Tom Sorensen over at Base Camp Legends wrote a column about Bear stories that reminded me about one of the poems I had written.  It is based on a true story.  There is something hair curling about looking a at a bear cub at eye level when you are on horseback, and knowing that you can’t see momma bear, but she is near.  Tom, I hope you get a kick out of MY bear story…

I spent two summers while in college as a guide and packer in Northern Idaho and Oregon. I met a lot of clients that I really enjoyed, but there was a couple of customers I wished I could just leave them out there.
Now every pack station has one horse reserved for the larger clients. Ours was named Battleship. She was a half Belgian half quarter horse that could pack any thing she was given. After a day like the one below she earned her oats.

I checked in at the ranch that morning to gather and pack the dudes
When Woody says “John you’ve got a single, He’s big with an attitude
“Now he wants to experience nature in all it’s glory and delight
Watch out on the west fork, there was a bear up there last night”

So I wrangled up old Battleship to haul him up the hill
When I saw Old Norman waiting, I shuddered with a chill
Wearing knee socks and Bermuda shorts, a tank top and shower shoes
He was a 300-pound monument that I was the packer BORN TO LOSE

Climbing in the saddle was a chore for a man built that big around
I wasn’t gonna lift him, so we had to find a rock to get him off the ground
In his attempts to mount he dropped his camera at least a dozen times
I tied his bridle reins together to keep him from dropping the lines.

Finally we left the trailhead headed south with that knothead in tow
When he piped up from behind “Hey Mister Cowboy, I gotta go!”
So I pointed with disgust to a tree not far off the rocky, mountain trail
He waddled off into the bushes and tried to no avail.

So he comes back to the horses looking sheepish and ashamed
“I guess my bathroom habits are used to settings more urbane”
“But lets press onward, we can try again in a little while.”
But these non-performances continued every quarter mile.

Walking back after the sixteenth dry run my patience was just about spent
When I see him freeze, let out a whimpering cry “I-I-I just went!!”
Here in the trail is a baby cub who stood up ‘bout to my knees
I knew mama was somewhere close in the alders under the trees

The horses had rollers in their nostrils as they drew in the omnivorous scent.
Then with a bawl from his juvenile mouth up the tree junior bear went.
Now I’ve got to admit Norman stood his ground like a trooper, petrified as he might be
As the alders shook, growled and popped at the base of the cub’s climbing tree

With a pensive glance at me I could see this was quite the scare
Norman stammered slowly “Cccc-an we-we out run that bear?”
Ya know after all I’d been through with this bum, my reply, I swear was true,
“I said, “Norman, I don’t have to out run that bear, I’ve just got to outrun you!”

Since I left the Mountain regions of Northern Idaho and Northeastern Oregon, I have been thinking back fondly to my days of packing horses and mules into wild and scenic parts of the West.  i expressed how I missed slinging a load on a pack horse to my uncle who exclaimed “Well heck, I have a pack saddle in  my garage I never use, you might as well have it.” 

This Saturday I received it and gave it a good goin’ through.  It’s a Sawbuck saddle and the leather was in pretty good shape.  After a coat of Neatsfoot oil, it was in better shape.  I couldn’t resist, and caught up my saddle horse, Shorty to see how he would take to being a pack horse.

You can watch the 40 picture plus slide show of Shorty getting his first pack load on Photobucket.com

So now I have another tool in the arsenal for getting out and getting back.  I figure Shorty gives me an additional 150 pound payload.  That means that if I am able to go on foot, shorty could easily pack 50 # of his own feed, 600 feet of electric fence, posts and energizer plus my backpacking camp. If I am successful then he would fill the Meat packing role while I shouldered my pack for the walk out.

Much of this project was spurred on by the discussions that Phillip at the Hog Blog and I have had of late about a “single horse” hunting trip, and whether it was feasible. I hope I can get a chance to try it out on a trip this Fall in the California backcountry. Whaddya say Phil?

Looks Like Guy Eastman and I share more than just our common love of hunting the western mountains.  In his blog post titled Rifles, Horses and Grizzly Bears , he elucidates an Eastman’s reader on why he carries his rifle with the butt to the rear. 

I find it interesting since we had this discussion on Sage Creek Forums, not to long ago in the Backcountry riding forum.  My reasoning stood that it was quick to access, and there was less chance of snow accumulating in the scabbard.  I do seem to have the additional advantage of a flap which snaps behind the rifle bolt, making the rifle more secure, and the scabbard more weather proof, yet quick to remove if necessary.

I do make a habit of removing the rifle sling with quick detach swivels when I put my rifle in the scabbard.  I think I will start taping the muzzle as was mentioned by Guy, to reduce the chance of debis getting into the muzzle. 

Anyone who works with stock, knows that injuries are part of the game. It’s not if, but when, and how bad. I am proof of that as each of my body parts has been altered in some way by my transactions with critters bigger and stronger than I.

Well my middle daughter has experienced a part of life with animals that has become lets say, par for the course for her parents.  Getting Kicked.  Specifically getting kicked in the face…

Now before you start sending me plastic surgeon referrals, or calling CPS, let me tell you that it was a grazing blow that left a small cut above her right eye.  She never lost consciousness, although it bled profusely (as head wounds do).  Her regular doctor was able to put 3 tiny little stitches in the cut, and we expect a full recovery, and little to no scarring.

Well she comes by it naturally.  Seems there must be a genetic predispositon since her mother recounted three scars from trauma and I have a history of trying to stop animals feet with my face.  Poor girl was doomed from the start I tell ya!

My first time was as a 10 year old, messing with a horse that I shouldn’t have.  I got a lot of looks at my resulting shiner, visible in the photo to the right.

The next occurance was as a late 20 year old and it inspired a poem. It always gets a laugh especially injury prone cowboys.

The Story of the Scar

“How did you get that scar on your cheek?” The fair looking buckle bunny asked
I didn’t know it was still visible, since it occurred so far in the past.

She was cute and downright interested, and on me I could tell she was sold
With a beer in my hand, and a couple under my belt this was the Tale I told

We had bought a set of beef heifers to replace the old dairy cows
And we had to vaccinate and Lutalyse ‘em, we’d better do it now

We didn’t have a squeeze chute but we had stanchions on the grounds
It kept the heifers from pullin’ back but their hind end still moved around

So dad hollered advice to grab their tail and then just push it up
It paralyzed their hind legs, he said they’d be gentle as a pup

It worked ‘til I came to that brockle-faced heifer, that high headed one in the line
I managed to tail her up gave her the shots and she stood there just fine.

I let down her tail and , well that re-engaged her bovine defensive gear
She caught me with a hoof on the cheek, while the other whizzed by my ear

You know I never saw a thing, all I heard was a sonic boom
I left my feet from the kick as if I was about to orbit the moon

Dad says he never saw the heifer kick just saw me lying on the ground
Spread-eagled in the manure with debris laying all around

She’d lofted my favorite hat twelve feet from the grisly scene
I was halloed in the mire by syringes, blood, and vaccine

So I staggered to my feet, covered in crap and leaving a trail of gore
When we reached the hospital though they halted me at the door.

A pile of green bloody clothes and a hosing off of my white hide
Was what required before medical repairs would even be tried.

Ten stitches and a cat scan later, I’d cleared the bees from my bonnet
The right side of my face looked like an eggplant with a caterpillar on it

I tried to sell her to the cattle dealer when I saw him there in town
But he saw my shiner and stitches, and then flat turned me down

He said, “When it comes to brockle face heifers, we don’t have much use
For a graduate of cow college, with a major in cowboy abuse.”

So we’ve still got her on the ranch and I always work her from afar
Every morning I get a reminder, when I shave around that scar.

copyright John Martin 2000

At the conclusion of the morning service we had another hearty breakfast and saddled our mounts for the Playday/Rodeo. After a short ride over the hill we assembled at the portable arena that the capable crew had disced up and surrounded with portable panels. Complete with roping chute and cattle pens the days activities consisted of a seemingly endless list of activities that nearly all the members participated in.

Since I’m always eager to take part, I entered nearly every class available. it wasn’t until the Rescue race after lunch though that I was able to win a ribbon. In the rescue race the object is:

• to race out of the arena with half a dozen other riders,
• up a side hill (after dodging the pickup trucks and culverts in the way) to a pickup point 300-500 yards away
• pick up the “passenger” on behind the saddle, race down off the hill (and back through the obstacles)
• cross the finish line with both riders, horse and saddle intact.

My partner John Ponts and I crossed the finish line a close second. Yeah he is a professional skateboarder…and a closet Cowboy.

My next event was “Steer Undecorating”. In this event a roper ropes the steer while the “mugger” (that’s me) grabs the ribbon off of the steer’s tail, and runs it back to the flagger for a time. Shortest time wins. Who is my roper? Why it’s Mike Persico, my wrestling opponent from Monday. Sure enough he caught the steer quick and then it was my turn to go to work..

Jimmy Sweigert captured the action. Unfortunately, my time was not quick enough to place.

Going down the rope, when the steer decides to get aerial on me.

Going for the ribbon on the tail.

Here I have the ribbon in hand,

With the ribbon in hand, I’m off to the flagger.

Now that I was good and warmed up, the next event was “Double Mugging”.  in this event 3 cowboys have a hold of a lariat around a steers neck. The steer is given a 15 foot head start out of the chute, and then it is the object of the three cowboys to wrestle the steer to the ground with all four legs pointing in the same direction.  Then the rope is removed from the steer and is run to the Flagger for a time.  Fastest time wins. 

I partnered with Brandon Pintane, (a PG&E employee and former Marine who is just as big as me), and Dan O’Donnell, both from our Richardson Camp. We threw our steer and posted a time of just over 25 seconds, beating the next closest team by more than 15 seconds.  I paid the price though when I turned the steer, went to the nose, and as we hit the dirt, I heard something “POP” and felt the pain shoot through my ribs…As I write this, six days later, I still cough and sneeze gingerly…

But as soon as I got my breath back it was time to enter in the Team Penning Event.  On the SCTB Trek, Team penning is a 4 man team, so my uncle Colby, Bert Owens, Peter Boice and I combined to take third place as we penned three steers in just over one minute. 

At the end of the day I had won  First, Second and Third place ribbons.   As I nursed my sore ribs with 800 mg of “Vitamin I” (Ibuprofen), I felt a feeling of accomplishmentas the sun began to set.  With a drink in my hand I enjoyed the sounds of the “Trailblazers band” as they played on the Stage into the night. 

Another morning with the typical roosters crow and serenade.  Today was a special morning as we gathered for a somber occasion and a tradition that goes back to the earliest days of the Trailblazers.  On Wednesday morning an “Empty Saddles” memorial service is held to remember the members who have passed away since our last Trek.  Whether you are an “Old Guard”, or a first year guest, it is an emotional moment.  The Words to the chorus “Empty Saddles” by Bing Crosby have new meaning since I heard it sung by Dan Steadman for the first time in 2001.

Empty saddles in the old corral,
Where do ya ride tonight?
Are ya roundin’ up the dogies,
The strays of long ago,
Are ya on the trail of buffalo?
Empty saddles in the old corral,
Where do ya ride tonight?
Are there rustlers on the border,
Or a band of Navajo
Are ya headin’ for the Alamo?
Empty guns covered with rust
Where do ya talk tonight?
Empty boots covered with dust
Where do ya walk tonight?
Empty saddles in the old corral,
My tears would be dried tonight
If you’ll only say I’m lonely,
As ya carry my old pal
Empty saddles in the old corral

This year we remembered eight SCTB members including Richardson Camp’s own Bill Sweigert.  I wrote about his passing in a January in a column titled Farewell Old Friend.  We were extremely honored that two of his sons, James and Bill III, were able to join us and take part in this special ceremony.  In fact James created a web page with pictures that really portrays the true feelings of the morning. 

Tuesday morning dawned as did Monday in Trailblazer fashion.  At 9:00 we rode North out of camp to the old Kelly Barn where there was a trail class set up for those of us who wanted to show off out mounts trail savvy and control.  The obstacles in order were:

1. Drag a log on the end of a lariat while dallied to the horn.  Turn and face the log and drag it back to the starting point.
2. Teeter totter.  A bridge that has a pivot point in the center that tips when your horse steps over the balance point.  The obstacle was 4 ft wide by  8 ft. long, with about a 12 inch high fulcrum.
3. Bag of cans.  Pick up a Hefty bag of aluminum cans from the ground and set in front of the saddle then lower the cans back to the ground.
4. Gate.  Open, pass through and close a gate on horseback.
5. Back though L.  Back your horse through an L shaped path on a side hill with out stepping on the branches laid on the ground that made the L.
6. Dismount and Re-Mount ON THE RIGHT SIDE. 
7. Barrel and Hide pull.  Drag a barrel covered with a cowhide withthe rope dallied to the saddle horn.
8. Hanging tarp.  Ride horse to the doorway of a barn with a blue plastic tarp hanging in it.  Stand quietly in front of the tarp for 10 seconds before riding through the tarp.  Turn around once int he barn and ride back through the tarp.
9. Side pass.  Step horse over a log and sidestep to the right the entire length of the log without steppin on or over the log.
10. Slicker.  Ride up to a slicker hanging from the rafter of the barn.  put on the slicker while mounted.  Ride in a circle then remove the slicker and hang back on the rafter.
11. Wagon wheel.  Holding a 1×4 approximately 10 feet long with one end on an upright barrel. Ride horse in a circle while keeping the end of the board in the middle of the barrel top.
12. Roping dummy.  Swing a rope and rope a steer head on a bale of hay, pull slack and dally.  Take 2 steps back. 

From the discussions later I heard I was in the top echelon at the end of the obstacles.  Wednesday at the playday, the arena portion of the trail horse title will be decided.

Dawn arrived with the crow of the rooster and the melody of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” (from the musical Oklahoma) at 6:00 am.  I awoke to a layer of dew condensed on my bivy sack from the foggy night. I was sure glad that I had brought it!  After feeding the horses, and a cup of coffee by the campfire we headed down to main camp for breakfast buffet  of hash browns, cereal, fruit, yogurt, sausage, ham, bacon eggs cooked to order, coffee, milk and orange juice.  Bloody Mary’s and gin fizzes were available to those who needed an eye-opener. 

As I saddled my horse “Shorty”, I noticed that the activity around camp had elevated his alertness and he was pretty wired from the hustle and bustle as 300 horses and riders prepared for the first day’s ride.  I spent a good 30 minutes lunging him in a circle to try to get his antics and mischevious ways out of his system before we hit the trail. 

We rode South out of camp a mixture of wagons and riders.  I let Shorty find his pace and we weaved our way through traffic on our way to lunch camp.  His ground eating walk was preferable to the “jigging” that he would do if I tried to check his pace.

Lunch camp was a small opening with the remains of a loading chute and corral.  The portable bar arrived shortly after we did, and the rough and tumble festivities commenced.  A common first day occurance is for the rowdies to grab ahold of the unsuspecting victims pocket and rip it off.  Usually a good natured wrestling match ensues until one of the combatants “taps out”.  Ah, the games cowboys play.

As I made my way to the bar for a gin and tonic, I could see the sharks circling, eyeing my Cinch shirt.  It’s pocket had been mended from year’s prior activities.  Finally a Willits cowboy by the name of Mike Persico (remember his name folks) couldn’t stand the suspense and grabbed ahold of it.  I immediately latched on to his wrist and the dust began to rise.  Shortly I had Mike on the ground shouting “Enough!” Laughing, I gave him a hand up and he slapped me on the back as we bellied up to the bar.  My wrestling skills weren’t enough to save my pocket though as the previous repair held so well, the material around the pocket all ripped rendering it into a rag.  Remember folks, this is all in good sport.  I knew what I was getting into.

After a lunch of cold fried chicken, beans and coleslaw, we rode back to camp along the shady tree covered logging roads.  I enjoyed the sights and sounds of trace chains jingling, wagon wheels creaking and the rythmic sounds of hoofbeats on the well packed road.

That Night we enjoyed Hor d’oevres prepared by the outlying camps including grilled duck breast, Venison, and Rocky Mountain Oysters.  I barely had room for dinner that night including clam chowder, Pot Roast, Mashed Potatoes, and vegetables.  One thing is for sure, the food was fantastic!

I drifted off to sleep dreaming of the meals to come, as the fog rolled in. 

At 6:30 AM My ride came driving in to the ranch, precisely 30 minutes early.  Merv Zimmerman, a retired dairyman from Marin county helped me load my gear as we headed north to Humboldt County to begin our Weeklong Trek on the Cottrell Ranch.  In our convoy were my hunting partner Cal Farnsworth, his father Earl Farnsworth, and Cal’s friend Bob Postel.

As we got closer to the ranch, about 5 hours later our bellies began telling us it was time for lunch when we spotted a sign in the little town of Carlotta that said “PRIVATE PARTY - SCTB”.  it was the boys from Humboldt county who had opened up the newly renovated restaurant called Shamus T Bones, Set to open in July.  We pulled over and enjoyed free tri-tip, beans and BBQ’ed Ribs along with a few barley pops.  On the newly painted walls hung pictures of local cattlemen, many of whom we recognized as fellow Trailblazers.  With a full bellies and our thirst quenched we loaded up and drove on past Bridgeville and pulled into Camp.

Main camp was situated in an open ridgetop meadow.  Large tents covered the dining area and main bar.  In the outlying areas on the edge of the meadow were regional camps.  Geyserville,  Sebastopol, Outlaw, Dirty Dozen, Humboldt, Skid Row, Petaluma, Santa Rosa, Sacramento, Wagon Camp, and my home base for the Week, Richardson Camp. (Named for the founder Warren Richardson). 

After setting up our canopy and levelling the shower trailer, we headed to the main camp to enjoy a few cocktails, and a Prime Rib dinner.  A great way to rough it if you ask me.  A few aperitifs after dinner, and I spread out my bedroll with bivy sack as the fog began to roll in and obscure the Milky Way overhead.

This evening i have a pretty good weekend road trip planned.  It seems like I just got home from San Diego.  Tonight I’ll be sleeping under the stars at the Nevada County Sportsmens Club, in Nevada City. On Saturday morning I’ll shoot at the State Field Archery Championship on their beautiful 42 target archery range. 

When we get the shooting done, then it is up the road to Yuba City to pick up my uncle’s pointer, Loco, and deliver him back to the family ranch.  Then a mad dash to organize my gear for the weeklong Sonoma County Trailblazers Trek, in Humboldt County. At 7:00 am Sunday we load up for the 5 hour drive up the coast.  I’ll be taking my trusty mount “Shorty”to ride through the redwoods and I’ll have pictures when I return Saturday.