A Happy Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Before I begin another round of cooking and baking, I'm enjoying a few moments sitting at the dining room window looking out at miles of critter trails traversing the south pastures. The snow bunnies, fox, coyotes, and antelope paw through the foot of snow that blankets their grazing and hunting grounds leaving visual evidence of a hard night's work. Across Hasting's pasture, a snow bunny lies dead on the side of the road apparently struck by a passing vehicle. Overhead atop the utility pole sits a hungry and impatient bald eagle. Once the truck passes, the majestic bird swoops down sending the hawks, and assorted smaller birds scattering to wait their turn at the frozen meal. Food is hard to come by when the temperatures dip below zero for days on end. Most of the prey animals retreat to underground shelters hoping for a southwest wind called a Chinook that breathes warmth and restores life to the now stark and barren prairie. There will be no Chinook winds today, I'm afraid. We will remain frozen solid at least until the weekend.

Winter has come early opening the Arctic gate allowing a rush of snow and below zero temperatures to descend completely across Montana as well as most of the western states. Road closures south of here will keep families apart this holiday weekend. My nephew, Denzel, made it home yesterday from college in Missoula, taking advantage of a break in the blowing and drifting snow. His trip took him across the Continental Divide on dangerous hairpin turns winding up the Rockies on the west side, then down on the east side, through the foothills, and finally pulling into our driveway on the prairie. He drove almost 200 miles without a hitch until he pulled up to our house where he bottomed out 50 feet from the back door. He and his college buddy hopped out of the car deciding to leave it stuck in the two-foot drift, announcing joyously that they would walk the rest of the way. On the phone yesterday morning, as I cautioned him before leaving on his journey, he steadfastly maintained that he didn't need my words of wisdom because he had "faith" that he would "make it" without incident. I'm not sure if what he projects is an effect of youthful ignorance or something greater. Whatever it is, it serves him well. And so it is a Happy Thanksgiving.

First Peoples Buffalo Jump

The gift of our First Peoples Summer, while much enjoyed, sadly came to a close. It's cold today, the sun hides behind layers of dark grey clouds. From my perch, I see a bank of low darker clouds a few miles south showering the Missouri River. No rain here, though, only a cold biting wind keeping everyone except the horses inside.

I let the horses out to graze on the north pasture adding an extra dimension to my kitchen window view. Each time I glance out I see five very contented animals, heads down, backs to the wind, moving slowly gathering the last green bites. Beyond the horses, our north gate opens onto 1,481 acres of sacred land once used as a kill site by nomadic hunters and gatherers for well over two thousand years before the Lewis and Clark Expedition.

Now called, First Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park, this area punctuated by a mile-long sandstone cliff once formed a pivotal arc on the Plain's circle of life. The sacred buffalo provided almost everything needed for survival, but also presented a challenge to a people without horses and who hunted with bows and arrows. Eventually they learned how to successfully capture the enormous animal by stampeding the herds over the edge of the cliff. Long before horses arrived on the continent, scouts were sent out on foot to locate a herd. Then, over a period of time, sometimes weeks, the People would slowly "push" the herd closer toward the plateau that would mark the beginning of the drive. Before the hunt began, they created a drive lane consisting of two rock lines, five to ten yards apart and from 100 yards to a mile in length. Only a foot or so in height, these lines established the boundaries of the path the buffalo would follow to the precipice. The buffalo were stampeded across the Plains toward the plateaus and into these drive lanes by hunters who ran behind them shouting and waving hides. They were often accompanied by their dogs barking and chasing the frightened animals. As the panicked buffalo closed in together, the momentum of the herd would push those in front over the edge of the sandstone cliff. Many animals died in the fall, and those that survived were quickly killed by hunters who had been staged at the base of the cliff.

Carcasses were butchered and feasts were held. Most of the flesh was dried and stored as jerky for the winter months. To the nomadic Plains People buffalo meant survival. Besides meat, the buffalo provided hides for clothing and lodge coverings, bones for implements and utensils, and sinew for bowstrings and for sewing. Wolves, coyotes, eagles and other wildlife cleaned up what was not taken by the People.

It is estimate that for thousands of years as many as 13 million buffalo once lived in what is now Montana, found everywhere east of the Continental Divide. When the white fur traders and buffalo hunters arrived in the late nineteenth century their numbers were much less but still impressive at well over 60,000. Within a few short years, the hunters with their horses and guns nearly brought the buffalo to extinction; and with it the Plains People's way of life changed forever.

Today, First Peoples Buffalo Jump is one of the largest jumps ever found. Now a state park, it is administered by the Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks. A visitor center and interpretive trails tell the story of this prehistoric site. The top of the jump offers panoramic views of the Rocky Mountain Front, the Missouri River valley, as well as the buttes and grasslands that characterize this High Plains setting we call home.



I often wonder as I peer out the kitchen window if I share a space separated by time with the wives and children who watched and waited from their tipi's as the great hunt and harvest unfolded a short distance away. While the activity on the Jump has changed, the view remains the same. I can only imagine the awe inspiring sight and sound of hundreds of buffalo toppling over the cliff now framed by my kitchen window.

Recently, archaeologists from Montana State University researched and excavated the site and determined that it is indeed the largest jump in the world. They also found buffalo remains at depths of 13 feet dating back to at least 500 AD.

The buffalo formed one of the practical and spiritual foundations of life for the First People; a tradition that continues today. The meat, hides, horns, and bones of these great animals sustained the hunters and their families for thousands of years. To the People, buffalo were, and are still, part of the voice of the land. And so it is.

First People's Summer

Winter made a brief appearance last month dropping a cold wet blanket of snow over the prairie. Thankfully, it retreated leaving us with warm sunny days and clear cool nights. In my childhood we referred to this gift as an Indian Summer. I have no idea why we referred to an extended summer as Indian, but I do know that the people we once called, Indian, and more recently, Native American, have experienced a paradigm shift in consciousness shucking the white man's labels and asserting their own identity as The First People.

Living on the plains of North America has given me an opportunity to realize and understand more fully the people who once thrived on this land.

Even though our history books paint a very different picture, we are all painfully aware of the white man's behavior toward the people they discovered in North America, of how they were demonized so as to justify ethnic cleansing. Their culture, beliefs, values, language, and their revered means of survival--the bison, were all slaughtered. Those who resisted were killed, those who submitted were stripped of their identity and forced to live on dead land receiving handouts and Bibles from the white man's government.

The more I learn about our shared and collective history, the more disgusted and ashamed I become of those who define my ancestry. A horrific wrong has been committed out of ignorance and arrogance. Although history cannot be changed, it can stand as a beacon lighting the way toward greater understanding, compassion, and recognition of ourselves as one people of one consciousness. For now, I stand humbled by the First People of the Plains who endured atrocities too numerous and horrifying to comprehend. I am encouraged to know that the tribes and nations have begun reclaiming their identity, their language, their beliefs, and their rightful place as The First People. There are whispers of change in the wind growing louder with each passing day. I look forward with the assurance that all is well as I enjoy the gift of our First People's Summer. And so it is.

While Pat's Away

Even though Pat's only been gone six hours, I've hardly had a moment to myself. We still have horses and dogs and cats that need looking after. Three horses went with Pat and two stayed behind. For all intents and purposes, they, Shadow and Clancy, are now retired! After many years and miles, they have earned their place, "out to pasture". When referring to horses, out to pasture is a coveted honor. It's liken to spending the rest of your life on a cruise ship with access to a 24-hour-a-day buffet, lazing in the sun, staring at the endless night sky, and having someone clean up after you--an all-inclusive life! Not too shabby.

The 24-hour-a-day buffet and cleaning up after is where I come in. The same carries true for the dogs and cats. Cali, our springer spaniel, has Pat trained for a 5 am breakfast call. Since it's been Pat that she awakens, I've not minded the unusual habit--that is until Pat's away and Cali licks my face at the ungodly hour. This morning was not a problem since everyone was up at 3. But tomorrow Cali and I will undoubtedly have a come to Jesus moment when she realizes that the world doesn't revolve around her.

The kittens and Puff also need attention several times a day, and since the dogs and cats don't get along it has become a challenge keeping everyone happy and apart. Cali, I believe, would kill the kittens if given the chance, so we are especially vigilant.

Speaking of Puff, last Saturday night when rounding up the felines, Puff decided that she wanted to spend the night outside, which is highly unusual and not recommended. Come to find out, she had gone into heat. Female cats, when in heat, we recently learned, prowl for a suitable mate, usually at night. We had her scheduled for surgery a couple of months ago, but at the time I felt it best not to have her laid up for a week or more with very active and dependent kittens. I cancelled the surgery expecting to reschedule anytime now, except that in the meantime she became fertile again.

After getting the kittens tucked into the barn and calling Puff for several minutes, I decided to let her be. Shortly before turning in for the night, I returned to the barn and called again hoping she had changed her mind. She didn't.

The next morning upon opening the barn and placing bowls of food down for the hungry kittens, Puff showed--hungry, thirsty, and wounded. It wasn't until she finished eating that I noticed a gaping hole in her upper thigh. Not wanting to approach a wounded animal, I called Pat to bring me a pair of gloves and backup assistance. We couldn't tell if she had cut herself on something or had been bitten by another animal. All we could see for sure was that she had a very serious wound that needed attention.

Fortunately, Puff entered her carrier without a fuss. Pat called ahead so the vet was ready when they arrived. After giving her anesthesia, the vet determined that she had indeed cut herself on something--a nail, or barbed wire perhaps. Stitches were required to close the wound that Pat said was deep, almost to the bone. The vet suggested that we have Puff spayed while she was under anesthesia, which we agreed was a good idea. So, now Puff is home resting quietly in the garage away from the pesky kittens. She requires monitoring for infection and doses of antibiotics.

In the meantime, last night Luna's left eye swelled, again, for about the sixth time in a year. We believe she's allergic to something but have no idea what. Immediately we gave her Benadryl, which brought down the swelling and thwarted the itching that, in the past, has driven her nearly crazy. Having a little knowledge and a few skills sure makes life less stressful, but the learning curve has really been hell with the animals and their health and safety issues.

With Pat away for a few days, I'm hoping the animals cooperate so that I can enjoy a little down time, myself. The backcountry widows, of which I am one, are planning to attend a women's expo happening this weekend in Great Falls. The event fills the Expo Park at the fairgrounds with hundreds of booths and presentations aimed at products and services for women. It is now in its seventh year and has become a tradition of sorts for us gals and our pals. My little group meets at noon on Friday, attends a couple of presentations and workshops, then meets at a restaurant for dinner. On Saturday, we meet up again for lunch, then return to the expo and stroll the booths receiving tons of gifts along with a chair massage, aromatherapy, a foot bath, wine tasting (my favorite booth), and an analysis of the skin damage we have on our faces from years of enjoying the sun, to which I say, "who cares"? I think this year I'll skip past the skin care booth choosing instead to maintain my self-esteem, enjoy my sun kissed face, knowing that my sense of vitality and high spirits are a direct gift from the sun in the form of vitamin D and serotonin. Yes, I am quite sure I will skip right past that booth. I will also skip past the booths that encourage mammograms and annual paps, along with the gals who want to measure my body fat. I might, however, try a little Zumba, not for the health benefits, but rather, just for the fun of it. After all, life is supposed to be fun, not full of stress or fear or self-doubt or worry, but good ole' fashioned fun. So while Pat's away, and the horses retire to the lower pasture, the dogs hunker down for their afternoon snooze, the kittens rest with their full bellies, and Puff knits her wounds, I plan to enjoy a little time with friends, and food, and laughter, and all of the guilt-free indulgences the expo has to offer. All is well, and so it is.

Last Trip of the Season

It is now 4:30 am. Pat, Koda, Boots, and Liam rolled out about ten minutes ago heading for a 5-day adventure back into the Scapegoat Wilderness. This time, however, they will set up camp in Tobacco Valley near the Blackfeet River after a three hour drive, then another six hours on horseback. It's a hard ride, especially this time of the year when daylight ends too soon, and the push is on to make camp before dark. But once they make camp they will stay put for the duration unlike most trips where they are on the move each day putting as many as 20 miles behind them before settling in for the night.

Four men, ten horses, fly rods, a few novels, and a bottle of Scotch--the perfect gentleman's vacation and the last pack trip of the season.

And so it is.

Walter

Today is Walter Breuning's birthday. There's a party planned at The Rainbow Retirement Community where Walter lives. The mayor of Great Falls and the Governor of Montana are both expected to attend Walter's party as well as a representative from The Guinness Book of World Records. For you see, Walter is now the world's oldest man at 114 years, and the fourth oldest person alive. There are three women also born in 1896, whose birthdays are earlier in the year. The women live in France, Texas, and Georgia.

Walter's friends say he's just an ordinary guy. The women say he's always a gentleman--a gentleman who wears a pinstriped suit and tie daily no matter what the occasion or weather. His friend, Ray, says his buddy Breuning is "a nice guy, not a pain". His friend George describes him as self-assured and outspoken, and always says what he thinks.

Just to give a glimpse into Walter's character, when he was 100, he walked into a downtown Great Falls bank in the mid-1990s to take advantage of a promotion. Five-year certificates of deposit were offered at a special rate, and Walter thought he should take advantage of the opportunity. The banker politely advised Walter to consider a two-year certificate instead. He firmly declined and insisted on the better deal available with the five-year CD. He assured the banker he would be there in person to collect his money when the CD matured. Five years later, at the age of 105, and to the amazement of the banker, Walter once again entered the bank and collected his earnings.

Walter's our local celebrity. He's not rich, or talented, or especially intelligent, or an athlete or an entertainer. He's just Walter--a nice guy who's not a pain and who has lived a very long time. Happy Birthday Walter. As always, all is well.

The Faint Cry

This afternoon I took lunch to the barn for the kittens and Puff. Usually I am greeted by three hungry playful kittens jumping at the bowls as I head toward our customary meeting place. Not today, though. Only one kitten and Puff lead the way as I called for the other two. The sound of my voice always bring the little guys out of hiding. But not this time.

I became a bit anxious as I called and called with still no sign of Chip and Ernie. Each time I called, I also paused to listen for the sound that one or both was heading toward the barn. Each time I paused, however, I heard a faint cry that sounded exactly like the cry of Puff's kittens. With the cry, I became even more anxious that one or both of the kittens had become trapped or injured. I walked to the end of the barn and called again. Then listened. Again I heard the faint cry, but couldn't get a fix on the direction. I walked toward the garage where the little guys like to hang out. Again I called then listened only to hear the faint cry.

My hands were full of empty bowls I had gathered from the breakfast feeding, so I decided to stop at the house, unload the bowls, and grab a flashlight before commencing a bigger more intense search.

I ran into the house, dropped the bowls in the sink then opened the cabinet and grabbed the flashlight. Before running back outside, I stopped to regain my composure. Standing very still, realizing that one or two of the kittens might have found danger, I once again heard the faint unmistakable sound of a kitten's cry. How could that be, I thought. I'm in the house and the kittens are somewhere outside. Remaining very still, feeling a bit confused, again the faint sound of a kitten....

How can that be? It was only when I allowed my brain to quiet that I realized the faint cry of Puff's kitten was in fact the sound of my enlarged adenoid--a nose whistle!

WHAT A RELIEF! The kittens weren't crying, WHEW! I ran directly to the barn and found Puff and her three sons, heads in the bowls, quietly enjoying their salmon pate.

I turned and walked back to the house swallowing the lump in my throat and feeling like a complete idiot, but thankful for safe kittens and nose whistles. Once again, all is well.

First Snow

Yesterday, September 17th, I awoke to the sound of my teeth chattering as I tugged to free the comforter at the end of the bed tucked underneath two snoring dogs. Once my bones sufficiently warmed, I managed to poke a few parts out into the frigid room. Pat was already downstairs brewing a fresh pot of coffee, the comforting aroma making its way up the stairs and calling me out into the starkly cold day. Had I known the temperatures would drop this low overnight I might have put the heater on, but probably not. It just seems wrong this early in the season. But, this is Montana, a place that knows no rhyme or reason when it comes to weather.

Pat heard me stumbling around and hollered up that I might want to put on long johns. Instead, I pulled out my handy flannel-lined LL Bean jeans, a treasure found at a second-hand store for $7. They still had the tags attached. Second-hand, but first butt. That's a bargain.

The thermometer on the kitchen window read 34 degrees. I wondered if that meant outside or in. Checking the thermostat, I found that the inside temp was 58 degrees; I gave in and turned on the heat. But only for a short while.

I hurried to the barn worried that I would find the kittens huddled together shivering against the cold, damp morning. As I opened the door, out tumbled three fur balls, anxious for their breakfast and a chance to stretch their legs climbing up and down fences and scrambling to the top of the round bales. Before they took off exploring I picked each one up. They snuggled for a moment--purring, then struggled to free themselves as the day beckoned their attention. They were fine; Puff had done a great job keeping them close and warm throughout the night.

A few hours later I headed to town for groceries. The temperature hadn't changed, but the skies finally opened up as promised; and on September 17th, we received our first snow. All is well, and so it is.

Another Day, Another Snake

Can you see the snake in this picture? Neither can I, which can turn into a deadly misfortune for someone not paying close enough attention, or for a curious kitten, dog or horse. Nor could I see the bugger while straddling a fence less than five feet away trying to take the picture. It was only when I uploaded the picture and zoomed in a bit that I was able to see it--sort of. Hint: The dark object left of center is not the snake. The snake is actually all around the dark space.





Fortunately for Pat, he saw the creature before stepping too close. Pat was on the backside of the corral in an area that was used by the previous owner as a dumping ground for unused wood and fence posts. Cleaning it out and mowing down the high growth will become a fall project (once the snakes are well on there way for the winter). In the meantime, Pat needed to replace the fence that was removed when Shadow became trapped a few weeks ago. That was where Pat was when he encountered the beast.

Pat said that the snake apparently had been on the move when it saw Pat walking through the dense grass and weeds and stopped in the fully stretched out position. Pat only glimpsed the movement before the snake stopped, and he, too, stopped. He stayed still while looking around wondering what had caught his eye. Then his eyes sharpened enough to see the snake only two feet away looking right back at him.
Since the snake was stretched out he had no effective striking power. It is within the coils that they possess the energy to strike up to six feet depending on their length and strength. Knowing this, Pat walked around giving the snake a wide berth before hopping onto the fence and calling for me to bring the gun and shot. While he waited, he closed up the barn keeping the cats safe until the crisis passed. The horses were out to pasture and the dogs were safely inside the house. For now, all is well--all except the snake, that is.

Seasonal Change

Winter preparations are underway beginning with a huge grocery delivery. Hay is both plentiful and cheap this year, which inspired Pat to double his usual order. He'll spend most of tomorrow jockeying it around--a few will land at the feeding area while the rest will be stored behind the barn and out of sight.

Our list of things to do grows with each passing day. Over the weekend Pat and I installed much needed rain gutters on the bunkhouse even though it rarely rains, but when it does it's nice to walk out the door without becoming soaked from the waterfall coming off the roof. Next on the list--scraping and painting the bunkhouse as well as caulking all the windows and doors. I only hope winter doesn't arrive too soon or some of these chores will find their way to next year's list.

The signs of seasonal change are everywhere. The parade of bugs change up almost weekly. We are almost finished with the million or so grasshoppers that have taken over every square inch of land along with the thousands of cow birds who feed on them. And once the birds are finished feeding.... Well let's just say, thankfully the house is already white.

Stepping outside into the grass reminds me of a Hitchcock film with literally thousands of grasshoppers leaping into the air with the slightest movement landing in my hair, hopping down the back of my shirt or up my pant leg. The outside of the house, especially the screens, are loaded. There's no point to swatting at them, it only makes them more active. Driving along the gravel driveway requires nerves of steel as hundreds bounce off the windshield; and if I'm forgetful and open the window....bleh!

We can expect another few weeks before the snakes head off to den up for another long winter. The nights are cool, in the 40s, which doesn't bode well for the cold-blooded beast. Our friend, Miller, lives west of town in a hilly and rocky area. He recently told a story of riding his horse one cold winter afternoon to the top of a bluff on the north end of his place. Under the cliff, where snakes often make their dens, he stopped and watched in complete amazement as steam poured out of a rock pile. I could barely listen as he explained how hundreds of snakes pile together generating and sharing enough heat to keep themselves alive through the most horrendously cold winters. Miller had happened across evidence of one such den.

There's a badger wreaking havoc on our south pasture digging enormous holes. I'm not sure if the holes are part of his shelter of if he's digging into existing gopher holes searching for a meal. Regardless of his motives, he's creating a potential hazard for our tractor and horses. Our neighbor, Kathy, says the badger has been digging around her place, too. She's concerned for her more than 300 free-range chickens. The problem with doing away with the pest is that they are nocturnal, and who wants to stay up all night to either shoot it or bag it for relocation.

Speaking of predators, the brand inspector came around on Friday to brand two of our horses. He remarked that a rancher not far from us has killed more than 140 coyotes this summer. Apparently, the coyotes have been bringing down his young livestock and other small animals on his place. It's hard to believe that someone has killed that many animals, especially since they are mostly nocturnal as well.

Pat and I walk our dogs around 8:00 each evening; we walk until all their business is behind them. This way we all get a good nights sleep. For the past few nights we've heard "many" coyote voices yipping in several directions as we make our way down Almosta Road. One night in particular, we stopped under a mostly moonless sky looking at millions of stars while being serenaded in surround sound. The dogs stopped too and looked in each direction the sound came from. I can't help but wonder what the dogs think as they hear this primitive call--are they afraid? Curious? Is there a faint remembrance stirring in their DNA?

Change is definitely in the air--I can see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, and sense it as each day passes from summer into fall. And so it is.

A Close Encounter

He's dead and buried, it's over. It felt like I imagine a hostage situation would feel like. Not sure if someone is going to get hurt, or worse. Not sure how it will all end. Every one's keyed up full tilt, checking and double checking every step to ensure the best possible outcome. The best outcome for us, that is. But that means the perpetrator is going down because in this case he's not about to give himself up. Actually, he can't give himself up, he has no arms to raise, no flag to fly, he doesn't speak the language, and he's been trained to never back down. Too bad for him.

I think it was Monday night that I spoke with my cousin, Barb. One of the first things she asked was, "seen any snakes lately"? I said, "not lately, knock on wood". And I really did lean over and knock on the end table. Maybe I should knock on something else because the wood thing isn't working very well. And this morning Pat made an off-handed remarked that we'd escaped any real encounters this summer.

Well, we can now say we've had an encounter--a close encounter--thankfully not too close, but close enough.

And here is how the drama unfolded. I headed to town this afternoon to grocery shop and visit with a friend. Once home I brought two armfuls of groceries into the house. I made two trips back and forth to the car passing the grill that sits only five feet from the back door. The dogs eagerly greeted me and gave me the customary 30 seconds to put the cold food away before dancing around at the door for a chance to pee. In the summer when the snakes are active, I rarely let the girls out without a leash or tied to the fence. When they're tied they have only about 20 feet of rope so they are always visible from the kitchen window.

For the past several days I've been taking them out for numerous walks throughout the day and only letting them run off leash early in the morning when it's too cold for snakes.

I had them both in the attached breezeway snugging up their harnesses when I paused for a moment to glance out the storm window panning the yard and walkway. My eyes widen as I glimpsed the green scales, the size of my fingernails, the unmistakable trademark of the dreaded snake. My heart pounded, my mind raced, the dogs squirmed to get outside and pee. Oh crap, I'm not exactly trapped, there are two other doors, but I realized that I had walked within three feet or so of this creature four times and didn't know what kind of danger I was in.

I immediately pulled my phone from my pocket and called Pat while taking the girls out the side door in a hyper state of awareness, not unlike Barney Fife from The Andy Griffith Show.

Pat said he would leave work and see what he could do to get the snake out in the open so we could first determine if he was a rattler or a bull snake. As you recall, the bull snake is "the good snake", and we would persuasively encourage him to move on; however, if it turns out to be a rattlesnake, then... Well, then, we might have to flip a coin to see who's going to shoot him.

But first things first. As Pat approached the driveway he called to check in on the situation. I suggested he stop by the barn and pick up a piece of plywood to act as a shield. For sure this snake will strike if provoked whether it's a bull or a rattle. He brought the plywood, a ten foot pole (no joke!), and a shovel. Pat came into the house via the side door, gathered up his gun and shot, then headed out to formulate the plan of attack. I had everything I needed--the camera and clean underwear, and oh yeah, a safe place behind the glass of the storm door, which put me only five feet away from the sleeping serpent.

The plan was: Pat would poke the snake with the ten foot pole while crouched behind the plywood shield. Hopefully the snake would awaken and begin to move around to see what was pokin at 'em. Once he was out from under the grill, we, no wait, not we, Pat would pull the grill off the gravel it sits on and onto the grass (it's not really grass, but a combination of prairie grass, wildflowers, and weeds). Then the snake would have nowhere to hide. With nowhere to hide, Pat could encourage him via the ten foot pole to move away from the house and onto the yard where he could shoot him. I say he because Pat won the coin toss.

Basically it played out pretty much according to Pat's plan:

• Pat poked the snake


• The snake woke up and moved out from under the grill


• The snake assumed the striking position and rattled his tail a bit


• We both yelled, "it's a rattler"


• Then Pat poked him a little more


• The snake warned again with his rattle


• Then the snake got poked some more


• He tried to back himself into the corner of the house


• Pat pushed and pushed with the pole while crouched behind the shield


• The snake was pushed off the gravel and onto the yard


• He struck at the pole a few times


• Pat kept pushing him further away from the house


• Then shot him


• 6 times


• He kept moving


• Pat chopped off his head with a shovel


• He kept moving


• We left him alone for an hour


• He kept moving


• We left him another half hour


• Pat finally picked him up with a shovel


• Put him in a wheelbarrow


• His tail kept moving


• Pat dug a hole and buried him


• He's dead and buried, it's over

Be both feel bad about killing him. He was an old snake with many rattles. Truth is he was only doing what he does, only he did it too close to what we do. The poor old guy picked the wrong place to take a nap.

I can't help but wonder how many snakes pass by unnoticed. This guy would have passed by unnoticed too if I hadn't glanced out the door as I did. I suppose he could have stayed there all day enjoying his snooze as we passed by taking care of our business. And once the sun set and the temperature dropped he would awaken hungry and ready to move off in search of dinner. But that's not what happened this time. And so it is.

The Perfect Recipe

Living out of town, while scenic and beautiful, offers challenges too numerous to mention; actually, too numerous to even anticipate in many cases as I'm realizing each day with each new challenge. But one of the challenges I realized right off was the ease with which one could feel isolated even though town lies a fairly quick 13 miles north via the interstate. With the approach of fall last year, I discovered that many of the items on my to-do list would have to wait for warm weather leaving me looking ahead at many months of potential doldrums. Thinking about how I might become connected to something greater than myself (without joining a church), I decided to list some of my favorite things to see if I could cook something up. I came up with a few simple ingredients: reading, friends, cooking, and laughing. Throwing these into a pot gave me the perfect recipe for winter wellness: a book club.

Later that week, I pitched the idea to two friends who were eager to buy in. We each invited a friend, then one of the friends invited another friend giving us an uneven total of 7 members. Our first meeting ended with a book list and a schedule of whose house we would meet at each month. And of course, the most important item, as Carol reminded, "refreshments--and they are not optional". And so it is--we read, we meet, we discuss and debate, then we eat--in that order!

In May when our highly successful season ended with a dinner at my house, we all felt a bit disappointed that we wouldn't have a reason to meet during the summer. In response, I suggested we rent a campground in The Little Belt Mountains for a weekend where we can debrief, plan for the next season, play games, hike, and basically enjoy an adult "going to summer camp" experience.

Ever since the mid 1990s when I played the role of Activity Director at a kid's grief camp I thought the camp experience was something that should not be exclusively for kids. My mantra in those days was, "there oughta be a camp for grownups, too". This idea became especially evident after spending a week with sad and angry kids who within hours of arriving became the happiest kids on the planet. "Just think how happy overstressed adults might feel after a few days here", I would say. Fast forward a decade or so and I finally discovered the magic for myself.

The seven of us rented the very same campground used for the grief camp. Sitting on a 20-acre clearing surrounded by pines with Belt Creek running through and the mountain rising behind, the main lodge smack in the middle with a dozen cabins scattered around, we set up our First Annual Page Turner's Book Camp. And now I know how something as simple as camp can turn a grieving child into a happy one who on the last day swears she will return again and again. On our last hour while packing up our ton of leftovers, we too swore to return again and again. As we headed back to town, we stopped at the bookstore searching for our first book, wanting to hurry and get them all read, discussed and debated, eat Carol's mandatory refreshments, then plan for our Second Annual Page Turner's Book Camp. And so it is--the perfect recipe for the winter doldrums.

Shadow

Pat's been on vacation this week, fixing fences, putting gutters on the bunkhouse, and finishing mowing the south 20. He put a new gate on one of the arenas yesterday afternoon with five frisky horses breathing down his neck jockeying for position all wanting a moment of his attention. Or more accurately a chance to check out his breast pocket where he usually keeps a treat or two in the event someone stops by for a visit.

With the finishing touches on the gate, Pat hopped into his pickup and drove over to the corral expecting to dish up dinner before retiring himself to a well deserved meal. It was a cool evening and everyone seemed in high spirits as they raced Pat's pickup through the pasture, around the corner, and into the corral.

Once inside, each took up their usual spot in the feed line; each that is except Shadow, who decided instead that a nice roll in the dirt would feel good before diving into his dinner. And since he eats first, everyone waited until he finished his ritual cleaning. Pat watched as Shadow dropped to the ground and rolled a bit from side to side--a form of equine bathing. Horses like to cover themselves with dirt as do elephants to keep the bugs at bay and to feel refreshed (it's a horse thing!).

Pat waited and watched but Shadow didn't get up. He tried to get his legs under himself but instead managed to wedge his legs underneath the wood-paneled fence. Wanting to help, but not wanting to get himself kicked by the now flailing horse, Pat called me on his cell phone to come quickly. I'm not sure what he was thinking. Perhaps he thought that someone was about to get the crap kicked out of them and it wasn't going to be him. Call Sandy?

Running to the corral and seeing a struggling horse lying on the ground sent shivers up my spine. I reached for my phone and called our neighbor, Kurt. He came immediately and with Pat on one side and Kurt on the other they managed to free Shadow from the fence. Once free, he was able to pull his legs under himself, rock back and forth, then stand. Whew! A sigh of relief all around.

Since Shadow had the bout with colic just a few weeks ago, Pat wasn't too convinced that he simply dropped to roll and couldn't get up. This horse looked dazed. The true test for a horse, and especially for this big guy comes when he turns down dinner. After Shadow found his legs and was checked for boo-boo's, Kurt walked him to an awaiting pile of alfalfa--his favorite item on the menu. He sniffed, then walked away without indulging. The same with water, he sniffed, then walked off.

Certain that Shadow was indeed in trouble, we hooked up the trailer, re-called the vet, and Pat and Shadow headed down the road toward town. I stayed behind to finish feeding, gather the cats, button up the barn, and wait by the phone for news that Shadow was alright.

Two hours later, Pat called. The vet, still not sure exactly what was going on, did say that Shadow was not colic or impacted--good news. However, he thought something was indeed wrong and wanted to keep him overnight.

Pat had a fitful night worrying about his beloved friend--his first horse--his backcountry buddy. At the age of 18, Shadow's an old horse, but with good care he could live another 10 years or more. Our eldest, Clancy, is now 26 years old; and although he no longer takes long trips, he enjoys good health and the company of his younger brothers. Unlike most of his friends, Pat believes that a horse deserves the utmost respect not only when they are of service, but for as long as they are living. So, we will do as much as we can for as long as we are able to provide a safe and happy environment for our friends and companions.

It is now the next morning. Pat heard from the vet a few moments ago. Shadow has pooped several times and is outside grazing. He still wants to check his white blood count since he had symptoms of salmonella recently. The blood work should reveal more information. In the meantime, Shadow seems to feel better, and when Shadow feels better, so does Pat. All is well for now.

Too Close

Last Thursday a storm passed over with high winds, thunder, and one very loud lightening strike, but not one drop of rain. Missed us again, or so I thought. While fixing dinner and expecting Pat any minute, I occasionally glanced out the kitchen window for any sign of life on the drive, which always includes snakes. On one such glance, a streak of red a mile or so away on Hastings' Ranch caught my eye. I quickly grabbed the binoculars (there's a pair on every window sill) and confirmed my fear--fire! Not only fire but fire only yards away from hundreds of bales of freshly stacked hay. The rows of hay lie just yards away from Ed and Sue's house. I called Pat expecting that he was somewhere nearby so he could stop and lend a hand. He said he saw firetrucks just ahead and wondered where they were going. All's well then, help is on the way. Thankfully the fire was quickly extinguished without damage or injury.

On Saturday afternoon I remained tucked inside the house while the temperatures rose into the nineties. On the south side of the house all the blinds were securely closed keeping the sun at bay and the house a bit cooler, but also obscuring my view. It wasn't until Luna needed a pee break that I noticed a 1/4 mile line of fire about a half mile south of the house. Thick black smoke rose darkening the sky as Luna and Cali strolled along completely oblivious.

Fortunately we were upwind and (hopefully) out of harms way. Fire trucks from miles around arrived pumping gallon after gallon... My phone began ringing as friends in Great Falls called after seeing the fire on the evening news--wanting to know how close...

"Too close" was my answer. On the flat windswept prairie, the rule is--if you can see smoke, it's too close. And so it is.

His Brother's Keeper?

By my calculations, I had between 15-20 minutes to round up the kittens, button up the barn, feed the horses and get myself inside before the storm hit. The thunder was no longer in the distance and the lightening no longer held my fascination--it was too close for comfort.

First the kittens, then the horses, I decided. Uncle Charlie's always easy to catch; in fact, he practically dives into my hands. The other two, however, are quite another story. Almost every night as I manage to get one or two inside the barn, Ernie weasels by racing at high speed toward the corral for one last dump before calling it a day. Even though time was of the essence I stepped back and allowed him his business. Quickly, he pawed, sniffed, rejected, scooted, pawed, sniffed, then finally sat over his freshly made divot.

The horses decided they couldn't wait their turn. Eager for their groceries, all five led by Koda came thundering around the corner of the barn. By the look on Ernie's face I'd say that if he hadn't been in mid crap he would have pooped himself. With the sound and sight of approaching horses, he flew straight into the air, pinched the loaf, then scrambled as his feet hit the ground finding safety on the other side of the fence next to his brother Chip. The horses couldn't have cared less about Ernie or his business, they were only concerned about the menu. Once they saw that dinner wasn't being served in this corral they began to retreat back to the north side of the barn. Wasting no time, Chip dove under the fence and immediately began covering Ernie's abandoned turd. I stood in amazement over this gesture not sure what to make of it. Are these three little guys a band of brothers? It seems so.

Ever since they were born I've thought about how most litters of cats and dogs are split up once they are weaned. The more I get to know these little ones and see the nurturing relationship they have with Puff and each other I can't imagine sending the boys off and leaving Puff behind. I'm sure it hasn't crossed Puff's mind either.

Several weeks ago, when they received their first shots, the vet asked if we were thinking about having Puff spayed. I said we were. He recommended having the surgery soon after the kittens weaned. Her surgery was planned for tomorrow. I say, "was" because I cancelled it on Monday morning. I realized that I couldn't send Puff to the vet for a day and leave the kittens behind. I'm not sure what she would do, but I know that being separated would cause great emotional distress for all concerned. Also, the prospect of having Puff recovering from surgery while managing very busy kittens would not best serve her. Puff's attachment and devotion to her kittens does not make her unusual, but what I think is unusual is how many of us casually sell or give away kittens and puppies, whether for profit or convenience with little or no regard for the emotional consequences.

Puff deserves the company and companionship of her three sons for as long as nature allows. If the day comes when one or more decides to take a walkabout, we all will grieve as much as we need for as long as we need, but we will also have our wonderful memories of a life as it was meant to be. And so it is.

Oh yeah, the storm. I made it into the house just in time to find Luna cowering next to the toilet and Cali waiting by the door ready for her evening walk--come hell or high water.

Crop Circles

I am endlessly fascinated with all things different, odd, or unexplained, which prompted me to wonder about crop circles yesterday afternoon as I watched Pat maneuver the tractor around the south 20 mowing down the now dry grass and weeds. After five hours of repetitive back and forth passes he managed to cut about a third of the twenty acres without creating a single straight line. This was not without trying; and as he said, "cutting a straight 200' line is difficult if not impossible, let me see you do it." It's not that I don't believe him. I'm sure it is indeed difficult to maintain accuracy with such distances, especially when there are obstacles like badger holes and boulders that must be avoided.

But what I am saying is that I don't believe the argument that the mysterious crop circles are products of human engineering and intelligence, especially when you consider that these phenomena occur in the middle of the night. I'm just saying that if a circle appears in my field, I will know with no uncertainty that no one around here had anything to do with it. And so it is.

Half Moon

After a long day of mowing, weeding, cleaning, and organizing areas large and small around the ranch, the barn and most of the landscape looks well attended to. The kittens played outside all day, the horses grazed in the north pasture, and the dogs lazed in the yard keeping careful watch over all. We toiled under a mostly blue sky with cool autumn-like temperatures.

If feels like summer never actually came this year. Our weather from June on has resembled a very long spring now folding seamlessly into fall. Not that I'm complaining, this has been a perfect season with many beautiful sunny, but temperate, days followed by cool breezy nights--sounds almost too good to be true.

We fell into bed last night around 10 o'clock. Pat's snoring began almost immediately, while I laid awake reviewing the day's accomplishments. A cool breeze found its way through the open window animating the curtains into a slinky dance. This ghostly apparition set the stage for a chorus of yipping coyotes in the not too far distance. I slid out of bed not wanting to disturb Pat or the dogs, then positioned myself kneeling at the window, listening to the call of the wild. There were several voices harmonizing as I scanned the landscape looking in the direction of the call.

In the distance, a dark orange half moon sat low in the sky bidding farewell before slipping behind the Adele range. By 10:30, we'll have a moonless sky allowing millions of stars their first appearance in many weeks. The Milky Way streaks across the darkness like a veil of vapor. I often wonder why I can see the Milky Way, as if it is out there somewhere, separate from our mother planet. How do we see it if we are in it? It's like seeing the forest from the perspective of one of the trees.

I also wonder if the coyotes anticipate a moonless night, as they yip with great expectation. What does a moonless night mean to them? A better chance at hunting? Or something bigger? Perhaps their instincts inform them that change is on the way. While I may never know what lies in the mind of coyotes, or how the phases of the moon affect the various creatures that feel its pull, what I do know is that as my senses sharpen to the world around me I feel a greater calm and peace in the knowing that all is well--and so it is.

The Perfect Coverup

Uncle Charlie's feet barely touched the ground as he flew through the closing door nearly getting his tail pinched as I jumped back not knowing what was racing toward me. Each evening before dark sets in, I return to the barn for a head count and to close up the doors with Puff and kittens securely tucked in for the night.

Tonight, however, Uncle Charlie had his own ideas. There may come a point in time when our toms will insist on spending the night prowling, but 8 weeks is far too young. So when Uncle Charlie decided it prudent to escape the closing door, my curiosity allowed me to stand back and watch before scooping him up. Not wanting to create a late night rodeo chasing kittens hither and yon, I closed the door, causing Puff enough concern that she sat on the inside of the door crying for her wayward son.

Hopping onto the fence for a better view, I scanned the corrals searching for movement in the waning sunlight. Finally, I spotted the little bugger. He managed to flee to the far end of the outer corral--a spot clinging to the last ray of vanishing light where he circled, pawed, and sniffed, then apparently dissatisfied with the choice, he walked a few feet to the north, circled, pawed, and sniffed once again before plopping his bottom into the second freshly dug divot. How a kitten decides where to poo, choosing one spot over another and another, completely baffles me.

After sitting stoically erect over the impression for a few moments, he hopped up, turned around, admired his accomplishment, then scooted in a circular direction pulling dirt with each turn creating the perfect cover up for his tiny poo.

Once Uncle Charlie finished his business, he agreeably bounded toward the now closed door, answering his mother's concerned call. I cautiously opened the door hoping the other two kittens weren't waiting for a similar opportunity. Not a problem, thankfully. Puff escorted her bold little boy to the awaiting kennel where his brothers had already snuggled down in their favorite corners. Puff circled a few times before settling into her resting spot. Bold little Uncle Charlie waited until his mother sighed, then cuddled up close to her. When I looked back one more time before leaving, Puff had her arm firmly wrapped around Uncle Charlie's neck secure in the knowledge that at least for one more night all is well. And so it is.

Itchin' To Shoot Somethin'

After the dinner dishes were prewashed by Cali and stacked into the dishwasher by your's truly, the two of us headed out for our after dinner stroll. Luna usually hangs back more interested in Pat's attention than most anything else on the planet, even gophers! It's all good, though, everyone's happy. She and Pat will take their walk later on.

Our gravel driveway runs a good 1/2 mile where it ends with a few mailboxes, a cattleguard, and the decision to turn left or right. Right will take you to the interstate 3 miles south, left will take you god knows where.

At the midway point along the driveway there is a Y. Coming up from the road, bearing right will drop you at Gerard's place, head left and you'll end up at our place. Cali and I got as far as the Y when I noticed a lump in the road about 100 feet ahead. Taking a closer look seemed foolish, so I fumbled around each pocket searching for my phone thinking I'd call Pat and he could drive up with the gun. Of course, the phone's sitting on the kitchen counter leaving us to hike back to the house as quickly as possible. I sure didn't want Mr. Snake to get away. Just last weekend Pat and I spent half a day learning gun safety and practicing shooting paper gophers. By now I'm itchin' to shoot somethin'.

Having reached 90 degrees this afternoon it was a bit too warm to run, but with the promise of a treat, Cali managed to walk really really fast. By the time we reached the house my heart was pounding with excitement. I was finally getting a chance to shoot the dreaded snake. I yelled up the stairs for Pat. With competition from the TV, it took a few yells before he reluctantly answered. I told him to put on his shoes and come with me. "There's a snake on the driveway near the mailboxes. Come with me while I shoot it", I bellowed. Down he came--hiding his excitement, but I could tell. "You load while I drive", I said. He took the gun and ammo and we both hurried out the door.

At the Y, I stopped the car scanning the road hoping the snake was still enjoying the warm gravel.

"There he is", I yelled-- with the excitement of a 6-year-old catching the first glimpse of Disney World.
Pat responded, "you mean that pile of horse shit?"
"What? That's horse shit?"
"If you don't know the difference between a snake and horse shit..."

I turned the car around and headed back home more disappointed than embarrassed, but embarrassed all the same. What if I truly don't know the difference between--
a snake and _____.

Fire Season

According to my calender it is mid-summer; however, if you're a student or the parent of a student, you are probably counting the number of days left until the buses begin rolling, once again signalling the end of another summer and the beginning of a new school year.

But right here in my corner of Earth, mid summer means combines, balers, tons of dust, and the ever present fire danger. Since we haven't seen rain for many weeks, it wouldn't take much for fire to erupt. Last week a plumb of smoke arose from behind Square Butte blackening the sky overhead. Our neighbor informed us that a fire broke out on a ranch in Fort Shaw about 20 miles west as the crow flies. A baler struck a rock, sparks flew, and within an few minutes 15 acres were consumed. Sitting at the foot of the Rocky Mountains it's nearly impossible to avoid rocks. Even the most careful farmer and rancher knows that fire potential awaits every turn. Thousands of acres can disappear within hours. There is a vigilance in the air as we watch over ourselves and our neighbors. We keep fire extinguishers in all vehicles, the tractor and on the riding mower. Periodically I check the 360 degree view from upstairs, at times confusing a distant plumb of dust for a plumb of smoke.

Last night's local news reported a couple of fires 70 or so miles to the south and west. As the sun rose this morning, winds began blowing from the southwest creating a veil of smoky haze and a chilling smell that reminds us of our vulnerability and our responsibility. For now, spending mid-summer on the prairie with eyes wide open.

And so it is.

Chip Off The Old Block

Twice today, I entered to barn to find Chip frolicking behind the haystack with a dead body in his mouth. While not entirely sure whether Puff's catching the mice, or if it's Chip himself, one thing is for sure, he's got the instinct and the tenacity of a true mouser.

On my first trip, I was horrified by the grizzly discovery of a disembodied head lying in the middle of the floor. Curious to know what happened to the rest of it, I peeked into every nook and cranny wondering if Puff had eaten it. I had my fingers crossed it wasn't true. Killing a mouse is one thing, but eating it is quite another. Friends have told me that when you feed a barn cat it is likely to kill more mice because it is killing for sport rather than for food. Conversely, an unfed cat will only kill when it's hungry. So it seemed unlikely to me that Puff was eating as well as killing.

As I was about to leave the barn, Chip appeared from behind the haystack with what looked like a string hanging from his mouth. He wouldn't come to me, but instead ran back into the dark corner. I grabbed a broom and went after the little bugger. After poking him a few times he finally sprang forth and showed me his coveted prize. He had the headless mouse in his mouth and could not have been more pleased with himself.

A few hours later, I return, lunch in hand.
Puff, Ernie, and Uncle Charlie dive into bowls.
Chip--conspicuously missing.
Thumping sounds behind hay.
Chip emerges.
Fully intact body dangling from mouth.
"Cute factor", zero.

We're losing our kittens and gaining cats. Boy they grow up so fast. Maybe now I can get something else done around here!

Trust the Process

More and more each day, the kittens (yes, the kittens, again) grow and gain greater independence from Puff. This is all normal, expected, and desired. However, I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown watching these small vulnerable kittens take on the harsh dangerous world. Nothing stops them; no gate is too tall; and no one, especially me, possesses the agility and speed necessary to catch and contain their fearless spirit.

For the past 6 1/2 weeks, these tiny creatures have challenged each and every attempt made for the purpose of "keeping them safe". The reality is they are outside cats; and in order for them to develop their innate survival skills, they must stretch their reach beyond the four walls that they're apparently outgrowing.

The problem belongs to me, this I know for sure. My inability to let them go and experience what may, keeps them bound in ways that are neither healthy nor natural.

What to do! Do I open up the barn and allow? Do I keep creating bigger and stronger barriers? Is it more beneficial for a kitten to experience the world when his curiosity calls? Or is it better (safer) for him to wait until I'm ready?

Of course I know the answer to these questions. I must honor, respect, and trust the process. Even if that means....

Awaiting His Turn

This morning like most every other morning, I was greeted at the barn door by four hungry, sleepy little souls. As I opened the door, sunlight flooded the opening much to every one's delight, including mine.

Once the bowls hit the floor, my next chore took me to the back of the barn where the litter box sat begging my attention. Not my favorite chore, but certainly a necessary one, I quickly whisked the box outside to the nearest waste can.

Within a few minutes, the box was once again ready for use, and not a moment too soon it appeared. Our littlest kitten, Ernie, promptly hopped into the box, went through the preliminary motions, assumed the position, then dug and pawed as if....

Not believing that a 6-week old barn kitten would know what the box was for, but rather, assuming he was mimicking behavior he had seen Puff demonstrate, I leaned in for a closer look. To my complete astonishment, there lie buried beneath an adequate amount of litter was the most precious little turd I'd ever seen.

To my greater amazement, was the fact that while Ernie made use of the box, his older brother, Chip, sat quietly alongside awaiting his turn.

My Three Sons, Sort Of

Today was a big day for Puff and her kittens. They took a trip to Two River's Pet Hospital shortly after their afternoon nap where Dr. Mike and his assistant Kaylee weighed them all, gave the kittens their first round of immunizations and Puff her postnatal check-up. "Everyone looks great", was the report. Puff is now scheduled for surgery so there will be no more surprises on Almosta Road. Contrary to my grandmother's belief, there IS such a thing as too many cats. As for me, until I met Puff I thought even one was too many. Funny how familiarity breeds understanding.

Before the exam was complete, we learned that all three kittens are boys! Dr. Mike declared, "my three sons", to which young Kaylee said, "huh"? On the ride home I pondered boy names but couldn't think of a single one that sounded right. Recalling Dr. Mike's declaration, I searched my ancient data bank trying to remember the boy's names from My Three Sons, the 60's TV show Mike referred to.

By the time I hit the cruise control south of town, the names Robbie, Chip, and Ernie came rolling off my tongue as I spoke over my shoulder to the pet carrier behind me. After saying, "Robbie" a few times, I decided it just wouldn't work for me. For some unknown reason the name doesn't roll of my tongue well enough to suit me. Not willing to give up on Chip and Ernie, I recalled there was also an Uncle Charlie on the show who was quite a character. I wondered, could I name them Uncle Charlie, Chip, and Ernie? Why not? That's really the fun of adding new members to the family--you can name them any darn thing you want.

Well then, so it is. Uncle Charlie, Chip, and Ernie--Puff's My Three Sons, sort of.

Once again, all is well.

I Don't Know Nature's Way

Sometimes a mouse isn't a mouse!

I could have sworn that dark lump on the barn floor was indeed a mouse. And, I thought, it was probably the mother of the three babies Puff nearly killed last week. I left it where it lay believing that Puff hadn't killed it but only mortally wounded it like she did the babies, and that it was prudent to allow nature its due course. Sometime later this afternoon, I reasoned, I would scoop it up and remove it from the barn.

Returning to the barn a few hours later expecting to find a dead mouse, I discovered that it had moved a few inches from where I had seen it earlier. Moving a bit closer, but not too close, I could see its life force moving inside. Since it had moved around a bit, I could now see its very long dark legs that bent at a very sharp angle. A quick, "whoa", burst forth up from my gut. "What kind of mouse has long thin dark legs that bend sharply and tuck under its belly?" Puff chattered the entire time I looked over this weird whateveritis. If only I spoke "cat", I would have understood that Puff was telling me she had caught a bat, batted it around for the kittens benefit, and like the mouse babies, left it for dead.

Was it Carole King who sang, "I don't know nature's way?" Well, I'm with you, Carole, I not only don't know, but it seems my learning curve has taken a sudden upward turn.

I might not know nature's way, just yet, but Puff knows enough for all of us. And what she knows she's passing along to her kittens.

Oh yeah, I do know enough to know that bat's carry rabies. Batman will remain on the floor until his spirit has gone to bat heaven at which time my husband will bury his remains. I don't do funerals!

Once again, all is well.

Another Day, Another Lesson

This morning as I entered the barn the kittens ran playfully toward the stream of light pouring through the open door, while Puff waited eagerly for the dish in my hand.

After a quick head count and assured that everyone survived another night, I turned toward the door to leave. Once again my eye stumbled over a small dark lump. Perhaps not everyone survived.

This time, it seems, Puff found the mother.

Another day, another lesson.
And so it is.

The Scapegoat Wilderness

Pat has returned from his first of several planned trips into the backcountry. This trip took him and three other men as well as 14 horses into the wilderness area known as The Scapegoat Wilderness, part of the Bob Marshall/Scapegoat Wilderness Complex. It was created and preserved with the "wilderness" designation in 1972. The Scapegoat area alone covers 239,936 acres and straddles the Continental Divide.


Located in western Montana south and adjacent to the Bob Marshall Wilderness, The Bob (as it is locally known) is noted for its hunting, fishing, scenery, and geology. Massive limestone cliffs that dominate the Scapegoat are an extension of The Bob's Chinese Wall. This wilderness complex is the only place outside of national parks in the lower 48 states that supports a grizzly population.

Access to the complex is restricted to hikers and backcountry horseman. There are no roads, and no motorized vehicles allowed. This restriction includes emergency and park service vehicles making it truly wilderness as well as one of the Last Best Places.

And so it is!

The Middle of the Road

A cool brisk breeze sent me shivering under the covers where the girls and I snuggled for as long as we could before shuffling downstairs to begin the feeding chores. Before drifting off to sleep last night I decided that this morning I would brave up once again and allow the girls off leash--just for a little while.

I'm sure it's quite exhilarating to run as fast as you can unbridled, untethered, unaware of any potential harm that may cross your path. I was very happy to see the girls happy. They both settled quickly into their routine, which to my surprise didn't hold their interest very long. Within minutes both dogs were back at the house sitting by my side enjoying the cool brisk air and the warm rising sun while I enjoyed the smile on their faces and my second cup of coffee.

Once dressed and ready for the day, I remembered there were a few pieces of outgoing mail by the door. Since it was a gorgeous morning, I thought that the three of us would walk the mile round-trip to the mailbox. Staying in the middle of the road, we quickly found our pace. Oh what a gorgeous morning! On the last stretch about 50 feet from the mailbox, watching the gravel road stretch out before us, glancing occasionally into the ditch on either side, my eyes fixed on a long thin shape that broke the random pattern of gravel right in the middle of the road about 20 feet ahead.

Giving a quick pull on the leashes and a stern, "whoa" all three of us came to a dead stop. Sure enough of what lie ahead, I wasn't sure if it was dead or alive. We share this lower portion of the drive with two neighbors, so it was possible someone had struck it earlier this morning, although from my vantage point it didn't look smooshed. I bent down, picked up a few pieces of gravel and began tossing stones hoping that if it was alive I would annoy it enough to move off. Not so much as a flinch! These snakes are really starting to tick me off.

Not wishing to tempt fate, the three of us turn tail and head home. Within a few moments our neighbor, Jason, turns onto the drive, spots the snake, turns the wheel just a bit, hits the snake, backs up, hits it again, gets out of his truck picks up the snake and flings it into the tall grass, returns to his truck, drives up to us, stops and says, "watch out for snakes; stay in the middle of the road".

Once again we headed down the middle of the road, dropped our mail, then headed home. I think it was Helen Keller who said, "Life is one daring adventure, or nothing at all."

Well said, Helen.

A Funny Looking Stick

I should have known a snake would appear today. I've experienced a series of coincidences lately that have led to this moment. First, I mentioned to my sister-in-law over the weekend that I hadn't heard from my uncle lately. He had been a frequent caller since his brother died two years ago. However, it had been quite a few months since his last call. Then, lo and behold the next day he called. The first question out of his mouth was, "have you seen any snakes yet...?"

Whenever Pat's away, I become a bit anxious about letting the dogs run off leash. Although they have been vaccinated against snake venom and have received aversion training with live snakes, that doesn't ensure they won't encounter a snake. It only provides a probability boost toward surviving a bite. It's the encounter and the bite that give me the epizoodies.

I know that keeping them in the house and on a leash when outdoors dishonors their doggy spirit, but this is how it is until I'm able to allow life to flow as it should.

So this morning, I brave-up and let the girls go full tilt off leash. They rarely go far; in fact, they have a rather interesting routine they more or less follow each time. They both head straight for the barn where they sniff at the door hoping for an opportunity to have Puff kick their butts. When that opportunity proves disappointing, Luna scoots around the corrals searching out unsuspecting bunnies and giving chase until she's pooped. Cali stands over her favorite gopher hole waiting silently, patiently. Her sharp instincts tell her to avoid making a shadow over the hole, and she knows to stand behind the angled opening so as to remain invisible. When that game proves unfruitful, she trots gingerly to the nearest, freshest pile of manure where she rolls and wiggles with delight covering herself in the most wonderful aroma second only to fresh cow plop.

I stay nearby and watch with a careful eye while Luna becomes pooped and Cali becomes poop. Coming off the paved road, heading toward our house, a Fed Ex truck slows as he approaches. The dogs race to meet what they hope is there new best friend. With leashes in hand, I hook them both up while holding their eagerly wagging bodies at bay allowing the delivery guy to hand me a package. I sign for it, exchange a few pleasantry's then turn toward the house. "Oh", he says, "by the way, I think there's a snake on your driveway, or maybe it's just a funny looking stick."

I stop dead in my tracks, my heart pounding in my chest, my grip on the leashes tightening as I turn toward this jokester and respond, "Well which is it?"

"A snake, I think".

"Well, I appreciate you letting me know. I wonder, if he's still there when you drive out would you be willing to run him over?"

"Oh, sure, no problem".

"Thanks again, have a nice day."

I watched as he drove away. The truck slowed approximately 100 feet from where I stood. It swerved to the right, stopped, backed up, then moved forward again slowly before resuming its journey to the next stop.

With the location fixed in my mind, I returned the dogs to the house, grabbed the truck keys, and performed an act of kindness on the badly injured, dying, oh wait, did I mention huge? The badly injured, dying, huge, funny looking stick.

Kindness, Compassion, or Indifference

Yesterday morning as I tended to Puff and her kittens--filling water and food, and changing the litter box, I noticed something on the barn floor that seemed out of place. As I approached, thinking it was a small clod of dirt that had fallen off Pat's boot, the small something moved--then moved again--ever so slightly. Dismissing the idea that it was dirt or a ball of dust mixed with cat hair, I wondered if it could be a cricket or a beetle. But on closer inspection the color seemed off. Walking more slowly toward this "thing", wanting to give my brain enough time to catch up with my senses, I soon realized that the small something resembled a hairy finger. A pinkie, no less. A very small hairy finger---pink in the middle with soft wispy hair around the edges.

My heart stopped for a moment as my brain caught up with the message that this small something was alive, and mammal, and...a baby mouse. A very young baby mouse. Barely alive, alone in the middle of the barn, lying on the cold hard floor. Not bleeding or outwardly injured, but obviously dying.

What do I do?

Apparently, Puff had found a nest of newborn mice. She raided the nest, played with the baby, perhaps showing her kittens how to hunt, and how to toy with the prey, not killing, but leaving it hopelessly doomed. That's what cat's do.

Within moments two more babies caught my eye also lying helpless and hopeless. Their mother nowhere in sight.

I felt confused. On the one hand, we have a barn cat for the express purpose of managing the barn's rodent population. This is her job. And she's performing well.

On the other hand, I'm stunned by the recognition that I must decide what to do with these helpless, dying, babies. It's my responsibility to respond. But how?

I recall a very wise man named Gay Hendricks talk about how he categorizes people into three general groups--those who are kind, those who are compassionate, and those who are indifferent. Drawing upon Hendrick's general categories, I wonder if in this moment, my decision will come from a place of kindness, or compassion, or indifference as Gay suggests. If this is so, then there are three general responses to choose from. If I choose kindness, do I take the baby mice outside and finish them off with a quick blow from a shovel? Would compassion consist of trying to find the nest and return the babies to their mother? And what about indifference? I suppose if I scoop them up and simply drop them into a trash can, that would qualify as indifferent.

I have no idea how to proceed. I'm repulsed by the whole idea of "having to do something". Why didn't Puff kill them herself? I would have less of a problem picking up dead mice and disposing of them. I can't help but wonder about degrees of LIFE. What if I entered the barn and found three kittens barely alive? What if a coyote or fox had found them and toyed with them until they were barely alive? How would I respond? With kindness, compassion, or indifference? How do we reconcile that one life holds more importance than another? The importance lies within us; nature doesn't discriminate. We make the determination. We decide that the cat holds more importance, or VALUE, than the mouse. After all, didn't I hire Puff to manage the mice? Now that she has done her job, I find the consequences difficult to face.

Again, I find it interesting that we create a hierarchy of value on the different species of life. Most of us have no problem stepping on a spider or swatting a mosquito. I suppose the larger the creature or the more they are like us the greater the value! I don't really know. All I know is that I must decide how to deal with dying baby mice. Then reconcile my decision as one of kindness, compassion or indifference.

And so it is.

Field Trip

The alarm rang at 4:30 am, never mind though, we're all awake, eagerly awaiting this new day. The girls run downstairs, tails wagging, jockeying for position at the back door while I put on my shoes. Pat prepares the coffee, then heads out to feed Puff and the horses.

Back inside, we meet at the table for breakfast, me on one side, Pat on the other with Luna sitting squarely on his lap, her nose tucked into his armpit. She knows daddy's goin' bye-bye. She knows she's not. And so, the sad look of disappointment covers her face as she buries her head.

A half hour later, breakfast is done, every one's eaten--the dogs, the cats, the horses, us.... Nothing left to do but load up. First Boots, then Koda, and finally Liam, a bit hesitant at first but excited knowing he's made the grade and is joining the boys. He's not sure what it all means, where they're going, what they'll be doing, just glad he's one of the pack. Last one in, but first one out. The first to see the mountains, smell the fresh clean air, and view the trail that marks his first adventure.

As the truck and trailer roll down the hill out of sight, I return to the house where Luna cuddles up on my lap--sad that she's left behind--but glad she's not alone. She listens curiously as I read daddy's horoscope out loud: "You might enjoy a field trip today..."

And so it is.

Training Day

Preparations are underway for Pat's first pack trip of the season. Since Shadow's illness will keep him home for the first time in ten years, Pat will need to rely on our young Tennessee Walker/Thoroughbred cross, Liam, who will make his maiden voyage with a six-day trip into the Scapegoat Wilderness Area. The trail begins at Elk Creek and will take the group of four men and 14 horses to the camping area known as Welcome Creek. From there the group will set up camp relieving the horses of their heavy loads that consist of clothing, tents, food, and a commercial kitchen. Then each day, the group of men and horses are free to enjoy trail rides traversing the wilderness, scaling mountains, stopping to fish, and returning back to camp each evening to enjoy a hot meal and spend a few hours chewing the fat under the spectacular night sky.


In the meantime, Pat has essentially 48 hours to ensure that Liam can handle the rigors of managing himself in the middle of a three-horse pack string as well as the plethora of challenges that await from stepping over logs to negotiating draw bridges across fast moving water.

After only a few hours, Liam shows himself worthy of the challenge. He wants so much to please Pat carving his place as one of the boys; it's very sweet to watch him blossom as he becomes the newest member of our herd.

On this day, just 24 hours before they hit the dusty trail, Liam will work his lessons a few more times reinforcing what he learned yesterday. Unfortunately for Shadow, he's sitting this one out, but one horse's misfortune becomes an other's opportunity, and this little guy has shown himself worthy. And in Pat's own words, "he's a dandy".
And so it is.

My Teacher

Many years ago I heard someone say that every person we encounter in our lives is a teacher. That means that within every interaction with every person throughout every moment of our day there lies an opportunity to learn--something. It is our responsibility to pay attention to these interactions in order to identify and learn the lesson. If we choose to ignore the lesson, it will come again and again in slightly different and stronger ways until we have no choice but to stand still and learn.

I believe that is true. I also believe that not only do we learn from every person we meet but also from every encounter with animals and nature. Today this idea struck me like lightening from above.

Now that the kittens are getting around and getting into everything, especially trouble, I felt it necessary to spend time in the barn making every nook and cranny secure. Since the temperatures have begun to climb, I began looking for ways to keep the barn cool without allowing the kittens to get out or an unwanted intruder to get in. Not an easy task with what I had to work with.

Finally, after sweeping up, tidying up, tightening up, and watching these four-week-old kittens literally run and climb like Olympic athletes, I decided there was no immediate means to keep them out of trouble. With that I rounded them up with the intention of putting them back into their kennel along with mom, closing the door, attaching a baby-gate at the door of the barn, then leaving for an hour so I could get something else done. The plan involved returning every two hours or so to allow mom out to stretch her legs and take care of her business, since the litter box is on the outside of the kennel. The kennel is plenty big enough for her litter box, food, and water, however, the kittens are busy enough to wreak havoc scattering the food, eating the litter, and drowning in the water.

So there I was chasing kittens one at a time, putting it inside the kennel, searching for another, bringing it back, then discovering that the first one is no where to be found. These three Houdini's kept me running and searching for ten minutes--laughing all the way--me, not them. Once I got all three in the kennel, closing the door became another game of chance. I finally got the door closed after pushing back one then the other, then the one again, only to realize that Puff was not in the kennel. I opened the door, picked up Puff, and that quick three little kittens hopped out of the kennel and ran behind the stack of hay. At that point I sat down in front of the kennel, looked at Puff and said, "what should I do"? She walked up to me rubbed up against my leg then bit my hand.

Puff is not an aggressive cat nor is she nervous about me handling the kittens, so I took this as a sign, or, an answer to my question. I knew instantly that Puff was telling me to stop chasing the kittens and putting them in the kennel--JUST STOP--was her answer. I listened. With that, I got up, secured the door, and left. When I returned an hour later, Puff had everything under control. Not one of the kittens was running around, climbing walls, or spilling dishes. All three were sound asleep on the rug in front of the kennel with Puff by there side.

I believe, and now I know, that within every encounter, whether with another person, a cat, or a flower, there contains the possibility for growth and expansion. It is our responsibility to awaken to this, seize the opportunity, and become all that we are meant to be.

And so it is...
Thank you Puff.

Canines, Felines, Equines, Oh My

We had a sick horse last week. Shadow wasn't eating or drinking, usually a sign of colic, which can be life threatening. Pat had the vet on the phone before 7:00am and within 30 minutes he and his assistant were here making a quick assessment. Doc Neuman determined he needed to put Shadow on fluids so Pat hitched up the trailer and away they went heading for Neuman's clinic. He's still there--six days later. Neuman said he thought Shadow was not long for this world at one point. Apparently along with the colic he also has salmonella, a parasite that can lay dormant in a horse's digestive system, and can become triggered by stress months or even years later. After a nail biting week, we fully expect Shadow to make a complete recovery; in fact, he will probably come home tomorrow.


Neuman's a very thorough and thoughtful veterinarian. We appreciate that. We also appreciate that he makes house calls even a 30-mile round trip. I find it very interesting that vets are willing to make house calls, but my doctor won't. I'm thinking the next time I'm sick I'll call Neuman.

A week before Shadow's illness, we had another vet emergency. Luna, our springer spaniel, had an allergic reaction to something, which caused her face to blow up with welts and hives. She was also extremely agitated as if she was crawling out of her skin. Our dog's vet, Doc Peterson, said to bring her right in. As soon as we arrived, he made himself available to look her over and get her started on a few meds to calm her and begin reducing the swelling. Over the next two days, Peterson called twice to ask how she was doing. Again I was impressed by the quality and speed of service.

We've had our hands full with animal dramas over the past two weeks. In the midst of medical emergencies, we've also got three kittens who are now a month old and ready to take on the world. As cute as they are, I'm wary of becoming attached to them. The odds of their survival are not in their favor. They've got a lot to learn about keeping themselves out of harms way. I sure hope Puff's able to teach them everything they need to know. Once again, all's well.

Business As Usual

Each morning after walking the dogs, sipping a 1/2 gallon of coffee, sitting in the rising sun and hopefully absorbing enough vitamin D to ward off the epizoodies, I prepare a bowl of cat food for Puff. She greets me at the door with a warm and eager MEOW. The routine is the same, we sit together on the rug outside the kennel while she eats, then she hops up onto my lap for the feline equivalent of a deep tissue massage. Soon afterwards she's ready for her walkabout. She gingerly trots out of the barn and into the corral where she finds the perfect spot to conduct her morning business.

Much to my surprise, she leaves the kittens alone and exposed with the barn door wide open; although, she does look back frequently to see that I'm at my silently agreed upon post.

This morning her business coincided with the horse's morning stroll to the watering hole. While Liam awaited his turn at the well, he noticed Puff scratching around in the dirt. Endlessly fascinated by all things new and different, he pranced over to say hi and perhaps join in the fun. Not at all amused by her unwanted companion, Puff sought refuge and solitude in the next corral all the while keeping a watchful eye on the barn door.

Once out of Liam's playful reach, she got down to business, covered it with due diligence and a bit of dirt, then returned with a new found bounce in her step. Back inside the barn, she conducted the usual head count. Content that all is well, she hops back into the kennel welcomed by three yawning, stretching kittens who barely noticed she was gone. I leave the barn in total agreement: all is well.

Second Chance

I haven't seen Chance in a few weeks, not since he stuck his head out of a hole wiggled his tongue then retreated. Pat assumed that I had killed him when I shoveled dirt and rock into the hole he appeared from during the first sighting. Chance still hasn't shown himself, but there's a possibility that Chance might in fact be a she, and she might have given birth.

Pat called me on his cell phone while standing on the side yard filling the cistern. He said to come out right away. Said he wanted to show me something. "Should I bring the gun or the camera", I asked. He said, "the camera if you want". Later, I thought it prudent not to ask ever again but to just bring both.

Once outside, Pat lifted a large rock that lay a few feet from the cistern exposing a foot-long baby snake. Funny how that sounds. In most areas a foot-long snake would be full grown, but here they're just getting started.

We, or I should say Pat, determined that it was in fact a bull snake. And since the proximity of the baby was within 15 feet of where we last saw Chance, we assumed Chance was its mother.

I suppose Chance could still have died; snakes give birth and move on. They don't have anything to do with the offspring once they hit the ground. But in either case the legend lives on in Second Chance. And so it is.

Dancing Grass, Flat Light

I enjoyed a phenomenal light show last night at dusk and again this morning upon rising. Last night the sky reflected bright red as the sun dropped behind Square Butte while the mountains to the south were painted pink and purple. Truly "purple mountain's majesty" above the fruited plain? I suppose one could call the plain fruited at this time of the year when the grasses and wild flowers are in full bloom. Heavy high clouds moved in as the sun sank low enough to shine between the clouds and the horizon creating a type of light that looks and feels surreal. It's light that I see once in a while at dusk or at dawn that creates an odd feeling--a sort of flatness--if that makes any sense. It's as if space has been reduced to two dimensions. It's very weird, and I like the feeling, although it only lasts a few minutes.

This morning the grasses beyond the fence danced and waved as the storm approached behind the driving wind. It's hard to describe how the tall grasses dance and wave, it's as if a giant invisible hand playfully sweeps across the meadows and fields causing the grasses to yield to its touch as the sun glistens off the dew creating a colorful shimmery illusion. The line, "amber waves of grain" falls flat as an accurate description. There is so much more going on that defies words. The prairie is alive on more levels than I can perceive with my five senses. I suspect that I am feeling that aliveness, but have yet not found a way to put my perception into words. For now let me say, "and so it is". And as my senses sharpen, MORE will come into focus. I look forward with anticipation.