Christmas on the Sagebrush

     December 25, 1909 dawned warm on the sagebrush sea of southwestern Wyoming . It was a Saturday, and the “Warmest day so far,” according to my grandfather’s pocket journal. Never a man of a great many words, his terse one-line entries don‘t hint at any particular significance of the day. He was still riding for Franklin and Gilligan, the big sheep outfit owned by his brother-in-law and old Doc Gilligan. So Christmas or not, warm day or not, he was horseback in the gray/white monochrome of winter.   

     Last night in the back pasture, when the Enemy of All Coyotes and I watched the full moon sailing across that cloudless winter sky, I thought of him. I thought of the Christmas only four years later, when he had arrived home from the range on December 19, 1913. He had been married for two years and had a young son. That year, he hadn’t even made an entry in the pocket journal again for almost two weeks. He was home, and he and Harrie and Franklin (their first-born, named for the beloved partner and brother in law) were warm and happy together.
     A little over six years later, he was gone. He didn’t live long enough to watch his children grow into adulthood. But I like to think he was watching when Grandma and I gathered our bunch in off the range like some unruly bunch of woolies yesterday. He couldn’t be there for the family Christmas concert to hear the piano and the violin or sing the old Christmas songs with us. I like to think that he would have loved the Christmas pageant, with a beautiful angel and sweet Mary and Joseph, and the biggest shepherd carrying the littlest sheep on his shoulders. I think he would have liked that part a lot. But even more, I think he would have loved the words from the Book of Luke, read by his eldest great-great grandson:

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Cæsar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judæa, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

From all of us here at Three Elk Meadow, Merry Christmas – and God bless us, every one!

-Grandpa

Opening Day

     4am comes quickly. As does the lethargy that accompanies early morning wake up calls. However, there are three distinct times where 4am has been my favorite hour. Fishing. Hunting. And when my beautiful wife woke me with, “This baby is coming. Now.” Best wake up calls in the world and each get me moving like a kid on Christmas. My autumn was packed with more football games than fishing days and although I am not always paying attention, I am pretty dang sure Mama B isn't giving me one of these wake up calls anytime in the near or distant future, so this post is about door number two.

     To get to “the spot”, we need to get up early. It's quiet. Not much is said as we eat our breakfast bars and drink our hot chocolate. I don't speak much in the morning. It takes my brain a minute to catch up with the rest of me. Someone starts the truck and we let it warm up. After fueling up with a delicious breakfast provided by encouraging wives and mamas, we head out.
     After the trailhead, it's a good couple miles into the saddle. We rely heavily on our headlamps and the contours of the forest to guide us. Once we make it to Noneyabusiness Meadow, we hoof it to the dip in the timberline on the horizon. We usually find the fence and head up the mountain, the elevation rising in a short amount of time. Occasionally someone has moved said fence, so we miss our mark but eventually make it to the top as the light is starting to spread across the meadow. We find respite under a tree, hoping to see one of God’s majestic creatures getting its last bite to eat before bedding down for the day.
     This last trip was a little different. It was Apprentice Dad, The Apprentice and me. No Grandpa this time, which doesn't happen very often. We sat under a tree and waited for about 15 minutes for it to lighten up enough to shoot. In a beautiful coincidence, there were three bull elk on all sides of us screaming while a wolf pack answered. Throaty growl, short yelps, bugle. I could feel my heart pounding. Was it hearing a wolf for the first time or the struggle up the hill carrying a little extra winter weight from 2014? Maybe both. However, it was a time of reflection, appreciation and excitement. I was going to hunt without the physical guidance of Grandpa and I had the uneasy feeling that I had been given the reins for the first time. I had gone out on my own in years past, but this time was different. It felt like the torch had been passed to me and Apprentice Dad. There was a need to prove something.   

     Finally, it was shooting light and we had to work on our ascent to the base of the mountain. It wasn't long before we caught up to one of those bulls we'd heard bugling in the darkness. We saw legs and hind quarters high stepping through the forest like the great Walter Payton leaping over the New England Patriots as he led the 1985 Chicago Bears to a Super Bowl championship. We never got a shot on that bunch, but with a little patience and a focused Apprentice, we eventually walked out to the truck at 11 pm with meat in our packs and a newfound appreciation of hunting in the high country. I felt like a Hunter.

-Long Rifle

Silence of the Mountain

     I’ve never known exactly why, but sometimes late in the elk season, the mountain just goes quiet. If you’ve never been there, maybe you can’t appreciate that. But in early October, the high country is a pretty noisy place. There are elk bugling, and chickadees chipping and gray jays squawking and even a wolf howl from time to time. There are ravens speaking their ancient language in the roost trees at dawn. But a few weeks later, everything just goes silent. It’s a little eerie, and it makes you feel very small indeed. 

      We left the trailhead at 5:00 AM, and were high above Story Meadow before first light. Having fulfilled our contract as packers for the Great Desert Elk Hunt, the Apprentice and I had the next two days off. Apprenticedad – ever the team player – said he could handle the butchering himself. He set us free to hunt some mountain elk. We were out of the cabin like we were playing hooky from school. And we were standing in the predawn graylight before I realized how quiet it was. Not a sound, not even the breeze in the fir trees. But we were not alone. There were elk.
      All the elk in upper Notellum Creek were on the move – or at least they had been the day before. The day-old snow told the story than anyone could read. They were headed out. There were trails five or six feet wide, all headed the same direction. It wasn’t the snow that was moving them – just the ancient wisdom of the herd. Someplace southeast of us, there were elk. Multiple bunches, actually – and each being led by some old slate-blue colored cow who knew every tree, every rock and every draw between here and the winter range. All we had to do was find them.      

     We spent the morning in the high country where Long Rifle shot his cow early in the season. We we saw lots of elk tracks and they were all heading to the West Fork of Notellum Creek. We spent the entire day on the mountain to see if we could catch stragglers, but no such luck. We checked all the hidey-holes and sat the right meadows until dark, but the country was still silent.
       The next day, we were in West Fork – again before light. And we were immediately into elk. Second rut bulls - bugling over cows that hadn’t been bred the first time around – were all around us. At first light, there were at least 2 bulls on either side of us. We moved carefully, always with the wind in our faces, to ease up on them. Surely one of these guys had some girlfriends! We were always within 500 yards of them, but they filtered up into the dark timber each time. We cow-called often, but not too often, and we heard at least two cows calling back. At one point, we thought we had them, but at the last second they dove off off into deep dark timber and were lost.
      Late in the afternoon, the snow squalls moved in. The elk were silent now, and so were we. We worked the north side of the West Fork country, knowing that there were elk there and hoping we could find them. We didn’t. We did find a winter-killed raghorn bull skull, broken in two parts – one for each of us. And when it was too dark to see anymore, that’s what we carried out in our packs. But what we carried out in our hearts was another great day in our home country. Just Grandpa and grandson in the silence of the mountain.

-Grandpa

A Pretty Cool Grandma

     A few posts ago, Grandpa mentioned Grandma. He said, “Once upon a time, there was a Grandma. She was not a round, soft Grandma like some grandmas. She was more of a lean muscle kind of Grandma. But she did lots of Grandma things like making cookies, reading stories and snuggling little people. She also did other Grandma things like camping and hiking and hunting and shooting the eye out of a gnat at 300 yards with a .243.” 
     I’d like to elaborate a little bit. I have a pretty cool grandma. She has two sides, and both are really cool. One side is the snuggly Grandma that was my very first babysitter. This side makes shortbread cookies, owns a big, snuggly cat, and drinks copious amounts of Mayan hot chocolate. That’s a really nice side to be around.     

     But there’s another side as well. Over the years, I’ve grown to recognize this part – and stand back a little from it. This is the “predator” side of her. When she gets into this mode, nothing will stop her. This is the side that can hike all day long at 10,000 feet

elevation, pausing only to drink a little water from her hydration

pack and maybe eat some trail mix. This is the grandma that has cut her own Christmas tree in the mountains for the last 42 years. This is the side that mommy antelope use to scare their fawns into obedience – “Run like the wind, children, or the Devil Woman will get you!” This is the dear, sweet grandma with the camo Buff, the dangerous “eye of the tiger” look and the frighteningly accurate .243. This is the grandma that will put a quarter of an elk on her back and head off down the mountain with it. This is my No Fear Grandma. 

Let me offer an example: Last year, after a massive snowstorm, some grandkids were over and we decided to go sledding at a choice hill. A foot of perfect snow made for a great afternoon. The part I remember most was, after heading down the hill, I was slowly trudging back up to the top. A wild, ferocious, feral screech made me look up. Here comes this ball of scarves flying along at like Mach 3 on a little pink sled. The ball of scarves hit a particularly good jump, flew somewhere into the stratosphere, and (still screeching) plummeted back to Earth. I was so proud of my grandma. Afterwards, we went home and made cookies and snuggled with the cat.

-The Ranger

Desert Elk

       Back in May, we all raised our eyebrows this spring when Apprenticedad applied for a long shot elk license in an area with only a 6.6 percent chance of drawing. But he was confident, and sure enough, he drew it. We shook our heads at the wonder of it all. He was the only adult elk hunter in our family who had never hunted there, and it must have been his turn. When it came time to go find that elk, it was a team effort, with Apprenticedad in the lead and the Apprentice and Grandpa trying to do everything we could to help him. We all met at The Cabin on a beautiful Monday afternoon. All systems go.
       There are some things, though, that even good luck and good help (well, pretty good help) won’t fix. Maybe you’ve heard the saying “if something can go wrong, it will.” So imagine our surprise when we woke up to a couple inches of snow. That, in and of itself, wasn’t the problem. The problem was discovered when we were driving down the dirt road, and we saw the tire pressure warning light start blinking. So as hunters who’ve been in at least one too many rough spots because of auto problems we went down into the nearest town and got the tires checked. We had expected to be hunting at first light, instead, we celebrated the dawning of a new day at the Ford dealership.

      With air in all four tires and fuel for both men and machine at “Adventure’s First Stop” we were on our way. Breakfast burritos and a Coke put a new shine on things and before long, we were sailing the sagebrush sea. We got in the home country around 9:00 AM and started poking our noses around the places we love. The first thing we noticed was that rabbits were rampant. The Apprentice and Grandpa took turns missing them with a .22 pistol. It was some comfort to know that all those missed shots were piling up federal excise taxes that would fund wildlife conservation projects somewhere. After funding three prescribed burns and a water development, we actually got a bunny. It is possible that Apprenticedad was less than impressed with the support crew…
       Onward down the creek and up a favorite canyon, we glassed and scoped and watched for elk. Sure enough, we saw a herd of about seven bedded in a draw about 800 yards away. We watched, frozen in place and tried to figure out how to approach them. They were in a tough spot. As we inched our way forward to about 799 yards, those seven elk and all the other 63 that we hadn’t seen stood up and ran over the ridge. It’s amazing how 7 elk can become 70 so quickly, and become 0 elk even quicker.

       We watched for a minute and quickly formulated a plan. Grandpa got in behind the elk, and made no attempt to conceal himself. They were half a mile away, but as soon as they saw him they stopped and watched him intently. Apprenticedad and I made a big circle around them and got as close as we could without them seeing us. They were jumpy, like REALLY jumpy. They let us get almost close enough, but not quite. There’s a certain way elk tell you, "don’t get any closer," they start pacing, and showing the

whites of their eyes. We knew we didn’t have much time – it was now or never. So Apprenticedad plopped down in a patch of sagebrush for cover and picked a lone cow. He made the best shot I’ve ever seen with a .30-06. She was down! I was proud and happy for my dad – he hadn’t killed an elk for a couple of years and this one was a memorable one.
       When the elk is down, the work begins. We field dressed her and got the truck as close as we could to her. It took a while, but we got her loaded in the truck and headed for civilization. Somehow, Grandpa made sure the way home went through our favorite ice cream stop. We don’t always have ice cream for lunch when we’re elk hunting, but when we do it’s a wonderful thing.

-The Apprentice

Bailey

       I remember looking at her at her for the very first time. I’ve heard of love at first sight, and that was as close as I’ve ever come. She and I just “clicked”. She had a different name then, but she came to be my best friend.
       She was amazing with kids. As a rambunctious 3 year old I always had more than enough energy, and Dad didn't always have the time to wrestle for hours on end. She would chase tennis balls I would throw. She would let me roll up and down her all day, she would grab my arm and shake it in that way I loved. 

      She loved the cabin. She would jump into the creeks and scare every fish in a mile radius away. She and I loved swimming together in Molly’s Pond. She got so excited for antelope hunting. The smells, the rides in the truck, bounding through the sagebrush. But she always kept an eye on us kids, whether we were a few feet away learning how to field dress an antelope, or playing tag or hide and seek 100 yards away.
      She was a great dog. She loved me unconditionally. She would have followed me to the ends of my world and beyond. She was my friend through the good times and the rough times. But she's in a better place. A place where she can chase rabbits and tennis balls all day. A place where she can wrestle three year old boys without her back hurting. A place where she and I can play again. Thanks Bailey!

-The Apprentice

We Salute You

      He was never much of a talker. A WWII generation guy to the core, he preferred to let his actions speak for themselves. And as for his wartime experiences, he almost never spoke of them. Perhaps a brief mention of a name or a place in passing, never more than that. At the first hint of a question about them, he’d clam up tight. And sometimes, he’d just go all quiet. I learned early on that there were places he went then that I couldn’t follow. The best thing was to just stay close and wait for him to come back. He always did.

         I think now that his war, fighting the Japanese in the jungles of New Guinea and the Philippines, must have been terrible. But his war didn’t end on VJ Day. He brought it home and it took years for him to win it. Victory in that war came the only way can ever come in the silent battles for a person’s soul. It came from love - his love for God and his love for Wyoming. It came from his love for trout fishing and elk hunting and the peace he found on the river and in the backcountry. It came from his love for my mom and me.
        For all those veterans out there, from all of us here at 3EM, thanks for your service. We’re able to do what we do because you did what you did. This day and every day, we salute you.

-Grandpa

Grandma Draws Bears

      Once upon a time, there was a Grandma. She was not a round, soft Grandma like some grandmas. She was more of a lean muscle kind of Grandma. But she did lots of Grandma things like making cookies, reading stories and snuggling little people. She also did other Grandma things like camping and hiking and hunting and shooting the eye out of a gnat at 300 yards with a .243. So she was a pretty cool Grandma, and all nine of her little grandchildren thought so. All of us here at 3EM think she’s pretty darn cool, too.

    Now our home country is really not very good bear country. We have only a few black bears, and we get at most an occasional

grizzly. But the thing is, you see,

Courtesy Dave Glenn

Grandma draws bears. Not with a pencil and paper. She can draw a bear with pencil and paper, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. Grandma draws bears the way flowers draw bees. If you spend much time with Grandma, you’re going to have some sort of bear adventure. Consider, if you will these vignettes:

Bear One
      A number of elk seasons ago, Grandma and I accompanied a good friend into the West Fork of Notellum Creek. It was a beautiful October morning. It had snowed a few inches the night before, and then cleared off cold. The snow in the West Fork was soft and silent and the grass was studded with frost that shimmered like diamonds in the morning sun. It was simply glorious.
       She walked with us as far as the second crossing on the West Fork, then hearing the siren song of her hot chocolate at The Cabin, she thought she might head back. She made a little circle back through the timber to the trail we came in on. And what to her wondering eyes should appear but a humongous black bear track following the tracks we had made only 30 minutes before. A coincidence? Perhaps. Curious bear? Perhaps. Hot-footing Grandma back at the pickup in record time? Definitely.

Bear Two
       Several elk seasons ago, Apprenticedad walked right smack into the middle of the main herd way up in the top of The Saddle. Almost in self-defense, he shot a cow elk. He was happy. We were all happy for him. Grandma was so happy that she volunteered to help him pack it out while the rest of us tried to find the remnants of the now scattered main herd.
       It was all going just great until they got down into the dense timber above Giffey Meadow. The trail winds down through the spruce and fir here, and you can’t see more than a few feet in any direction. So when something said, “WOOF!” Grandma stopped. She asked Apprenticedad, “What do you think that was?” His response was a game attempt to reassure his beloved mother-in-law, “Oh…uh…nothing.” But as always it is the nonverbal that gives us away. As Aunt Carol would have said, “his face looked like two sheep turds floating in a bowl of milk” and instantly Grandma knew exactly what was woofing at them and she knew Apprenticedad knew as well. Abiding by the rule that when the going gets tough, the tough get the heck out of there, they did.
     There are other days and other bears, too. There will probably be more days and more bears. Maybe she smells like donuts and we’ve never noticed. Maybe she just looks tasty, like one of the chocolate chip cookies she bakes at The Cabin. But we all carry bear spray now, because no matter how much we love her, the fact is…Grandma draws bears.

-Grandpa

Cutt-Slam Complete!

      I love this time of year. Fall. The leaves are the most beautiful shades of red, yellow and orange. The good Lord and a Tikka .270 packed my freezer with little white packages. Last, but not least, I was present when one of the greatest fishermen I know finished up a Cutt-Slam.
    After a successful antelope hunt, six-year old G-Baby and I drove up to...let’s see...yup...No Tellum Lake 2 to catch his final cutthroat. Two years ago, he caught his Bonneville, Colorado and Snake River cutthroat in just three days. This year, with a little help

from Game and Fish biologists, we found the perfect spot for him to catch his last cutthroat. The Yellowstone. Probably my

second favorite to the Bonneville. After only one wrong turn, we arrived in a valley surrounded by trees and mountains. There is a little trail that goes around the crystal clear lake. The water was so still it was hard to differentiate between the real mountain and the reflection. Fall perfection.
      I set G-Baby up with a lure and gave the little guy a tutorial, since most of his fishing has been the ole garden tackle standby. As I am explaining the importance of reeling in the line as opposed to letting it sit, I feel a hard strike. It was a fighter and G-Baby was a solid match. He pulled in one of the most beautiful red spawn colored fish I have ever seen. He popped off the line right as he hit the shore, swimming into the deep. We knew we were in the right spot as anytime you catch something on the first cast, it is good luck.  

     I watched my son eyeball the lake, channeling the great Bambino as he pointed to a sweet spot and cast out. It wasn't

minutes later that he had a fish on, yelling for help and reeling as his little arms got tired. G was not about to back down and would

go headfirst into the lake before letting the Cutt best him. With a

little coaching and a lot of persistence, he managed to reel that fish right to shore. This Yellowstone put all other Yellowstone’s I have caught to shame. G-Baby grinned ear to ear as he held up his trophy while I snapped a picture. We released it back into the clear blue lake, in awe of the majesty of creature and country.
      We fished for another hour or so and caught one more sizable Yellowstone. It was a perfect day to spend some time in the great outdoors. I may not be the best parent – patience is not my strong suit, but when I am fishing with my kids, I feel myself becoming a better dad. Nothing beats a guys trip with one of your sons, hunting, fishing and just being grateful for what we have.

-Long Rifle

Thanks for 5K!

       This morning, during a routine blog stats check, we noticed something that caught our eye: 5,000 views! That means 5,000 times somebody has clicked on our blog. Thank you so much! We’ve had views from the U.S., Russia, Germany, Ukraine, Canada, Romania, Brazil, Colombia, France, United Kingdom, Japan, India, New Zealand, Iraq, Hong Kong, Poland, and Egypt. A full 81 were just Russia! (So, if you’re a 3EM reader in Russia, Спасибо так много для чтения!) Thank you so much to all of our readers around the globe and we hope we can give you a taste of the Wyoming outdoors no matter where you are! With Grandpa as the post coordinator, the Ranger as the publisher, the Apprentice as the idea thinker, Long Rifle as a writer, and both Rangermom and Apprenticemom as editors, we make a pretty good team. We fired up 3EM in mid-January, and had explosive growth. We reached our first thousand views in two weeks, and 2,000 within two months. We’ve had so many nice comments from all of you, and we hope to just keep on growing. So from all of us at 3EM, we thank you for making this blog what it is today. We hope it has enriched your life and given you a taste of the Wyoming outdoors in God’s great Creation.

  

-Three Elk Meadow

Hunting or Shooting?

     One of the things I love most about Wyoming – in fact, the rural West – is our “live and let live” attitude. We recognize that we aren’t all alike, and that’s OK. Maybe it’s a product of low human density or maybe it’s about the fact that most of our families – shoot, ALL of our families unless your last name is Her Many Horses or Standing Elk – came from someplace else. There’s nothing like being a short timer in a new place to help you be pretty tolerant of other folks.       

     So I try never to get real judgmental when it comes to the way other folks hunt or fish. I’m mostly a fly angler, but I don’t care if you want to fish with gear. That’s your call, not mine. As long as you’re legal, I’ll fish with you any day. Like my buddy Dave says, “If you want to fish, bring your fly rod. If you want to catch fish, bring a Zebco and some nightcrawlers.” Same goes for hunting. If you want to shoot some prairie dogs, go for it. For me, it’s about as exciting as watching grass grow. But if you want to vaporize some rodents with your .223, I’m not going to get in your face about it. The last thing hunters or anglers need is to be fighting among themselves these days. There are plenty of folks who view us as an embarrassing anachronism and would love to see hunting and fishing go away entirely.
     And I guess that’s why I’m up on the 3EM soapbox today. I want to suggest that we need to think about something a bit. Here it is: long distance shooting. An outfitter friend tipped me to this trend at least a decade ago and it’s grown like a cancer since then. He said that he was getting clients every year who weren’t really interested in hunting, per se. They just wanted him to get him within 1,000 yards or so of a game animal so they could set up like a military sniper and kill that animal from some amazing distance. These Chris Kyle wannabes have even spawned an entire niche of expensive weaponry to do their thing: 6.5 x 284, .30/.378, .338 Lapua - heck I’m sure there’s somebody out there looking down the barrel of a .50 BMG at some unsuspecting antelope as I write this. Just Google “long distance shooting” and see what you get.
     But let’s be real clear about what this is: It is shooting. It is dang cool to be able to hit a milk jug at 1,500 yards. Never having been much more than an adequate shooter on the best day I ever had, I’m impressed with someone who’s willing to learn to hit a target almost a mile away. The evolution of both rifles and optics has enabled regular people to achieve amazing accuracy at amazing distances, given a willingness to shell out a lot of cash for the appropriate technology and a lot of practice.

      But let’s be equally clear about what it is not: It is not hunting. Hunting is much different than shooting. Hunting is about a deep knowledge of and a deeper reverence for wildlife. It’s about understanding the history of hunting in America and the conservation miracle that hunters and anglers brought forth in the last century. It’s about knowing where these critters live and how they live and sharing a bond with them and with the wild country they live in. It’s about having an attitude of gratitude for the opportunity to be there and a willingness to work very hard to get close enough to make one, clean humane shot. It’s about feeding the people you love with the meat when it’s all over. All told, being a hunter isn’t something you buy, it’s something you earn.
     So if you’re into target shooting at ultra-long ranges, God bless you. By all means, shoot a lot. Buy some real expensive guns and reload a lot – the excise taxes on all those guns and reloading components fund a lot of cool conservation work. Get good at it. I want you on my team if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse. But if you’re out there shooting at an elk at 1,100 yards, shame on you. You’re not a sniper – you’re a lazy slob, and you’re certainly not a hunter. Don’t post your kills on social media – I don’t want the rest of society to confuse you with someone I care about. Those are not targets, they’re wild, free-ranging animals and they deserve more respect than you’re ever going to be capable of giving them.

-Grandpa

Antelope Hunt 2015

     My dad had just shot his antelope (a nice two year-old buck) and we were in the process of quick quartering and boning out the quarters on the back of the pickup. The game warden came and checked per usual, and everything checked out - we were good. So we went off in search of many more antelope for the freezer. Not far along, we saw a group of about ten antelope on the side of a hill. So Grandpa, the Ranger, and I went down a goat path of a two track, around and up the back of the hill. When we got to the top, they were gone.
     So then we split up - ApprenticeDad, Grandpa, and I in one truck and Mark, Grandma, the Ranger and the dog in the other truck, going the opposite direction. So we looked and looked, occasionally seeing a jumpy buck 500 yards from anything that remotely resembled a piece of cover. Then finally on the way to lunch, we saw a group of about seven and according to Grandpa, they were about 200-250 yards away (I don’t quite believe him). So I plopped the tailgate down and took a crack at the last one in the bunch (a yearling buck) with my trusty .243. There is a very distinctive sound when your bullet makes contact with a body, kind of a thwack. We heard a thwack but he didn’t go down. So Dad and I headed after him. When we saw him, I put the scope on him, took a shot and he dropped deader'n a stone. And I was so happy.

-The Apprentice

The Ranger:

       

    Inhale, exhale, the cross hairs find their mark, but still moving too much. Her ears twitch; she notices something. Inhale, exhale. The cross hairs are steady now. Inhale, exhale. Finger tightens on the trigger. Inhale, exhale. The trigger is pulled back far enough and at once the firing pin drops. 6 grams of gunpowder are suddenly ignited. Their gases build up and build up inside the cartridge until they can stay in no more. They have to get out. They have so much pressure that a little pointy piece of lead, covered in bronze, suddenly is pushed out of its case and starts heading out the barrel. Through its way out, spiraling grooves along the barrel give it a spin. It exits the barrel and moves at 3,200 feet per second, around Mach 3, the maximum speed of an SR-71 Blackbird. As it penetrates her skin, it has so much velocity and inertia that little can stop it. It turns everything it hits into jelly. She goes down like a ton of bricks. Another successful antelope hunt for the Ranger, 2015.       

-The Ranger

The Northern Mystery

      The Spanish called it the “Northern Mystery” - the unspeakably vast country north of the Sangre de Cristos, beyond the missions and the trails. They tried it, but soon turned back. It was too big, too empty, and too cold. The natives were fierce and the treasure too elusive. Father Escalante came up the Rio Verde – the Green River - as far as Marsh Creek in 1776. The old timers say that when Ashley and his men came down the river there were adobe buildings – clearly Spanish in design - near Brown’s Hole on the river. The Utes were vague when asked about it, but they were willing to say that some men came up the river from the south and spent one winter there. When asked what happened to them, they would say only that they died and no more. A mystery within the Mystery…    

      Maybe it’s the mystery that draws me to and connects me with the sagebrush country of the interior West. Maybe it’s the history. There have been Gassons abiding in the sagebrush sea for four generations, a long time for non-native people in a hard land. Our history is a blink of an eye compared to the Shoshone and Ute people who came before us, but it’s long enough to put down deep roots. Deep roots are needed to survive here. But for those four generations, we have been nourished and nurtured by the waters of the Green. The thin ribbon of emerald green that starts on the west flank of the Wind Rivers and winds through the willows and cottonwood bottoms and canyons to meet the Colorado far below us has been our lifeline.
       But no one, no family can have a life by clinging to a lifeline. Most of our lives have played out, for better or worse, in the great wide open of southwestern Wyoming. For me, my father before me and his father before that we have been men of the sagebrush country. By foot, a-horseback and by pickup truck we learned to navigate the immensity of this country. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter and incessantly windy year-round, it is often unforgiving. But it is stunningly beautiful in every season and it touches my heart like no place on earth. 

    It’s antelope season in our country, and we’ll soon be out on some nameless two-track road, a little used shipping lane out on the sagebrush sea. We’ll be glassing and stalking and if we’re lucky we might even be killing an antelope or two. But mostly what we’ll be doing is teaching the next generation the importance of public land from horizon to horizon and their responsibility in caring for it. We’ll talk about the country, the people and the critters. We’ll watch the sun sink below the Wyoming Range and we’ll thank God that we had one more day of our history, one more chapter in the mystery of our country – the sagebrush country.

-Grandpa

Camp Wapiti

       Every summer, our whole family gets together to do something pretty cool. We fired this thing up last year, it was a huge hit, and we want to keep it going. We call it Camp Wapiti. The grandkids of the fam get together, with our very own Grandpa and Grandma at the helm, and spend a few days in the outdoors doing all sorts of things like fishing, shooting, and hiking. How cool is that, right? So, a few weeks ago, we did it again. We rented a little cabin up by Laramie Peak, and the whole family gathered up there.
       The first day, after a breakfast of breakfast burritos, we hit the water on a little pond about a quarter mile away. The fishing was okay. We caught mainly eight inch rainbows with our biggest one being about ten. After that, it was time for me to give a little class to the young’uns about knot-tying! After that, they were all quite the square knot-masters. Lunch was next and then it was time to go

shooting! Everyone brought weaponry in one form or another, and we all got to shoot a .22. For two of the youngest, it was their first time ever shooting, so that was a pretty cool day. Grandma also had a go with my .22, and I’ll tell you what, she is so accurate that it is actually terrifying to watch her shoot. She robin-hooded it twice through the bulls-eye without skipping a beat. Those two antelope she’ll shoot this week won’t stand even the tiniest of chance. We decided never to make her mad with a gun, and moved on. The Apprentice gave a cool class about edible plants, then we headed back. A slight cool rain was starting, and The Apprentice and I thought it was a great time to hit the pond with fly-rods and dry flies. A cold, wet hour later, we were only semi-successful, a rainbow each, what would become breakfast the next day. That night we played charades and had s’mores. It was a great day at Camp Wapiti, we decided.    

Trouble in the making

     The next day, we went on a “Critter Cruze,” waking up at 0500 to

drive around and look for elk, deer and antelope. We saw a few mule deer, a few antelope, and a possible elk all within a few miles of each other. The picture on the left here shows why it is not a good idea to lend the wheel to me and Apprentice. We have lovingly titled it, “Trouble in the Making.” After more Cruzing around, we came upon something spectacular. After coming to the top of a little hill, we saw this amazing sight of the Laramie Mountains, displayed below. It truly is a beautiful land we live in.
      Camp Wapiti has showed me that we are free-range kids. Grandma and grandpa think so too, evidently. We have a blast every year, and it is a great bonding experience. It’s important that we teach the young guys to love the land, the critters in it, and He who made it.

-The Ranger

A Day on the River

       Last week Grandpa came up and we went on a long awaited fishing trip on a drift boat. We went with Grandpa’s friend Spencer, the owner of said boat. I learned that fishing on a boat is a lot different than bank fishing. I also learned that our river is an awesome place to hang out on!
       Grandpa came up and immediately we went out. We stopped at the local gourmet gastropub for fishermen (AKA the Loaf ‘n Jug) just long enough to get sandwiches and Cokes, and then went out to meet up with Spencer. After loading up, we went to one of the many launch spots along the river.

       After getting underway, I learned that there are a heck of a lot of differences between bank and boat fly fishing. Almost immediately I got a huge fish (ok, just 16-17 inches…I know a lot of you guys usually catch this size of fish but hey, I’m used to 9-inch brookies). Overestimating its size, I gave my rod my hardest tug to set the hook. In my haste, I broke the fly right off the leader.
       Over the next several hours, Grandpa landed three or four fish. While I had that many on the line, I would always tug not enough, or just a little too much to set the hook. About noon, we stopped and ate lunch. Then back on the water we went, to continue fishing. We kept on getting fish on the line and I kept missing them. We figured out the reason why we keep fly fishing, at this point. You keep on thinking, “I’ll stop as soon as I make a better cast,” but every time it’s not quite what you wanted, so you keep on a’castin’. Honestly, though, I was having the time of my life. Just feeling the tug that the fish gives sends an adrenaline rush from my hat to my boots.
       I loved fishing on the drift boat. Thanks, Spencer, for providing the means and the company to have an incredible day. Thanks, Grandpa, for coming up and fishing with me. And thanks, river, for the awesome time!

-The Apprentice

Countdown - Going Home

      It’s over now. The world’s best family vet has come and gone. So has Missy’s last day with us. She and Grandma and I shared a shady spot in the back yard. We sat and talked with her and petted her as Gary shaved a little spot on her foreleg. Then he gave her a quick injection in that leg and in a few seconds she was gone. No fear, no pain, not even a little surprise. She just quietly died. He left, and we just stayed there with her for a while. I don’t think we knew anything else to do. We cried for a while together.
      Then we picked her up, so thin and bony, wasted by her illness. We carried her to the grave we had prepared for her out in the east pasture. It’s getting to be a little crowded back there, with Molly and Dinah and Cat and now Missy. Maybe that’s one way to grade the meaning in your life – the number of animals who loved you unconditionally and who you grieved over and buried in your pasture. We gently arranged her body on her bed – in the same position she used when she slept on it. We said a prayer.
       Then very slowly, very gently we covered her with the soil of home. We replaced the buffalo grass and blue grama and flax in a low mound that will slowly even out over the fall and winter. By next summer, it will be shortgrass prairie again and her body will return to the land she loved.     

     But her memory will live on. Her long, loping stride when she was in her prime. Her gentle dark brown eyes. Her love for a good ear rub. Her embarrassment at public displays of affection from cats. She was a kind, sweet, gentle soul who came into our lives and loved us unconditionally. She never judged us, always trusted us. She waited every day for just a little bit of our time – a run, a few throws of the tennis ball, her breakfast or dinner. She was meek and kind and humble. She was what we all wish we could be. She loved as we all wish we could love.
      And her spirit will live on. If you were to ask, “Do you think you’ll see her again?” I’d probably answer flippantly that no one as ornery and prideful and mean-spirited as I am should ever be allowed to sully the afterlife of a great dog like that. But what I’d really be thinking is that God would never have given us a dog like that if He thought that we’d only have a few years with her. What I know in my heart is that she’ll be there when we get there, and she’ll be strong and fast and full of life and happy to see us again.
      Most of the important things in life aren’t easy. Birth, death, love – all are hard, terribly hard sometimes. The very foundations of our lives are built of hard things, as they should be. Foundations, if they are to be foundations, must be hard to be strong. You blessed our lives in so many ways, old dog. God be with you ‘til we meet again. We love you.

-Grandpa

Countdown - Part 2

        Tuesday 9:00 AM – She’s happy today. She was up early and ready to be fed. She’s insistent about meals these days, not because she’s hungry but because she’s figured out that the pain pills come with the dog food. She keeps trying to move meal time up earlier and earlier. It’s not about the food, it’s about the pain.
       So we go outside and she totters around the north pasture a bit to take care of her business. She doesn’t like to walk outside much anymore because the footing is uneven and she stumbles and sometimes falls. She’s thin as a snake, weak and teetery. If she was bipedal, she’d be using a walker. But we go very slowly and she manages. She likes the concrete driveway – there’s nothing to trip over. I brush her and a cloud of hair goes sailing off into the breeze. She’s blowing her dry, brittle coat like crazy.    

      We come inside and I feed her – canned dog food now because her teeth are just about gone and she has a tumor about half the size of a tennis ball under her tongue. Her tongue lolls out to the side because it has nowhere else to go. It breaks my heart to watch her eat, but I hide the Tramadol inside a chunk of dog food and she gets it down. Within minutes she’s resting quietly. She’s an addict, the canine Judy Garland.      

     She watches from the office window as Grandma and Jora go for a run. Three years ago, she was there. Chasing a cottontail, following a fox track. Not now. She watches them disappear in the distance. Another heartbreak. So we sit together and talk about the old days when she felt good. She doesn’t feel good any more, except when she can sleep.
        Last night, Grandma laid down beside her on her bed and just snuggled her. She’s always trusted Grandma. She relaxed and fell asleep. I hope that’s the way it goes when the vet comes tomorrow afternoon. I had hoped she would pass that way on her own, maybe even go when we were at the cabin. But that’s not going to happen. She clings to life like she’s afraid to move on. Maybe we all do, to one degree or another, when the time comes.

-Grandpa

Countdown - Part 1

     If you’ve followed this blog for a while, you know that most of our posts are pretty upbeat in tone. We take a great deal of joy in being a family who loves wild things, wild places, and each other. Once in a while, though, a little sadness creeps in. That’s OK. Life is not, as Long Rifle’s daughter reminded me recently, “pink fluffy unicorns dancing on gumdrops” all the time. We’re losing a member of the crew right now, and it hurts - bad. Missy, the almost-15-year-old Labrador is dying.      

     Monday, 3:30 PM - She came to us in 2008, already a middle-aged dog. She was a project, a rescue dog from our friends at the W9. She was in pretty bad shape, and she’d been through a rough time. She was thin and ragged looking, with a dull brownish coat. She was afraid of pretty much everything, especially men. We weren’t real sure we had room in our life for a dog anymore, but we couldn’t say no. She came aboard a few days short of her 8th birthday.     

     She was Grandma’s dog from the start. They learned to go for a run together every morning. It wasn’t easy. Missy didn’t understand what was expected of her at first. We even had to call in

an expert to teach us to redirect her attention so she didn’t go

berserk every time she saw another dog or a person or a rabbit. But in time, she came around. As the weeks went by, she learned quickly. And she morphed into an amazing dog. The dull brown coat all blew out and she was as shiny and black as a piece of obsidian. And just about as hard – she had muscles on top of muscles everywhere, as she settled in to a high quality diet and daily exercise. At 75 pounds and 0 percent body fat, she could lope forever. And sometimes she did.

       It was easy to see from the beginning that she would never hunt. Her bloodline was great, but too much troubled water had passed under the bridge and she was terrified of any loud, sudden noise. Gunfire, fireworks, thunderstorms were her demons. So we put away the notion that we had a hunter and loved her for who she was – sweet, strong and happy. She fit in at our outfit like she’d been born here. That winter, when Grandma’s running moved indoors to the treadmill, Missy and I moved outdoors to the school section west of our place. She’d retrieve a tennis ball no matter how far I threw it, no matter how many times I threw it, no matter how deep it was buried in the snow. Lots of times, it was pitch dark when we’d go out in the morning and she’d disappear into the void in her perfect nighttime camo, then reappear spectral a few seconds later with the snowy tennis ball clutched in her mouth. We became buddies that winter. We’ll always be buddies.

-Grandpa

Never Fails

    Our family treasures our time in the outdoors. In the words of Frank Lloyd Wright, we “study nature, love nature, [we] stay close to nature. It never fails us.” In fact, my wife has spent most of her July at the cabin. Her father is convinced she may be going feral. She’s been up there with kids and she’s been up there with friends. She is taking advantage of nature’s gymnasium. She comes home rejuvenated and renewed after communing with God while watching the setting sun from a bench she discovered, tucked away up the road from the Cabin. And while she enjoys reading in the hammock, I find myself building an internal compass of the terrain.      

     After travelling with Grandpa, I discovered he knows every landmark in the great state of Wyoming and usually has a story associated with it. He gets great pleasure testing his progeny on both landmarks and stories. I’m still learning. This man has the best internal compass I’ve seen. He has crossed every inch of Wyoming territory, so when I brought up the idea of a Garmin Oregon 650 T GPS unit, I got the ever-so- clear Grandpa “eyebrow raise”. It is accompanied by the “what kind of bologna are you trying to feed me” look. However, he always follows up with the” I’ll hear ya out” smile and gives you a chance to explain your madness.
       The GPS has come in my rescue in a dicey situation or two. A couple years back, it was getting dark and I attempted to take a shortcut to the cabin. My internal compass was a little turned around and I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I pulled out the GPS and realized I wasn’t terribly far off, but off nonetheless. I followed the directions on my trusty Garmin and got back on track. Thinking my adventure was over; I turned off the electronic compass and went back to the internal. I found a solid trail and headed toward the cabin. Unfortunately, it was darker than an inside of a moose and I was off track yet again. I was getting to the point where I thought I may need to hunker down and build a fire, so I sat down and pulled out Garmin, just to see how far off I was. At first I thought it was lying to me as it showed me only about 300 yards away from the cabin. In a dark, heavily wooded area, 300 yards can seem like 300 miles. I headed east and heard a magical sound. My beautiful daughter was calling for her brother outside on the porch and I realized everything was going to be ok. Thank you, Garmin, for Bailout #1. Maybe a year later, I was trying to find my way to my opening morning hunting spot at 4:30 am in the pitch black. Moonlight and flashlight were not cutting it – the landmarks I was searching for were hidden in the darkness and I needed to be on the trail. I pulled out the GPS and it took me right to the sweet spot. Thank you, Garmin, for Bailout #2.        

      Technologic advances have their place and time and a GPS can be a helpful tool. Grandpa is slowly warming up to the idea, but I agree with his warning, “Make sure you know the land, my son.” I am grateful Grandpa sent me on walkabout more than a few times to learn the land. His patient teaching and guidance is the only true way to learn the landmarks I need to be familiar with. I need to know the subtle hills and clumps of trees, the old fences and rushing creeks. I want to know where Ole Luke and Grandpa Gus killed that cow elk or that bull moose. This, my friends, is institutional knowledge. I gotta tell ya, though; nature may never fail me, but every once in awhile my internal compass does. And that’s when Garmin sure comes in handy.

-Long Rifle

Thank you, Waite Phillips!

      Our family loves Boy Scouts. The program teaches the values that we strive live every day: honesty, hard work, love of the outdoors, loyalty, and duty to God and country. Every one of the boys in our family that’s old enough is a Boy or Cub Scout, and a fair few number of the parents are involved in Scouting. Last week, Apprentice-dad and I went down to New Mexico to experience the Philmont Scout Ranch.
        First off, a wee bit of history. At the age of 16, Waite Phillips (pronounced White) and his twin brother Wiate set out in 1899 from their small family farm in Iowa to explore the still-Wild West. Wiate Phillips unfortunately died in July of 1902 near Spokane, Washington. When Waite returned home, his two older brothers (who eventually went on and started Phillips Petroleum Company) sent Waite to college and gave him a job in their rapidly growing company. After selling his shares for the equivalent of over $50 million, he started his own extremely successful business and continued his love for the West.

      He bought the 300,000-acre UU ranch near Taos, New Mexico in 1922. Ultimately, he donated this property to the Boy Scouts of America on the condition that the ranch would make Scouting a family activity.
       So back to the present: my dad and I went down there last week so that my dad could have some training and I could have some fun. We left early one morning and made the drive to New Mexico. We listened to Harry Potter on CD all the way down, so it made for a pretty quick 9 hours in the car. When we got there, we got settled in our tent and explored the incredible Philmont property.
       Over the next couple of days I went rifle shooting, did archery, stamped belts, did some blacksmithing, and went horseback riding. My favorite activity was the horseback riding. My horse, Trigger, had anger management issues. Funnily enough, we got on mighty fine (Is that reflective of my personality?). But bottom line, it was great to be on a horse again. It had been awhile!

        On the third day, Dad and I went on a hike and then went into Taos. For those who’ve never been to Taos, imagine Jackson Hole built out of adobe bricks, with lots of Mexican restaurants and art galleries. I got my first real cowboy belt buckle there and then we went to eat. We went to this Mexican grill and it was amazing. We got stuffed jalapenos and green chili chimichangas and oh my, they were good. I also answered New Mexico’s state question: red or green? The answer, of course, is green.
      The next day, I went on an overnighter in some truly beautiful country. We hiked through fields of 6 ft. tall sunflowers, oak forests, and prairie than looks a lot like home. When we stopped for lunch, we each got a sealed bag filled with all sorts of snack food. And in that bag was the famous “Spam.” It was the first time I had the opportunity to try Spam, and I am proud to say I made about half way through the “block.”
       The rest of the overnighter was relatively uneventful. We played football in pouring rain, and swatted flies in return for homemade root beer in a cantina. The next morning, we woke up and hiked the mountain at a tremendous pace, only to stop at an outpost to play some baseball.
       After getting back, we went on a low ropes course. We then planned a skit for the night’s closing campfire. Our skit was a mix between the classics, a fire drill, and the girl scouts. It was a big hit among those who saw it.
       All in all, I had an awesome time in God’s country. We laughed and learned, we hiked and played. Thank you Philmont, and thank you, Waite Phillips!

-The Apprentice

Grandpa on the Trail - Part 2

       When we last heard from our aged correspondent, he had successfully negotiated his way down the long and dusty trail and through the ignominious squeeze chute. He had purchased staples for his journey (including the ever-present Coke Zero that fuels all things Grandpa) and moved on to the loading corral. He’s about to be loaded for shipment…

Photo courtesy of Emirates Airlines

    From the loading corral, we’re hustled (again amid the customary noises and smells of moving livestock in confined spaces) into the “bull-hauler”. Long, long ago the bull-hauler experience was much different. You dressed up for it. They fed and watered you well. They smiled at you. Now, not so much. Now they just run you down a long alley onto the bull-hauler with as many other critters as they can squeeze in there and shut the gate behind you. There used to be signs welcoming you. Now they should have signs like the ones that once graced the Coliseum – “abandon hope, all ye who enter here”. I have dozens of quaint and charming experiences traveling by bull-hauler. Like the sultry summer day when we paused briefly on the tarmac in Newark for two hours to allow some thunderstorms to pass, and shut off the engines to conserve fuel that might have been wasted in keeping the air conditioning on. The Angus bull next to me was soon bathed in perspiration, which he generously shared with me. Or the wonderful in-flight

Photo courtesy of The Ranger

entertainment provided by the vaca loca en route from Atlanta not long ago. She had self medicated with a mix of drugs and alcohol at the loading corral to ease her anxiety (a habit I may well adopt myself) and proceeded to bawl and puke her way up and down the center aisle of the bull-hauler as we flew the friendly skies across the American heartland.
        But the charm of the bull-hauler is all too soon behind us as we once again are herded through the long alley and out to our new home on the range. Sometimes it’s a familiar pasture where we know all the best places to feed, water and rest while we chew our cuds. Sometimes it’s to new and dangerous pastures where I go with a briefcase to places I probably should go with a shotgun. Usually, there’s way too many critters already on what little grass is out there. I mill around for a couple of days and sometimes get rimrocked in the concrete canyons of Washington, DC or bogged down in the creek crossings of Providence, RI. But never quite soon enough, I'm back on the bull- hauler and headed for the home place.
      And I guarantee you my friends, despite all the joy of travel, Judy Garland said it best. There is indeed no place like home.

-Grandpa

Grandpa on the Trail - Part 1

      For a guy who set out to experience life never more than 150 miles from Green River, WY I seem to have managed to become a pretty seasoned traveler. It wasn't something I set out to do. It just sort of happened. Like an earthquake or a head-on collision with a logging truck, it was just one of life’s happy little surprises. So, given my status as an accomplished road warrior, I approached my colleagues here at Three Elk Meadow about becoming the designated travel correspondent.
        I pitched them the opportunity to bless you readers with the glamour of exotic places, the excitement of adventure, the thrill of discovery. Quite honestly, they seemed a little slow to catch the vision. So, in the tradition of great travel writers, I've decided to bravely forge on. I can only assume that Rudyard Kipling and Alexis de Toqueville encountered nay-sayers in their time, but did they simply quit and go home? They did not, and neither shall I, dear readers, neither shall I.       

      My work gives me the opportunity to travel a lot. It’s very glamorous. One of the best parts is what I fondly refer to as “shipping time”. For bovine or ovine passengers, it usually happens only a couple of times in a lifetime. For me, it happens once a month. Usually, it starts at some unearthly hour of the morning, when (like the ovids and bovids) I'm awakened out of a peaceful sleep out here on the range and herded onto the trail. Regardless of what you may recall from watching Rawhide when you were a kid, life on the trail is not a leisurely stroll from San Antonio to

Abilene. Usually, I join the herd moving from Cheyenne to Denver before the sun is up, but they're already on a hard lope. The speed limit on this trail is 75, but the only time we see that is when we’re speeding up or slowing down – and we do that a lot. Various scenic wonders along the trail (like a Subaru pulled off on the shoulder or one-dimensional skunk on the center line) cause the herd to balk, mill aimlessly and eventually come to a complete halt for a while. But eventually we get it sorted out and are happily back at 90, making our way to the next stop in our ordeal, uh.. I mean adventure.      

With only a minimum of bawling, mooing and bleating we make our way to the “squeeze chute”. This is a relatively new part of the whole shipping experience, designed to remind us that we are indeed livestock, and that we will be handled as such. After checking our brands to make sure none of us are mavericks, and touching us in places that would in any other circumstances land them in jail, the brand inspectors herd us into the “loading corral”. I've found this is a good time to feed and water if I can. The options are few and expensive, but it may be the last chance for a while so I'm usually happy to pay 20 dollars for a Coke Zero and a bag of Fritos. Experience has taught me that this may be the culinary high point of the next 12 hours.

-Grandpa

Happy Birthday, Wyoming!

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear Wyoming,
Happy Birthday to you!

Are ya one, are ya two, are ya three, are ya four…

     So a few weeks ago, this awesome state turned 125 years old. In my last post, I rambled on about being a Wyomingite, so this time I’d like to get a little bit into the history of the place. In my quest for knowledge over the past week, I’ve learned a ton about our state, and I’d like to share a little bit with you now:

Wyoming officially became a state on July 10, 1890 as the 44th state in the Union. But there’s so much more history to it before. In fact, there’s many thousands of years of history before that, but I’d make you spend the rest of your day sitting there and reading it, so I’d rather not. Wyoming was defined by three totally different things: equality, the railroad, and mining. Let’s get started!

      First, equality. We were the first state to give women the vote! This was even before we became a state, in 1869, while we were still the Wyoming Territory. William Bright sponsored a bill to allow women to vote. Wyoming thought, “why not?” and passed it into law. The suffragist Susan B. Anthony traveled here by way of the newly completed Transcontinental Railroad to “the land of Freedom” in 1871, which I bet was pretty cool. The 19th Amendment gave the rest of the nation’s women the vote much later, in 1919.

Next, the railroad: a biggie. The Transcontinental Railroad, completed in 1869, was groundbreaking. It brought together the East and the West. New York to Sacramento, what used to be a grueling, perilous journey of six months by wagon, took now only a mere two weeks. Although, as Grandpa will talk about in his upcoming post, the grueling perilous journey of six months is still the same today with modern air travel. Many cities in Wyoming were founded because of it, including Green River, Rawlins, Laramie, and Cheyenne.

     Lastly, coal! We produce 40 percent of the nation’s supply of it. Long ago, although it seems weird, Wyoming was mostly underwater, and the bits that weren’t were tropical paradise. When all that stuff decomposed over millions of years, we gained tons of resources including coal and oil. Wyoming mining has transformed both us and the rest of the nation. You can’t swing a dead cat here and not hit some mine or other, usually coal. Grandpa spent some time down in the mines living in Green River way back when. Poor thing.

     So there we are. A few things that have transformed Wyoming from the wild west, vast and untamed, into the state it is today. I’m proud of all the work these people have put into it, and the great product it is today. And boy, is it great.

     There’s a lot to be proud of, too. Vast prairie without a sign of civilization for miles and miles. The Tetons, rocky spires shooting up from the ground against a fierce blue Wyoming sky. Yellowstone, the thundering of hundreds of hooves of buffalo like a thousand drums, geysers erupting on all sides. Tranquil streams, with brookies jumping and wildflowers on all fronts. Steamy forest ground, pine trees shooting up hundreds of feet in the air after a recent rainstorm high in the Wind Rivers. Miles of scorching red desert in south-central Wyoming. My favorite, a small, one-room log cabin, nestled in some trees in the Southwestern Wind River Range, a curl of smoke issuing from the chimney. Wyoming has it all, whether you’re a hunter, angler, hiker, explorer, or a combination of them all.

-The Ranger