In the News.

 

Today’s story is ripped from the pages of the Eureka (Utah) Reporter, 18 May 1917. 

Henry Miller, the Elberta farmer who also owns a ranch near Jamison Hill on the old road, had a narrow escape from death yesterday when he was attacked by a cow which was no doubt suffering from rabies. Mr. Miller was at work near his home when the cow made a vicious charge upon him and then continued the attack after the farmer was knocked to the ground. Just at a time when Mr. Miller appeared to be in the greatest danger of receiving fatal injuries from the animal’s hoofs and horns the cow took a fit and this enabled him to crawl to a place of safety.

Propped up in bed at his ranch last evening Mr. Miller related his experience to Lewis Merriman, superintendent of the Yankee Cons mine, stating that the cow probably belongs to one of the Elberta ranchers. Mr. Miller’s injuries are painful but not serious and he will no doubt be out again within a few days.

 Henry is my great-grandfather. And to think my very existence on earth was endangered by a bad, mad cow.

 

My favorite short story.

 

“Genesis” is a long short story—82 pages—tucked into the middle of Wallace Stegner’s Wolf Willow. The tale’s main character is Lionel “Rusty” Cullen, a 19-year-old Englishman who migrated to cattle country in Saskatchewan, intrigued by the romance of the Old West and in search of adventure. It didn’t take him long to realize his notions of cowboy life were misguided:

    Already, within a day, Rusty felt how circumstances had hardened, how what had been an adventure revealed itself as a job.

 Rusty also realizes he is but a pilgrim, least among the nine cowboys who ride out on a late fall roundup to bring in calves for winter feeding. Still, he is determined, even eager, to give it his best, to prove himself a man among men.
        As with many Westerns, landscape and weather are also characters in the story. The roundup is interrupted repeatedly by early blizzards that scatter the cattle time and again. The storms become so violent and the cold so brutal the men are forced to abandon the herd, even the remuda, to race across the plains at a snail’s pace, trying to outrun death itself.
        Romantic notions, if any still exist at this point, are further disabused by the awareness that these men, and others like them throughout the West’s cattle country, put their lives at peril:

For owners off in Aberdeen or Toronto or Calgary or Butte who would never come out themselves and risk what they demanded of any cowboy for twenty dollars a month and found.

 As much as I like “Genesis” for what it includes—a realistic look at cowboy life and work, albeit in extreme circumstances—I like it for what it does not include. There’s not a single gunfight. No Hollywood walk-down quick-draw contest, no snarling packs of bad guys shooting up the streets and back alleys and saloons of a wooden town. There’s no damsel in distress—unless you count mother cows and heifer calves. No splendid super steeds racing at top speed across page after page with nary a stop for a blow, a sip of water, a mouthful of grass. And there are no six-foot-tall bulletproof heroes with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a steely gaze.
        That’s not to say there’s no courage, bravery, or heroics in “Genesis.” But it’s realistic valor, not the over-the-top imaginary superhero stuff so common in Western stories. Stegner sums it up best when, near the end of the tale, he says this about Rusty:

 It was probably a step in the making of a cowhand when he learned that what would pass for heroics in a softer world was only chores around here.

 

A Viewers Guide to Roadside Animals.

Few things—if anything—in life gave my Dad more pleasure than horses and cattle. He knew them well and worked them like few have the ability to do.

But even when not working, you might find him out in the corral “messing” with the horses. You’d often find him horseback in the pasture, or sitting on the tailgate of the pickup truck, or on the tractor seat after winter feeding just watching his cows, long beyond his original reason for being there.

When traveling, he always noticed cattle and horses in the pastures and on the open range flying past the windshield. He’d comment on how “slick” (or maybe “poor”) the cows looked, admire the growing calves, point out a well-made range bull, praise horses and colts.

While not as practiced at it as Dad, it’s a practice I picked up from him. Our car often hears comments about grazing cattle, usually accompanied by regret that almost all of them nowadays are black. Sighting a herd of our favored Herefords gleaming red and white in the sun is a rare and precious thing. Were you with us, you’d also hear my mockery every time we pass one of those yellow diamond-shaped roadside signs warning of livestock grazing on open range—with a picture of a dairy cow on it.

But, perhaps, my favorite remark concerning roadside animals is one I heard decades ago from a rodeo traveling pal; a comment that betrays a real love for the sport. Drive past horses in a pasture and Marlowe “Bird” Carroll would likely say, “You think those horses would buck?”

I still wonder.

Writing about Phil and Bill.

The summer 2015 issue of range magazine has arrived in mailboxes and on newsstands around the West. Inside its pages are two articles I wrote about interesting Westerners.

Phil Kennington is a well-known cowboy poet who has entertained readers and audiences alike for decades. But Phil’s life is much bigger than poetry. He was raised on a ranch where he learned early on to handle livestock—an education that served him well later in life. He spent decades lifting horses’ legs and tacking on shoes. You can read about Phil in the “Red Meat Survivors” section in the magazine.

Also featured is a ranch that lies between Utah’s Wasatch Plateau and San Rafael Swell. The Quitchumpah Ranch is owned and operated by Bill Stansfield, who runs cattle on Fish Lake National Forest permits, a BLM lease on the San Rafael Desert, and his own pastures. Stansfield—with help from family and friends—was branding calves the day I visited. Some photos from that day were posted here earlier; others accompany the article.

Read these stories and more in range. If you don’t subscribe, you can remedy that here: www.rangemagazine.com.

Point and shoot.

I am not a photographer. But, in the course of magazine writing I am often expected to provide pictures to illustrate stories. So, most of what I shoot is journalistic or documentary-type stuff.

But when something interesting in an artistic sense presents itself, I point and shoot and try to capture it. I look for odd angles and unusual arrangements, strange combinations and patterns of colors—things that look almost abstract or graphic in nature. None of the photos here are posed; all were taken on the fly. Only a couple of the images are cropped; the rest are full-frame just as the camera caught them.

Take a look if you’ve got the time. But remember—I am not a photographer.

At the rodeo.

The behind-the-scenes rodeo photos were taken at a high school and a college rodeo. Then there are a couple of shots representing success. Finally, a pair of detail pictures of Jeff Wolf’s monumental sculpture “Rodeo” that I think capture the art’s dynamic action.

At the ranch.

A skyline shot of gathering cattle off Midnight Creek starts this selection, followed by several pictures from a branding. The set ends where it started, with an Idaho ranch horse with a mecate and hackamore hanging from the saddle horn.

At work.

Working with leather is a job, a craft, a skill, and an art. While doing stories on a couple of those artists I captured a few behind-the-scenes photos of some of the tools and materials the artists employ, ending with saddles for sale and an extreme close-up of a maker’s mark stamped into leather.

 

At play.

Guitars can look as good as they sound. This lone photo comes from the practice pen of Mary Kaye and the Kaye Sisters as they blended bended strings and harmonized sweet voices.