This poem came to me as I was at my last cousin’s wedding.  I was the first one to get hitched 12 years ago, and the final one was last month.  As we stood around after the ceremony, when one of them piped up that the NEXT family wedding would be one of MY DAUGHTERS!

I wrote the poem the next day….

“I got a shotgun and a shovel, and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em,”
It scared off all the city boys and that seemed to amuse him.

The old timer was a legend and so was his daughter, she was pretty as they come
He’d scared off agents, talent scouts, and boyfriends with that line so fearsome.

The fella’s from the local college all vowed to never darken his door.
The boys from the local fraternities had all seen his wrath before.

It was rumored that he took a young man out never to return, a couple years ago
The young man never visited again so the story began to grow.

To try to date the old man’s daughter was to invite certain death or at least his wrath
Many never made it past the front porch to call, and ran back down the gravel path

Til one day a farm boy knocked on the old curmudgeon’s door
He gave him his classic line that had scared off dozens before.

“I got a shotgun and a shovel and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em”
The young man just smiled and it seemed to amuse him.

So begrudgingly the father stepped aside and let him in the door.
He was puzzled the kid hadn’t taken off like all the ones before.

He showed the kid into the parlor where the two implements stood.
Both were in the corner with worn shiny steel, and dark, well used wood.

Beside ‘em slept a black lab, kinda old, with grey around his muzzle
A couple of hand carved decoys on the mantle was the last piece to the puzzle.

“I got a shot gun and a shovel…” he repeated as the suitor stepped inside
To which the young man’s eyes brightened, and quickly he replied:

“Well sir that’s just great. I’m happy to see you are sincere
I’ve been looking for some one like you since Jimmy moved last year

I’ve got a field down by the river, and the geese are always in it.
I need someone to help me dig the pit blind and shoot another limit.”

And the pretty young daughter looked on from the stairs she was descending.
From previous visitors there was a good chance the young man’s retreat was impending.

The old man’s eyes glared, his nostrils flared his most menacing visual warning
And he said, “Have her home in time for us to go huntin’ in the mornin’”
John Martin 2008

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!”

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

On Sunday, we lost a good friend, Bill Sweigert to his battle with lung cancer. Bill was a campmate of mine on the Sonoma County Trailblazer treks, as well as being a great friend to the Martin clan. I had the pleasure of visiting with Bill in October, when he presented me with a pair of his spurs. I treasured the conversations we had around the campfire and breakfasts in March at the Two-Niner Diner, the morning after the SCTB Hog Feed. I am a truly better person for knowing Bill, and I will miss him.

 Read more about Bill’s Life HERE

Bill was also a great fan of cowboy poetry, and I wanted to share one of his poems he wrote and gave me a copy of, referring to the Cowpoke Fall gathering in Loomis, California.

“It’s Cowboy Poetry Time”
by Bill Sweigert May 2007

Where the Hell did the year go?
Cowboy Poetry Time is here.
I ain’t even washed my Wranglers
The ones I wore last year.

I better practice recitin’
I’m kinda rusty, ya know.
I don’t want to stumble or mumble,
Or let my bloopers ruin the show

The verses should flow like a river,
Smoothly steady and strong
So the audience begins to resemble
A smilin’ buckaroo throng.

Why do I keep on recitin’?
This is my 20th Year.
It’s just cuz it’s so darn excitin’
And at my age it’s great to be here.

It’s a thrill to be center stage,
Especially when you’re on a roll
You feel lots less than your age,
Cuz cowboy poetry’s good for the soul.

This weekend, while the rest of my family was out hunting blacktail deer , I performed with Scott Gerber at the Gravenstein Apple Fair.  I had committed to perform on this date months ago and didn’t realize it fell on on the opening weekend of the A-zone Rifle season.

 Scott sang his original songs from his album “Cowboy Songs”, while I performed selections from my book Ranchers Rhymes.  We did a one hour set to a crowd that ranged from 4 years old to 92 years young.  We performed on Stage 1 under a big oak tree that shaded about 100 seats, which consisted of 2×12 boards laid across straw bales.  In fact the atmosphere was one of the old time country fair. 

We went on stage at 2:00 pm after the apple pie eating contest, but BEFORE the caramel apple eating and apple juggling contests.  As you can see we were sandwiched between a couple of real draws!  But seriously, there were musical acts throughout the weekend fair that provided some great sounds.  From The Buzztones, to a Mariachi band, the Gravenstein Apple Fair offered up the diversity that the community of Sebastopol is known for. 

While I was disappointed that I wasn’t in the hills chasing blacktail bucks this weekend, I at least had a check in my pocket, and an opportunity to speak to a diverse crowd about the value of Agriculture to Sonoma County.  I actually opened our act with a poem that has been requested a number of times that speaks to the reason we stay in agriculture, called, A Farmers Invocation.

We’ve spent a year working Lord, with our stock and with our crops
Watching our herds, fields, and vineyards, as the market rises and drops

We use the technology available and work some mighty long days
But all of us see Your work in our products that we grow and raise

From a newborn calf to a yearling lamb, or an apple wet with dew
We put in the time, money, and sweat, then hope for help from you

To create this bounty before us, live our way of life we enjoy still
that has come from our stock we tend and the ground that we till.

Please know that we are thankful as we sit at our table here tonight
and bless our work as a group with good humor and foresight

It is never an easy path finding our way to Opportunity’s door
But bless the entire world that we grow our abundance for

With Peace and Love and Goodwill, us farmers wish it dear
For making food for the world is the reason we are here.

For booking information or copies of Ranchers Rhymes, or Scott Gerber’s  Cowboy Songs:

Spear Six Cattle Co.
8060 Valley Ford Rd.
Petaluma, CA 94952
spearsixcattleco [AT] cs.com (replace the [AT] with @)

My apologies to Bob Seger for hijacking his tune. I was packing for a Mule deer hunt in September of 2005 while his song “Turn the Page“ was playing on the radio. I love the lyrics, music and always thought it was quite a moving song that anyone who has to overcome obstacles to achieve success can relate to. These words came to me as I was making last minute preparations and the anticipation was getting to me! I ended up getting my first Wyoming mulie on that trip.

Through the Sage
(to the tune of Turn the Page – Bob Seger)

On a high lonesome mountain, west of the divide,
There’s a couple basins back there, about a half day’s ride.
You think about bucks you saw and blown stalks the day before
After scouting for eternity, checking country that is new,
Topo maps and GPS, Forest Rangers too.
You’re on the trail before daylight, you will hunt til day is through.

Here I am, on the ridge again, there I am, glassing the sage.
Here I go stalking the buck again
There he goes, through the sage.

Well you glass the distant hillside, lookin’ for bucks or does
You know they’re out there, as you shiver from the cold
You don’t let it bother you, cause that’s the way it goes.
Some times you see ‘em first at least you hope you can
Glassing basins, ridges and fingers with the lay of the land
No matter how your eyes ache, it’s better than a treestand.

Here I am , spot and stalk again. There I am out of my cage.
Here I go . Fifty yards again.
There he goes, busted in the sage

When you find him in your spotting scope, a couple miles away
You hustle through the coulees, gotta get to him today.
As the sweat pours out your body while crawling into range
Later in the evening, as you are rolling out your bed
With visions of a Booner running through your head.
You build your last campfire, remembering what you said

Here I am, packing out a buck again. There I am, smelling of sage.
Here I go. Full pack again
There I go. Coming of age

Here I am, on the ridge again. There I am glassing the sage
Here I go, down the trail again..
There I go, there I go.

Here is my daughter Erin’s rendition of a high mountain mule deer buck. Quite a bit better than my 2005 buck, but it gives me something to shoot for.