Monthly Archives: January 2015

Can’t Get To Heaven

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Cue blues riff: slow steady, talking blues style, capo on third fret

Bring bass up: There, right there

Cue singer: 5 4 3 2 ….

          Well, You can’t get to heaven

            On 287

            But you can get as far

                   As you can get by car…….

I’ve mentioned this blues song* before in a previous post but it was brought back to me this morning as I was traveling up highway 287 in my Yellowstone portfolio looking for an image for today’s post. I was cruising along noticing that the grass was going golden as it always does this time of year, seeing the images change as I drove through Fort Washakie towards Dubois working my way up towards Togwotee Pass, hoping to get there in time for the sunset over the Tetons. Dark was coming on fast and I knew I wasn’t going to make it in time.

The clouds were building  over the mountains and there was more than a hint of snow in the air. I wasn’t looking forward to running Togwotee in the dark in a snow storm so I put the hammer down and thanking the traffic gods for not having a Wyoming State Trooper in sight, hauled my keester down the road at a very high rate of speed.

But as they say, the best laid plans of mice and photographers oft-times get screwed up. Just when I thought I was going to make it I looked over and saw the sun breaking through the clouds, highlighting the mountain and I knew I was doomed.

As a shooter when you see light like this you have to stop and take the shot. It’s the law. You have no choice. If it means running Togwotee in the dark, in a snow storm, which I did, you have to. These things don’t happen every day. Every time is unique. You miss it you lose.

Later as you’re squinting through the windshield wipers into the driving snow, exercising fully every descriptive phrase you learned in the Navy, your headlights fully illuminating the highway 10′ in front of the truck, you think about the wisdom of what you’ve chosen to do. The trip over the pass which would normally be about an hour takes three, but you know you wouldn’t have done it any differently.

Fortunately I can review this image now, sitting here in my bathrobe, drinking English Breakfast tea, knowing I can see this sight on my screen and I won’t have to drive Togwotee in the snow. Plus you get to see it too. See, cool things are happening all around. 2015 is going to be a good year.

* I attended a concert one time some years ago and the singer talked about a singer/songwriter friend of his that was writing this song. He may have mentioned his name but if so I’ve long forgotten it unfortunately, but I never forgot the lyrics.

Some Days

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You know it’s going to be one of those days when the first thing that happens when you wake up is you step into the shower and there’s no hot water because the wind blew the pilot light out. It’s too late to go light it because its way down in the basement and you’re already wet, and late besides, so you freeze your cojones off and just tough it out.

Then your tea bag explodes in the microwave and you get a mouthful of tiny, little, gritty, microscopic tea particles that take you an hour to finally spit out and it was your last tea bag, so you wind up trying to strain the tea clean using a day old paper towel that had bacon grease on it. Luckily it was on the top of the stuff in the garbage bag and you didn’t have to root through the egg shells and ramen wrappers to find it. But you persevere because the hot tea raises your core temperature a half degree after your cold shower.

Then the zipper sticks on your jeans and it takes 20 minutes to find the pliers which are laying outside by the truck where you left them when you were trying to get the ball off the trailer hitch, and you almost took a header off the stairs trying to get down to them so you could fix your pants.

And of course you forgot to get milk and there’s only enough in the jug to slightly dampen your cereal and you hate to eat dry cereal but you can’t just throw it out because you don’t waste food and besides you’re really hungry, so you add a little water to the glutinous mess and you look out the window while you’re forcing it down and think of brighter days.

To top it off and bring your morning to its absolute perfect conclusion, the phone rings and it’s the ranger giving you hell because it’s your day to sit on the fence near Old Faithful so the tourists can take pictures and if you’re not there immediately you’ll be reassigned to sitting on the wet rocks up at Lewis falls, where the sun never shines and the cold drizzle mats your feathers together and you never, never get transferred back once you’re sent there. So forgive me if I’m not the picture of the bluebird of happiness today. Thanks for asking.

Observations of a Wolf

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Wolves are a lot like you and me. When they’re out of regular wolf stuff to do, like running down a buffalo, or snarling at somebody who gets too close at the wrong time, or they’re out of sorts because their kid didn’t make the honor roll, but they’re not at that point where they have to go bite something, they find a quiet place to sit and think and  watch what other folks are doing.

That’s what Rodin is doing at the moment. He’s part of the Fishing Wolves* pack at the Wolf refuge in West Yellowstone and he’s already caught his rainbow for the day and got to eat the entire thing without having to share it with the alpha male. That’s a stroke of luck he hadn’t counted on because the alpha usually takes it away from him before he gets a chance to do much more than hold it in his mouth for a moment.

HIs stomach full and his work done for the moment, he gets to go to his favorite place, the high grass in the boulder field and watch what every one else is doing. The alpha is picking on another young wolf today, running him through his paces, teaching him who the bull duck in the pond is, or in this case who the alpha male is in the wolf pack. That cute young grey is looking at him again. He has to play it cool though so the alpha doesn’t notice. Since they’re in an enclosure it’s not like they can sneak away or anything and right now the thought of the beating he’ll get if he returns her interest doesn’t make him feel very amorous.

Stellar jays have been squawking over something, hopping from the lower branches to the ground and back up again, agitated enough it’s causing the pine cones to fall off the branches and rattle around on the ground. It’s drawing in the magpies who’ll make short work of running them off. Whatever it is it’s outside of the fence so it doesn’t affect him.

It’s a perfect day in the neighborhood. The sun’s out but because it’s mid-September it’s not too hot and the wind is just enough to move the grass back and forth a little. It feels good rubbing up against his side. If nobody notices he might just lay down for a nap, something he doesn’t get a chance to do very often. Maybe he’ll dream of running over the long rolling hills up in the Lamar or setting off with the young grey to find their own territory. After all, the skies the limit when you’re dreaming.

* http://www.bigshotsnow.com/2013/05/05/

Last Tango In Bosque

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Sandhill cranes are one of the bird species that uses dance as part of their mating ritual. Many species do this but since we’re talking about Sandhill cranes we don’t care about them. In fact let’s ignore them entirely. They can get their own post from some other blogger.

Sandhills have a unique childhood as they are constantly uprooted, traveling back and forth between various nesting and feeding grounds, never staying in one place for more than a few months. They are the avian equivalent of the Roma or as they ‘re more commonly known, travelers, or gypsies. Consequently they have developed some bad habits such as stealing grain out of farm fields, throwing raucous parties where they spend the day singing ribald songs and dancing, and consequently are unwelcome in many of the areas they frequent.

It’s the dancing we’re addressing in this post. The uninhibited, wildly abandoned, provocative dancing. This is primarily a “G” rated blog but occasionally we come across behavior that we simply must point out so that you, the reader, can take what ever protective measures you choose to keep your children, or even yourselves, from being unduly influenced by this hedonistic display of licentiousness.

We were shocked when we came across this overt display in the normally sedate Bosque del Apache bird refuge in southern New Mexico. This is a place where thousands of birds congregate during the winter. Snow geese, Ross’s goose, ducks of all kinds and you could move from one place in the refuge to another and see these various birds and ducks behaving in a civilized, normal manner, and aside from an infrequent squabble, never exhibiting any aberrant behavior.

But then this quiet garden of Eden was discovered by the travelers, or lets call a bird a bird, the Sandhill cranes. Suddenly the harmony of this gentle resting place was shattered all to heck, excuse us but an event like this moves us to use harsh language, by the arrival of flocks upon flocks of these noisy, argumentative, unapologetic, cranes and everything changed.

Suddenly the blatant exhibition of their sexually charged mating rituals, which they held right out in the open for anyone to observe, was rampant. Everywhere you looked there was dancing, and as the more worldly among you surely know what that leads to, we don’t need to follow that path to its conclusion.

Surely a group of individuals whose moral compass has gone so wildly astray could not prevail but sadly, that is not the case. Due to their unrestricted behavior there are now thousands more of these Sandhill cranes and there has been a huge effect on the surrounding areas. Where once this had been a quiet farming area, now the fields are decimated by the hungry opportunistic cranes. Farms have been abandoned and the empty homesteads litter the edges of the refuge. What were once prosperous farms have been turned into the playgrounds of these dancing, squawking, devil-may-care, footloose wanderers.

Above you can see two of these young cranes beginning what is one of the favorite dances of these unfortunately immoral birds, the Tango. Brought up from South America by a group of Argentinian travelers and introduced to their naive American cousins this new dance has swept through the flocks like the pox it is. Now you can see countless pairs of Sandhills performing this dance before heading into the privacy of the surrounding reeds to complete their mating ritual.

Unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be any antidote to this terrible affliction and all we can expect is to see more and more of it in the future. One hesitates to use the word shameful on a group of individuals whose only way of defending their actions is by a strangled sort of gargling that is their voice, but for civilized people it is hard to accept their licentiousness. At this point we are suggesting that the public refrains from bringing small children to the refuge during what is now called the mating season. We hope that by person-cotting the refuge the birds will get the hint to tone down their behavior and we’ll see the last tango at Bosque.

Announcement !!!

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We now return you to our regular programming.

For the last week or so BigShotsNow has been running previously published posts in celebration of our posting our 500th story on January 11th 2015. For 500 days I have gotten up before dawn, done the milking, then plowed Wolf Creek Pass from the top down, helped guide a lost polar expedition back to civilization, cured cancer, designed a new solar-powered flying backpack that frees all Americans from the tyranny of driving on our congested highways, crocheted a snood, and done the canning for this season, all before sitting down to write the morning blogs you all have come to rely on so heavily to start your day.

Frankly I was tired. But after having a rest from the milking and the plowing and getting my snood sized properly over the last week, all that’s behind me. I’m back. I’m ready, and I’m here to shoot pictures and write stories for another 500 days.

I want to thank you once again for checking in, and checking us out and I hope it wasn’t too painful for you. Tomorrow starts a new year at BigShotsNow, with fresh new images and fresher stories. Stay tuned it’s going to be a fun ride. And if we haven’t already told you Happy New Year!

Just Two Guys revisited

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To celebrate our 500th post on BigShotsNow we are republishing some of our more popular posts. This post first appeared on May 23 2013. If you have any suggestions of previous posts you’d like to see again drop a note to dlutsey@enchantedpixels.com and we’ll try and honor that request.

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“Whoa, Dude, that was some winter. Did you think we were going to make it?”

“No man, I thought we were toast there in February. You ever been that cold?”

“Un Unh Dude, I felt like condensed lichen pellets.”

“You know man, this spring sun makes me feel kinda twitchy, I can’t stop chewing my cud”

“Dude Don’t sweat it, chewing your cud is normal. I saw old Cracked Horn chewing his cud and he’s a full curl.”

“Yeah man but I’m chewing it as fast as I can all the time. That can’t be normal.”

“Just mellow out dude. How many kids you got now?”

“In this herd? Eleven man, but I got three on the way. Four, if Ms. Cloven Hoof is carrying twins like last year. How about you?”

“I’m not doing so hot dude, I went up against old Cracked Horn again. I still got ringing in my ears and I have to be really careful when I’m up on the face of High Step cuz my left eye is still fuzzy.”

“The trick with Cracked Horn man, is you got to watch him, just before he hits you he lifts his muzzle up too high and if you step off to the right and drop your horn you can catch him right across his nose. He usually stops for awhile after that. That’s how come I might be having twins with Ms. Cloven hoof.”

“Dude, I have never noticed that! He’s going down this fall.”

“Watch it man, here he comes. Probably going to tell us how he beat that ram from the Snowlot herd again. I am SO sick of that story.”

“Hey Cracked, how’s it going? Lay down and chew the cud for awhile.”

Summertime Blues revisited

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To celebrate our 500th post on BigShotsNow we are republishing some of our more popular posts. This post first appeared on July 5 2013. If you have any suggestions of previous posts you’d like to see again drop a note to dlutsey@enchantedpixels.com and we’ll try and honor that request.

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It’s hot out here on the prairie in the summer. That’s the way summer is, but today feels different. Today the air is still, unnaturally quiet and there is an oppressive feel to it as if the air got suddenly heavier. The chickens have all found places to roost and there isn’t a sound out of any of them, even the old rooster has gone silent. The light has gone different too, going from the usual bright blue to a kind of sullen blue-grey color with a tinge of green that doesn’t feel right. Mom’s in the house getting ready to start canning. It’s been a struggle to keep the rabbits and deer out of the garden and she’s got to save what she has harvested so far. Dad’s out in the field trying his damnest to get the seed in before the rain hits. Claude and Old Bill don’t like the clouds forming or the way it has got quiet all of a sudden and they are hard to keep straight. Dad has been giving them hell and the horses sweaty backs are more from nervousness than the hard work. Seed’s expensive and it has to go down right or the yield won’t be there.

 If you look close you can see skinny little kids with angular faces and very serious expressions playing out behind the shed. They had been hitting something with sticks a little while before, you couldn’t see what it was but whatever it was they were intent on making its life miserable. They’re not bad kids but a hard life makes for hard play.

The shed door started banging against its hinges as the wind kicked up and inside the cow is pulling against its rope. It doesn’t like the feeling in the air and wants outside. It’s only a little after noon and the sky is darkening for as far as you can see. These clouds mean only one thing and it is the worst thing you can have besides fire. Their rounded, puffy bottoms are a prelude to one of the great devastations visited on this land. Off in the far forty Dad is turning the team towards home. He’s about to turn them loose and jump on back of old Bill to beat the wind and get everybody rounded up. Mom has shut down the stove and damped the fire, canning can wait.

With everybody accounted for and Dad home cutting the horses loose to fend for themselves it’s time to pull open the root cellar door and enter the cool earthy smelling darkness. Mom brought the loaf of bread from the oven and her bible, Dad’s got the kerosene lantern lit and the kids are staring wide-eyed at the last sliver of daylight as the cellar door gets pulled down tight and locked. Maybe next year if everything goes right they can get an electric light down there but I guess that would only last until the twister took out the power poles so maybe they’ll save their money. The littlest one is hanging on to her sister and listening as if her life depended on it as her brother tells how the twister will sound like a freight train from hell as it passes by and maybe suck them right up out of the ground if it has a mind to. Lots of people have been sucked up out of the ground, blown away and just killed, he says, but his big sister says Dad won’t let that happen and he should just shush. Besides he was the one that wet his pants the last time he was so scared so he shouldn’t be trying to scare any one else.

If they’re lucky the twister will miss the house and the out buildings and their livestock will make it. So far they’ve been lucky. This isn’t their first storm but it doesn’t get easier with each one, just the opposite in fact. Dry land farming and life out here in general is a tough way to make it go what with the drought, the fires, the winds, the dust storms, the grasshoppers and the tornadoes. This is real Grapes of Wrath stuff here, gritty, hard-edged and no holds barred life on the plains but these are strong people and they have faith they can make it. I believe they can too, but it’s going to be a long afternoon none the less.