On a Midnight Clear

     The holiday season was upon us as we ventured into the cold frozen countryside. We were just southeast of Lyman, Wyoming about to film some trophy Mule Deer that were wintering in a particular area. A friend of mine had shown me the site the previous year. I had taken some impressive pictures of massive Mule Deer bucks as they migrated down from the high country and wintered on the flat sagebrush infested prairies of southern Wyoming.
     I had decided to take my wife along with me on this trip. We were going to spend New Year's Eve in Evanston, Wyoming where they had a nice buffet set up and a comedy show in one of the local motels. The weather was cold and somewhat foggy so I figured if the deer viewing was difficult we could always enjoy the comedy show. We had been to this particular show in the past and loved it!
     It was the afternoon of December 31, 1994. We drove out to the viewing area where we anticipated a fun afternoon of driving around and seeing the wildlife as it presented itself for our pleasure. The plan was to film the deer herds and then just at sundown we would travel back to Evanston and check into a motel. As I later learned from the prophet Murphy, and his written law that if something can go wrong it will every time.
     The day went off as planned and the deer herds were in mass with many trophy bucks to be filmed. In fact, the afternoon slipped away very quickly. Before I knew it, I was still trying to get a film of some big bucks close to the road with my headlights. Patty suggested that we had better call it a day. She seemed to have better judgment than I did that day. I was in the rut, sorta speaking while seeing all those monster bucks with massive horns I had lost all sense of time. Finally, it dawned on me that there were two on this trip. If I wanted a nice New Years Eve motel rendezvous I better get heading for town.
     On the way through Evanston earlier in the day, my better half suggested I reserve a room just in case we were late getting back to town. Instead, this old trailblazing, future-seeing Swamy, drove right through Evanston without a second thought. My mind was on those big bucks and the film I would be able to sell if I captured the right moment. In the dark of the evening sky, I realized that I had better put the foot to the pedal and get us back to where we could finish our trip in the comforts of good food and a warm bed.
     We were south of I-80 about twenty miles on snow packed roads. By the time I reached the interstate we had lost another hour or more. I was hurrying along and trying to keep peace in the truck with the other half as the fog settled in and I came to a snail's pace. I could barely see the Chevrolet hood pin out in front of my truck. Very carefully I maneuvered around the winding roads until I came to a stop sign that took us under the I-80 overpass and towards Kemmer, Wyoming. As I came to this road a sign pointed to the left and up the on ramp for I-80 West to Evanston.
     This is where Murphy's law came into play. As I started up the on-ramp, the fog had lifted a little and I was feeling like I had it all wrapped up for the night. I remember putting pressure on the gas pedal. I had resolved myself to making up for lost time. The ramp on the south side of the freeway has a slight curve to it as it starts to connect to the interstate. As I was starting to gain momentum I felt the first feeling that not all was going to work out. As the big Chevrolet truck raced along the curve trying to gain freeway speed, the mother of all black ice slicks raised it's ugly head and sent us sailing out into utter darkness. Now when I say we sailed into the utter darkness that might be a bit of an understatement. I remember yelling to Patty to hold on because we were airborne like the Dukes of Hazard in General Lee. The problem was we were not helmeted up like stunt men and the frozen ground was not a soft landing zone. To put it in another phrase, 'We were flying through the air with the greatest of ease, in our Chev 4x4 without a trapeze.'
     I barely had time to reach over to try and hold Patty's arm down to cushion the impact when we hit the bottom of the barrow pit in a pile of plowed snow. The truck hit with such a force that our heads smacked the ceiling when we reached earth. Staring straight ahead into the fog and snow, I looked over at my wife and used some Army language I had picked up many moons before. We were alright for the most part and Patty was scared but not hurt. I had hit the steering wheel with my thighs bouncing up and had sore leg muscles but the fact that the truck was upright and the engine running made us feel safe.
     The truck had landed in the V portion of the barrow pit where all the snow had collected from the snow plows as they hurled the white ice down off the interstate. The deep snow had lessened our impact or I'm sure we would have broken the truck frame. It was so deep around the truck that I couldn't open the doors. All I remember saying to myself was don't let Patty know you're worried. It was -12 degrees and we couldn't be seen from the freeway. It was nearly thirty feet above us and we were down in a low drain. At least I was prepared for Murphy and his crappy laws, though. I had been working out in the deserts of Nevada in the gold mines and I had been driving on real bad roads to make sales calls etc. My truck was equipped with MRE's (military rations), a shovel, tire chains, water, candles and insulated coveralls. I even had flares and a blanket.
     The first thing I did after climbing out the window was get three flares out and hiked up the berm to the freeway and lit the flares. Then I cleared out the exhaust pipe so I could keep the engine running for Patty and went to work with the shovel. Thinking back as I write this article, I remember being in real good physical shape because I shoveled non-stop for three or more hours. As I would get one part of the truck out of the snow the other side would settle more and I would have to start all over again. Patty would look out at me and try to see if she could get any signal from the expressions on my face. I kept a constant will about me and never let on that I was still in a state of semi-shock. Thoughts were racing as I worked trying to get the truck unstuck. I couldn't figure out why no one was traveling the interstate and I surely didn't think that walking into town twenty miles in sub-zero temperatures was much of an option. Patty would never let me leave her in the truck and she didn't have the proper clothing to make a twenty-mile walk so I just kept shoveling in the dark.
     The truck had rested on about five feet of packed snow so it took me quite a while before I had it cleared away and the tire chains put on all four tires. Finally, I got the truck rocking back and forth until I could move it about ten feet in both directions. I wasn't sure whether I could climb the truck up the steep berm or not. If I could have gotten out of the barrow pit, I felt I had a chance. The snow had melted on the sides of the freeway and you could see frozen hard packed dirt. I literally beat my beautiful truck back and forth until it finally grabbed a chunk of earth and sprung us up along the berm. We were spinning and churning when at last the truck leaped out onto the freeway outside lane. I quickly removed the tire chains and thanked God for his help as we drove towards town.
     The whole ordeal had taken six or more hours. As we came in view of the lights of Evanston I could see flares on the interstate in both directions. We saw a highway patrol officer so we approached him. His eyes lit up like saucers. He walked up to my window and asked where in the hell we came from. The entire time he talked with us he inspected all the snow still holding to my truck. I told him our ordeal and he informed us that I-80 had been closed since five o'clock because of a storm traveling through from Ogden to Rock Springs. The storm had shut down the freeway through Utah and Wyoming. He told us we would have to stay in Evanston until the storm passed and the roads were opened. We told him about our plans and he said good luck with that.
     Now, this is where Murphy's law raises it's ugly head again. We went from motel to motel in the middle of the night only to find out that because of the storm and New Years that all rooms were taken. I was standing in the Antler Best Western Inn being told once again that there was no vacancy by a small onery bald headed man. Just as I was about to leave I heard a sweet voice from the back room of the office interject and say, "Harold you give them kids the keys to the suite." Reluctantly, the small man handed me the keys while the voice in the back said, "You charge them the standard room rate too." Well, the tables turned on old mister Murphy for the second time that night. As I opened the door to the only room in Evanston on New Year's eve 1994 I nearly did a double take. We were staying in the honeymoon suite decked out with a heart-shaped jetted tub that was carved in the floor. The king and his Queen had finally arrived.
     It was too late for the buffet and the comedy show was long past. We resolved ourselves to service station snacks and our beautiful accommodations. I have to say that tub nursed all the sore muscles on this old hardhead and then some. I really lucked out. The room seemed to make up for my mule-headed lack of brains earlier in the night when I tried to set the record for the longest ski jump ever attempted with a 4x4 truck.
     The next day was New Year's day. Patty and I were anxious to get home if the roads were cleared. The good patrons from Utah and Wyoming had worked all night to get the roads in fair shape for the trip home. The only problem was that Murphy wasn't through with me quite yet. As I started the frozen Chevy a loud whining sound came from under the hood. As I lifted the hood my thoughts were confirmed and a steady stream of red liquid was running out of my steering pump housing. The tire chains and the wheels working back and forth on the frozen earth had ruined the pump. I remember looking at the sky and mumbling something to the effect of why me Lord?
     Since it was New Year's day everyone was on holiday. I slammed the hood down just a little extra hard and broke the news to my wife as we sat in the cafe next to the motel and ate breakfast. The waitress was the same voice I had heard the night before giving us the suite. When she heard the news of my broken truck she went into rescue mode. She contacted her brother that had a mechanic's shop in town and he came over and looked at the truck. He said he couldn't get parts until Monday which was two more days away. He asked if I wanted to try something that he thought might work. He was going to try putting an older pump on my truck from one he had in his yard.
     Well to end this story the old pump worked. When I pulled out my money clip to pay him I thought he was going to take it all. My mind couldn't comprehend the words from his mouth when he said that'll be $86.00 bucks and I won't guarantee the work. Guaranteed or not we paid up, thanked many, and hit the road as fast as two weary travelers could go. We spent the rest of our holiday telling the kids about our adventure.
     Lessons learned from Murphy were big on this trip. The next time I get a hair brained idea about gallivanting all over the frozen tundra in the middle of the night, I will remember the look on my wife's face just after touchdown in the barrow pit and realize that our fun happy New Years Eve would be temporarily put on hold while we cleaned out our shorts and prepared for what might come next.

Worn Trails and Hard Times

I have been working on another novel that is a sequel to They Looked West. My wife and I were on location in Eastern Wyoming last week, exploring the trails and trying to get a feel for the terrain. As we arrived in the area that is part of the story, we found ourselves near Old Fort Laramie. This isn't the city of Laramie where the University of Wyoming is located, but a small frontier town located just inside the Wyoming-Nebraska state line along the Platte River. The city of Laramie is on the other side of the divide, Laramie peak, and one hundred and fifty miles separate the two like-named areas. Most people I've talked to when I told them where we were thought I was talking about the modern city of Laramie near present-day Cheyenne. Nothing could be farther from the truth and Fort Laramie is in the middle of nowhere. 
   
As we found ourselves searching for the old Fort area, we were pleasantly surprised to see that the state of Wyoming has preserved the Old Fort and have made a beautiful dedication to the remains that are still standing the test of time. Stepping out of the truck we were greeted by the usual Wyoming wind that is constant throughout the day in that part of the state. The first thing I noticed as we started walking through the Fort buildings area, was how the site was laid out by the Military. The post is wide open for an attack from Indians if they had chosen to do so back in the Indian Wars of the 1860's and 1870's. The Fort is not setup like your normal television western with large timbers standing neatly tied together, and with watch towers and large swinging gates in the front. Fort Laramie is a post consisting of twelve buildings spread out over twenty acres next to the Platte river. The horse corrals are down by the river, offering a tempting treat to the nomads of the plains. The barracks are at least three hundred yards from the corrals, making for a long run to get to the animals in the event of an attack. I'm sure that many a sentry, walking his post along the river at night near the corrals wondered if it might be his last guard duty in this life

   

Across the Platte river, you can see the distant hills for nearly twenty miles in any direction. As I stood there taking pictures of the vast views, I was reminded of how quiet and lonely it must have been for those men stationed on this post. The majority of the buildings still standing were built out of stone and mortar. They looked to be as strong as the day they were built. The stones were cut from a rock quarry that is at least fifteen miles west from the post. A site exists there, with a monument and a hillside, that still bears original rifle pits that the army dug in order to form a defensive position so that rock cutters could do their work without the Native Americans in the area attacking them as they worked. It must have been quite an ordeal to ride through hostile Indians on a daily basis in order to cut and haul rocks to build your post.

   

The old fort post is equipped with a guardhouse, bakery house, livery stables, and a jail with its own solitary confinement cell. There are officers quarters and enlisted men's barracks. The cavalry barracks is setup so that you can walk into the upper floors, where the men slept and the bunks and decor are set up, much like it must have been back in the day. Even the rifles are arranged twelve to a stand ready to be picked up and put into action in a moments notice. Each soldier had their saddles, bridles, sabers, canteens and full field gear neatly hung and ready for immediate use next to their bunks.
   
The post was equipped with several large and small artillery pieces, some were remnants of the civil war while others were modern at the time. A Gatlin gun was in use and the post had its own method for making bullets and reloading spent cartridges. As I walked the compound, it appeared to me that the main event of the day was sitting down and dining. Separate rooms were afforded officers and enlisted men with kitchens in each building. A sign at the post bakery read that every soldier was given two loaves of bread per day in their rations along with other staples to live on.

Very few women were stationed at the post and those that were unfortunate enough to hang out there were high-ranking post commanders wives and families. The soldiers washed themselves and their clothing in the nearby Platte river. When I walked to the river's edge, I could just see the men trying to bear the ice cold water of the river as it flowed from the high Wyoming peaks year round. It was a weekly regulation that enlisted men bathe their bodies. I'm sure that, given the choice, most soldiers would have forgone that duty during the dreadful winter months, but barracks living would have been unbearable with several hundred men living in tight quarters.

   
As you walk the parade grounds you are treated to monumental stands that describe the buildings and surrounding areas. Most of the reading stands have black and white pictures of the era and you can compare the pictures of how it looked back in those bygone days. There is one picture that really interested me, it was a picture of the 1868 Treaty being signed by the Native Americans as they sat in conference with the delegates of the government and put quill to paper for reservation lands. It shows the Indians across the river from the fort with blankets wrapped around their torso sitting in mass, while officers of the government stood and pointed to large maps that were set up for viewing. In the background, you can see the teepees that stretched for miles on end. The picture and article state that there were over twenty thousand Native Americans attending the event that started in early April and continued until late September.
   

Sadly, this treaty, like all the others that the government signed, was broken within months of being initiated. The treaty of 1868 gave all the lands North of the Platte rivers, continuing through the Black Hills, to the Sioux and Cheyenne nations, but when gold was discovered near present-day Deadwood city South Dakota, the government was powerless to stop the hoard of gold seekers traveling into the sacred heart of the Black Hills. War broke out again with the Native American tribes and Fort Laramie, being the father post of the frontier, played a heavy role in facilitating troops and supplies in order to quell the Indian uprising in the surrounding territories.
   
For many years Fort Laramie was the furthest most military post on the frontier. It was started as a fur trading post and then sold privately to the military and became Fort William, later it was renamed, Fort Laramie. The path of the Overland migration routes that worked themselves across this country, routed through Fort Laramie. It was essential, not only for trade but for weary travelers looking for resupply and rest on the long journey to the western horizons of the Rocky Mountains and beyond. The famous Oregon and Mormon trails passed through Fort Laramie on their way to the expansion of the west. Millions of pioneers trekked through the Fort as they traveled to their destinations further up the trail. During hard times with Indian depredations, the Fort offered a safe haven for vulnerable wagon trains heading west. And the post stood for all to see, that the United States of America was committed to the safety and well-being of its citizens in perilous times.

   
While me wife and I were in the area, we visited another Fort on the path west and that was Fort Fetterman. It stands on a lonely hill about fifteen miles north of present day Douglas Wyoming. It was a far reach for the military from Fort Laramie, but it offered more presence in the region during the Indian troubles. History says that the soldiers posted to Fort Fetterman were given the worst duty in the Army. Water and wood needed to be hauled by hand for several miles each day from the Platte river up a steep hill to where the post was located. While I was there looking over the area, the wind was so strong I could hardly stand in one spot without weaving back and forth. I can only imagine, being stationed there during the cold winter months with freezing conditions and barracks life, for entertainment. Those men were living statues of time as they performed their duties in the harsh Wyoming climate.
   
Following the Oregon trail northwest from Fort Laramie, the first view that came into sight for the weary pioneers would be Laramie peak about fifty miles to the west. Before this landmark, the Oregon trail offered countless miles of rolling hills and valley floors filled with buffalo grass for as far as the eye could see. Small waterways crossed the trail and numerous cottonwoods could be seen with their tall expanding foliage in the valleys where the streams had water. Other than several protruding rock formations, such as Scott's Bluff, Chimney rock, and Courthouse Rock, the prairie was void of eye seeing grandeur other than the majestic buffalo which littered the grasslands with their huge hulking forms.

   
Looking at Laramie peak off in the distance the day I was there I couldn't help my thoughts as I wondered just how omnipotent that peak must have been for the Martin, Willey handcart companies, as it came into sight that fateful October of 1856. Reports from the diaries I have read stated that the pioneers could see that Laramie Peak was already snow-capped that year. As my wife and I followed along some of the Oregon trails on this trip, it became apparent how much suffering the pioneers were subjected to. Pushing one of the handcarts into the steady wind that predominantly travels in a Southeasterly direction, would have been enough to break down and ruin most human beings, mentally and physically. Add meager rations, unacceptable fall and winter clothing and scarce protection from storms and night time temperatures and you get the feeling that these Saints were cut from a special heavenly roster, long before their mortal bodies followed the trail to Zion.
   

In our travels researching for my novel, we encountered many landmarks of the old frontier that were still visible today. Worn and beaten, the trail that cuts through the sandstone rock at Oregon Ruts monument was an eye opener. The width of the trail cut through the sandstone shown in my pictures is the same width as a railway track. It wasn't until later in the 1890's that wagons and stages went to a wider gauge track. I was surprised by how narrow the path cut into the rocks were. The day Patty and I went to the monument site, we got an eye opener in the first degree. The Wyoming wind was blowing about 20 miles per hour with a temperature of about 8o degrees. When I drove into the area where a footpath to the monument led, I noticed a sign saying .4 miles to Oregon Trail Ruts. We parked the truck and I mentioned that this should be a slick walk in the park and we would enjoy the time spent walking the path the pioneers did back in the olden days.
   
Taking my camera and wife in hand I set out like it was just another stroll down memory lane. The trail followed the river and after seeing several concrete benches stating In loving Memory of along the trail, I suspected something might not be in harmony with my cakewalk attitude. After a good mile or so I looked at my better half and remarked the usual 'it's just up around the next bend I'm sure.' Well after twenty or more bends in the crooked trail and another mile or so we came across a metal bridge spanning the river and onto a dirt road. Looking up the well-traveled road we could see the monument area another mile up the road. Trudging up the hill, this time, I heard a sound and turned around to see a touring car passing us as its occupants waved and nodded their heads in friendly gestures. Wondering where they came from my wife gave me the look of death. "They must have some kind of road up here for old people," I said as some old gents and their female friends climbed out of the car. Another car passed by as we walked up the dusty road to the visitors center, but this time, I didn't even look up because I knew I was in deep trouble with the misses.
   
Arriving at the monument out of breath and sweating profusely, I tried to make light of the fact that we had reached our destination and it was well worth the effort. We made our way along the path through the Wyoming cedars that tell the story, and we saw the evidence of all that passed through this part of the frontier. The pictures I've posted don't do the trail justice. Those tracks are cut from hard sandstone and to get four or five feet deep over time, boggles the mind on how many wagon wheels it would have taken to grind that hard rock into the wind blowing sand. Footpaths were still visible, as all wagon occupants were probably forbidden from riding in the wagons while descending the steep hill over the rocks. The trails of the pioneers wound back and forth through the buffalo grass and rocks, leaving their traces for all generations to see and feel. My camera was on fire as I tried to capture the moment for all time.

   
When we finished up at the monument the arduous task of walking back to the truck hit us straight in the face in the form of Wyoming wind and heat. On this day the temperature Gods took the degrees up a few notch's, just to teach ole Southwick a lesson, because by the time I finished that walk I was looking like Chevy Chase in Vacation, with a shirt wrapped around my head and a scarlet sunburned face, looking half dead, as he came out of the desert. I really knew I was in trouble when my better half reminded me that I told her she should wear her cowboy boots for the day because we would not be doing much walking. During the last mile of the suffrage march, she opted to take her boots off and walk barefooted the rest of the way because the modern cowboy boot was not made for hiking conditions. I quickly reminded her that I would be fortunate enough to survive myself and make it back to the truck alive but I was not in any condition to carry her along as well. I reminded her of the fact that she would have to be abandoned on the trail like in the old days, for I would be in no condition to come back for her later. This jest on my part didn't quite go over as expected.
   

Finally, the truck came in view and all was forgiven as we gulped down Gatorade and acted like we had just marched across the Mojave Desert in July. Patty burst out laughing as she rehydrated herself and I asked what was so funny? She pointed to the mirror in the truck and told me to look at my face and hair. I had elected not to wear my cowboy hat because of the fierce winds that day, but trail worn wouldn't describe my appearance. My face was beet red except for the raccoon white eyes that my sunglasses had protected, and my hair stood straight up in the air. I looked like I had been dropped from a 747 without a parachute. You'd have thought a raiding party of Cheyenne warriors had run me clear across the Devil's Prairie from one end to the other. Sweating from every pore on my body I couldn't slap down the Gatorade fast enough. Thank goodness the local convenient store was just a short quick mile away or I might have perished. At least we can look at ourselves and laugh sometimes in this life, except it seemed Patty was doing all the laughing.

As I turned the truck around and started to drive back out onto the main road I paused and re-read the sign that said .4 miles. Looking to my left was a nice oiled-down dirt road, graded for car traffic, and the sign was intended for a nice .4 mile drive to the monument theater. A sick feeling came over me as Patty re-read the sign and turned her eyes on the sunburned windblown trail master that had marched her into the unknown prairie abyss. "Well look at it this way, we got our exercise in for at least several days. Since we are on vacation and eating fast foods, it kind of all works out for the best doesn't it?" I asked my wife, as the only sound in the truck was me swallowing.
   
Looking back on the trek, I went back and measured out the hike, we traversed 2.8 miles in and 2.8 hot miles out. Not bad for a set of mid, sixty-year-old timers. I didn't share this information until the swelling in our muscles and sore feet had subsided several days later in both of us. I was five hundred miles from home and the drive back with that knowledge out on the wind would have led to a revolt.
   

Other areas of interest along the great trail were Register rock or cliff. The limestone formation has been inscribed with hundreds of thousands of names from would-be travelers on their way to dreams and new lives in the west. The earliest found and authenticated names and dates on the cliff face is 1792 and 1803. That's almost ten full years before Lewis and Clark started the great exploration west. The rock face is littered with names and dates and as I stood there examining the writing, I couldn't help but get a sense of how immense the migration of souls really was in the short time period that these events took place. Carving names and dates on rock shrines seemed to be the only fun the pioneers had, as they traveled through the foreboding portions of the great American frontier.
   
We traveled along the trail from Fort Laramie through present day Casper Wyoming and into the rocky regions of Independence Rock and Martins cove. I had previously scouted this area many times, so we passed through that area rather quickly. In researching these areas and gleaning the stories and tales for my novel, I was puzzled by several events and facts that stared me in the face at every junction of my studies.

 
 In my opinion, the handcart disaster didn't need to happen. As history affords us, the companies of Handcart travelers left Florence, which is near present-day Iowa city, on August 17th, which was against the better judgment of experienced scouts and trailsmen of the time. One hundred or more of the original companies stayed behind in Florence, and parts of Iowa because of the warnings of the experienced men. I can only imagine how it must have felt to the weary Saints as they captured their first view of snow capped Laramie peak and realized that what they had been warned about they were now going to head straight into the clutches of nature's fury. Sad that the tragic event transpired, but the souls that were lost to the ravages of nature and the trail will forever be held as legend and folklore. Traveling the trail many times in my life, I have come to a great appreciation for all those pioneers and Saints that braved the unknown and marched into the vast wildernesses just to better themselves in this life.
   

We found many grave markers and headstones along the trail. Most of them have faded over time and the winds and rain have worn the markers down, but seeing them first hand made me think of how difficult it must have been to leave your father, mother, or child in a desolate lonely place along the trail. Some never being able to return to pay their respects to their loved ones and most of them forgotten in time.
   
One of the most puzzling things in this life concerning the pioneers and Saints was how devastating cholera was to the people. I have studied the disease and its effects on mankind in earnest while presenting part of the story in my first novel. One in ten died from the disease. One fact that keeps coming up in my mind, is that with all the blessings bestowed upon this earth by our father in heaven, why wasn't his prophets, scholarly gentlemen, leaders of the nation etc. given the simple remedy that makes cholera obsolete. Three simple words would have given the pioneers and people building this great nation a fighting chance, "boil the water, my children," I will always be baffled by that simple fact.

   
Returning from the trip, I have reviewed my pictures and have included some of the ones that I think point out my thoughts here. The distances along the trail are vast and the wagon pioneers averaged 15 miles on a good day without weather conditions. I took one picture looking north along the trail and in the distance, you can see the foothills looking North to Douglas Wyoming. Driving along, it took me about an hour to reach the point that is shown in the picture, but it would have taken the pioneers a grueling six days of up and down through the valleys and over the washes and arroyos that are nearly unseen to the naked eye.
   
Time and the elements have a way of erasing things that have transpired in the past. The great trail and all of its participants have now faded and the memories and small stories that can be gleaned from diaries here and there are fading as well. For the most part the average daily citizen has no knowledge of what took place in this country from 1830 through 1900, but if you want to take the time and listen to the winds along the trail, you can see and feel what our forefathers saw and felt as they made the famous trek across the prairie. If you go out there, like I did I promise you will gain a whole other appreciation of what it took to make this country the place it is for all of us now to enjoy.
   

I suspect that when Father took those children into his arms after they had passed this life, that the lights in heaven were shining for days on end with the stories and reunions of all those that had weathered the storm along the trail and then were reunited with their fallen loved ones. May God bless this great nation and help us preserve its precious history.  

They Looked West

I wanted to give a quick 'book' update for all of you that have asked about when it is going to be published. It is now in the final stages as of this writing. It should be out on the shelves in a few months. We just finished the cover details, and the publisher is going through the final arrangements. Writing this book has been a strange journey for me, and I have learned a lot about the publishing business. I have learned patience to the 10th degree. Without my daughter Kallie and my wife Patty, I would have given up a long time ago. They have encouraged me at every obstacle and made the trail more visible. The good news is that I have nearly finished the second series to 'They Looked West,' and another novel to follow that one. My thanks go out to all who have read this blog and for all your kind comments.

A Colorado Eye-Opener

I have been lazy lately and have neglected to post on the blog this past month. I have been busy with work assignments and a big time bout with gout. Yes, that four letter word that crept into my life about ten years ago. Well, this round with the crystallized joints put me out of action for two full months and knocked me down to crutches for a week. I know they have modern medicines that can prevent nasty arthritis, but I am one of those persons that can't take most medications, and I have tried nearly all of gout recommended ones without success. As of this writing, I am back on my feet with my boots on ready for more life.

I thought I would comment on a few things that Patty and I noticed while on a small business trip to Colorado in early August. While traveling through downtown Denver, we were amazed at how many homeless people there were roaming the streets and camping out in the waterways and parks in the inner city. There were people of all ages and different races. Both male and female lying around in cardboard containers with makeshift clothing and signs galore asking for help. One young girl had a sign around her neck stating she was six months pregnant and desperate for food. The scene before us was catastrophic in a sense and made for a long conversation while driving through the mess. We felt helpless to do anything because there were so many in need. The second day we drove through the same area, we both sat silently in the truck just staring at the road not wanting to acknowledge the tragic affairs we were witnessing.

I came away from that experience with more questions than answers. Why Denver? What is it about that large city this time of year that would attract such a large vestige of desperate souls? Why isn't this mass gathering of homeless individuals reported on the nightly news stations? It seemed as if it was common place for all this to happen. We didn't see many people offering money or food to the people begging at each stop light. They drove on like they were conditioned to the scene on a daily basis. It was one of the most frustrating things I have witnessed in a long time. As Mayor or Governor, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night with those faces of the poor and desperate embellished on my mind. I hope that the necessary support and functions to aid these people are in process and that somehow they can be reintroduced back into a sustainable living standard. After all, this is America, the greatest nation on earth and I suppose if we can muster together billions of dollars to send our young men overseas to fight other countries bloody political battles then we should look to our citizens needs first. There is something wrong with this scenario, and we need to wake up and smell the roses before it's too late and we are all drug into the fire.

Driving through this area with the people I saw and their trials I realized that some of them choose this lifestyle and there is not much anyone can do but sit on the sidelines of life and observe. I would argue that most of them are victims of life's mistakes just like some of us. We have all made these mistakes a time or two in our personal lives. The only difference is our individual circumstances, and poor judgment didn't put us on the street as theirs did. People can come real close to these events with the amount of leisure credit offered by our banking systems, and a particular job status can disappear at a moment's notice with nothing to fall back on. It takes careful calculation to navigate one's life in these modern times and without proper education most people don't have a chance at a structured life, especially when you add the financial burden of spouses and dependent children.

With the increasing numbers of these homeless individuals, it appears to me that our country lacks the necessary education programs that these people needed at a young age to be able to deal with life. The debate can go back and forth about this subject forever on end, but the fact remains that we are a society of people that as long as it doesn't pertain to me personally, then I'm sympathetic in word but not in deed. There are those that give of their time and talents endlessly to help feed and shelter these people, but I'm talking about the lawmakers that are spending our hard-earned tax dollars on more fluff than we have powder to be applied. They are the force that can make a difference here and it's high time they get off the soap box and help out their fellow brothers. This life can be a real great experience if you go into it with knowledge at a young age about how all the nuisances in society works. Providing this education by our country is catamount to keeping these people out of the cardboard boxes, and it will prepare them for what to expect in life's journey. Let's use our tax dollars wisely on 'We the People.' I thought that was how the founding fathers structured the plan of tax. It appears we have run the train down the track until we can only see one path in one direction, so we just keep going along. I have limited my comments on this blog to non-political venues to date but that Denver trip affected my heart, and I decided to speak out just a bit. After all, isn't this free speech one of the things that make this country so unique.

Not all of Colorado is depressing just the Denver homeless scene and the freeway traffic. I have not experienced bumper to bumper traffic jams in all directions since I worked down in L.A., but Denver has them on a daily basis on every freeway. Once we were free from the rural area of Denver, the state takes on a whole other theme. The majestic mountain scenery is awe-inspiring, and the drive over the Rockies is breathtaking. That state has a lot to offer a human being in the way of free space and fresh air once you're away from the crowds. Traveling over rabbit ears pass down to steamboat springs is a drive like no other. The mountain valleys and scenery seem to engulf your mind as you try and take it all in. I enjoyed this alpine setting immensely and will go back in the fall to take in the beauty of the changing seasons.

I wanted to give a quick 'book' update for all of you that have asked about when it is going to be published. It is now in the final stages as of this writing. It should be out on the shelves in a few months. We just finished the cover details, and the publisher is going through the final arrangements. Writing this book has been a strange journey for me, and I have learned a lot about the publishing business. I have learned patience to the 10th degree. Without my daughter Kallie and my wife Patty, I would have given up a long time ago. They have encouraged me at every obstacle and made the trail more visible. The good news is that I have nearly finished the second series to 'They Looked West,' and another novel to follow that one. My thanks go out to all who have read this blog and for all your kind comments.

Let the Fireworks Begin

It's that time of year when this country, the good old USA, celebrates its birthday. Throughout this great land, there are cities and towns of all sizes with parades of all fashions. From mothers with toddlers in strollers to the elderly patrons sitting in lounging chairs to the parade participants all decked out in a lively affair. This country comes alive in festivities, unlike any other nation. From its eastern Atlantic shore to the majestic Pacific coast and all states in between, people from all ages join in the great celebration of this proud nation. The casual participants in these festivities can partake of some of the best food and drink envisioned by mankind. From the National Hotdog to the apple pie it all comes down to what makes this country the best place on this earth to live and breath. We are a people of diverse cultures and race that have come together to these shores with a common cause and goal, and that is the bell that rings in the ears of every member of this nation and it rings true with the sound of freedom.

Freedom is not cheap, and there are many of us that have made brave and harrowing challenges in their lives just to enjoy these celebrations. To them, we shall continue and always remain indebted. Listening to and watching the fireworks that dawn the evening skies throughout this nation on this day we are all enamored with a spectacle of great dazzle display. Our eyes are treated to the likes of which our imaginations can only dream as town after town all across America points to the heavens and sends a glimmering array of wondrous lights into the nighttime sky. Everyone enjoys a night display of these offerings, and crowds gather by the thousands to partake of the various displays offered.

While writing this short verse about this Nation's July 4th party, my mind is woven to one thought. From the Pilgrims of Plymouth Rock with their perilous journey and fight for survival on this virgin land to the battles, the Colonials fought to preserve their religious freedoms from the Mother country to the near defeat of the Nations first army at Deleware. With the inspiration of a group of men to pen our great constitution, I see one common denominator in play. With the Country nearly torn apart by civil war and the march for total freedom for all individuals regardless of race, and several great leaders struck down long before they're prime as they lead this nation, I see a pattern to the formula that inspires the word freedom. With several world wars that called this nation into the fray and put millions in harms way with many never to see these beautiful shores again, I see a blueprint for a hungry growing organized group of peoples unlike the world has seen since it's development to this very day. If a person lets their mind contemplate the true history of this country and dwells on the many circumstances that just happened to sway the outcome of all the events that have taken place that might have destroyed this free cause then you have come to the same conclusion that I have.

We are one Nation under God indivisible with liberty and justice for all. God is the common denominator, and he is the master hand that penned the blueprint for the constitution. It is his works that inspired the generals in the battles to deploy in manners which would be victorious for this nation's sovereignty. It is God that healed this nation as some would conspire to destroy it with assassinations and secret societies. It was God that placed this nation with massive seas bordering each shore for the protections he knew we would need when world wars destroyed other continents. It was God that inspired us to become the most technological nation in the world and lead in every major development to better mankind upon this planet. It was God that allowed us to speak, pray, and gather as we choose for support from our families, and It is God that puts the smiles on all the little faces that adorn the festivities this day as we celebrate in freedom's precious light. Yes, God is the common denominator for all we have and all we will ever become in this nation. He deserves all the credit, thanks and kind words from his children this day.

Mormon Row

Recently my wife and I had a chance to explore an area north of Jackson Hole Wyoming. This windswept sage infested area between Moose and Kelly, Wyoming was nicknamed Mormon Row because of the multiple Mormon families that homesteaded the area between 1890-1950. Doing a bit of research revealed that the soil in that area also known as Antelope Flats was better for growing crops than other soils in the Jackson Hole valleys. Further investigation showed that several Mormon families formed a rather larger homesteading parcel of the area that was named Gros Ventre after the indigenous Native American's that had pre-dated the arrival of the Mormons. As history serves, it's patrons the stories of homesteading in the vast wilderness areas of Wyoming are told for those that can hear the long lost voices on the wind.

As the day unfolded for Patty and me, the dawn broke with a heavy culmination of billowy cloud formations that made for a dramatic scene. With the background of the Grand Teton Mountains in the distance, Mormon Row took on a whole different atmosphere than we had expected. The snow capped peaks with parts of sunlight streaming through broken cumulus clouds lighting the mountain with rays set a picture on my camera that would make a painters dream come true. We walked the path that leads to the oval-roofed barn, and as we strolled along through the sage prairie, you could feel the vast immensity that others must have felt as they pioneered that portion of America. Back in the day, the soil would have been cut with teams of horses and mules using old worn plows. Clearing the land would have been the order of the day and to this chore would be the climate weather that rolls over the tops of the Tetons and snows as late as July in some years. Add this to the ever present danger of marauding predators both animal and human alike and you had a real homesteading adventure.

As I started taking pictures the first thing Patty asked me was, "Were all the buildings set on loose rock foundations?" Apparently the answer was yes. They used river stones from the nearby Snake River. You can see the stones packed into place that stood the foundations from that day until the present. Hauling these large stones from the rivers edge through the forested landscape and out onto the prairie would have been an arduous task that only people with great fortitude could have endured. While we were taking in the day, thoughts of how the pioneers might have survived came to life in our minds. Food would have been the foremost necessity. With long winters and short summers for growing crops, I would think that wild game would have been required on a weekly basis for survival. That would have put the homesteaders in grave danger at times. This area was home to the king of the beasts being the Grizzly bear and ravenous packs of wolves that prowled the prairie areas looking for anything that might fall prey. With firewood being the fuel of choice for cooking and heat, these tough pioneers would have been frequenting these timbered forests on a regular basis and accidents and mayhem would have been a daily occurrence.

As our day ended and we made our way to the truck, Patty and I were left with many questions and few answers. Where did all the families go and why is this valley not full of farming and agriculture? The homesteads are all abandoned, and the only people that live in this area are some Native Americans on a small reservation over in Gros Ventre nearly seven miles away from Mormon Row. The answers to our questions might be staring us in the face, and we might have already answered them with a gaze out into the vast expenditures that await the traveling soul. This beautiful but hard land must have bent and worn the plow shears, the livestock, the minds, and hearts of the saints that tried to tame it. With the Grand Tetons in the setting, a person could be lulled into a sense of Grandeur and ease, but the reality of the rugged, vast Wyoming landscape would send family after family packing for a new and tamer life somewhere out of that darn Wyoming wind.

Having a Great Day

Have you ever knelt next to a mountain stream and felt the water with your hands as it washes over them and thought of how important these precious resources are to our lives. I'm not just referring to methods in which we refresh our bodies needs but the whole picture. These mountain streams are life's breath to millions of users whether it is human beings, animals or plant growth. From one small river, thousands of homes are powered, millions of seeds are sprouted, and enough food is produced for the benefit of mankind.

As I've witnessed these streams, creeks, and rivers here in the Rocky Mountains, it never fails to amaze me how great and powerful they are. My thoughts are always thinking about the scheme of life and just how important to our societies this water is. If you sit back and think about it a minute while you're out and about in these pristine mountain settings, you can't help seeing an all omnipotent hand print on the whole blueprint of life. A designing hand that is much more advanced than the likes of mankind.

One year I was on a horse pack trip into the Frank Church wilderness or as some might call it the "The River Of No Return." It was in the fall, and the mountain vista took on the appearance of fire. The leaves were in full colors and the mountain meadows were teaming with animals. One particular day I had ridden my horse out from our spike camp and was in the process of scouting an area previously unknown to me. I had been in this particular place once before, but I had not traveled south of the area where our camp was located that day.This path took me down closer to the main river. After several hours of winding back and forth on an old worn trail, I found myself next to the rushing river.

I dismounted and decided this would be a fine time to do some fishing. I hobbled my horse and set about putting my fly fishing outfit together and proceeded to cast into the stream. It didn't take but four casts and a large rocky mountain cutthroat trout leaped out of the water and did his tail turning dance on the surface. I played the fish and in several minutes, I had secured two nice fat trout for the pan. I made a small fire and cooked the delicious trout. Now, when I say delicious I mean finger slamming hardly breathing-swallowing good. If you've never eaten fresh pan fried trout at 9500 ft. elevation then you're missing a real treat. The best part of this morsel meal is that you caught it with a hand tied fly, cooked it up yourself in the pan and didn't need any table manners to put the food down. Another bonus is no dishes to clean up, and the frying pan I dipped in the river, and a shirt sleeve applied for the towel off. All this I accomplished while taking in one of the most dramatic sunsets ever witnessed.

Saddling up my pony and making ready for a late evening ride out of the river canyon, I thought I noticed something on a large cliff outcropping. I made my way over to the strange markings on the cliff face and nearly fell over in astonishment. There before me was a wall full of petroglyphs. In studying the ancient carvings, I could see evidence of at least three separate generations of indigenous nomads that had precluded my arrival at this site. I was amazed at the grandeur of the moment as I stood where ancient peoples had communicated with one another over a period of thousands of years.

I walked back over to my horse and pulled out my watercolors and sat down and proceeded to take it all in. In fact, I became so engulfed at the moment that I lost all track of the sunset and the evening shadows as they fell into the canyons recesses. Hearing a sound behind me, I turned to see a beautiful herd of Rocky Mountian elk making their way down the opposite side of the river to partake of the fresh river water as it flowed through the rocks creating small pools for access. My elk permit was not legal for that side of the river and to take an elk on the opposite shore of that full river would have made for waste. I just turned around and watched the herd make their way to the waters edge and cautiously dip their noses in the river's eddies. What a magnificent sight this was. Now this is when a man feels real small in the world as compared to the enormity of the makers hand on things. There I sat in this beautiful setting with nature in full bloom including the wild ones and the only thing that seemed out of place was me. It was like I didn't belong but in my mind, I surmised that it was all created for my enjoyment and pleasure.

I can't describe how intense the colors were on the Aspen as I tried in vain to match the floral with my man made watercolors. The background of black pine against the yellows and burnt orange leaves of the aspen made for a contrast almost unbelievable to the human eye. The elk looked as natural as if they had been placed there by a magical hand thousands of years before. The wild river flowed past on its way to the lowlands, and the deep river canyon glowed with a dark purple hue. I remember having a feeling of wonder as I took it all in that afternoon on the mountain. Sitting there watching that natural display of the forest and all it had to offer a thought kept creeping into my mind as the time slipped away. How great was this day in my life to witness such an event that continues over and over again through each season. And how great a day the Maker was having when he created all of this for his children to enjoy.

Well, the evening turned to dark shadows, and before I knew it, I was staring at a darkened sky. Suddenly the thought of riding out of that winding canyon in total darkness was not such a pleasant thought. I had stayed at least two hours longer than I should have and by the time I raised up from painting and taking it all in I was in for a long cold, scary horse ride in the darkness. Chalk one up for watching the ants in the grass while the buffalo herd runs over the top of you. I was pulling leather cinch straps faster than I could get my fingers out of my gloves and in real quick time I was in the saddle and putting my horse on the trail at a fast walk.

Now in those days, we were strapped with the old fashioned D cell battery flashlights. You might remember the ones that you had to keep knocking against your leg or something to keep them lit up. Well, this was my lantern for the long ride back to the spike camp. Not only was this a problem but I had not put in fresh batteries for several days and I had used the light each morning riding out to hunt in the dark until the morning skies light up the mountains. That plastic flashlight lasted about an hour and then it totally quit the trail on me. There I was alone with my horse on the trail in a night sky with no moon and black pine forest surrounding me with all the noises that a forest can make, and my only source of light just bit the dust. Not to mention ole Mister Grizzly and the Mountain Howler were out on the prowl as well.

As I write this, I can remember the feeling that engulfed me. I had gone from a purely awe- encompassing experience down at the rivers edge to riding hell bent for leather before I had to stay out on the mountain all night in the timber. These and many other thoughts were racing through my mind as I came to realize the error in time judgment I had made. It was a good thing for me that my horse had all the brains in that situation, and if I had just known to leave him his head, he would have had the whole situation under control. Instead, I made matters worse by second guessing his every move on the ride back to camp.

I knew my hunting partners would be worried if I tucked up for the night and just waited out the morning. So the only choice I had was to press on. We finally topped out of the river canyon, and I knew from that point that it was another two hours to the spike camp if I could find it in the dark. The only place that I had been on a trail of sorts was down the river canyon. From the spike camp to where I was located that night, my horse and I had to pick our way through a thick pine forest weaving back and forth through the trees and openings. It was at this point when I struggled with my horse, Cactus Eddie, as he was named and his decision to take this left and that right. I knew more than him because I was the human and he is the animal being ridden, or at least, that's the way I thought it should be. After what seemed like a long time, I finally gave into his intuition and gave him his head. I cursed him for being a knothead and threatened him with the old mink feed story if he didn't get us home that night and I believe he ignored me the whole time I was ranting.

Sometimes when you are in a stressful situation and pressures of the moment start piling up, we humans can get a thing called nervous bowel syndrome. That's the politically correct version of the Rocky Mountain quick step, the galloping trots, or the Hersey squirts. Now I found myself riding at a pounding pace through the night on a horse with a compass between his ears and nature taking its course on the old Kester when I had to pull up on the reins and bring the whole show to a halt right there in the thick timber. Those Rocky Mountain trout were swimming through me like they were going upstream to spawn. Or maybe it was that extra dash of Tabasco sauce I had put on the pan fish; that stuff never liked me anyways.

Well, as I stepped down out of the saddle, I thought I noticed Eddie looking at me through the night air with a puzzled look like he was asking why we were stopping out here in the middle of nowhere. Well, I didn't have time to debate him right at that moment, so I tied the reins to his lower front legs hobble style and pulled the TP out of the saddle bags and ducked into the darkness. Now I won't go into details here but if you can put yourself into my situation on a wilderness mountain in the pitch black darkness around midnight partially lost and natures ringing the fire alarm you might get the point. When, where and how are words that might describe a midnight stroll through the timber to relieve one's self without a light. All I could think of at the moment was the two-bit flashlight and how it had deserted me in my time of need. It never crossed my mind until writing this tale that it was a total malfunctioning operator error and that the dang thing required batteries to work properly.

Well, after painting the pine needles in all directions and carefully watching my steps I literally felt my way back through the trees to find my horse patiently waiting for the sun to rise or something else to happen, he gave me the look once again as I pulled for the stirrup. We made good time and after several hours, Eddie found his way to the edge of the meadow where the spike camp was located, and his sweet grass reward awaited him. The boys in the camp were all sacked out in bedrolls, and no one seemed to notice but me that it was well after 3 am. I guess I got all worked up for nothing, and the whole excursion was just another day and night on the mountain.

Starving and half famished I pounded down four cold biscuits and six rice crispy treats. I washed this down with the sweet river water in my canteen and rolled out my bedroll and looked up into the stars as I stretched out and took it all in. I had made some mistakes that day and come away with some lessons in life but through it all, the good Lord had seen me safely to the end. You might say he and I were having a great day after all. Oh, and by the way, that little bottle of Tobasco sauce made its way to the fire pit once and for all that night.

A Little Time to Reflect

Here it is Easter Sunday I’ve gotten up at 5 am to put a nice looking ham on the smoker outside. It’s a bit chilly but quite refreshing. The birds are singing a Sunday chorus, and twice I’ve heard the sound of far off Geese cackling. It’s that time of year when every living creature and seed starts its warm-up for the beautiful warm weather in the coming months. The morning sun has not yet shown it’s light, and the gray pre-dawn sky seems foreboding.

Our family has an outing planned after church services to meet at the barn and have a picnic of sorts. This time of year the mountains are burdened down with layers of snow, so our family chooses to meet at the old barn. We spread the lounge chairs, saddle the horses and mules and put the grandkids in motion while the adults renew their weekly activities. Dad will cook a nice smoked ham with all the trimmings and Mom will do her delicious potato salad and add her beautiful touch on the festivities. Just having her there along with my family is reward enough for this old Grandpa. The kids ride the horses and mules this time of year in the round pen for hours on end never tiring of the endless direction. I think it is a little therapy of sorts for all the stress our young children are under these days with our confused lifestyles.

As I am writing, I get a whiff of the smoke coming out of the smoker and man does that smell good. Ham and eggs would be the order of the day right now, but this ham has other family waiting for the delicious morsels that will come later. I guess I can tuck away my selfish thoughts of slamming down juicy forkfuls of meat with runny mouthwatering eggs, toast with strawberry jam dripping over the edges and a tall glass of sweet milk.

Ok, I’m back from the moment, and I have not forgotten the main reason for this posting. Since this is Easter Sunday and my blog, I thought I would express my thoughts on a very saddening situation that has been developing in our world as of late. I am referring to the mass bombings and wanton disregard for human life that we have witnessed on our local news stations these past few months. When I think of all the destruction in the world that is going on as I write this post, it nearly engulfs my mind. I wonder what my Father in Heaven thinks about all the sadness brought upon his children by their brothers and sisters for nothing more than a cause. I would imagine his sadness would be like mine when I’ve watched as my children have struggled through the ups and downs of life as they grew into adulthood. As a parent, we are only there for support and counsel. It is very frustrating to see them fail and then try again only to fail sometimes. When they finally get it right, we celebrate in our hearts silently and thank God for his precious blessings.

In talking with my beautiful but aging parents, they expressed the same love and frustrations in raising me. I asked my father about raising me, and he said that they did their best, but the outcome came from me. I would suppose that this is the same with God and his children. In my mind, God must be sorrowful and frustrated with some of his children on occasion as this world moves along.

Easter Sunday brings back memories of Easter baskets filled with candies and all manner of treats. Egg hunts in outdoor settings and when the weather was too cold and snowy we would look for carefully hidden eggs and treats within the confines of our warm homes in stuffed chairs, window sills, and where ever our parents might find a small hiding place. We were happy and joyful as we grew in this light and then as time allowed we made our Easter happiness for our families.

Now I see the progression in life as my children spread the love to my grandchildren, and the cycle goes on. As this day progresses into a family loving affair at the barn, I would like to express my thanks for the opportunity God has given me to live my life free and partake of my family in his outstanding world. His precious blessings upon my family and me do not go unnoticed.

Now that ham is calling my name with a thunderous roar. My stomach is growling like a big freight train rolling down a set of rusty tracks. Oh, my this will take a conscious effort, of extremely strict self-control to keep my mitts from sneaking a nice sliver of the juicy, delicious smelling meat. I hope I got my point across with how delicious this ham will be, sorry neighbors for the smell in the air if there’s any left over after I’m done your welcome to it. May God bless this nation and have a Happy Easter.

It's all in the Name

When most men reach their retirement years, they reflect back on their lives and see them differently than when they were living the moment. I find myself in that situation more and more as time goes by. My mind takes me back to moments in the sun when I thought I was invincible. There was a time in my life when I thought I could buckaroo with the best of them. Only to find out that wasn't the case and my ego had been in the way of my brains. The late twenties in a young man's life are all about testosterone, the more you have, the bolder your reaches become.

At that pinnacle in life I was reaching pretty high, in fact, the sky was the only limit I could imagine. I had a beautiful wife and three daughters. This kind of kept me out of the house on occasion if you know what I mean. Malls were just beginning to show up and shopping never really appealed that much to me. So I took to my lives long hobby and immersed myself in the art of horse flesh. Now all horses are not created equal; they vary in size, stature, and breeding. To this, we add confirmation, health, and last but not least the most important factor of all brains. I was raised on a small cow operation in a farming town just to the west of the Rockies. I went to work each day on the farm with my grandfather, and he and my father taught me from a young age how to sit a horse and work cattle. From this early apprenticeship, I developed into the horseman I am today. We had several horses on the farm, and they were cattle working pleasure riding bred. They were stock horses without pedigrees, and all the top titles that can be found on some horses registered paperwork. For the most part, they were quarter horse type in nature with some thoroughbred breeding along the lines. These horses were big and stout, and we used them in very rugged conditions. Back then I thought a horse was a horse. My level of education concerning breeding and sires was limited to what I could read in my monthly subscription to Western Horseman magazine. It wasn't until I met and married my wife that her father Jim educated me on the finer aspects of the horse.

Jim was a connoisseur of finely bred quarter horses. He had mastered the art of purchasing, breeding and showing this excellent breed of horse. He had hauled my wife all over the country to horse shows of all kinds in pursuit of his dream horse. He was always purchasing mares for breeding and show prospects. He would train some and show them in different arenas. His eye for confirmation in this breed type was unequaled in his day. He produced some of the best halter and western pleasure competition horses of the 1970's. Following him in this venture, he trained my eye for the type of horse that represented the breed in all its qualities. I began to look at horses in a different light. I was used to the big ranch horses I had grown up with. Some had long legs and big heads, but they weren't for bragging rights they were for working the ranches and cattle operations that dotted the landscape where I was raised up. This new horse that I was being exposed to was similar in size but very well muscled. They had smaller heads that matched their body size with thick necks and well developed hind quarters. They had more of a bulldog confirmation and very muscular legs. They looked like a much stronger horse when compared to their counterpart half-breeds. Most of the ranch horses I grew up with had mustang blood mixed with quarter horse and thoroughbred breeding. A rancher would get a good looking stud horse and turn it out in a pasture or large range area with a dozen or so mares. The results would be a new crop of colts in a year's time. Bloodlines were not significant, and paperwork seldom existed if any.

These half-breed horses were all over the west when I was growing up. They were sold at local auctions every Saturday. Anyone with one hundred dollars or more could purchase one of these animals. Some were broke to saddle but most were not. Great pains were taken by individuals to train and develop these horses so they could be useful to mankind. It was during this time in life when I started to become picky when it came to selecting horse flesh for my personal use. I stayed clear of the auction block and my method of purchasing one of these fine animals was through negotiations direct with the breeders themselves. Slowly but surely my string of saddle-bred ranch stock horses dwindled out until I was completely without one. Jim had instilled in me the finer points of horsemanship, and I was bound and determined to own one of these show type horses if it was the last thing I ever did. I poured over the pages of Jim's Quarter horse journals studying and reading about this sire and that sire until I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to purchase. Then finally, the time had come to buy a lovely mare. I made the deal with a friend of Jim's. I owned the horse I purchased for many years. She was a perfect specimen of what a quarter horse should look like. She had it all as the saying goes and she was broke real nice to saddle and rein. I owned her until the time we had to put her down due to a lingering illness at the ripe old age of 26.

About the time I was graduating from my apprenticeship in horse flesh sadly, my father in law passed away and took with him a vast knowledge of horses. As I was about to find out, not all are created equal and the old saying, 'Never judge a horse by his appearance' was going to take on a whole new meaning in my life. I was driving home from work one day when I noticed a beautiful looking dun-colored gelding grazing intently in a field nearby. I watched the horse for well over six months. Every time I would pass by he had another pose set up for me to admire him. After a year of this, my mouth was watering, and I just had to inquire about the dun. As luck would have it, he was owned by an acquaintance of mine over the years. I had barely asked when I found out he was for sale. Now this is when all reason leaves a man, and he is left with nothing but a skull full of mush. I don't remember asking the pertinent questions that had been drilled into my brain from the first time I ever purchased a horse. Out the window went common sense and I was left with nothing but a dumb look on my face as I stared at the magnificent specimen of horse flesh standing before me. I was nearly speechless at a time when I should have been asking more questions than a skydiver getting ready for his first jump. Not only did I fail to communicate with the seller I failed at everything I had been taught when it comes to purchasing horsehide over the years. My mind could not get over the fact that this horse was a perfect specimen of his breed. He had it all, an excellent head with well-muscled jowls, a thick well-developed chest, hindquarters wider than the Missouri river and straight, thick legs with nice hard black hooves. His withers were well developed, and his neck was creased with muscle lines. He had a dark colored line down his back and a light sandy coated fur. He had clear eyes and a small white patch on the forehead to differentiate him from others of his type. God had created the perfect horse the day this ole boy had taken his first breath of mountain air. He was everything I had been looking at in all the magazines, horse shows and arenas of the western scene.

I needed to find out if I could afford such a quality prize. Well, it turned out that the price was more than I had ever paid for a horse in my life. This was expected under the circumstances and to top it off the year was 1983. This was a large sum of money for this horse especially when you factor in all the little forgotten costs that owning one of these animals can amount to. Here again, common sense is the rule of the day but, somehow mine had disappeared. I was faced with a magical illusion of everything working out and being perfect in my life. Without a second thought, the deal was done, and I put my rope around the prize horse. He just stood there like it was just another day on earth among the human race. Loaded and proud we pulled out of the field and headed down the highway to my barn. Little did I know but we were headed down the path to hell.

On the way to the barn, the realization of the moment finally hit me. Here I was with a dream horse in tow, a checkbook that was flatter than a run over snake and no excuse whatsoever to tell my better half for a moments insanity. Boy, was I in for a dog house vacation of sorts with all the trimmings. Thoughts of sleeping in the truck for a few nights were racing through my mind. Canned stew and chili were the gourmet foods I could expect and all this for an over prized horse. Well as it turned out I had married right, and the tongue lashing I received was just frustration on the home front. All was well and as it turned out I came out of the deal entirely fine when she saw the horse for the first time. She too had been taught the finer things about horse flesh. Standing before her that day the dun put on a mighty fine show.

Thinking back, I am glad that I was smart enough to ask the dealer if he was broke or not. His reply was yes but in my mind that fact didn't register because I was a real buckaroo in those days, or at least I thought. I had broke a few horses in my time, and this old beauty would just need a little refining and some new manners. As it turned out, he was broke real good, and we got along just fine. He was smooth in the saddle, and his manners were excellent. Riding him around the barn and round pen for a few days didn't do him justice for he was ready for bigger and better things. I was on top of the world at that time, and I couldn't get enough of the big dun horse. I rode him all over my home town. Down the railroad tracks around the rodeo grounds through the streets and byways, we went all in big style. He was an eye turner, and I marveled at the attention he would bring as we sashayed down the streets of our town. I think he liked it as well because he would put on a real good show shuffling his fast walk through the parks and parades of the summer activities. It was at this time that I felt like the dun horse was ready for the mountain trails, so I planned a horse ride with my better half.

It was a beautiful sweet morning that July and the mountains were full of wildflowers. I thought I would make a good impression on the wife with a short one hour ride to a nice shady glen that I had in mind. It was secluded and off the beaten trail. A nice picnic was the order of the day. As we saddled up our mounts, I noticed that the dun horse was taking in all the scenery around him with an open eye. He seemed more nervous than I had seen before so I took the saddle time slow and quiet. When we were ready to go, we hit a small trail just off the creek path and followed the trail up through the winding stream course. The runoff was in full swing, and the creek seemed rather full for mid morning. As we came to a junction in the trail, the course took us across the stream and up an embankment to the far side. This obstacle was nothing for any of the horses I had previously owned in my life, so my thoughts were nothing out of the ordinary. I led my wife down through the trail swell to the streams side and paused briefly to look back at her. I instructed her to hold onto the saddle horn and give her mare her head so she could pick her footing as she crossed the creek. I reached up and collected the reins in my left hand and lightly tapped the big dun horse with my left spur and he walked out into the stream of water like a pro. I was just about to look back at my wife when the big horse just collapsed right in the middle of the creek. I went down to his side as if he was dead. I jumped from the saddle, and while still holding the reins in my left hand I held his head out of the rushing stream. He was completely submerged except for his head that I was desperately trying to keep from going under the rushing water. It all happen so fast that I hardly had time to think. I could not get the horse back on his feet no matter how hard I tried. It was like he had laid down to die or something. I have never experienced anything like it and still haven't to this very day. I was beginning to get arm weary and not sure what to do. Here lay my prized horse drowning in a stream that didn't reach his knees when standing. I quickly looked at my wife, Patty. She was horrified and scared beyond belief, so I knew that she couldn't help me. I yelled for her to ride back down the trail to a camp we had passed and get some of my old high school buddies to come to my rescue. With that, she turned the big mare around in the creek and loped her up and away on the trail.

Now there comes a time when things are going from bad to worse, and you need a plan fast. This was one of those times, and the longer I stood in the cold water soaking wet, the weaker I was getting. The water was straight from the snowpack less than two miles away and bitter cold. The big horse lay stretched out like he was enjoying the cold water when a strange thought hit my brain waves. I had seen horses become lathered up with sweat only to try and lay down in the dirt, water or whatever just to rid themselves of the annoying sweat on their fur. Was this dun horse attempting to pull the wool over my eyes on this picnic outing? He was lathered up some and coming up the trail had been a hot one for July. These thoughts and many others were racing through my mind when everything went blank. I couldn't hear the water anymore or anything around me. The thought came to my mind that if the dun horse wanted to lay down in the trail like a wounded jackass and make a spectacle of himself and me, then I would let him have his way. I was cold, shivering, tired and last but not least pissed off. Here were my friends and associates running their horses up the trail to help me and this lazy good for nothing glue bomb was lying here like this was a Saturday night sauna. I thought if he wanted to drown like a dumb mule then so be it and I dropped the reins into the water, and the dun horses head disappeared under the rushing water. No more than a second went by and up he came with a full lung and jumped straight to his feet standing in the stream soaking wet with water dripping from every pore and leather strap attached to his carcass. Staring at me with eyes that asked the question, "Why did you do that I was enjoying the cool bath?" Help arrived, and the only thing I had to show for it was soaked chaps and water logged saddle seat. My friends were laughing their guts out, and I thought I caught a glimpse of a slight smile on behalf of my wife. The picnic was over, and a water-soaked ride was the order of this day all the way back to the truck. My good Tony Lama's were never the same again, and my saddle took twelve cans of soap and many hours just to get the squeaks out. But this was just the beginning of the path the big dun horse and I were about to go down.

I rode the dun horse on many occasions that summer and all went well. We were a team except for the little creek mishap and I had put that small infraction behind us. The more I rode the big horse, the more I liked him. Looking back on it all now the dun seemed to have a quiet mind of his own and was not a come-to-you friendly horse. He would make you go to him in the corral or pasture and then once caught he would comply with your wishes. That fall I was invited to go on a pack trip with some old high school buddies. We were going to ride into a wilderness area in Utah known as the Bookcliffs. The trip would last seven days, and we would be hunting mule deer. I rode the dun horse nearly every day getting him in shape for the hunt. I practiced packing him in case there was a need and tried to get him accustomed to all the things we might experience on the trail. When the time came for the trip, I had decided that he would be my riding horse and that I would pack the big mare that I had owned and trained since a colt. She was steady with the packs and a very reliable all-around horse to have on such an outing.

The trip went off without incident, and we had a good time. I harvested a large mule deer and the trip was a success right up until the last day. We were in camp with about seven other men, horses and mules loading up our camp and preparing to ride out to our trucks. The trip is about five hours long, so we were taking extra care to tighten straps and secure loads on the animals. I would be riding the dun out, so the only thing on his saddle was my friends extra gun scabbard and his rifle. He was going to walk out, and we would take turns riding and leading the mare with my deer carcass on her. The plan was set in motion. We had just finished cutting up the deer and putting it in the packs when my friend walked over to the dun and started tightening up his cinch. The dun horse reached around and snorted a little at the man attempting to tighten him up. I mentioned that he had deer blood on his hands and that I didn't think that horse had ever smelt blood before. The big horse pulled up on the lead rope and jumped, at least, four feet into the air. He started kicking out with his big back feet and knocked my friend to the ground. Then like he had been bred for the arena he launched his massive frame out into the air bucking and squealing, head bobbing and throwing his weight behind each and every jump. The big horse cleared the meadow we were standing in and bucked out of sight as all nine of us just stood there amazed. Wow, that mother can sure buck. We couldn't believe how much air that horse could get with each buck. Along with some bad words, we won't mention here, were repeated over and over that afternoon in the fall mountain setting. Just about the time we had given up ever finding that big horse someone shouted that he was coming right for us! Sure enough, the dun horse was bucking straight back towards where it all started. As he came within arm's length several of us threw up our hands and the sudden motion brought him to a standstill. He just stood there shaking like he had just been chased by the devil and all his hosts. I put out my hand and secured the lead rope, and the circus show was over.

Upon examining the big horse he was none the worse for wear. He didn't have a mark on him. I thought maybe we had made it through this ordeal when my friend let out a shriek as he walked around the horse and examined his rifle sitting in the gun scabbard. The pistol grip and butt on the stock had snapped in two pieces and the only thing holding it to the rifle was the end of the sling. The big horse had bucked so hard that the force had sheared the gun stock in half. We all sat there in silence and awe as I tried to reattach the two pieces in vain. That was the start of the downhill slide for the dun and I should have seen it coming. We made it out of there in one piece, I rode the dun nearly the whole way and he acted like nothing had even happened. It was almost a forgotten subject except for the broken gun.

That winter was a long hard one, and it went down in the record books as one of the worst in Utah history. I usually rode my horses during the winter months to keep them legged up and in shape but that winter was too darn cold and snowy for any riding. This meant that the big dun horse sat in the barn and ate his share of the nice warm hay all winter long and it was a long one. He would earn his keep come spring I kept telling myself as I pitched fork flake after flake of the costly hay. When it warmed up some, I would get all the kinks ironed out of his mangy hide if it was the last thing I would ever do.

Now this is where the story starts to take on a sinister twist. Our family had a reunion out to the canyon that spring as usual. Since we were a horse-riding-cattle-raising bunch naturally, everyone brought their horses out for canyon rides and activities. This had been the case for many years, and we all looked forward to the outing kids and all. It was a very fun time just to let your hair down, let the kids go wild, and the dirt and ticks could all be dealt with later. Spring was in the air, and I remember the smell of the sage in bloom and the cedars as they were budding with berries. That canyon setting was just what I needed after a very long winter's nap. This year had been particularly grand for me because I was about to be a new papa any day and the radar said a son is in the oven. Life was beginning to show some mercy to an old cowboy like me with three daughters in the wind. I'll tell you I felt like I was the king of the hill when presented with the news. My thoughts were on my wife's condition, the kids, and a fun time in the mountains for several days coming up. As I loaded the horses that spring day, I couldn't wait to get into the saddle and free from work for the weekend. It was Memorial weekend, and I had a lovely holiday all planned out with the reunion and all. I should have notice the eyes on the dun and took a special interest in his sassy kick up mood when I put the halter on that morning, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

The reunion was in full swing, and everyone was having a great time. Lunch was served out on a large long table. It had been served that way back from our ancestors when they were riding the range and everyone sat down to a grand meal. It was a fine sunny day, and the kids were in full swing. They were gathering wood, playing games and doing all those precious things that innocent minds do when free and about. The adults gathered together and the past year was in review. Stories were told as we nurtured each other and our families. It was a joyous event, and nothing could spoil the days outing except the weather, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

My parade that day was about an hour from getting rained on and wiped out, but I had no inclination what awaited me. After the big meal and all the festivities some of the adults had decided it was time to go on our yearly trail ride up the canyon. The horses were saddled and everyone was in motion getting ready for a ride when the big dun began to play his cards. I had just finished saddling the horse, as I stood by his side I remember some of the children playing in the sage out in front of me and talking to my wife by my side. I had just grabbed a handful of reins and mane, put my boot in the stirrup and went to swing my leg over the saddle when the dun pulled his nasty act right in front of the whole crowd. He went straight up into the air with me straddling him horizontally face down. The jump had pushed me straight up with him, but as I came down chest first without stirrups, he was already making his second giant leap. The saddle horn hit me dead center in the sternum, and the last thing I remember was flying through the air with the greatest of ease heading for a patch of twisted, gnarly sage. I put both hands out in front of my head and waited for the crash landing that I knew was heading my way. Being a rodeo hand and bragging about the fact that I was a genuine buckaroo, I hit the deadwood sage patch like a limp sack of flour. I slammed head first with boots still pointing towards the noonday sun. As I looked up, the big horse cleared me with one mighty jump, snorted a defiant blow and nearly run down a cousin of mine playing in the same patch of sage. Quick thinking on the part of that little fellow saved him from a thunder of hooves and mean horse as he dove into the nearby sagebrush. Raising up from the dust the only thing I noticed that was wrong was my pride had vanished, and the buckaroo came back to earth with a resounding thud. But wait, my arm and fingers were numb, and bone was sticking out of my wrist. Now the dun had made his daily play, and he was the winner on this outing. I spent the rest of the day in the emergency room and a very sleepless night for several to come. The next day as fate would have it I was standing in the hospital with a full arm cast in a sling watching my newborn son as he came to this earth. Smiling through the pain and tears, it was all about the birth, and nothing could dampen my joy, not even the big dun waiting back at the barn for more. There would be another time I vowed, and he would get his.

The days turned into months and before I knew it the winter snows had come and my date with the big horse had been prolonged. It took nearly six months for the cast and wrist to heal and I still have a protruding bone to remind me of that eventful day. While I suffered through the onslaught, the dun horse greedily ate his ration of hay and pasture grass and seemed to relish in his prime. As I would feed him he would kick up his hind feet and prance around like a wild mustang. He knew I had a wounded wing and there was nothing I could do about it. So, for the time being he got his way around the barn. I have to say that it was one of the most frustrating times of my young life. To sit and watch that jughead show off the way he would every time I went to feed him was pure hell. If I didn't know better I would think he had a brain that could reason but time would prove that notion wrong in a big way.

Finally, the big day came for a showdown. This cowboy had waited for this moment for nearly a year to the day from the fateful rocket launching the big horse had put on me. I was spurred up with rope in hand and waiting at the round pen that I had picked out for just such an occasion. A local rancher that I had worked for in the past had a twelve foot high round pen that had a cinch post cemented in the middle and it looked like the devils cauldron inside it when enclosed. This was just what I needed for a sassy mess like the dun. We went into the abyss and made our war that day. After four hours of wrangling, the dun came out on the short end of the stick or so I thought. I rode him out of the round pen and into the open after what seemed like forever. He was cool, calm and collected. I remember talking to him the whole time. As I had been working him, he always had his eye on me. He knew that day that it was all business. I was prepared for anything he wanted to pull, at least while he was in the round pen. We barely passed the edge of the pen out into the open when he went sideways in one motion and up into the air with the next. Then he went into a quick curl, bucking the whole time and acting like he enjoyed every minute of it. This time I had my stirrups and command of the bucking reins that I put on his head just in case we had to see who was boss. As hard as I tried I could not pull his head around as he was just too strong. I knew that if I couldn't get his nose pulled into my knee then it was just a matter of time before he undone me and I would blast out of the stirrups. Sure to his cause he outlasted me and I didn't get the whistle on this ride. The landing was uneventful and there were only two witnesses to the disgrace of this cowboy but I must say, that dun horse could buck with the best of them.

Now the time had come when I started worrying about a particular cowboy's reputation. You don't want to start getting nicknames like high-dive Southwick, or the judges gave him a 2 for the landing, etc. so I had to swallow some pride and realize that busting this bronco was beyond my meager skills. Looking back on that day he didn't just buck, he put his heart and soul into it like he was made for it. As time would tell that turned out to be his forte in life.

Realizing that I couldn't trust the dun and he was gaining on me with each outing, I had decided to drop him into the horse auction and take my lumps in life. I was discussing this with some coworkers one day around the water cooler, and one of them said he knew a real time Ranch buckaroo that broke horses for a living out near Price, Utah. He stated that this cowboy was always on the lookout for a bronco that was out of hand and ready for the auction. I told him to have him call me, and we could set up something. The day was eventually set up, and when the cowboy arrived at my barn, I could see that his pride outweighed his belt buckle size. This buckaroo was about to taste defeat in the worst way, and I knew it as I shook his hand and heard his stories of 'stickin the worst ones till they folded like flies in the hot sun.' We made it over to the dun as he sat there munching on a piece of hay. Not sure what was about to happen, the cowboy rubbed the horse all over his body and started a ceremony that lasted about ten minutes. He would rub the ears, withers, hind end and all in between. Up and down around and under until the big horse was nearly asleep. I put the halter over his nose, and he didn't even open his eyes he was so relaxed. Saddled up and ready I asked the cowboy if he wanted me to snub the horse to a large pole I had sticking out of the corral. He said no and just requested to have the horse to himself. I started to lead the horse out into the corral when the cowboy told me to let go of the lead rope and let him have the head. I suggested that he mount him first before I gave him his head and with a disgusted look he said alright. He mounted the horse and told me to let him go; when I did this, the dun just stood there like he was still being massaged. Then all of the sudden the cowboy nudged him forward a step or two, and the dun went to work doing his high Sundance.

The corral gate was opened, and he bucked right through it and out into the open pasture. The cowboy was riding high, and I thought for a moment that he might outlast the dun when he went straight for a pig pen on the far side of the pasture. With one swift tail fish move, he unloaded the bronco buster right into the side of the pig pen. I ran across the pasture and helped him to his feet. After he had got his breath back, a friend of mine walked the dun back over to us and handed me the lead rope. I gave it to the buckaroo and said he's all yours amigo.

Well, the rest of the story ended right there that day, and the famous cowboy's pride landed in the pig crap. He never rode the dun and left with his hat in his hand shaking his head. It was then that I finally had a brainstorm of an idea since seeing that dun standing in the field for the first time. I called a friend of mine that operated a local rodeo stock contracting business and asked if he was interested in the dun. Not wanting to pass up on a good deal the rodeo contractor arrived and looked the dun over. He couldn't believe how solid and good looking the horse was. An offer was made that the horse would be tried in the bucking pens at some local rodeos. If he were still bucking after the eighth rodeo, then I would be paid the price I had purchased him for. If not then I would only get meat price which was about 8 cents a pound back in those days and a humbling lesson to go along with it.

The first big rodeo night was scheduled for the dun at the Pleasant Grove rodeo arena. It was a high school affair, and the bucking chutes were full of young cowboys all looking to best the other. As I entered with the horse in halter one of the young boys started to laugh and said: "My hell, I hope I didn't draw that tame nag tonight." I just looked up at him sitting on the chute gate with all his buddies sneering at the dun and said, "I hope for your sake you didn't either." As luck would have it, the young buckaroo drew the dun out of chute 5, and the game was on. I took the halter off the big horse and with a smack of my hand on his rump he led his way down to the chute gate and was locked into the bucking chute. I could hear the comments as the big horse made his way through the endless line of young cowboys all sitting and standing behind the chutes eyeballing the horses as they were loaded. For the first time since I had decided on this plan, I started to worry that maybe he might not buck and then I'd have the disgrace of leading him out of there with the laughter and jeering. But my fears turned to amazement as the chute gate opened and the big horse blew out of there like he was on fire. Three big enormous jumps and the young rider was loosened from his bucking rein and stirrups. He went off the right side, and the dun horse went right over him and never stopped to look back. I was all grins as the young buck limped back to the chutes with a defeated look on his face. Dirt lined the sweat around his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. I remember him bent over with one of the clowns holding onto him to keep him from falling to the ground while he grasped for that first breath of air. The big dun horse had made an impressive showing.

The rest of the story is not hard to figure out. The dun horse grabbed his share of rodeo fame, and I received my full amount of money for the performances he was yet to attain. I ran into the stock contractor many years later and he said the big horse bucked his way through many rodeos for nearly six years and then completely stopped one day and never bucked again. They threw a saddle on him and rode him as a pickup horse for another two years and then one day they found him lying dead on his winter range. The stock contractor asked me how old I supposed he might have been at the time of his death. I researched his bloodline papers and made his age about 17 when he died.

As memories flow into an old cowboys mind the ups and downs come crashing in like waves in the ocean. Things I should have done different and if I only had it to do again are the thoughts most prevalent on my mind. Looking at this story, I made one real good mistake that led to many other disastrous events. When the seller brought out the big dun horse that day of the sale those many years ago, and I lost all sanity, was the first. I could have saved myself all the grief from the dun horse with one simple question to the owner. One of the first things every simple minded human being wants to know when buying any adult animal is the name of the pet to be purchased. We all need that information before moving into the negotiation mode or, at least, people with common sense would. I neglected that fact until I got home that day and the first thing out of my wives mouth was, "What's his name?" I stood there with a dumb look on my face and realized that I had forgotten to ask the seller that simple but pertinent request. I quickly fumbled through the truck seat paperwork. Upon displaying some proud bloodline papers, the look on my face changed from a proud one of a new horse owner to a puzzled and embarrassed frown. As I repeated his registered name my wife broke out into a laugh and said, "You've got to be kidding me!" That's what it said right there on the paperwork from the Registered Quarter Horse Association. I repeated the name once again, Hollywood's Big Boomer.

With lessons learned the hard way never look a horse over with half your brain somewhere else and always read the fine print because you never know what might lie behind a name. If I had only seen the name Boomer, it might have made sense to me later while flying through the air and scouting the ground for a safe place to land after being shot out of the big dun horses cannon. May God bless all my horses past and present both the good ones and the bad ones.