Dog 1966 He appeared out of nowhere one morning. My grandmother was hanging laundry on the line when he made his debut. She had a dryer but chose not to use it, even in the winter unless time was of the essence. She was part American Indian blood and kept with the old ways over modern convenience when possible. After the dog was fed, he laid down near the front door and made himself at home. My grandfather, well known for being an expert trainer with horses, mules, and dogs, the working ranch animals, tried to coax him to join him in the pickup for the morning tour of the ranch. The dog just laid there making itself comfortable. He exhausted his vast repertoire of canine training expertise, to no avail, so he went about his morning rounds unencumbered by canine companionship just like he had done ever since old Shep had died. My grandmother had declared on the dogs arrival, that he was a sign from God. After several weeks of failed attempts to train the dog to do anything but lay by the door or hangout with us grandkids, when we visited, my grandpa declared the dog brain dead, but silenced all of us to never let on we thought that. We voted and decided to name him Dog, which was what my grandpa called him after several other more popular dog names didn't perk his ears. On one visit, age 16, where I arrived early to help them with some remodeling and corral repairs, I decided to go to the river to cool off while they took their one hour nap after lunch. I disrobed down to the bare, to keep my undies dry, and enjoy the cool waters of the Animas river, the River of Lost Souls according to Indian legend. I rolled my tee and undies in my jeans and placed them near by on a rock for easy grabbing and fleeing behind trees, to dress, just in case I spotted rafters coming down the river. I had about a half mile view, so my plan was infallible. To appease my grandma, I took dog with me and he lay calmly by the shore sleeping. She had declared that Dog was my protector and I was never to go to the river alone. My grandpa agreed, but just to appease her, knowing that Dog would be useless if anything happened. I had visited the river for years with just Old Shep and nothing ever happened. Since Shep's death, I had visited the river many times alone but my grandma worried my grandpa unmercifully about such, so when Dog arrived, it was a sign from God. I was just getting cooled down in the pool, when a cottontail jumped up and scared Dog. Dog grabbed my rolled clothes and beat cheeks back to the ranch house. Knowing the dilemma I was facing, I walked down river to old Tony's fishing shack knowing he kept bibbed overall waders in there for fly fishing. I was walking up to Tony's Trading Post, when I saw him on horseback heading my way. He still had his deceased wife's jeans and a tee that fit close enough, so once dressed more suitable, he took me over to my grandparents on horse back. He said my grandma had called him, knowing he would understand since he was full blood Indian. He agreed with my grandpa that Dog wasn't a sign from God, but a worthless mutt, but his lips were sealed like the wooden Chief out in front of his Trading Post, where tourist parted with cash for crafts that helped artist on the Rez. When we arrived, my grandpa appeared to be organizing a search party comprised of family and neighbors. He knew that I would go to Tony's fishing shack, but had to appear to be organizing a rescue party for my grandma's sake. My grandpa told me and all gathered there to go with my grandmas story what ever it might be. She never asked me what happened since she assumed when I arrived with Tony, that Dog had saved my life by alerting her to call Tony. My grandma had a stroke shortly after that and my grandpa gave Dog to Tony where he had a cushioned bed next to the wooden Chief. The two looked great together and made for great story telling by Tony, for tourist seeking stories about the River of the Lost Souls.
The Dog 2 Late 1970s Back in the 1970s, while waiting for a range fence job to be approved up the mountain from my place, I took a job painting a house for an old couple in town. Anyway, as I am painting away happy as can be, and I see a car pull up, a very short guy (about the size of Danny Devito) in a suit gets out with a briefcase, opens the gate to the neighbor's yard, walks in and halfway down the walk is suddenly rushed by a yapping Dachshund. He starts backing up and the dog rushes him, leaps up, and bites him in the crotch, and the dog's teeth get hung up on the guy's pants fly. The guy starts yelling and beating the dog with his briefcase, finally knocking the little yapper off. The dog staggers around and finally takes off yapping at a very high pitch. A very heavy unkempt lady comes out and starts cussing at the guy who quickly retreats to his car and takes off. The police arrive and question me as to what I saw. I tell them my story and give them my contact info, then I go back to painting. A few days later I am served with a summons to appear in small claims court. The lady was suing the salesman for the vet bill (checking the dog over) (the dog was found to be uninjured) and the salesman was countersuing for damage to his pants. The judge back then, Old Earl, had no sense of humor and didn't care much for young, unmarried, independent, working ranch women. After I told the court what I saw, referring to the dog as a small dog, the judge said to me in a gruff sarcastic tone, " Well if it isn't too much trouble or inconvenience for you young lady, tell us what breed of dog you saw attack the salesman?" "Well I am no expert on dog breeds," I said sweetly, "but I am guessing it was a Weiner dog." BAM BAM BAM went the gavel and I was scolded and threatened by old Earl to never disrespect his court like that ever again.
Goat Early 1960s Growing up in Southwest Colorado on a high-altitude mountain ranch as an only child, with the nearest neighbors having three boys, was the making for storybook tales. They were basically horse breeders and trainers and rented pasture to another neighbor that was a registered Angus breeder. I learned from an early age that the best way to beat these three "wranglers" was to get them fighting among themselves. I have told stories before about how I did this on one occasion, with the help of their mother, to see them incriminate themselves in a living room mock court trial. That story was about who left the gate open which led to an unnecessary and unscheduled roundup. One thing the three brothers stood firm and united was the great Angus VS Hereford debate. Having mostly registered Hereford's horned cows and polled bulls, I stood firm that Angus were meaner than Herefords. I took a stance that the reason God didn't give Angus horns was they were so mean they didn't need them. I had no proof since I couldn't produce a Bible scripture that supported my belief. Push came to shove so the Angus VS Hereford rodeo was scheduled. In the corral, the oldest boy would be blindfolded with two blindfolds one by a brother and another by me so no cheating would transpire. Two very young bull caves would be on hand, one a Hereford and the other an Angus, both pure blood, so not to jinx this grand scientific experiment. Being horse folks with lots of pasture for the horses to roam, the mother had purchased a young buck goat with horns in hopes he would keep the horses calm and charge any dogs or predators that might cause the horses to stampede and go through barbed wire fences. Unbeknownst to anyone but me until old Bill was two years old, these three young "cowboy wranglers" would drag poor Bill over to the electric wire fence that surrounded their mother's small sheep pasture, and holding him by the horns, hold his nose to the wire and shock him unmercifully. Being an electronics buff, from a young age, because my father was, I had won the bet that they could do this because his horns were insulators. These young Archimedes misused my knowledge for evil purposes. I wasn't a tattle tale as such was not acceptable ranch child behavior. When their mother found out, she ordered her husband to dehorn Bill. It was an ugly process that the boys had to watch as punishment. It didn't bother me a bit to watch but I did feel bad for Bill. His head healed up nicely and after that, he became mean and would charge anyone he could, which led to his being sentenced to his own small pasture and corral all surrounded by electric wire. I was the only one that could handle Bill. The big day had arrived and as the oldest bent over blindfolded, his mother announced we were releasing the Angus so be ready. He laughed and was whacking his cheeks and saying, "Here bully bully bully." Then, I released old Bill and he charged with head down and caught his nemesis right under the cheeks and sent him forward all sprawled out and landing right into the mud puddle that was purposely made for effect. While the great Angus VS Hereford anger issue debate was never resolved, justice was served. After that old Bill was put out with the horses, where he lived peacefully until he died.
JD and Me 1967 I wasn't really horse crazy like most ranch girls, but I did love old JD. He was 20 I was 17 when I left home. I had known him all my life. The neighbor that owned him said his name was Jack Daniels and was named that because he had a hard birth and the old vet that was called was drinking Jack Daniels when he arrived. It was a weekend late-night call, so lucky to get a vet at all. In haste to pick a name, they named the colt Jack Daniels. JD was never broke or ridden that I remember. He was to be a stud, but he couldn't reproduce and the owners couldn't bear to sell him since his mother died at birth and he was bottle-fed and babied like a pet. He became testy when anyone attempted to train him. He was a bad influence on their others horses, always instigating trouble, they said, so he was put in his own pasture. He was content there. No one ever understood why this horse that didn't get along with other humans or horses very well, was never anything but gentle and nice to me. When I worked on the fence separating our pastures, he always followed me and wanted me to rub his muzzle and neck. Over the years when I went over to the older couple's ranch to help them with some job, he would always come thundering up to the corral to greet me. I was about 16 when I was over helping the lady owner, then a widow, do some repairs around her place. It was a very hot day and at that altitude, one can get dehydrated before one realizes it. I was out painting the old tack shop and had grown lax on drinking enough water. She had gone inside to cool off and rest. I don't remember going down but realized something was wrong when JD started whinnying as I had never heard him before. She came out and realizing I was suffering from heat exhaustion, drug me under a shade tree. After applying wet towels and giving me cool water to sip, I was able to go inside and rest until I could return home. I credit JD for saving me from a possible heat stroke. That following Christmas, I took him several bales of fine Timothy grass hay. I left the ranch at 17 and got word a few years later that JD died. I was running the rolls on a highway project. I stopped for lunch and the foreman came over, visually shaken, to say he had received a radio message from the office that my mother had called and there was a death in my family, JD died at 25 and I could go home with paid time. When I could dry my eyes and talk, I said, "No, I don't need time, JD was a neighbor's quarter horse and we had a special friendship." The foreman breathed out heavily and I could see his relief. I called my mother later that evening and all she had told the office clerk, due to party line problems was, "Let Faye know JD died and he just turned 25."
The Bear 1978 During my mountain living years, in between a bridge-building job and helping push cattle off summer allotments to fall allotments, I embarked on a week survival journey about a mile above my cabin. This would be my first trip fully donned in apparel like an Indian woman. I had finished my buckskin dress the winter before using hides I had collected and tanned myself. I was really proud of that dress that hung just below the knees. To go with it, I had fashioned knee-high elk hide moccasins and an elk hide flat-brimmed hat. For this mountain journey, I carried only my homemade muzzleloader with a well-supplied possibles bag and a full powder horn. Also my homemade 15" Bowie knife, a home-fashioned throwing knife, and my homemade tomahawk. A homemade canteen fashioned from tin-plated steel finished off my survival supplies. Instead of lead-soldered seams, it tested my skills at the old art of two folds and tapping the seam flat. It didn't leak a drop, nary a one. It did rust out, but it was intended to be a one-trick pony. Arriving at the open meadow that was on the crest of the hill, the hill below the summit, I stopped. I had been there many times and it was ideal for camping since it would be open all around if I camped in the center. Since it was the crest, anyone or any animal would have to do some climbing to arrive at the meadow. There was a stand of small lodgepoles near that would work well for building my shelter. On the first day, I fashioned a lean-to and made a bed of lichen, the lichen that was hanging from the trees. Little did I know that collecting that lichen would furnish more than just a comfortable night's sleep. After building a fire, filling my canteen at a close by spring, and filling my hat full of blueberries, I sat down and enjoyed the blueberries while the grouse that had met its end from a 54-caliber round ball carving a tunnel through its back end, roasted on a mountain mahogany spit I had fashioned just for this occasion. As dark set in I tested my bed and was soon asleep. The beauty of a buckskin dress is its dual purpose as day and nightwear, with no changing required. I was awakened shortly before dawn by the music of the five pack of small gray timber wolves. They were once at nine, but the previous winter had taken a toll on them. I could tell by their song that they were close and had dined well that night. I did my best to reply with my monotone howl, as I had done in all the years I had lived there. They never bothered livestock and fed mostly on the abundant small game. I had established a good working relationship with them. They were native to the area and we both had a mutual disliking of coyotes. If they fed on small game, then I would see that the coyotes died from lead poisoning. It was a win-win for both parties. Suddenly I realized that my normal monthly female curse was much too heavy and a week too early. Remembering my studies about how Indian women dealt with this situation, I was happy that I had chosen to go with the traditional Indian leather thong rather than the pioneer wool underwear. That thong was designed for holding tree lichen. As I readied to make my descent over toward the hermits, I heard a crashing through the trees and smelled the most awful smell ever. Was it now at this inconvenient moment that I encounter the legendary bigfoot said to inhabit that area? I was relieved to see it was a huge old gray-faced boar that was probably blind and coming toward the smell of blood. That explained why my waving my arms was to no avail. I didn't want to shoot him or even waste a shot and reload for later hastily planned events. I yelled like a crazy woman, breaking into a chant, using words from the Navajo language I had learned listening to Navajo Hour growing up in Southwestern Colorado. I was relieved when the old boar made an about-face and loped off through the trees with less care than he exited. With time being of the essence, I moved as fast as I could taking a downhill shortcut toward the hermits. I knew the path well and my focus was to stay calm. Howbeit not as calm as necessary for a rattlesnake bite, but calmer than running from a charging bull. I arrived at the slope heading down to the hermits. It was an old line logging skid trail and a 250-yard shot to place a round ball through his metal woodstove pipe that was about four joints high from his roof peak and guyed with electric fence wire. He had told me stories about how he and a buddy used to shoot holes in each other's steel chimneys to announce their arrival. Sneaking up on someone so isolated was never a good idea. My mother had worried about me having an old rather rough-looking hermit as my closest neighbor. I assured her that he had told me that in WW 2 he had lost his manhood when a German sniper aimed too low and since then always seated himself when using the outhouse. Once when my mother visited and I was away at work, she walked over to meet him and make her own appraisal of his character. That evening she told me that he told her the true story of how he lost his manhood. It was after he had bought a new pistol and was at his buddies that he suffered a weakness in his arm, his arm dropped from the firing position, and his finger squeezed the trigger as the gun lowered with his hand bent in. Her assessment was that he was eccentric and had embellished his story for me, but a great neighbor if push came to shove. He did have a slightly bent hand that could have been from a stroke. I had one shot and not a lot of energy to reload. I had made 250-yard shots on the mountain buck skinners range but the targets were two-foot steel clangers. With careful aim lower on the chimney since I realized a low shot would still hit the chimney and the vertical alignment had to be within 8 inches, the diameter of the pipe. I fired and then counted, one and, two and, then heard the thud with a slight ring. I was glad I had it loaded with 120 grains of Pyrodex as I knew the trajectory well with that load and 100% cotton blue and white striped overalls denim spit patch. Well-worn overalls were never discarded. Those old holey overalls had a higher purpose after their barn debut was over. I nailed it dead center. He came running out carrying his 30-06. I yelled and waved and then pulled up my legs with the buckskin dress working as a sled and downhill I went, with dust flying behind me. He saw a big blood stain on my dress as I arrived at the bottom. He loaded me in the back of his old pickup so I could keep my legs up and slow the bleeding. It was a rough ride down that dusty Forest Service road to the nearest ranch. He flew down their drive taking out a few slow old hens, honking all the way. The lady came out running and assessed my situation. She had medical training, so with the help of her husband and the hermit, loaded me in the back of her Jeep Waggoneer taking time to put a vinyl-covered foam pad under me. She called the paramedics and her husband drove while she attended to me. We met the ambulance on the highway, the switch was made, and after an ER visit and night in the hospital, I was stable enough to stay with a friend until I could get to the gynecologist for a rather unpleasant procedure. I burned that buckskin dress and thanked it and God for saving my life. I took the old hermit a freshly baked loaf of cast iron Dutch oven-made bread using my homegrown, harvested and stone ground coveted triticale flour and sourdough starter that the high elevation Idaho Basque had gifted me years earlier. I offered to replace the stovepipe, now with smoke coming out of half-inch holes on either side, two joints down, but he said no, it was drafting better than ever.
Ebenezer and the 49 Ford 1966 Unbeknownst to me, my grandpa's old mule, Eb was spending a few days at our ranch. Eb wasn't a real donkey mule, he was a hinny since his pappy was a horse. He wasn't kept in the corral since his resume included wood sculpturing with a specialty in split rails. He was kept in the five acres known as our yard that was fenced with steel posts, five strands of barbed wire, twisted wire staid mutton tight, although no sheep were to be found within miles. I was the black sheep of the family and there was no ba ba about it, but that is a story for another time. Whilst I was only sixteen and should have been crazy about horses and boys, I suppose one factor that kept me from falling off the cliff to such a storybook romance valley, was the three neighbor boys, not cowboys, but wranglers. Horse raisers with delusional ideas that they were horse breakers. I was raised with wisdom from my grandpa that was a horse and mule raiser and had used mules for plowing fields, harvesting hay, and horses for real old west cattle drives. His wisdom gained from experience taught me that men do not break horses, the horses break them. He laughed about horse whispering and said believing in such was not even good horse sense, but that is a story for another time. Spontaneous might describe my decision to buy a 1949 Ford pickup. I had seen one for sale out at the end of a long drive leading up to a ranch. I was on a mission that day delivering hay and had no time to take the long drive up to the main house. I noticed the grill on it was a bit smashed and would certainly need replacing before one such as myself could be seen in the parade before the rodeo, with the window down, parade waving and throwing candy to the kids and ignoring dirty looks from their parents that were burdened and heavily ladened with dental bills. Old doctor Harry would smile and wave while his wife, his dental assistant, blew kisses. Here again, a story better saved for another time. Sluggish might describe how I felt the next hot summer evening when I made the decision to go back and buy that old pickup. My mother had told me to go back early in the morning and buy it because the early bird always gets the worm. It wasn't a worm so I felt no urgency. As I entered the drive heading up to the ranch, I saw the old 49 racing downhill toward me. I pulled off to the side as it sped by with a young man about my age at the wheel wearing a beat-up old cowboy hat. He smiled and waved. I could tell he wasn't a real cowboy, just a rodeo type, probably a team roper, and still living with his mama downtown, but that is a story for another time. Disappointment overshadowed my enthusiasm as the kindly old ranch lady confirmed it was sold to Mr. Goat Roper and he was going to make a hot rod out of it. Her husband hobbled out to let me know it was in excellent mechanical condition and all original. He wished I had come sooner, but if wishes were horses he would be riding his old quarter horse as the Grand Marshall in the upcoming parade and I would be driving the old Ford and promoting decay and contributing to organized dental crime. I will now shut the barn door and save this stampede of words story for another time. Several days later whilst I wallowed in unnecessary pity over my recent loss due to my own lack of quick response, my eyes caught sight of an ad for a 1949 Ford pickup for sale. The ad said to bring your own can of gas and a good six-volt battery. It had a perfect grill which was ideal since I had no time left for doing bodywork. With no time to waste, I unhooked the six-volt from the old John Deere MT and I grabbed a five-gallon can of gas ready to go to the field with the old MT. One of my older cousins had just come to quilt with my mother and seeing I was a desperate woman on a time-sensitive mission, handed me the keys to her new Chevy Camero. She regretted calling shotgun as gravel flew and I cowtailed like an Angus with butt horseflies. Well, I guess that is a story for another time also. Amidst all this panic with time being of the essence, I saw flashing lights behind me. I pulled over and despite me pulling back my open shirt so he could see my skimpy bikini-clad cleavage or more like lack thereof, the handsome young officer wrote me my first ticket, no wait a minute it was my second, but that is a story for another time. I arrived at the ranch offering my dream 49 for sale. It was still for sale and the body was perfect. Sure the paint was faded but no dents and the grill was perfect. The grill is what announced the glory of these old iron ponies. I had cash and with no hesitation, I shelled out the cash, all four one hundred dollar bills like I would the candy at the parade. With the MT's six-volt installed and an empty can of tractor gas, I headed down the road with my cousin following in her Camaro, still a bit confused over this entire event. It was apparent to her that while she was a real deal ranch woman, her mentoring over the years to try and girl me up, had failed, but that is a story for another time. Arriving back at the ranch after buying a new six-volt, filling the tank with gas, and buying new jeans and a top for the parade, the only parking spot left was on top of the hill that went down to the field where the old MT was parked with the drawbar raised and some short extension for the PTO my daddy was fabricating, protruding as to mock me for disabling it by stealing its gitty up and go. Now this story I will spill like spoiled milk for thirsty barn cats. It was late so I took no care in trying to get the old transmission in a gear. I learned to double-clutch quickly and in a hurry on my way home. With the emergency brake pulled and my beauty parked on the flat, howbeit the top of a hill, I went inside and slept like a goat milk-fed baby with a fresh cotton diaper. The next morning I woke early and got all gussied up since it was parade day. My bowl of Quaker oatmeal went down as never before. I said a quick prayer thanking the good Lord for not allowing one of my grandmas to come and visit since she always dumped prunes and their juice in my oatmeal. I never understood why her constipation had to become my problem, but that is a story for another time. Sashaying out to where my new love was parked, my parade date, my ace on the table that would mock the wrangler boys, and their idea that girls should not drive old pickup trucks, had me standing in shock. Some thief had stolen my pickup, probably the wrangler boys conspiring to make me all girly. I ran inside announcing in an outdoor rodeo voice that would be suitable for Swiss yodeling, that my baby had been stolen. Looking out the dining room window I saw old Eb moseying around. He seemed to have a smirk on his face, a look of guilt, so I went outside to confront him. He had moseyed over to the crest of the hill and stood looking below where the MT was parked. I ran over there and looked down to see my new baby had gone downhill and its front had smashed into the old MT's rear. That perfect grill was smashed. Suddenly I was in my Nancy Drew mode and it was obvious that Eb had pushed my pickup from the rear. His hair with some other mule smudging was all over the tailgate. I fired up the International and towed the 49 back up and checked it out. The radiator was still good, all the damage was just cosmetic with one exception. The emergency brake cable had broken giving way to all the shoving by old Eb. I will never know whether Eb did it intentionally or not, but being my grandpa's special mule and having a biblical name, I had to let it ride. With wood blocks for safe parking and my diva girly girl wrangler/cowgirl ranch cousins boys in the back throwing candy, I crept along in the parade like I was driving the best of the show, a blue ribbon winner. With the boys in the back, my hand was freed to give a continuous parade wave. It wasn't my fault that her boys, spoiled little mutton busters, ate one piece of candy for every piece they threw, but somehow that was added to my black sheep list, and that is another story for another time.
Standoff at the not so OK Corral 1970 I remember summer 1970 when old Tony decided to sell off all his cattle and just keep his 22-year-old horse. Tony had a small hogan that he lived in and his Trading Post was in another hogan by the two-lane highway. He made what little money he needed selling snacks, cold drinks, and ice cream to the tourist. The nearest towns were 30 miles in either direction. One set of my grandparents owned the neighboring ranch. Near his Hogan, he had an old pole corral with a ten-foot pole gate. No fencing to funnel the cattle into the corral, just open the gate and the cows always came in to eat hay. Never a problem in the fall pushing the cattle to these winter grounds where hay awaited. Tony made the decision to sell off all his cattle and donate his rangeland to the Ute tribe since he was Ute and the Rez bordered his land. Tony was unable to ride so he insisted I ride his horse as it knew the drill. A couple of older ladies from the Rez came to help with their aged horses. They both wore leather split skirts and were so kind and entertaining. They never seemed to get hot or thirsty. It was mid-summer. It never occurred to me that this wouldn't be a quick and easy operation. Pushing the cattle down to the lower pasture wasn't the problem. The problem started as the cattle approached the open corral gate. They turned and faced us. Tony and my grandparents stood by the gate chatting like they hadn't visited for ten years. They visited every day year-round. The two Ute ladies hearing of my recent tragedy were very supportive and had inspiring stories that helped pass the time. I was staying with my grandparents for a month that summer since they needed help remodeling their house. Being around older folks was a good exercise in patience for me. After over thirty minutes of facing off with the cows, finally, one old girl goes in to try some hay and get a drink of water from the trough. Over the next thirty minutes, all the others meandered in at their own pace. Still talking like long-lost friends with my grandparents, Tony shuts the gate. None too soon for me suffering a dry canteen and a painful bladder. I now understand why Tony insisted I ride his horse. Any other horse would have become antsy like its young rider. It was the old mares' last trip working cattle. She died that fall and Tony died shortly after.
The Tepee 1979 In the late 1970s, I was at a ranch gathering with friends. One of our group was a full-blood American Indian and a mentor in keeping the old traditions alive. He had a tepee set up above his house where he practiced his drumming for exhibitions. His wife had banned him from practicing in the house for obvious reasons. Well, the "Cheif" as everyone called him, hadn't been at the last two gatherings. Since I had been working on a ranch rounding up cattle above his place, I was asked if I knew where the Cheif was. Without thought, I said, "The last time I saw the Cheif he was in his tepee beating on his tom tom." Everyone exploded into laughter and it took me a minute to realize that what I said could be interpreted other than what I meant.
The Dude Ranch 1983 After I finished my employment on the new old highway bridge, A friend told me a dude ranch, a "gender" blind equal opportunity employer, was looking for a ranch knowledgably person to be a director of activities. I was unaware that our area had a dude ranch, but the idea intrigued me since I worked one summer in Montana for a dude ranch as a wilderness survival guide. After a long trip up a dusty mountain road, I arrived at the ranch. I pulled around to the parking area on the side and what I saw left me numb. There was a huge hot tub filled with nude guys. Some were kissing. I gathered my wits as one guy got out of the tub making no attempt to cover. He was wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and no doubt the head wrangler or should I say dangler. I dang near stripped the gears out of my old International 4WD backing up and then flooring it fishtailing and throwing gravel. I almost didn't make the narrow exit bridge crossing the creek.
Hidden Valley Sagebrush Mid 1980s I was coming back from being up 24 hours helping with calving way south of nowhere. I decided to take a shortcut through Hidden Valley over to the old highway. I had to drive as my friend was overtired and fell asleep before I was in the driver's seat. Her pickup was fairly new, comfortable, and automatic, unlike my old International 4WD to which I was accustomed. Coming through Hidden Valley, as daylight was breaking, I was awakened by her screaming, and the sound of giant sage brush beating the extended side mirrors something fierce. All we could see was giant sagebrush all around us. I reversed it and was able to follow the path of disturbed sagebrush until we hit the dirt road. I was about a quarter-mile off the road. I had failed to navigate a curve in the road. We sat there awhile drinking the last of the cold coffee from the thermos. That cold coffee kept us alert as we made it over Miners Ridge and down to the old highway that carried us into a small town that could be missed if one blinked. Their only cafe had a great breakfast. Nothing like hot black coffee, homemade biscuits, heavily peppered gravy, eggs sunny side up, and a few strips of pig fat to get the day going.
Last weekend I had a worker at South Point Hotel/Casino, in the Garden Buffet area, start asking me questions about the NFR. There was an older lady sitting at the table eating with him. The last question he asked me was about gay rodeo. I told him, "I know about it, but don't talk about it" and he said "why not, it's good, isn't it?". The older lady sitting next to him was shaking her head like "why are you asking him about gay rodeo?". I looked at him and said "I'm going to get some food now" and left. Guess he got the hint not to talk to me anymore and left my wife and I alone.
The Moon Before it slips my aging mind, I wonder if all of you know that the term "to moon," referring to dropping your drawers and showing your bare bottom as an insult, came from the old ritual of cutting out a moon shape in an outhouse door. To moon meant to set your bottom on the comforts of that carefully sculptured hole leading to an underground chamber that would be dressed with a sprinkling of lime after your business was concluded. Sometime in the late 1970s my friend a horse nut, announced a girl road trip up a big horse sale. She needed another horse like she needed a hole in her head. Her overgrazed pastures were to my advantage because, in trade for a highly trained cow horse on a lease spring to fall, I provided 10 acres of luscious grass pasture. I wasn't much into trail riding and all that recreational horse stuff, but riding the allotments checking on cattle for area ranchers was a fun way to pick up some extra cash and keep my coveted status as a cattle woman. Just having a horse alone was seen as being a "cowgirl" even though no cows might be found for 100 miles. That always frosted my patoot. A frosted patoot is another saying I developed from my winter outhouse using days. I don't think I need to explain. Anyway, on that trip, traffic was moving slow and since I was riding "shotgun," I and the back cab (Ford 250 dual cab) shotgun rider were dared to moon the shirtless well-tanned hunks working along the freeway. They were waving at us so after we whistled at them and on a dare, we shotgunners mooned them. Sure glad I got that off my bucket list when I was young because now such a baring of my bottom, public or private, to a male would have me in jail for manslaughter. Indecent exposure is a lesser charge than manslaughter. The beauty of being in our late 20s, is none of the guys filed charges against us. Ok, let's depart from that irrelevant rambling to address the origin of riding shotgun. In short, it referred to the rider carrying a shotgun alongside the teamster driving a stagecoach. Wait a minute. Why are undies referred to as drawers? That one puzzled me as a child, but my granny cleared the air stating the obvious. Outer clothes are hung but underwear is put in drawers. Long Johns is another puzzler but easily understood when you think of using "the john" on a cold day which was originally an outdoor facility void of any "fancy pants" modernization. Long johns were worn to bed so a mid-night visit to the "john" was a bit more bearable. Now fancy pants come from the idea that one wears dress pants rather than work pants. Sunday dress is excluded from this saying of judgment. A salesman in a suit trying to sell aluminum siding to a remote rustic ranch boasting a log cabin would be met with, " Hand me my shotgun papa, some "fancy pants" vermin is headed our way to try and swindle us out of our last buffalo (referring to a nickel). You all see how the outhouse, the privy, the john, the loo, the potty, the facilities, etc., opens doors to an entire variety of topics. Even Sears and Rearback and Monkey Wards can be mentioned in the same breath. "I gotta see a man about a horse," comes from the days when that was a phrase used for a guy to escape off to the horse race and hang out with his buddies, where nothing good ever happened, so the wives assigned a facetious meaning to it indicating a visit to the bodily relief facilities was in order, to express their disgust with their spouses attempts to hide the truth. I was discussing the outhouse of old with a group of young ranch ladies that claimed outhouse experience because they had used port-a-johns or potties at the rodeo. I was incensed that that had the audacity to compare that plastic highly chemicalized oasis of refuge to the organic wooden outhouse of old. Does that plastic container of toxicity have a moon cut in the door? No, it does not, so there!