True Grit

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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.