Wind

     The Enemy of All Coyotes ducks her head and squints into it as we go outside to do the morning chores at first light. She’s no sissy, the product of a thousand generations of sheep-herding border collies, but the wind nearly topples her. Little beads of decomposed granite, the exfoliated skin of the Laramie Range 30 miles west of here, sting her nose and bounce off her wooly back. Usually she makes a pass along the west side and into the back pasture before she lies down in a spot where she can watch for intruders. But today she sticks close to me, still squinting, hoping for signs that we’ll be going in soon. It’s been blowing like this for five days straight. Steady at 35-45 MPH, gusts over 60. At first, you don’t pay it much attention. It’s just part of living here. But after a certain period of time, something inside you wants it to stop. Now.  

     I don’t know what it was like to live in a tipi here 200 years ago. Maybe the Cheyenne and the Arapaho moved down off this wind-scoured plateau until the grass greened up. I would have. But I think I can imagine fairly easily what it might have been like to be some poor soul in a sod house on a homestead claim, with kids cooped-up and clamoring to go out and dust sifting in all day and all night. It’s a wonder more of those women didn’t go berserk. Some of them did. And some of them just left. They couldn’t do it anymore – couldn’t stand one more day of the screaming wind. I wouldn’t want to be the guy who had to explain to that woman what was so precious about 160 acres of cold, dry shortgrass prairie when the wind had been blowing like this for a week.
     A friend of mine recently remarked that Wyoming is the only place where communities vie for bragging rights on who had the worst winds. We’re a long way behind our neighbors to the north right now. The weather service clocked winds near Clark at 103 MPH. A friend on the north end of the Bighorns measured a gust at 106. But it’s not the gusts that wear on you. They are by definition fleeting. It’s the day in, day out banshee wailing. It’s the grinding, incessant, never-ending howl that gets inside your head and makes you want nothing but out of here. 

     A newcomer here on the llano once asked, “Does it always blow like this around here?” To which the old-timer replied, “Nope. Sometimes it sucks.”

-Grandpa

Limit in an Hour

     When I say I hunt rabbits and that they’re tasty, a lot of the time I receive an expression that varies from disbelief to downright outrage. But I’m here to tell you that I hunt rabbits - and it is both fun and tasty. We have a nice recipe for what ApprenticeDad calls “Bourgeoisie Rabbit,” which is a delicious combination of cream, rabbit, thyme and mushrooms that we love. With food like this as a possibility, it’s always a good time to go rabbit hunting!

     We received an invitation to go rabbit hunting this past week, as a landowner needed someone to get rid of the rabbits in his hay. With the 3 day weekend in front of us, Grandpa and Ranger came up for some fun. They got here Friday around noon. After lunch, we headed out and got there about 2pm. I kid you not - we could see a dozen rabbits from where we parked the truck. With that, I pulled out my highly advanced single-shot assault rifle (also known as my Cricket from Christmas of ’09). After 30 minutes in the haystacks, we had a dozen rabbits. In the draw below, we got the last 20 in 45 minutes. Then we headed back to the truck and cleaned them all - which was a bit of an ordeal. After that, we were off into the sunset to watch Top Gun and eat pizza.    

     The next day, we headed out at 7am with a Coke Zero in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other. On the way, we decided that 10 should be the limit for the day. We had that taken care of in an hour, even with an intermission of talking to the rancher. I have no doubt that with the number of rabbits in that haystack, if they turned bloodthirsty, grew opposable thumbs, and were capable of making weapons, they would destroy the entire Northern Hemisphere. We got back by noon, and then Grandpa and Ranger went home, with a full cooler of rabbits ready for their “bourgeoisie-ing.”

-The Apprentice

      Here on this blog, we’ve talked a few times about the value of hunting and making memories, rather than just a slaughter. However, I am here to tell you that maybe once in a little while, it’s okay to indulge a bit. It’s quite fun to be able to kill 30 bunnies in the space of just over an hour. I had a lot of fun hunting with The Apprentice, and the results are quite tasty!
     From the moment we arrived, we knew it was to be a good day. Bunnies were scurrying every which way, the weather was unusually warm, and the terrain was great. Now, let me tell you something. Whatever you’ve heard about Wyoming ranchers, our very first conversation illustrated that these guys were some of the nicest, kindest humans to walk the Earth. If the world was full of Wyoming ranchers, everything would be good.

     However, if rabbits had decided to rule the Earth, we would have significant problems, judging from the number of them in a 10 square acre area. It appeared to me and Apprentice that they were about to attack, so we decided it might be safe if we were to don protective Kevlar and possibly hazmat suits. They were everywhere! We calculated we got about a bunny every two minutes or so, but not very evenly spaced out. Once, we got 5 in about 30 seconds. It was madness, and insanely fun. We were limited by law to 30 the first day and limited by self to 10 the second, sending me and Apprentice home with 20 full rabbits each. Tonight for dinner Rangermom made a sort of rabbit stew, and now I can see why we go hunting for them!

-The Ranger

Aligning Stars

     We’ve been at this for a year now, and we warned you right up front that this blog would be primarily about our adventures in the great outdoors. If you’re still waiting for cupcake recipes or relationship advice, we may not be your guys. But that’s not to say that we’re only about hunting and fishing. From the start, you’ve seen that there’s no real line of separation between our family and the outdoor life we love. You’ve met some of the characters – the four of us, Grandma, Rangermom and Rangerdad, Apprenticemom and Apprenticedad. You’ve met Stub, the first time deer hunter. And very briefly, you’ve met the love of my life, Mama B.
     I’m no astronomer, and certainly not astrologer, but it seems to me that every now and then the stars just align. And when they do your heart opens and you will find that missing piece, that special someone that completes you. Sometimes the stars align for a brief period of time and then seem to drift apart. For others, the stars align for eternity. I'm fortunate to be in the latter group.  

     It all began in the fall of 1999. She sat on the other side of the room in one of my classes. She was beautiful. Shoulder length hair fell perfectly around her face. Her eyes were as blue as the sea. She seemed happy. It took me a while to realize she was the same girl I had been watching in my strength and conditioning class. I was excited to get to know this girl. I was in high school – it wasn’t like I was shopping for a wife. But the truth is that she had all the qualities I was looking for in a best friend and partner for life. She loved God, Wyoming, her family and the outdoors. She was fun and adventurous. It took a while before she’d even give me the time of day, but once she did we had fun together. I knew early on I wanted to marry this one and wanted to spend every waking hour with her. She made me feel whole, even then. She still does.
      We’ve been married almost 11 years. She’s more beautiful than ever, and she still loves God, Wyoming, her family and the outdoors. But more than anyone I know, she has a genuine love for people and a desire to help them. If I could describe my wife in two words it would be love and service. No one I’ve ever met come close to her in serving others and making people feel special, regardless of their circumstances. My children have been blessed to call her mother. I am blessed to call her my eternal companion. I love you, Mama B.

-Long Rifle

It Is What it Is

     I remember the first wild alligator I ever saw. It was a big bull gator, maybe 12 feet long. He was up on the edge of the Santee River in South Carolina. My old friend Larry Cartee and I walked over, close enough to him for me to snap a photo or two. He looked to be asleep. But then he opened his eyes. And he looked not so much at me directly at me as through me. It was one of those experiences that stay with you forever. His expression (if reptiles can have an expression) said very clearly, “We’ve been here since the Jurassic, junior. And we’ll be here when you're gone.” He wasn't annoyed, he wasn't alarmed. He simply didn't care.      

     Wild things and wild places are like that. They don't care. Our needs, our lives are of no consequence to them. I was reminded of that recently. I read an account of two young men who set off into the desert country south of Wamsutter in midwinter blizzard in a 2007 Ford Focus. Predictably, the car got stuck. Even more predictably, these two rocket scientists decided to walk out. By the grace of God, they found some shelter and were rescued by a search party a couple of days later. Natural selection was thwarted again, and they were safe.
     But more intriguing to me than the story were the comments on the online account of their plight and subsequent rescue. There were literally dozens of comments that ranged from, “Where is Wamsutter? I can't find it on Google Earth!” to “Oh, they’ll be fine. There's a ton of oilfield traffic out there!” But a friend of mine, a young game warden for whom I have tremendous respect, had the temerity to suggest that heading out into some of the wildest country left in America in a blizzard driving a Ford Focus might not have been a great move. A storm of angry comments followed, berating him for being “disrespectful” of the men and their families.      

     I can only imagine that most folks are so disconnected from the real world of deep winter out there near Man and Boy Butte that they don't get this one principle: Nature is not cruel and merciless, nor is it kind and loving. It just is what it is. Try telling that wind that it’s being disrespectful when it chills you to the bone. Try telling that crusted snow that it ought to reward you for trying really hard when you've been postholing through it for hours and you don’t have any idea where you are. The dry washes are full of the bones of those who thought they were too tough to die out here. And the snow and the wind and the desert – they just don’t care.

-Grandpa

Déjà vu - Part 2

     We started at the same unearthly hour, had the same kind of sausage breakfast sandwich, got in the same truck, drove down the same roads, and listened to the same people telling much of the same news on the radio. But this was to be a much different day.
We got there at the same time, but the difference was that this time it was 2 degrees F outside instead of -8 F. Positively balmy! We almost lined up in an identical situation - we had just crossed the property line when we saw two does and a yearling. This time, they were between 150 and 200 yards away. I fired a “warning shot” to let them know we are coming, and herd them closer to where we want them (or at least that’s what I called it – others may claim that I missed my first shot). They acknowledged this, and politely started booking it for a road crossing about 500 yards away. With the salutations over, we hopped in the Ford and Grandpa practiced his World Rally Cross driving skills to head them off.

     We got there right before they were crossing the fence, and they promptly turned around and started running out into the fields. Whitetail have an interesting method of running. As they sprint, they will hop far in the air, so you never know where they will be. But nine times out of ten, once they get to around 75 yards away, they will take two seconds to look back to make sure the predator hasn’t changed its position of attack. That momentary hesitation is what gave me the shot. When the lead doe slowed down to look at me and turned broadside. There was just enough time to line the scope up and shoot. She was dead.
      After a prayer of thanks and gutting her, we loaded her up just as the sun began to shine over beautiful southeast Wyoming. This gave The Ranger a great photo opportunity, pictured below. Not wanting to rest on our laurels (even though our “laurels” were feeling pretty frozen), we went looking for bunnies. We spotted one that was trying to get warm in the sun. Ranger hopped off in pursuit, made a sneak and got the bunny. We then spotted a corral where the cows come to water.

With a stroke of luck, the landowner came along and gave us permission to scout around and shoot some rabbits. We hit the jackpot. They would dart in and out of cover, eventually standing there in the middle of the yard just looking at us, and then there would be the customary pause of aiming then the crack of a .22 shell leaving the barrel at 1,300 ft/s, then the mad dash to retrieve the rabbit. Over the course of an hour or two, we killed a dozen rabbits. Like shooting fish in a barrel...

     There was a moment when Grandpa got so excited that the only way I could describe him was like an eight year old Girl Scout who made the biggest cookie sale of all time. It started like “What is that… it can’t be… it is… holy crap!” We were coming back along the ditch where the Ranger shot the first rabbit, when Grandpa saw what appeared to be a bobcat. The Girl Scout started emerging… then it was crushed. At a closer inspection it turned out to be a feral cat. With that we made our way out of there, talking about the impact of feral cats on an ecosystem and the great time we had. With a deer in the back, bunnies beside it, and some warm laurels to rest on, we were headed home. It was really fun.

-The Apprentice

After the Bundys Are Gone

     Well, it's all over but the mop-up in Burns, OR. The Bundys and their thugs are in the wind or in the hoosegow. Maybe things can get back to normal at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge and the people of Burns can get back to lives without a media circus. Maybe some more thoughtful voices will be heard. We talked about whether we should even broach this topic here at 3EM, and came to the conclusion that maybe we could be one of those voices. We’ve definitely got skin in the game. The public lands of Wyoming and the West are the closest thing we have to a historic context for previous generations of our family. More importantly, they're also the closest thing we have to a legacy for future generations of our family. The public lands are our home place.
     Let's begin by getting a few things straight. First, the Bundys and their ilk never represented anyone but themselves. They certainly never represented ranchers in the interior West. My observation, based on 61 years of experience suggests that westerners in general (and ranchers specifically) tend to resist representation. Every ranch is different. Every ranching family is different. Every outfit has different needs, different goals. They are no different than family owned restaurants or family owned grocery stores in that respect. And rest assured, if you could ever get these notoriously independent folks to agree on anything, it would not be to appoint a whack job like Ammon Bundy as their spokesman.  

     Second, the last thing we need now out here in flyover country is some sort of running gun battle (metaphorically speaking) over whether there should be livestock on public lands. The hardcore greens would like to rekindle that fight because it will bring them membership and money. That’s a sucker’s game, and we should treat it with as much disdain as we reserve for the Bundys. The real work that's being done on the ground for trout and sage grouse and all the other critters out there in the sagebrush sea is being done by hunters and anglers and ranchers working together on projects that benefit us all. Working together gets stuff done.
     Finally, let's not forget what the real problem is. The problem is not a few pistoleros with tinfoil hats and conspiracy theories. The problem is a well orchestrated and well funded effort to transfer lands now administered by the Bureau of Land Management and Forest Service over to the private sector. That's what they want. And they'll continue to starve those agencies for budget so they look incompetent while they say they want to “take back” our public lands. They don't want to take them back. They want to liquidate them. They want the home place. That's the problem.
So before you decide to refresh that old “Cattle Free by ’93” dogma, I hope you’ll think twice. And I hope you don't have to think twice about giving the public lands to anyone but the people who control them now – us, the American people.

-Grandpa

Failure is Always an Option

     Last month, I had the opportunity to go elk hunting with Grandpa in a great area in southeast Wyoming. Three times. I didn’t ever get the cow I so desperately wanted, and that’s okay. We hunters don’t always score huge every time, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. In fact, I believe that the times we “fail” make the successes all the better.    

     Our hunting experience was great. As Grandpa says, “It was colder than a well digger’s [butt]” out on Giffy Knob. The outside temp reading on the truck said 7 degrees but with the screaming wind and blowing snow if felt much, much colder. We saw elk within the first hour each time we were out. Most of them were bulls, and I had to take a cow or a calf. We hiked and hiked and hiked some more, and we saw a ton of wildlife. We saw a mountain lion track that couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes old. We met some seriously cool people and saw some seriously cool things. We froze, sure – but it was worth every minute.
     If you ever have the chance to meet a Southeast Wyoming game warden, let me tell you, they are the real deal. These guys were dedicated to getting me an elk from minute one, and it was amazing the things I learned from them. Me and Grandpa discussed something interesting on the way home of the last day. If we had gone out and shot a big cow elk at first light on the very first day 50 yards from the truck, sure we would have been happy. An elk on the ground by breakfast time is always a great thing! But we would have never been able to meet the people we met, see the things we saw, and learn the things we learned. I would rather spend three long unsuccessful days doing the things we did than one successful hour. So, in conclusion, failure is always an option!
     It’s been said that we don’t hunt in order to kill, rather we kill in order to have hunted. I think that’s true. For me, elk hunting is about a lot more than killing an elk. It’s about connecting with the land and the people you love.

-The Ranger