A Pretty Good Creek

      I knew it was special the very first time I went there. It was in 1973. Grandma and I were newlyweds, poor college students without two nickels to rub together. God saw how helpless we were and tweaked the moose license draw to get me a bull license in this area. We had a pretty fair idea of where we wanted to go, and on a bright shiny morning in October, we arrived. We put in a good camp next to a small meadow and waited for a bull moose to stroll by. We waited a long time. No moose. So we went for a drive. The road descended in switchback after switchback down a steep ridge. It was washed out and rutted and rough. There were rocks in the road ranging from the size of a cantaloupe to the size of a rhinoceros. It was narrow. If we had met anyone coming up the ridge, I have no idea what we would have done. After an hour of this insanity, we finally reached the bottom – and the creek. Not just any creek, but a pretty good creek.
     

The Apprentice

  There were no moose there that day, but you would have had to be blind to miss the fact that this creek had fish. Lots of fish, and some pretty nice fish. We actually had to ford the creek twice before the road gave out and we faced the return trip. We hadn't found a moose, but we had certainly found a pretty good creek. Decades passed. We went back from time to time. The road was just as bad, maybe even worse, but the fishing was pretty darn good. Rangermom and Apprenticemom came along. So did Mama B. We didn’t fish there much anymore. They liked small brook trout and lots of them, so Story Meadow was more our speed. But in time, the Ranger came along and so did the Apprentice. Long Rifle came along and married Mama B. And the fellas wanted to catch a Cutt-Slam.
     So we set off in search of four subspecies of cutthroat trout. The third one was hard. This was a case where the third time is definitely not a charm. Rather, it’s a curse. It was a long day. We started the day on our very own home water. It took us a while to get on to catching those fish, but everyone had Cutt Number One by noon. When I asked if they wanted to shoot for Cutt Number Three, they were game. And I knew a pretty good creek.
     It was a long drive. We didn’t even hit the bad road until maybe 4 PM. And the bad road was really bad. My father usually described something really distasteful as being like “nine miles of muddy road” but that would have been an improvement here. We didn’t get on the water until after 5 PM. We tried fishing the

The Ranger

surface, but nothing was happening. Then Long Rifle spotted a pod of fish deep in slow water. He caught one. They stayed there. The Ranger caught one and lost it. It went right back with the others. He hooked another and brought that one in. The Apprentice hooked its twin brother and brought that one in. All told, as you can see from the photos, it was what we consider a pretty good day of fishing.
       It’s hard to say why this creek is such a special place. It’s remote, that’s for sure. It’s a great place to fish, that’s for sure too. But not long ago, I was going through my grandfather’s diary for the year 1918 – less than two years before his untimely death. He had been riding to check several bands of sheep far over the divide when he apparently decided to take a day off to fish. He bee-lined it straight for the creek. Like the grandson he would never know, he was a man of few words when he talked about his fishing that September day: “Went fishing on the creek. Had a pretty good day.” For almost 100 years, it’s been a pretty good place for a pretty good day.

-Grandpa

Up Yonder

     Everyone has that one place that they call their own. It may be where you first went camping. Maybe it is the creek or river where you caught your first big fish. For some it may just be a place where they can get away from the day to day hustle and bustle. It could be the place that brings you peace and tranquility. Wherever it may be, our place is often so special we are reluctant to share it with others.

    My father-in-law (Grandpa) knows the ins and outs of Wyoming. If I was a bettin’ man (one of many Grandpa-isms) I'd say you could ask him any question about a butte, hill, stream or mountain and he can give you the exact location, how many times he has visited said place, what animals he has killed in certain spots and what he ate for breakfast the morning before the hunt. Grandpa is honest, caring and most importantly loving. However, when it comes to certain hunting or fishing spots and the place he calls “The Home Place”, he will lie his pants off on where exactly it is located. He may even “forget” what fly he uses to catch those big fish. There is only one thing in which he will play fast and loose with the truth. Hunting and fishing spots.
       We treasure these places and we don't let just anyone know about them. Next to being someone of great significance – if Teddy Roosevelt came back from the dead, for instance - you pretty much have to marry one of Grandpa’s daughters or become one of his grandchildren. Don’t get any ideas – all those pretty ladies are spoken for and we are pretty attached to each of the nine grandchildren, so you can’t sneak in that way either. I was lucky

enough to find Mama B which happened to be my golden ticket. It doesn't happen often, but occasionally I get asked where my special place is and you can tell ol’ Grandpa has rubbed off on me

because I always answer the same, “Up yonder.” Since I won't say where my special place is I will describe some of the best moments. My favorite place is where the water is rushing by my side, a warm breeze moving the current along. There’s a fly rod in my hand that feels like it's about to snap in half. There is no experience like the fight of a brown trout or a Colorado cutthroat that has just taken my fly. There are large trees and steep hills - terrain that would deter most. In short, it's God’s country. It’s my place. It’s the place where I feel at home.
          So if you ever decide to ask one of us where the best fishing or hunting places are located, you better do your homework prior to leaving your house. You never know what kind of pickle you may find yourself in. There may come a time when you see me with a stringer full of fat fish and feel inclined to ask, “Where did you catch those fish?” Don’t be surprised if you hear: Up Yonder, or

The Notellum River, or Nunyabusiness Reservoir. From Grandpa, you might hear my personal favorite (thank you, Tom Reed) - Giffy Creek. No matter what we say, you probably won't find it on a map and if you do, by all means let us know how your trip went! To save you from asking questions in the future, I will tell you a little secret. We catch all our fish on “a little black fly.” But that’s another story for another day.

- Long Rifle

Story Meadow

   The Ranger talked about how The Cabin is a place where our family grows. He talked about some the places nearby that we enjoy within a few hundred yards of The Cabin. We love those places and visit them every day. But there is another “must go” place at The Cabin. It’s the place we learned how to fish, where we access the Continental Divide Trail, where we get to some of our elk hunting grounds and where we grow closer to our Heavenly Father. (Heck, it’s even the place where my dad proposed to my mom.) This place is called Story Meadow.

Okay, it isn't really called Story Meadow, but that’s as close as I’m going to get (We have to keep some cards close to the ol’ vest, after all!). It’s not much of a hike from the trailhead, but it’s time enough to tell a story or two. Grandpa has shared many stories about his dad and his dad’s friends on the trail to and from Story

The Ranger and The Apprentice

Meadow. The Ranger and me love these stories. I’ll save typing any of them down for Grandpa to do, for fear of butchering them (and he can tell a story just about better than anyone – although I’m still trying to figure out which ones are true…). All the stories have a purpose - some of them are hilarious and for pure entertainment, some of them are to illustrate life lessons, and some of them are about what not to do (just ask him sometime about riding a horse in a lightning storm). We have all laughed and learned on the way to Story Meadow.

   We go to Story Meadow at least once during a trip to The Cabin – it’s an absolute must. In the summertime, one of the main reasons we go is to fish. We get up in the morning at The Cabin, pack a lunch and the worms, and head to the Meadow. When we get there, we head for our picnic spot where the non-fishers get out their books and the babies get put down for a nap. The fishers then head

out to see how many we can catch. We’ve all caught some of our first fish in this meadow – from our moms on down. And although the fish don’t normally get much bigger than six inches, it’s always a special feeling watching small hands reeling in them in. And when it’s time to head back to The Cabin, we clean the fish in the same spot we’ve done it for decades, then pack up and head out.

       Story Meadow is also the gateway to some of our elk hunting grounds. Almost every year we walk through it, sometimes hopping over the creek, sometimes falling in the creek, at around 4:00 A.M and again at 8:30-9:00 P.M. to get to where we sit at during dawn. It is amazing walking through that meadow with no artificial light sources but our flashlights and the stars above. Walking beneath the skies at this time of day or night, I sometimes think of Javert from the musical, Les Miserables:

Stars

In your multitudes
Scarce to be counted
Filling the darkness
With order and light
You are the sentinels
Silent and Sure
Keeping watch in the night
Keeping watch in the night

It really does feel like that. You can look up and see thousands of stars and galaxies. They look down at you, and you are reminded of how loving Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ must be to have created all of those worlds and stars, just for you and me.

     We all have our special places. In one of my family’s favorites, we fish, we hunt, we learn, and we grow closer to our Heavenly Father. I love this place. It helps our family grow closer together. It is our special place.

-The Apprentice

We Fish - Part 2

       The kids are quieter now. They’re focused. The practice and training kicks in and they are intent on the mission. There’s nothing but wide open country for twenty miles in any direction. There are blackbirds in the willows and the sound of rushing water. The first strike comes unexpectedly. The tip of the rod dips hard and the fight is on. Little hands are working furiously on the reel while the fish moves in all directions. I do my best to remain silent and let them do it themselves. It must seem like eternity for a child trying to land a fish, but they do it themselves and they tremble with the adrenaline rush. So do I. They look back at me for approval and I

couldn't be happier. They could care less if the fish were 20 inches long or 3 inches long. They care only that they caught these fish, and that they did it on their own without help from dad.

       The scene is repeated the next day on the Greys and the following day on the Wind. By now, they’re tiring and it’s time to give it a rest. Late nights and early mornings are taking their toll. We pick wild raspberries and we smell moose. We carry bear spray and we talk about what to do if we see one. We talk about the country and the rivers and the things that make this such a special place. It’s not really about catching fish. It’s the entire experience that they thrive on and they have done a great job. By the end of the week they are three-fourths of the way to finishing their Cutt-Slams, with three sub-species down and one to go.
     

 Next year we’ll make the trip to the Bear River country to catch Bonneville cutthroats. Both Spunky and Bubba are already making plans on where we should camp and where we will fish and all the different gear we are going to need. They talk on the way home about how the Ranger and the Apprentice have their Cutt-Slams. They talk about how cool it will be to get theirs, too. It’s a good feeling for all of us. I am one delighted father and I couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to spend time in what our family calls the Home Place with those I love. A wise person once said “give a man a fish and he can eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he can eat for a lifetime.” I hope I have done my job in teaching these little anglers how to tie knots and

read the water. . I pray they will take those skills and feed the spirits of their own families. I hope I have instilled in my children an appreciation for wildlife and wild lands. I hope my children will teach others the importance of respecting the land. But most of all I hope they know that I love them and am proud to be their father.

-Long Rifle

We Fish - Part 1

      We fish. That’s what we do in our family. Fishing is a big deal, and the Cutt-Slam is a REALLY BIG deal. In fact, it’s such a big deal that the kids in our family talk about it year round. The mountains and the waters of the Green, the Snake and the Wind are home for my family and me. Like the cutthroat trout we pursue, we’re natives here. I wish I could say that our kids were born that way. Maybe they were – they certainly came from native stock on both sides. But Mama B. and I agreed early on that no kid in our family was ever going to suffer from insufficient time in the backcountry.

        Preparing our kids to catch four subspecies of cutthroat trout was no overnight process. We put in long hours at the pond in our local park. We started with Spiderman rods and Barbie tackle

boxes. As time went on, the casts got longer and the kids got better. The more we talked about our goal of finishing the Cutt-Slam, the more excited the kids were about it. It became a milestone, a rite of passage for them. By late summer, they were like something out of a Jason Bourne movie - highly trained and ready for anything. I remember asking Spunky right after her seventh birthday what she wanted to do and her response was immediate: “Its Cutt-Slam time!”
         Our base camp would be the same place it always is – the cabin in the Wind Rivers. We planned to fish near Big Piney for Colorado River cutthroats, over the top of the Wyoming Range and into the Greys River for Snake River cutts, and over South Pass to the Wind River for Yellowstone cutts. On the night before our first day, the kids were like bird dogs on the eve of the hunt, quivering with excitement. They couldn’t eat, they couldn’t sleep. If I could have turned them loose on the fish at 11 PM, I would have. 

      Breakfast is hot chocolate and homemade scones from Mama B as we head for the door. We load the little ones in the pickup, scrambling and scuffling like coyote pups in the early morning light. It is simply priceless. These kids are doing something most kids will never have the opportunity to do. They are on the road and headed for adventure. We see a cow moose, a whole hayfield full of sage grouse, a pair of sandhill cranes and a bald eagle. Each one is like the first one ever created for these little ones – something to be oohed and aahed over, something to be treasured. And before you know it, we’re there. And we’re actually fishing.

-Long Rifle

The Cabin

      We've all had that one special place in life: the one where, no matter what, you will be happy and healthy and one will leave feeling better than they came. The one place that connects us to our loves in life, whether friends, family, a stress reliever, the outdoors, or a mixture of them all. That place for our family is The Cabin. Grandpa’s parents built The Cabin in the Wind River mountain range in 1958. It’s stood there proud and strong through yards of snow, through -50° blizzards with 70 mph winds, a tornado, and over 50 years of aging. It’s been through four generations, and every single member of our family holds a special place in their heart for it.

   To quote J.R.R. Tolkien from The Hobbit in his account of The Last Homely House, “His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and

thinking, best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.” This is true for The Cabin, too. Everyone can do as much, or as little, as they want, and it suits everyone’s loves perfectly. Nestled snugly in some trees

near a meadow with a little babbling brook and spectacular views

on all fronts, it can suit everyone’s passions in life, whether it be hunting, or fishing, or rock climbing, or hiking, or relaxing, or reading, or a “pleasant mixture of them all.”

    Here are some of our favorite places around cabin grounds: first, the rock pile. Down a little road and into the meadow next to Temple Creek, there is about 50 boulders of all shapes and sizes, ideal for eager rock-climbers, those wanting to hang out and talk in the cool breeze of the mountain air, or to come down at night, watch a spectacular Wyoming sunset, and stargaze under trillions of stars. That experience, I can tell you, really is eye-opening. Wow. Far away from any civilization, with zero light pollution to speak of, it is incredible the sheer magnitude of stars and galaxies to be seen, and it really puts things into perspective, and shows us Heavenly Father’s great creation. 

         Next, the creek. Back behind the cabin, say, 75ish feet away, lies the South Temple Creek. It’s our source of water and a fun pastime to while away the hours back at the creek. We don't have a water containment unit or anything up there, so our only water supply comes from a pump from the creek. And from the age of about two days, every child from our family has enjoyed going back and throwing rocks or pinecones or whatever in there. It’s some kind of weird initiation process we have in place.  

      We have a hammock on one side of the cabin which is the best thing ever. It is perfect for napping, reading, or frolicking. Let me tell you, there ain't too many things better than lying in the hammock in the shade of pine trees with the cool August afternoon breeze and the smell of pine and all things fresh, surrounded by critters and the sound of the creek babbling away in the background. 

      We all go to our special places in life, the ones that bring us happiness and healthiness no matter what. Ours is The Cabin. It lets us explore the things we love: the outdoors, family, friendship, and love for each other. I’m so glad for Heavenly Father’s great creation known as the Wyoming outdoors and for the great opportunity to experience His work: The Cabin.

-The Ranger

Meet Long Rifle

      He came to us as a junior in high school. It’s a funny thing about your daughter’s boyfriends. At first, they’re vermin – something to be rid of as quickly as you can. Most of them remain so, and no one misses them when they’re gone. And when this one came along, I was ready for him to be gone as well. I showed him the guns. Not in an unfriendly way or anything. I just thought he might want to see the .280 Remington that killed stuff a long way away. They were headed out the door on their first date when I told him, “Her safety and her happiness are in your hands for the next three hours. Don’t screw it up.” It sounds worse on paper…really.

But over time, the big galoot kind of grew on me. He was kind and sweet and gentle. Sort of a teddy bear, really. By the fall of their senior year, I was going to his football games because he cared about football and I cared about him. He wasn't kind or sweet there. He was scary – big, strong and fast. But he had a wonderful heart, and Mama B (she was a long way from being Mama B yet, but I've gotta call her something here) saw that. Pretty soon, he was going to the cabin with us. He was going to church with us. We were helping him with his homework. He wasn't vermin anymore. He was the boy who would grow to be the man we call Long Rifle.

He was a great young man, but he wasn't much of a hunter or angler until he fell in with us. He'd done it some, hadn't really loved it. But any guy who loved Mama B was going to have to learn his way around in the wild country, and so he did. He took to it immediately. The first time I took him elk hunting, we killed a cow deep down in a sagebrush draw below a rim. His dad and I stumbled and struggled and finally after 20 or 30 minutes, we managed to drag the front half of the elk to the truck. He watched us, then simply squatted down in front of the back half and asked us to put it on his back. He grabbed the legs behind his head and just walked off with it. Elk hunting got a lot easier with Long Rifle in our camp.

But he’s not just the designated pack horse. He’s as quiet as a whisper of wind going through the woods. He knows the country now, and he can cover a vast swath of it in a day. He’s a good hunter. He may be an even better angler. I know hundreds of people who are involved in fishing, but I’m not sure I know anyone who loves it more than Long Rifle. He’ll fish all day, just to be fishing. But what really endears this big, strong guy to all of us is his commitment to teaching the kids. He’s dad when he’s teaching his own kids - Spunky, Bubba, G-Baby and Gus. He’s the world’s coolest uncle when he’s teaching the Apprentice, the Ranger and the rest of them. But for me, he’s the man I wish I had been when I was in my 30’s. I’m dang proud of him. Meet Long Rifle.

-Grandpa

Apprenticemom

We’ve all had a mother figure in our lives. Whether called Mom, Aunt, Grandma, sister, Mrs., or something else, they are the ones that have shaped our lives. They take what they learn and impart that knowledge to us. Even though we are complete idiots sometimes, they still love us. They teach what’s right and what’s wrong. They take time out of their busy days to edit a blog post. They make our experiences in the outdoors possible. My mom does that and more.

            Some moms don’t like to do much in the outdoors – they prefer staying in fancy hotels, shopping or other stuff that I honestly don’t understand.  And while my mom is into stuff like this sometimes, she also is just as comfortable gutting a fish as she is buying shoes.  There’s nothing she likes better than bringing down a goose, and there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be than The Cabin.

Elk hunting can be a lot of fun – it’s a week in the mountains away from schoolwork, and the prospect of killing an elk and filling the freezer with roasts and steaks that melt in your mouth is exciting.  But it can also be pretty tough work  - and when I’m walking on one of Grandpa’s “Death Marches” (between 10 and 20 miles a day), the thing that keeps me going is the food (I am a 12 year old boy, after all). Apprenticemom, Grandma, and Mama B make sure that we get it. There is nothing better than coming back to cabin in the dark, knowing that taco soup and hot fudge sundae cake awaits.  It keeps us going so that we can get the elk.

When we recently had our annual winter campout for Scouts, ApprenticeDad as “Scout Committee Chairman” was put in charge of getting all the stuff together for the campout. But while Apprenticedad took care of how to win the big competition, Apprenticemom thought about stuff like “how to keep the boys warm, how to keep them dry.” And although we thoroughly enjoyed tying for first place in the activities, we were gladder that we didn’t freeze our fingers and toes off.  In fact, to quote Grandpa, most of us “were hotter than a two dollar pistol.”

            Apprenticemom is the best mom in the world. She hikes with me, she fishes with me, she hunts with me, and she makes sure that I stay warm on winter campouts. She helps me become a better person. Thanks, Mom!

-The Apprentice

Rangermom

      Grandpa has talked about his wife, Grandma, (who is, of course, my grandmother,) so I suppose it would be fitting for me to talk about one of the remarkable women in my life; my mom. She’s like the rest of us. She fishes. She picks grouseberries in abundance up at the cabin, she lays in the hammock in the warm sun of a summer Wind River afternoon. But unlike the rest of us, she gets up  at some unearthly hour every morning to go run. That’s her little Rangermom-time. It brings her closer to herself and the outdoors by going out under the stars to solve life problems.

          Lauren Fleshman said: “Running is not who I am, it’s something I do, something I love.” I think the same can be applied to the outdoors. We live and breathe the sharp, fresh smell of sagebrush after a Wyoming monsoon in July, the triumph after a successful antelope hunt, the cool breeze of an September day in the mountains, the crackling of a campfire a million miles from nowhere under trillions of stars. It’s just what we do in our family.

Another quote, by Jenny Hadfield, states, “Life can pull you down, but running always lifts you up.” Again, this can be tied into the outdoors. I mean, is going fishing in the lazy Big Sandy river some nice warm summer’s evening really all that stress-inducing? The outdoors, no matter what life circumstances we face, always helps one unwind and think of things in perspective. It brings us closer to ourselves and God.

 Back to Rangermom. Whether it be nagging me to get packing for a campout, or the delight at fresh game meat to use for dinner for the next six months, she’s always there for me, helping me to experience the same outdoors that her parents lived in, breathed in. That their parents lived in, breathed in. And ya know, that ain’t such a bad thing.

-The Ranger

Here are a couple other great running quotes:

Grandma

Grandma

2/3/2015

       The Ranger, the Apprentice and I have talked about our love for the outdoors and for Wyoming. We hunt, we fish, and we spend lots of time in wild country. But the fact is that none of this would have been possible without some remarkable people. And of these remarkable people, none is more remarkable than Grandma.

Who would have guessed that a little girl born to Wyomingite expatriates in Washington, DC and raised in a succession of southern California beach communities (followed by a stint in New York City) would return home to the Cowboy State to nest? Who would have guessed that of all of us, the most respected rifle or bow shooter would be that same gal? Friends, we have 40+ years of experiences to draw upon when we say that Grandma is the real deal.

Grandma and I met on November 13, 1970 in Green River, WY. And we've been hunting and fishing partners ever since. She was a competitive small bore shooter back then, and a wicked shot with pretty much everything. When other high school sweethearts were going to the Sugar Bowl for a Coke, we were shooting or fishing. She learned to drive a stick shift in my old ’68 GMC, and she learned her way around every two-track road in Sweetwater County. She killed her first antelope with a Winchester Model 1894 in .30-30.

We went off to college together in the fall of 1972, and were married in the summer of 1973. We spent our honeymoon at the cabin on South Temple Creek. She helped pack out the bull moose that fed us through that first year together, and she taught me how to butcher it just like old George

Grandma and The Ranger

Phelps the butcher taught her. She shot a cow elk year after year in the desert country north of Rock Springs. She killed at least one antelope every year and multiple antelope most years. And she learned how to make antelope not only edible but absolutely fabulous.

When Rangermom, Apprenticemom and their little sister were born, she simply put them in a backpack and took them hunting and fishing. When they were old enough to walk, they walked the same mountain meadows and desert canyons we walked. They were there when we got rained out in the Bighorns and decided

Grandma, The Apprentice, and Co.

that maybe tents weren't for wimps after all. They were there when we packed the deer out in the dark north of Baggs. She taught her daughters to hunt and to fish by hunting and fishing with them. What’s more, she taught them how to do it with respect for the land and the critters. Now, she’s teaching her grandsons and granddaughters to do the same.

But most important of all, she taught all of us that wild things and wild country are a gift from God. She taught us that we had a right to love that legacy and a concurrent responsibility to take care of it for the next generation. If any of us ever amount to anything, it’s probably because of what we learned from Grandma.

-Grandpa

My Home

       Wyoming is an amazing place. You can hunt elk in the arid Red Desert. Or you can fish for four different kinds of cutthroat trout to nab your “Cutt-Slam.” And you can hike in the Gros Ventre Wilderness without seeing anyone for days. All of this can happen in a space of less than 100,000 square miles – and I've done it. I’ve done it in the place I call home.  

      I've always had an interest in wildlife. Perhaps it started as early as when I was seven months old, watching from a Kelty backpack as my family packed out quarters of elk. Or maybe it started in studying that very same elk’s skull in my grandparents’ house and uttering my first word, “elk.”
            Throughout my life, I've had a love for all things wild in Wyoming. In pre-school when other kids said, “I want to be a superhero when I grow up,” or “I want to be a ballerina,” I said, “I want to be a game warden.” I idolized - and continue to feel hero worship for - people like my grandpa and a close family friend who recently retired as Wyoming’s most senior game warden. These are guys who have devoted their lives to the conservation of Wyoming’s wildlife.

      I’m now 12 years old. I have had the opportunity to hunt and kill two deer (see The Hunt for deer number two) as well as countless rabbits, collared doves, blue grouse and ruffed grouse. I’ve

caught what feels like hundreds of brook trout under the shadow of Independence Mountain in the Wind Rivers. I've summited Jackson Peak. I've lied through my teeth about how wonderful the snails we find at nearby mountain stream taste (let’s just say it’s an acquired taste – and I’m the only one in my group of friends brave enough to power through it).

        For someone like me, living in Wyoming never loses its excitement. Whether it’s the new way a fish takes the line up a creek, or hiking into a spot I've never been before, or figuring out a scheme to finally get those darn collared doves around my neighborhood, there’s always something for a Wyoming kid like me. The experiences I've had and my goal to someday be a wildlife biologist shape the way I think, how I work, how I live. Wyoming takes the simplest things and ensures that they mean the most – and I'm lucky enough to call it my home.


-The Apprentice

It's Just What We Do in Our Family

           Back in the summer of ’09, me, my Uncle Chad and my Uncle Mark set out from the Big Sandy trailhead in pursuit of Black Joe Lake, to try to catch a fish or two. It was supposed to be about an 11 or 12 mile hike, which already was quite a fair bit for a little guy like me, being only eight years old. So, we set off. At first, everything seemed alright. I was happy, we were headed the right way, the weather was good, and all was well. Then, things went badly wrong. We got lost, dreadfully lost. We got so lost that we left the trail and, relying on only compass guidance, began bushwhacking. We had to climb a near vertical mountainside, with nothing below but a huge drop and rushing whitewater rapids. We finally, through an extreme round about way, got to our destination and got back safely home. When it was all said and done, I had walked 17 miles over extreme terrain, not always on a trail. When we got back, we were super tired. When my grandpa, (also a member of this blog) asked why we had done it, I responded, “Grandpa, it’s just what we do in our family.”

          A line of speech that was to become famous for years to come. And it was absolutely true. We fish. We hunt. We hike. We pick grouseberries in abundance by the cabin in the summer. We take a nap in the hammock in the warm sun of a Wind River summer’s day. It’s just what we do in our family. We all share a common goal: love the land and be a part of it.

        I suppose a little “about me” would be nice. I'm thirteen years old, and I am born and raised in Wyoming. We have deep roots here. I completed my Cutt-Slam in the same year that the above story happened. I shot my first antelope and deer last year, and had a great time doing it. (See Don't Stumble.) I have a love for all things wild and outdoors. Me, The Apprentice, and Grandpa created this blog in the hopes of allowing others to be able to experience the beautiful outdoors. We hope you’ll be able to feel the Wyoming spirit and the Brotherhood that brings us all so much closer to the land.

-The Ranger