Tag Archives: adventure

Winter, roundup and my neckerchief.

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Ok, ok, it’s officially that time of year. I just looked at my calendar and promptly felt guilty for making fun of friends and family and all of the department stores around me who were eagerly rolling out the Christmas wreathes, wrapping, lights, tinsel, candy canes, enticing seasonal sales and the waving, inflatable Santas, snowmen and baby penguins my momma would love to shoot with her B.B. Gun (that is, if we were dumb enough to allow her to touch a weapon, which we are not. So your Santas are safe).

Yes, the calendar says there are only six more weekends until the birthday of sweet baby Jesus, but there are many other clues around here that indicate there is no denying winter and we might as well get used to dressing in layers so thick we can eat all the kneophla we want, hat hair, maneuvering through tasks with mitten hands, car starters and for the not so fortunate, trips outside to start the vehicle in our robe and slippers at 6 am.

As I stare out the window of our cozy abode, I am made well aware of one of those signs—the second snow storm. See the second snow usually comes after the first snow has melted and we are all feeling really great about ourselves and convincing each other that yes, 55 degree weather, although it has never happened before, could indeed stay around until well into December.

And we were really lucky last weekend, because that is what we had. Beautiful, glorious, sun shining November weather.

The perfect weather for the first sign of the shift in seasons, and that is my favorite. Roundup.

Yes, roundup–a time to gather all of the cows and calves to get ready for the sale.

And for those of you who are thinking right now about cowboys whooping and hollering with bull whips and chaps moving cows effortlessly down the slopes of steep mountains, through raging rivers in the bright sunshine of the dessert, looking all handsome and regal and then breaking for a lunch served off of the back of a chuckwagon, coffee in tin cups, grits and a slab of said beef on accompanying plate before riding off into the sunset, the cattle in a perfect line moving effortlessly over the horizon, I’m going to have to tell you to stop right here.

Yup, stop reading this garbage if you want to keep that Hollywood image, because although roundup may look like that at those million dollar operations (and in Texas, where everything looks like the movies) I have made a promise to tell it like it is folks.

Now don’t get me wrong, around here there is adventure, there are fast horses, and water and cows in lines moving over the horizon…just most of the time the horses are fast to get to the cows that are moving over the wrong horizon and crossing the wrong creek.

When I was growing up, roundup was a big deal for me. It meant getting up early, bundling up in my chaps and warm jacket and thick socks and eating some toast before heading out to meet the neighbor girls who came over with their dad and their horses and their pink beanies and mittens to help. And we would take directions from our fathers as we trailed behind the line of cattle that the men would gather from deep in the coulees, the tops of hills, thick brush and creek beds.

And the neighbor girls and my sister and I would feel important and successful and extremely helpful as we pushed these cattle, hollering our favorite cow moving sound effects like “yip yip,” “Hya,” “c’mon cows” while we moved them along through the gate and into the pen.

Back then it was easy. It was fun. There was very little drama.

Because we were nine and ten and oblivious.

But time moves on and things change and now the real cowboy, my pops, has this to work with.

And only this:

Because while poor husband is working on the weekdays at a job that helps pay for my sweet neckerchiefs and giant glasses, ensuring that I look as much like Napolean Dynamite as possible, I am free to be around.

You know, that’s why I’m here.

To help.

So last Thursday, after assessing the situation, pops had a plan to wait for more help in the evening before we attempted to gather all 120 cow and calf pairs. But as the days grow increasingly shorter (another one of those signs of the season change) he realized that an hour and a half might not be enough time to get the job done.

So he came over to my place with a new plan and full confidence in his fully-grown daughter. We were going to get the cows in ourselves. All of them.

And why not? We had all day, and what a beautiful day it was.

So I put on my long underwear (it was a beautiful day, but still ND in November, so you know, gotta layer up), my beanie, my neckerchief, my long jacket (with my name embroidered on the chest, you know, just in case I got lost out there)  and my mittens, and headed out the door and into the Wild West.

Having forgotten over the summer how restricting it is to have all of your fingers crammed together under leather and fuzz with only a single thumb out to fend for itself, I quickly regretted the mittens. But pops and me and my mittens headed out to the hills and toward the cattle sunning themselves by road, grazing unaware, mooing and chewing and, apparently contemplating ways to make this really difficult for the real cowboy and the alien looking creature on the horse heading toward them.

And while pops ensured me this would be a piece of cake, I obliviously (did I mention I was on a high dosage of cold medication) snapped action shots as the cattle appeared to cooperate before giving each other secret-code bovine handshakes and promptly splitting off into four or five groups, each group heading for a different gate.

No group heading for the right gate.

So while most of our cattle moving is done slowly and surely, cow-whispering style, it was clear that method was not going to get the job done. Especially with one real cowboy and one woman on medication who was warm enough thanks the layers and mittens, but really, wasn’t quite what you would call quick, you know, thanks to the layers and mittens.

But despite the bundling and meds, we had to kick it in gear and run for the north hill to head off the first group, then to the south gate to head off the second and down to the creek bed to get the scragglers, and to the east clearing and back again.

The horses were sweating.

Now I was sweating.

Pops was calm, cool and collected.

Because, look, the cows are headed toward the dam, all of them, and he was sure they would gather there and take a little drink and then we would move them toward the home pasture and into the corrals.

No problem.

And there I was, back in my familiar position, behind the trail as pops walked atop the nearest hill, along the adjacent brush patch, plugging up the open spots and reading the cattle’s minds, anticipating their next move…

So I took off my mittens, snapped another picture and took a deep breath. Almost done. But as we made it to the dam, the cows’ next move became apparent.

And it wasn’t hanging out to take a drink.

It was breaking into a trot past the water and off into the bur oak trees and thorns and brush that grows wild and thick up the steepest hills around the watering hole, some of the gnarliest hills on the place.

Head groggy, perspiration dripping from my beanie, my congested mind hadn’t wrapped around this new turn of events as pops flew up the hill, calmly telling me to stay put, to watch the opening so the cattle wouldn’t turn back.

And as I sat there on a horse that doesn’t like to be left alone, we watched as the cattle moved out of the brush and to the top of the hill and turned to the west instead of back north. And when convinced by pops to move in the right direction, another batch poked through the trees and moved to the east while pops was busy correcting a couple strays.

And then I couldn’t see anything, but if you have never heard cattle moving through the brush after having been separated from their calves, I’ll tell you something, it’s the definition of ruckus: bellering, tree branches snapping, leaves crunching.

Ruckus.

And then no pops.

Where was pops?

I was transported back to my childhood when I would be left on a hill somewhere to wait and my dad would be out of site for what I was sure was hours and I would play through the worst case scenarios in my head: he got bucked off, he broke his leg or cracked his head open on a rock and I would have to find him and try to lift him back on his horse and get him to the hospital and, and, oh Lord, let him appear over the hill. Oh Lord, oh dear, oh man…oh

Oh, ok, there he is. He’s coming back.

Back with part of the herd and a sweaty, panting horse.

So, to make a story that is getting quite long a bit shorter, I’ll break it down for ya:

We moved the the cattle he managed to acquire quite effortlessly to the barnyard.


Pops switched horses.
We went back to get the rest.
We got the rest.
I got off to get the gate just as the cows were approaching their destination.
The cows saw me and turned a different direction.
My horse stepped on his reins.
My reins broke.
Some cows got away.
Pops got them in.

Pops got them in.
They were all in.
We high fived.

I unsaddled, went in the house, made a sandwich and took some more DayQuil.

I looked just like that...only without the fur.

Oh, and I made pops a sandwich too. And we talked about the ride and looked out the window of my kitchen where we could watch the bovines settling in, taking a bite of hay, a lick of salt and pooping everywhere. And as they were rehashing the events of the day I am sure they were feeling a bit defeated as they thought this time, this time, they were sure to make the great escape.

But, cattle or human, you can’t escape it.

Winter's here, and that's no bull...

So slap on your beanie and mittens. You can borrow my neckerchief if you need to, but you might as well hunker down.

Merry Christmas.

Ten Commandments for the Hunting Widow

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Ok ladies. Happy Monday. And if you’re reading this I would like to congratulate you. Because it seems you have, if only by the hair of your chinny, chin, survived the opening weekend of deer hunting season.

Now if you’re here and have in no way been affected by this phenomenal holiday that turns perfectly decent, shirts tucked in, clean shaven, soaped up Midwestern boys into growly, whiskey drinking, scratchy bearded, poker playing, primitive manly men, then revel in the fact that for the next two weeks you do not have to negotiate outings into civilization with your man based on whether or not he has indeed “filled his tag.”

And I am well aware that some of you womanly women get right in there and play like the boys do, taking no prisoners, leaving it all behind for the love of the sport. To you I tip my blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat and say, “Long live the sportswoman.” We’ll have to get together soon over wine and venison and hash out the hunt.

But for those lovely females who have uttered the words “hunting widow” in the last few days, or ever in your married or dating lives for that matter, I would like to offer you something here.

I would like to get up on my pedestal (or kitchen chair, or the railing of my deck, or my tiny desk) and tell you that “widow” does not have to be a word in your vocabulary. No, not yet. You too can enjoy the pure, animalistic, back to nature experience of the hunt with your man in all his glory. And you can love it. Or at least tolerate it. All you have to do is put on your sports bra and your wedgie free undies and gear up for a purely carnal experience and get back to the basics of man. If anything the experience may help you gain some clarity on the weird male behavior your love will be exhibiting for the next couple weeks.

So for the benefit of females everywhere who have a hankering to see what it’s all about, I have consulted with the manly men around me and have taken some hard learned lessons from my years of experience walking silently behind the most serious sportsmen in the county to come up with the following:

The Ten Commandments of Deer Hunting with your Man

Yup, that's me, that's my deer, that's my man, that's my denim jacket and that's my neckerchief.

 

1. Thou shalt not wear swishy pants

2. Thou shalt not call any animal “cute” or “adorable.” You are now the predator, the fluffy critters with the big, beautiful eyes, are the prey. You heard me. Predator. Prey.

3. Thou shalt not complain about having to pee, but will squat behind a proper bush if absolutely necessary (and be quiet about it). And while you’re at it, thou shalt wear enough warm clothes so you are not cold, and eat enough food so you are not hungry and do everything in your power to remain comfortable enough so you have nothing to complain about, because really, thou shalt not complain.

4. Thou shalt not be the first to comment on husband/boyfriends’ shortcomings with any weapon and will instead provide only positive reinforcement. I.G.: “Great shot hunny.” “Way to take your time! You’re so methodical, so patient!” “You butt looks great when you lean in like that.” And my favorite, a whispered, almost silent “wooo hooo…woo hooo” and high five accompanied by your greatest smile when he makes the kill.

5. Thou shalt not whine about how blaze orange and greenish/brownish camo are not your colors and wear the seven sizes too big clothing like Pamela Anderson would. Because if a sexy woman like you can’t pull off this color combo, no one can.

6. Thou shalt kick it in gear, power-walk style and show husband/boyfriend what it means to really get somewhere while increasing your heart rate, burning calories, and spending quality time with your man–because women invented multi-tasking for cyring out loud.

7. Thou shalt understand that while on the hunt it is perfectly acceptable to walk or sit for several hours in complete silence. And, sweet lover of the outdoorsman, this is not a time for discussion about what color to paint the kitchen walls or where you should send your unborn child to preschool or how much your dearly beloved spent on that gun slung across his back.

8.Thou shalt bring your own snacks and pay careful attention that the wrappers do not make crinkling noises and the food itself does not pack a crunch. If you must have a granola bar, bring it unwrapped for the love of venison. When man is on the trail of the big one, all he wants to eat is the big one. He is not thinking about and does not appreciate that Snickers bar or tortilla chip you are so loudly devouring.

9. Thou shalt accept the fact that while hunting there is no work on Monday, there is no house, there are no kids, there is no basement renovation or fence to build. Nothing. There is nothing but the following: Man. Woman. Beast. Hunt.

10. Thou shalt understand that if you cannot abide by the above nine commandments, thou will never again be invited along. Ever. Ever.

Which may or may not be a bad thing, you know, depending on how it all turns out.

And one more thing, before you grab that camo cap and pack the jerky, I invite you to read a previous piece of mine to get a clear description of what might happen even if you do everything wrong. Because he is your man after all, and you are his and he loves you and your over-active bladder, candy wrappers, poor circulation and everything in between–“Sneeek…Sneeeeeeek….” “Shhhhh…”

Now take off those swishy pants and go get ‘em girl. The view alone is worth it.

Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the pug

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You know when your husband nudges you in the morning and so sweetly says “time to get up” and  you barely open your eyes enough to squeek pathetically back “I don’t wanna” and then in a huff roll over to finish that dream about Matthew McConaughey?

And then your alarm goes off, but not loud enough for it to rouse you from your coma and most definitely not loud enough to prompt you to throw the covers off and take on that meeting you so bravely scheduled for 8:00 am.

So when you finally peel back those eyelids you panic as you notice that you have exactly three minutes to shower, feed the dogs, round up the cats, find your pants, tame your hair, make the coffee (because coffee is essential) and drive thirty miles to town.

And in the frantic search for your pants, you curse your compassionate heart as the baby kitten you so gallantly saved from an immanent death, in her desperate plea for attention, attempts to climb up your exposed leg drawing a fair amount of blood as you dash to the basement for the laundry you left in the dryer.

Then on the way back up the stairs one of those hornets, (you know what they look like) the ones that have been threatening to swoop in from the sky and sting you all season, finally makes good on his promise and smacks you a good one right on the bare, pant-less, ass.

Yup. Not even on the nice fleshy part you have been growing all summer with beer and hot dogs and fried things, but the underside, the tender side that never had a chance.

And it stings. Oh lord it stings.

So you whimper a bit, and hold your hand over the violated flesh and stop only to find the little bastard and squish it in all your rage…

But you don’t have time to cry. Or to find ointment.

You have to get your pants on dammit…

…and round up the herd so you can bring home the bacon.

Yeah, I may have had one of those mornings…once or twice….

And I would take this time to complain, but it could have been much worse.

I could have been the pug.

The pug, whose passion is too big for his short, stubby body and who curses the day he was put into a stumpy dog outfit with short legs, a curly tail and a nose that has so much to give to the world, if only it were just a little more practically designed…like for smelling.

Or breathing.

But he gets by. No, he doesn’t let his body, which is much better suited for napping than for chasing wild animals around the ranch, get in his way. Because in his mind he is 110 pounds of fierce muscle and pure instinct.

Pure, animalistic, instinct.

See when the people are away, you know, earning the money that pays for their kibble, the dogs…well…

…there is so much to do out here when no one is watching….

Like chase squirrels.

Bark at the horses.

Dig giant holes.

Watch TV.

Chew on my favorite shoe.

Eat poop…all kinds of poop.

Swim.

Roll in poop.

Show the cows a thing or two about who is boss.

Run after deer with high hopes of bringing home a leg or two…

Eat poop…and…well you get the idea.

So while I was suffering through that meeting and trying to balance comfortably on one butt cheek, I imagine the pups were doing all of the above, having the time of times, a day of days, taking it all in so they could tell me about it when I got home (cause they were a little worried about me I am sure, the way I stormed out of the place)

But when I got home….the pug was gone.

But the pug is usually gone.

Cause his best friend lives at my mom and pop’s about a mile down the road and he takes that trek, against my wishes, every day. Sometimes two or three times.

Yeah, he’s in big, big trouble most of the time. So I wasn’t particularly worried as the lab and I went out for our usual walk,  just like the old days when he was the only dog. And it was kinda nice, but I didn’t tell the pug.

Cause he was gone.

Anyway, on my way home it was getting pretty dark and from across the coulees I could hear the pug yelping.

But I wasn’t worried. I figured he was being dramatic as his BFF was playing a little too rough. So I continued on my merry way, thinking about dinner, thinking about my bed, and thankfully, not thinking about my wasp sting. And when I arrived home refreshed from the beauty of the evening, a flush in my face, my lab loyally  by my side, I asked husband if he has seen the pug lately.

Have you seen this guy? 2 feet tall, 35 pounds of pure muscle, black hair, brown eyes.

“Nope.” He replied. Also, not concerned

“Well, I think he’s at mom and pop’s. He’ll be ok until morning. I am ttttiiiiirrreeeddd….and did I tell you that a wasp stung my bare butt today?”

I pulled down my pants to show off the evidence.

“Good Lord,” said husband.

“Good night,” said me.

And we snuggled down in bed proud that we were finally turning in before 11:00 pm and happy that we were going to finally get that full night sleep we deserve.

The lights went out, the pillow went over my head, my eye lids closed, Matthew McConaughey appeared again and….

“Rrriiinnnnggg, rriiinnnngggg…”

Oh shit, someone’s calling. Something’s happening. Something’s wrong. My sister’s in labor (this was pre-baby…she’s not having another one, don’t be crazy). We won a million dollars. We lost a million dollars. There’s an alien invasion….

“Uhhh, hello.” I said meekly when I finally found the phone.

“Ummm, yeah. Hi Jess? Dad here.”

Oh, phew…ok it’s dad. Not the aliens. Now for the terrible, terrible news. What happened. Who do I have to take to the hospital?

“Oh, hi dad, ” I said shakely.

“Yeah, hi. Ummm, well, yeah. You know your little black dog? The little one?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Yeah, well he’s over here and he found a porcupine….yeah… a porcupine. And I think he lost. I think the pug lost the battle, cause there are quills all over his face and in his butt. I feel really bad and don’t think I can hold him down by myself to get them out. I think you guys better come over here and help me.”

Now here I’ll admit I experienced a wave of relief knowing that no human was missing a limb and no babies were being born and no flying saucers were coming down to suck out our brains today…

But when the relief passed: Seriously? Seriously? Chug. Chug the pug. What the hell were you thinking?

“Ok dad, we’ll be right over. Sorry bout that. So sorry. Just thought I could get him tomorrow. Oh gosh. Sorry. We’ll be right over.”

After the moans and groans of husband cursing the day the pug was born and giving me a brief but stern lecture on how he was my dog and I should keep a better eye on him and that he just can’t go frolicking around anywhere he choses, he pulled on his clothes and his manly slippers and drove us over to the scene.

Oh, and I was expecting a scene. Because for how much passion and delusion that pug possesses, this was sure to do him in. In my mind pug was going to look like a dog shaped porcupine, quills protruding and spiking out from all angles, the pug limping and gasping and saying his last goodbyes.

But by the time we arrived, my very favorite pops had already removed the quills from the pug’s face and the only evidence of the apocalyptic encounter was left in about 85 good sized quills poked into his butt (I guess it wasn’t the day to be a butt).

And I felt for him as my mom paced back and forth as if this was one of her grandchildren who was enduring this hateful, quill removing procedure. I told mom to keep it together as husband put on his gloves, pops held the pug down and I shook my head and tried to calm the little dog down, pluck after yelp, pluck after yelp, by saying things in my sweet calming voice like:

“It’s ok, you stupid dog, this is what happens when you run away…oh poor puppy, puppy, if you would have stayed home like a good boy you could be snoring safe and sound right now…dumb dog, dumb, dumb dog….what made you think you were going to win that fight…oh poor puppy…poor dog…wish your brain was bigger, wish you would listen…sweet pug, oh pug, calm down…bet you learned your lesson there….puppy, puppy.”

20 minutes, hundreds of deprecating, but sweetly spoken words, and 85 quills later, the pug was free from the pain of his seemingly smart and brave-at-the-time adventure.

And because I thought the situation so grim and the hour so late  and my mind so groggy, I didn’t grab my camera…hence there is little evidence except for the emotional scars and the photos of the actual quills we pulled from the pug’s butt.

He survived.

So, once the pug was released from what he was sure was the end of days, I helped the boys clean up and looked around to find that the little dog had cowered and slunk and sulked his way right up to my mom’s lap. On the couch. In the house where dogs are not allowed. And both had their dramatic, sad faces plastered on.

And as I grabbed him up to take his wounded pride and wounded butt home, I was just a little disappointed that he stole my thunder. Cause that blew my wasp stung ass right out of the water there.

Yeah, sometimes that short little snorty nose leads you up the wrong tree.

And sometimes, just like momma says, there will be days like this.

I guess that’s why God invented band aids.

And moms and dads.

Hope your day was free of stings and pokes.

It’s a jungle out here.

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I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.

Well, I’ll be honest here (because I am what I am) it is generally a jungle in here as well.

You know, with the four critters, two humans and occasional visitor popping over for supper…oh, and lovely brother in law who is living in his camper in our yard while on a job out here. Love him. He washes the dishes and brings me Oreos and grills us chicken.  I’ll tell you more about him later, because you are sure to like him too…

but today I want to tell you a tale about adventure—a tale of travel and danger and betrayal and close calls with death and rescue and heroism and reuniting, passionate, true love.

A real Indiana Jones type story…

Only this involves a pug, some disheveled horses, a couple humans and….a cat.

A damn cat.

Damn the cat.

Dammit cat.

Cat, dammit

Dammit.

Cat.

Ok.

So last weekend was lovely and I spent it with an old friend and a new friend and they came out to the funny farm to take a nice relaxing ride in the hills, breathe in the fresh air and take in the beautiful fall day.

I’ll note here that I was all alone out here last weekend with my momma down the road, because you know, it’s hunting season.

The boys didn’t even leave me the lab.

Anyway, so I was excited for a ride with the ladies, but unsure of the equine skill set my guests possessed. So I decided to play it safe, because, well, you know my track record with luck and injuries isn’t so great. I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way. I didn’t want a rodeo. I wanted peace and peace of mind.

So out to the pasture I went to retrieve our best-tamed broncs.

Well, broncs isn’t quite the word.

Nor is tamed really.

Old and relatively lame might be better adjectives.

Oh, and absolutely full of cockleburs and mud from spending their elderly days out to pasture relaxing, chomping on greens and pretty much letting themselves go.

But it was time that Stormy and The Mare earned their keep around here and after literally waking them up (I think I caught the entire herd snoring) and dragging their fat asses back to the barn, I proceeded to use my hair dressing skills (I have some sweet skills I haven’t told you about yet) to remove a field of burs from their manes. After much cussing and sniffing and scratching and chunks of hair flying, I decided they might be able to pass as dignified, although slightly older, members of the equine family.

They were ready for their close ups.

They were ready for a stroll.

They looked so good, I actually had to go inside and change to my fancy shirt so we matched.

 

Stormy and The Mare

 

Anyway, we were ready and presentable just in time for my old friend and my new friend’s arrival. I introduced them to their mounts and, after an explanation on why The Mare doesn’t have a real name, we were off into the crisp, clear autumn morning.

The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. There was a flawless breeze. Not a cloud in the sky.

Perfection, just as I had planned.

And then…

“Meow….meow….meow….meow….”

What the hell is that?

“Mmmmmeeeeeoooooowwww…..meow…meow…MEEEOOWWW”

Oh, ha ha, how cute, the cat followed us.

I explained to my guests:

“Oh, that’s ok, he’ll turn back. He’ll turn back. How funny. Ha ha.”

They weren’t quite sure.

The Mare started to cough.

The sun shone warm on our backs.

We took in the scenery and talked about how great life is and…

“MEOW. Meow. Meowmewomeowmeowmeow.”

“MEOW”

Well, I guess the cat was not only coming along, he was intent on weaving his little body between the legs of the old beasts’ feet. I mean, anything for a scratch. Anything for attention.

I explained to my guests:

“Here, I’ll try chasing him back. He’ll go home if I just encourage him with a little sound effect…you know, scare him home…..”

My old friend said:

“Good luck with that.”

I said:

“Pssst….pssstt….get back….go home….psst…shhhhhh…..pppppssssssttt…..you little sh…..hahaha…..get back kitty….ppppsssstttt…..”

The Mare groaned.

My new friend was reminded why she is allergic to cats.

Stormy fell asleep.

 

Stormy

 

The cat didn’t budge.

“Meow.”

We continued on our merry way and tried to ignore the panicked screams for attention going on below us. A cat that thinks he’s a dog. A cat that thinks he’s a horse. A cat that thinks he is far more adventurous despite the lack of appropriate outfit or gear for this type of wilderness travel.

Then our attention was diverted to The Mare who had somehow developed a major limp since the last time we took her on a stroll.

My old friend wasn’t so sure her horse was going to make it.

I told her it was an act, a ploy for sympathy and attention. She has to exercise. This is good for her. She really has let herself go.

My new friend sneezed.

“Meow….meowwwwwwww…….

Reeeeeaaarrrrrooooow…..REAAAR!”

Silence.

New friend:

“I think my horse just kicked your cat.”

Old, animal loving friend:

“Oh no! Is he ok…is he…”

“Meow, meow, meow…”

Oh, good he survived.

Thinking now would be a good time to head toward home and wondering how much bleeding would be involved with carrying a cat on a horse, we turned toward the corrals.

Barnyard bound, Stormy, who had been trailing a half a mile behind the crew (no doubt facing pangs of jealousy as his much younger rival took up the lead) caught up to give my horse a good kick, you know, to remind him to respect his elders and stop looking so shiny and sleek.

The Mare miraculously recovered from her bad hip or foot or whatever ailment she was faking and picked up speed.

And the cat disappeared.

Oh shit.

Me to my guests:

“Don’t worry, he’ll find his way home. Cats can smell home. Cats are smart.”

Me to myself:

“He’s a goner. Eagle bait. Coyote bait.….shit.”

My old friend was not so sure. My old friend was concerned.

My new friend sneezed.

Onward we pushed, my posse and I, mourning the loss of our adventurous little mate, sure he would pull through, sure it would turn out fine, weary and ragged from the drama of it all (or the dust and bur particles swirling in the air).

We arrived, unsaddled, picked our wedgies, brushed our beasts, gave them a treat…

 

The Mare, rolling off the drama of the ride, trying to get the stink off...

 

and listened for the cat….

“Oh, there he is,” old friend exclaimed pointing to brave cat’s identical brother, sleepy, lazy cat. “He made it home after all.”

And honest-to-a-fault me, who has been caught in every untrue story I have woven, pulled off the ultimate sin and lied to my old friend’s face.

“Uuuhhh, yup, there he is. What a trooper.”

I didn’t have the heart.  I didn’t want her to worry. I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to get in on the scavenger hunt that would ensue after her car pulled back into civilization.

So my old friend and new friend, who turns out was allergic to pretty much every particle at the ranch, but held it together so graciously and wonderfully for the love of the ride, despite a swollen eye and slowly closing throat, took off back to town, where there is no dirt and cats stay in the house and eat canned food from a fancy dish and there is no toxic dust.

And I convinced myself that the cat would come back.

And hummed that little childhood tune…you know:

The cat came back, the very next day.
The cat came back.
We thought he was a goner.
But the cat came back,
He just wouldn’t stay aaawwwaaayyyy!

I made myself some lunch. All will be well.

Took a bite.

Looked out the window.

Finished my chores.

Looked over the horizon.

Made some supper.

Turned on the yard light.

Read some pages out of my book.

Yelled for the cat.

Fell asleep.

Woke up.

Wandered around the barnyard.

No cat.

Damn cat.

Cat dammit.

Dammit cat.

Now I’ve done it. I’ve lied and will have to explain this to my old friend or risk living a life with one cat who has to play the role of two, you know, like the girl in Parent Trap, in order to convince my friend I’m not a heathen.

And I kinda missed the crazy cat. He was the yin to calm cat’s yang.

He completes….ok, well never mind.

Anyway, it was time to find him. After all, how long could he survive out there with out a proper hat or cargo pants or canteen at least?

So I rounded up Chug the pug (who would have to do in the absence of the lab) and put on my scouting outfit and we went on our own hunt, thank  you very much.

 

My search partner

 

We backtracked and marched diligently along yesterday’s route, staying on course, except for an occasional pause to take a picture or chase a bird or pet the horses, we were thorough in our efforts.

Through the thick brush, up to the tallest hill I scoured the landscape with one hand on my hip, one to shade my eyes and point, Lewis and Clark style. The pug sniffed the ground and followed hot on the trail…oh wait…not a cat, just a jackrabbit. Keep it together man!

I listened in the silence for brave cat’s cries for help.  I scoured the earth, high and low…oh wait, what a beautiful tree….oh, the sky is just stunning today…beep, beep, click…

FOCUS!

The pug slapped me. I slapped the pug. We were back on track, traipsing past where brave cat was allegedly stepped on, past where he meowed, and meowed, and meowed and finally, past the place I was sure he disappeared into the mist of that fine morning.

Oh no, could hope be lost? This was my last resort, my last chance at retrieving this animal that was stupid…I mean loyal… enough to follow his beloved human out into the wilderness….

Oh cat, our time was brief together, but so full of love and life…I’ll miss you…good…

“meow…meow…meow…”

The pug stopped in his tracks. That never happens.

“mmmeeeooowww….mmeeoowww….mmmeeoowww.”

I turned toward the snarly brush behind me…

“meow.meow.meow.meow.”

I looked down. The pug followed. I dug through the brush, moving closer to his pleas for help…

“meow meow meow meow.”

Close now, I looked to the sky to catch a glimpse of two little eyes blinking with worry and anticipation. Our eyes lock and the pug went crazy and started chasing his tail and brave cat, way up in the highest tree, where he undoubtedly built himself a little cat sized hammock and settled in for the night in the middle of the most gnarly brush patch on the ranch, came barreling down to the ground at full speed.

The pug gave him a nuzzle. I gave him an apology and felt really guilty for giving his instincts too much credit.

Brave cat started purring, so I think he forgave me, but wasn’t over it enough to let me carry him home.

 

Not my biggest fan...

 

He chose to follow the pug.

 

"Don't worry buddy, I got your back."

 

The entire way.

To hell with me.

And Chug the pug proudly lead the way…

 

Homeward Bound...Milo and Otis...anyone? This is my life....

 

 

"C'mon buddy, don't give up, we're almost there..."

 

And when we finally made it, I got in my car to head to the big city and found that a mouse had taken up residence in my glove box.

What did I say about the jungle? Yeah, it’s out there.

 

Reunited and it feels so good.

Reunited, and it feels so good...

 

Damn cat.

 

Thanks for the help buddy...I really should get you that cape I promised...

 

A lightning bolt and a cowgirl with a wedgie

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Not all days are picture perfect around here. No. Not all.

Because sometimes you’re a cowboy, and then other times, well…you’re a D-

…no matter the outfit.

See, I had a couple days of meetings in town, which helped fulfill the polished career woman that sometimes finds it necessary to make an appearance, but also resulted in lots of car time, computer time, time in high heals and dangly earrings, planning time, hand shaking time, question asking time and one instance of cold coffee being dumped down the back of my dress shirt (don’t ask). So by the time I got home today I was feeling a little pale and clean-cut and itching to put my big girl pants on and whoop it up on a good ‘ol fashioned round-up…you know…get western on the world.

It turns out I should have had supper first…

So after a change from fancy print to practical flannel, the guys and I saddled up and headed out on a mission to bring all of the cows home.

Yes, all the cows that were grazing so oblivious, so innocent, so peaceful in greenish-brownish pastures–all the girls, with their hefty teenagers trailing behind them, blissfully unaware of what was about to shake their world.

Because just like that, over the hill popped two calm, cool and collected cowboys and one cranky woman with a wedgie and an empty stomach on the back of a wild, red bolt of lightning full of burs and oat fueled energy—not as much cool and collected as hot and uptight.

And we got right to it. Or at least the men did. After we parted ways to move the unsuspecting cattle from each corner of the pasture, The Red Fury and I began to have our differences.

 

With hair as bad as his attitude...

 

Because I needed to go left and Lightning Bolt Full of Burs most certainly needed to go right—right back to the other horses who were concentrating less on socializing and more on the task at hand.

For those of you who have had any experience with horses with strong wills and a bit of a spoiled streak, you know the drill. The shrill whinny. The stomp of the feet. The head flail. The snort. The spin around. The side-pass. The crow-hop. The ear perk-up. And, of course, the dead calm that occurs right before they go through the hissy fit process all over again.

Yeah, I’ve been there many times. And even if you haven’t been there with a horse, I am sure you can relate anyway: think child without the cookie he really, really needs, your sister during a fight over closet space or your worst boss on his worst day.

Anyway, some days you’re up for the fight. Some days you don’t back down. Some days you laugh it off and slap ‘em on the ass (the horse, not your boss…or your sister I suppose) and move on with your life.

But then some days you just want to rip off your big girl pants and snort and stomp and flail along with them. Or at least light a cigarette (the fact that you do or do not smoke is not relevant in these situations)

Well, contrary to popular belief, the Marlboro Man doesn’t just pop on over the nearest butte around here. At least I haven’t seen him anyway. And out in the middle of this country, the work just has to get done, no matter the mood. No matter the stomach growl. No matter the urge for a martini and a Virginia Slim.

At least that is what I told The Red Fury. And after a pops prompted swat on the lightning bolt’s rump and a forced gallop up the nearest butte and back, the two pains of the pasture straightened up a bit.

When Red Fury accepted that I was just a bitch today (more than likely due to the tight pants and the wedgie) and I accepted that Red Fury was going to take me across the landscape with an attitude that resembled the biggest jock in high school, we were fine.

Just fine, ok.

Yes, we did indeed fall in line and the cows made their merry way up hills, across cricks, through the brush and to the sweet gates of home with the two of us finally working together for the greater good. And I was glad I had the sense to “cowboy up.”

But I was also a bit discouraged.  Because these emotions, these frustrations, this uptight, scared to hit the ground, nervous and untrusting attitude I was exuding was not supposed to follow me out here. It was supposed to stay home on the pillow where I left it the night before when I couldn’t sleep because I was too busy counting my shortcomings. I was supposed to be something else out here…something resembling the scene from “The Man From Snowy River”—taking on the task with a bullwhip, a sweet hat and a passion. I was supposed to have confidence. I was supposed to have fearlessness. I was supposed to have skill and power and control out here in this wild space.

And instead I cowered a bit. I crumpled a bit. I gave in a bit. And the beast beneath me?  Well, he knew what he was dealing with and it turns out that made him nervous. My attitude, my body language, my frustration revealed to him vulnerabilities and weaknesses that don’t work too well in the important and magical beast-and-master partnership. Because when this animal panicked, so did this human–and all trust was lost.

I guess what happens in real life does happen out here after all.

And you know what. That’s ok. Because not all days are picture perfect around here, or anywhere else for that matter. Sometimes you feel like crying and eating macaroni and cheese from the pot and you don’t want to have to explain it. Sometimes you stub your toe and run a red light and get a ticket and come home to a pile of dishes and you don’t feel like looking on the bright side.

Sometimes you spill coffee down the back of your nice clothes and have no idea how that happened and then you say the f-word. Loud.

Sometimes you just want to run like the wind and don’t want any bitch trying to stop you or trying to hold you up.

And sometimes you’re just hungry.

But no matter how dramatically you lose your nerve, the cows always find their way home–especially when calm and collected cowboys have your back.

Thanks for supper pops.

Thanks for the ride Lightning (and making me feel better about my bad hair day.)

And husband, thanks for loving your wife, even when she is a hungry crab with a wedgie.

The art of cow cooperation.

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I had the pleasure on this fine fall day of accompanying pops, just like old times, in bringing the cows home in fall roundup fashion.

My pops loves cows. He is first a horseman, but second a sort of cow whisperer. I am not kidding. It is, in its own way, extraordinary. His method for punchin’ cattle is not necessarily the bullwhips and whooping and hollering old western type of scenario most think of when visualizing a cattle roundup.

No, there isn’t even much swearing involved (unless I’m along. Then there might be a few slung here and there, I’m not gonna lie…) Anyway, the art of chasing cows with my pops is actually, I might stretch as far to say, a sort of “zen” experience, with the motto being, “slow and steady…let the cows think they are in charge.”

And really, they are. In charge that is. The cows. Because they will always outnumber us, no matter the strategy, no matter the brains and brawn you and the cow horse that is under you posses.  Most of the time things generally go as planned, with the cows catching wind of the horse at their backs and filing, nose to rump, on the trail to the gate. Just like pops had visualized. But then there are the days when the cows see that same gate open to greener pastures, and then choose, very casually, very snarky, to simply not enter and, you know, run as fast as their creaky legs can carry them to the nearest, most snarly, most thistle ridden brush there is on the entire place.

Yeah, I can see ya girl.

Then laugh and whisper to each other as pops and I discuss the idiotic fact that we own a pug, two labs and an old, crabby shepherd between the two of us and not one sense to possess a decent cow dog (whose job it is to correct these bovine attitudes). And then we proceed to dismount and walk into the critter and weed ridden brush to chase them out ourselves.

“Hya”  “Whoop.” “Come on girls.” “Yip. Yip. Yip.”

Arms waving, these are a few of the most choice phrases used by pops and me to encourage cow cooperation.

(I admit, I sometimes say “Dammit.” I know I shouldn’t, but I am passionate.)

Anyway, no matter the attitude, this type of situation is bound to occur on a cow-moving extravaganza, but it very rarely causes heart failure and hissy fits in the cowboy.  Because pops is a man who has been working cattle on this ranch his entire life, so he knows the drill.  He gets in their heads. He sees what a rebellious cow is thinking before she makes her move. He knows where all the gates are located in case the bovines get picky, he has been in all of the draws and has crossed all of the creek beds and has had to run damn quick to the tops of all of the clay hills. He’s got it down, so there really is no need to cuss, Jessie, geesh.

But for the last five years, pops has done this type of work, moving anywhere from 10 to 50 to 100 cows by himself on the back of his most savvy horse for years, being out here as the lone cowboy since his kids left home.

So he is really happy to have help, no matter how distracted that help may be by her camera and the lazy, spoiled pleasure horse she stupidly selected to take with her on the job.

Damnit.

Oops.

But it all worked out, like it always does on this fine fall day. After watching as a few surly strays decided to run down the steepest cliff with the most thorns and bogs in the entire pasture, with pops in the lead, saying “Well, if this is how they’re going to be, we’ll just follow them around the entire pasture until they find the gate,” we calmly rode in after them. And then I remembered why cowboys wear chaps as one of those thorns found a home in my shin. I might have said “shit” but I can’t remember.

And then, after a few “Yip yips” and Hya”’s, like well trained beasts, they came out of the brush…and proceeded to head for the other side of the pasture to a lovely spot where a deep creek winds up and back again through cliffs and washouts and lots and lots of thistles.

We followed.

We followed as the cows, with their rather large calves at their tails, waded in mud up to their knees to get away from us. And then proceed to swim across the deep creek and climb and claw and scramble out its steep, 90 degree bank. You know, to get away from us.

I shook my head, kicked my pokey mount along and scratched at the thorn in my leg. Pops laughed and commented on how gorgeous the view is out here. He said this is his favorite pasture. He pointed out the nicest calf.

What a beautiful day.

And it was, because just as I was sure these cattle were calling the Greyhound Bus to get the next ticket to NYC  (you know, to get away from us) we popped up over the hill and saw them file in line behind their girlfriends and their babies who were making their way through the open gate.

Just like pops had planned. Just like he asked them to.

And as they all gathered for a drink of water before their final destination, pops looked out over his spread, their shiny black coats glistening in the sunlight and said, “Look at those beautiful cows. What a herd. Take a picture of that Jess. Those are some great cows.”

So I did. I took a picture.

Then shifted my lens to snap a picture of a cowboy. You know, a real one.

“Happy Trails Y’all”…well we don’t really say “ya’ll” around here…let me try it again..

“Happy Trails You Guys!”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Until we meet again.

“Sneeeek….Sneeeeeeeek….” “Shhhhhh…”

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It’s hunting season here. Well, bow hunting season to start it off. So I’ve lost husband for the evenings from now until, well, I don’t know,  I must blank out when we talk about these things…I think until at least Christmas. But I could be wrong.

If you haven’t figured this out yet, I will tell you something about husband…he is a patient, patient man. So naturally, he is good with the whole bow hunting sport, which requires a lot of quiet, and sneaking, and waiting and analyzing animal patterns in the unpredictable fall weather. He is particularly enthused about the sport this season because:

  1. we are living in the deer’s backyard  and
  2. he saw some of those deer on a cow chasing ride the other day…and they had grown some really….big….horns….(or antlers, I think I am supposed to say antlers)

So this week husband has come home after a hard day’s work and…

….hello wife…goodbye wife…goodnight wife…

And the cycle continues.

Husband loves hunting season. And I love husband. So sometimes I go along.

Truth is I actually hunt too. With a gun. But it’s the kind of hunting that involves one of the men in my life helping quite a bit…help getting my license, lending me a gun, loading the gun, picking out my camouflage shirt and placing the blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat on my head (which, by the way is not my color) and shoving my once warm and cozy ass out of our backdoor and into the innocent, unsuspecting wilderness.

And for the record, I’m a damn good shot, no matter the outfit.

Proof with one of my bucks (and dad). I removed the blaze orange hat for photographic purposes.

But I love hunting. I do. I love traipsing around in the crisp air, treading lightly on the earth and blending in with my surroundings. Because in those moments (you know, when you resemble a tree) if you do it right, you really see it. When you are forced to be unbelievably still  (either by free will, or because husband continues to calmly “shush” you) and when your state is unobstructed by cell phones dinging, The Bachelor on television, or that damn laundry, you give yourself a gift really.

While you focus on the quiet part, you notice how the hawks circle, you spot a porcupine perched in a tree, you can hear the bumble bees swarming in a nearby patch of fall flowers, just hanging on tight to life before the winter sets in.  When you are paying attention to silence, you are also, thankfully, paying attention enough to not sit on that cactus, really hear the wind in the trees, and… oh look at those beautiful red fall leaves, and the geese, and the way the sun is setting, giving way to the moon…oh, I need my camera…

…beep, beep, click…

Shhhhh…..

Oh, yeah. We’re hunting deer here…

When you remain completely still and don’t use your typical “sneaking” sound effects, e.g.: “…sneeeeeek, sneeeeeeekeeekkeeeee, sneeeek….” you notice how the deer graze in the open spots and move and bed down and spook at the slightest crack or pop of a twig or, you know…sound effect.

Ooops. Oh deer…

In my defense, I wasn’t a total distraction on my inaugural bow hunt this year (I didn’t wear my “swishy” pants this time). I mean, I kept it together enough to get close to some really beautiful creatures, but I had my fair share of coffee that afternoon, didn’t remember the lunch thing, and forgot that “crisp fall weather” means wear some long underwear. So unfortunately, my growling stomach and shivering cut our hunt short of the necessary “witching hour.”

I was wearing the exact same thing. Just hanging back, blending in...

And I felt a little bad, because I’m usually a trooper. Really, I was raised following behind the footprints of my father, in snow up to my armpits, chasing after the majestic beasts that he had been scoping out all season. I have been in on some really intense, really successful, really invigorating hunts. And I’m sure I will be again, that is, if I’m ever invited back.

So on our way home, when I was staring at the ground (instead of the horizon) and thinking about how I could get Chinese food delivered to the middle of nowhere, I apologized to patient husband for my apathetic, non-sportsmanlike, non-intense behavior. I apologized for the giggling, the sneeze, the sneaking sound and the un-authorized camera click.

And after all of my rambling, I was reminded of the spirit of the sport when husband turned to me and said:

“I’m just glad you came with me. I am glad to have you here”

Awwwww….the words of true sportsman. Or a man looking to secure many, many more hunting trips, to which I say, “wishes granted.”

So, I might not be a bow hunter yet, but I am working on it…

And in my defense, it is a little difficult to focus on the hunt when I am surrounded by such beauty…don’t you think?

Happy hunting.

Our wild backyard (no mowing necessary)

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I have a pretty awesome backyard. It won’t make Better Homes and Gardens and no one will be calling me up for tips on how to get my grass so green or my flower garden so colorful and free of weeds. There will never be a plan to install a water feature with those fancy fish or a walking path made of perfectly smooth river stones. There will be cow poop and there will never be a white picket fence.

But your backyard might have one. Your yard may have the neighbors swooning and strolling by slowly as they walk their lap dogs or bike ride with their children. It might be the perfect spot for a BBQ complete with margaritas and a big umbrella over your table. You probably grow the most pristine daisies along your immaculately placed paving stones. Better Homes and Gardens is more than likely dialing your number right now.

And that’s pretty awesome too.

I do enjoy a good yard, no matter the condition, especially in the summer. So this weekend I ventured out a bit from the red gravel road to take in some of the big back yard that we all share, and it turned out that our lawn, the one we co-own, hadn’t been mowed either, so I didn’t feel so bad about mine.

For those of you who live in North Dakota, you have probably heard of the Maah Daah Hey Trail. If you haven’t, well I’m going to tell you about it, because it is where I tested my cowgirl, girl scout, Pilates, camp cook, photographer and reptile handler skills this Labor Day weekend. (Because we don’t get enough “middle of nowhere” out here in my little house in the hills the other five days of the week.)

In a nutshell, the Maah Daah Hey is a 125-mile multi-use trail, which stretches throughout public land in the Badlands of North Dakota from the North Unit of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park near Watford City to the South Unit near Medora. This well-groomed, well-marked, gorgeous trail sweeps in and out of the clay buttes, winding across the valleys, crossing rivers and streams, cutting up the sides of steep cliffs and meandering through the trees. Even experienced in pieces (which is what we did for two days) this trail is not for wusses.

We chose to take the trail the good old-fashioned way, via the back of a trusty horse. Just a side note here to those wild men and women who think that taking a pedal bike out for a stroll through this rugged, unforgiving, majestic country is a good idea—may sweet Jesus be with you.

Anyway, the public has been enjoying this trail officially since 1995, but its name is taken from the Mandan Indian phrase meaning “an area that has been or will be around for a long time.” Which is fitting, because it has been said that this trail actually has been around for hundreds of years, serving as a trade route for the American Indians. So the Maah Daah Hey, I think, is and has been a true gift to those of us who wish to experience and exist in an untamed, unsettled, wild as the wind adventure out in the backcountry where it is not uncommon to ride for a day and not see another human soul (but a couple that belong to beasts).

And for those of you who prefer not to venture out of the fence and mowed lawn, it sure photographs nice and looks lovely hanging above a mantle in a pretty frame.

But there is nothing like being out in it really. Nothing.

With my crew of three pretty great wilderness guys (husband, dad, father-in-law), four horses that were lucky enough to prove themselves worthy of the climb, several bottles full of water, lunches pre-packed and labeled with names (because I give the people what they want), necessities like knives, matches, band-aids and, of course, toilet paper, we hit the trail that starts at Bennett Creek Camp and ends up there again.

And in those twelve miles that took us and our necessities past unaware deer grazing in a brush patch, out in the open to spook a lone coyote in the sage, over an unsuspecting, and rather angry rattlesnake in our path, down low to photograph the purple flowers growing unpredictably out of the hard, baked clay, and up high to see it all from a distance, I couldn’t think of any place I’d rather be.

We plodded along for a few miles, snapping photos, basking in the scenery, chatting about previous rides, catching up. And then our voices silenced, our horses fell in line, and we were quiet for a while, alone with our thoughts for a few miles, bodies moving with the rhythm of the animals underneath us.

We got off to stretch our legs and walked the horses up steep cliffs, we took moments to let our mounts splash and dunk their noses in the creeks. We pushed on toward camp, letting the trail and markers guide us.

Even as I stretched my kinked back after nearly 7 hours in the saddle, my bony ass aching and my ankles stiff as we rounded the final mile back to camp, I couldn’t help but feel extremely fortunate to be breathing this wild air, without a sound or a footprint that didn’t belong there.

And my hope in the human race was restored a bit when we got back to camp to find that there was a multitude of others, in tents, in campers, in extravagant RVs, who were looking for the same connection with this land. I will admit at first I was a bit disappointed that we didn’t have the campsite to ourselves, as if we were the only ones allowed this little piece of heaven, the only ones who deserved this quiet and solitude in which I get to live every day.

But then I came to my senses. Because I have been blessed with a backyard full of these wild things. My family has lived happily without immaculate lawns and flower gardens untouched by hungry critters. We have given up late night trips to the market and the option of take out when we don’t want to cook in order to be able to exist and live in a natural and somewhat untamed environment. We sweep our floors a little more, we swat more flies, we see more mice (and an occasional raccoon may or may not have entered my parent’s home and rearranged the décor), but that is a small price to pay for the quiet simplicity of country living. We have been blessed.

So where on earth did I think the white picket fence people go to get away from it all when they don’t have a place like ours to run to? Where do they go when the constant stream of suburban life has reached its limit for the month? Where did I think the girls with horses locked in stalls go to ride like the wind? Where do the dads bring their sons to teach them to build a fire, use a pocketknife, shoot a bow? Where do the mammas take their daughters to teach them the names of the wild animals and flowers? Where do ranchers, and daughters of ranchers go to take in the beauty of a different landscape without the distraction of fences that need fixing and hay that needs moving? Where do husbands go to reconnect with their strength and hardy instincts?

There has to be places like this for us. They must exist for us to stay human.

So as we watered and fed the horses, put up our tents, grilled our pork (and the angry rattlesnake), built the campfire, cracked open a beverage and settled in for the night, I took a moment to look around at my fellow campers who drove for hundreds of miles, from Omaha, Dallas, Minneapolis, Chicago, Fargo and even just down the road from Watford City, to exist for a few days in a place that looks the same as it did when our ancestors hunted whitetail and jackrabbits for supper, drank from the river, used the strong back of a horse to get a day’s work done and walked to get somewhere (because they definitely weren’t crazy enough to try it on a bike).

And I smiled, because there we all were, looking up at the same sky glistening with the same stars that have been hanging there for a million years in a landscape that has been soaked in the swamp, beaten by the wind, cut by glaciers, baked in the sun and battered by the water to form a world that is simply marvelous really.

A marvelous, breathtaking, ruthless, wild, wonderful backyard.

Simply untamable–just like us, it turns out.

And it’s all ours neighbors! Now go out and live in it.

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In honor of the ride in beautiful country, I thought I’d share my version of a couple classics. Enjoy!  Red River Valley Medley

For more information about the Maah Daah Hey trail, or to contribute to the project, visit the Maah Daah Hey Trail Association Website at www.mdhta.com

*Oh, and a quick note about the Mountain Biking thing, for those of you who like that sort of thing 🙂 The International Mountain Biking Association (IMBA) recognized the Maah Daah Hey  with their most prestigious award, the IMBA Epic Ride of 2001. In addition, a national women’s sports magazine named the Maah Daah Hey Trail among their top 18 outside sport destinations in the country. So go get ’em, I just won’t be joining you until I get that gym membership I haven’t been talking about…

There’s nothing wilder…

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There is something about a girl and a horse.

Yeah, boys have their toys with wheels, their guns, their tools, their dogs and they look noble and masculine (and a bit like a western movie if they’ve got the outfit right) on the back of the beautiful beasts….

But it’s not the same.

I was reminded of this phenomenon this week when my twelve-year-old cousin from The Cities (yeah, we’re in Western ND, so even though Minneapolis/St. Paul is an excruciating 600 plus miles to the east, those are our cities ok…) came to visit the ranch for the first time (without her two brothers). My cousin is a fiery, sweet, smart redhead who has spent much of her childhood on the pavement giving all of that animal loving heart to her declawed cat who moves, like city cats do, throughout their beautiful home from sunny spot to sunny spot until he is let loose in the night to lurk through the neighborhood, exercising his wild side.

I love this girl and have spent time with her when she was younger, but never, I realized, one on one. So I admit I was a little nervous to have her out to this wild place, so far removed from the Super Target that is located down the street from her house, so far from the structured entertainment and the embracing neighborhood full of friends and swimming pools and a bike rides and movie theatres at your fingertips. I was worried she would be bored. I was worried she was going to miss her friends. I was worried that the things I liked to do when I was twelve (and let’s just admit it here, still do) would not appeal to her.  And to top off the unexpected anxiety, it occurred to me that this pre-teen might never survive without cell service!

OMG!

So the plans I made to walk through the creek beds and pick wild berries and go fishing in the big lake and ride bike were on a list right next to the back-up plans of movies and swimming pools and manicures…you know, just in case.

But sweet Red was not nervous at all. Red packed her bags diligently in her room in the suburb of Minneapolis at the end of her summer with sweet adventure in her sight. She was on a quiet mission as she endured bravely the ten hour trip out west in a car with nothing on her mind but exploring every inch of this place on the back of a horse.

As soon as the car pulled through the breaks of the badlands and down into the valley of my parent’s home, Red stepped out and sucked in the fresh air and immediately buried her face in the necks of the two dogs rushing, tails wagging, coming to greet her. I’ve never seen a smile that genuine. I’ve never seen a heart open that wide.

And in that moment it was quite clear that this girl, with the freckles and the blue eyes and the beautiful, straight, long red hair–a girl so far away from me in miles and looks and lifestyle and years, did indeed share the same blood.

I should not have been surprised.  I should not have doubted this wonderful, curious, adventurous child.  With the perfectly placed ponytails and the cowboy hat and boots I lent her she even reminded me of Annie Oakley!

So I took this as my cue and I shredded my backup list and made plans to check off everything on the first one—the real one.

We had two days.

So we scoured the hills for chokecherries and plums, got her shoes muddy in the black mud of the crick (“do you say creek or crick?” “Well, I guess we say crick around here…”), threw the stick for the dogs to fetch and caught a frog. And because she is a Minnesota girl, I thought she should see a lake completely different than those in her backyard. So down the road we went to big, rugged, untamed Lake Sakakawea to fish for walleye against the clay cliffs that border the shore. And damn if Red didn’t catch the only fish. Big Fish.

Oh, her brothers would be jealous.

She swam with the lab in the cool North Dakota lake, she shot a Pabst can right off of the fence post with the .22, she rode the 4-wheeler, she tamed the wild cat, she sat out in the yard with the four dogs as the sun went down on what I hoped was a day of her dreams…

And she rode horse.

And If ever there was a moment that needed to occur in the life of a twelve year old girl—a moment that makes all of the annoying troubles of the world disappear (like puberty and high-water pants and friends who betray you and parents who just don’t understand), a moment where complete innocence and trust and hope appears again in the eyes of a girl on the verge of womanhood, it was this one.

We walked into the corrals and I pointed out her horse. Her eyes sparked.  I slowly and carefully showed her how to bridle the creature. She listened intently. I gave her the currycomb and she brushed his coat and mane. She asked where horses like to be scratched and her hand reached up under the chin of her animal and he answered her question as her new four-legged friend showed his appreciation by stretching out his neck and nuzzling her shoulder.

And if I thought Red’s heart was open as wide as a heart could be with her face nestled into the necks of the labs and the pug and the shepherd, I know now that I was strongly mistaken about how big hearts really are.

But I should have known. I was that girl.

I am her.

Because there is nothing like a girl on a horse. And until now, I guess I must have thought I was the only one who lost myself completely on the back of an animal who takes your life and carries it across the rugged prairies, through fields of clover and snakes and wild, wild things. I guess I thought I was the only one who threw my heart wholly to a beast who could launch you high in the air with one kick and send you tumbling to the ground, but mostly chooses not to (mostly…but sometimes you need to learn a lesson or two) and instead listens as you ask him to climb a hill

or go fast around a barrel or get up close to a raspberry bush so you can have a sample and then help you bring the cows home.

See, there is a certain amount of trust, a special trust, a different kind of connection between a girl and a horse. And bear with me because I think there is an amount of truth here…

A boy, a man, and his horse have a different agreement. There is a certain amount of power a man, whether physical or mental, is not willing to relinquish to a beast. There is an understanding between the four legged animal and the two legged creature on his back that they will indeed accomplish a task, together, successfully, the way it was meant to the man. And the man thanks the horse for his assistance.

And this is a wonderful thing.

But a girl loves her horse with the kind of tenderness only a woman can give. She longs to understand the animal and knows there are days when all you can do is walk slowly together down the road, no matter how pressing the issue. A girl wants to ride just to maintain a connection with her animal, to let him know that he is hers, she is his and she is here. But when the time comes to run, there is nothing more untamed, there is nothing wilder, there is nothing closer to the wind than a girl, hair tangling behind her, face close to the neck of a her beast as they reach for the horizon.

And up until now it didn’t occur to me that maybe that sort of wild is in every woman, somewhere.

So thanks Red. Thanks for coming over and showing me that even city girls can open their hearts and let go of their fear and their life and the world as they know it and….

ride like the wind.


The extraordinary ones…

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The coulees that dot the landscape on the ranch are mystical places that I spent my entire childhood exploring. Each season they changed, and each year when I returned after a long winter, I found something new.

I walked them today again for the first time in several years and I was taken right back to the magic I feel they possess. I believe that the curious, the brave and special people that take the time to pick apart this prairie and get to the roots of the rough places give themselves a gift of beauty and life and discovery, losing themselves in a mystery like nothing else.

And so when I returned, I wrote….

There are secrets out here at the ranch that not many have explored. These secrets are quiet and hidden and full of magical life that only a watchful, imaginative eye can detect. This magic is not that far off the beaten path and most people, the ordinary people, never even turn a head or give this world a glance as they kick up dust from the tires of their SUVs.

But the special ones, they are curious. The special ones listen. They stand deathly still at the side of the road and hold their breath to hear through the wind and the traffic and the barking dogs. They lift a hand to shield their eyes and carefully take a step off the gravel—one step into the world. And then the brave ones take another and another…

Because they think they can hear something faintly calling to them saying, “hello up there” from way down below, under the tangle of grasses and cactus, along the base of trees, where the roots peek out from under the damp earth. So the curious ones, the ones who listen, move their eyes from the horizon and follow the call from the ground. Their feet bravely urge them to move from the top of the hills among the safety of the open prairie to the mysterious, damp, dark and prickly gullies of the surrounding coulees and creek beds.

They take in the panoramic view of cattails springing up like furry corn-dogs bouncing and bending on frail sticks in the breeze, congregating together under the care of the world’s largest street fair vendor. So the special ones are called to take a step a little closer and the smell of the marsh fills their nostrils as the once solid ground gives way to the dark mud under the reeds. And the water seeps into the brave one’s shoes.

A little startled, they look down and decide that soggy feet may be a small price to pay, because they’re on to something here. They need to get to the other side, to the trail that cuts along the creek that runs, uncommonly, up the banks of the ravine on a hot August day.

They wobble and slosh their way, deeper in, and with each step the voices get a bit louder, coaxing them to look down to the mushrooms and moss multiplying and spreading on the bark of the bur oak. The brave ones bend down to run their fingers along it, to feel the sponge of the mushroom’s fragile skin. Some might take a look underneath the caps of the fungus, not feeling at all silly at this point about making sure the stories of the fairies and the elves aren’t true. And they will be a little disappointed, really, to find, when they look, there is nothing there but a couple gnats…

And the curious ones have their eyes open enough to sense a soft rippling on the surface of the creek as the water bugs zip and glide and row and skim across the water. The brave ones feel the urge to jump in and splash with them, but don’t want to disturb the frail bugs.

Because, if not the fairies or the elves, maybe they are the ones who have called them here…

And when the voices (whoever they are) are drowned out by the buzzing of the mosquitoes and the air gets cooler and damper as the brush thickens up again along the path, even the brave ones can’t take it —they want to see the sky again, to see how the time has passed and how far they have gone. So they claw their way up the steep banks the creek has cut. They want to run to the top of the hill, but their legs are not meant to go so fast at times like these. Something slows them and they crouch to see how the tall grass looks against the overcast sky. They stand up and stretch their limbs to taste the ripe plumbs at the very tips of the thorny branches. The sweet juice pops in their mouths.

The curious ones bend down low to skim the vines for the rare red raspberries and wild strawberries underneath the mangle of green and they tiptoe along the juniper spreading up through the rocks and watch for the poison ivy that has, until the voices, deterred them from coming here.

And in their drunken wonderment, mouths puckered from sucking on the pits of wild berries and foreheads wrinkled from really seeing the small things, they are all surprised that the road has found them again, somehow.

Turning their heads back over their shoulder, they are bewildered by the look of it all from far away.

The trees put their arms around each other, moving so close together they all become one, the wind blows through the reeds, the grass stands up straight, the wild sunflowers spread open their smiles and everything (except the water who hides itself away, not so good at goodbyes) seems to wave at the brave and curious and special ones as they make their way home.

And the extraordinary people say a quiet word of thanks to the voices whispering their secrets, because the small world they thought they knew, the one they thought had belonged only to them, had become quite large indeed.

And after all that magic, it never looked the same again.