, come and disappear in garages. We do see lights on over there... It is a city thing I guess--like Boston or St Louis where I have also lived, people hide in their houses. At first, I wanted to blame the new folks for being unfriendly, but suddenly the vision struck me and I had to repent of my evil thinking. It was the contrast thing. Its not their fault. They have no reason to go outside! They have no yards, and they certainly enjoy no privacy outside. Shoot! Our yard is so big, Preston can drop trau and take a leak out there without turning a head. And no one even blinks at the Iverson's daily underwear brigade. We barely have reason to stay inside!

So, tonight, the scenery that started this rant hit me like a train. It was the contrast thing. Among the neighbors, an agreement was reached to turn the empty acre next to me into various types of produce. Iverson plans to do tomatoes, we'll probably do pickling cukes, and others will do various things. McArthur who owns the acre, Iverson and I started putting the fencing up after work that will be needed to keep the rabbits out. Like magic, kids appeared. True to the laws of Spontaneous Generation, they showed up out of no-where. They weren't recruited, but something in the freshly turned dirt spawned them. I couldn't get my camera fast enough (it was elsewhere) so I had to run grab one from a neighbor, and by the time I returned, proof of their soiled birth vanished. But I caught the mixture of dirt clod fights and benefaction they brought with them. After the work ended tonight, I came inside with the question for the ages rattling around in my head. If there's no more dirt to turn, where's the next Spontaneous Generation of kids going to come from?

The Yeoman Farmer

2010-02-28T20:15:00.010-07:00

Small scale agriculture. An end unto itself, it is the life-giving, soul enriching work of the Yeoman farmer that blesses a community. Whether producing a vine ripened tomato or selling this morning's freshly laid egg; or maybe just imparting common sense values to the coming generation--small scale AG offers balance to a culture that is far too detached from the circle of life. With all the convenience and attendant benefits of centralized food production, we are left wanting, and that wanting is two things: instinctively we sense that any disruption to our food supply would be catastrophic, and society is becoming increasingly desensitized to natural law. Its the "Froot Loops come from the grocery store" phenomenon. (Some excellent background:Professor John E. Ikerd, UMC)

Modern trends in city development are antithetical to small scale AG. Great reservoirs of agricultural aptitude are being silently drained in favor of perfectly manicured, micro-lot subdivisions. Over the past 20 years, I have observed many communities in Utah pave over vast orchards, gardens, and pastures. I have also watched the traditional tendency to landscape with fruit trees and gardens in urban settings shift to more aesthetic and sterile designs--all in the name of convenience, curb appeal, and conservation.

Thomas Jefferson, always the pragmatic agricultural philosopher, had this to say of development, if you will. You see, he understood a fundamental truth. It takes more than dwellings to make a community. (See Monticello.org for more)

1785 Oct. 28. "It is not too soon to provide by every possible means that as few as possible shall be without a little portion of land. The small landholders are the most precious part of a state." (TJ to James Madison, B.8.682)

We hunted for four years before finding the wonderful little piece of dirt we live on. It measures 1.18 acres and it boasts the right to 6 acre feet of pressurized irrigation water that comes from a well we share with 20 other neighbors. It also has the now nearly extinct AG zoning which imparts some distinct advantages to our usage--one of which is the total freedom to produce and market AG based products from our home.

It is incredible what a person can do on an acre, just using a little help from the kids and a bit of spare time. What follows is a catalog of the AG activities that are currently underway at our little Flying I Ranch--please understand, not as a brag, but as a source of ideas. The day may come where many of us may need to put our productive space to work.

It is a work in progress...

20 x 50' greenhouse full of seasonal variety, winter stuff at the moment

Fruit trees (bitter disappointment--didn't get grandpa's gene for it)

Vinyard--just starting to get that planned and planted in strategic places

Out door garden 40 x 60--probably just corn again this year because it dresses the farm up.

80 laying hens, half are starts, the other half are laying. Preston sells his eggs as fast as the hens drop them and he is learning about life.

30 baby ducks, anticipating their eggs. Duck eggs go for a premium. (Thanks Yeoman Farmer)

3 beef cows: 2 for friends, 1 for our own freezer.

5 sheep: 4-H is a wonderful program for the kids. The AG teacher at Dixie High School set us up for future wins!

2 hogs: couldn't talk daughter #1 out of it. Pigs got us into 4-H in the first place. Love them, but probably won't miss them after April's show.

2 Rabbits: I'm writing this tonight at our diversity's zenith--they are tomorrow's dinner.

4 mules: everyone is better looking on a mule...

2 mustangs: American legends, both. Wouldn't trade them.

1 mammoth Jack at stud: his tone clear bray is its own reason for being here.

2 dogs: they complete the picture. Love them on the trail, or in the back of the truck--they live to go.

1 tom cat named Squishy Head that does the dirty mouse catching job no one else wants.

We certainly have excess of certain things. Some of our AG activities are for pleasure and childhood development. But if push ever comes to shove, we have the room to re-tool and produce an excess of additional other things.

Sadly however, small scale AG is on the auction block. Curb and guttered hell is quickly encircling our delightful 20-home AG zoned neighborhood with its suffocating grip. Not without a good fight, mind you. We passionately articulated the benefits of preserving a contiguous corridor of AG zoning and acre minimums for our geographically distinct Little Valley to our city, and continue to do so. I'm glad I got to raise my kids this way, and we'll make lemon-aid with our lemons until the masses of luckless urbanites get tired of us. But I'm sorry my grandkids won't get the same benefit--at least not in this town.

Here is a pass-along: enjoy this blog titled "The Yeoman Farmer." I gather this farmer is like me--some guy with a real job in town who is doing his part to pass it to the next generation.

The Little Boy Who Cried "Skunk!"

2010-02-01T20:51:00.016-07:00

"Preston's Ranch Fresh Eggs" reads the egg-shaped sign in front of our house. With 35 mature hens, and another 40 babies under the lamp, Preston has been selling eggs for $3 a dozen since this summer. Its a pretty good business for a six year old. He feeds, waters and collects the eggs every day. The eggs usually need to be washed before they are presentable for sale, and he gets that job too.

Two dozen eggs a day is pretty normal for these winter months. But suddenly, the yield went to 1 or 2 eggs a day. What the devil? Well, it has been raining. A lot. We are building our chickens a new barn to escape inclement weather, but they are wandering around in the muck this week--maybe that's why. Chickens have to be pretty happy to lay eggs. Bad weather might do it...

Then, 3 nights ago, I smell a skunk out there. Dirty little egg stealers! "That's the problem"' I think. Maybe this is Karma, after all the skunks I've whacked in my life. Somehow, the skunk must be getting in around the construction of the new barn and eating all the eggs--probably living under the unfinished barn. So I round up the boys and send them out to secure the coop! Tyler and Preston plug all the possible holes and we hope the problem is solved.

Next evening's chores? 1 muddy little egg. Customers are showing up, and we are out of product. Not good. How is that skunk getting at the eggs?! My brain starts scheming. Now that the city has moved into our back yard, shooting skunks under the chicken coop is considered poor etiquette and shows a lack of urbanity, or finesse.

So, last night on my way out to feed the cows, I shine my curious little flashlight into the chicken coop and see... 2 dozen muddy eggs! "Well then," I think..."its about time." So I feed my cows and putz around outside--taking in the smells of wet farm. Meantime, Preston comes out to do his chores. Suddenly, he calls out, "Dad, I smelled skunk really strong tonight by the water container."

"We are gonna get that egg thief one of these days!" I quickly reassure him as he goes back into the house, chores completed.

"Glad he came out when he did," I think. "Otherwise, that no good, dirty, egg-sucking thief of a skunk would have stolen today's eggs. Its funny I didn't pick up on the stench myself when I walked by the first time." Passing back by the coop, I shine my light inside one more time, happy that we outsmarted that old skunk. I stop cold. What I see completely stuns me. 2 dozen, freshly scrambled eggs, quietly oozing into the mud.

Its not easy for a 6 year old to admit he has been smashing the eggs for the last week. Stomping the eggs seemed a whole lot easier than washing them up to be sale-ready. That skunk we imagined was living fat off our eggs sure was a great diversion tactic while it lasted. And one more kid gets schooled, out behind the barn.

The Bucket Brigade

2010-01-19T22:42:00.017-07:00

Sometimes being Dad is tough. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if it weren't late and if it weren't raining like a Cambodian monsoon. When I announced that the water tubs were going to have to be filled by bucket tonight, those crocodile tears and agonizing sobs nearly melted my heart. I SO wanted to rescue my girls and do it myself--I LOVE the way rain-soaked creosote smells against the background of wet corrals. Filling your lungs with it will add years to your life; and doing chores in a downpour is one of life's simpler pleasures. But my progeny has yet to see the light.

A while back, I spent $350 on a fire hose for fast, easy filling of the 75 gallon water tubs that sit in each of the corrals. The garden hose thing always took forever, so I replaced the garden hose hookup in the irrigation system with two inches of "hold-on-Nellie!" The girls loved it, and it made their chores take less than one third of the time. Problem was, they got careless with the hose and I would often find it inside the corrals where the mules were using it for a stomp n'chew toy. At first, the warnings to the girls were gentle, then more forceful--I will not replace that expensive hose. Remember what it was like without it? Put it somewhere safe when you are done with it so the mules don't ruin it!

Nothing seemed to persuade them--sheer juvenile lack of concern and forgetfulness on full display. Time to lay down the law, (pause here for effect...) pater familia's law. So here's the deal, I say a couple of weeks ago. Next time I find the hose inside the corrals, we'll put it away for a week and remember how nice it is to have it. I PROMISE that I'll do it! I add for emphasis. Well I'll be hanged...tonight I go out to do my chores in the pouring rain, and see the mules playing games with my swank hose again!

Bracing myself against their wails with a smile, I started working on a batch of hot chocolate for them for afterward. Then I grabbed the camera for a couple of shots and went out to carry a couple of buckets myself. We don't have a garden hose that will reach across our acre, so it has to be hand carried for the coming week, starting tonight. Bucket by bucket, one step at a time--a real piece of work. If you must know, I'm not feeling the love. They never met a worse Dad, they ASSure me. Whatever life I added by breathing that sweet, rain-scrubbed desert air tonight was certainly cancelled out by the daggers I caught for dishing out this little lesson.

Roar of a King

2009-12-26T11:57:00.012-07:00

We took a family ride out around St George's replacement airport early this morning. A certain anonymous daughter of mine threatened to delete any picture I took of her riding my jack, Rusty. Being the oldest daughter and all, I thought she might enjoy her first chance to ride him (I don't let just anyone climb on my prize ass.) But the morning light was so good, the jack so majestic, and Kailee so cute on him, I am loathe to keep the pictures from the world...

To hear Rusty bray is a magical experience. To feel him bray under saddle is a soul stirring encounter with a king of beasts. His deep, tone-clear baritone pierces the hidden chambers of the human heart, bellow after bellow, until finally, he shudders with a surprising sub-base growl that sounds more like that of an elephant. Glad you took the chance and climbed up there, sweet kid. Merry Christmas.

Embrace Warming: ClimateGate Disappointment

2009-12-12T21:10:00.015-07:00

You know? I'm feeling a little let down these days. I was really hoping global warming was for real...for two reasons. First, we aren't supposed to get winter in St George--we live in a snow-bird mecca that is known for its balmy weather. But it has been exceptionally cold and snowy here for the last few winters. Second, we have property that we hope to build on someday in one of the coldest parts of the state. So with all the talk about how CO2 emissions warm the globe, I was doing my dutiful best to drive the wheels off my truck, dragging my horses all over the place and commuting to work, one tank of fuel after another. Heck, I even bought 3 beef cows to fatten up for slaughter that will eat about 8 or 9 thousand pounds of corn by the time they are ready for the butcher. Between their corn-intense diet and their fragrant flatulence, cows are better for global warming than cars, according to some scientists. If that weren't enough, St George city planners have repeatedly stressed that we who live on acre sized properties add to urban sprawl, which increases traffic with its attendant energy use. I thought I had all my bases covered--a one-man mission to reduce brrrrrrrrrr.

Then came the bombshell-revelation that the whole stinking Global Warming thing is a hoax. ClimateGate. If you are unawares, just Google it, or pay attention to the news. Its a big enough story to leave a big foot print in cyber-space for many years to come. Like a kid who just found out Santa Claus is fake, I now must face life knowing scientists are just a bunch of politicians that have no regard for the truth. I guess it is time to resign myself to normal ebbs and tides of cooling and warming. And I might as well get myself a little fuel-miser car for my daily commute. I mean, why waste all that fuel if it ain't going to help?

The snow really is pretty though...

Preston and I took Kailee and her two friends riding to the Snow Canyon overlook. When we got to the edge, Preston exclaimed, "Dad! Is this heaven?"

The Feminine: Power to Move Minions

2009-11-13T12:30:00.024-07:00

It is no secret around here how much we detest the lack of common sense. Nor is it a surprise that we despise Government's cultural tendency to fall into the temptation of tyrannical turpitude.

St George is busily building a replacement airport behind the ridge line that separates it from the Little Valley where we live. From the moment we moved here in 2001, we have playfully ridden, hiked and crawled all over this ridge. Watching the airport come together from this vantage point has been particularly fascinating for our whole family since they began construction 1 year ago.

Early this morning, Brother Mike, Neighbor Brad Griffith, and my Sweet Wife joined me on a round trip ride that takes us over the ridge in view of the airport. It had rained overnight and St George had that wet-desert smell which consists of a recipied blend you find nowhere else: creosote, mesquite, sage, and red-sand mixed with a hint of Pine Mountain's heights. Getting outside was irresistible.

On the final leg home, we crossed over the only road currently open to the airport before coming off the ridge on the single track trail that gets so heavily used. Brad and Brother Mike went across first, about 30 yards ahead of Chantra and me who were moving a bit slower. As Brad and Mike continued along the road's shoulder, and we approached our crossing, an official St George City truck topped with yellow lights, came up from below. The young city employee who was driving stopped along side of Brad and Mike, leaned out the window and declared in an authoritative voice, "Hey! You shouldn't be up here on this road!" (Not true, plus we crossed at a safe, visible intersection in this still remote, right of way.) He waited for us to cross and angrily shook his head at me while giving me a black look before turning to Chantra who followed behind.

Descending the hill, Brad, Mike and I laughed out loud, wondering what it is that makes a low-level government employee throw the weight of his ASSumed power around like some sort of stooge, as if we had committed high crimes and misdemeanors. From behind, a somewhat perplexed Chantra declared, "I didn't realize he was mad...? He just stared at me and SMILED as I rode by."

Remind me not to leave you home anymore, Hon.

(The irony? Today's paper warmly invites the public to ascend this road and watch the airport's progress in an effort to grant full governmental transparency.)

I Almost Lost My Ass

2009-11-09T21:05:00.022-07:00

My Ass nearly fell off a cliff today. In fact, it was closer than nearly.

The Haslem trail is hard work for horses and mules, but for a jack, it is nigh impossible. The valley floor and most of the ascent to the mesa top is covered in deep, powdery red sand. With his small, narrow hooves, Rusty negotiates the Warner Valley sand dunes like a transvestite in stiletto heels. By the time we hit the top, he was dog-tired and fagged-out. I had even gotten off to lead him most of the way up the steep parts of the trail. The going was slow and my partners waited patiently, sometimes helping to push/pull Rusty over some of the technical spots.

Dr. Steve Carr, a Spokane, Washington Veterinarian and his two brothers Tyler and Jeff wanted to experience the high-angle thrills of the Haslem trail. They drove up from some meetings in Las Vegas this morning for the outing. I have known Dr. Carr since my missionary days in Boston, and we studied together for some of our undergraduate work at BYU. Little Preston and Jim Wallick (who helped build the Haslem trail) were along too.

After lunch at the top, we started picking our way back down the honey-combed sandstone ledges. The trail skirts a short, rocky outcropping and scampers over three boulders that overlook a tapered drop off below. Crossing the boulders is the only way down. Rusty decided he wasn't going to traverse the boulders or step over the fissures between them no matter how much we cajoled, pushed, pulled, or cussed. Finally, he tipped over onto the gently sloping edge of the cliff--tired, weak from fighting us, and breathing heavily on his side. After a rest, I gave a mighty pull on his lead rope to help him get up. Before he could get his front feet firmly beneath him, Rusty's back feet slipped against the rolling downward edge and he fell back on his side--this time gravity prevailing. Rusty slipped off the edge. Every single muscle in my body screamed with agony as I gave them all to the lead rope in my hands. It was a tug of war with life and death. Somehow, with strength not my own, he stopped. Only his head was topside, his body hanging against the vertical side of the cliff. And I had exceeded my limits.

Thank goodness for Jim Wallick and the Carr brothers. At the moment I thought I couldn't hold on for another instant they rushed over and grabbed the rope. It took all five of us pulling in unison, just half an inch at a time, to pull Rusty back up on top. After hauling him to safety, we all stood in welcome relief. Rusty just laid there groaning.

Back on his feet again, all five us us dragged, lifted, and pushed Rusty over the 3 boulders. For the rest of the trail, he was a perfect gentleman and after leading him off the steep stuff, I ended up riding him back across the sandy valley floor to the trailer. It was a near death experience for Rusty, and the sight of him falling to the cliff's rock strewn bottom still feels real in my mind's eye hours later.

So, following such a tale, I need to certify here that no animals or asses were harmed in the creation of this post. But it was close. My ass has never been in such a tight spot.

Grand Canyon Tricks and Treats

2009-11-02T07:19:00.013-07:00

So Preston, how would you like to go trick-or-treating in the Grand Canyon this year? I know a line-cabin where we might find some candy. "But Dad? There won't be very many houses down there..."

The only time we like dense neighborhoods around here is when we are trying to maximize the candy return on a costume investment. But for Preston and me, it was going to be the Mud Springs line-cabin for Halloween, and it is about the only game in town for countless miles of Grand Canyon Country. Mud Springs cabin is an old prospectors haunt where the Hughes and Snyders layover as they move their cows in and out of their winter range in the lower elevations of the Grand Canyon. After 80 miles of tortured dirt road in an old truck and stock trailer, and another 10 or more miles down the vertically-indulgent Dan Sills trail on mule, the saddle bags better be laden with candy for the trip back home.

We were there to round up last spring's calves and bring them back to town for weaning and sale with Dan Snyder. We spent the weekend helping Dan fix the spring that had stopped filling the stock tank, gather the herd, and pushing them back up the Dan Sills trail to his ranch on top. Preston did a mans work on his little mule without much complaint. Minnie Pearl took good care of him, even when he fell asleep in the saddle.

It was a pretty good trick to find a bag of Halloween treats in the lower reaches of the Grand Canyon. It was an even better treat to spend Halloween cowboying with my little pard.

Unscripted, Part 1: The Lost Sister of Canyon de Chelley

2009-10-19T21:13:00.027-06:00

"We miss the trips we used to take before we had horses and mules," complained the kids. "Then, Mom and I will take you on an old-fashioned, Great American Road trip," I replied. "We will point our pickup toward Four-Corners and drive for 3 days, following our curiosity to what-ever tickles it. But there is one condition... no iPods, no console-videos, and no sleeping during daylight hours. We will only take you if you'll sit up, look out the windows, and ask yourself 'why?' as we drive along."

Its great to be the holder of the car-keys. After some sub-audible grumbling, a deal was struck. And off we went on a magnificent adventure, full of wonder and familial felicity. We left with 2 coolers full of food, a little camping gear, and no itinerary. We came home a better family, with stories we couldn't have orchestrated better if we tried.

***

She was born in the mouth of one of Canyon de Chelley's fingers to traditional Navajo sheep herders. Elverna's mother and grandmother were talented rug makers who eked out a living trading their handy-work. Their art was created from scratch in those days: the wool carded and spun into yarn, the dyes all made from the traditional plants in their world, and the rugs hand woven on looms, one strand at a time. She began to learn from her mother and grandmother very early--perhaps as young as age six to weave the Navajo way.

Life on the reservation was rugged. Elverna's father abandoned the family before she was born and she would never meet him until the age of 15, just before his passing. They lived the old way--no electricity, no indoor plumbing, and primitive housing. Elverna, her sister and brother had to carry water a quarter mile for their daily use. For schooling, they had to get up at 3 or 4 am and walk 2 miles for the long bus ride to the boarding schools in Chinle and Many Farms, Arizona.

I was thirteen when she came to our family. In 1980, Elverna's mother placed her and her older sister into the LDS church's Indian Student Placement Program that ran from 1947 to 1996. Elverna spent the next 3 school years with our family, going back to her own family each summer. During those years, I was entering my semi-rebellious teenage stage and she was just the Navajo girl from someplace called Chinle, Arizona towards whom, I was ambivalent. She was often homesick and a little angry that her mom had "given her up," but her time in Mona with our family was pleasant and she made several friends.

Elverna spent a fourth year on the placement program somewhere in Arizona. Meanwhile, her family got pushed off of their traditional land in the mouth of Canyon de Chelley by tribal elders after fueding with some neighbors. Eventually, after a time of being displaced, her Mom and Grandmother settled in government housing in the small reservation town of Navajo, New Mexico.

Traditional Navajo rugs are worth their weight in gold. It is an art that takes years to master. The intricate, hand-woven designs in these rugs, and the ability to reproduce them seem to be genetically encoded in the Navajo. Elverna inherited the art from the Ancients, and benefited from generations of skilled weavers in her family. With self-effacing humility, she explains that she doesn't have a website that shows her rugs, but if you will just google her name, you will find her work. She is good. She doesn't harvest her own wool any more, but she colors her own yarns from dyes that she, her mother, and her grandmother make from ancient recipes. A 4x6 rug made by Elverna can fetch 20-30 thousand dollars in the retail market.

Thanks to the modern miracle of the Internet, my sister Shellie found Elverna on Facebook just a couple of months ago. We discovered that our foster sister was living in Flagstaff, Arizona, and I plugged her phone number into my cell phone, vowing we would look her up the next time we passed through her town.

***

The wind was blowing Friday afternoon as the kids took turns standing in all four states at once for pictures. There isn't much more to see at Four-Corners monument and a couple of hours of daylight remained, so we huddled up to decide where to go next. We had seen the signs for Canyon de Chelley along the highway and I had heard it was worth a visit. The GPS pointed the way and we found our selves driving over miles of primitive dirt roads across the reservation. The radio blared a mix of country music and Native American chants, the DJ speaking mostly Navajo. We were indeed off the beaten path and our position began to feel eerily remote--the older boys questioning the wisdom of following the GPS this way. Eventually we hit pavement again and it started to dawn on me that we were headed into Chinle, Arizona. As soon as we found some cell service, I called Elverna to surprise her that we were in her old stomping grounds. Turns out, Elverna was headed through Chinle, towards Navajo, NM as well for a weekend with her family. And our unscripted road trip was about to become a family reunion with our sister that we hadn't seen for 26 plus years.

After we met up that evening in the parking lot of the local gas station in Chinle, little Preston declared, "Dad, Elverna doesn't look like a real Indian." Oh really! Why not? "She doesn't have braids, feathers, a painted face, or a bow and arrow." Three generations of Navajos laughed appreciatively the next day as Elverna related his astute observation to her family, and her 87 year old grandmother, eyes aglow, gave Preston some wisdom from the ancients in a tongue we will never understand, but with love that never needs an interpreter.

Soaking up Wilderness in the Winds

2009-08-31T10:15:00.030-06:00

As the firelight faded about 1:00 am Tuesday night, and everyone crawled into their tents, I found myself sitting on the ledge overlooking Crescent Lake. The night was completely still and bathed in starlight, a blackened silhouette of peak and pine cutting its jagged break across the heavens. From my granite seat, I watched an ancient drama unfold in the mirrored black depths below. Reflected there, a portion of the brilliant night sky danced and shimmered in the water. Winged Pegasus lept across the raging current of the great Milky Way River, which flowed out of the dark pines on the far shore. A billion points of light spilled from the Big Dipper and slowly revolved around Polaris, the North Star. A Still Small Voice breathed, "They are mine and I know them." The river across the meadow rumbled and a chorus of frogs cried, YOU ARE PART OF THIS! My heart begged the question of the ages, the question coined by the Psalmist:What is man that thou art mindful of him?

-DrGooch, 2008 trip

Call it Mancation. Or call it double-dipping. I don't usually get two good trips like this in a year, (the other being the Uintas). But Neighbor Jim ran out of the Windrivers last year, mosquitoes nipping at his heels, before he got to see them. He insisted that we try again later this year after the bugs vanish. Last year was so good for Brother Mike and I, in spite of the bugs, that we eagerly agreed to go back with him. In fact, the only relief we got from the mosquitos last year was after dark, so we stayed up for the star-show nearly every night. Looking back, I'm glad we stuck it out--seeing the milky way reflected in Crescent Lake as I described above was a moving experience. What we saw in the daylight this year as we logged 69 miles of riding was equally moving. We followed our GPS and a lot of game trails through the lakes nestled in the peaks of the Great Divide. The granite spires of the Winds literally steal your breath away while your soul involuntarily leaps for joy.

The fishing was fabulous. We sat in one stream on our mules and caught brookies from the saddle as fast as we could release them.

There were three of us. We rode in on six mounts: three mules and three horses, each of us riding one and leading one with our gear. We walked out with four: three mules and one horse--and the horse was lame due to a deep cut on her back leg. One of the tricks to taking stock into the wilderness is orchestrating their care. With all the work they do, they need plenty of graze and water. And because of herd dynamics, some can be loose only when the others are tied. We have to figure out who can be loose together and who might run off if their pals are loose too.

Our last night, Neighbor Jim left his two horses loose for just a moment after graining them. Brother Mike and I each had one loose and one tied. At the edge of darkness, Jim's horses slipped silently away, my Molly following. Jim noticed immediately and took chase without a word to us. 20 minutes later, I sensed something wrong--I couldn't hear Molly's cowbell anymore and Jim wasn't in his usual seat at the fire. Thank goodness my Molly has an insatiable appetite. A mile later, Jim caught her when she stopped to eat, but his horses had vanished into the darkening woods like they were on an urgent mission. Early the next morning, he and I rode 9 miles, tracking them until their prints disappeared in a morass of cow tracks.

We ended up double stacking everything on the four remaining animals, and hiking another nine miles out on foot, Mike's horse limping all the way (we packed her light). We then spent a couple of hours in Boulder, WY connecting with the locals for help in finding Jim's horses.

There is one thing about the wilderness... there is no safety net. Speaking of the WindRivers, Finis Mitchell said it best: "In Wilderness, man learns to have faith in his Creator."

By the way, Happy sweet 16, Justin. We celebrated with you--courtesy of the wind Gods who smiled on us and delivered these balloons.

9/22/2009 UPDATE: Jim went back to the WindRivers this past week, and rode over 30 miles looking for his horses. No luck. He also visited with the locals, the brand inspector, and several ranchers who graze the area where we lost them. No luck so far.

Wonder where your balloons went after you let them go?

The One Eyed Mule Skinner of Dime Lake

2009-08-10T21:52:00.023-06:00

Among the religious traditions of the world, the concept of Heaven has universal appeal. While many argue over the details, a common thread in each faith describes Heaven as a place of transcendent beauty. Within the framework of my own religious education, Heaven is an exalted place with eternal splendor and brilliance that neither mortal eyes nor mortal intellect could ever withstand. It is the place we aspire to be when we leave this sphere.

The High Uinta Wilderness isn't far behind. Every time I behold her other-worldly magnificence, I ask myself, "How could God possibly improve upon this place?" Our nearly-annual trip there is a pilgrimage worth the effort. The Uintas refresh the urban-burdened soul with terrestrial air, and celestial beauty. I always leave thankful that God created pockets of Heaven on Earth for our nourishment.

Brother Mike, Dr. David Jones, and I took some of our kids, mules and horses packing in to the Fox Lake basin over the 24th of July. For five days, we fished, explored, cooked, and enjoyed the company of our kids around the warmth of the evening campfire. No one wanted it to end.

Brother Mike was still recovering from an eye surgery that left him sore and red. "Are you sure you are up to this trip?" we asked. Are you kidding? I'm not missing this for anything!

*Photos and artistic eye courtesy of Dr. David Jones, evil eye courtesy of Brother Mike.

Nebo: When You See a Man on a Mountain...

2009-07-08T11:17:00.015-06:00

Towering over the little town of Mona, Utah at 11,998 feet, stands one of the most unique mountains in all the world. From almost every angle, Mount Nebo's presidential profile stands symetrically perfect against the blue sky. Even from great distances, her shape is easily recognized, as if her triune peaks were meticulously carved for some great purpose. Named after the biblical Nebo in Jordan where Moses viewed the promised land, our Mount Nebo's beauty evokes poetic and artistic expression of a reverent sort with the locals who re-create her likeness in word and picture. And no wonder. I've seen grown men moved to tears under the spell of her long shadows and soft sunset lighting. Nebo has a unique talent among mountains. She freely offers her defined beauty to all comers: from the average valley traveler, to the sinewy hiker that is willing to pay the price of climbing her vertical slopes.

Clilmbing to Mount Nebo's summit is a parable with a likeness to ascending through lifes challenges--impossibly tough, but completely worth the struggle. Over the years, I have made the climb numerous times, and my children have all stood on her South peak by the time they were four to six years old. Making the summit takes more than physical strength--it takes mental toughness that few other activities require.

This year, it was Preston's turn. And for the first time, we took horses and mules part way to the top. I thought it would be much easier and faster, but found that it takes all the same physical strength and mental toughness as hiking--only me knees were saved. Preston, age 6, beamed with glee after handling his horse the whole trip by himself, over some tremendously rugged trail.

As I stood on top of Mount Nebo on the 4th of July, the great truism penetrated my mind, "If you see a man on a mountain, you can be sure he didn't fall there."

Bar 10, Cowboys Unlimited

2009-06-28T12:15:00.015-06:00

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

2009-06-07T22:15:00.025-06:00

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

2009-05-30T21:36:00.018-06:00

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

2009-05-25T20:13:00.022-06:00

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

2009-05-11T21:20:00.014-06:00

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

2009-05-03T22:06:00.004-06:00

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

2009-04-19T13:41:00.011-06:00

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

2009-04-11T11:49:00.000-06:00

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

2009-03-30T20:50:00.003-06:00

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...

2009-03-29T15:56:00.007-06:00

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...

2009-03-27T19:10:00.018-06:00

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...

The Honest Scrap Award

2009-03-22T16:28:00.010-06:00

Today, we go off mule-topic to respond to a blog award that I received from Amanda's Veranda. I'm slightly uncomfortable right now as you read this. Its a man thing. Our brain boxes don't touch each other, and having a non-mule box in blog-o-world touching my mule box feels unnatural. Plus, truth telling in such a public forum is a bit personal and carries great risk for the average man. Men hate to wear it on their sleeve.

My posts here in Longears and Sourdough are mostly a cathartic stress reliever. I also write so my kids can sit around some day and reminisce about their heritage, which is easier than writing a book. So here comes this really nice blogger who wants me to tell 10 honest things about myself and then pass this award to seven other bloggers who I think deserve the compliment vis-a-vis their genius.

This is my list of Awardees in random, particular order: you all can now do the same.

Our Chaotic Clan seems to be a spider thing going on at her house.

Somewhere in Time shares some genes with me, but got more of the wit one than I.

Southern Mother Huck Finn lives there and Mom is a true patriot.

Island Family in the Desert Makes the everyday come to life in the most Alliterate way.

Perfect Moments Photography Extra-ordinary photographer

Plus 2 Singletons Has more twins than most, full of character

GoochTroop The consumate boys home.

Now for 10 undeniable truths. They are my story and I'm stickin to it...

1. I am an explorer. Not knowing what is over the next hill or around the next corner makes me uncomfortable. Every new vista is a relief to my soul. Every fresh smell and natural sound stops me in my tracks and grabs my heart.

2. I am a thrill seeker, and I love to pass it on. Everyone who knows me just said "Ya think?!" right now.

3. I am lucky, which perhaps explains why I am still alive.

4. I love to fly so much, I will crawl into anything capable of flight without a second thought. My career as a powered parachutist began by myself in a lonely alfalfa field. My only instruction was a friend waving his arms as I launched skyward. I couldn't stop crying and laughing as the world fell away and I marveled that I had to get my craft back to earth by myself. Over the next 8 years, I introduced over 1500 people to magic-carpet flight in the back seat of my own powered parachute.

5. I hate golf. Most eye doctors live in fancy houses and play golf. I live in a modest starter home on an acre with irrigation water and AG Zoning. After I leave my fancy office, I farm or explore. I would only trade it for a bigger farm and I would die inside if I had to live in a curb and guttered subdivision.

6. I hate chemical numbness. Liquor has never crossed my lips, and I fought every pain med, morphine drip, and epidural that the intensive care ward ever foisted on me. Neither trip to the intensive care ward was due to a thrill seeking activity (except I may have been speeding a little when that truck turned in front of my motorcycle.)

7. I love my job. When I help someone see for the very first time it brings tears to my eyes.

8. I love my sweet wife and her story. Her family's harrowing tale of survival in Cambodia's Killing Fields and foiled execution at the hands of the Khmer Rouge captivates me still after 20 years of marriage.

9. I love freedom. Karl Marx and his philosophy are responsible for more misery and death in this world than any other man that ever lived in it--recall the hundreds of millions who died in cultural cleansing and socialist revolutions within the past 90 years. New Hampshire's motto Live Free or Die informs my existence and reading Patrick Henry's Give Me Liberty speech makes me shout praise every time I re-read it.

10. I love the Author of it all. This is the place where words fail. There is no human language capable of communicating the gratitude I hold to the One who gave me my agency, my shot at mortality; and who alone has the power to heal every wound mortality inflicts on the human condition. I don't want to miss one inch of life, but I long for the day I get to feel His embrace. I know who He is.

Chuckwalla: BoomTown through Molly's Buckhorn Sights

2009-03-07T18:33:00.008-07:00

I was a bit skeptical about today's Back Country Horseman group ride over the Chuckwalla trail. Chuckwalla is more of a Front Country ride. It is one of those places with lots of rules, like stay single file on the trail, and leave your dog at home unless you can keep him on a leash. As part of the Desert Preserve, they worry that our presence might disturb the Desert Tortoise. More of a back country guy, I don't pick these places myself, and I had never been on the Chuckwalla before.

The Chuckwalla trail is beautiful. Ivins, Santa Clara, and all the recent developments along the Snow Canyon Parkway meander among the blackened lava fields below the trail to the West. Pine Mountain had her freshly snow-covered head in the clouds to our East, and Spring's grasses spread their green blanket at the feet of the red, pock-marked sandstone ledges. This is Red Rock country--visually stunning with the most complementary set of contrasting colors on Earth.

The Chuckwalla trailhead is one or two blocks north of the Snow Canyon Parkway intersection just as you leave town from Bluff Street.

Corny post about Mule Fuel

2009-03-07T15:54:00.002-07:00

For three years now, I've been hiding piles and piles of Mule crap in the poor, cement-like soil between my house and my corrals. Every time it rains, I fire up the tractor and till it in. Like magic, the mule-rich soil beckoned to my farmer DNA with its warm, earthy aroma. Spring had arrived this week, and we went corn-nuts in the soft moist soil...planting 10 sixty-foot rows of sweet corn, barefoot style.

It is the circle of life. I guess we aren't wasting anything. Feed them, ride them, and eat their @#% --sounds like a poem about re-incarnation. If we can get our Mule-fueled corn to grow, that is.

We aren't the only ones feeling spring's blush as we breathe her earthy aroma. All the mares are coming in heat. Don't be gettin any ideas after seeing my Lily-white legs...my Ass is a big Red Roan named Rusty and he is standing for select quality mares this spring. Stud Fee $500, guaranteed live foal. Must be present to win...

Sister Suzy Wore Spurs

2009-02-28T16:41:00.012-07:00

Nature got her revenge on man when she created a woman's wiles. And if that wasn't enough, the woman ramped it up with all kinds of un-mentionables. The other day, I saw that they got this company out now called Victoria's HUSH HUSH?... anyhow, just thinkin about how much better lookin you are on a mule. And spurs? Whoa up there, pard. You better be careful with the pictures from today's ride, Sister Suzy. When your hubby Doran sees you in spurs on a Mule, you might not outrun him.

Sister Suzy says she was glad she was riding my good Molly today. We lost the trail on our way back down from the Snow Canyon overlook, and had to come down off the top through some ledgy, washed out canyon. She said I took her daughters and her the hard way on purpose, which just is not true. I will admit I let her believe that no human had ever taken a horse down this particular canyon before, but only because I wanted her to feel like she accomplished something really spectacular after it was over, kinda like after a bungee jump when you proudly throw out your chest and strut around exclaiming, "Hooooaahh!" I don't know why she was all worried. It was just another day in the desert for the mules.

After the ride, we sauntered into Marv's Diner for a burger, spurs a-jingling across the tiled floor. All eyes glanced our way. Cowboy boots just seem strange in our newly cosmopolitanized town, and the diner full of bike helmets and spandex made us stand out. As we bellied up to the bar to make our order, some lady boldly left her seat and approached Sister Suzy and me. "Why do you wear spurs?" she questioned us--the tone of her voice implying that we were somehow being cruel to our mounts. Are you kiddin me lady? Its all about sex appeal. You ever seen a dude on a horse wearing a sweat band, jogging pants and tennis shoes? I can't speak for Sister Suzy, but riding a mule and wearing spurs is good for my love life...

Baptized in the East Fork of the Virgin

2009-02-21T19:51:00.017-07:00

There are all kinds of baptism in this world. Some people argue that it is best by immersion, some by sprinkling. Some people get it by fire. Brother Mike and his tall Walking mule Maggie got it today in the cold winter waters of the East Fork of the Virgin; and it was nearly a full immersion. Tweren't very ceremonious, and Tweren't done by any Godly authority, but Brother Mike prayed over his molly Maggie as she went down into the water. He invoked all the proper Biblical Latin one would expect, including most of the profanity available in the modern mule-skinner's lexicon.

We got in the river at Mount Carmel Junction yesterday and rode into the heart of the canyon beyond the ATV boundaries where few people go and spent the night huddled in our sleeping bags around the fire as Jack Frost laid his white blanket on the world. Zion's thrones kept their watch as Jim Wallick, Brother Mike and I enjoyed her heavenly light show. Slowly, the Big Dipper rose over head, forming a temporary halo around her steepled heights. Molly's re-assuring cowbell clanked gently as mules stirred in the dark, and we retreated deeper into our bags from the cold--leaving just enough lip exposed to breath the sharp air. Morning took her sweet time coming.

It was Mule-camp with all the benefits, including bacon in a cast iron skillet for breakfast, and exploration on natures finest four-legged conveyance. Secret slot canyons, a bald eagle, and enough lion tracks to over-load the olfactory of any hound, graced our day. Like a scene from O' Brother, Where Art Thou, we all went down to the river and witnessed Mike's molly Maggie get her sins and transgressions washed away.

Friday the 13th: The Virgin at Black Rock

2009-02-13T18:42:00.008-07:00

For a place with such a relatively short recorded history, no one really knows how the Virgin River got its name. The local joke posits that the Virgin River got her name because no one has ever seen her bottom. Some believe that the Virgin River was named "La Virgen" by Spanish Catholic Missionaries in honor of the Vigin Mary. Her muddy trickle should hardly be called "river" most of the time, but during times of flooding she is certainly worthy. Washington County has felt the Virgin's wrath at times, our history reflecting the occasional trauma of lost homes, fields, and bridges that connect one side of town to the other.

Originating in the cold, clear waters of Navajo Lake on Cedar Mountain, the muddy Virgin River enters the Virgin River Gorge just South of St George after it has gathered up additional water from Pine Valley Mountain, Zion National Park, Caanan Moutain, and a sizable portion of the Arizona Strip through the Fort Pearce drainage. From the Gorge, it meanders downhill past Mesquite, NV and eventually joins the Colorado in Lake Mead.

This mule-only trip was a daddy-daughter outing. We spent 5 hours in the saddle together on Friday the 13th. 11 year old Sunnie normally rides her Dash for Cash mare who foaled the fantastic John mule colt we named Doc. For all the talk about mules around here, she had never been on one. So today she rode Minnie Pearl. Smooth! Worried that she wouldn't know how to handle the little Molly, she started out a bit nervous as we left the trailer just off of the Black Rock Exit. Soon, she started taking the more technical routes on her own. Over the ledges, through the cactus fields, and across the Virgin we rode until we sat on top of the world. We had our lunch looking over the mighty Virgin and the Gorge she cut out of the mountain--amazed that we got to have it all to ourselves.

Friday the 13th was my lucky day. I got to spend it with you. Sunnie, did I ever tell you, you are better lookin on a mule!?

Hard as a Rock

2009-02-01T18:47:00.000-07:00

Zion National Park's southwest corner is home to an impressive petrified forest. A large field of colorful petrified logs and wood chips litter one of the plateaus beneath Zion's towering thrones. Except for the Chinle Trail which starts in the new subdivision, Anasazi Plateau, getting there is a moderately technical and convoluted ride into Zion's inner sanctum. It is a part of Zion National Park that sees very little traffic. Jim Wallick and Kent Sullivan rode with me today, their horses glaring at my Molly with supercilious disdain. This ride was one for the books: warm, and beautiful. It was all good, but that log we sat on for lunch was hard as a rock!

Of Mules and Men: the Integrative Training Method

2009-02-01T09:57:00.026-07:00

I just got back from a funeral in my small hometown, Mona. It was a joyful occasion, a time to renew acquaintance and celebrate a well-lived life. Mona lost one of its venerable old patriarchs. The anguish of loss is sweet when there are no regrets, and Maurice drove a swather through life that cut a windrow of good in the lives of his neighbors. I haven't lived in Mona for 22 years, 11 months, and 25 days, but Maurice Kay and his family are part of my circle of life. Their mark is difficult to measure. Maurice raised an honorable family on his farm in Mona. He educated his kids with an Integrative ethic, where they learned by being part of their parent's livelihood. The resulting product is a posterity of men and women with backbone and vitality, who conduct life with dignity. I salute you, Kay Family. The world needs more of your kind.

I have watched an interesting shift in our culture and our child-raising ethics come roaring into life over the past 30 years. It seems like today, we build a Disneyland world for our kids, quite insulated from our own adult world, and use it to carefully coddle their upbringing--fearing that we might make them uncomfortable or that they may offend our adult activities if they venture out of their bubble.

Growing up in Mona instilled that Integrative Child Raising Method in my genes. Chantra and I instinctively started bringing our kids into our adult lives as soon as they were born. We included them in all of our activities and adventures. Rarely do I recall creating kid activities that were designed just for their sole entertainment. They have seen my business dealings, attended Rotary and other grown up community functions with me, and have been fully included in all of our explorations. They don't even get to cry their way out of church meetings. I don't know how much of it is in their genes, or how much of it is this inclusive parenting style, but to know my kids is to be impressed by their bearing.

I enjoy raising my mules using the Integrative Method. I take my babies almost every where I go and try to expose them to as many positive external experiences as I can. Mules are a fabulous conveyance for exploring the world and I want them confident when its time to start riding them. Using the Integrative Method, my kids are great Mule-training aids. Using the Integrative Method, my mules are great Kid-training aids. Of Mules and Men: its all about being a Dad. Papa Gooch, thanks for your example. Son? Follow my trail.

Exploring with Doc--Guidelines and Contact info

2009-01-01T21:37:00.002-07:00

Call 435-467-5577, or email me at goochod@infowest.com
See Trip Menu

Would you like to see what I see?

About me:

I help people see for a living. I have a real job that I love to go to every day. But I do have a vice...exploring the natural wonders of the SouthWest with friends and family is my passion (I'm no golfer). While I grew up around horses, I didn't get the chance until 2006 to have them around again. As a family, we started from scratch, developing our little herd into what we have today. It isn't a passing fancy and they aren't just pets that sit idle in corrals. Our animals get handled daily, and are ridden regularly. They are highly experienced and well trained. Offering these trips to you is a way to cost-share the expense of maintaining these animals for me; and a way to give you the chance for once-in-a-lifetime experiences in the back country without having to come up with your own livestock. Here is your chance to come along with me on the trail. I hope you'll join me around the campfire some evening in one of those special places, weary from a good day's ride, and listen to the soothing sounds of cowbell against the night. --DrGooch

See Trip Menu

What I provide:

A horse or mule matched to you. I can handle from 1 to 4 people depending on the trip and the individual needs of the participants. I will not risk a poor animal/person fit, so the number we can take depends on the individual riders, their weight, and their natural inclination for this activity. I will see to the animals' care on overnighters and wilderness trips, but will be glad to teach you and use your help according to your desires and aptitudes.

Food and Water. Depends on the trip: On Wilderness Experiences, main meals and some snacks will be provided. Often, the first days of the trip, we eat fire grilled steak and baked potatoes. Towards the end, we eat Mountain house freeze dried meals. You and I will finalize our menu plans before departure on any trip. Some trip locations have a favorite restaurant we will visit on the way in or out of our ride.

Shelter. We use back packing tents and tarps for overnighters and Wilderness Experiences. I can provide you with a tent, or you may bring your own depending on the trip and the size of the tent.

What you will provide:

Proper foot wear, and clothing. We will discuss the nature of our trip and what you can expect for weather. I will have guidelines for you that will cover most contingencies. If you come grossly unprepared in a way that jeopardizes our safety, the trip will be cancelled without refund.

On time arrival. Many of these trips require a very early start to handle the logistics of getting the stock to the trail head, saddled, packed and complete the trip. Late starts can actually jeopardize the safety of some trips (usually the overnighters).

A signed copy of my liability waiver. This is high adventure without a safety net--we won't have cell service on most of these trips. You must assume all risks inherent with the use of stock in the back country. That said, I will be extremely fair with you as you are with me. I have spent nearly every weekend the last three years taking inexperienced riders into these places, starting with my own wife, children, siblings, parents, students and neighbors. I am confident in my animals and your ability to ride them. Bumps, bruises, and sore muscles are par for the course, but coming home safely is the only option available.

Payment. I require 25% non-refundable deposit to book our trip, and the balance at the trail head. Once we are in the saddle, no refunds will be given for inclement weather. (Sometimes the best rides are in the snow and rain...just sayin')

See Trip Menu

Exploring with Doc--Trip Menu

2009-01-01T16:03:00.014-07:00

Click here for Guidelines and contact info

Below are the post-links that showcase each trip, with photos, and my opinion of the level of difficulty for each trip. Seasons in red are approximate--All Trips subject to Weather and trail conditions.

*Adventure Scale: Easy, Easy-Mod, Moderate, Moderate-Diff, Difficult, Advanced

Day Trips: $200 plus fuel (under 30 miles, no fuel charge)

ChuckWalla Rating--Easy, 2-3 hours (October to April)

Haslem Trail (here or here) Rating--Difficult to Advanced (for heights, ledges), 3 hours (October to April)

Virgin River Gorge Rating--Moderate (for length and river crossings) 4-6 hours (October to April)

East Fork of the Virgin Rating--Easy to Moderate (for river crossings) (September to May)

Cassidy Trail Rating--Easy to Moderate (depends on length) (April to November)

Bear Trap Falls via Kolob Rating--Moderate to Difficult (1st half to Kolob Arch--easy trail, Moderate length; 2nd half Difficult for river crossings and technical spots. Full trail 20 miles round trip) (March to December)

Bear Trap Falls via Hop Valley Rating--Moderate to Difficult (Hop Valley Moderate; into Laverkin Creek and Bear Trap Falls Difficult) (March to December)

Zion's Petrified Forest Rating--One Easy route, One Difficult route (September to April)

Short Creek Rating--Easy-Mod (some Difficult if you want to ride to Amphitheatre) (September to April)

Snow Canyon Kayenta/Hells Canyon overlooks (and here) Rating--Easy to Moderate (The pics in the blog posting show mules scrambling up ledges, but aren't part of the normal trail.) (October to April)

Pine Valley Mountain trails Rating--varies from Moderate to Advanced (Summer)

Overnighters: $400 plus fuel

Cassidy Trail Rating--Easy to Moderate (20 miles round trip) (April to November)

East Fork of the Virgin Rating--Easy to Moderate (for river crossings) (September to May)

Bear Trap Falls via Hop Valley Rating--Moderate to Difficult (Hop Valley Moderate; into Laverkin Creek and Bear Trap Falls Difficult) (March to December)

Hop Valley (and here) Rating--Easy to Moderate (March to December)

Short Creek Rating--Easy-Mod (some Difficult if you want to ride to Amphitheatre) (September to April)

Pine Valley Mountain trails Rating--varies from Moderate to Advanced (Summer)

Escalante Canyon Rating--Difficult to Advanced (for tricky river crossings) (All year, except during high water)

Nebo Rating--Difficult to Advanced (for steep trail, technical in places) (July to October)

Wilderness Experiences: Not Rated. These 5-7 day trips follow good trails with a Moderate rating, but are in a class by themselves because of the way we pack and care for the Stock for such an extended time. Wilderness trips are rugged, primitive and filled with the possibility for discomfort--just you against nature, but are once in a lifetime--spectacular! Only 2 to 4 spots available per season. $1500 plus fuel

Utah's Uintas (end of July)
Wyoming's WindRivers (and here) (end of August)

The Leg bone is Connected to the ASS Bone, the Ass Bone is connected to the...

2008-12-31T10:33:00.014-07:00

No one wants to be a Lame Ass. Especially Rusty. At the beginning of November, Rusty, my prize Jack, got pretty limpy on his Right front foot. The hoof, leg and joints all seemed normal and I couldn't figure out why he was sore. My good friends Dennis and Karen Miller thought maybe he had an abscess in the hoof that needed to work itself out. A few days later, it went away and he was back to normal. But over the next two months, he occasionally seemed to favor the leg. It never lasted very long, or seemed very noteworthy.

Then 4 days ago, he went completely off of his Right front foot. This time when I palpated his leg and joints, he had obvious swelling from the top of the fetlock, along the tendon, almost up to the knee. And pain. Jackasses can take a lot of pain, but Rusty was showing it from the back of his hoof to the bottom of his knee. I've had him on 2 grams Bute, administered orally, bid (that's twice a day in Latin) for the past 4 days and he is slowly feeling better. That heavy swelling in the tendon behind his leg is about a half to a third of what it was Sunday.

This morning, Dr. Barton and Dr. King from the Washington Family Veterinary Clinic came by with their X-ray machine to see if we can figure out why Rusty is so sore. They are thinking it might be an injury of some sort. Maybe he jacked his leg in the fence or something. As a trained, experienced diagnostician (albeit for eyes), I'm puzzled over the intermittent, variable leg pain and the one day last week that he went off feed, while his leg wasn't sore. Is his sick day just a coincidence? Or is there some systemic problem? In the human world, inflamed eyes can indicate arthritis or even stem from an old back injury--and the eye bone ain't connected to the back bone or finger bones, as we eye doctors say.

Rusty was so happy to be done with the X-ray, he bellowed and growled all the way back to his stall. I'm hopeful. He seems spunkier than he has for months since I've had him on that Bute.

PS. The nice sepia toned photo at the top is the natural lighting captured by my Photographer sis--no photoshopping or alteration. Nice SHOT sis!

Frosted Mule Tarts

2008-12-30T17:41:00.016-07:00

My sister who lives in Mesa, Arizona has gone pro with her fancy camera. Her family drove up to visit us for my birthday and she got so excited by the morning frost, that she shot off some megs of Compact Flash out in the corrals. I guess they don't see much frost, or mule biscuits down in them parts...

I'm a little worried that photographin' mules might taint her a bit. Everyone's better lookin' on a mule! Look how much it helped me. She might need to get her own half-assed horse (or is it half -horsed ass?) to improve the looks of some of her uglier clients.

She's one of them artistic geniouses. These are probably the only freebies you'll get outa' her, so click and save while the gettin's good.

Its called Head First Photo. If you're down her way, or she's up yours, call her. (Now don't forget that commission check when you get famous sis.)

That's all Folks!

Global Warming my ASS!

2008-12-26T14:47:00.007-07:00

Snow Canyon State Park wasn't named for the white stuff. It was named after Lorenzo and Erastus Snow, two prominent Mormon pioneers who settled in Utah's Dixie. Snow in Dixie is a pretty rare phenomenon, and we got a bunch the past couple of weeks. Of course, Christmas was white for the entire state, and half the country this year. Brother Mike and I broke trail in the crusted snow across the Red Mountain Trail to the Snow Canyon overlook today. The mules got a workout--it was tough.

Cold, another scarce visitor, came to Dixie too. It is unusually brisk for a place that boasts an average high of 54 degrees for its two coldest months, December and January. Even November and February see 60-64 degrees for an average high. In this cold, Rusty, my Jackass, got a bit ill and went off his feed for a day earlier this week. If he could talk, I know what he'd say about Global Warming...

(UPDATE: 1/19/2009) Has anyone noticed the sharp contrast in the "news" about global warming lately? Apparently, we may actually be entering a new Ice Age! (click here)

Compare that to this article reported the same day claiming Obama only has 4 years to save the Earth from global warming. Are we being set up for a self fulfilling prophecy? Hmmmnnn...

(UPDATE: 2/5/2009) Click on this interesting article about Al Gore's Venus comparison--junk science at its finest. Of course, no one questions Gore on his conflict of interest in his Global Warming Hysteria--making our lawmakers complicit in the hoax.

Compare that to this news from Buffalo this morning, Or this OP ED compilation of interesting trends.

Mules in the Mist

2008-12-21T11:56:00.013-07:00

With a climate like Las Vegas, snow in St George is pretty rare. We have this saying, "You might go to bed with snow, but you'll never have lunch with her." It used to be so warm here that snow wouldn't last more than a few minutes, on the rare occasions that it reached the ground. We got some five days ago, and its still on the ground. It is the most snow in 30 years, and with global-warming induced cooling, it hasn't melted yet, which is an even bigger record. I wish they would do something about this global-warming which seems to be plunging the world into a new ice-age. We have a real freeze on, and I'm tired of shoveling snow, which is what I moved here to avoid.

So yesterday, I took the kids on the upper Snow Canyon trail to show them where they got the idea for Winter Wonder Fantasy Land. How can you not believe in Santa after seeing this?! It felt a little like Heaven as we rode up into the clouds--brilliant white everywhere, interrupted by the beauty of Mules in the Mist.

High Octane Mule on the Dad-Trail

2008-12-13T17:01:00.033-07:00

Of all the trails a man rides in this world, the Dad-trail ain't for sissies. Show-horses or pleasure boats need not apply. The Dad-trail is a technical and treacherous ascent through some ledges that appear impossible to navigate from below. Falling down on the Dad-trail in some places could mean a plunge to the boulder-strewn valley below. For this steep pull, you better have a solid, High-Octane Mule under saddle that knows where to put its feet. And you better have a steady heart that can stand having its fear of heights tickled.

Raising kids, especially girl-kids, terrifies the alert parent. Unless you live in a cave, the strident din of exploitative and seductive messages aimed at our daughters is unavoidable. Add that to the busy noise of well meaning experts and you face an importunate quest. So take this daughter of mine. She's the older of two girl-kids, and she has three brothers. At the age of 13, we are only two thirds up the Dad-trail. AND she is AMAZING! Such hyperbolic platitude is all the descriptive power I can muster to lay bare the swell I feel in my heart for her. I've used all the Dad-tools I know to help her get a proper start in life: Godly love, music, curiosity and the desire for learning, firm discipline, horse-sense, and chores without the possibility of parole.

Imagine the surge of systemic shock that burned through my veins this past week when I learned that Child Protective Services had taken her from the middle of a test in class for an unexpected interview. Some anonymous soul had filed a complaint with the State. After some very personal questions about the people who live in my home, he finally asked my sweet girl-kid if she ever felt afraid around me.

"Pshshshaw! You kiddin'? If you saw the places we go together on mules, you'd never ask that question!" Apparently we passed the official inquisition with flying colors...

(These photos were taken today on the Haslem trail. My 13 year old girl-kid skinned this 2 year old mule all by her self.)

Jerimiah Johnson's Snow Canyon

2008-12-08T10:22:00.011-07:00

Several years have past since I watched Robert Redford's classic "Jeremiah Johnson." Released in 1972, I always considered it a favorite for its gritty portrayal of mountain man life and for its cinematography depicting Mt Timpanogos. We all enjoy watching movies that happen in places we recognize, and seeing the back side of Timp in the movies excited my cool-factor. I spent a lot of time exploring, skiing, and even did a little work on Robert Redford's pool on Timp's East side during the first half of my life. Timpanogos has an Alpine beauty second to none.

Only part of Jeremiah Johnson was filmed behind Mount Timpanogos. They filmed most of the rest of it in Snow Canyon State Park, around Zion National Park, near Hop Valley, and around Ivins reservior in what is now the Kayenta development. I hadn't watched the movie since moving the Utah's Dixie 11 years ago, until last night.

Brother Mike and I took a couple of our kids riding through Snow Canyon on Saturday with the Back Country Horsemen. While there, Larry Dunn reminded me of the famous scene where Jeremiah Johnson stumbles upon Del Gue (played by Stephan Gierasch) who is buried up to his chin in sand. The dialogue follows:

Jeremiah Johnson: Are you all right? Del Gue: Sure, sure, I got a fine horse under me! [sneezes] Del Gue: Got one of them feathers in my nose. Jeremiah Johnson: You keep sneezing, it'll come out all right. Haven't seen anyone pass by recent, have you? Del Gue: Nobody's gone in front of me. Can't say what's happened behind me, though. Jeremiah Johnson: The Injuns put you here? Del Gue: T'weren't Mormons. A Chief, name of Mad Wolf. Nice fella, don't talk a hell of a lot. Say, you wouldn't have an extra hat on you, would you? Shade's getting' scarce in these parts. Jeremiah Johnson: What'd you shave your head for? Del Gue: Mad Wolf figures like every other Injun I know. Says this scalp isn't fit for no decent man's lodgepole. Ain't the first time I've protected my head in such a way. Name's Del Gue, with an "e".

While we watched Jeremiah Johnson last night, I became struck by the cinematographic portrayal of Red Rock country. This movie is a where's where of Southern Utah's beautiful places! Our Cool-factors got excited over and over as we realized that we recognized nearly every single location in the film. Its a great movie. Full of classic lines and an amazing catalogue of Utah's diverse beauty, Jeremiah Johnson is a fun watch for the whole family.

The Mules of San Juan, Deer!

2008-11-23T17:38:00.030-07:00

SouthEast Utah is likely the most remote area you will ever find in the lower 48 states. This rugged heart of the Colorado Plateau is far away from everything--even the things that are close to it. The tangled geography of throne and slot-canyon disturbs the hope of linear travel for all without wings. From St George, a good round trip through San Juan County can cost about 1,000 miles, yet never will the traveler be more than 229 Crow-air miles from home. It reminds me of the famous expression born in the state of Maine, "you just can't get they-uh from he-uh." Often, a few hundred yards in San Juan country might as well be hundreds of miles away, if at all.

Traveling through San Juan's labyrinth of beauty stuns the senses. There just isn't enough time to recover from the last beauty before the next one assaults your visual cortex. For example, near the front end of Lake Powell, you can stand in one place, turn around in a circle, and see nearly every fascinating type of scenery that Utah offers: from Zion style formations, to Escalante type slot canyons, Lake Powell waters, high desert meadows, Poplar Grove pastures, Monument Valley monuments, Robbers Roost hideouts, and Alpine peaks. If that litany of geographical treats isn't enough... imagine what lies hidden from view beyond the highway's ribbon. Nobody gets a lifetime long enough to see it all.

It was a lark. Other plans for this weekend suddenly lost their importance when life's stressors mounted and we decided to take a retreat. "Vegas for a show, a California theme park, or a drive out through Monument Valley and the Bad Lands?" I asked. She chose unscripted adventure.

Without itinerary, we left Friday afternoon headed for San Juan County and a thousand miles of highway without a boring horizon. We stopped whenever it tickled our fancy, and ate only local food along the way. At night, we got as far off the already deserted highway as the 4-wheel drive would take us, camping among the star-lit ledges of the lower elevations.

Let us not forget the mules or we'll be off blogtopic. Not ours, though. We left the trailer home. But we saw dozens of Muleys--trophy Muleys! They were all over the place--on and off the highway. I was lucky enough to be ready with the camera before this one got away, after I nearly ran over it. And there were a few half-mules here and there--from a band of wild asses to the sorry Jack we saw on the reservation.

Ride Heck out of Her

2008-10-26T20:52:00.024-06:00

Colic. Its a small word that strikes big fear into the hearts of all equine owners. Its a broad term that means "stomach pain," and it is the leading natural killer of horses. The danger of colic goes to the stomach of the matter--Equines have a small stomach and nearly 85 feet of intestine. Designed for non-stop feeding as the horse moves about grazing, movement in the system is continuous and uni-directional (they can't throw up). Horses are big, one way, inefficient poop factories. When the factory gets plugged, it can be agonizing to the horse, and deadly. The upside of the system can bulge and burst, or the horse in pain can roll and get its guts twisted or kinked--all of which are a final death sentence without immediate surgery.

At 5:00 am Saturday morning, I opened the trailer at the Lee Pass trail head in Zion Nat'l Park to unload the mules and mustangs for a fall-colors trip into Bear Trap Canyon. Oddly, Mona Molly was laying on the floor in a different compartment than where I loaded her (Houdini couldn't have done it better.) She stood up and came out, but I noticed immediately that something was wrong. She had been fine at 3:45 am when I loaded her. Now she showed signs of obvious pain and wanted to lay down over and over again on the hard red pavement where we parked. I repeatedly got her back up, and tried to keep her moving, afraid for her life. After each few steps she would hunch up and collapse. At one point, she laid lifeless, limp and unresponsive, leading me to think I had just witnessed her expiration. Suddenly she was back on her feet. Mules can take a lot of pain, so it must be bad.

What a pickle! Its 5 a.m. and I'm a long way from anywhere. Loading Mona Molly back up for a trip back to town could be dangerous and I have no pain meds to settle her down. She's lucky she didn't hurt herself or the other animals while she thrashed about on the way to the trail head. A real long shot, but worth a try, I dialed my vet on the cell. He answered, (Sorry for the early wake up, Jace.) While we talked, Kimball Harmon and his wife JoAnna took turns walking her in the dark. After discussing my predicament and Molly's signs, he sighed, "Well, saddle her up and Ride Heck out of Her. If she keeps trying to buckle and fall down on the trail, then call me back."

Meteors streaked across the moonless morning sky, some disappearing behind Kolob's blackened fingers which cut a toothy smile in the starry canvas overhead. With some work, my son Tyler and I got everybody saddled up, and we descended into the mouth of the canyon. Molly moved with effort but didn't try to lay down--her gut gurgling loudly while the first traces of light sharpened Kolob's looming silhouette above our left shoulder. Gradually, black turned to fiery red as the sun cast its early light on the towering sandstone, and a cascade of fall colors emerged from night's firm grasp. Mona Molly lumbered along with increasing ease. Fall's morning chill smelled earthy and fresh, offering the promise of a brilliant day. By the time we had entered the narrowed bowels of Bear Trap Canyon, refrigerated beauty overwhelmed the senses and Molly was back to her old self.

The return trail was warm and we shed our layers against the full strength of a perpendicular sun. Fall's afternoon warmth smelled musky and rejuvinating, the promise of a brilliant day fulfilled. Molly's pace was the typical glad-to-be-headed-back sprint that I remember--she always knows when her compass points back to the trailer.

She carried me 20 magnificent miles that day. Ride Heck out of Her? indeed...

There's a new Airport in my Backyard

2008-10-22T10:03:00.017-06:00

St George is replacing its smaller, geographically landlocked airport with a new, bigger airport that promises to improve air service to our community, and therefore attract new and better businesses. This week, every local dignitary, as well as some national dignitaries like Orrin Hatch, Bob Bennett, and Jim Matheson drove past my house to meet at the new site and did what politicians do. Gold shovels in hand, they pontificated and broke ground. Mayor McArthur put on a grand show, singing the local version of "Dixie" and fed the whole crowd BBQ to the tunes of an old fashioned brass band.

It is a bittersweet moment for us. We know this airport is needed, and of course I love all things that fly. Living next to an airport will be fun. The hard part is, they are gobbling up our playground. For several years, we could brag that nothing stood between us and the Grand Canyon--we could leave my house and ride trails all the way there. Now our path is blocked and getting on the highway is the only way around this new obstacle. In two years, we might not even be able to ride our mules around some of this spectacular country as it gets developed. Well...we were lucky while we were lucky.

It is a grand sight to look over the construction at dusk and see a string of lights blinking in earnest, a linear spectacle completely out of place and disconnected from any other visible signs of civilization. Kailee and I (...maybe the rest of the kids too, if they wake up in time) will watch the airport come to life, alongside the Owl, the Coyote, and the Rattlesnake, innocent spectators to a grand change. We will keep hopping the ledges and climbing the Chute until someone says we can't, enjoying the lucky until its gone.

A Cowbell and Half a Moon

2008-10-12T11:12:00.015-06:00

To Curb-and-Gutter bound souls, the moon is a curiosity of the night-time sky that affects mood and tide, but whose glow is swallowed up in a sea of city lights. Not so in those special places, where moon-shine still bathes the night's landscape with soft white light. The colors of day fade away, and the world becomes black and white like an old western movie, awash in shades of gray punctuated by the sharp black lines of moon-shadow.

This weekend was a three generation pack trip into Hop Valley. My brother and I took a couple of our boys and my aging father, who just returned from a 2 year absence as a missionary in Alaska, back into our favorite part of Zion National Park. It was many things: Dad hasn't been atop a horse for several decades. Besides a little practice over the past two weeks to get ready for this, two days on my big dunn Molly about wore him out. My five-year-old Preston enjoyed his first real solo trip. He didn't want to come home and would have preferred to stay until we starved him out. Brother Mike and I were breaking Sulpher herd mustangs, him on Allie, and me finishing a 30 day job for some friends on their 2 year old gelding, Rusty.

Before bed, I noticed Doc, the 6 month old mule we brought to tag along was gone. I recently weened him, and had left his momma home. All day he had been with his coral mates and I didn't sense much need to worry. SHOOT! Not again! When these babies want a drink of Milk, they don't care what stands in their way! Sure he was headed home, I saddled my Molly, and headed off into the dark, alone, to find him. Molly's cowbell still fastened to her neck, we climbed out of the canyon's sandy bottoms and up the rocky trail to the top of the Mesa. The moon was about half lit, boldy marking the trail. Cold, clear air filled my lungs and the clank of cowbell sounded in perfect rythm to Molly's stride. The brilliant red cliffs had lost their color, standing gray against the night sky. Doc was up top just where I thought he would be, on his way home to momma. All alone, he was glad to see me, but wasn't in the mood to follow me back. I haltered him and began the long descent back to camp, glad of heart that I didn't lose my little mule in this Lion infested wilderness, glad of ear for the sound of Cowbell, and glad of eye for the light of half a moon to get me down the trail.