It was the late 80’s or early 90’s, I don’t remember exactly; I was at the top of my field with enough strength and testosterone to take on the world. I was working in Europe and all over North America, my hubris had not caught up with me and I thought I would live forever. It would take twenty years before I would realize my own mortality; but at this time, there was no one in the world who could stand against me, no one.
I could buy two ranches in one year, I drove the most expensive automobiles and had an office with several women to keep me pointed in the right direction; in other words, I was a complete fool and played the role to the max.
It was mid-winter and I was on the road East of Merritt headed for Calgary. I was driving an S series Mercedes and fueling up at a truck stop. A young cowboy walked up and asked if he could ride with me into Calgary.
His hair was a little too long and his clothes were nearly worn out, it wasn’t a fashion statement, it was from work on a ranch. He wore moose hide moccasins with rubber over shoes, his belt and rodeo buckle were older than he was.
In a matter of seconds, I took a measure of the boy using the same skill that I use to size up a horse, a skill has kept me alive with thousands of horses.
“Do you smoke or drink?” I asked.
“I don’t smoke, but if you want to have a drink, I’ll drink with you”, he answered with a smile.
I grinned and thought to myself, he was the real McCoy, a spitting image of myself almost twenty years earlier. “Throw your tack in the trunk, we leave in a few minutes”, I told him.
He pulled a blanket roll and a pack from an early 50’s model pick up, and after stowing it in the trunk, we hit the road for Calgary.
It was only an hour or so to Kamloops and like all cowboys, we began to talk. He was headed to Calgary to get a wife. He and his dad ranched near Alexis Creek and since a ranch generally runs smoother with a good woman, his dad had figured it was time that his son take a wife so that the two bachelors could concentrate on ranching and less on domestic chores.
It was logic at the most basic level. His dad gave him three hundred dollars and told him to find a wife and be home in two weeks for the calving season. He had heard of the Ranchman’s Bar on the Southside of Calgary and figured it was the best place to find a woman who wanted to be a rancher’s wife.
He asked what I thought of his plans. I asked if he had much experience with women: he told me that he really wasn’t all that knowledgeable about women, but he had the desire and he was strong and nimble.
I told him that he had an excellent starting position; but I had been all over the world and that I knew some things about women that might help him. This got his attention and he became very interested.
I started in on the things that women appreciate, “Women like men with new socks”.
“New socks?” he asked, with a look of disbelief.
I told him to look in my duffel bag and get the package of new socks; take out a pair and put them on and throw those old ones out the window.
Once that little session was over it was like a spring breeze had blown through the truck. He was a good sport about the situation so when we pulled into Kamloops, I took him to a western store and bought him new pair of Wrangler jeans and a couple of western shirts. He was really happy with the new clothes and offered to buy me lunch.
We had a couple of beers with lunch at the diner. Now those of you have never had a beer in Canada, let me tell you, they are considerably more potent than your American beer. None the less, my young cowboy was feeling pretty good by this time and once we were back on the road, he began to play with the electronic seat adjustment. He asked me what every knob was for and was admiring the wood trim in the console and on the dash when he noticed the Mercedes star on the hood.
“What’s that out there?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s my front sight”, I answered.
“Front sight, what do you need a front sight for?” he asked.
“You know, hippies, ner do wells, and hitch hikers”, he looked at me with a bit of skepticism and set the seat back like a barber chair and settled in for a nap.
Wouldn’t you know it, there was a hippie up ahead; sitting on his suit case strumming on his guitar. I pushed the throttle halfway to the floor and the new Mercedes roared to life with the front end raised up several inches. My young cowboy became very interested in the action at this point. I adjusted my seat back and looked through the star on the hood lining up the hippie. My cowboy was looking at the hippie and then back at me and becoming more anxious with each second. I was doing over 90 and headed straight for the hippie, who was considering the prospect of running into the trees. My cowboy’s eyes were wide open now and he was looking at me in disbelief. I now had the right wheels on the shoulder and at about 30 feet away from the hippie, I swerved hard to the left to miss the hippie when I heard a thump, thump and a cold blast of air. I turned to look at the cowboy to see what had happened as he was slamming his door shut.
He looked at me with a big grin and said, “You’re gonna have to get your sight adjusted, if’n I wouldn’t have opened the door, we would have missed that last one.”
Now, we really didn’t hit anyone at 90 mph; but it wasn’t from a lack of trying by my young friend.
Thinking you are in control of the situation, and relying on false confidence and arrogance will often leave you in deep trouble. President Obama went into the Health Care Summit with all the confidence and arrogance that he is known for and the Republicans opened the door and knocked him and his democrats right off their seats. Made to look like a fool, he has no one to blame but himself. Being unprepared and taking the other side for granted while relying on past charisma that has dissipated, set up Obama for a disaster. He had his ashes haled in front of the world and had to sit there for hours with the situation running out of control.
A professional horseman for over 50 years, Skook continues to work with horses. Skook has finished an historical novel, Fifty Thousand Years, that traces a mitochondrial line of DNA from 50,000 years ago to the present. The story follows a line of courageous women, from the Ice Ages to the present, as they meet the challenges of survival with grit and creativity. These are not women who whimper of being victims, they meet the challenges of survival as women who use their abilities without excuses or remorse, these women are winners, they are our ancestors.
Fifty Thousand Years is available in paperback and e-book, it is getting great reviews. You can purchase a copy here; Visit me on Facebook.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Dylantheauthor
Being from Wyoming, I got a good laugh at this story
Too bad it wasn’t BOob, I mean BRob.
So did the cowboy ever find a wife?
Was there any damage to the door? This allegory has a few angles. Maybe Obambi is the hippie. It’s like pointing a gun at someone without intending to use it. Both people walk away dumber then they were before. If both people walk away.
Skookum, this is one of your best stories yet. They’re always interesting and a great read. Maybe you should combine them all into a book like the “All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarden” guy.
Hmm, bad boy, Skookum. I can’t get over my own memory of walking along a road in the ’60s and having someone spray gravel on me and yell “dirty hippie!” at me in a near miss like that. He came from behind and scared the daylights out of me. All he could know about my hippiness was my having a heart-shaped patch on my jeans, a rather common fashion statement of the times. No long hair even. It isn’t really that funny, from the other side.
SKOOKUM nice picture both are good looking and also the car and did he find a wife? we will never know i am glad you drive more slow now hopefully bye
Pat’s comment gets my vote.
Nice shaggy dog story, Skookum. Like any good SDS, it carries you along until the punchline, then bam! pie in the face. Having lived in the pre-desegregated south, I heard the same story from a different angle with different subjects, sans the closing moral, which makes your story more like a modern day parable, so I think Pat can rest comfortably knowing that you did not actually try to scare hippies with your Mercedes, or did you?!?
Nevertheless, I agree entirely with your perception of the summit. Having schooled the Republicans at their caucus, Obama thought he could humiliate them on Cspan for all the world to see. He was in for a rude awakening. It was he and the Democrats who came across as uncertain and foolish, especially with their ridiculous anecdotes from “real” constituents.
I’lll be looking for a set of false teeth come this Halloween, and I don’t even have a sister, dead or otherwise. LOL!
As someone who speaks to the public on occasion, I have learned that the use of anecdotes is risky at best. You never know what the members of your audience might know and it is just likely enough that what one of them knows will render the anecdote ridiculous. Such was the case with the sistered dentures. The airhead who felt the story relevant obviously didn’t know that neither the House nor the Senate bills cover dental expenses. But more significant, the story is absolutely without credibility, for no two toothless jaws are remotely alike. The surviving sister would have had to stuff the gum side with silicon or some such and the result that she would be walking around with her mouth half open, unable to chew, speak, or hardly able to breathe. The story was BS. The point was irrelevant and the speaker was a buffoon.
Disturber
I didn’t mean to ignore my readers, but I just finished work. To all of you, let me say, cowboy humor is a bit rough for the average citizen. They, the guys who live the life, are a rough and ready crew, that you would find more than a little barbaric. They are from another time and you wont find them drinking lattes and mochas.
I don’t know if the cowboy found a wife. Alexis Creek is a fairly remote piece of real estate and I doubt if most of the cowgirls who frequent the Ranchman’s are ready to give up the amenities of city life for the role of being a real rancher’s wife. Still, you never know, it is possible. This was before cell phones were practical and they still aren’t too practical in most of rural BC. If he wrote me a letter, it was probably lost in the mountain of paperwork that made up my office.
When I retire, I will drive up to his ranch to see how he did in life.
Ariel, Louis Lamour, a fairly good story teller, said that there were only five stories and they had been the basis for all stories since the Ancient Greeks. As far as I know, he never did explain that statement and unfortunately he passed on some years back. I respect his ability, only Karl Marx has been more widely read than Louis: if he says there are only five stories, I believe him.
I have never been to the Ranchman’s, but I suggest you go if you are in Calgary. If the city cowboys aren’t wild enough for you, give me a call and I’ll take you up to the High and Lonesome Mountains.
I have at least two in the cyber snares!
I had me a Merc just like the one above . . . I had me a wife sent from heaven . . . I drove the Merc at 100 or above and the sky it had no limits . . . I got the hot blood of speed in my veins . . . of women, of wine and money . . . I chased the sun up so I high that my wings they was a burning . . . I feel to the earth faster than light and the pit of hell was a waiting . . . the wife she took the money and life . . . gone is the youth, lost forever . . . and high on the list of seeing life’s bliss is a cold beer in the morning.
With 30 plus cowboys plying their trade on the cattle ranch my father managed 80 miles north west of Edmonton I was privy to a great deal of “cowboy antics”. This was no small operation, and things were done on a scale many would find hard to believe. We actually drained an entire lake that was over 10 miles by 5 miles in order to create new pasture land. But, as with any operation of such size, there was considerable employee turnover. Cowboys are by nature an independent lot and those on the ranch were no different than their counterparts found elsewhere in the world.
It was spring, calving season was over and the time for branding and castration was upon us. I particularly remember a green cowhand named Tim. It was his first year on the ranch and although a good horseman I don’t think he’d been around a lot of cattle in his time. This was 1965 and there were no electric branding irons. Hot coals and irons in the fire were the order of the day as was an iron skillet that would see more than few prarie oysters before the week was out.
Cowboys being cowboys, greenhorns were fair game for the pranks they played to break the monotony of repetative work. Castration was typically a three man operation. One cowpoke on the head, another cowhand with his foot on one of the calf’s hind legs with the other leg held close to his chest so the third man could safely get at the goods. Tim being the newest and greenest of those present was to be the butt of today’s horseplay.
Like a frat house during haze week, the senior members of the ranch team were vocal about what Tim’s initiation would entail. Two raw prarie oysters.. first of the season still warm from their protective pouch. Now a well floured and seasoned prarie oyster fried to a golden brown over an open fire is a treat not to be missed. However, I don’t believe our maker ever intended such fare to be served up raw. But, Tim, wishing to be a part of something bigger eventually succumbed to the cajoling of his senior peers and relented to his fate. With much consternation he managed to consume two raw testicles.
With cowboys bursting in laughter it wasn’t long after Tim’s “meal” that his color began to morph; from a ruddy well weathered tan to a green I cannot describe adequately here. It was nearly an hour before Tim’s retching subsided and he could return to the work of the day. He was now a fully accepted team member on the ranch.
I want to thank Skookum for his stories for they trigger many memories of ranch life for me. Please keep them coming.
TALL GRASS you are a real poet i also detecte a note of nostalgy, come back for more i love it and DONALD BLY great to go back is in it depending on the memorys thank you it is such a smart group here i love this blog bye
Thanks Skookum, I appreciate the invite. I know exactly what you mean by “city cowboys”. The only thing wild about them is the boozing, which does not make a cowboy, city or otherwise. Preening fops would be more like it. I don’t call myself a cowboy by any stretch of the imagination, but I know a real cowboy when I see one. If your skin’s not tanned and leathery as rawhide, and you don’t have a perpetual squint, then you ain’t no real cowboy! If I ever get up Calgary ways, I’ll give you a holler. I’d enjoy a ride up into the mountains while I still wear this mortal coil.
ps. Thanks Curt for letting us ramble on your website!
Donald, speaking of oysters, one of my favorite times was the castration of the colts. You know, I think I will write an article about it, thanks for the memories!
Skookum… when you write that piece on colt castration… can you name one of the critters B-Rob. I’d get a great deal of satisfaction from such a reference. hmmm… eunichization, now there’s a word that ought to be! We used to call the urban faux cowboys, “dime-store cowboys”.
Tall Grass you are either able to see into my life or we have had similar lives. The only thing is I have lost two fortunes, well not on the level of a CEO or the Goreacle; but significant none the less. I have often wondered what was wrong with me, maybe too much lead in the pencil. This is my last go round, I will make it big in the next couple of years or be bankrupt. It doesn’t really matter all that much to me, the end result will be the same, a good rifle, a good saddle horse and two good pack horses, a couple of good dogs for surprise Grizzly encounters, that’s all I really need, and into the mountains I will go. I’m not sure if OT and his crew could find me with a search warrant. The only difference will be is whether I have a home ranch or not. I don’t really need one, but it is nice to have a secure home at times and if I die in the arms of a nightmare, I will have no regrets.
Keep checking in, although, I have thousands of friends, most of them have four legs and don’t talk in a manner that most people understand. You guys are kindred spirits that give me comfort during the conclusion of a long career with horses.
HI SKOOKUM you are forgothing your laptop and your friends here if you go north we needto hear from you and give some comments too we could not do without you bye
Yes Bees, the computer is a serious consideration. Communication is extremely rudimentary in the High and Lonesome. I am hoping that satellite communication technology will improve in the near future, that will probably be a benefit of this war that we weren’t counting on.
I still plan to write of the colorful characters of the north, the weather, the wild animals, the fish, horses and survival; I also want to keep in contact with FA, I just hope we only need to concern ourselves with Conservative fiscal policy and not defeating Socialism within our borders.
It will be interesting to see what kind of reception you receive at 10,000 feet. When I am in CO near Aspen, I am at 7,000 feet and must drive down to the end of the driveway about 3/4 mile from the ranch house to use my computer or my phone. The technology gets better each year, so I am sure it is only a matter of time.
Bees when you are ready and if you have access to Nopale cactus in the grocery let me know and I will send you a recipe. That’s Nopale not Napolitano!
Skookum, give me a start point GPS read and I could locate you and of course the drinks will be on me.
I think of myself as the man who has lived many lives. I was born and raised in West Texas on the Staked Plains, where the cap rock meets the Pecos Valley. Not a lot to see there but the black and white of the desert southwest . . . a lonesome and long distance place where the horizon is 30 miles away. I woke up one day to the sound of whales in the water and ice creaking and groaning above me . . . on a submarine above the Arctic Circle where the only sea breeze was caused by the opening of a sea water vent to let the water stir the fumes of man mixed with hot lube oil. I never saw the sunshine in this place of the never setting sun nor saw the sea birds flying for the missiles we carried were far more important than the men whose lives were at stake. I came back from those years of crazed filled stress to the life of a wandering engineer. I saw most of the eastern states and come to realize that the attitude of the man is the defining factor in dealing with the people of different places. I have two children and grandchildren who don’t know me and really don’t care to. I traveled more than I wanted because there was something calling me and telling me that I had to do what I had to do. I found that I was at home in a foriegn land and wondered why I came back to a place where respect was less on the man and more on the accomplishments. I have always sensed this thing about myself . . . that I am a man out of time . . . a man whose bent to be of before . . . I can take a road and feel like I have been on it before and know that my destination is soon or far. The only time in my life I have ever been lost was dealing with the “white man” . . . and as strange as that may seem . . . I am more white than other. I know that my time is limited . . . mortal soul I am . . . but I will not struggle nor pray for another day . . . but I will prize beyond gold those that I am given.
Old Trooper, an American Patriot
OT, I was wondering if you would pick up on that one. If I ever meet you and some of your guys it would be a high point of my life, I think Mata wants to be there also.
When you finish up over there, we are going to have a drink somewhere. I have so many questions that I would never as over the wireless, but anyway, trust that there are many of us patriots who back you and your mission and think about your ordeal every day.
From here it seems that you must be facing one of the most insidious and dangerous enemies our troops have ever faced.
I assume your troopers on the ranch have fought the weather successfully this winter and that the cows must be nearing calving time; hope all that, goes well.
It makes me proud and I am sure it makes others proud that you share the web site with others in your command. Hopefully, we offer a diversion now and then from the very serious business of war.
Tallgrass, you have a richness of spirit that begs to be released. If you are retired, I ask you to consider writing a book; like I’m doing with the Skook series, actually, I am sure I already have a 120 pages, for the first book. Your thoughts need to be preserved, for in a few decades, those like us will be gone forever!
Despite what you may think, there are children yet to be born that will be hungry to know what it was like for us, the last of the wild spirits.
Excellent prose by the way, I expect to see more in the future!
Donald, “Dime Store Cowboys” that brought back memories. I remember my parents telling me about drug store cowboys and the soda jerk. I was fascinated, needless to say, when the big occasion arrived, I was extremely disappointed. People think parents can be mean, but actually they are preparing you for the disappointments of life.
SKOOKUM i was just thinking that in your book on each story you might add also the comments you receive on each that would increase the interest of the reader ,just a thought bye TALLGRASS it is now the full moon and i always felt that we humans are somwhat diffrent during its fullness even more sensitive or also emotional do you beleive that? bye
Skookum, Your stories are often the high point of the week here amongst a few Troopers from Montana, Wyoming, Utah and three Texans. We are an odd bunch here but are just doing our part.
Your and Donald B’s contribution on the culture of ranching, branding, castration and calving brought a few smiles to some tired faces. I have some slack time today as we just set up a new camp outside the snake pit. (Kandahar). We called Marjef “Dog Patch” while on that Op. It was truly Six Flags over Nothing and my Group has a new mission.
I acquired three donkeys that are the orneriest little SOB’s ever for pack critters. I took them aside and gave them some figs on flat bread and they no longer kick or bite. Local color. You FA folk offer a touch of home for some folks that need that.
The spread is doing well and properly managed by good folks that are rough cut but have a work ethic and are Cowpokes of the spawn of several generations in Montana. When I am deployed they know that they have both the brand and the heritage to look after and do keenly in my absence.
Mata has a yearling Quarter horse named for her that is the product of a fine mare and my Father’s old horse back home.
A drink or two and a pit roasted half steer over a wood fire with You and some FA folks will be in order this coming Fall unless I get extended. I was recalled from retirement last Fall because the Stans were not going according to plan. I have a good trout stream on property as well if you like rainbows or brownies. Mr. Rich Wheeler is on the invite list as well. A dose of ranch life and Capitalism that works despite .Gov interference can be refreshing, alluring and life altering.
0833 Hrs. here and it is a Monday. 52F and showers here. I had coffee three hours ago and an MRE breakfast so I’m set for another day in the Land that God Forgot. No Dime Store Cowboys here but a few NATO types that want a briefing in an hour. I have a Brit outfit and some Canadians nearby that come over for pound cake sent from home, beef jerky, ribbon hard candy and coffee. Infantry types that are Mechanized but mesmerized by the fact that a few of Us have campaign decorations that predate their birth.
FA is Curt’s gift to Us and a tip of the Beret to Him from some deployed folks!
Cheers to him from the other side of the world.
OT: It’s an honor to have you and all the other readers making FA a home away from home.
How nice that you get to work with Patriots from the heartland, although, I have no doubts as to the abilities of any of the patriots over there.
I used to have customers in Mexico, one day while working in Mexico, I was catching my breath and noticed a pile of sugar cane was moving. At first, I wondered if we were having an earthquake, but no the earth didn’t have its bowels in an uproar.
I ducked down for a closer look and there were little hooves moving under that stack. then I realized, a donkey had sugar cane piled on him, until there was nothing showing. He was walking away with at least an eight foot pile of sugar cane piled on him.
Now I have no idea how much sugar cane weighs, but I am willing to wager that the 350 pound donkey had at least 350 pounds of sugar cane laced on his back and the only way it was coming off was to walk home. It’s a good thing the equine has a good sense of direction, because there was no way he could see where he was going.
I usually work at least once a year in Ireland and in Ireland the donkey has a special place in the folk lore: at one time the Irish were only allowed to have donkeys and horses under 12.2 hands, thus the donkey was transportation the farming animal and everything else for the Irish family.
I was lucky enough to be working near Dublin during the Irish National Horse Show and what a hoot that was. To begin with Guiness was passing out pints of beer and I love Guiness, Smithwicks was also passing out their beer and I love Smithwicks, and the Baileys company was serving free shots of their Irish Cream and all the whiskey companies were serving shots of Irish Whiskey and as a blooded Scotsman, I must admit, only the Irish know how to make the smoothest whiskey in the world. G-d planned it that way or we would have all been under Irish dominion, at least that is what they tell me in the pubs.
After sufficient lubrication, and watching a variety of different horses and horsemen, let me tell you, the Irish are horsemen, never doubt that for a moment; I wandered over to the donkey driving class. These farmers had homemade carts made out of old differentials and axles with wooden carts on them, and they and their family were dressed in old costumes and being judged on, I don’t know what! But it was a lot of fun to watch and a sport that is considered very important in Ireland. I laughed and laughed, I am sure I would have laughed, even if I was sober. It was just too funny.
So don’t lose faith in your donkeys, although I have found mules a little easier to work with, especially if you use your imagination.
I had a customer who told me about a woman who started a donkey rescue in England and became a multimillionaire: I don’t think there is that kind of opportunity there in the Stans.
Looking forward to your return, whenever that might be. Best Regards, Skook.
Curt, those of Us Doing business on the wrong side of the World and not on the streets of LA know that the Honor is fleeting but Honest work has it’s own rewards.
Stay Safe Curt and Huge Thanks from here!
TALLGRASS it must have been a unique experience of life the time you spent on the submarine i wonder if USA subs are still probing the artic they surely must encounter the RUSSAN SUB that are trying to map under there to get ownership of the under floor,bye
OT it was a very good show thank you all the best food should be there for you all but you cannot get to fat with the exersise you are doing,bye
Damn I need to do some more living before I am able to hang out with Skookum and Old Trooper. Can’t cut my long hair though, but I doubt you would ever mistake me for a hippy. lol
Aleric, hair is a small issue, I have a light dusting of snow on the roof that stays there year round. Although, I have all my teeth and still consider myself a fairly dangerous man. Unfortunately, I had to give up working out with the MMA boys, some of whom you can still see on the boob tube, because a fairly large Irish horse (17.2 hands, 1600 pounds) tried to put his knee through my sternum, four years ago, it didn’t heal correctly and I had to hang it up. I am proud of the fact that I was called ‘Papa Bear’, they said it was like grabbing a hold of a bear when they grabbed me. I miss the work outs, that was four and a half years ago.
SKOOKUM i am sorry for what you had to suffer now fact please did they call you polar bear or grisly bear?keep well ,bye
Bees, the MMA fighters are a pretty nice bunch as a rule, but they were all city boys, at least the ones I knew. They had never been in a life or death confrontation with a bear, turned an unborn calf around in a cow with a cracked pelvis, milked a range cow, or used a rope to shut the air off on a bull and drop him so that you could trim his hooves or even nail oxen shoes on him with race horse nails in a dry year; the point being, they wouldn’t know a Grizzly from a Black Bear. Trust me, when they are up close and personal, you appreciate the difference very quickly.
They just called me Poppa Bear, partly from respect for my age, since I was 30 to 40 ears older than they were. The were always asking for my secrets, I’d just smile and say, “Moose roast, turnips, and a 100,000 head of horses.
Don’t worry about me suffering, I had eight broken bones and three fingers cut off through the joints that were sewn, wired, and pinned back on and was back to work in six days.
Look for the hump on the withers and a large head with finger size claws, that is your Grizzly. The two year olds and the old ones are the dangerous ones; but any bear that is starving will figure a human is easy pickings. The black has cat claws that retract, making it easier to climb trees, something a mature Grizzly can’t do; but don’t worry he can shake you out of the tree or pull the tree out by the roots.
But they just called me ‘Poppa Bear’.
i always learn better reading your true story i want your book as soon as it copied and sign also bye thank’s
Bees, check it out:
http://cbs3.com/local/resources_rss.xml
Bulls don’t make good pets, I’ve seen this several times, when a guy thinks he has a special relationship with a bull or a pet bear.
Bees,
Those times so many years ago, or perhpas lifetimes ago . . . I was a young man and fearless, motavated to do and achieve. Patriotic in that I volunteered for military service, volunteered for submarine duty and chose the most difficult pathways to follow. I was an engineering type, more of a glorified mechanic than anything else, I worked on the mechanical components and systems that comprise the nuclear power plant, main propulsion systems, potable and pure water making equipment and the supporting auxiliary systems. Of course, I was a submariner and that means that to the degree needed to save the ship we all were cross trained to respond to emergencies. We had a few events when life seemed over and the rigor lock of fear came to visit the weaker constitutions and let me assure you, when the human animal is in exteme life fear the hair on our heads does indeed stand straight and tall, rather humorours sight to remember . . . but deadly to those whose lives depend on instant reflexes.
My experience with encounters with submarines of other navies, since there are many countries that have them . . . was actually very limited. Limited by the operational requirements of keeping a “deterent weapons system” hidden from the enemy. If the enemy KNOWs your location . . . the effective deterence is compromised, at worst non-existent. It was the modus operandi of the enemy to try impact our deterence by having a “tag along” follow us every where we went . . . thus the “tag along” could intervene and prevent the launch of our deterent missile package. So my encounters were first limited by the location in the boat that I spent the greatest portion of my time . . . doing my speciality . . . way back in the very back of the boat . . . basically operationing “Daniel Boone Power & Light” . . . I was on the USS Daniel Boone SSBN-629 for almost 6 years. If any hair raising experiences with the enemy were had . . . I was naturally the last person to know . . . unless of course their was a need for more power or speed.
I must also admit to a little creative license in my previous post concerning sounds of whales and ice . . . yes we could hear them . . . but only when visiting with the “Sonar Techies” who would share the headphones. Sometims during those hours and hours of boredom, just so that occasionally we could verify that there was a world outside the steel hull, the sonar tech would let us listen to the outside world. The whales were around for sure, as was the ice . . . but the principal reason for listening for ice was to avoid being UNDER it. The requirement to deter the enemy meant that we had to be able to launch those birds with almost instant response . . . thus under the ice was one place we never wanted to be . . . since ice and missiles just don’t mix.
My daughter moved from Steamboat Springs to Oak Creek, you have probably passed through.
Once when I was out there visiting her cowboy friend, knowing she had Fridays off called to tell her he needed our help out at the ranch, it’s a 10,000 acre spread near Oak Creek, the owner raises buffalo. Her friend told us where to go and to wait for him and the guys, he didn’t bother to tell us what we were going to be doing. It was a huge arena type thing with heavy metal fencing and it also had a shed full of hay that had board fencing attached.
While we were waiting we suddenly discovered that a buffalo happened to be standing right behind us. We both scaled that board fence, I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast. We were teetering on the top of the fence, trying to hang on to the top board, with all our weight on our toes because the buffalo was trying to get her nose in the crack and we thought she was trying to bite our feet.
The first image the rest of the cowboys saw of us was us being bent over on the top of that fence with our fannies up in the air. When they got closer they were able to yell that, she, Anna, was tame and we could climb down. She had been rejected by her mother and they raised her. Afterwards I wondered what kind of help the cowboys thought Vern had summoned.
They had six metal things set up with a sliding door on each end, and our job was going to be opening and closing the doors, I was assigned the first door, in front of my door was a contraption. They herded six of the buffalo out of over 50 that they put in the corral. Then we waited, then a vet showed up and we found out they were going to do pregnancy checks on the buffalo and I had the best view in the house, unfortunately. After the vet did the first check that one went back out in the corral and told all the rest what was up because, they all seemed to get a lot more ornery after that. They separated the expectant mothers from the rest and later loaded them onto a semi because someone out there buys pregnant buffalo. It was a long day.
These guys didn’t need our help, it was a joke on us, my daughter’s friend got a big kick out of the expression on my face with the first check, I tried to do everything but look wishing I could be anywhere but there. I’m sure our little balancing act was quite fun for them too. The other guys were too polite to laugh at us…..in front of us anyway.
Moral, it’s easy for those knowing what they are doing to make dupes out of those who don’t. Our president is a dupe when it comes to all things presidential and just imagine him out there on that ranch that day, bet the cowboys wouldn’t be as polite.
BTW, those guys herded them up on horseback but after the buffalo were penned, they were in that huge corral on foot and that herd wasn’t tame.
This is a wonderful thread, thank you all for sharing. I love the posters at FA, we are so blessed to have this, thank you Curt and all our excellent contributors!!
MISSY i can’t stop laughing i just relate your story to me and i think of what a coward i am but when the danger come i know we can fly without wings,bye
Missy, that was so funny. I sure enjoy your tales of adventure, cowboys always like good sports.
I was culling a few dry cows and my commercial hauler showed up with a smaller rig, it had an aluminum box on the back with a ten foot ceiling, the roof looked as if a giant was swinging a hundred pound sledge into the roof and wouldn’t stop.
I asked him how he wrecked his truck from the inside, he said he hauled some buffalo and they had more zip than cattle. I think so!
Missy, the buffalo cows were surely sold to someone wanting to start a commercial herd or bring in some fresh blood.
I checked out buffalo ranching and the rewards seemed to be not worth the extra headaches, make that literally.
You are great fun Missy!
Tallgrass that last post was extraordinary writing, for the first time, I felt like I was in a submarine, and I have seen all the movies many times. I am a submarine movie fan from das boot onward. Being under the ice is a night mare for me. Check out my story hot cat on ice!
Figure a metaphor to the current political scene and try a submission, I think you would have hundreds of people on the edge of their seats letting their coffee get cold or their wine get warm.
SKOOKUM i check the link and i could not find any that relate to buffalo maybe its my fault bye
TALLGRASS do you think of the closing somes NASA operations is going to affect the SUBS SURVYS carrying missiles to protect our ownn side of the ARTIC? it is very interesting to read and learn,bye
TALLGRASS i have a good one for you…actual radio conversation of aUS NAVAL ship with CANADIANS of the cast of NEWFOUNDLAND in october 1995 ..americans;please divert your course 15degrees to the north…CANADIENS; recommand you divert your course 15degrees to the south…american;this is the captain of US navy ship i say again divert your course to avoid collision…canadian;i say again you divert your course…american;this the aircraft carrier US LINCOLN the second largest ship in UNITED STATES atlantic ship fleet we are accompanied by 3 destroyers 3 cruisers and numerous support vessels i demand that you change your course 15degrees north or counter measures will be undertaken to ensure the safety of this ship…canadians; we are a lighthouse, your call?…bye
While that is a very funny story bees, it’s a internet hoax. Story has been making the rounds since 96
http://www.snopes.com/military/lighthouse.asp
http://www.navy.mil/navydata/navy_legacy_hr.asp?id=174
Still funny as hell
Bees;
I without doubt accept authenticity of the exchange of vocabulary between the wisely down to earth Canadiens and the certainly most exaulted importance of his representative of the supreme naval forces of the United States of America. There are few people in this world with the power that is given to a ships master, not the matter that it is US war ship, for the Captain of a ship is of a special breed and does out of necessity, indeed reign over his domain. I must, now however, come to say that I have served under Captains that I would have without hesitation charged off into the face of death. One such person was Captain Charles H. Brickell, one of the men whose exceptional courage and fortitude is presented in the book; “Blind Man’s Bluff, The Untold Story of American Submarine Espionage”, by Sherry Sontag. I recommend this book as it does contain some reasonably accurate discussions of deployments and of crew life on the boats.
Submarines, missile boats specifically, have only a limited interface with NASA. During my 6 years on board the Boone we made only one trip to the Cape and that was to test fire a missile after coming out of extensive shipyard overhaul. The missile boats are totally stand alone weapons platforms . . . no communications or support of any kind is required to successfully operate that platform, only a highly trained crew. Launch packages, consisting of targets, designated by earth location, lattitude and longitude, are loaded into the on-board computer systems. The only requirement that must be maintained by the crew is knowing ships location to within a margin of a few inches. This knowing of the ships location is accomplished by tracking the ships movement via the on-board computers which are updated each and every day. During my times that was accomplished by locating the ship by satelite fed signals. I am sure that today’s submarines have significantly improved that process. Still we were able to locate the satelite and update the computers sufficiently to ensure that the accurate hitting of our target was very high in confidence. Keep in mind that the satelites we relied on were military birds and not in anyway NASA supported.
Do I think that NASA budget losses will impact the US Militarily? . . . personally I do not think so. I do support NASA and feel that the money spent for research has returned much more than the cost, so NASA has been good for the country, all the world for that matter. I am not a very happy camper right now over the NASA Ya-Lews that got involved in “Climategate” and those areas need to have their houses cleaned. The US government seems to have lost focus and be jumping off the iceberg only to come face to face with the nine-tenths of the mass that is hidden below the surface.
HI CURT there i thought of TALLGRASS when i read the story onWORDPRESS in humour post i knew to give him a smile to read that i did’nt know that everyone knew it bye
Preg testing… now that’s a tedious task ,espeicallly when you’re dealing with a thousand plus animals. Run them into the chute, clamp ’em down, the vet sheath’s his arm with a plastic glove that extends to his shoulder, the tail is raised and he plunges in.
Preg, preg, preg, open, preg, preg, preg, open… and this is repeated over and over until finally the task has culminated with the last cow being released from the chute. Preg is good, open is bad indicating an unbred animal.
For those of you that haven’t had the priviledge of experiencing ranch life, let me explain the importance of preg testing the cattle. Each fall, decisions must be made as to the makeup of the herd. Keeping unbred animals necessitates that they be fed throughout the winter, yet no offspring will be produced in the spring. This is a huge drain on the economic viability of a ranch, so each fall the unbred cows are taken to the local stockyard where they will sold and eventually become someone’s “steak on the barbi”.
Now I’m not sure how they do it but for some reason the mother’s of cowboys seem to have an innate ability to aptly name their children. Swede Steele’s mother had this ability when she awarded him his colorful moniker. Swede was the quintessential cowboy, tan, leathered, squinty, bowlegged, independent and tough beyond what one would expect from his diminutive stature.
Swede has long since passed from this earth but before he left he taught my brother and me a few cowboy skills that are fast becoming a lost art, due in part to the advances and reliance on modern science.
Swede would stand at the head of the chute during preg testing and call out preg, or open before the vet had ever made his to the shoulder plunge. Swede would call preg, the vet would call preg, Swede would call open, the vet would call open. For the most part each diagnosis would match perfectly, and when they didn’t, my bet was on Swede’s call. Swede performed his magic with nothing more than an observation of the animals cowlick, that curly tuft of hair that every cow sports.
These cowboy skills were valuable, for obvious reasons before the advent of veterinarian preg testing and in today’s world for the profit one could realize, when aptly applied at the local stockyard where unbred animal’s fates were ultimately decided. Because of the value of such knowledge cowboys didn’t often share their profundity with just anyone. My brother and I were very lucky indeed that Swede was like a second father to us and as such shared much cowboy wisdom over the course of his life.
Each fall my brother and I would pool our earnings for the summer and make the 30 mile trek to the Davenport stockyard. Pregnant cows sold for a premium while unbred animal’s were sold at the going beef cattle rate. My brother and I would scour the yard, scanning each lot of cattle for pregnant cows that were about to be sold at beef cattle prices. The difference in price was not insignificant!
When we found a lot of ten or so cattle that had one or two bred animals mixed in with the unbred we’d make our bid at auction. Upon having the winning bid, we’d cull the bred animals and re-sell the unbred beasts. Each year we’d bring home eight to ten head of cattle, relying only on obseravation of the animals cowlick. Each spring we’d see our herd double in size as the veterinarian tested “open” cattle gave birth to a calf. In all the time that my brother and I engaged in this cowboy art, we never came home with a single unbred cow.
Now I could tell you the secret of the cowlick… but I hope you’ll understand, you haven’t earned the right to know.