Some Dreams Die

As the title says some dreams die, but not all the memories.  Now that I have more time on my hands with retirement, I find myself in deep thought of yesterdays dreams and memories. I had a great life growing up in a small farming town that, as time has quickly passed by, I can scarcely recognize today. I remember my hometown of Lehi when it had less than 6000 people, one stake, and 8 wards. One block south below my home, you could cross the railroad tracks and see endless fields of farming and agriculture that stretched from Saratoga Springs around Utah lake, all the way through Orem, Vineyard, Spanish Fork and around Lake Shore to Elberta. The only Icon in this scene of endless fields and scattered black willow and Russian olive was the steel mill, Geneva.

As young boys, we would trek out into this wild mecca with our BB guns and hunting dogs, free in life, with our nostrils full of excitement and adventure. I have many fond memories of sun-filled days with my hunting dog Coco, and my best friend Terry with his dog Trixie. We would hunt the ditch banks, thick bull rush, and tamaracks looking for anything that caught our attention. Our mothers would supply us with sack lunches and we would walk through the fields all day until sunset came, then we would be home just in time for the dinner bell.
   
Now, as you read this, you might think this is not too uncommon a scene, but in those days we were barely 8 years old. No one would have the slightest idea where we would be. We could walk 5-8 miles in less than half a day and explore the farmland, but our rules were strict and we were required to be home for dinner time.
   
Jump ahead to this day and age and you would need to be missing a couple of screws in the old noggin to allow your 8-year-old out into the prairie belt, alone with nothing but a dog and BB gun. I'm not sure we have more human predators today than we had back in those days, but one thing we do have and that is mass transportation and access to all areas of the earth on any given day. This is the change that has brought about the end of the good old days as we termed them.
   
The 1950's brought out the best in our country, as most of the war-weary adults turned their attention to the better sides of life. Big cars and fast food became very popular along with the silver screen. In Lehi, we had two movie theaters along with several malt shops of the era. You could watch your heroes on Saturday's for a quarter a show and then hit the malt shop for a cherry coke and a french fry for another quarter. This made for great entertainment and many memories for all. My favorite hero was Gene Autry and his horse Chief. I would sit as close to the front row of the movie house screen as I could and it felt like I could jump right into the scene and help Gene with the badmen, as he fought and shot his way through the show. Then, as he would pull out his guitar and sing his prairie lullabies, he would sway us back into our seats and ride into the sunsets of our dreams forever.
   
As my mind reaches back for some of those golden day memories, I find myself in the saddle on my dad's horse Cricket, following cattle as they were being driven west along the road towards Cedar Fort. My grandfather was a rancher/farmer and he would drive his cattle out to the mountains each spring, along with many other local ranchers that had property and permits for summer grazing in the mountains above Cedar Fort and Herriman, Utah. The local ranchers would congregate their cattle in some corral pens just East of the Jordan river bridge, west of Lehi.
   
Around the first of May each year the ranchers would start staging the cattle out at the pens and make ready for a Saturday drive out to the mountains. The final destination for the cattle would be in an area known to the locals as West Canyon. To this very day, this is a favorite camping, recreational, hunting area that most of the locals in the surrounding cities frequent during the various summer and fall seasons.
   
Back in those days, the Cattlemen's Association would hire a salt packer to ride and pack salt after the cattle arrived in the high ranges and keep an eye out for trouble if any should arise with the cattle spread out all along the mountains. When I was a young man I rode my horses along with this gentleman many times as he would pack salt, fix fences, and tend to the summer grazing cattle. I have many memories and stories from that era and all of them are special to my heart.
   
As the cattle drive would start, my grandfather and several other ranchers would take a pickup truck and lay a straw bale in the bed of the truck and make a soft bedding. Then they would take several newborn calves and tie their feet with twine, then they would lay the calves in the straw bed and have their mothers follow the truck slowly down the road and out west toward the mountains. The other cattle would see these cattle traveling out to the mountains and like herd animals, they would follow the mother cows along the 25-mile stretch and up into the canyon, until they were beyond several cattle guards and free to roam the mountain canyons and byways. Some of the cattle were used to the trip each year and they would gladly make the trek without any prodding, but others would be stubborn and that is where the work came in.
   
I remember my first all day ride, out on the cattle drive, I was barely 8 years old. I had gone on two previous years but I fell asleep both times on my horse and had to be put in the cab of the cattle truck by my Grandfather. This day would be different because I made the whole trip to the canyon and up through the second cattle guard. I remember being saddle sore for a week and every time I sat down at my desk at school my butt ached.
   
There would be many riders on some years and very few on others. People would show up from town, being asked by various ranchers to come and help drive the cattle out to the canyon so, on some years you would see all sorts of horses and riders. There were many horses that were winter sour and many cowboy wrecks over the years. I've seen cowboys after being bucked off their horses doing all kinds of somersaults through the air landing on the hard dry grain fields that dotted the landscape. Some horses would run off and it would take cowboys several days to locate them and have them returned to town. Other horses would shed their riders and then gallop joyfully out into the grain fields, just to enjoy some bigtime eating on the lush green sprouts that covered the ground on both sides of the road.
   
The cattle drive out to the canyon was a dusty dirty horse ride, because back in those days the road to Cedar Fort turned into a gravel road just past the crossroads where Walmart stands today. The drive would not stop once the cattle started heading towards the mountains. The Cowboys could not even stop for lunch or a saddle break, because when the cattle hit the dry farm areas they would need to be kept on the main road and off of the newly planted grain fields and this required a lot of hard saddle time and tired horseflesh.
   
The drives would take place at daylight and usually end late in the afternoon of the same day, which required about 8-10 hours in the saddle. After the cattle were pushed up the canyon a short way, then the drive for all intense and purposes was over until the fall roundup.
   
Fall time would find us saddled up again and riding the high range, herding the cattle back down the canyon and into corrals at the mouth of the canyon. From there, the cattle would be loaded in large trucks and trailers and hauled back into town and released into pastures and feedlots where they were fed summer hay, and silage throughout the winter months until the whole process started over. Some cattle were taken to the auctions and sold, while others were processed through the slaughterhouses that were found in Lehi and other local farming towns. This process of ranching was a mainstay for many Lehi ranchers back in those days, but today it is a small shadow of its former self. The cattle drive is gone and the massive herds of white-faced Herefords and Charolais cattle have all but disappeared from the local scene. There are still a few Cattlemen that raise Angus cattle that are very popular with today's restaurants, and the mountains are still grazed in the summer months but the large herds of cattle that once dotted the landscape are only a memory that some of us experienced back in the 50's and 60's.
   
A story that comes to mind during the spring cattle drive around May 1962 was witnessed by myself and several other members of my family and friends. That year the drive started off like many others before had and the cattle were following the calf truck smartly down the road. The day had been a successful one for the most part and there had not been any mishaps or bad experiences throughout the day. As the cattle were nearing the mouth of the canyon, some of the headstrong cows decided they were going to quit the main herd and find their own way up the canyon. About twenty head turned up a small canyon and headed for the military range that is now present-day Camp Williams. This was totally unacceptable and would put the cattle on the wrong side of a grazing fence that stretched 15 miles or more over towards Herriman. Several cowboys took off after the stray cattle and I asked my grandfather if I could go help. Being 10 years old and a good horseman, he said it was ok and to be careful. I followed the others as the horses broke into a lope up the sidehill and out of sight of the main herd. I was following a cowboy that was riding a horse he had borrowed from a man in town so that the horse could get the fluff rode off of him on the long cattle drive.

As we were tracking along a steep canyon sidehill, the horse in front of me turned quickly, put his head down and went to bucking down the hillside. The cowboy on top of him made about two jumps and then went flying through the air and landed in a tall patch of sagebrush. The big palomino horse bucked all the way across the canyon and out of sight over the next hill. I rode down to where the cowboy was picking himself up, and I got off and helped the best I could. He was alright but shaken up after the launching the horse put on him. He asked if I would go get his horse and I gladly said yes. When I rode to the top of the ridge I could not see the Palomino horse anywhere, he had disappeared.
 
 As the story unfolded, several riders searched for the rest of the day and all of the following day but the horse could not be found anywhere. A week later at school, I was told by a friend of mine that knew the cowboy that had been bucked off, and he said that they found the big Palomino clear back in the Lehi lakeshore area. The frightened horse had shed its rider and made his way back 25 miles or more to the pasture that he had been taken from at the start of the cattle drive. When they found the big Palomino, he was gazing intently in his pasture with the saddle and headstall still on his frame. He had jumped the barbed wire fence upon his return and proved that nothing was going to stand in his way of good grazing and no work.
   
One odd year we had an early snowstorm in the fall that pushed most of the cattle off the mountain early, and down onto the roads west of town. My Grandfather had a young bull that he had purchased from a man back East. This bull was a special one and his breeding was new to the area for that day and time. He was a crossbred Semittal bull. They were much larger than the white-faced Herefords and the calves they produced would bring a larger price on the market. Some of the ranchers in the area had purchased some of these bulls and they were experimenting with them to see how they would fit in with the birthing methods in their herds.
   
Grandfather's bull named Willy was only two years old and it was his first year out in the mountains, so he was a rookie when it came to the fall and knowing when its time to head down off the mountains for the pasture.
     
After all the cows were gathered and trucked into town that year, it was discovered that a handful was still out in the canyon in the deep snow. A party of men was organized with horses and gear for the trek to the mountains to find the missing stock. I was asked to go that trip and before anyone could change their mind and say I was too young I had my horse saddled and ready to ride.
   
I remember that day was very cold. It was the first week of November 1964. Back in those days, the clothing we wore didn't have the insulating factors that our modern clothing is made of today. You wore cotton long johns and Levi pants with cotton flannel shirts. Your boots were regular cowboy boots so you could fit a spur on the heel. I remember my mom making me put on a pair of wool socks over my regular ones and when I put them into my cowboy boots they were so tight I could hardly feel my toes. Later in the morning, I was sure glad I had them extra socks on because when you're riding, your feet are not being used like when you are walking, so the blood doesn't circulate as it would normally. I was numb from the cold about an hour into the ride. My father rode up alongside me as we were searching the side canyons and asked me how I was doing. He could see from my purple lips that I was half frozen. He got off his slicker on his saddle and made me put it on and wrapped it around my saddle and buttoned me up so I was nice and comfy. I remember it made a big difference and I soon warmed up a little.
   
Well, as the story goes on, we split up our search and I was told to ride back down the canyon to the truck and see if I could make a fire so we could all warm up later in the morning. I cut my horse out of the bunch and started following the road back to the corral area. On my way, I spied some movement over in an area known as Muggins spring. I rode my horse up the narrow canyon and found Grandpa's bull Willy, and a small Hereford yearling calf. I worked hard by myself getting around the pair because they were frightened from the deep snow, cold and hungry. Finally, I got my horse above them and started them down for the road. When they hit that road, they shot down that canyon like they were on fire, and by the time I hit the road they had disappeared from sight. I continued down to the trucks and both of the cows were right against the gate. I got off my horse and pushed them into the corral and figured I would have a real story to tell, once my Dad and Grandfather got back to the trucks. Little did I know but the back gate to the corral was opened so the pair of cows ran out the back and down into the dry farm area. This made for a long day when everyone realized what had happened. We spent most of the day herding them back up the canyon and back into the corrals, so we could load them in the stock truck.
   
After it was all said and done, I remember I was so cold.  I huddled on the floor of my Dad's truck on the way home. The heater was on the floor and I surrounded myself with the big yellow slicker and made a tent so I could feel the heat blow around my hands and feet. The cows were spared the harsh elements of the winter range and I had a story to tell. Looking back on that time of my life, I vividly remember that frosty morning with the ground frozen solid and the crunching sounds my horse made, as he broke through the crusted snow. I can see the two young cows as they approached the road and it all comes back in living color to my mind.
   
I grew up from that era and I'm thankful for the times I had and memories in my mind. Many years later when I became a man, I enlisted in the Army and after serving a time away from the farm, I came home to find my Grandfather was on the last of his trails in life. His cattle were nearly gone and so was the days of the big cattle drives. Many years late,r I painted a painting that resides in my home today of that cold November day and the memory of a young boy's adventure. I have included it here on my blog for others to view and enjoy.
   
Life has many memories for me, but the ones that strike my mind the hardest are those special few that I can really feel inside. As I close my eyes and dream, I can still feel the canyon air and the smell of horseflesh under me, as I ride along with the sounds of the cattle, as they bellow and moan while winding their way through the trails to better pastures.

An Unforgettable Sky

The year was 1983 and the college football season was in full swing. At that time in my life, I worked for a metal building company that was an international corporation and I was based out of Utah. My job took me to various parts of the United States, Canada, and Mexico. The main headquarters was in Houston Texas, with another large facility in Nashville Tennessee. My boss was located in Nashville so on occasion, I was requested to travel down to the southern states and participate in various builder conferences and meetings.

Football was a large topic of conversation down in the south at that time and everyone was allied with one college or another. During my trips to that portion of the country, I would get a glimpse of just how dedicated some of these fellow workmates of mine were. If you didn't readily agree with one person's choice of college memorabilia that decorated the offices in their work setting, you might end up with an enemy on your hands. These people were dead serious about their team, regardless of whether or not the team was terrible that year or not.

The Tennessee plant had many employees from all over the South and Midwest states. They were gathered together there for their engineering skills and trades. With them, they brought their favorite home team logos along with all the past and present history of football for their team of choice. Arguments around the break areas were commonplace and no matter how good your team was that year, someone would always bring up the past and some type of argument would ensue. Most of the disputes were friendly enough but I saw a few that nearly went to fisticuffs over meaningless pride.
   
That particular year, my home team of BYU was on a firecracker roll, defeating everything in its path. When the mighty Miami Hurricanes laid down in the trail and BYU prevailed over them, I knew we were on to something special that year. As it played out, I had bragging rights for the next 4 months and everyone had to eat a piece of the old defeatist pie. Everywhere I went that year and on most of my phone conversations, all I heard was how BYU was not going to go undefeated and that the crown would be given to someone else. It got so bad that I would avoid certain characters that I knew were just laying in wait after each weekly victory to argue their point.
   
About the middle of November, I was summoned by my boss who had played for Indiana and was a huge Hoosier fan to travel to Arkansas for a builder development conference and stay for the week. I dreaded the trip and tried every way I could to get out of it to no avail. I knew the torture that awaited me as BYU was rolling up a score on several smaller schools that couldn't measure up to the Lavell Express that year.

When I arrived, the talk was BYU this, BYU that, and it got to the point where I wanted to sack several obnoxious individuals if they continued their rants. There was one individual, and I'll spare his name as he will probably read this and remember his wounds, that just wouldn't leave BYU and its success alone. Constantly, he buggered me until I had finally had enough. I waited for the opportunity at a large luncheon that we both attended and finally under duress, I made my move. Looking back on it now, It was foolhardy of me, but I crumbled to the constant pressure.

As we were all gathered at a lunch table in the town of Stuttgart Arkansas, the noisy nuisance made his usual pitch about BYU schedule and how they were in a weak division and as soon as they played anyone with any real talent the win streak would end. Slowly everyone at the luncheon table glanced my way as if I needed to battle his statements in my own defense of my team. There were at least thirty managers, engineers etc. seated around me and everyone waited with baited breathe for my next comment. Even my own boss was grinning like a hyena as he looked at me with those Hoosier eyes.
   
Well, the words just spilled out of my mouth and before I knew what I had said and realized my pride had just tucked my brain in my back pocket. I blurted out the challenge of challenges, 'Care to put your money where your mouth is?' Only I didn't stop there. I was on a roll, so I went after the one thing you don't do when you're on a tight family budget. I let out the ole 'Are you all talk and no show?' That is the one statement that you can't get out of no matter how hard you try. That statement is the ultimate slam, cut, degrade, bottom of the gutter insult to another fans pride for their team. It begs for a comeback just to make things level. I received the look of looks from the culprit. As he swallowed down the last of my swirling toilet flush and looked around to size up the insult, he brings out the one thing I didn't want when the volleys were being fired between us. He said to me, "How about a two hundred and fifty dollar bet that your team doesn't go undefeated the rest of the year, let alone have a chance at the National title. Oh, and how about double that if they win or don't get the National title?"
   
All the eyes around the table now shifted from one brainless fool to the other as I could feel the heat of the moment. For a small country boy from a rural farm town in Lehi Utah, that moment ranks right up there with the dumbest thing I ever did in my life, to that point. With my old alma mater, BYU sitting on one shoulder and the conscience of a family man with a stay at home wife and three small children and not a pot to piss in on the other shoulder, wouldn't you know I chose the path of least resistance and folded under the pressure. Reaching out my meager hand, the only satisfaction I gained from the whole deal was that my nemesis was a smaller man and when his hand hit mine I gave it the old Captain Crunch of handshakes. He got the message that I was not happy with the outcome as I made my point.
   
Now, I know how this might look to some of you reading this post. How could a BYU alumnus, Mormon raised young man fall into the category of the Devil's cauldron, and risk money he sorely needed on the home front. Well, you had to be there to understand how stupid the whole thing was. I have never seen a dumber Jackass than the one that I was looking at later that day. I glanced in the bathroom mirror of my Hilton hotel room while my mind went back and forth about how I would come up with the dough since the odds were overwhelmingly against me.

I had resolved myself to a small part-time job for a while until I had squared my account and with that, I tried to put the foolishness out of my mind. I was haunted by the last thing my boss had said as we were leaving the luncheon and heading to our hotel rooms. He patted me on the back as we climbed into the taxi and said, "Southwick, I didn't think you had it in you. I sure hope you beat that Jack, but BYU ain't got a chance in hell of winning it all." I swallowed hard as I knew that the odds were not in my favor and he was right.
   
After the luncheon and the conference, I was invited to some old-fashioned duck hunting in the duck capital of the world. We traversed over to where the Arkansas river washes into the Mississippi, south of Stuttgart. We were ferried out in duck boats to a wooded area and set up behind decoys and temporary blinds. The area was flooded with tall trees all around us. The ducks would come swooping in through the trees and it was the best duck festival I have ever entertained in my life. Those boys back there have a piece of duck hunters heaven.

As the sun set on the second day of hunting, the sky filled with a glowing fusion of colors that dazzled the mind. The colors were so intense that even the bark and leaves on the trees glowed in an orange ball of fire. I have never in my life, to this day seen a sunset like that one and it defies logic as to how it came about, but it was breathtaking, to say the least. The pictures that I took of the scene almost make the prints like they were photoshopped, but that type of technology didn't exist back in 1983. I brought the pictures home and later in life I painted an oil painting of the scene as I remembered it and with the aid of my pictures. Each time I gaze on that painting it takes me back to the scene of the duck hunt and the hotel luncheon. Little did I know at that time, but I was on a course to be able to talk the talk and walk the walk in the BYU annals of fan in your face for the next year.
   
Now, all of you reading this story know that I was relieved of the stupid wager of the moment and that the BYU team went undefeated and won the National Championship. But what you don't know, was that my dumber partner in the dumb Mormon wager of all time turned out to be a number one fan for all time and Graduate alumni of the University of Michigan. We had no idea that it would turn out BYU vs Michigan for the title but that is how fate jumps in the game and takes its turn at humbling the mighty. Here I'll interject the score just in case the loser is reading this post and needs a little reminder. BYU-24 Michigan-17. And I only fleeced him for $250.00. This was against the wishes of my boss, who wanted to see this guy really eat the crow and pay the double bet.
   
Yes, I had bragging rights around the water cooler for the next year, but I kept it pretty low key. I was still nursing the bullet wound that had narrowly missed taking my numbskull off after the famous handshake and the bet. I had prevailed by the skin of my teeth and the lesson was a one and done for me as far as sports betting was concerned. I returned to a normal life and the only time I wince at the thought of my mule-headed accolades is when I see the sunset painting and it takes me all the way back to that day.

For all the 'Real Life Mothers' out there, this one is for you

I remember this woman as a young married girl full of all kinds of expectations of married life. She made it very clear from the start that she expected to do her duty in this world and bring children into the marriage to raise and nurture. So it was with no surprise that she became pregnant several years into her marriage. With this new found experience came another set of circumstances she never dreamed of. The first change in her body was the morning sickness. So severe that it occurred every single day for six months of the pregnancy term. She had this same sickness with all four of her children. I remember she was so sick she couldn’t hold down a single morsel of food until late in the afternoons. Still she maintained a home and tended to her duties of wife and companion. She anticipated each birth with excitement, buying baby clothing, cribs, bottles and all the goodies. All the while I watched her in a very discomforting mood with the changes going on with her body. With each and every birth she changed from a young girl, to young mother to mother and finally on to a seasoned veteran in motherhood. I watched her toss and turn in bed trying to get comfortable with the babies pushing on her spine. I watched her raked with so much pain that I couldn’t fathom having a 9 lb. baby coming out of a young woman and still being able to smile and cry with joy upon the moment that child took its first breath and started crying. Then I witnessed a change in her as she started the rearing years, oh sure, she still had to bear the additional pregnancies that were to come in the coming years but this time they were all different. She had small dependent children with which their entire safe being depended on this person they called mother. She nurtured them through colic, childhood sickness, fevers, flu, and all the nasty things brought to her children in their young years. I witnessed her so sad and caring that she slept in the hospital with one of them with her hand in a sealed glove reaching inside a plastic bubble which was housing her child, so sick from croup that it’s life was threatened. She stayed in an upright position for 3 days with her hand reaching inside massaging and loving her child while the disease raged. I saw her up at nights standing and rocking a child in her arms trying to comfort them as sickness and childhood sufferings took hold. She would still maintain life like it was all part of job. Never complaining and always keeping a comfortable home. I watched this mother grow and develop with her children as they grew. She always did her best to keep them clean and safe. She laughed with them, had good times and was so happy in life that nothing could have been any finer than this course she had chosen. As the years went by I started to noticed a sadness in her eyes as each and every one of them grew to accountability and decided to leave her nest and seek their own lives. She would cling to each of them in any way she could and always was there if needed for anything which might come up. I watched her pace the floor waiting for a phone call from a faraway place when one of her children lay very sick and was out of her reach. She almost broke down that time, and had it not been for the priesthood I think she would have. Now as the years have passed I see a grandmother, so full of life and happiness as she looks over the family she brought to this earth. Her joy is unmatched each time they come to see grandma. She still has the caring nurturing habits that she developed those many years ago. She is a veteran mother, grandmother and it shows every time her grandchildren are in her care. She devotes all her attention to them and makes her home a beautiful fun place to come and stay. With all the changes in life we are exposed to, she is the same old mom she has always been. Sweet to the taste, soft and loving, with caring eyes and a way about her that makes you feel everything is perfect when you are with her. She continues to make her children’s lives an ongoing love that only a true mother can do. I have witnessed this for all the years she has been a mother. She has completed the course with an A plus with special honors from this personal witness. I couldn’t believe it possible but then it really happened, and so much more than can be told here. I know God has a special place in his heart for mothers such as this and the blessings that are afforded them for their merits make the whole story complete. As the saying goes there are women who bring children into this life, and then there are real Mothers created in their mother’s image, with the tender loving hand of God.

And the cycle goes on.

©2015-2016 THEY LOOKED WEST SERIES ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I'm Standing Until the Good Lord Takes Me Home

With all that's happening in this world lately, I felt compelled to speak my mind on several matters. Since it's my blog, I can exercise my right to free speech and let everyone in on my innermost thoughts.
   
There is not one single place on this planet that I would like to live and raise a family better than America. There are a lot of really crappy places on this earth and some not so crappy, but when it comes down to rights, protection, and living a free life, nothing even comes close to the good ole' USA.
   
Having said that, this country has had its ups and downs since the founding fathers penned the Constitution and I suspect we will have a lot more turmoil in the coming years ahead. This generation that is upon us as we speak, seems to have forgotten how we came to be the greatest nation ever in the history of mankind. We didn't do it by dominating the world and subjecting mankind to our standard of living. We established ourselves first in a series of wars and devastation and then as we healed from that horrible beginning, we went forth abroad and fought for the rights of other nations so they might enjoy the same freedoms that we apply to ourselves today.
   
In all of this, growing and developing as a truly free nation there was one common denominator that stood the test of time and has blessed this nation's cause, and that is the love of our Lord and Savior. His blessings have given some of his children the freedoms they love and cherish. His love has protected us from the evils of other men that would destroy our ideals and enslave us, as other nations have seen. It is His love that created this nation and inspired our founding fathers to pen his inspirations and make laws on paper for all men to read, admire and enjoy. And it was His love for this nation and its children that have stood the test of time when the whole of the earth has been and is engulfed in rage, war, and despair.
   
I said that only some of his children are fortunate enough to have the blessings of this wonderful country but not all of them. You might ask yourself why don't all of his children get to enjoy the blessings of a free and thriving country. I suspect it was all part of his plan to allow as many souls as possible to entertain a place on this earth for as long as mankind can sustain it.
   

Since the beginning of time, man has tried in vain to destroy one another and all the good things they were blessed with. I suspect God's plan for a geographically, strategically placed continent with two massive oceans for borders, that would slow down the destruction and want of greedy men as they try to conquer all the rest of the world and mankind, was all part of his world benefit to man. Separated from the rest of the world, he nurtured and slowly developed a small sprawling population in this America of go-getters, thinkers and men, and women with girth in their loins that could stand the test of time and remember where and whom they owed their allegiances to.
   
In all of this world-beating and brazen disregard for the freedoms and ideals of mankind, I believe the good Lord put down a symbol that represented his will and wishes for all to see and he has preserved it to this very day. The flag of the United States of America has flown and shown through sunny skies and clouds of misery, for all the world to recognize. It still represents the will of a free, "One nation, under God, indivisible, with LIBERTY AND JUSTICE for all."

The flag as placed on the first meager pole back when this country was a fledgling nation has really changed in its value and ideals. Now it represents the sacrifice of not only those who have served for its cause and given everything, but it also represents every decent God-fearing American man and woman who obeys the laws of this nation and lives in the security and safety that it provides on a daily basis.
   
This GREAT flag is a symbol of everything that's right about this nation and exactly whats wrong with the worldly ideas of greedy men. When the chips are down in the free world and women and children cry for their God, its the flag of this nation that rallies to the cries of the oppressed and intervenes on behalf of the free world. I believe this flag is God's symbol of hope and love and that is why it has prevailed to this very day.

When I see Americans taking a knee and disrespecting the flag in a meaningless game of sport, for a cause of anxiety that hardly few even understand, it makes me sad in my heart. The flag of this great nation is so much more than our veterans and their great sacrifice.

It is the lifeblood that pumps through the veins of every citizen that has raised families, worked hard at their jobs, endured and sacrificed their sons and daughters as they served in harm's way. It represents the law-abiding taxpayer that pays his or her fair share to keep this way of life forever. It represents the blood sweat and tears from a nation and its citizens that have endured the tests of time and came out of the storm with their flag still intact.

   
This flag represents all the loving souls in this country that rallied to the call. Whether it be to arms or to serve as common citizens when disaster has befallen parts of our nation. The flag is the symbol which brings comfort and aid when everything else is lost to many in this world. Not only does this flag represent America, but it brings hope to the rest of the world. Otherwise, why are millions of desperate individuals trying to come to America and live under this flag and its nation's ideals?

This grand flag and our National Anthem represent what we were, are now, and what we will become going down the road of freedom as a united people. While a few misguided souls try to upstage the majority of the masses and make this flag and its ceremony a joke, there are many more Americans out there that will continue with their daily lives in honor and tribute to this great symbol. These are the true Americans that make this nation the country that it is.
   
Concerning our flag and National Anthem and all that has passed in front of this country these past few months, I feel sad for the misgivings of a few spoiled children of America and how misguided they actually are. The one true symbol they are trying to tear down is the very foundation, which allows them to make millions of dollars, while the masses sit and enjoy the spectacle in their free time. There again I used the word free while describing an act that is part of the greater work that our Father has gifted His children with. I can only wish that intelligent minds could realize the foolish notions of a minority cause and we can all stand for what we really depend upon and need, a never-ending symbol that represents every last one of us that make up this America, our Grand Ole Flag.
   

I came from a military family and I have served as well. The actions of the NFL players during the National Anthem is sickening, to say the least. It is their right to this free assembly and actions being one of the reasons we all served our country. Whether I agree or disagree, I find myself as one small citizen in a maze of troubled times, in a nation that is on the verge of losing its identity. I will continue to stand and pledge my allegiance to my country and pray to my God that He preserves all Americans, our Constitution, the flag, and this great nation for all posterity to enjoy until He takes us home.

Doing the Bossa Nova with Black Beauty

The early morning drive up the steep alpine canyon was uneventful. The lights of the truck and horse trailer lit up the canyon walls like Christmas ornaments as they passed by. The winding road was strewn with sharp curves and narrow in its width. After what seemed like a long time the front lights on the pickup truck shined forth showing a dirt road turn off to the left. The blinking amber signal light radiated through the forest pine like a caution light down in the city streets many miles below the mountain vista. Turning up the dirt road the truck geared down and made a whining sound from the load it was pulling. After a short pull through dried mud ruts and loose rocks, the truck turned into a grassy meadow area and pulled up next to an old campsite area with a rocked-in fire pit.

As the truck came to a stop, the horse in the rear trailer readjusted her feet, and the sound of a metal shoe clanked on the side of the trailer panel. With the truck in park, the young cowboy stepped out into the dark nighttime sky and took the first breath into his lungs of the fresh mountain air. This day was going to be a good one for a deer hunt he thought to himself as he pulled his vest and jacket from behind the truck seat and prepared his saddle bags with lunch and goodies. He heard the restless horse in the trailer and walked back to unload and start the saddling process.

As the rear door opened on the horse trailer, the big beast started the all familiar quick stepping sound of four hooves digging into the rubber mat and trying to find the first step down with the back leg. Clambering and stomping she swung her rear hoof out into the night air and gently put it to the ground, and then quickly the rest of her feet found the safety of the mountain soil. Stopping and looking around, the big horse felt the glove hand of the cowboy reassuring her that things were ok and that the boogie man was not after her. The cowboy led her to the side of the trailer and tied the halter rope to the ring pin on the edge of the trailer.

With a brush in one hand and a glove on the other, the young cowboy massaged the big horse along the mane and back all the way down the tail and then rubbed and patted the horse's front chest and belly. The cowboy could tell that this maneuver was relaxing to the horse, so he continued until he felt the horse was fully at ease.

The cowboy pulled a gas lantern out of the truck box and lit the wicks with a match he had in his vest pocket. As he did this he could finally see the big solid black horse standing before him. The horse was coal black and had a hint of dark shine to its hide as the lantern light cast its glow upon her beautiful frame. Quickly grabbing the saddle and pads from the trailer compartment, the cowboy set the pads in motion, and the saddling task was complete in a few minutes. The cowboy started to hurry his tasks now for he knew he had two long hours of riding in the dark before the pair would reach their destination.

It would be a race against the morning sky. The plan was to be in a position atop a crop of rocks before first light. This spot had been previously scouted and would give the hunter an advantage on this hunt. Last but not least the cowboy pulled the rifle from the back window gun rack and softly slid it in the scabbard that hung from the side of his saddle. After securing his truck and lantern the young man grabbed a glove full of hair and rein then stepped into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle seat. Pulling up on the reins to hold the big horse, he adjusted himself and with a soft, gentle nudge the black mare walked out into the night air.

The cowboy and horse traveled along a rocky trail through the thick dark forest. The cowboy would speak calmly and quietly to the horse occasionally to reassure the horse, as the black mare picked her footing among the unseen rocks that adorned the mountain trail. A sound of metal horseshoes on rocks could be heard across the night sky as the horse and rider climbed higher in elevation along the ridgeline. The cowboy could feel the cold draft of frosted air as canyon breezes whipped against his bare neck.

It was late October and patches of snow lay here and there along the trail. As the black horse's hooves met with this snow, a hard crunching sound emanated from beneath the horse's feet and was heard throughout the night air. The cowboy was somewhat nervous that the horse was making too much noise and that it might reach the ears of the big mule deer buck he had spotted in this area the previous weekend. The prize on this hunt would be bagging the monster muley which had eluded the cowboy for the past two seasons. The young cowboy had expended a lot of scouting time and effort in trying to hunt down the trophy deer only to come up empty-handed for all his efforts. The cowboy thought this day would be different as he had carefully made his pre-hunt plans.

As the horse and rider topped out on the mountain pass, the first hint of sun highlighted the bottom edges of clouds on the eastern sky with a peach-colored hue. As the cowboy crested the mountain peak, he paused to enjoy the beautiful mountain and sky scene he had been fortunate to witness. There before him lay a scene of multicolored mountain foliage which made a man stand in awe. While giving the horse some time to catch her breath, the young man sat in his saddle, and silently thanked his God for the opportunity to view such an enormous stage of creation, as the sky expanded before him. In the cowboy's mind, his master was surely having a beautiful day when he set in motion this grand scene.

After the horse had begun to breathe easier, the cowboy nudged her along the trail as quiet as he could. The cowboy knew that the canyon below him was the old haunt of the big muley he was after. About half way across the side of the canyon the cowboy pulled up the reins and began to study the mountainside below him. He had an excellent vantage point and from this elevation, he was sure he was in a good position to glass the area with his binoculars.

Dropping the reins on the black mare's neck, the cowboy pulled his binoculars out of his jacket and with free hands around the lenses he began to scan the aspen groves in the canyon below. The horse stood still and had both ears pinned to the wind for any sound that might mean danger. The horse's natural instinct is to vacate the immediate area at the hint of trouble, and the cowboy could feel the animal's nervous heart beating through his chaps. As the cowboy was intently looking the area over for signs of deer, he immediately spotted a nice buck and several does making their way up the canyon toward his position.

As he studied the animals, the cowboy realized that this was not the big muley he was hunting, so he quietly observed the deer as they climbed the steep mountain. He would let these deer pass by him as he sat relaxed in the saddle watching the deer move toward him. As the deer passed within fifty yards of the horse and rider, a sudden piercing sound broke through the canyon air and without warning a rock ricocheted less than twenty feet to the left of the horse and rider making a crackling whining sound, as bits of rock and lead spewed into the air. As fast as a cat with nine lives, the black horse reared straight up and in one motion turned in mid air and leaped away from the sound and ricocheted rock. As the horse's hooves hit the mountain soil, she was in full retreat down the trail in the direction she had previously come. Riderless and half out of her mind she covered the ground at a breathtaking run until she was clear of all the danger and well out of the canyon setting.

I felt the big horse jump from the sound of the bullet crashing into a set of rocks to the left of where I was intently watching a herd of deer. The motion of the horse caught me completely unaware, and I was powerless to do anything except fall out of the saddle. With both of my hands wrapped around my binoculars, I didn't have time to grab the reins and try to make a ride of it. In one quick second, I was on the ground looking up and watching the big horse as she galloped at full speed down the mountain trail. I could see the saddle bags and rifle scabbard slapping her on each side of her belly and flanks as she squealed and bucked trying to free herself from the leather monsters that were on her back. That was the position I found myself in on that cold October morning back in 1980.

As I look back on the predicament, I found myself involved with that fateful day so long ago I now recall what circumstances brought me to that set of events, and I remember how the whole dance started. My father in law, Jim, had purchased a big black mare named Etta after his retirement and placed her on his ranch down in central Utah. She was the best-looking mare in several states and was well trained for reining, western pleasure, and halter class events at quarter horse shows throughout the western States. Her breeding earned the term, 'double stacked on both sides' which referred to her pedigree which was a star-studded list of proven sires and dams that had won many championships in competitions at various events in the past. Etta was Jim's dream horse. Unfortunately, Jim would not be able to enjoy his new found prize. He passed away at a young age shortly after purchasing the horse and left the co-ownership to his wife, Colleen.

About a year after Jim's death, Colleen moved back up to Northern Utah to be near her children, and she brought Etta with her. In the confusion of losing a loved one, Colleen was in a whirlwind of time and Etta was her last concern. The horse had sat in the barn for a solid year and had never been ridden since Jim's death. One day Colleen asked me if I would exercise Etta and get her ready for a horse sale that was coming up in a few months.

A good friend of Jim and Colleen's had been involved with helping Jim buy the horse originally, and after Jim's death, he had offered his help in selling the horse. Now, this wasn't some run of the meal average Joe horse. The beautiful mare was a four figure dollar horse and in 1980 that was a load of cash. Needless to say, I was hesitant to help because the value of such a pristine animal had me a little nervous. I had been around horses all my life, and I had been a witness to a few mishaps when it came to horseflesh. This proposition had me between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, I was sympathetic to Colleen's cause but on the other, I would feel great if someone else took on the responsibility of getting the horse ready for sale.

In the end, I caved, and the process with the horse started. After work and in the evenings, I would ride Etta in the low hills north of town. She didn't need arena work, she just needed some leg strength and manner reassurance. At that time I just wanted to get her in shape and used to being frequently handled. Her previous training would be enough to sell her for a big price.

As time progressed over a month, the horse settled into her routine and things were going well. I had my horses that I had been neglecting so I had planned on using them for the upcoming deer hunt that year. After careful planning, I had scouted the mountain area for the big muley and was in the process of taking a week off work when Colleen approached me and asked if I would ride Etta one last time before the horse sale at the end of the month. This request would put that ride right in the middle of my hunt week, and I didn't want to change my plans, I had planned on using my horses that week.

After careful thought, I agreed to take her out on Thursday, two days before the sale and ride her in the mountains on my hunt. At the time I thought one day shouldn't be too bad, and she was in real good shape which made for an easy ride up the mountain trail. It is at this junction in the story that I found myself on that October day laying on the ground watching a beautiful black beauty quit the country with dazzling speed while I was powerless to do anything but spectate.

As fast as I could, I got to my feet and looked in the direction the bullet had come from, but I couldn't see anyone in the area where I thought the shot might have originated. The canyon was empty as far as I could see. Then a shiver went down my spine as I realized the ramification of the events that had just taken place and I looked in the direction that Etta had run. I pulled off my chaps and stashed them behind an aspen tree with my binoculars and started to move in the direction of the horse. I ran so hard I remember my lungs burning and my legs tightening up, but I kept up the pace until I reached the edge of the canyon and could look down the other side where the horse had disappeared earlier. I nearly passed out from exhaustion at that altitude, so I was glad to reach the edge of the mountain pass.

Fearing what I might see I peered over the edge and to my amazement the big horse was down the other side standing just off the trail with head down pulling on some mountain grass. It appeared luck might be with me as I sauntered carefully down to within about ten feet of the feeding horse. Calmly and carefully I spoke to Etta and told her things would be ok. While I did this, I had my hand out reaching for the side of her neck, and as I did this, she lifted her head, took one look at me and whirled around in reining fashion and galloped away like I was the devil there to collect his debt. I ran after her down the mountain side, but she left me in the dust like I was standing still.

At this point, I started to get a little upset about everything and a few words spewed from my lips that won't be repeated here. Back down the canyon I ran, but not quite as fast, because I was wearing down and the day's events were starting to take a toll on my body. As I was running around a turn in the forest trail, I stopped cold because there in front of me about twenty feet stood Etta, contently grazing on some more mountain grass.

I repeated the process as before, and all went well until I reached for the cheek piece of the bridle then all hell broke loose, and she spun around and sashayed down the mountain trail staying just far enough in front of me to make it a real grind. Pissed wouldn't describe the feeling that I had as we did this dance at least seven times down the mountain. Each time had the same results, the horse had my number, and she was playing the game her way. All I could do is hope that at some junction along the trail, it would end without tragedy. My mind raced with every terrible thought about the horse I could conjure, from broken horse legs to running off of cliffs. All these things filled me with adrenaline and fear. The canyon was empty of people so I could not count on anyone to help me. I was all alone on this adventure and running out of patience.

Finally, the trail leveled out, and I had not seen the horse for over an hour. I was following Etta's hoof prints in the mountain soil, so I knew she was headed for the truck. I could only hope that might slow her up, or she would be on the paved road within a mile and tragedy might befall her with traffic. By this time in the story, I was completely exhausted and walking my way down the trail to the truck. I figure I would have to get some help to catch her or she would perish from an accident.

As I was coming in view of the truck, the prize was standing before me next to the side of the trailer looking at me with a look that said, what took you so long? My heart pushed back down in my chest, and I approached Etta with all the ease and stealth of a sneaking Indian in the old days getting ready to steal the soldier's horse. Slowly and calmly I got within reaching distance and put my hand out on her neck and with my other hand, I secured the halter rope that was tied to the saddle. My ordeal was done, and so I pulled the tailgate down on the truck and lay down on the bed taking it all in. Each time I would look at the horse, she gave me the what's wrong with you look. So finally I decided it was time to show her who was the boss.

I pulled new reins out of the trailer and got the bridle in working order and climbed on the horse and started back up the mountain to retrieve my chaps and binoculars. Etta didn't like this new move and felt like she should be rewarded for stopping at the trailer and allowing herself to be caught. She was being stubborn about going back up the trail, so I put more emphasis on the spurs and in time she realized that I was somewhat pissed about the whole ordeal and that the sass in her method had left us on shaky terms.

It's a good thing she was in real good shape, or the chaps and binoculars would be someone else's property. We climbed back up that mountain to the spot where we had parted company, and I climbed off her back. As I was reaching behind the aspen tree to get my gear, Etta thought this might be a good time to try the dance again, so she whirled around in cutting horse fashion and tried to distance herself from her partner. But this time, I held her close, and she could only dance in place with me. The look she gave me was one of disdain and frustration, but she got over it.

As I was putting my gear on her back, I noticed two hunters about a half mile down the trail, so I mounted and rode in their direction. As I came within earshot of the pair, I noticed one of the hunters was a very young boy, and the other one was an old timer. Upon my approach, the younger one said to the older gentleman, "Grandpa, that's the cowboy you shot off his horse earlier this morning." Well, I could hardly believe my ears as I confronted the older man. The old man came up alongside Etta and with tears in his eyes he told me that he had been shooting at a buck earlier in the morning from way down the canyon. He figured that he must have shot over the deer's back because his grandson had told him that he saw a man fall off a black horse and the horse run away.

They were scared and didn't know what to do so they had hiked up the mountain further to investigate the young boy's story when they ran into me. The old gentleman said he never saw me up on the mountain or he would never have fired at the deer. Listening to their stories, I realized that the whole incident was nothing more than an accident. I told the two of them that I was ok and that the horse had been scared from the ricochet, but that we were intact, and all was well. I reminded the old gentleman that he might be more careful next time and with that he shook my hand and asked for me to accept his humble apology. With that, I rode off in the other direction towards my truck as my mind filled with thoughts of the day's events. Etta knew that we were headed for sweet hay and horse conditioner with molasses, and she picked up the pace.

Looking back on this story I can see the works of the most famous prophet of all time. Murphy's law is always right, and his words are ringing in my ears as I write this tale. If things can go wrong, they will. Bad things happen when you least expect them, and when your intuition tells you that it's not a good idea to take a highly valued money horse out on the mountain two days before she's being sold, then you should pull you head out and use what little brains God has sent you to this earth with.

It sleeted on us all the way down off the mountain that afternoon, making for a miserable ride but at least I was riding instead of doing the Bossa Nova with Black Beauty down the trail. Finally, we arrived at the barn safe and sound, and Etta got her oats. The sale went off as planned and Etta found her a new home. The transfer of monies eased Colleen's burden a small amount. I didn't get the big muley that year, but I got a good lesson at an earlier stage in my life. I had dodged two bullets that day and came away nearly unscathed. Had it not been for my sore feet and bruised hip, my time with Etta might have been enjoyable.

This story is dedicated to the loving memory of Jim and Colleen and their beautiful horse Etta. May God bless you both and thanks for giving me your beautiful daughter, Patty, and her love, which has enlightened and made my life complete.

Walking Down a Trail in Life

There has been a lot of buzz around here lately with my first novel. With the help of some important people in my life, one of my goals was accomplished last month when my first novel, They Looked West became a best seller on Amazon books. I can't tell you how this made me feel to be an accomplished author. When you pen your thoughts on paper, you put yourself out there for all to view your inner self. This can make you very nervous and sometimes very sad, especially when critics choose to tear down those private words you have chosen for all to see. I have been fortunate to this point. The remarks from those of you who have taken the time to read the novel have been very kind indeed. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
   
I have made several trips this last year on location for the next novel in the series. These trips have taken me to some very remote parts of our United States and I have been blessed with some very interesting sites and surroundings. The adventure and drama that unfolded in writing about these characters in my novels, took place in the most inhospitable parts of our great nation. It seems that man is less civilized when he is outside the arm of justice and law. Even good men were sometimes compromised with lesser values when it came to riches or gain. As these men approached civilized stations throughout the western United States, Canada, and Mexico, they seemed to change their demeanor. They became more compatible with their surroundings, often to the point of taking on a civilized duty to their fellow men, such as law constables, judges, clergy and the likes. While I have been studying journals, diaries, penned autobiographies and writings from that era, I have uncovered valuable things that I have included in my novels that were not apparent to me before I undertook this pathway in my life. It has given me a greater understanding of the lives that those people lived, back in the 1800's in Western Americana.
   
My purpose for this writing is to let the reader know that there is a lot more to penning a novel than just sitting down and letting your mind conjure up some story and verse. At least in my world, it is not that easy. I have finished two novels and I am part way through the third one and I have found that I need to do research, research, research just to be able to write a paragraph. Maybe for some authors, it comes naturally to just sit down and write what's on your mind, but for me, I almost need to live the moment itself to be successful. I find that if I can get out into the areas that I am writing about, I can feel the wind, smell the air and see the terrain much the same way as the characters in my novel did back in their time on earth. It makes it much easier to take notes, make sketches, and then write down a story that unfolds in your mind and before your eyes.
       
This is the path that I'm following in life right now. I'm not sure why but the inspiration is in my soul and I have the desire to create these paragraphs and see them become printed and available for all to read. I'm not doing this for the coin or any gain that might befall my deeds. If that becomes part of this process then great, but for me it's the feeling that I get inside when someone reads my novels and stories and comments about this or that in the book and we discuss in detail parts that made them emotionally involved. That is the success that this author is seeking and it is very satisfying.
   
I have received many comments from individuals wanting to know when my next book is coming out. To bring my friends and fellow readers up to date, I have finished a second novel entitled Mescalero Vision. It takes place down in New Mexico near the desert town of Lordsburg. It is not part of the first book series. It is a stand alone western novel that I had a great time in writing. The inspiration for this new book came to me many years ago when I was working in that area for a short time. With nothing to do in the evenings, I would go out in the desert and explore the area. I read about the lives and customs of the westerners and the history of Lordsburg and its beginnings. I also studied and read a lot concernin

g the United States Army and its dealings with the Apaches during that time frame. In the novel, I bring forth many characters with many different individual stories all happening in the same setting within the book that spans from 1887 to 1932. It has a little bit of everything from adventure to romance and with a hidden mystery that unfolds as the book is finished. It is in the third stage of editing as I write this article and I expect it to be ready for publishing by the first of the year.
   
Now on to the second book in the series They looked West. It is currently being composed. I am in the process of working out the outline and details for the setting. I will be making another trip this month to location points in Wyoming that will make up the book and it's background layout. The book will pick up where the last one ended with Haley and Gabe being the main characters as they work their way through difficulties and danger on their way to the Salt Lake Valley. I will keep you up to date here on this blog as the novel progresses.
   
Thank you for your support and may God bless you in the trails you go down in life.

For comments or to leave me a private message, I can be found at grady@theylookedwest.com

A Canadian Affair

It was a beautiful mild Canadian summer in 1984. The weather was scorched, and the temperatures were moderately warm for the environment. I found myself standing in the Spokane Airport terminal. I sat waiting for one of my company’s local sales representatives to accompany me on a journey into the interior of British Columbia. I had been assigned to travel up there and inspect the construction design requirements for several large buildings that were shipped to a Canadian company for the purpose of building a shake mill. Shakes shingles were very popular in the sixties through the mid-nineties, especially in cold climates. They were made of split wood mostly pine and cedar and were extremely durable. They were used by the millions on houses during this era. My company would issue a warranty to the building owners once the buildings were constructed to specifications in design. It was my job to see that the buildings conformed to those specifications. The local sales rep thought it wise to accompany me and do some public relations work while I was in the area. So this is how I found myself sitting in the terminal that day.

I had never met the sales rep, so I was not sure what I was in for. After a considerable wait, a man approached me and presented his credentials with a business card from my company. I thought a simple hello and introduction would have been fine, but as I was to find out his style was very different from the average guy. After we had exchanged names, this fellow turned and said, "Follow me" with a blunt posture that made me think he was up to something. Dennis, as he was called, marched through the terminal and out to the car rentals without speaking a word. When we got out to the Budget line, he told the counter girl that he had reserved a car and that we would be traveling to Canada and returning in 4 days. She started to process the necessary paperwork. As she was doing this, she asked if we wanted the additional insurance that was available in addition to the standard. Dennis was quick with his reply and told her he was not interested. As we walked out of the car rental office and out to the yard, I was not expecting what I was about to witness. An enormous car of immense proportions slowly pulled up with a young man behind the wheel. He stopped in front of us and got out and handed the keys to Dennis. As he did this, he wiped the windshield with a rag and polished the front lights and bumper. The whole time he was humming a tune and looked like he was in love with the car in front of us.

Now this farm boy had seen a few muscle cars back in the sixties, and my father had owned a large Oldsmobile that I took for my first date, but I had never seen anything like this beast. It was a Lincoln town car, and it had everything you could imagine installed on it including a sunroof. It was, at least, a half a block long or so I thought. It had a bright shiny silver metallic finish. Dennis just stood there examining the prized rental like he had just been given the keys to the kingdom. I stood there with more questions than answers. I had traveled all over the United States and Canada working for the same company as Dennis and my work budget didn’t allow for anything even close to this money drainer. How he managed this rental is a question unanswered to this very day. As I looked the car over, I asked him why we needed such a large car for just the two of us. The answer I received took over an hour to digest fully as we loaded our bags and proceeded out of the airport terminal.

It appeared that Dennis was given this assignment by the head sales manager back in Spanish Fork, Utah. His wedding anniversary was that day, and he was in hot water with the other half. His wife was so upset that she had decided to fly out to Wisconsin to see her sister for the week. This left Dennis in a sour mood, and that explained his actions earlier in the terminal. If he were going to the wilderness of British Columbia on his anniversary, then it would be first class all the way. Of course, I didn’t complain one bit. The car was everything you could imagine back in 1984. It drove so quietly and smooth that I could hardly stay awake as we made a beeline for the Canadian border. Dennis sat there musing and driving just like he had the boss’s prize horse saddled under him. The border came and went, and the Mounties were real congenial that day. We stated our business, and they welcomed us with smiles and open arms.

As we drove along the Canadian forest, I was sleeping part of the time with the smooth ride. Several times I opened my eyes and thought the forest flora was passing by at an incredible rate of speed. On one of these occasions I happened to look at the odometer and I came straight up in my seat and told Dennis to slow down. We were traveling over ninety miles an hour. He would slow down at my request and then as conversation and time allowed he would work the speed back up to the point that I started grabbing the dash and reminding him of his speed. I offered to drive, but that request was wasted words. He wasn’t about to let me deprive him of one second behind the wheel of this prize. So this was the order of the day I would tell him to slow down, and he would comply only to inch back up to an alarming rate of speed, and we would rehearse the whole scene again. On several occasions, deer would cross the road, and we would sail past them like they didn’t exist. The forests of British Columbia along the way to Kamloops Lake are thicker than anything you've ever seen. If you walked ten feet off the side of the road into the forest and looked back, you couldn’t see the road or our vehicle. Thousands of critters lived in there, and they all used the road a thoroughfare. I kept reminding Dennis of this very fact, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was caught up in the grandeur of the whole trip from the car to the beautiful surroundings that we were immersed in.

Finally, we came in sight of Kamloops Lake; we stopped several times for me to get some pictures and read about the famous lake monster that resides there. Each time we would get back in the car I would find Dennis speeding again and remind him of the fact. Finally, I got upset about the whole affair and let him have a piece of my mind. After some threatening words out of my mouth, I think he got the idea. I would not tolerate his behavior any longer, and that harm to his person might be inflicted if he persisted in this venue further. From that point on our trip seemed to be more enjoyable for both parties. The trip would take us well north of the lake and into a set of several small communities that had been settled by Russian immigrants. These people were very clannish, and it took several attempts to find enough information as to the location of the shake mill. You would have thought we were spies or something asking for information. We decided to get rooms for the next several nights because I felt like it would take me, at least, two days to see if the buildings were erected properly. These buildings were enormous and over eighty feet tall, and I would need to rent special equipment to access the roof areas. We finally found a motel that would accommodate us and I lined up the rentals for my work. Dennis, on the other hand, went about his sales work, and we coordinated our movements with each other for the first day or so it seemed. He dropped me off at the mill and said he would come for me around five in the evening.

The mill was run by a Russian man, and most of the employees were locals. The mill employed nearly one hundred workers, and mountains of piles of shakes were everywhere. The first thing you noticed as you came into the town was the smell of cut lumber. I liked the smell and over at the mill it was real strong. As I entered the small lumber office, there were two people sitting at small desks. One was an older woman, and the other was a young man. I introduced myself and presented my business card. The first thing the woman said was that they were expecting me and that I was a week late. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she was to the point of being rude. I could tell from her accent that she was Russian and didn’t care for Americans all the much. After some haggling with her, that was getting nowhere, I turned to the young man and asked for his help. He told me to follow him outside. When we closed the door to the office, he turned to me and said that I had come at a bad time and that his boss which was the man that owned the mill was incapacitated and could not see me, but that he was expecting me a week ago. I informed him that my company had made arrangements for me to be there on that day and any other timing involved had not been confirmed. The young man was a Canadian and was very cordial. He asked if I wanted something to drink and I said soda would be okay. He walked me to the lunch room and said he would explain things to me. Apparently, the mill was ran and operated by a single family, and the owner was having trouble with the local province for obtaining premature permits for his new buildings that had been constructed. The way the Russians did things up there was not necessarily the way the Canadian government would like them to proceed. They had constructed all four buildings without getting the approval from the government to start. The buildings were finished, and the mill was operating when the magistrate shut them down temporarily. This was only the beginning of the troubles for the mill owner. The young man handed me a newspaper and said that this would further explain the reason for the sour mood in town.

Apparently shutting down the mill affected the town’s population so much that the whole town came to a standstill. Then there was the other story in the newspaper glaring at me as I read with interest. A young married Russian girl had been in an abusive marriage. The Russians up there are hard working, hard drinking people that love their vodka. The young girl’s husband had beaten her real bad in a drunken rage, and she nearly died from her beating. As the story goes after she healed up, she resolved never to submit to that kind of abuse again and upon the next drunken route, she took matters into her hands and with a good Louisville Slugger she beat her better half nearly to his death. Now the local constable only saw the thing as one-sided, and she was placed in jail awaiting trial from a wig that had to come from Saskatchewan. On the day of the trial the local women rallied around

The story gets even better when the front page of the newspaper I was holding in my hand shows several women with signs, but one older sagging woman stands out from all the rest. She is front and center, and all of her aging privacies are in vivid detail for the reader to ponder. If this weren't the worst of all insults for the privacy of marriage, then only one would have to imagine something worse, because she was the wife of the mill owner. Now in that little town of 650 people and nearly one-fifth employed by the mill owner you can imagine his disgrace. His wife buck naked sixty some odd years and full frontal for the cameraman. Every bar and eating establishment in town carried the story. Every place the mill owner went he was laughed at and made a joke of. This was the situation the day I showed up at the mill. It's no wonder he was incapacitated in the back room drunk on a pile of wood shavings. Come to find out, the magistrate wig released the young Russian girl, and the whole affair was put behind the courts. The news finally died down, and the mill opened for business three days after we left town. Later that day, I was able to meet with the owner and in a hungover mood, he thanked me and said to me, "God bless Ronald Reagan and General Motors for making the Buick." He was a likable fellow and somehow I felt sad for him and his situation.

Back at the motel, Dennis suggested we make a night of it and get some good eats at the local café. On the menu was a dish called Rocky Mountain oysters. I was familiar with them and declined for obvious reasons but Dennis being a city boy was infatuated with the idea of an oyster from the Rocky Mountain streams. I watched as he plowed through six of these little lamb morsels until he couldn’t hold any more of the fried spheres. Upon leaving the café, I told him that he had just partaken of a great delicacy that was revered around the West as king’s table fare. When I let him in on the secret, he had a dumbfounded look on his face and while I sat out in the car he ventured back into the establishment for the truth to the horror. He came out white as a ghost and said he was going to be sick. I said something to the tune of castrated sheep nuts thrown in a dirty bucket at the local corral and then shipped to the café where they are fried up for some poor fellow’s enjoyment, and that put him over the top. We didn’t know it, but this was just the tip of the iceberg as far as Dennis’s emotional state was concerned. It would take a turn for the worse on the long trip back to the good old USA.

On the day we left the sun was shining, and the forest was full of animals and life. I noticed an increased amount of deer foraging in and around the highway as we traveled. Along the lake the water was calm, and I remember having my eyes glued to it in hopes of catching a glimpse of the famous lake monster. I was engulfed in this escapade when I happen to glance at the odometer. It was over 90 miles an hour, and I sternly told Dennis to “SLOW DOWN!” In fact, I raised my voice loud enough to get the point across and threatened to drive the rest of the way if he did not comply. He slowed down and realized his mistake, and we carried off into a conversation about work and other things. About twenty miles south of the lake the forest was the thickest point of our trip, and the foliage was so dense that you could not see anything on the side of the road beyond ten feet. I had just dozed off and come back to my senses when I noticed the odometer climbing again over 80. I was just about to open my mouth for the final time when I saw three deer off my side of the road about fifty yards beyond our travel. I didn’t have time to speak when we were into the crossing deer. Dennis quickly realized that he was not in control of the situation. I put my hand on the dash and ducked my head down as the impact of the deer along my side of the car careened past my window. Then I heard that all familiar thumping sound of something hitting metal.

We slammed to a stop and seen that we had just hit a deer on my side of the car. I tried to open my door to inspect the damage, but it was bashed in. I climbed out the driver’s side and when I got to the passenger side of the car I stood there like Dennis in aww of the cars condition. The deer had crossed over into the promised land partially of his accord, and some of the blame went to the carelessness of the driver of the iron beast. All in all the deer had made a statement that he was not happy with the sudden parting of this life. His impact on the car started with the right front fender and went the entire length of the passenger side. Both doors were caved in one window shattered, and the edge of the hood was damaged. If I had not witnessed this as being a true event, I could not have envisioned that a small Black-tailed deer could have totaled the side of that great Lincoln. We just stood there dumbfounded as what to do next. Finally, I got out my camera and began taking pictures of the scene. I suspected that the rental agency would have a hard time believing a deer made that much damage.

I was in the process of taking pictures when a 1953 red Chevrolet truck in perfect condition pulled up on the other side of the road. I was taken back at the state of the vehicle when a redheaded bearded man, his redheaded wife and three redheaded young boys climbed out the truck and approached us. I’ll never forget the first words out of the man’s mouth as he came alongside the car. “Had a bit of a wreck did ya eh? It looks like ya bagged a good one there but that cars a waste. Are ya gonna claim him eh?” Dennis in all his shock just stood there with a sick look on his face. Finally, he looked at me and asked what the man was saying. I talked to the man and his family, and they wanted to know if we were claiming the deer. I laughed and said that the deer was mangled beyond claim and that we were from the United States on our way home when we hit the deer. The man informed me that there was a Canadian law at that time which allowed you to take the harvest of an animal if he was hit and killed on the road. He pulled out some tag and asked Dennis to sign it, and that would allow him to take possession of the animal if we didn’t want it. Dennis just stood there in shock until I explained the situation to him again. He finally signed the document and the family dove upon that deer with knives and ropes. Within several minutes, they were loaded up and traveling down the road in the opposite direction we were heading. They thanked us as they drove away.

With enough pictures of the scene, I was satisfied that I could show the rental agency that indeed a deer had made this mess. We piled into the driver’s side door and proceeded cautiously down the road. We went from lightning driving speed along the Kamloops Lake 500 Raceway before the accident to a mere 50 miles an hour maximum, and that was an understatement. Dennis cruised along with that old familiar sick look on his face all the way to the Mountie shake at the border. This is where the story starts to get good. The look on the Mounties face nearly bust my gut. He called out to his fellow peers, and they all gathered around in amazement at the big silver beast from America with half the side plowed in, deer hair, and blood stains thrown in along for a pinstriping effect. They were laughing so hard they couldn’t control themselves. We were asked to pull over to a special holding area and we went inside the Mountie shed to tell our story. They took Dennis into another part of the building while I sat there and looked at Canadian pamphlets for over an hour. Finally, Dennis came out and with a quick smirk on his face and said, "Let's go."  When we got across the border, he gunned the car and said he hoped he never saw Canada again. I asked why and he told me that he had to pay some tariff revenue for not being a Canadian but harvesting one of her Majesty’s precious resources. The fine was $185.00 and back in those days it was nearly a week’s salary. He moaned and mumbled all the way to Spokane that day and I never really heard much of what he was mumbling.

Our return trip to the car rental agency would take us to the SeaTac Airport and from there Dennis would drive his car home, and I would fly back to Salt Lake. Dennis lived about 180 miles from Seattle, so he had flown to Spokane and met me there earlier in the week. To save on flight fares, we had decided to drive to the Seattle-Tacoma airport and return the car there. The trip to Seattle, for the most part, was uneventful, and I knew Dennis didn’t want to face the car rental people that awaited him. When we pulled into the return rental agency, I got my first look at how this car would be received. A black fellow that was standing in front of us and directing the parking of the return rentals just stood and stared like he was looking at a ghost. He just froze like he didn’t know what to do. For the longest time, the parking attendant looked at the side of the car and then finally let out with a yell to some other attendants nearby. Within minutes the whole area filled up with people wearing Budget Rental Car shirts and hats, they even brought out the counter girls to have a look at this one. The manager coolly walked up to Dennis and demanded to know what had happened. Dennis started with the story, the paperwork from the Mounties and the pictures we had developed on the way back. The manager just shook his head and said that the car was kind of like a pet to all the employees. It was usually rented for special affairs by very important people that wanted to put a fancy impression on people they drove around in it. He couldn’t believe that a couple of rednecks could take such a beautiful piece of an automobile and try and thin out the Canadian deer population in one fail swoop. I remember him just shaking his head back and forth as the details emerged from Dennis. Well, to add insult to injury Dennis had failed to purchase the additional insurance. This ended up costing him dearly in the end. Our company refused to cover the loss based on his stupidity of not getting the insurance and when the whole story was told and how fast he was going Dennis just faded off into oblivion.

Every story has an ending, and this one is no different. After the bath we took at the hands of the Rental boys, we marched out to an area that we could catch a shuttle to where Dennis had his car parked. I had another day of business before I flew out, so Dennis was going to drop me off at a nearby motel, and then he would drive home, and I would fly home the next night. When we pulled up to his car, we were in an underground parking terminal. As we found his car, I was amazed at the beautiful Cadillac sitting there. It was nearly new and looked like a rich man’s ride. It was then that I noticed Dennis had a flair for the big cars. That’s why he had rented the big silver, Lincoln; he was used to the finer luxury cars. I walked around to the passenger side and waited for the door to unlock so I could put in my briefcase and luggage in the trunk. I heard mumbling and groaning from Dennis, so I looked up across the car and asked what the problem was. Apparently in all his haste to make his flight he had left the car keys in his raincoat and the raincoat in the trunk. From the look on his face, this was not going good, and he looked like he might wig out on me. I asked if we might get a police officer down there and use one of their jimmies to unlock the car. This was the only thing Dennis could think of. His wife was still in Wisconsin upset with him, and his house with another set of keys was two hours away, so he walked over to the shuttle station and in an hour or so a young meter maid came to the rescue. The maid carried the usual Jimmy, but Cadillac had other ideas. They had installed a device that prevented the Jimmy from locking onto the door locking rod. We stood there for another hour trying to get it to unlock. Dennis, out of desperation, just sat down on the curb and gave up all hope. The meter maid and I just looked at each other and were not sure what to say. Finally, I had one of those great ideas that come along and save the day. But when I presented it to Dennis he looked like he had a bad case of gastritis. My suggestion to break the side back window went down like a five-day old fish sandwich. I could see the tears wailing up in Dennis’s eyes. Come to find out this was his wife’s car. She worked for her father and used it for real estate sales and hauling prospective people around to look over houses on the market. He couldn’t bear the thought of bashing in the side window to reach the trunk button and end our miserable situation. It took him another half hour to finally make up his mind to do the deed. Then he asked what he could use to break the window. I suggested using the meter maids baton. She said that she couldn’t allow us to do this but after some convincing and whining on Dennis’s part she finally produced the club.

This is where Murphy’s Law comes into the picture. If there is something in a good plan that can go wrong, it will. Dennis walked up to the slanted window and with several practicing attempts and suggestions from the meter maid he swung with one full motion and hit the ground quicker than the swing itself. The baton had ricocheted off the slanted glass window and hit him square in the eyebrow. The blow nearly knocked him out and put him down faster than Mike Tyson could have done back in the day. As he came up, the meter maid had her arms out helping him to his feet. The blood poured out of the wound just under the brow. It was a good six-stitcher I was told later by Dennis’s manager when I got back to Utah. He had made his play, and the window won. To end the story, I wrapped a blanket around my arm that the meter maid had in her car and put the baton through the window ending our miserable trip.

Later I got a ride from a shuttle bus over to my motel. The last time I ever saw Dennis he was sitting in the meter maid’s car with a mouse on his eye the size of Texas heading for the emergency ward of the nearby hospital. If lessons are to be learned from this episode in life, you should never reach out and pull the ring in the bull’s nose with more than twenty feet between you and the corral gate because you will surely get the horn.

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