With Your Own Hands

     On this blog, I’ve talked a lot about some of my big passions - hunting, fishing, family, and the outdoors. But I haven’t mentioned another of my hobbies: working with my hands. Whether it’s in fixing things, carpentry or blacksmithing, I get a feeling of satisfaction that I can’t quite put into words. It might come from seeing a hunk of wood or metal come together and turn into something pretty or useful, or both. Or it might be that in this world of instant gratification, seeing something that took time, effort and skill is really rewarding.   

     Apprentice-Dad has come home more than once to find me huddled over a bed of coals with a red hot piece of steel buried inside, or the belt sander singing as the University of Wyoming logo is shaped from a hunk of cedar. It comes with a price though. Currently I have two or three cuts that might scar over, three blisters, and a chunk of my right ring finger and pinky where the skin just is just starting to grow back after getting caught in the belt sander. But for all the pain it caused me, and the scares it caused my mom, I think it was worth it. Not only do I make myself some cool toys, I know how to do cool stuff that I can pass on to the next generation.
     Last Wednesday, I got the itch to make myself a knife. So I got two files from the local hardware store. So with consultation from my favorite YouTube bladesmith, I set about prepping one of my files to become a knife by firing it to break its temper. Once it was ready, the long process of shaping the blade began. First I drew a stencil onto the knife file, then cut that out roughly with a saw. With the other file, I cleaned up the edges of the stencil. Then I built a bed of coals in a barrel, and with a Shop-Vac as my bellows, I heated up the knife and quenched it in oil (I used motor oil) to harden it. Then I placed it in the oven for a couple hours (I used our toaster oven in the garage, as using the one in the kitchen tends to stink up the house and cause one’s mother to question one’s hobby.) While that was going on, I used the belt sander to quickly make handle and made a sheath out of PVC. Once that was all done, I put the varnish on the handle, and spray painted the sheath. Then I put Wyoming Armories’ (my company) brand on the handle and sheath and epoxied the handle to the blade. And it was done.
     I guess what I love about doing this kind a thing is the ability to watch the process and emotionally attach yourself to something that begins as a commonplace object and through work, turns into something great, useful, and beautiful. It reminds me of life - how we start as not much, but as we are forged in life’s fires, we become useful, great, and beautiful.

-The Apprentice 

For more info on knife making, here are some things that have helped me:

www.waltersorrellsblades.com

www.youtube.com/channel/UCkLxJCuQZ4hStBfs8TCnT9Q

Honoring our Eagles

Q: What's the difference between the Boy Scouts of America and the guys at 3 Elk Meadow?

A: The Boy Scouts have adult leadership.

     Our family has a relationship with the Boy Scouts of America. Our young men are Scouts, and both Long Rifle and I are proud to say that we’ve been Scout leaders. We believe that Scouting has taught us a lot about being good outdoorsmen and good men. That's why we’re so proud to say that we have two Eagle Scouts in our family. Since he’d neither of them would ever think of calling attention to his own accomplishments (as The Ranger would say, “That's just not what we do in our family.”) we will call attention to them. You've gotten a feel for what great guys they are right here on 3EM, but let us pause for a moment to honor our two Eagles.
     These two guys have been best buddies almost since birth.

Different as night and day in some ways, but always together. I've never seen them divided on any topic. If you haven't picked up on it, Ranger is older by about eight months. That small difference has never mattered much. When they were much younger, we called them the Coyote Brothers because, like coyote pups, if they weren't eating or sleeping they were wrestling. Now, they're young men – my wing men.   
    The Ranger is a quiet guy who was the oldest of his generation in our family. As such, he was the first to catch a fish, the first to shoot a rabbit. It was the Ranger who got us started on the whole Cutt-Slam thing that became a rite of passage for us all. Like his dad, he’s not a big guy. But he’s rawhide tough. It's pretty hard to tire him out, and he's a cool hand in a tough spot. He shares his family’s love for Wyoming history and he's the keeper of the family stories. He's an expert on aviation, and he can tell you at a glance what plane that is up there at 35,000 feet, what airline it flies for and where it's headed.      

     The Apprentice got his name because he's a lot like me. More precisely, he’s what I wish I could be. He’s a kind, hard-working and intelligent guy who has always loved wild things and wild places. He's the guy who packed his first load of elk meat off the mountain in a Ninja Turtles backpack at age five. He’s the guy who’s up at 6 AM, asking what he can do to help. He’s learned a lot along the way. But perhaps just as important, he’s taught us a lot. He’s taught us the importance of patience, and toughing things out even when they're hard. He’s taught us to be considerate of others and to be gentle in how we treat those we love.
So here's a shout out to our two Eagles, the Ranger and the Apprentice. You're a credit to our family, and we’re proud of you.

- Grandpa

Saguaro Sea

     In the desert of Southern Arizona, I look out over an ocean. Waves of majestic saguaro cacti, standing in the hot desert sun. One catches my attention. This one is taller than the others, and has a lot more arms. He’s been alive for probably around 200 years. Day after lonely day he stands there among his brethren, proud and tall. He’s been through a lot – his gnarled, twisted arms, and ever browning stalk indicate how much. But he’s resilient. He’s survived freezes, possibly fires, and wind. He grew up surrounded by the Navajo tribe, having never seen a white person until he was 20 years old. He was my height as he watched armed men leave their homes to go fight the Confederates during the Civil War. He was well over a century old when we entered World War II, and 150 by the time Grandpa was born. He’s reaching the end of his life now, and I wonder if he’s tired of it. He’s watched fads come and go, seen how fast things change, and yet he hasn’t changed. That’s what I like about him and his brothers. He doesn't care about who’s our next president, what celebrities are doing, or the newest, coolest technology. He just stands there, gazing day after day over the Saguaro Sea. Old man, I respect you.

-The Ranger

Flashback Friday!

     Within the next month or two, the 10,000th person will click on this blog. We actually have a little surprise planned for that - more details to come. We have tons of momentum, and this blog is read globally, thanks to you! Sometimes, though, it's good to step back and see what it was like back then. We started this blog over a year ago and this was the very first post ever by Grandpa. Enjoy!
-The Ranger

      We are a Wyoming family. We hunt. We fish. We pick berries and mushrooms. We know the names of the birds and the flowers. We have names for the places that are special to us – Three Elk Meadow, the name of this blog - is also one of those places. We’re out there in the mountains and the deserts, in fair weather and foul, having the time of our life all year long. We always have, and I hope we always will. 

     I am, I guess, what passes for a patriarch in our family. I’m Grandpa, an honor I take very seriously. Perhaps that’s because I never met either of my own grandfathers. They were dead long before I came on the scene. I never knew the man whose name I bear. Never heard his voice or even saw his face, except in the old sepia-toned pictures that have been were handed down to me. My dad didn't remember him much, and I don't think I ever heard him mention his father to me. Never much of a mentioner to begin with, my dad didn't have a lot of memories to work with when it came to his own father. My grandmother wasn't a lot better when it came to sharing memories of the husband she lost to the great influenza epidemic. Maybe it was just too hard to talk about him, even after all those years. He remains elusive, a ghostlike presence in our family almost a century after his passing.
     The photos of him at age 40 show a prosperous young stockman. Sandy haired, sporting a Stetson and a pocket watch and wearing a suit. But it’s the eyes that tell the story. Blue-eyed, like his young son and later the grandson he would never know, he

looks not so much at the camera as through it. There’s a Michael Martin Murphy song that says “You can see it in the eyes of every woman and man who spends their whole life livin’ close to the land. There’s a love of the country and a pride in the brand in America’s heartland, livin’ close to the land.” That’s what you see. You see the sagebrush sea, the utter vastness of millions of acres without a fence. You see the blazing heat of the summer and the bitter cold of the winter and the constant, endless wind. You see a man who loved being in the saddle, who lived and loved living in the wild. A guy I connect with very deeply, no matter that we never met.
     I don't want to be just a picture to my own grandchildren. That’s why we started this blog. We want to share with you the connection we feel with the land – each of us as individuals and all of us collectively as a family. We're a family that loves God, each other and the wild things and wild places of Wyoming. We hope you'll enjoy sharing them with us.



-Grandpa

Big Water

     I guess it doesn't take much water to impress a guy from Sweetwater County. A hatful would be a lot of water in most of southwestern Wyoming. But if you come from a hard, dry country you have to be impressed by the Pacific Ocean. I love it. There's some sort of connection here for me. Way down deep, something way back in the genetic memory says “You know me.” Like a voice you haven't heard but you still recognize, it's there in your head and in your heart but you don't know why.
     Maybe it's the smell. They say the sense of smell is best at evoking memories. I started smelling it when I was still almost a mile away. That salt tang that I hadn't smelled for years brought back memories from my first sight of it near the mouth of the Columbia. I remembered the time Grandma and I came here, to the foot of Sloat Street when we were newlyweds, back almost 43 years ago. I remembered Ketchikan and Seattle and Monterey.
     Maybe it's the sound. I'm deaf as a post, but the sound of the Pacific has always fascinated me. It sounds like some creature of unimaginable size slowly, rhythmically inhaling and exhaling. Like the planet itself is breathing. In a sense, it is. I remembered Vancouver and Astoria and San Diego.
     But the sight of it is what makes my heart leap. With my back to millions of Californians jammed cheek by jowl along the coast, I could face west and see miles and miles of open water.
Water still alive with salmon and steelhead, sea lions and sea urchins, plovers and pelicans. Water that smelled just like this when the Spanish were here. Water that sounded like this when the Ohlone were here. Water that looked like this when there were no people here at all.

As Norman Maclean said, “I am haunted by waters.”

Courtesy The Ranger

-Grandpa

Book Review: Pat McManus

     Right now it’s the time of year when the weather can’t make its mind up. The temperature stays around 45 degrees, the wind is blowing a million miles an hour, and it’s muddy as heck. It will stay like this until about April 1st, when it dumps two feet of snow and drops to -5. As a result, a rambunctious lad such as myself has to find something to do, to get out of this blasted wind. And woodcarving and Netflix only go so far. That means it’s time to find a good book, and write a school essay (which this will double as). The books of choice at the moment are by Pat McManus. Pat McManus has written a treasure trove of books about those who are as obsessed with the outdoors as I am.

     You know how some people have a gift for speaking and telling stories? Well, McManus doesn’t have that. According to my source (which may or may not start with the letters Wiki), he is an awful speaker. But he doesn’t have that problem with writing. He has many stories involving “thingingmagiges” and “doodads” that bring tears of laughter, and inspire illogical ideas that are so stupid and dangerous, they might just work… in my teenage mind, anyway. He writes the way my Grandpa talks, with stories of adventures in which you feel a part. The books make you feel like you’re experiencing the same adventures through McManus.
     He also has fun characters! There is the mischievous “Crazy Eddy Muldoon,” who young McManus climbs dragon mountains with, and helps McManus pick buttercups for his mother (buttercup picking is a truly hilarious art). You have the “Troll,” a name given to his older sister, who regularly enforces discipline with a fist of iron and a nonexistent soul. There is also “Rancid Crabtree,” the epitome of a grizzled and grumpy old man. A lot of outdoor writers these days make one ask “Why don’t I catch dozens of huge brown trout and shoot monster bull elk on every outing” after reading their work. McManus paints a much more realistic picture. In fact, he makes the occasions when he was entirely skunked, largely to his own failures, the funniest in the books. It make the rest of us mere mortals feel like we aren’t entirely failures in our daily outdoorsman lives too.
     So in this nasty windy weather, when the brown dust mixes with the occasional sleet, it’s time to put on your fuzzy socks, warm up a warm drink of your choice, and enter the crazy world of Pat McManus.

- The Apprentice

Run, Hide, Fight

   Here at 3EM, we emphasize the family. Whether its hunting, fishing, hiking or supporting one another at dance recitals, piano recitals, soccer games, wrestling matches or maybe just sharing a meal – we show up for our family.  Especially in my line of work, my faith and my family are always first and foremost in my mind. I write this post thinking of my family and all those that have lost theirs in active shooter situations. I am the active shooter instructor in my community. One part of my job is going to different departments and teaching a course on what to do in an active shooter situation. Sadly, everyone should know this information as these situations can happen anywhere, anytime and to anyone.
     As a police sergeant, you can imagine my dinnertime conversation may be different than other folks’. Recently, the topic turned to the “lockdown” drill the kids practiced in school that day. They were instructed to lock the door, shut off the lights and be quiet. Good. Then, they were told to gather together in a group. Bad. I disagree as this is different than what Federal Law Enforcement teaches. The Department of Homeland Security has great information on what to do in an active shooter scenario.
I took the opportunity to teach them to RUN, HIDE and FIGHT. I will be contacting the school to do the same. The order of these three words is important.

If the video didn't work correctly, click or tap here

1. The first and best option is to RUN. If you know you can get out of the building and to a safe location, then RUN and RUN as far as you can. 

2. If running is not an option because you are in between the only exit and the suspect, then HIDE. I don’t mean just going into a room and locking the door. Get in a room, lock the door, turn off the lights and barricade the door. Do everything in your power to keep someone from coming into that room. Once you have barricaded your room, spread out and prepare to fight if the suspect gets in. Create a plan so everyone knows what to do if the shooter makes entry. If the shooter gains access, they are forced to make a decision who to target first. This gives the group a chance to attack or escape.

3. Finally, if the suspect has entered the area you are hiding or started harming people in the same vicinity as you, FIGHT. Several people can work together by throwing things, making a tackle attempt or disarming if possible. There may be injuries, yes, but the majority will have a better chance of subduing the shooter and surviving the situation. Whether you take action or not, there are life threatening risks involved. Make the decision now to go home to your family. 
Police may be minutes and even seconds away. The absolute best chance of survival is putting these three actions into play. Always remember RUN, HIDE, and FIGHT. It may save you one day. For more information, please use the following resources. 

Run, Hide, Fight video courtesy of FBI. 

https://www.dhs.gov/active-shooter-preparedness

https://www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/active_shooter_pocket_card_508.pdf

-Long Rifle

Cooking with Rabbit

     The Apprentice, Grandpa and I went rabbit hunting a few weeks ago, as seen here. Fortunately or unfortunately, this left us with like forty whole rabbits ready for cooking. So, today me, The Apprentice, and Grandpa got together and cooked some bunny for the entire family. 3EM hasn't ever given any food advice before, so we figured it was high time! Just like antelope or elk, rabbit, if taken care of properly, can be done in a number of  delicious ways. Rangermom uses it all the time as a substitute for chicken. This is the recipe we used today, and the results were fabulous!

Serves 4.
Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 75 minutes

• 1 domestic rabbit or 2 cottontail rabbits, cut into serving pieces
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• Salt
• 3 bay leaves
• 1/2 pound Italian sausage (hot or sweet) cut into large pieces
• 4 garlic cloves, smashed
• 2 tablespoons dried oregano or marjoram
• 1/2 cup crushed tomatoes
• 1-2 teaspoons Sriracha hot sauce
• 2 tablespoons sweet paprika
• 1 cup roasted red peppers, cut into slices

1. Cut the rabbits into serving pieces. (We just used whole legs.)
2. Find a wide, shallow pot. A large, high-sided saute pan is a good choice, but one of those earthen braziers is even better. Arrange the rabbit pieces in the pot and just barely cover with water. Bring to a simmer and add a healthy pinch of salt and the bay leaves. Skim any scum that forms on the surface of the water.
3. Simmer the rabbit uncovered for 1 hour, turning the pieces from time to time as the water cooks away; this keeps both sides moist.
4. Add the remaining ingredients and mix well. Keep turning the rabbit and sausage pieces so they are coated in the sauce, and when it thickens enough — about another 10-15 minutes — you are ready to serve.

Source: http://honest-food.net/2011/03/30/calabrian-rabbit-with-red-peppers/

-The Ranger

On a Sheet of Ice

     We haven’t talked much about ice fishing here at 3EM, so that’s where I’m going today. Ice fishing is different than bank or boat fishing. Before walking out there, there needs to be some mental preparation. The sounds out on the ice are unique and there’s often a fear of falling through. However, the right spot presents itself, fears are overcome and the perfect combination is found – whether jig or dead stick. After that is taken care of, it’s smooth sailing. On ice.
Lesson 1 – Be brave. Be safe. But get out there.
     Ice fishing provides several opportunities that one doesn’t get fishing from a bank or a boat. Sitting in a hut, watching fish under your feet is pretty dang cool. I went fishing with my buddy, Daniel, and I watched a nice rainbow toying with my bait for quite some time. Daniel kept telling me to set the hook, but I was used to bank fishing and waited too long for the familiar tug before setting the hook. Lesson learned. The fish of the day went to Daniel because, apparently, if one fisherman doesn’t set the hook in a timely fashion, the fish gets bored and wanders over to his buddy’s bait.

Lesson 2 – Set the hook if you see a fish playing with the bait, even if you don’t feel a tug on the other end of the line. Or your friend will catch your fish.  
     Ice fishing without a hut is equally exciting, though, maybe not in -40 degree weather. The point of going without a hut is being out in the open air - enjoying a (hopefully) non-windy day. Living where I live, I prefer a hut because it cuts down on the wind. Late January to mid-February weather in Wyoming can be unforgiving frozen tundra. If it wasn’t for extra layers and a good pal on the days where I didn’t take a hut, I may have frozen to the lake. Good thing my compadre, Chad, (and no, I’m not talking about myself) was there to carve me out of the ice if I needed it.
Lesson 3 – Take a friend. First of all, it’s more fun. Plus, if conditions get nasty, it’s good to have back-up. 
     There is the potential to catch monster fish if you find the right spot. A couple weeks ago, my Dad and I caught wind of one of those spots. It took a little while to get there and by the time we did, the lake was loaded with huts and people. And the wind was blowing 35+ mph. I grabbed the sled and high-tailed it to a spot I was CERTAIN would produce large fish. We then proceeded to sit there for the next 5 hours and not have a single bite. Wind. People. Not. A. Single. Bite.

Lesson 4 – People lie about spots.
     There was common lesson in each of these experiences, though. In each situation, we laughed, traded stories and had great conversations. Each time, with each person, a stronger bond was formed as we grew to know each other a little bit better. Was I bummed when I didn’t catch MY fish? A little. Did I get freaking cold? Sure did. Was I discouraged at not catching ANY fish? You betcha. Would I trade ANY of those days? No way in heck. Oftentimes, I find myself wondering why so many people go out and brave the elements to ice fish in Wyoming. Maybe it’s the hope of catching the new state record. Maybe it’s getting outdoors to recharge those batteries. Maybe it’s the company that comes along. Whatever causes you to get out there, just do it. Make those memories. You won’t regret it.

-Long Rifle

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

The Sneak

    “Head down that two track a ways, past the patch of brush on your left and when you get to the tree, stop and glass the horizon.” These are Grandpa’s directions to Uncle Mark and me as the sun was just peeking over the snowy hills on hunting morning. The instructions are clear. Go to the tree. Glass. Then, return and report. Grandpa moves the truck back to a higher vantage point and Uncle Mark and I head for the tree.
     After arriving at the tree, I pull up a trusty set of Maven binoculars (above and beyond the clarity I am used to) and I immediately see elk a few clicks away. Uncle Mark is into elk as well. Uncle Mark keeps talking about a bull looking our way and I cannot find the bull he is talking about. Then, I realize Uncle Mark and I are looking at two different bunches of elk. After focusing on the terrain, I find three different bunches of elk all tucked up in a bowl. It is perfect. The wind is at their back and moving toward us and they are spread out across the ridge in a strategic move to alert others if danger approaches. The way they camouflage into the mountain side is art in its purest form. They are going to do what they can stay alive and put themselves in the best possible advantage to do so.
Luckily for us, we are approximately three quarters to a mile away from them and lots of terrain in between us. Uncle Mark and I take our time on this one. It would only take one of the lookouts in the bunch to sniff out two guys bumbling through the dips and valleys of the terrain. Every few hundred feet we stop and glass - looking for the best possible strategy. We go slowly so we don’t increase our heart rates. Based on our location, we are out of sight but definitely within smell because of the circling breeze. We use rocks, sagebrush and valleys to hide us. As we bounce back and forth closer to the elk, we can smell them. Heart rate starts to elevate. Trevor Jones and Randy Edelman’s soundtrack fills the crevices of my mind and we are Hawkeye and Chingachgook, the last of the Mohicans. Running silently through the woods, leaping over fallen timber (or walking slowly and trying to catch a breath) trying to cut off the elk and get a good shot. We make our way to a point of advantage. We must get there before they see, hear or smell us. Uncle Mark steps out from behind a rock and immediately goes to a knee. He backs up slowly. The cow elk just sits there, not knowing or caring we exist. I position myself so

Mark can use my hind quarters as a rest. There is no breeze and I

can feel my heart pounding. I’m worried I may throw off Mark’s

shot. I can hear Mark slow his breathing and with the slightest

pull of the trigger “BOOM” followed by “I got her.”
     Uncle Mark makes a clean shot on the cow. We take a minute to watch the rest of the elk scatter and we make our approach. As we draw near, I hear Chingachgook’s words as they descend over the valley. “We’re sorry to kill you, Sister. We do honor your courage and speed, your strength.” We kneel down and offer a prayer of gratitude. It’s part of the code. The last thing we would ever do is break the code.

                                                      -Long Rifle

Code of the West - Part 5

    Ok, here it is, 3EM’ers! The fifth and final chapter of the Code of the West. So far, we’ve talked about:

#1 – Work hard, and do your share.
#2 – Help out.
#3 – Serve God.
#4 – We all screw up.

To which we’ll add…

Principle #5 – Never miss an opportunity to shut up.

     It's very common for some of us (especially those of us who might be getting a little long in the tooth) to tell everyone who will listen that they're a throwback, an atavism. About how they should have been a mountain man in 1825 or a cowboy in 1885. To be honest, I've said that myself a time or two. But the fact is that I'm so nearsighted that the Crows would have killed me before I saw 1826. And while being horseback on the llano has its allure, the truth is that without antibiotics I'd have been dead at about age 30. 

     What I think we’re really wishing for is quiet. Stillness is an endangered species in the 21st century, and it's darn near extinct. Phones, tablets and other devices connect us, but they also imprison us. We're talking, texting and tweeting incessantly, obsessively. I miss the silence. If the West has any one defining characteristic, it is the scope of its silence. Wallace Stegner said that to understand this place, you have to get over the color green. I would add that you have to shut up and listen to the silence. That's the Code of the West. Shoot, that is the West.

-Grandpa

Code of the West - Part 4

     By now, you're probably wondering how long we’re going to ride this “Code of the West” horse. The good news is that the end is in sight. We sorta figured that there couldn't be more principles than we could count on the fingers of one hand. You ropers out there will have to count the stubs,too. We’ll be putting out a special sixth edition for those of you from Star Valley…
So we have: 

#1 – Work hard, and do your share.
#2 – Help out.
#3 – Serve God.

To which we’ll add…

Principle #4 – We all screw up sometimes.

    Old Gerdes used to say that the only people who never make mistakes are people who never do anything. His point was that it was ok to mess up once in a while, as long as you owned up to it and tried to make it right. He was pretty forgiving of a dumb mistake, so long as you didn't try to cover it up and you didn't make it a habit. As a teenage hod-carrier on a crew of bricklayers, I appreciated that because I made some bonehead mistakes. But I learned to own my mistakes, and that taught me to be a little more forgiving of other people when they screwed up.
     I needed that lesson a few years later on my first real job in conservation. I worked on a wildlife habitat management area in central Wyoming. Ace was the boss. He was a tough old galoot with the work ethic of a beaver on meth. He learned leadership skills working oil rigs, and his tolerance for sloth or stupidity was zero. We had just finished putting in the first of three center-pivot irrigation systems, and he left me in charge on site while he went into town to pay the tab for it – the $50,000 tab for it. We worked until about mid-morning, then I drove over to check the pivot. I found it tangled up around a cottonwood tree, twisted and crippled on its very first trip around the field. I considered suicide, and I considered headlong flight, but settled on just telling Ace I screwed up. When he got back, he just looked at it and said, “It's ok, kid. S[tuff] happens.” We fixed the pivot, removed the tree, and he never said another word about it. Because Ace lived by the Code of the West, and I loved him for it. Still do.

-Grandpa

Code of the West - Part 3

     So far, we've talked about the first two parts of the Code of the West, or at least the Code as
we practice it:

#1 – Work hard, and do your share.

#2 – Help out.

     The third one is a little more difficult. It's more difficult because it’s related to both the first two, but it's even more difficult because it’s part of everything we do. On top of that, it's one that might turn some of you off. But we try never to be untruthful here at 3EM (except about where we hunt and fish – we lie like rugs about that) so I'm just going to lay it out there and hope you’ll understand.

Principle 3 – Serve God.

     We are a family of faith. It's who we are. We know God lives and that Jesus Christ is our Savior. We try, in our own way to be a little more like the Savior every day. Sometimes we make it, sometimes we don't. But we know He loves us, so when we fail we get back up and keep on trying. As my father said, “It doesn't matter if the horse throws you ten times, as long as you get back on eleven.”    

     We pray. A lot, I guess. We pray in the morning. We give thanks when God grants us an animal to feed our family. We pray at night. We pray when someone we love needs help.And we pray when we find ourselves in a jackpot that we’re pretty sure we can't get out of on our own. It's just what we do.
     But maybe just as important, we try to live our faith by loving and serving others. I'm reminded of something I saw Apprenticedad do not long ago. A friend’s vehicle had broken down in Cody on a Saturday. It was going to be weeks before it could be repaired there. Apprenticedad and another friend figured out over Sunday dinner that they could use their flatbed and other equipment to go get it. Did they wait until Monday morning to do that? They did not. They just packed up and headed north after dinner. They loaded up the disabled outfit and headed home, arriving at 4:00 AM after a 430 mile all-nighter. Why? Because it's the Code of the West.

-Grandpa