Tag Archives: Wyoming

Thistle Farm

Posted on by

ThistleFarm55

Of all the difficult ways there were to make a living in the scrub land around Jackson hole in the mid 1860’s Thistle farming had to be the hardest. Hardy homesteaders from Scotland moved into the territory and with dreams of establishing a thistle empire began dozens of small farms in the arid land north and east of Jackson hole Wyoming. It was subsistence farming at its heart and depended primarily on a lack of snow in the winter to keep the land at its most unproductive state.

A late snowstorm could wipe out an entire crop of thistles leaving the farmer and his family destitute but broke after a year of backbreaking labor in the thistle fields which happened more often than not. Ignoring the advice of local hunters and trappers and refusing even to talk to the ranchers in the area who had long years of getting through the winters here and were a fount of knowledge regarding snow and other moisture-laden events, they steadfastly planted their thistle seeds, hoed away the nuisance plants like alfalfa and its companion plants hay and silage and constantly fought to keep the scourge of pasture from forming. Determined but misguided they fought on year after year until eventually even the most die-hard thistle farmer saw it was a futile but lost cause.

Sadly all we have left is the occasional deteriorating building with its chinking of mud and dried thistle stalks, often with a forlorn thistle plant growing nearby in a futile attempt to reestablish its prominence. Now its once proud purple head faded to a dull listless straw color, still hoping against hope to drop its seeds into the wind one more time. It remains a sign of the herculean effort by these early dedicated but clearly unintelligent emigrant agriculturists. Still today, if you look closely at some of these abandoned homesteads you will see a small cluster of thistle bravely making a stand against the elements, their purple heads still nodding defiantly in the wind in apparent acknowledgement of their futile battle with the elements, a testament if you will to determined but misguided efforts on a huge scale. There are other failures written in the book of lost causes here in the west but none quite measure up to this one, the thistle farmers of the high plains.

A Tree Grows In Wyoming

Posted on by

TreeGrowsWyoming5201

It was early in the morning Saturday when I got the call. I had just sat down to do some serious blog writing when the sound of my ringtone “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” blared through the office thoroughly erasing the story from my mind I had intended to write . As you know this is a song by Iron Butterfly from their 1968 album “Songs My Mother Sang To Me” and I chose it because it is seventeen minutes long which gives me plenty of time to decide if I want to answer it or not.

“This had better be good, dogbreath.” I said into the phone. My caller, a spotter I used periodically to notify me if she found anything interesting was too excited to catch my tone and went on breathlessly. “Boss, I found it! I found the tree that grows in Wyoming.”

“Bull Dimples!” I yelled back at her. “You called me at 4:15 in the morning to feed me crap like this?” She never missed a beat and went on to tell me that as she drove along one of the back roads near the Colorado border there it was. The tree.

For years there have been rumors of a tree actually growing in Wyoming. Thousands have sought it out. Whole fortunes have been lost looking for it. Reputations have been ruined and lives wrecked searching for the tree that grows in Wyoming. And now my spotter says she found it. I was skeptical. It wasn’t until she sent me a grainy out of focus image from her BlackBerry that I began to think may be she had found it. If so I needed to be up there and get proper proof before we announced it to the world. The risk of ridicule was too great to mishandle this. I got what details she could give me, told her we’d talk about compensation if the story proved out and immediately began plans to leave.

For the record there are trees in Wyoming but they’re mainly restricted to the western part of the state and found up on the sides of mountains where they’re difficult to get at unless you’re like, a mountain goat or something. What we’re talking about here are trees on the plains of Wyoming. There aren’t any. And as Wyoming is 740% plains that’s a lot of no trees. The natives living here will tell you that isn’t so but tall bushes are not trees and don’t count. So finding that tree is a really big deal. Just think of the tourist dollars that would add to the state’s coffers. The person that brings this discovery to the world will be the next face on Mt. Rushmore even if that is in South Dakota.

I needed to plan my strategy carefully. I decided the best plan would be to ease up on it, kind of like you do at a single’s bar where there is real danger in spooking it off if your approach is too straight forward. I took the southern route leaving the Institute and heading west on Hwy 14 up the Poudre canyon, following the Cache La Poudre river, passing through the small towns of Spencer heights, Gould, and Walden, where I picked Hwy 40 towards Steamboat Springs and on to Craig, Colorado.

I wanted to immediately drive up Hwy 13 into Wyoming. I felt the excitement building, I was closing in on my quarry and hopefully I would soon approach it. However the Bokeh Maru was somewhat fatigued from the altitude change and needed to rest. Craig was a good place for that. In the morning we would take Hwy 70 in Wyoming and begin our stalk. I hoped beyond hope that no one had tipped the tree off and this would not become another hopeless quest. It was a difficult night for me with our quarry so close. The Bokeh Maru slept like a baby. It was like she wasn’t even aware of the importance of our mission.

The next day, after filling the Bokeh Maru’s tanks, we left and picked up Wyoming Hwy 70 which led us to Hwy 130 where we could almost smell that tree. All we had to do was climb Battle pass, snake down the switchbacks until we overlooked Centennial, Wyoming and then if our spotters directions were correct we’d be on that tree before it could shake its little branches and scamper back to its hiding place. That was not going to happen today. Not on my watch.

As you drop down the long sloping highway above Centennial you can see forever. They call it the Laramie plains and for every mile you can think of, there are long rolling hills covered with golden grass waving in the wind. I was thankful for the wind today, as it seldom blows in Wyoming, to cover the sound of the Bokeh Maru as we crept up over the last hill. Being Labor day and a holiday there were practically no cars on the road. Everyone must have been at labor because we alone on the highway as I cut the engine and coasted up to where the tree had last been reported and there it was. The tree at last. That lone green sentinel in a sea of golden grass. I was stunned to my core. I had found it at last.

I immediately took its picture, in fact I took two in case I lost one and then ran up to it and drove a stake through one of its roots pinning it to the ground. This was done in a humane way using recycled stakes and an OSHA approved hammer. This tree was not going to disappear before I could get my image published and the proper officials notified and begin the process of raking in the dough. The only worry that I had as I triumphantly returned to The Institute was that the wind didn’t blow the stake out of the ground and release the tree. There was little chance of that however, because as I mentioned before, the wind rarely blows in Wyoming and then it’s usually just a gentle little zephyr to cool off a hot day.

I couldn’t wait, I had to show you my loyal readers, the picture of the only tree in Wyoming before you saw it on CNN. My meeting with all the most important officials of the State of Wyoming is set for this Thursday and I’ve told them to bring their checkbooks. Now if I can just get an up to date weather report to make sure it’s going to be a calm sunny day I’ll be able  to sleep tonight. I can’t wait to be rich.

This Old Door

Posted on by

This OldDoor9286

This old door has stood the test of time. Rain and snow have blown against it. The hot searing sun has dried it out until slivers of itself hang loosely from its skin. Its rusting hinges still let it swing freely though, opening and closing with the same solid wood against wood sound as its latch fits into the socket, it too worn with age, that it has since it was installed so many years ago.

When it was new it arrived first by train from St. Louis to Denver, then up the eastern side of the Rockies on a spur line to the young and vibrant city of Jackson hole in Wyoming territory. A clerk from the Jackson hole livery and hardware store helped another young fellow load it into his wagon for the trip up the side of Kingston mountain. It was bound for a construction site where he was building a home for his soon to be new bride. It cost four dollars and was considered a huge extravagance by his father who thought he should have built one himself and saved the money.

After they were married, and the house was finished, Wallace and his bride Hetty decided to paint the door the brightest white they could find so folks traveling up the road past the house could see it coming for miles. Hetty wanted them to see it and know good hard-working people lived there. People that cared for their home and each other and to use the door as a marker for the love they had for each other. It took a lot of effort on her part to keep the door white and clean, especially as they had so much else to do. But Hetty thought it was worth every minute she spent on it. They were happy and the house was a joyful one, full of promise.

Years passed. Hetty bore seven children, three of which lived, and the door began to lose its luster. It wasn’t that the love it sheltered was ebbing, it was just hard to keep the door bright when her life was getting so dark. She missed those children. Life showed so much promise then. Young Wally drowning in the creek that last spring was almost enough to make her give up. Before that the others she lost were mainly due to sickness and there wasn’t anything that could be done about that. Little children died back then. But she wished with all her heart that she had told that boy not to go to the creek with it running so high. But he was like his father, headstrong and stubborn. He went anyway.

Her pride and joy were the two girls, Arletta and June, both of which married well. Arletta and Jess went to live in Denver, and June and her husband started a haberdashery in Cheyenne. They came home every so often but that had slowed now that June had two of her own. Hetty’s remaining son Stiller, the quiet one, stayed home to help Wallace keep the place going but she could see that he was getting restless. One morning Wallace came in and said he’s gone and that was that. She didn’t get up that day. It was also the last day she scrubbed the door.

The house was empty now again except for the two of them, and dinner time was a quiet time. Wallace didn’t have a lot to say and Hetty was lost in her own thoughts more often than not. Wallace had pretty much quit working the place after that young colt got in a lucky kick and shattered his knee. Hetty did some mending and took in laundry but soon that got to be too much and they were having a pretty rough go of it. June came and got them one bright summer day in 1927 and moved them into their place in Cheyenne. She and Bill had room and she could use the help with the kids. They both missed the old place but this was Ok. Hetty liked the gentle chaos of having a family around her again, although she often wondered if she would ever see Stiller before her time was gone. Wallace never brought it up but she noticed he still carried that old pocket knife he had given Stiller on his twelfth birthday. For some reason Stiller had left it next to his bed when he left. When it was Wallace’s time to go she made sure she put it in the casket with him.

The door began to show the ravages of time. The final flakes of white paint had long ago been swept away by the wind. The family, now June and Bill, and Arletta and Jess kept the place so they’d have somewhere to take the kids in the summer. The door still opened and closed with a satisfying thunk and they saw no need to paint it again. Arletta in particular like the way it had weathered and there was a small but short-lived argument about whether they should fix the place up so they could rent it and maybe take care of the taxes. June and Bill wanted to but Arletta fought for it staying the same as it was the only reminder they had of the folks now that Hetty was gone. Arletta won, at least for now, and so far the door has stayed natural.

If you go up there now, on the side of Kingston mountain where Wallace built Hetty her first and only home, you can still see the old door. It is still weathered, but Arletta finally gave in and now the place is rented out to summer people. If you’re there and lucky you may hear the satisfying thunk of the door being slammed as one of the kids runs in and out. The sound of a mother yelling “Don’t slam the door!” is lost on the kids. That’s what doors are for. Hetty never yelled, that time was too precious to waste it on yelling at the kids.

Can’t We All Just Get Along

Posted on by
CantGetAlong6388click to enlarge

While visiting the McCullough Peaks wild horse herd near Cody, Wyoming this summer we had an opportunity to spend several hours with them. As trained observers we immediately were able to learn everything there was to know about them as horses in a non-horse world. There is not one fact pertaining to wild horses that we were not able to observe and interpret so that we might impart this knowledge to you, our interested readers.

For instance, we were able to determine through very close observation that these animals are known as quadrupeds, due to the fact that they have four legs each, one on each corner, which aids in their ability to move around. They have a prominent head which is conveniently placed near the front of their bodies which contain all the necessary features they need to go through life, a mouth, two eyes for binocular vision, ears, etc. This isn’t exactly David Attenborough stuff. This is all pretty obvious, any third year grad student could figure these things out, so we’ll move on to the less obvious things we learned.

One of the most striking facts about them was they have a fairly uncomplicated judicial system. If there is a disagreement they simply bite each other until it’s solved. Consequently events are handled with the minimum amount of litigation and disputes are settled immediately. Their incidence of major crimes are very low. Murder is practically unheard of and if it is, the winner ( the one left standing) was obviously in the right and the rest of herd goes on about its business as usual. They do tend to give that individual his space from then on but that seems only prudent. Carjacking is unheard of. Malicious mischief is primarily a juvenile crime and is treated by a substantial nip from the closest adult to the perpetrator. Social services are provided by the herd in general. It takes a herd to raise a child. And divorce is handled simply by one stallion biting the bejezus out of the other and taking his old lady. This is a term used by the herd and does not indicate any sexism on the part of the observer or the rest of the horses.

However it obviously worked and worked well. While we were there they had any numbers of disputes and one divorce but the entire system held up and justice was served. There was also a noticeable absence of litigators in the herd. The one we did see was completely covered in bite marks and had a part of its ear missing, so it looks like the herd believes that one should keep its snout out of other horses business. This is an unprofitable occupation to be in when you have a system that handles its own problems.

There were other important observations made such as their ability to navigate without a GPS. Another was how they were able to distinguish one individual from another when all the white ones looked alike. To be fair and unbiased all the brown ones and grey ones looked alike too. A biggie for our observers was how they overcame the language barrier and were able to communicate without being able to speak English. A simple whinny produced the most amazing results.

There was a never-ending flurry of horse facts that filled notebook after notebook until it was time to leave. We feel that we have increased the knowledge about mustangs and wild horses in particular, to the point where we can answer any question you may have about horses, their attitudes and general belief structures, and how they make a living. If you have any questions please send them along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope and we’ll try to get them answered for you. Easy ones will get an immediate response while hard ones may take a month or two.

Out West

Posted on by

OutWest-6088click to enlarge

This is out west. Wyoming to be exact and even more specifically if you’re that kind of person, Laramie, Wyoming. You can get physically further out west but you will be hard pressed to get any further out west emotionally. This is a small lake on the Hutton Lake National Wildlife Refuge where migratory waterfowl and other birds stop over on their way North or South depending on the time of year and their inclination. You can see just as far as you want to in any direction but you may have to climb a small rise next to the lake to see to the ends of the earth.

What you will see mostly is fairly flat land that is the color of a dusty old dun horse, the sleepy one leaning against the side of the barn because that’s where its warmest right now. Slap it on its haunches and the dust that rises from his coat is the color I’m talking about. At this time of year it is just barely spring and the green hasn’t started yet. The brush that is left over from last year, the stuff that didn’t blow away in the cold winter winds, is covered with the same dust that you can see for two lifetimes. It sets the mood for the place now. One that is slumbering but gently stirring, straining to wake and begin the new season. The roots are beginning to pulse with the need for spring rains and some of the buds on the low growing brush are trying mightily to break out into the new leaves that will signal the frenzy of spring’s beginning.

To get there you turn into the entrance of the city’s premier cement plant then head west for about three miles or so along a dirt road that pulls you steadily forward through sage and cactus and barbed wire fences towards the distant mountains way off, even more west than you are now. When you reach the gate with the small sign saying Hutton Lake National Wildlife  Refuge, cross the cattle guard and you’re pretty much there. To those unused to driving along the back roads out here, where you don’t see the constant panorama of strip malls, gas stations, houses, street lights, stop signs, motorcycle cops and all the other visual cues that tell you, you are safely at home and the worse that can befall you is a long wait at the drive up window, this can be a little intimidating. What happens if you get a flat tire? Or you get hungry. Or even scared. Many times your cell phone won’t work because you’re too far from the towers. There aren’t enough people out here to make it worth while to put some up. You will definitely feel alone but then that’s what a lot folks say they want.

Actually you just deal with it. Kind of like people did for the last couple of hundred years. Most of the time you find out that you can live through it. Out here you are exposed and vulnerable to the conditions at hand. When a storm blows up like the one above, you have several choices. Find shelter, always a good choice. Stay where you are and get wet and probably blown over too if the wind is strong enough. This is a marginal choice. Or a combination of the two where you stay out and experience the full effects of the wind and rain and the overwhelming power of one of these Prairie storms until the very last moment where you run back to the truck and sit inside listening to the thunder of the rain on the roof and the sound of windblown dust hitting the side of your truck rocking it back and forth. This is my personal favorite. Yours may vary on your tolerance levels.

One thing for certain you will know you’re out west. And alive.

Big Hats

Posted on by
HeadinHome3817Big Hats     Wyoming Territory                                       click to enlarge

I was returning home from a late spring shoot in Yellowstone, traveling the back roads of Wyoming taking in the scenery, and found myself on a stretch of two-lane highway that went on, straight as an arrow, for miles. It was that part of Wyoming that a lot of people find completely devoid of anything interesting to look at. Even boring perhaps. I don’t because I like the way being able to see for miles and miles makes me feel. It feels like you’re the first one to see this country even though you aren’t of course, but the feeling of all that space and you’re the only one in it feeds my sense of adventure.

The country is made up of low rolling hills, sparse vegetation, and sand. Lots of  sand. To the uninitiated it would seem impossible to make a living out here or even sustain life for that matter, but they would be wrong. Scattered along this highway to nowhere there are small ranches, mysterious trailers sitting way out in the middle of nowhere, no wires leading to them, no signs of life except for the tire tracks leading up to them, fairly well used tire tracks. Every once in a while there will be a break in the fence with a dirt road leading off into the distance heading towards who knows where, until finally going over one of those low hills towards what, home maybe. To mark that this country is inhabited there is often a mailbox leaning up against the fence post by the cattle guard and occasionally the red flag would be up but I didn’t see that very often.

This is a place where you can drive for a long time without meeting another car and any movement can be seen for miles if you’re watching. And you need to be watching and not sleeping which is really easy to do if you stare at the road ahead too long. It seems like the view doesn’t change for hours and if you’re not careful you will find you have traveled for quite some time and you have no memory of what you just passed through. Hopefully your autopilot was on and you were in that phase I call the Sun-blind lion phase and not asleep. That’s where there is a huge amount of activity going on behind your eyes in the farther back part of your brain that you use for planning stuff while you’re semi-conscious and driving. It’s where you can build an entire house stick by stick in your minds eye while your regular non-goofy part of your brain handles the mechanics of driving while you’re busy elsewhere. Either way it is disconcerting to suddenly be aware of traveling at a high rate of speed and realizing you weren’t aware. That’s why you look all over the place. You watch for birds, trying to figure out if that black speck out there near the horizon is a raven or a golden eagle or even a buzzard. Long minutes of intense concentration help eat up the miles. It’s always a raven, by the way. But the thought that it might be the eagle keeps you awake and that’s the whole point of this anyway.

Cresting a hill I could see way off in the distance a shape that wasn’t the normal next to the highway kind of shape. I always keep one of my cameras on the passenger seat in case I need it and it is set to the prevailing light conditions, turned on and ready to go. As I drew nearer I saw that it was two boys heading home or at least I thought it was their home as there was a cluster of low-lying buildings with corrals, an old pickup sitting there, a few kind of dusty and somewhat used looking cows standing nearby, and the general appearance of people living there real regular. I hadn’t passed another place for miles, I don’t know where these kids were coming from but it was clear they were going home. It must have been a kind of ritzy place as it had not only electric wires leading to it but a phone line as well and almost all of the fence posts were upright and the wire looked tight. Those are pretty sure signs this is a place where folks live full time.

I knew right off that they were professional cowboys as they didn’t use a saddle. Amateurs and city kids got to have a saddle. Plus their hats, It is a hard and fast rule that a cowboy kid growing up cannot have a hat that fits them until they’re at least 16 and then they must have knocked down one of their uncles in a fair fight before they’re allowed to choose the one they’ll have until they get married. This is a cowboy law and seldom broken. Besides it is a badge of honor and a sure sign of unspoken love to have and wear the hat your dad doesn’t need anymore. It means you belong to a family and they care about you. It doesn’t matter that you have to put Kleenex in the hat band to make it fit. It’s a grown up hat. I’ve heard of some of these hats being passed down through several generations until they finally wind up hanging on hooks next to a treasured family picture. An heirloom now that shows traditions need to be honored.

I knew I only had a chance for one or two pictures before they heard me coming and looked around. That would change the very character of the image I wanted so I rolled down the window and took a few shots as I coasted up to them. The  wind was blowing up pretty good as it does two or three times a year in Wyoming so they didn’t hear the truck until I pulled up next to them. I was right, they both turned to look and the whole image changed. They were nearly as surprised as I was to find another living soul out here so we both tentatively waved at each other and they turned down their lane towards home and I pointed the truck south and did the same.

I don’t normally photograph people. I’m more comfortable out in the field shooting wildlife and landscapes, but every once in a while that perfect shot comes along and I can’t pass it up. That’s the way it was with “Big Hats- Heading Home”.

Dance of the Avocet

Posted on by

DanceAvocet2932click to enlarge

Avocet is a French word meaning “bad bird” as in “That is one bad bird.” They seem at first glance to be peaceful and harmless creatures and perhaps they are to an eagle or condor but to each other, well they are Avocet. While on a research project yesterday I had the opportunity to observe an interaction between two of these individuals and as you will see they were anything but peaceful. What follows is as close an interpretation as I could get with my rusty non-existent French but it will serve to show the raw savage nature of these ‘bad birds’ in Avocet’s clothing. Apparently the tallest of the two birds kept coming into the other one’s territory, we shall know him as Interloper, and not only was he sweeping up some of the better grubs and whatnot but he was eyeing up the ladies that were not his in a most ungentlemanly way. I believe there might have been a warning or two and then suddenly.. well I will leave you to see for yourself.

DanceAvocet2938click to enlarge

“Listen, you big nose DeGaulle looking clown, I have told you for the last time to go away. If you do not leave immediately I shall attack your face.”

“Ha, Imbecile! I am not an intimidated bird. You will flee and with a bent beak too.”

DanceAvocet2941click to enlarge

“Do not say I did not warn you! Here it is then, a smack to your foolish overly orange head, and it is a hard one to show you I am not the fooling around type.”

DanceAvocet2946click to enlarge

“Ah!! Mon Dieu, that was a hard one. I think this little salopard has dislodged my beautiful French brain. If I live I shall run away.”

DanceAvocet2947click to enlarge

“See, stupid bird, it is fortunate for me that mon pere sent me to learn the Savat, which allows me to kick stupid birds like you in the face and make you cry like a jeune fille francaise.”

DanceAvocet2948click to enlarge

“Now, leave, flee, go to another part of the water before I am forced to kick your ugly, misshapen face again. Next time I will bend your beak down until it really hurts and you look foolish. Go, partir, s’en, aller, sortir, quitter, and laisser, I know some of these might be the incorrect use for ‘leave’, but we are in America, I can say what I want, I am the winner!”

DanceAvocet2949click to enlarge

“Hey mon filles, did you see that? Who’s your Avocet now? Who’s your daddy?”  And so on, it seems the victor in an Avocet match is not the most sportsman like in his triumph. However in nature as in life it seems that demeanor is no longer the prime requisite and not long after several of the jeune fille francaise were seen being very grateful to the new bull of the lake, so perhaps his unsportsman like behavior was not held against him. It is spring after all.