Mustangs and Marriage

The way to marital bliss is long and tortuous for many of us men. The language of love that our women speak comes from outer space and we often stumble through life learning a word here, a gesture there, and a phrase or two along the way.

My good brother Mike, for example, kept telling his wife that her favorite horse was a worthless bronc. Hey, what else can you say about a 3 year old Mustang that she rescued from the BLM. It was gentled enough to handle, but who wants to risk their life trying to ride the thing, since no one has ever even tried? Why couldn't she see his concern for their safety? So, with the high price of hay and all, why not sell her to the Elmer's Glue people and be done with it? It just makes perfect sense.

He was wearing out the couch, which is a side effect of sleeping on it. And if that isn't bad enough, the sting of wondering what he said wrong that felt so right, was pure puzzlement.

I dunno Mike. Why don't you bring that widow-maker over and lets mess around with her a little? Whoa... looky there, picture proof of the potential your wife kept insisting was there. That horse is no killer! Riding Allie for your wife was a little phraseology in the pure mother tongue-of-love. Now repeat it over and over so you don't forget how to say it...now that you are all rested up from sleeping on a REAL mattress!

Pics of Mike on Allie's virginal ride, Saturday--these are the real deal:

Cotton Rosser: Cruel?

True Story: This scene was witnessed by my friend Glen Bundy at the Dixie Roundup a few years ago.

Big strapping Bulldogger asks gently-- "Why ya' protesting the rodeo, son?"

PETA Protester responds with shrill confidence-- "Rodeo is cruel and inhumane to animals!"

Bulldogger, completely flumoxed-- "Well son, it was cruel and inhumane the day your momma had you, but she did it anyway, didn't she?"

I woke up to this headline about Cotton Rosser in the Deseret News after the Ute Stampede in Nephi one July morning: Rodeo contractor is accused of cruelty . There will never be a shortage of kooks in this world. Unfortunately, the animal welfare movement has been hijacked by the most frayed ends of the fringes. They often create more abuse than they stop on several different levels. Take for example the current despair in the horse market. The recent banning of horse slaughter in the U.S. has eliminated one viable outlet for horses that have outlived their usefulness, and it came at the climax of other pressures like soaring property, energy, and hay costs. Now, the horse rescues are full and begging for hay; the horses that do see slaughter are enduring horrific conditions during transport to Mexico or Canada; the BLM is seeing the illegal abandonment of horses on public land; and more and more horses are found starving and neglected on farms that can no longer afford to keep up with the spiraling cost of feeding them. UPDATE: Speaking of KOOKS, here is another example of the unintended consequences and moral bankruptcy of these groups in my local evening news.

Rodeo. The greatest show on Earth...one of the most patriotic pieces of Americana in the sporting world, happens to be about the cushiest job most livestock could ever hope to have. They work mere seconds at a time, a couple of times a week during the Rodeo season. They live long and prosperous lives. Rodeo cowboys on the other hand, use themselves up chasing the dream. Its a grand spectacle.

This week we celebrated the heady goodness of Rodeo with family and friends at the Dixie Roundup. Centered around our livestock, we paraded, and pranced across town and around the old Sunbowl as part of the pre-show Grand Entry. I sure ejoyed sharing it with my sisters who I rarely see, my parents who just got home from a mission in Alaska, and one of my employees whose family was seeing it for the first time through New Hampshire eyes. Kayla, you were cute on that long-eared horse!

How to Pick Your Friends

A unique friendship bloomed out on the ranch this summer. The calf that was born on Doc's due date has taken a real shine to him. The calf free-ranges around the place, slipping in and out of her mother's corral with ease. Lately, the calf spends an unusual amount of time next to Doc's stall playing footsie and nosie with him.
When we let Doc out of his stall, the two of them chase each other like new puppies. They tear up one side and down the other at breakneck speed.

It must be his magnetic personality. The dogs think Doc makes a pretty cool mate too. Why do we forget how to play when we grow up?

Back Country Forest Service

laccolith - Collaborative International Dictionary of English v.0.48 :
Laccolite \Lac"co*lite\, Laccolith \Lac"co*lith\, n. [Gr. ? a
cistern + -lite, -lith.] (Geol.)
A mass of igneous rock intruded between sedimentary beds and
resulting in a mammiform bulging of the overlying strata. --
Lac`co*lit"ic, a.
[1913 Webster]

A Giant Laccolith stands sentinel at the Southernmost edge of the Great Basin, overseeing the timeless meeting of three grand formations. Safely behind her, the Great Basin and its Rocky Mountain peaks rise proudly into thin, cool air. To her East, the Colorado Plateau boldly intrudes with its flattering array of thrones and slot canyons. Zion National Park graces this triune meeting with ambassadorial pomp and Plateau style. Gazing South, Pine Valley Mountain and Zion's Kolob formations look down upon the unlikely third member of this forced meeting, a fire breathing dragon. The Mojave Desert's furnace bellows a refining fire and forges its own needled beauty that warns, Just Look, Don't Touch! The geologic battle of these three titanic personalities has produced gold medal geography of singular character. To know Pine Valley Mountain and the scenery she lords over, is to love her.

The summit trail divides Pine Valley Mountain's East and South slopes from her West and North slopes. Meandering purposefully through dense forest and wet meadow, this trail follows her reverse L formation, rising and falling against her rugged topography. Nine steep trails climb from below to bisect the Summit trail and provide access to her lofty secrets. Mother Nature wages a constant effort to reclaim and recapture them using fire, flood, avalanche and erosion. It isn't easy keeping them open. Since Pine Valley Mountain is designated Wilderness area, motorized equipment is prohibited. All travel and trail clearing is restricted to primitive methods (ie. no bulldozers, backhoes, or chainsaws.)

One organization thrives on wilderness travel and is well tooled for clearing wilderness trails the old-fashioned way-- the Back Country Horsemen of America. These guys know how to pack a mule and they carry saws that you won't find at your local hardware store. On the third weekend of August, our local chapter partnered with the Forest Service and set up a statewide invitational service project clearing 7 miles of tangled trail from South Valley to the Forsyth/Summit trail junction. 23 people from around the state and 28 stock showed up to help--nine of which were pack animals. We cleared 4 miles of the trail moving south and contributed 1,049 volunteer man hours over the three day work project. We were honored to have Terry Morrison, President Elect for the national organization and his wife Linda, as well as some of our state leaders present.

Even the little ones got to help. Preston and Sunnie came with Chantra and me. They tended horses, entertained camp, and did some small brush clearing of the trail. Fred Leslie, our state's current chairman dropped a green log on his big toe that was so heavy, he couldn't pull loose from it and 5 men could barely budge it after several minutes of trying. He tried not to limp the rest of the weekend.

Freddy Dunn and her husband Larry were there. Freddy, our chapter Chairman spearheaded and organized the logistical details. She also fed us all. Thanks Freddy for the REAL food! It was all from scratch and the product of a lot of work. The evening campfire was warm as Chantra shared her family's journey throught Cambodia's Killing Fields.

We learned a thing or two about packing from Craig Allen, Carol Lang, Larry Newton and Ron and Kathy Jensen. As part of our no-trace camping, someone had to load that panyard with all 45 pounds of solid human waste contained in "Wag bags" onto a pack animal. Glad I didn't have to follow that one out...I guess its possible to carry all kinds of (NO SWEARING PLEASE)on the back of a mule.

Travis and Misti Blake were ready with vet supplies. Two horses got ill with colic and one cut a foot just above the hoof pretty bad. All three ailments could have been tragic losses, but ended up mere inconvenience in their care.

Rochelle Bromley, Debbie Cox, and Laura Lojko made a marathon day out of Saturday. They rode around 27 miles that day, coming up, clearing trail, and getting back off the mountain.

Thanks to Dave Nilson, Frank Callagee, and Roger and Crystal Phillips for their logistical support at the trailhead. They ferried animals, riders, and parked outfits so that we could pull it off. Its amazing what we can accomplish when we get off our asses and work like rented mules! For the Back Country Horsemen, this is the high life!

The Eyes Have It

"Mom! Look! There are cracks in the sky!"

The life of any Optometrist is filled with "which is better, one or two?" punctuated with an occasional save that is SO spectacular, that just one patient makes your whole career worth him or her alone. There are a handful of these and I can recount them all.

Over the past two weeks, I met young Sara (HIPPA forbids me from giving her real name.) At the age of five, she had never seen her world. Her eyes were so far-sighted that she had never been in focus and her brain had never learned to see. Even at the exam when I put the proper lenses in front of her, she didn't know how to process the suddenly-focused detail--still only seeing 20/400.

Her mom has been back in our office a couple of times already, full of emotion, stunned at the change in her daughter. Yesterday, it was to share the "lightning" story. She is horrified that she used to berate her daughter for being so blind, never sensing that it was the truth. Now in focus, nature takes over and Sara's brain is learning to see things for the first time. Every day, Mom gets to see things for the first time through five year old Sara's eyes. What a gift!

Two Trails, One Road

The smell of bacon tickled my palate, lifting me out of my sleep a little earlier than usual this morning. Last night's slumber party was just a ruse to throw us off the scent--it was really all about Operation Bed'n Breakfast. Half the neighborhood slept here--floors, couches, chairs--anywhere they could find a place. At least 10 teen-aged creatures got up at 4:30 am to fix Mom and me breakfast in bed. We even found a couple of undocumented workers helping with the morning chores.

Nineteen years ago, a Khmer Princess, fresh from the horrors of Cambodia's Killing Fields, married a spoiled, small town hayseed, fresh from his Mormon Mission. Two perpendicular trails merged into one parallel road. I love you, Sweetheart. Happy Anniversary!

Neither Dictator nor King (the Wind Rivers)

Link to Year 2
Link to Year 3
Link to Year 4

Now rest your eyes on this [view] as far North as Halls and Middle Fork lakes and to the high peaks on the horizon. In my opinion, neither Dictator nor King has a more divine land elsewhere on the Globe. Wind River Trails by Finis Mitchell p. 78

If anyone knows that of which he speaks, it is Finis Mitchell. He was describing the location and view pictured above. Finis spent his whole life and career in the Wind River Mountains as a guide. It started on a hunt with his father into the Winds in 1906 after moving from Missouri with his family on a span of mules. Most of the 4,000 lakes in this 2.25 million acre range were virgin when he arrived. Finis started a stocking program by hauling fish in 5 gallon milk cans with burlap over the tops for cooling and aeration, all on the backs of pack animals. To this day, many of the lakes are such good habitat for fish that they self sustain.

CLICK HERE FOR PART ONE

Our trip to the Wind Rivers was much anticipated. Of significance, this venture would include the whole family--mom, dad, and all five kids packing a week's supplies on horse and mule into remote wilderness. While we hope that there are many more trips to come, we know that our aging family dynamic and logistics made this a once in a lifetime trip. We also got to share it with my brother Mike and our friend Randy Johnson. Of additional significance, we didn't own a horse or mule two years ago and I was the only one of us with some experience--and all of that, childhood experience. I am not lost on the fact that my family has humored this two year exercise in preparation with perseverance. There are a lot of chores and still, a lot to learn. Getting up that mountain required total focus and a shift in lifestyle. My heartfelt thanks to my wife and kids for allowing this dream to mature. It reminds me of the ancient wisdom If you see a man on a mountain, you can be sure he didn't fall there. Nothing could be more true. I also give heartfelt thanks to my Heavenly Father who allowed me to share this magnificent experience with my family without incident. Neither child, nor animal was harmed in the making of this memory (except the fish we ate and the marmot my dog Rooster diligently hunted down to be delivered at my feet.)

Our first night was spent in the densely wooded shores of Divide Lake. We were so abused by the mosquitoes that we nearly packed up and came straight back home. We hid in our tents all evening and witnessed our horses completely bloodied by the onslaught. We decided that Mike and I would go exploring for a better campsite the next morning before we gave up. We did find that place and promptly moved camp to the shores of Crescent Lake which was both prettier and more exposed to the wind. Our secret to surviving the mosquito war was simply timing and location. There were two hours in the morning and evening when the air was still enough that we had to hide from them. Otherwise, we could tolerate the breezy daytime and after dark, we were free.

Mike and I did a lot of riding. We logged a total of 65 miles start to finish. No one else wanted to join us on our discovery, but we sure soaked up a lot of beauty through the week. From the rivers and lakes at the base of the peaks to the North, to the quaint Ranger cabin on the shores of Cross Lake near the Highline trail, we wanted to see what was around every corner. Meanwhile, the view from the master suite back at camp was so good, everyone else was content to fish, read, and play games. We did get finally get the family to wander over to the Cross Lake Cabin for a photo-op the day before packing back out.

After the mosquitoes went to bed on the edge of darkness, we came alive around our campfire each night. Food, stories, and music warmed the cooling air.

As the firelight faded about 1:00 am Wednesday morning, 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?

At dawn, the great drama went to rest in the mist hovering over the glassy water, lying to wait for the next still night when a man would sit on her banks and listen to His story.

Wild West, Frontier Towns Live On

This post is just a teaser. About 2 am this morning, we got back from our week-long pack trip into the Wind River mountains of South West Wyoming--specifically Sublette County. It is Ranch and Natural Gas country with cowboy grit and a distinctly old-west air. The headline photo above is last Thursday's front page of the Pinedale Roundup. It speaks volumes about the nature of that place. In our curb-and-guttered world, we have insulated ourselves from the harsh realities this rugged country takes in stride. The result? Our trusty friend Common Sense took ill and passed on. Fortunately, some places hold a majority of people who still remember her. I suspect South West Wyoming is such a place.

We pulled 10 horses/mules and nine people over ten hours of highway. My brother Mike and I were quite surprised as we drove north from Evanston to the Scab Creek Trail head. For 3 hours (about midnight to 3 am) we didn't see another moving vehicle. Even as we passed through Kemmerer, LaBarge, and Big Piney, we didn't see a soul. It was like the night before Christmas--SouthWest Wyoming was completely asleep.

For six days and six nights, we lived in bear and wolf country. We didn't see any of the big game we had hoped, and learned when we got back off the mountain that the only real wildlife we were close to was the Rainbow family that had descended on the Big Sandy like an unwelcome cloud of mosquitos. We did eat a lot of fish, see some breathtaking country, and fight our own unwelcome clouds of mosquitos. I guess we could have taken our vacation on some beach, relaxing in some nice hotel. Instead we spent a bazillion dollars, worked our guts out for two years getting people and animals prepared, then worked ourselves like rented mules for the entire week of vacation. When you see the next post and photos, you may understand why it was worth it.

Minnie Pearl and the young Skinner

She only had one chart hit in her whole career, a spoken-word answer song to Red Sovine’s “Giddyup Go.” But through the sheer force of her character-driven comedy, she became a country music icon all the same, one of the most instantly recognizable faces in the history of country music. Quoted at Country Universe 100 Greatest Women, #40: Minnie Pearl

Last week, we bought the neatest little mule. We weren't really looking too hard, but in the back of our minds, we knew that Chantra was probably never going to feel comfortable riding anything very big--and all my mules are big (or fixing to grow up big.) When we went to see her, we could see that she had been well raised. She is gentle and respectful. The family we bought her from handled her often and took her along on their trips--so she got the same kind of start we do with our babies. She is two years old this month and they had ridden her twice around the yard.

Apparently she was a mistake. When they bought her mother (pictured below), no one knew that she was pregnant. This poor little paint pony had been covertly molested by some Jack and a few months later (June 2006) these avid horse people had a surprise bundle of half-ass pony.

At 13 hands high, she is really too small for me to ride, so Kailee said she would take the job of breaking and training her for a small fee of course. When she is a high powered lawyer some day, sitting across a board room table from some jerk, Kailee will cherish the lessons she learned on the back of a young mule. After all, no one will want to mess with the girl who started skinning mules at the age of 13. She is learning how to make the wrong behavior really uncomfortable, and the way to ramp up pressure until the right behaviour is a relief. Her future suitors be warned--and not just because I'm a mean Dad. She's got some sweet skills and a developed sense for not being manipulated. Forget taking advantage of her.

Today as we rode up a hidden draw near our home, through shimmering heat waves and the piercing noon sun, a coyote appeared on the ledge above us. He (or she) started to bark and howl, not more than 30 or 40 feet away. Every coyote I've ever seen has been on the run, so this unusual display got our attention. Kailee and I stopped our mules and watched for 10 or 15 minutes as this dog paced back and forth, yipping its story--completely unafraid of our presence. I'm glad I didn't have my camera--we would never have seen it.

My Mule Skinner daughter taught Minnie Pearl her first big lesson today--walk down those steep hills, don't run. We practiced over and over until she got it. Good job girls.

Riding into the Hand of God--Hop Valley

The least known part of Zion National Park is the Kolob Canyon formations at the NorthWest corner of the park. Locally, it is known as the Kolob Fingers for its hand-like topography when seen from above. Flying over the Kolob Fingers is something of a religious experience. Pardon the hyperbole, but the view from above is the most beautiful piece of terra firma on this Earth. Six West-pointing fingers and the South-pointing thumb pictured above, dominate a bewildering tangle of slot, crack, and sheer cliff. I have flown into His grasp several times, the wind in my face, soaring with the raptors on the magic carpet of my Powered Parachute. The spectacle evokes involuntary tears every single time. Its natural beauty causes the soul to recoil, as if transfiguration would be required to withstand the view.

I first disovered Hop Valley on a flight over the fingers. A beautiful narrow valley, lush with grass, and a meandering stream that seemed to emerge from the ground on the south end of the valley and disappear into the ground at the foot of a small mountain on the other. The fingers tower at the north end of the valley, rising 2500 hundred feet above, and across a chasm another 1000 feet below, where Hop Valley's creek re-emerges and empties into LaVerkin Creek. It is a choice peice of real estate surrounded by official park, but still private property. Generations of the Lee family of Virgin Utah have run cows in her verdant meadows. We met Alan and some of the family there last fall while on horseback and helped him round up some strays that had wandered into the Park.

This weekend's weather threatened rain, so we looked forward to our planned overnighter into Hop Valley with great anticipation. Riding and camping in the rain is good practice for our summer wilderness trip, and we love it anyway. Defying nature under hat and slicker is good, raw fun. So, prepared for rain, my two daughters, friend Bruce Jenkins, and I decended into the Valley.

The twin smells of wet pine and spring sage blew coldly against our faces as we rode between the myst-shrouded canyon walls. Weather barking more than biting, we got a few sprinkles on the way in, and a gentle, dry rain that sounded like cannon-fire against our tent the next morning. It spat just enough to discolor the vertical sandstone cliffs and scrub the already-pristine air. At bedtime, the sky cleared and we hunted constellations to the sound of a lonely blues harp and the warmth of a fire.

Life's stream wandering through the straight and narrow, a gateway to the very Hand of God--riding Hop Valley is an allegorical journey, rich with metaphor and spiritual overtones. No wonder the ancients feared and revered this place. I often wonder if the general decline in religiosity can be traced to the loss of our night-time sky and our addiction to pavement. Only the most calloused soul could miss the still small voice, or the lions roar of His love in this place.