“Legacy” Episode 12 “The Forever Feeling”

Dusk is now a memory as day has slipped into night. The mountains, so omnipresent in their granite splendor, have taken on their cloak of darkness and hidden themselves for the evening. The cattle ,in the vast and unseen meadow, low as they graze contentedly, their march now at a temporary halt. They’ll remain here for a day or so, until the rest of the herd is gathered. Ted and I ride the last hundred yards at a lope, eager to step down from the saddles that seem to have become permanently attached to our backsides. Heading for the temporary corrals to the west of the camp, I can make out the shadowy out line of your figure, as you come to meet us. Stepping down from Tico, the soreness is almost overwhelming, but turning toward you, the anticipation of your touch prevails. Ted volunteers for the task of tending to our horses, leaving me the opportunity to properly greet my bride to be.

Our bodies and lips meet in unison making way for the overwhelming tide of emotion that we’ve come to know and love. More than mere passion, it’s a oneness that’s indescribable, a unity that’s incomprehensible. Our hearts leap in the midst of our embrace, two souls intertwined in lurid splendor. As we finally part, ever so slightly, I look into your eyes, twinkling in the glow of the camps evening fire. Their focus intent, their love immense, I feel they can see into my innermost being. I gently brush away a small strand of hair from your cheek. A faint sigh escapes your lips, as I softly whisper “I love you”. We walk to camp, slowly, hand in hand, gazing at each other, in the carefree way of lovers. We speak of the days events, but our words are lost in the overwhelming feeling that flows between us.

As we approach camp, we part with a peck, you going to help Elizabeth with the after dinner chores, and me in search of food and, hopefully, a hot cup of coffee. Coleman lamps hanging from tent flies offer supplemental illumination to the campfire,now ringed by the ranch hands, weary from the days workload, but not too weary to engage in the age old practice of yarn spinning. As we approach, I can hear one of the older hands offering up a tale that I ‘m sure I remember from my youth. Although it’s been repeated many times, around many different campfires, It always involves a grizzly bear, a jammed Winchester, and a Bowie knife. The bear always loses by the way, and the tale teller always has a scar to prove it.

Elizabeth has a few plates set back for those of us who have been straggling in since suppertime. Her dutch oven stew is a welcome change from the dust that I’ve been eating all day. There’s not much that can match my sisters culinary prowess when it comes to camp cooking. She comes by it honestly. People still talk about my mothers acumen with a skillet and some fatback.

Sopping up gravy with a homemade biscuit, I turn to survey the scene around me. There’s the wranglers still engrossed in their tall tales, a few having become “smore” assemblers. The more prudent and weary can be seen in silhouette on the canvas of the tents as they prepare for a much deserved nights sleep,walking to and fro in front of the lanterns,oblivious to what parts of their anatomy are casting the shadows. With ladies in camp,I must make a note to myself to speak to them about this rather unseemly peep show.

Then there’s the stars. There is nothing as awesome as a rocky mountain sky during roundup. A billion stars shine more brightly here than anywhere. The combination of altitude, air quality, and total lack of ambient light make the milky way more than just a concept. It’s a canopy of light that seems so close that it can almost be touched. It’s layer upon layer of flickering, twinkling,orbs that,observed in this setting, become curtains of brilliance. So many that they become as clouds of white encompassing the lustrous belt that runs from the farthest peaks to the opposite horizon.

Staring at this magnificent display, I’ve become so engrossed that I failed to notice the impending ambush set to befall me. From behind, you slide your arms around my waist and give a quick jerk, at which I let out a grunt. “ I was beginning to feel a little neglected” you say as you lift my arm over your head and place it on your shoulder. “There I was, looking all around camp for my cowboy, and I finally find him standing alone in the dark, staring at the sky.” I pull you closer and gently kiss your hair. “I’m sorry. I thought you we’re busy with my sister.” Looking up at me, you reply“ That’s a word that seems so out of place up here. ‘Busy’ is a word that belongs to the city. I don’t think we should use it anymore. OK?” “ I couldn’t agree more. From now on, no more ‘busy’.” We stand in silence as one, eyes and souls transfixed on the spectacle above us. Finally, I look around to see a saddle blanket draped over a fallen log. Picking it up, I shake it out and spread it deftly on the grass at our feet. The others have gone to bed by now , and we spend the next few hours alone, sitting, talking and enjoying each other wishing and hoping that tomorrow will be just like this. Dad used to call it “the forever feeling”. It’s what mom and dad had until the day they passed. It’s what I hope to have with you.

“Wyoming Code of Ethics”

                                                                                                                                                      

In March 2010, Wyoming became the first state to come up with a code of ethics. As it had to be cleared and adopted by the state legisature, you can guess how long this took. After much haggling, jerry manderring, pork bellying, comprimising, and fist fighting, this is what they came up with. We’re all thanking God that they worked it out. Heaven knows how currupt and unethical cowboys are. We surely would have gone to hell if our representatives hadn’t stepped in.
1. LIVE EACH DAY WITH COURAGE. 

2. TAKE PRIDE IN YOUR WORK. 

3. ALWAYS FINISH WHAT YOU START. 

4. DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE. 

5. BE TOUGH, BUT FAIR.

6. WHEN YOU MAKE A PROMISE, KEEP IT.

7. RIDE FOR THE BRAND.

8. TALK LESS AND SAY MORE.

9. REMEMBER THAT SOME THINGS
    AREN’T FOR SALE.

10. KNOW WHERE TO DRAW THE LINE.

“Because it’s Friday”

Sometimes a sense of adventure requires very little sense at all.

The advent of spring is an amazing and wonderous thing in our little valley. Gone are the dark days of January, the frigid nights of February, and the blustery days of March. It’s April in Jackson Hole, and although the snow refuses to release it’s grasp upon the mountains, and the temperatures rarely reach into the fifties, it’s spring and time for release.

  So the other day, my buddy Brad calls, and says he’s got the truck and an itchin’ for some fishin’.So, gathering up all the responsibility I can muster, I tell him that I’ve got an afternoon meeting, I’m behind on the weekly reports,And the computer is giving me fits, and I’ll probably be buried all weekend.  “I’m right out front” he says. “Let me grab my coat” says I, and so it begins; another springtime Friday afternoon.

  As I throw my fishin’ tackle behind the seat and clamber into the passenger side, I start this little encounter with my conscience. I already know whose going to win, but for whatever reason, I have to go through this meaningless exercise. It usually goes something like this… What I’m doing is no different from what tens of thousands of men are doing at this very minute. The only difference being location, apparel, and activity. Please allow me to explain.

  Brad and I pull away in search of the browns, the cutthroats, and the Mackinaws, while our counterparts, in the city, are in search of their own catch. They are the lowlanders, and the dudes, many of whom will invade our paradise this summer, but for now they are abandoning their offices, and briefing their secretaries on which excuse to use in case the wife calls. While we cruise up the road sipping coffee and gnawing on a quick stop breakfast burritos, they’ll be grabbing a warm beer and a wrinkled up ballpark frank. We’ll soon be cinching up a pair of waders, and they’ll be loosening their ties and shedding their suits. After all, it’s Friday. It’s spring. If  I need say more, you must be a girl. You see, It really doesn’t matter the type of  fish or game you’re after. Whether it be a lake trout pulled from the icy waters of the Snake River, or a victory seized in the friendly confines of Wrigley field, the joy is not really in the outcome, it’s in the activity itself.

  And so, we’re off. It’s time to hit the road, but first to the gas station. Then we’ve got to stop at Stone Drugs to buy a fishing license and worms. Yeh, that’s right. The same guy that sells  suppositories, sells worms. Then we’ve got to stop at the ATM. I guess this is just in case the trout won’t take a debit card. I think that’s just about everything. We may make it out of town before dark.

  Driving north out of Jackson is quit an awesome experience in itself. To the east is the elk refuge. It is the winter home to over five thousand. In addition to that, there are the buffalo, the rocky mountain bighorns, the coyotes, and a few deer and mountain lions thrown in the mix. As we crest the hill, above the fish hatchery, to the west is the first sight of the Tetons, a sight so awe-inspiring that first time visitors often slam on their brakes and stop in the middle of the road to take a picture. This practice, by the way, is frowned on by the locals, and local law enforcement. I must admit, however, that, having taken this road hundreds of times, I’m  still awe-struck at the grandeur of these mountains.. Today, the weather couldn’t be better as a few wispy clouds dance across the peaks. The craggy, granite  slopes and canyons cloaked in a deep coat of white glisten in the afternoon sun. An author once described the Tetons as “sharks teeth against the sky”.  I guess I’d have to agree with him.

  We drive across the miles of sagebrush flats on our way toward Moran junction. The landscape is dotted with elk. They’re in the midst of their spring migration, and every few miles we see them, sometimes a few and sometimes a few dozen, walking single file and heading north toward the high country. Some will settle for lesser elevations in and around Grand Teton National Park, some will press on to the lofty elevations of the Yellowstone thoroughfare. There they’ll spend their summer, before the crisp air and occasional snows of autumn signal their imminent return.

  As we slow to make a left turn, toward the park, at Moran junction, I’m reminded of something I’d heard earlier that morning.”I hear #610 and her cubs are out of hibernation. I think she’s been seen up here around Oxbow Bend.” #610 is a designation given this particular Grizzly sow by the wildlife biologists. Her mother is #399. She’s also seen quite often, which is a rarity. The pictures you see of people feeding the bears from their cars were probably taken back in the sixties. Back then the dumps in the park were often near the campgrounds and the roads. Since then, Yellowstone has cleaned up their act by moving the dumps to more remote locations and making them and also the refuse containers near populated ares more bear secure. Hense, there’s very little bear activity and less “incidents”. This is a cute little term invented by the park service to ease the fears of those that might become upset by the term “mauling”.

  We make our way down the winding road toward Oxbow bend in relative solitude. In a few months, this road will be frequented by wall to wall RVs and motor homes. For now, it pretty much belongs to the locals.As we round the corner, Mt. Moran comes into view. This summer, her majestic presence will be reflected in the waters of the Snake River, making this a favorite spot for photographers. Spring, however, has not yet made much of an impact on the ice hiding the river below it,nor have the Aspen trees along its banks begun to bloom. One more turn and we’re at Oxbow Bend. So, it appears is half of Jackson Hole. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one  to hear about #610. There’s about twenty cars parked at the turnout. Cameras, tripods, and lenses of all kinds at the ready to capture any sighting, or even a glimpse of the great bear and her brood. So much for solitude. Having no interest in crowds of people, and no place to park for that matter, we opt to keep going. It’s only a few more miles upriver to the dam at Jackson Lake, and we’re thinkin’ the trout there might be hungry.

  Pulling into the parking lot, it’s obvious that lake fishing will have to wait awhile. The lake is a solid sheet of white from the dam to the mountains on the other side. The only clear water to be seen is below the dam, and that’s where we’re headed. There’s only two cars in the lot. That’s the good news. The bad news is that one of the occupants is fishing our favorite eddy. This particular spot is a nice wide swirling pool about forty yards from the base of the dam. Its relative calm in the presence of the roaring waters passing through the flood gates make it a natural for some huge Mackinaws. As we pull on our waders and prepare our gear, we watch with envy our interloper as he seems to be catching a fish with every other cast. Nothing very big, but plenty large enough to make us sneer and grumble in his direction as we make our way to the rivers’ edge.

  Brad has this little “sure-fire” method for catching fish. It’s reminiscent of a method my grandfather used to use. Although he doesn’t smoke, Brad lights up a cigar and blows on his lure before casting it. Grandpa used to chew tobacco. So he’d spit on his lure. I doubt that it helped, but the ones he landed were cross-eyed from the nicotine buzz. I moved downstream from Brads position about fifty or sixty yards, waded out about knee high and let ‘er fly. My first cast soared two thirds of the way to the other shore. It was then that I discovered that I should have probably put a little more line on the old Zebco when I replaced it the other day, (and by the way, shut up. don’t act like you’ve never done the same thing.)and there I was “Stren-less” looking at my empty spool, trying to think of a way to save face in this situation. I dabbled with the idea of continuing to cast for a little longer, hoping that Brad wouldn’t notice the lack of line and lure, but I gave up on that little diversion when I looked upstream at my old buddy, who was laughing hysterically at my plight so hard that he was choking on his cigar.

I stowed the rest of my gear in the truck and decided to take a little walk, while  Brad continued fishing. On one hand I hoped that he’d catch a bunch of fish and have a great time. On the other, I hoped he’d snag three or four lures in the rocks and snap off the end of his new Eagle Claw fishing rod. “Forgive me Lord, but I’m only human.” I walked across the dam and down the road, each step taking me further from the roar of the water.The road follows the shoreline, and as I wander , I reach a point where the air becomes still and time becomes irrelevant. The lake is laid out before me like a table of white linen. Mt. Moran; rising abruptly from the other side. the stillness is broken by a quiet rustling in the willows no more than fifty feet to my right. It’s a moose resting peacefully, his gaze fixed on the same vista. We, together, share the moment; a peace, indescribable.

The truck comes rumbling down the road, and with its sound, the spell is broken. Brad has found me, and civilization awaits.As I climb in, I point out the moose, still in its resting place, undeterred by our presence. “Well, I got a few strikes, but their mouths are really soft, so no trout today” says Brad. “yeah I guess all the hard mouth fish were in that eddy the other guy was fishin.” My comeback was obviously a lot more funny to me ’cause all I got was a smirk. So, it’s back toward town we go. With a sense of melancholy, I observe that the mountains just aren’t the same through the rear view mirrors.

 The road takes a gentle turn to our right, and Oxbow Bend is once more in sight. There’s only a couple of cars there now. Evidently, our favorite Grizz has come and gone, or she cancelled her performance altogether. We decide to stop anyway. This place is home to  an abundant variety of wildlife, bears or no bears. Eagles, osprey, Geese, ducks, swans, and more, are plentiful here. As we pull into the turnoff, one of the two remaining cars pulls out, chugging its way toward Jackson. Brad deftly avoids two large pot holes, only to hit one, large enough to swallow a small catamaran, dead center. I wish I could convey to you the feeling one gets from spilled coffee as it saturates your inner thigh, but so far this story is G rated. The other car in the turnout is unoccupied, and I look to see if there are any tracks leading toward the river. As ridiculous as it sounds, It’s not out of the question for these people to cross the river in search of a photo-op on the bears’ own turf. Don’ be suprised.It happens all the time, with less than happy endings. Remember the term “incidents”?

 To illustrate my point, or maybe because I like a good rabbit trail, let me tell you my favorite “stupid tourist story”. I was travelling through Yellowstone one summer afternoon. Surrounded by RVs, SUVs, Motor Homes, Trailers and vehicles of every shape and size, I was actually making pretty good time, when all at once, I came across the dreaded “buffalo jam”. This is what we call it when all traffic comes to a screeching halt. Doors fly open,people fly out, sanity is lost, all for the sake of an animal that has ventured out of the woods and is now visible from the road. It could be as photo worthy as a seven point bull elk, or as menial as a coyote looking for road kill. In this case, it’s a buffalo resting lazily beside a marsh. As I sit in my mounting frustration and self righteousness (or was it a Chevy Blazer), I notice one couple in particular, more adventurous than the rest, moving way too close. The husband was gesturing wildly toward his mate, and yelling in some kind of Asian dialect. The wife was peering through a camera lens, waving and yelling out directions. Suddenly, as if his brain was removed by aliens, he reaches out and grabs one of the behemoths horns with both hands, and tries to jerk it to it’s feet. Apparently, a standing buffalo makes a better picture in Korea. The result of this exercise should be obvious, unless your from Korea or California of course. The good news is that he spent the rest of his vacation being life flighted to a regional hospital with a ruptured spleen and various broken bones and contusions instead of the morgue. The bad news is that there weren’t more people there to witness the mos awesome buffalo launch I’ve ever seen. That sucker cleared twenty feet easily.

  Brad pulls his binoculars from the truck as I scan the opposite side of the river. Hundreds of tracks in the snow make it obvious that #610 is indeed out of hibernation and has been working the area pretty hard. Although not in sight, the incessant sound of honking coming from the geese, swimming in open water just upriver, make it clear that  she’s close by. We stood in silence surveying the scene for quite a while with our eyes focused on several paths we thought she might take. With no results, we were about to pack it in. Out of the corner of my eye I detect movement in the willows about a hundred yards downriver. I nudge Brad with my elbow, but it’s not necessary. He’s seeing the same thing tha I am. There she is. Massive in her girth, beautiful in her presence. There’s nothing in these mountains that conjures emotion quite like a grizzly. Awe, delight, fear, there all combined. It’s like your heart stops and so does time. As she lumbers up the opposing shoreline, the sunlight catches her fur, the color changing with each rolling step, the luster and sheen shifting with every move. She disappears into the willows as suddenly as she appeared. Brad and I look at each other and let out a breath that , it seems we’ve been holding for sometime without knowing it. “Nice” Brad utters. “Wow” is all that I come up with in reply. We look back to the willows hoping, but the moment’s past. She’s gone, but she left us with one of those moments that we’ll not soon forget; a memory that reminds us of why we live here.

  As we head south, climbing the grade before the Snake River overlook, the sun finally disappears behind the Tetons. Deepening gray replaces the glistening white of their snow covered slopes. A country ballad plays softly on the radio as the lights of Jackson come into view, still far off, but a twinkling reminder that our adventure is fading away like the sun, now a glowing ember in the west. In reflection, I think of the things I should have done today. What would make a man so irresponsible. Why would I shirk my duties with such a frivolous trip. I sit pondering this dilemma for a moment, and only a moment, when the obvious answer comes to me….because it’s Friday.

 

“Saddle Sense”

Just a few thoughts to help you through your day.

” The next time you’re in a pickle, don’t tell God about the size of the storm, tell the  storm about the size of your God!’

“If God is your co-pilot, switch seats.”

“Always drink upstream from the herd.”

“The only good reason to get on a bull is to meet a nurse.”

“In some circles, eight seconds isn’t nessesarily a good ride.”

“Before you get on a horse, ‘better get ready for the ride.”

“The worlds’ shortest book; “Sheepherders I’ve met while yachting.””

“If you’ve never fallen off a horse, you probably haven’t ridden long enough.”

“Never squat with your spurs on.”

“If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.”

“The timin’ of a raindance has a lot to do with its’ outcome.”

“The next time you think you’re a man of great influence, try orderin’ someone elses dog around.”

“Behind every succesful rancher is a wife with a job in town.”

“Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction”

” There’s something about the outside of a horse that does something for the inside of a man”  Winston Churchill

“There’s never been a horse that can’t be rode, and there’s never been a cowboy that can’t be throw’d.”

” Courage is being scared to death, but saddlin’ up anyway.” John Wayne

” Never slap a man that’s chewin’ tobacco.”

” There’s two theories about about winnin’ an argument with a woman. Neither one works.”

” Don’t let your yearnings get bigger than your earnings”.