C'Urban Guttered Mule

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up Short Creek without a Camera

STOCK PHOTO

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is Swell in San Rafael

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Optometry Intern

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

So Damon Mortenson comes along about 2 months ago. It is his final rotation. The school doesn't warn their interns that I'm a salty young cowboy who doesn't know a thing about golf. You know, in my chosen profession, golf is high art, and mule skinners are critically endangered. I doubt there is another skinner that writes, O.D. after his name. Damon soon learned that it wasn't a test in high society that he needed to pass for my final signature, but a ride up the Haslem trail with me. The Haslem trail puts hair on one's chest (unless you are one of my daughters), and stimulates a dizzying array of emotions based on height--but rewards the effort with the grandest spectacle on earth.

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

(I'm really gonna miss that kid!)

Calamity got a Haircut and a Job

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

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

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

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

She was...

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

Rusty is a Dad again...

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

Boys Will Be Gone...

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

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

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

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

I think I swallowed my cell phone.

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

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

The Honest Scrap Award

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

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

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...