The brown border’s ears perked and his eyes locked on something as I sat stroking his silky head. My back was to the window so I couldn’t see what was going on. Suddenly a little girl in a pink princess dress and fancy white shoes went flying through the door with four dogs in tow. They were: the self proclaimed king, Jack, an aussie heeler, the flighty border collie/aussie mix who lived to work, the old black lab whose snout was freckled in white named Tar and the new one, a spaniel/beagle mix named Chance. He was found dumped on the rez. To add to the commotion, there was the gentleman of the house standing in the door, "barking" orders with half a piece of homemade pizza in his hand.
I spun around to see what all the excitement was about but didn’t see a thing, only dogs, and pink fluff disappearing around the lilac bushes in the corner of the yard. I could hear all variations of barks from the dogs and high pitched yips from a little girl.
Suddenly, I saw a bald face heifer, her tail in the air jet across the north end of the new seeding. Four dogs, only two that should know what they are doing and one that really did, in full pursuit. The chase team included a little girl in frou- frou running in a jagged formation. The heifer hit the corner and turned to meet her pursuers. I can’t imagine what she might be thinking in her smallish cow brain, it could only be slight terror and ultimate confusion.
With a little wrangling, the dogs and little princess were sent south away from the heifer giving her just enough breathing room to feel her way along the fence and back out through the gate into the neighbors where she had come from.
Dogs came jogging back to the house, victorious. One little girl, net skirts and shoes that were not so white anymore stormed into the house, “Mom, there was a heifer in here, we got her out.”
Ahh, the joy of pure unadulterated accomplishments!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
from the Archives, "On the Eastfork"
Finally, the snow was out of the high country. We could take the horses and hit the trail.
For me, it’s like an itch. I have to scratch it. I get those itches to travel, hike, bike, ride….. I am an itchy person, you might say.
It has been seven months, since I had seen a mountain trail from the back of a horse and believe me there is nothing like it. Talk about feeling free and in charge!
We packed sandwiches in our saddle bags, cameras and bear spray (it is that time of year) and loaded the trailer with horses who hadn’t been ridden in a long time. Drove an hour to the trailhead and piled out giddy with excitement.
All Aspen could say is “Mom are we ready”, “Mom are we ready?!”
The East Fork Valley of the Absaroka Mountains is stunning with its many elevations and varied climates. The floor: high mountain desert, climbing into mountain timber and meadows and then above the tree line to alpine landscape.
We made our way through aspen groves and climbed through the timber to where we could see for miles: Gannett Peak to the south, and a valley of beautiful ranches below.
The smell of pine, aspen and forest floor mixed with that of the horses and saddle leather are some of the most enchanting smells in the world. Especially for one who grew up in their midst and longs to be back ‘in the saddle’ again on every occasion possible.
In a high mountain meadow we stopped for lunch and marveled at our good fortune. Stepping into the wilderness after sitting in front of a computer for days on end is like pouring sparkling water over ice to quench your thirst from being in the desert.
By the time we got home, we were tired, happy and ready to take on whatever the world sent our way.
Mother nature… thank you for the lift.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website June 2007
For me, it’s like an itch. I have to scratch it. I get those itches to travel, hike, bike, ride….. I am an itchy person, you might say.
It has been seven months, since I had seen a mountain trail from the back of a horse and believe me there is nothing like it. Talk about feeling free and in charge!
We packed sandwiches in our saddle bags, cameras and bear spray (it is that time of year) and loaded the trailer with horses who hadn’t been ridden in a long time. Drove an hour to the trailhead and piled out giddy with excitement.
All Aspen could say is “Mom are we ready”, “Mom are we ready?!”
The East Fork Valley of the Absaroka Mountains is stunning with its many elevations and varied climates. The floor: high mountain desert, climbing into mountain timber and meadows and then above the tree line to alpine landscape.
We made our way through aspen groves and climbed through the timber to where we could see for miles: Gannett Peak to the south, and a valley of beautiful ranches below.
The smell of pine, aspen and forest floor mixed with that of the horses and saddle leather are some of the most enchanting smells in the world. Especially for one who grew up in their midst and longs to be back ‘in the saddle’ again on every occasion possible.
In a high mountain meadow we stopped for lunch and marveled at our good fortune. Stepping into the wilderness after sitting in front of a computer for days on end is like pouring sparkling water over ice to quench your thirst from being in the desert.
By the time we got home, we were tired, happy and ready to take on whatever the world sent our way.
Mother nature… thank you for the lift.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website June 2007
from the Archives, "Everything is Better with Butter"
Growing up, we were almost totally self- sufficient. We went to town once a month at the most. Otherwise, we grew or raised practically everything we needed right there on the ranch. I remember once a friend offered me a yogurt when I was 10 or 11 and I had no idea what she was talking about. We didn’t drink soft drinks, ate very little candy and rarely ate anything that was not homemade
One of the things I missed most when I went to college was what my dad always called “wild milk:” fresh, unpasteurized, homogenized, straight-from-the-cow milk. I could hardly stand to drink what I bought from the store. For 18 years, we had milked a cow and that meant we had fresh cream, butter, and cottage cheese, too. Not to mention the strongest handshake in the state. I didn’t realize how good I had it.
My mother made bread once a week and I was usually in charge of churning the butter. When the fresh bread came out of the oven, there was a rush for hot bread and butter. Yum!
I’ve always wanted my little girl to experience some of those grassroots things. I think they’re very important. So little of the population even really knows where food comes from or how it is made. In our house we still make everything from scratch, no mixes here!
I’ve been lucky enough to purchase a share in a milk cow and now we have fresh milk. After saving the cream off several gallons, I had enough to churn. Finding the churn was a little bit of a challenge, but one was procured. We went through the ritual of dumping in the cream and letting it rise to room temperature, all the while a little girl was running by giving the handle a quick turn, begging to make butter.
When it was ready, it was ready! Ten minutes later we had a pound and half of beautiful, hand-churned butter ready to be worked, salted and stored.
How good can life get?!
For great information about Real Milk and all of its benefits check out this site www.westonaprice.org
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
One of the things I missed most when I went to college was what my dad always called “wild milk:” fresh, unpasteurized, homogenized, straight-from-the-cow milk. I could hardly stand to drink what I bought from the store. For 18 years, we had milked a cow and that meant we had fresh cream, butter, and cottage cheese, too. Not to mention the strongest handshake in the state. I didn’t realize how good I had it.
My mother made bread once a week and I was usually in charge of churning the butter. When the fresh bread came out of the oven, there was a rush for hot bread and butter. Yum!
I’ve always wanted my little girl to experience some of those grassroots things. I think they’re very important. So little of the population even really knows where food comes from or how it is made. In our house we still make everything from scratch, no mixes here!
I’ve been lucky enough to purchase a share in a milk cow and now we have fresh milk. After saving the cream off several gallons, I had enough to churn. Finding the churn was a little bit of a challenge, but one was procured. We went through the ritual of dumping in the cream and letting it rise to room temperature, all the while a little girl was running by giving the handle a quick turn, begging to make butter.
When it was ready, it was ready! Ten minutes later we had a pound and half of beautiful, hand-churned butter ready to be worked, salted and stored.
How good can life get?!
For great information about Real Milk and all of its benefits check out this site www.westonaprice.org
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
from the Archives, "Gus-Gus the Goose"
Double Take. Was it real or a wind up toy?
That’s what went through my mind as I watched this tiny little creature intrepidly making its way over the black top of a busy parking lot outside our favorite little restaurant, the Sundance Café, in Dubois, Wyoming.
It was not a wind up, but a little, green-gray gosling fresh out of Horse Creek. Lost? Obviously.
Aspen and I tried to herd it back to the river. Ever tried to herd a goose? Impossible! So I swooped it up, put him in my coat and trooped over to the creek, to its siblings, the goose and gander.
Unfortunately they panicked, and off they went. Into the creek went the gosling, tweeting and twittering for his family as they went in opposite directions: gander upstream, goose and goslings bobbing down stream. He caught the current, but wouldn’t stay in it and back to shore he came. I put him in again, straining to see if the goose had stopped, but she was rounding the bend and quickly out of sight.
I couldn’t just walk away. My heart told me something wasn’t right. The little guy wouldn’t stay in the river. So I watched. Downstream it promptly found the shore, and out it came, fearlessly making its way into a motel parking lot.
That was enough. I couldn’t stand it. I made tracks for him, gathered him up with all the mommy instincts I had and took him home. On the way we discovered it had a blind eye.
We don’t know if it is a boy or girl, but we know that Gus-Gus is safe and sound. Swimming in his pool( a huge iron skillet) in the kitchen, tucked into our shirts and an old wool sock to keep him warm (he was only a day or so old when he was found). He even has a playpen made out of gated pipe in the yard so he can go outside.
Our little lost and found recognizes our voices and comes excitedly when it sees us. Can you imagine what Gus-Gus is going to be like in six months? Irrigating partner, playmate, loyal goose friend (yes, we know the downside… goose poop, honking, swimming in Aspen’s pool….)
Gus-Gus, a subtle but noisy reminder of how precious and wonderful life is!
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007
That’s what went through my mind as I watched this tiny little creature intrepidly making its way over the black top of a busy parking lot outside our favorite little restaurant, the Sundance Café, in Dubois, Wyoming.
It was not a wind up, but a little, green-gray gosling fresh out of Horse Creek. Lost? Obviously.
Aspen and I tried to herd it back to the river. Ever tried to herd a goose? Impossible! So I swooped it up, put him in my coat and trooped over to the creek, to its siblings, the goose and gander.
Unfortunately they panicked, and off they went. Into the creek went the gosling, tweeting and twittering for his family as they went in opposite directions: gander upstream, goose and goslings bobbing down stream. He caught the current, but wouldn’t stay in it and back to shore he came. I put him in again, straining to see if the goose had stopped, but she was rounding the bend and quickly out of sight.
I couldn’t just walk away. My heart told me something wasn’t right. The little guy wouldn’t stay in the river. So I watched. Downstream it promptly found the shore, and out it came, fearlessly making its way into a motel parking lot.
That was enough. I couldn’t stand it. I made tracks for him, gathered him up with all the mommy instincts I had and took him home. On the way we discovered it had a blind eye.
We don’t know if it is a boy or girl, but we know that Gus-Gus is safe and sound. Swimming in his pool( a huge iron skillet) in the kitchen, tucked into our shirts and an old wool sock to keep him warm (he was only a day or so old when he was found). He even has a playpen made out of gated pipe in the yard so he can go outside.
Our little lost and found recognizes our voices and comes excitedly when it sees us. Can you imagine what Gus-Gus is going to be like in six months? Irrigating partner, playmate, loyal goose friend (yes, we know the downside… goose poop, honking, swimming in Aspen’s pool….)
Gus-Gus, a subtle but noisy reminder of how precious and wonderful life is!
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007
from the Archives, "Dad"
I remember the first time I came near the card aisle the first Father’s Day after my dad died. You couldn’t have drug me down it with a bulldozer. In fact, if I remember right, tears sprang to my eyes and I had to turn and leave the store.
My dad was a kind and gentle soul who worked very hard at both ranching and teaching. He could spot a kid who needed someone to believe in him at 1000 yards and I never saw him not make a difference.
It was hard to have your father as a teacher. He had high expectations. I was up to the task and usually rose to the occasion. I learned the FFA creed when I was just six years old, fascinated by the blue and gold jacketed members that stood at the podium in the front of the room and recited its poetic and heartfelt words.
Dad was happy when the ranch was a part of my life that I enjoyed. He needed a good hired hand and was proud that I worked as hard or harder than any boys that he could find. He was tough, but fair. And he rarely disputed my far flung dreams of traveling the world and always made sure that I had a chance to reach to them with several weeks off in the summer to travel.
I remember singing “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “Red River Valley” in the feed truck with him as we finished chores. He was always singing or humming and he taught me early how to dance. He read Thunderhead, Flicka and Green Grass of Wyoming to me each night before bed and I knew I wasn’t the only child that dreamed of horses, wide open spaces and being on a ranch forever.
He gave me his blessing to spread my wings and apply to an Ivy League school for college and hugged me tight when I got on the plane for Japan when I was merely 15.
He taught me how to plan rations, map genetics for the cow herd, plant the right mix of grass for hay and break a horse to ride. There was no question I loved my dad.
I wasn’t there the day he died, 2000 miles away. He had made it through my college graduation and Christmas day. Not long before, we’d found out he had cancer. Six months was all it took.
The irony is that he died in prison, a tragic end to a man I loved so much. I didn’t condone what he had done, but it didn’t change how I felt about him. I couldn’t be by his side that day on December 26th when he said good-bye to earth, but he gave me the greatest gift possible: a life full of love and an understanding that no matter how bad things are there is always good. It’s just up to me to find it.
Thank you, Dad. I love you.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
My dad was a kind and gentle soul who worked very hard at both ranching and teaching. He could spot a kid who needed someone to believe in him at 1000 yards and I never saw him not make a difference.
It was hard to have your father as a teacher. He had high expectations. I was up to the task and usually rose to the occasion. I learned the FFA creed when I was just six years old, fascinated by the blue and gold jacketed members that stood at the podium in the front of the room and recited its poetic and heartfelt words.
Dad was happy when the ranch was a part of my life that I enjoyed. He needed a good hired hand and was proud that I worked as hard or harder than any boys that he could find. He was tough, but fair. And he rarely disputed my far flung dreams of traveling the world and always made sure that I had a chance to reach to them with several weeks off in the summer to travel.
I remember singing “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “Red River Valley” in the feed truck with him as we finished chores. He was always singing or humming and he taught me early how to dance. He read Thunderhead, Flicka and Green Grass of Wyoming to me each night before bed and I knew I wasn’t the only child that dreamed of horses, wide open spaces and being on a ranch forever.
He gave me his blessing to spread my wings and apply to an Ivy League school for college and hugged me tight when I got on the plane for Japan when I was merely 15.
He taught me how to plan rations, map genetics for the cow herd, plant the right mix of grass for hay and break a horse to ride. There was no question I loved my dad.
I wasn’t there the day he died, 2000 miles away. He had made it through my college graduation and Christmas day. Not long before, we’d found out he had cancer. Six months was all it took.
The irony is that he died in prison, a tragic end to a man I loved so much. I didn’t condone what he had done, but it didn’t change how I felt about him. I couldn’t be by his side that day on December 26th when he said good-bye to earth, but he gave me the greatest gift possible: a life full of love and an understanding that no matter how bad things are there is always good. It’s just up to me to find it.
Thank you, Dad. I love you.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
from the Archives, "Mourning Gus"
All life is a gift and our gift came in a little bundle of lost fluff.
We marveled over his voracious appetite as he grew, literally, inches everyday. We coddled him in our arms, dug through the snow to get him fresh greens and named him (or her) Gus.
As the sun rose over the Wind River Valley there was a stillness to the yard that seemed unnatural. As I started for my walk I tried not to think about it until Aspen found some tail feathers and my heart constricted. “No!” I thought, “It can’t be. He’s just gone to the pond.” I went for my walk in complete denial trying with all my might to keep positive.
When I returned, we found a trail of feathers and finally the kill site. It simply broke my heart. Gussy was gone. Tracks couldn’t be found to tell us what had gotten him. We can only guess: a hungry fox, coyote or coon? None of which we really wanted to consider as a reality.
I couldn’t help but retreat to the bathroom and sob. A little girl not understanding the weight of the situation kept asking if I wanted a bow in my hair or to watch cartoons. “Would that make you feel better?” Finally in an exasperated attempt to soothe her mommy, she gave me a stuffed animal so I could “hug him, too.”
After all the years of being on the ranch I have lost my share of animals and cried over every single one of them. I will never get used to the fact that life ends; sometimes quickly and unexpectedly.
The really painful part of the situation is that the night before I had been out late checking on the kittens and wondered where Gus was holed up for the night. Usually the dogs are left out to keep any predators away. I thought about it and wondered where the big lab, Tar, was. As it turns out, she was asleep in the closet and I didn’t follow my gut that something was wrong. It makes me sick and the guilt wracks my heart.
Life’s lessons never end and as I mourn the little fuzzy guy who grew into a noble goose and was just learning to fly, I vow not to just fall into bed exhausted next time. I will keep up the vigilance that mothers are so good at and always listen to my intuition.
Gus brought us a lot of joy and for that I am grateful. My dad always had a saying: “Life is hard, she always gives the test first, the lesson after.” Lesson learned.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site July 2007
We marveled over his voracious appetite as he grew, literally, inches everyday. We coddled him in our arms, dug through the snow to get him fresh greens and named him (or her) Gus.
As the sun rose over the Wind River Valley there was a stillness to the yard that seemed unnatural. As I started for my walk I tried not to think about it until Aspen found some tail feathers and my heart constricted. “No!” I thought, “It can’t be. He’s just gone to the pond.” I went for my walk in complete denial trying with all my might to keep positive.
When I returned, we found a trail of feathers and finally the kill site. It simply broke my heart. Gussy was gone. Tracks couldn’t be found to tell us what had gotten him. We can only guess: a hungry fox, coyote or coon? None of which we really wanted to consider as a reality.
I couldn’t help but retreat to the bathroom and sob. A little girl not understanding the weight of the situation kept asking if I wanted a bow in my hair or to watch cartoons. “Would that make you feel better?” Finally in an exasperated attempt to soothe her mommy, she gave me a stuffed animal so I could “hug him, too.”
After all the years of being on the ranch I have lost my share of animals and cried over every single one of them. I will never get used to the fact that life ends; sometimes quickly and unexpectedly.
The really painful part of the situation is that the night before I had been out late checking on the kittens and wondered where Gus was holed up for the night. Usually the dogs are left out to keep any predators away. I thought about it and wondered where the big lab, Tar, was. As it turns out, she was asleep in the closet and I didn’t follow my gut that something was wrong. It makes me sick and the guilt wracks my heart.
Life’s lessons never end and as I mourn the little fuzzy guy who grew into a noble goose and was just learning to fly, I vow not to just fall into bed exhausted next time. I will keep up the vigilance that mothers are so good at and always listen to my intuition.
Gus brought us a lot of joy and for that I am grateful. My dad always had a saying: “Life is hard, she always gives the test first, the lesson after.” Lesson learned.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site July 2007
from the Archives, "Liquid Gold"
It’s like gold: providing livelihoods, causing wars and inspiring celebrations. It can be too plentiful and damaging, too slight and devastating. When it’s just right, it’s a beautiful thing.
Water in the west is king, and for months we’ve prayed for snow, rain, hail, anything with the chemical value of H2O. Nothing, but wind. Dry wind sucking the last remaining moisture from the earth, blowing top soil and making trees reach to the heavens, begging for the sky to quench their thirst.
Around the dinner table, we prayed for snow and rain each day and watched the skies. The new seeding was in the ground and we needed moisture before the wind blew it into the next county.
Then, the smell of rain, the clouds hanging low over the mountains. Could it be? I was carefully optimistic as I walked under the moon, watching the clouds push around it, then cover the sphere in a heavy veil. I could smell the sweetness of the spring rain on the mountains. It was close, but would it come on into the valley? I prayed out loud that it would.
My footsteps crunched in the stubble of the alfalfa field and I felt a drop, then another. It was a slow, light sprinkling of precious moisture. Perhaps it would blow over like so many times before. As I stepped inside from my evening walk, I heard the beat of the raindrops crescendo to a beautiful rhythm on the steel roof. It was raining! Finally!
That night I went to bed to the rhythm of the rain, and awoke to a stillness that can only be caused by a heavy covering of snow! White Gold! It’s a beautiful thing.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007
Water in the west is king, and for months we’ve prayed for snow, rain, hail, anything with the chemical value of H2O. Nothing, but wind. Dry wind sucking the last remaining moisture from the earth, blowing top soil and making trees reach to the heavens, begging for the sky to quench their thirst.
Around the dinner table, we prayed for snow and rain each day and watched the skies. The new seeding was in the ground and we needed moisture before the wind blew it into the next county.
Then, the smell of rain, the clouds hanging low over the mountains. Could it be? I was carefully optimistic as I walked under the moon, watching the clouds push around it, then cover the sphere in a heavy veil. I could smell the sweetness of the spring rain on the mountains. It was close, but would it come on into the valley? I prayed out loud that it would.
My footsteps crunched in the stubble of the alfalfa field and I felt a drop, then another. It was a slow, light sprinkling of precious moisture. Perhaps it would blow over like so many times before. As I stepped inside from my evening walk, I heard the beat of the raindrops crescendo to a beautiful rhythm on the steel roof. It was raining! Finally!
That night I went to bed to the rhythm of the rain, and awoke to a stillness that can only be caused by a heavy covering of snow! White Gold! It’s a beautiful thing.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007
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