Greetings!
It's been a while. A very long while. Many trials, many joys, many near misses and a few hits since my last post.
This, however, has been a year of hits, mostly. The animals, the property, family, friends, and at times, our spirit.
As for the hits, we felt a big one in February when my dad left this Earth for parts as yet unknown. I believe I heard his voice at the moment of his death telling me that he'd see me on the other side. On the other side of what, I wondered. I'm still wondering. I've spent a great deal of my time since childhood wondering. Then it occurred to me that if he could say goodbye in a way that I could hear and understand, then why can't he tell me more. Why can't he tell me what, where, when, and why. I honestly don't think his voice was a hallucination. The timing was too precise. I didn't know he had passed until a few moments after I heard him. I don't question the experience, but I wonder why he can't tell me more. I guess that's just the way it is--on the other side.
He was an honest man--my dad. He measured his value and worth by the success of his children and by his ability to leave something for his kids. Unfortunately for him, both of these values took a large toll on his health and on his ability to care for himself in the latter years. I still admire his conviction, though. He knew what his life was all about. He had decided early on what his responsibilities were and how he would fulfill his obligations.
Many times I have wondered how he did all of the things he did. How he stayed focused and committed to his goals, to his responsibilities, to his values, to the life he created for himself. I'm both amazed and sad that he spent so much of his time and energy working--at two jobs and at home. Even vacations were work for him and mom. I often feel sad for him that he must have been dog-ass tired for most of his life. But, he never quit. He never said, "I can't do it anymore". He stayed the course, no matter what.
His was not a glamorous life, nor a fun life, nor a very diverse life, but a life well lived--by all the measures that count--his. My husband recently said that my dad was the most honorable person he's ever known. Pat knows a lot of people, so to say that means a great deal. It meant a great deal to me; so did my dad. And so it is.
The Well: A source of water, nourishment, life. The Well: Those who live in-ease rather than dis-ease. The Well: That which we strive to be.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Friday, December 23, 2011
Oh Little Town of Ulm
Even though my mailing address lists us as living in Great Falls, we actually live in the tiny ranching community of Ulm, MT. Ulm lies approximately 8 miles outside of Great Falls' southern most city limit, and our house lies 3 miles further out from the town center, which consists of Quigley's Quick Stop, The Last Jump Bar and Casino, and The Village Curios Gift Shop, all of which sit kitty corner to the Ulm Post Office neatly arranged adjacent to the I-15 off ramps.
The owner's of Quigley's, a couple by the name of Chuck and Robin, often host picnics, BBQ's, and a well-attended annual Christmas party. Last year, Pat and I missed the party instead choosing to stay home to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. After hearing about last year's party, I realized what a gem we had missed. Also missed was the opportunity to more firmly cement our place in this new community of ours.
So, this year when the date was announced and the posters in Quigley's first appeared, I dutifully marked our calendar in hopes of not missing this opportunity once again.
On Thursday, December 22nd, at 7 pm Pat and I found our place seated with a small group of friends and neighbors in the Last Jump Bar enjoying what turned out to be a feast of home cooked dishes, freshly baked holiday goodies, and a host of holiday cheer. Throughout the night, Chuck interrupted the festivities by announcing the winning numbers for dozens of door prizes all provided by him and Robin as a way of thinking the community for supporting their businesses. Before long, Pat's number was called. He reluctantly stepped forward to receive his gift along with a hearty handshake from Chuck. Back at the table he revealed his bag of treasures: a DVD, several packages of popcorn, and several boxes of candy--what a treat! A night at the movies!
Other gifts included, bags filled with coffee mugs, coffee, wall plaques, cross-stitched hand towels, beer glasses, and gift cards. But the much talked about and highly sought after prize we all waited until the end of the night for went to a rancher named, Bud--a rather large flat screen TV that Bud said he would mount over his wife's bathtub. What a nice guy.
The little town of Ulm has become our home in ways we never could have imagined. Neighbors helping neighbors, business owners thanking their customers with a party, plus a weekly food bank at the church for folks finding themselves in a pinch has become the exception rather than the norm in most towns around the country. I feel especially blessed and grateful to find myself a part of a community bound by threads of kindness and decency, and a spirit of generosity that makes me proud to call Ulm my home and the folks that make this community special my friends.
And so it is.
Monday, October 3, 2011
A Sweet Soul
Yesterday we said farewell to our beloved Uncle Charlie.
June 15, 2010-October 2, 2011
I feel most blessed and grateful for the privilege of witnessing his birth--touching his tiny paw moments after he arrived; watching him grow into a sweet and gentle being; and finally to hold that same tiny paw as he slipped away to wherever sweet and gentle souls go.
Today is indeed a sad day. We will move through the days ahead with a heavy and broken heart.
Farewell sweet soul Uncle Charlie. Your life has enriched us and we are forever changed.
June 15, 2010-October 2, 2011Friday, July 29, 2011
From Red Lights to Red Hats
Back in the late 1800's and up until the mid 20th century, Wallace, Idaho was a bustling and bawdy silver mining town nestled in pine-covered Silver Valley near the Idaho-Montana border. Now home to less than 800 human souls, the town narrowly escaped demolition back in the late 1980's when plans for Interstate 90 showed that Wallace was in the way of progress. The town's folk, feeling quite attached to their homes and livelihoods and not at all interested in pulling up roots, instead pulled off the coup of the century. Resolute in the knowledge that historic buildings are protected from seizure and demolition by government forces, the town council and elected officials spearheaded a committee to save the town by having every last building in downtown Wallace placed on the National Registry of Historic Places. And so, Interstate 90, rather than displace Wallace, was built "over" Wallace.
Now that the Interstate brings hundreds of thousands of vehicles right over Wallace each year, and the engineers had the good sense to install an exit, the town has the potential to attract visitors--people willing to spend money on goods and services. In 2011, the once sleepy little mining town slated for demolition has blossomed into an awakened little town filled with highly motivated citizens eagerly putting their talents to work showing the world, or at least the part of the world driving above on I-90, that Wallace is worth a closer look.
Silver mining remains a big part of Wallace's economy, an underground economy, so to speak; however, above ground the pristine mountains and lakes now attract outdoor enthusiasts from around the country. Wallace and surrounding towns have capitalized on the deep powder blanketing two ski hills during most of the winter, scenic bike trails beckoning summer peddlers, and alpine lakes enticing kayakers and fisherman. To its credit, Wallace holds the title of Silver Capital of the World having produced over 1.2 billion ounces of silver since 1884, and they wear their title with great pride.
Now that the Interstate brings hundreds of thousands of vehicles right over Wallace each year, and the engineers had the good sense to install an exit, the town has the potential to attract visitors--people willing to spend money on goods and services. In 2011, the once sleepy little mining town slated for demolition has blossomed into an awakened little town filled with highly motivated citizens eagerly putting their talents to work showing the world, or at least the part of the world driving above on I-90, that Wallace is worth a closer look.
Silver mining remains a big part of Wallace's economy, an underground economy, so to speak; however, above ground the pristine mountains and lakes now attract outdoor enthusiasts from around the country. Wallace and surrounding towns have capitalized on the deep powder blanketing two ski hills during most of the winter, scenic bike trails beckoning summer peddlers, and alpine lakes enticing kayakers and fisherman. To its credit, Wallace holds the title of Silver Capital of the World having produced over 1.2 billion ounces of silver since 1884, and they wear their title with great pride.
The thirteen or so weeks of summer are filled with ATV jamborees, huckleberry and gooseberry festivals, 19th century plays at the Melodrama Theatre, parades, accordion festivals, Under the Interstate Flee Markets, and good ole' fashioned hospitality. Aside from the Best Western Hotel at the edge of town, there are no chain or brand name businesses--no Walmart, no Albertson's, no Target, not even a Dairy Queen. The entire town is owned and operated by the locals. And it shows. The amount of pride, enthusiasm, attention to detail, hospitality and downright friendliness oozes out onto the colorfully decorated storefronts and sidewalks.
Last week, a group of seven women, myself included, chose family-owned and operated Brook's Hotel, centrally located in historic downtown Wallace, for a two nights' stay in order to take the 17-mile bike ride on the Route of the Hiawatha. http://www.skilookout.com/hiawatha/
While the bike ride wowed on every level with high altitude trestles and two-mile long tunnels, Wallace stole the show. On our first night before the bike ride we walked the half dozen streets comprising "downtown" taking in the architecture, reading the plaques on each "historic" building, chatting with shop owners, and inquiring where we could get a good meal. With several suggestions in hand we decided on A Taste of Aloha. Who knew that Wallace, Idaho had an authentic Hawaiian restaurant, but it does, on the corner of 6th and Pine. Dinner was a truly fun experience as we joked with the owner and his wife who were the chef and waitress respectively.
After dinner we continued walking until we found the Melodrama Theatre built in the late 1800s and in continuous use since. The poster on the window announced the next production which would begin on the next evening at 7 pm. The title: Purdy Gerdy Gets Whacked as Wallace Goes Wireless. Now, who could resist a reproduction of a play that was written, produced, and staged right here at the Melodrama Theatre a hundred years ago? Certainly not us.
Before returning to The Brook's, we found a storefront at the far edge of town across the street from the train depot with a flashing neon sign which read "Bordello Museum". Oh yeah, we're definitely checking that out before we leave. Several doors down from our hotel we passed "The Tea Shop", a fussy, frilly, cafe-style shop reminiscent of every little girl's dreams complete with lace table cloths and bone china tea sets. The sign in the window says they serve high tea in the afternoon. Oh yeah, we're definitely checking that out, too.
The next morning we arose early, ate an ample breakfast, then headed to the trail head. The ride took longer than we anticipated. Our group split into two groups, those who were cold and wanted to ride as fast as possible for warmth and to speed back to the hotel hot tub and cocktails, and the group I chose who dressed appropriately and rode leisurely stopping often to gawk and take pictures. I think I made the better choice. Later in the evening, we all met for dinner at the Jameson Saloon, then walked down the street to the Melodrama Theatre while passing a growing crowd of onlookers awaiting the ATV parade, which kicks off the 3-day ATV Jamboree. After the show, we walked the three blocks back to The Brook's Hotel passing countless ATVs parked nilly-willy along the parade route with people sitting perched on the seats visibly drunk or stoned, or both. The parade was over, but the party had just begun.
The next morning, the group who sped through the bike ride decided to head for home after a wonderful breakfast of huckleberry waffles cooked by Bill Brooks and served by his daughter, Amy. The remaining three of us had our sights set on the Bordello and the Tea Shop as well as cruising the side of the mountain that tightly held tiny little houses where most of the town's people live.
First the Bordello Museum. A local family bought the building in the late 1990's after it had been boarded up unused since the FBI raided it and shut it down in 1988. The entire second floor, which was where business was conducted had been literally frozen in time with nearly everything intact as it was on the day of the raid, including cigarette butts in the ashtrays and bags of groceries in the kitchen, not to mention the actual red lights that illuminated the stairway as well as the lounge. The girls, along with the madam, lived in the bordello. The bedrooms that the girls serviced the clients in were their actual bedrooms. The madam had very strict rules, which were posted and followed to the letter. The girls were not to leave the bordello for any reason except for their monthly doctor visits. They were, however, allowed on the back second-floor deck in the afternoon for fresh air and sun. Periodically, girls were moved to other towns, sometimes in other states, to keep them from becoming attached to their clients and to keep the supply of girls new and different.
I had expected the Museum to show prostitution as it was during Wallace's early days when the town bustled with bawdy women, raucous men, and a host of lawless characters. I suppose like many people I have a romantic notion of America's wild west with saloons, show girls, drunken brawls, lively poker games, and Miss Kitty. Instead I saw a very depressing, very unromantic, reality where young women experienced degrading, dehumanizing treatment from those who "owned" them and those who used them. We learned that at one time the entire block was considered the "red light district", which began in the late 1800s during the silver rush and lasted nearly a hundred years.
After spending the next few hours checking out every single shop and business, we headed to The Tea Shop for high tea. There were only 5 tables in the tiny crowded shop and two of them were reserved so we were asked to return in a half hour or so. This gave us ample time to cruise up the mountain and see where everyone lives. It was amazing to see houses literally clinging to the side of a cliff like a goat; it was also amazing to see the views that people wake up to each morning. A view of a beautiful valley nestled between two ranges with a town tucked underneath an Interstate.
Back at The Tea Shop, a corner table awaited our arrival. Like three bulls in a china shop, we clumsily skinnied our way past several tables, taking care not to bang our elbows or shopping bags into the sea of enormous red hats sticking out over the chairs blocking our way. It seems the reserved tables now hosted eight elderly, overdressed ladies from Wallace's chapter of The Red Hat Society. The eight women seated at two adjoining tables nibbled tea biscuits and sipped Earl Gray tea in complete and utter silence. I wasn't sure what to make of this strange behavior. Most of the Red Hat ladies I've seen have been boisterous, almost demanding the attention they sought. But not this group. Not a peep. I wondered if they thought they were behaving appropriately. I also wondered if they had done this so many times that they simply had nothing to say to one another. I also wondered if maybe their hats were too tight and they weren't getting enough circulation to the brain. Then another thought came to mind, I wondered if any of these women's husbands had visited the bordello. I also wondered if any of these women had worked at the bordello. I wondered about all of the history, all of the stories that made this town what it is, and how it had evolved from red lights to red hats.
And so it is.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Lucky Day
"WHOA", I yelled as I pulled back on the dog's leashes. All three of us stopped dead in our tracks. The girls stood still wondering why we had stopped, and I stood still wondering what the hell just ran across the road ahead of us. Apparently, I was the only one who noticed otherwise the girls would have been dancing around wanting to give chase.
We were on the driveway heading back from the mailbox as we do everyday about this time. Only about 50 feet from the mailbox and still quite a ways from the house, the three of us stood motionless while I pondered our options. First off, I couldn't imagine what I had seen. I only caught a glimpse of the creature as it ran across the road and disappeared in the tall grass. The body was as large as a Beagle and similarly colored--mostly beige with dark patches. That was all I saw as it blurred by.
As we stood in the middle of the road I continually scanned the grass trying to determine if the creature had kept running or was hunkered down nearby. Within a few moments my question was answered as my heart dropped into my shoes. Our eyes met and my mind immediately raced for some glimmer of recognition. Nothing I knew of matched the face that stared back.
The upright round ears looked like that of a koala bear. The white stripe down the middle of the face reminded me of a skunk. The rest of the face was also striped, which reminded me of......nothing. The buff colored body and dark face--still drawing a blank. Well, I thought, it must be something. And, it must be something that is watching us, waiting....
Waiting for what? Is it aggressive? Is it just curious like me? Is it waiting to jump on one of the dogs? Is it...? What the hell is it? Whatever it is it's big, perhaps 30 pounds big. That's too big. Now I'm scared. The girls still haven't seen it or gotten a whiff that something is nearby. We were a good 40-50 feet away from it, but it positioned itself only about 10 feet from the edge of the road that we needed to pass by in order to return home.
There was no way in hell I was willing to risk passing this creature with two screwy, headstrong dogs at the end of a leash, especially since it was watching us perched so close to the road.
Fortunately, Pat had just returned home from a day in the mountains with Liam and was busy outside parking the horse trailer. I called him and asked if he could come and get us. The tone in his voice immediately changed as he asked, "what's wrong?" I told him that something big was in the grass near the road and it was watching us. Without hesitation he jumped into the truck and headed down. As the truck approached, the creature disappeared into what I later saw was an enormous hole.
Once we three were safely inside the truck I described the creature to Pat. He assured me it was a badger and that I was smart not to cross its path. Apparently, badgers are known for their fierceness, their meanness, and their ability to shred anything that gets in their way.
As I later learned, the badger is mostly nocturnal so I guess I was lucky to have seen one in the middle of the afternoon. Lucky too that I saw it before walking close enough for the girls to make their howdy-do's. And lucky that Pat was home and able to rescue the three damsels in distress.
Today was indeed a lucky day. And so it is.
Photos courtesy: Google Images
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Summer
Summer began yesterday, June 21st. It was the first day this year that the thermometer found 75 degrees. Spring has left us cold, damp, and up to our ears in skeeters. In fact, I have bites inside my right ear and in other orifices that skeeters shouldn't visit.
The horses stand at full attention each evening for their marinade of fly and skeeter spray generously applied and gratefully accepted. The cats, all of whom are full-grown after celebrating their first birthday on the 15th of this month, eagerly scamper into the barn before dusk to avoid the onslaught of marauding insects seeking warm blooded creatures great and small.
Puff and her sweet little boys triumphed through their first long and bitterly cold winter. Yesterday's nearly 80 degree weather found them lounging in the sun early in the morning, but by mid afternoon all were lying on the cool concrete floor inside the garage. All that is except Uncle Charlie whom I found lying on a pile of freshly shaken throw rugs tossed on a bench just outside the back door. He would occasionally lift his head and look at the kitchen window hoping to catch a glimpse of me passing by. Once the floors were washed I joined him on the bench for a well deserved rest between chores. He curled up on my lap, looked up into my eyes, sighed, then laid his head on my arm and closed his eyes. Of the three kittens, Uncle Charlie is the least likely candidate for a barn cat. He would love to come into the house and live happily ever after on a window sill watching the birds, gophers, and clouds pass by without ever wanting to go outside again. Ernie, on the other hand, doesn't mind a little tummy tickle now and then but would just assume spend all his time hunting mice and baby gophers. At the end of the day when I whistle for them to head into the barn for the night, Ernie is usually the last to arrive. He will take every last minute of daylight insisting that the barn is for sleeping and eating and he's simply not yet tired or hungry. On two occasions, he chose to stay away when called only to find himself locked out for the night. I'm not sure if he spent the night upset or not, but by morning's first light he was eagerly awaiting an opportunity to get inside with his mom and brothers.
Chip, the middle kitten, has a very sunny and happy disposition. I often see him skipping along the road merrily on his way searching for something to chase or stalk. He doesn't venture too far from the barn and is often hiding in plain sight waiting for activity to draw him out. Puff, the mother, spends much of her time napping atop the haystack in the barn. She' s not very friendly, but will walk beside me when I'm out doing chores. If I stop to visit with her she usually lets me pet her but will not tolerate being picked up.
Each night as the kittens arrive in the barn for bedtime, each in turn gets picked up for a hug and a few words of praise and appreciation. I'm not sure if they look forward to the routine, but I sure do. I so appreciate that each has had a day full of freedom and adventure, and I also appreciate that at the end of the day each of the boys along with their mom are tucked in for another safe and cozy night.
Another summer has begun. Another season of cautious conscious living. I look forward with optimism, gratitude, and eternally good humor. And so it is.
The horses stand at full attention each evening for their marinade of fly and skeeter spray generously applied and gratefully accepted. The cats, all of whom are full-grown after celebrating their first birthday on the 15th of this month, eagerly scamper into the barn before dusk to avoid the onslaught of marauding insects seeking warm blooded creatures great and small.
Puff and her sweet little boys triumphed through their first long and bitterly cold winter. Yesterday's nearly 80 degree weather found them lounging in the sun early in the morning, but by mid afternoon all were lying on the cool concrete floor inside the garage. All that is except Uncle Charlie whom I found lying on a pile of freshly shaken throw rugs tossed on a bench just outside the back door. He would occasionally lift his head and look at the kitchen window hoping to catch a glimpse of me passing by. Once the floors were washed I joined him on the bench for a well deserved rest between chores. He curled up on my lap, looked up into my eyes, sighed, then laid his head on my arm and closed his eyes. Of the three kittens, Uncle Charlie is the least likely candidate for a barn cat. He would love to come into the house and live happily ever after on a window sill watching the birds, gophers, and clouds pass by without ever wanting to go outside again. Ernie, on the other hand, doesn't mind a little tummy tickle now and then but would just assume spend all his time hunting mice and baby gophers. At the end of the day when I whistle for them to head into the barn for the night, Ernie is usually the last to arrive. He will take every last minute of daylight insisting that the barn is for sleeping and eating and he's simply not yet tired or hungry. On two occasions, he chose to stay away when called only to find himself locked out for the night. I'm not sure if he spent the night upset or not, but by morning's first light he was eagerly awaiting an opportunity to get inside with his mom and brothers.
Chip, the middle kitten, has a very sunny and happy disposition. I often see him skipping along the road merrily on his way searching for something to chase or stalk. He doesn't venture too far from the barn and is often hiding in plain sight waiting for activity to draw him out. Puff, the mother, spends much of her time napping atop the haystack in the barn. She' s not very friendly, but will walk beside me when I'm out doing chores. If I stop to visit with her she usually lets me pet her but will not tolerate being picked up.
Each night as the kittens arrive in the barn for bedtime, each in turn gets picked up for a hug and a few words of praise and appreciation. I'm not sure if they look forward to the routine, but I sure do. I so appreciate that each has had a day full of freedom and adventure, and I also appreciate that at the end of the day each of the boys along with their mom are tucked in for another safe and cozy night.
Another summer has begun. Another season of cautious conscious living. I look forward with optimism, gratitude, and eternally good humor. And so it is.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Hope Was Nowhere in Sight
It sounds like people everywhere are saying that this winter is one for the record book. I concur, it has been long and is far from over. This week a Chinook blew through bringing warm temperatures on the coat tail of heavy wind. I'm not sure which I prefer, the calm cold or the windy warm. Each offers its own benefits and challenges.
This afternoon, the dogs and I took advantage of the warm wind and walked the mile round trip to the mailbox. On the way back, Cali, our younger Springer Spaniel, broke rank and bounded to the side of the drive where she eagerly plunged her nose into a crusty snow bank. Feverishly she plowed through, back and forth, following the scent and movement of something that had found temporary refuge. Luna and I watched and waited. It was obvious she was on the track of something that was still there rather than of something that had bedded down earlier in the day but had since moved on. Her movements-- deliberate and jerky. Her determination--steadfast. Her senses--keen and accurate.
After digging, sniffing, pawing, repositioning, then digging again and again, a small brown mouse gave up the game and made a run for it. It emerged from the now decimated snow bank, hopped up onto the firm crust above its ransacked nest and ran like hell for what it hoped was nearby.
Unfortunately, hope was nowhere in sight. Only a 50-pound Springer, springing joyfully after the hard earned prize. She pounced then scooped the helpless vermin into her mouth. Luna dove in with hope of her own, but Cali turned her back, and within seconds the mouse was gone.
Thankfully it's a warm day because Cali will spend the rest of the afternoon outside...digesting....
And so it is.
This afternoon, the dogs and I took advantage of the warm wind and walked the mile round trip to the mailbox. On the way back, Cali, our younger Springer Spaniel, broke rank and bounded to the side of the drive where she eagerly plunged her nose into a crusty snow bank. Feverishly she plowed through, back and forth, following the scent and movement of something that had found temporary refuge. Luna and I watched and waited. It was obvious she was on the track of something that was still there rather than of something that had bedded down earlier in the day but had since moved on. Her movements-- deliberate and jerky. Her determination--steadfast. Her senses--keen and accurate.
After digging, sniffing, pawing, repositioning, then digging again and again, a small brown mouse gave up the game and made a run for it. It emerged from the now decimated snow bank, hopped up onto the firm crust above its ransacked nest and ran like hell for what it hoped was nearby.
Unfortunately, hope was nowhere in sight. Only a 50-pound Springer, springing joyfully after the hard earned prize. She pounced then scooped the helpless vermin into her mouth. Luna dove in with hope of her own, but Cali turned her back, and within seconds the mouse was gone.
Thankfully it's a warm day because Cali will spend the rest of the afternoon outside...digesting....
And so it is.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 3, 2010
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:
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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.
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.
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