Thursday, March 11, 2010
Classic Hope
The movement of the cutting horse is a symphony in grace. The term cutting horse was given to the horse trained to cut-a-way an animal (cow) from a herd and separate it into a select group. The trained cutter does the work. The rider picks the animal to be separated and the horse does the rest, just hang on and keep a tight saddle. Cutting contests are highly competitive as a timed and big purse equine event. This event is related to an event called penning.
War Party at the River
Early in my life I had a friend, Nathan, that lived down the road from our little farm. Nat’s mother was a pretty Sioux Indian woman. Her grandfather, “Spotted Owl”, lived with Nat’s family. He was very old and spent most of his time sleeping and looking off into space. He loved to tell stories of his past life on the prairie of South Dakota. The Indians and the bison freely moved across a sea of grass in the 1840’s and the air was free of the Blue Coats, that would come like locust later. Marauding tribes roamed the prairie stealing horses, capturing women and raiding camps. War between tribes was common. Great Grandfather’s life stories lived when he told them and Nat and I rode right with him. He loved the “war party” story and we loved hearing him tell it. His eyes would shine and his weak voice would grow strong and chills would climb your spine.
We had been on the trail of the Pawnee four moons. They had raided our camp, took many horses and a hand (5) of women and girls during their raid. Our main hunting party had been away hunting tatonka (bison). The large number of men being away made it easy for them to attack us. I was young and the hunt was my first as a chase rider.
The escape plan of Pawnee was to split into small groups. The tactic made them harder to find. The tracker “Wind in Grass” knew they would gather at one place to cross the river and he found the location. “Wind in Grass” points the way to “Runs Like Wolf” and “Little Calf” prepares to alert the war party for the crossing. “Runs Like Wolf’s” wife is one of the captives along with two of his daughters. We readied ourselves for the attack. This was my first battle and I was frightened and brave at the same time. It would be a great day to die.
We circled them a short distance from the river and the attack was swift. They had not expected us. There was only two hands (10) of them against three hands (15) of us. The women were split away by two riders and then we attacked. I made my first coup and a kill for scalp. That day I grew from a boy to a man. The women revenged themselves on the dead bodies. We returned home with great celebration.
Foote note: ‘Spotted Owl” died when I was seven. My mother said the newspaper said “Spotted Owl” was over a hundred years and very old.
We had been on the trail of the Pawnee four moons. They had raided our camp, took many horses and a hand (5) of women and girls during their raid. Our main hunting party had been away hunting tatonka (bison). The large number of men being away made it easy for them to attack us. I was young and the hunt was my first as a chase rider.
The escape plan of Pawnee was to split into small groups. The tactic made them harder to find. The tracker “Wind in Grass” knew they would gather at one place to cross the river and he found the location. “Wind in Grass” points the way to “Runs Like Wolf” and “Little Calf” prepares to alert the war party for the crossing. “Runs Like Wolf’s” wife is one of the captives along with two of his daughters. We readied ourselves for the attack. This was my first battle and I was frightened and brave at the same time. It would be a great day to die.
We circled them a short distance from the river and the attack was swift. They had not expected us. There was only two hands (10) of them against three hands (15) of us. The women were split away by two riders and then we attacked. I made my first coup and a kill for scalp. That day I grew from a boy to a man. The women revenged themselves on the dead bodies. We returned home with great celebration.
Foote note: ‘Spotted Owl” died when I was seven. My mother said the newspaper said “Spotted Owl” was over a hundred years and very old.
Hay Stack Racing
The sport of kings, horse racing is one of the ancient contests of horse and man that has persisted through the ages. Horse racing has come in many forms. Hay stack racing was but a short interlude in the sport as we know it today.
The years of the prohibition halted organized betting and caused the regular tracks to cease functioning. The poverty of the Great Depression and World War II was a set back for organized racing. Short track and small meets became the norm. Towns such as Butte and Anaconda, Montana, fostered such races in a network of "bullring" race tracks, fairs and carnivals. Most tracks were crude and about a half mile in length.
I remember tracks that were made by dragging a stonebolt and harrow around and around in a hay field to make a place to race. If a jockey fell too far behind he just cut across the field to catch up. Often jockeys were caught up in the starting net that was stretched across the track. When the starter jerked up the net the race started. Many times the net was not raised high enough and you would be thrown to the ground. This was a rough game, but as an aspiring jockey you had to start someplace. There were few regulations and no one to enforce them. The goal was to win any way you could.
The jockey had many ways to slow down the competition. A jerk or hanging on to the leader's saddle blanket was a favorite. Grabbing the tail of the lead horse was also a good trick. A vicious cut, with the riding crop, to a rider or his horse would break strides and cause injury. Pushing horses into the rail, bumping and intentional blocking was common in all races.
Some of these tactics went on in the 1940's. I was lucky, we played the game pretty straight, but, when you were behind and away from observers, things did happen.
As I read the book "Seabiscuit" by Laura Hillenbrand, I recalled those days and some of her descriptions made chills run up and down my spine. The sculpture, "Hay Stack Racing," depicts some of the antics of the unruly game of horse racing in the 30's and 40's.
The years of the prohibition halted organized betting and caused the regular tracks to cease functioning. The poverty of the Great Depression and World War II was a set back for organized racing. Short track and small meets became the norm. Towns such as Butte and Anaconda, Montana, fostered such races in a network of "bullring" race tracks, fairs and carnivals. Most tracks were crude and about a half mile in length.
I remember tracks that were made by dragging a stonebolt and harrow around and around in a hay field to make a place to race. If a jockey fell too far behind he just cut across the field to catch up. Often jockeys were caught up in the starting net that was stretched across the track. When the starter jerked up the net the race started. Many times the net was not raised high enough and you would be thrown to the ground. This was a rough game, but as an aspiring jockey you had to start someplace. There were few regulations and no one to enforce them. The goal was to win any way you could.
The jockey had many ways to slow down the competition. A jerk or hanging on to the leader's saddle blanket was a favorite. Grabbing the tail of the lead horse was also a good trick. A vicious cut, with the riding crop, to a rider or his horse would break strides and cause injury. Pushing horses into the rail, bumping and intentional blocking was common in all races.
Some of these tactics went on in the 1940's. I was lucky, we played the game pretty straight, but, when you were behind and away from observers, things did happen.
As I read the book "Seabiscuit" by Laura Hillenbrand, I recalled those days and some of her descriptions made chills run up and down my spine. The sculpture, "Hay Stack Racing," depicts some of the antics of the unruly game of horse racing in the 30's and 40's.
Johnson's Dilemma
Choteau, Mont. -
A bizarre, dramatic rescue of Eliga Johnson, age 78 took place late Friday afternoon in the mountains north of Choteau, MT. Johnson was rescued after being critically injured by two grizzly bears in a fight that took place on Wednesday morning just before dawn. The herder is recuperating in the Deaconess Hospital from multiple broken bones, cuts and puncture wounds.
The rescue was made by local searchers at a sheep camp located about 30 miles south of Dupuyer on the edge of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.
Searchers from Choteau, Fairfield and Dupuyer participated in locating Johnson and transporting him to Choteau and then, by ambulance, to the Great Falls hospital.
The story of the incident was pieced together by the rescuers and some information revealed in Johnson's own account.
The story began on Tuesday, October 14, when Charley Henderson, of the A.B.Norris Ranch, was in Johnson's camp and informed Johnson he would return on Friday to begin the move of the band of sheep and Johnson down to the main ranch for winter.
Johnson was awakened just before dawn, Wednesday, by barking dogs and sheep bells. In the dim light, Johnson saw two grizzlies and fired his rifle at them to run them off.
One of the bears apparently raised on his hind legs as Johnson fired, was hit in the chest and knocked to the ground. The second bear attacked Johnson and ran him two hundred yards from the camp where Johnson fell over a cutbank into a dry creek bed.
Firing his rifle repeatedly, the attacking bear was killed, falling on Johnson's leg, breaking it and pinning him to the ground.
The mortally wounded bear recovered enough to tear up the sheep wagon and then proceeded to where his companion and Johnson lay. Johnson was out of ammunition and had broken the stock off his rifle when he fell. As the bear began his attack Johnson's dogs did their best to detour the animal, with one of them losing his life.
Johnson grabbed his rifle by the barrel and swinging the "weapon" with all his strength, hit the bear. The trigger of the old thirty-thirty buried itself into the skull of the mortally wounded bear, stunning him. The thrashing bear fell forward onto Johnson, covering him and died.
The warm bodies of the dead foe reduced Johnson's risk of shock. When the rescuers rolled the four hundred pound bear off Johnson he was conscious long enough to ask "Tis Friday?" One of the rescuers answered, "yes, Johnson, tis Friday."
Foot Notes: unpublished accounts
When the camp tender arrived on Friday, the 17th of October, seeing the destroyed sheep camp, he knew there was trouble and immediately drove to Choteau for help and also called Dupuyer. Henderson remarked, "you don't go scouting around when grizzlies have been in camp."
Johnson's remaining dog had kept the sheep together east of the camp and had kept a close vigil on Johnson for those three days. She led us to where Johnson and the bears lay when we began our search. When we first saw the dead bears we were not aware Johnson was even there. It was a shock to find him at all, and to find him alive was a miracle.
Johnson recovered, roomed in Choteau that winter, ate two meals a day at the Blue Bird Cafe and returned to his job in the spring.
A bizarre, dramatic rescue of Eliga Johnson, age 78 took place late Friday afternoon in the mountains north of Choteau, MT. Johnson was rescued after being critically injured by two grizzly bears in a fight that took place on Wednesday morning just before dawn. The herder is recuperating in the Deaconess Hospital from multiple broken bones, cuts and puncture wounds.
The rescue was made by local searchers at a sheep camp located about 30 miles south of Dupuyer on the edge of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.
Searchers from Choteau, Fairfield and Dupuyer participated in locating Johnson and transporting him to Choteau and then, by ambulance, to the Great Falls hospital.
The story of the incident was pieced together by the rescuers and some information revealed in Johnson's own account.
The story began on Tuesday, October 14, when Charley Henderson, of the A.B.Norris Ranch, was in Johnson's camp and informed Johnson he would return on Friday to begin the move of the band of sheep and Johnson down to the main ranch for winter.
Johnson was awakened just before dawn, Wednesday, by barking dogs and sheep bells. In the dim light, Johnson saw two grizzlies and fired his rifle at them to run them off.
One of the bears apparently raised on his hind legs as Johnson fired, was hit in the chest and knocked to the ground. The second bear attacked Johnson and ran him two hundred yards from the camp where Johnson fell over a cutbank into a dry creek bed.
Firing his rifle repeatedly, the attacking bear was killed, falling on Johnson's leg, breaking it and pinning him to the ground.
The mortally wounded bear recovered enough to tear up the sheep wagon and then proceeded to where his companion and Johnson lay. Johnson was out of ammunition and had broken the stock off his rifle when he fell. As the bear began his attack Johnson's dogs did their best to detour the animal, with one of them losing his life.
Johnson grabbed his rifle by the barrel and swinging the "weapon" with all his strength, hit the bear. The trigger of the old thirty-thirty buried itself into the skull of the mortally wounded bear, stunning him. The thrashing bear fell forward onto Johnson, covering him and died.
The warm bodies of the dead foe reduced Johnson's risk of shock. When the rescuers rolled the four hundred pound bear off Johnson he was conscious long enough to ask "Tis Friday?" One of the rescuers answered, "yes, Johnson, tis Friday."
Foot Notes: unpublished accounts
When the camp tender arrived on Friday, the 17th of October, seeing the destroyed sheep camp, he knew there was trouble and immediately drove to Choteau for help and also called Dupuyer. Henderson remarked, "you don't go scouting around when grizzlies have been in camp."
Johnson's remaining dog had kept the sheep together east of the camp and had kept a close vigil on Johnson for those three days. She led us to where Johnson and the bears lay when we began our search. When we first saw the dead bears we were not aware Johnson was even there. It was a shock to find him at all, and to find him alive was a miracle.
Johnson recovered, roomed in Choteau that winter, ate two meals a day at the Blue Bird Cafe and returned to his job in the spring.
A Grizzly Moment
The True Story of a Montana Hunter
The fall came early in 1949 and the colors were as golden and red as you will ever see. The elk were bugling and the long mellow calls in the evening stirred every hunters' anxious heart.
Les had been waiting for the season to open. The meat house at the ranch was almost empty and with winter coming, an elk would save one steer that could go to market.
Day hunts were Les's favorite. Rising before daylight, saddling the packers with the old sawbucks took only a short time, and the ride to the top of the mountain was underway. The main elk herd was bunched up about a mile down into the Swan Valley and was easily spotted from Rocky Ridge.
Les tied the horses in a small grove of aspen and proceeded on foot to where he could get a good shot. A large bull stepped out of the trees about a hundred yards ahead. Les took aim and fired. The six-point bull went down. What a trophy rack for the lodge! After fetching the horses and the gear, Les quartered the big elk and loaded him up.
The lead packer carried the two hindquarters and the butcher gear. Les tied the rack over the front quarters of the second packer, mounted up, and headed for the top of the mountain. It was late afternoon when the group reached the top of the mountain. Les knew that it would be dark by the time he got home, but the lateness did not present a problem.
As they topped Rocky Ridge, the horses became edgy and the downed timber looked foreboding in the twilight. Suddenly, out of nowhere, shear terror burst onto the scene. Six hundred pounds of grizzly was tearing at the hindquarter of elk on the lead packer. In a flash he was gone, literally propelling the prize trophy through the air and out of sight.
The hunter had all the excitement he could handle for one day. The nervous horses headed downhill for the barn at a fair clip.
Relax time was coming and Les could hardly wait.
The fall came early in 1949 and the colors were as golden and red as you will ever see. The elk were bugling and the long mellow calls in the evening stirred every hunters' anxious heart.
Les had been waiting for the season to open. The meat house at the ranch was almost empty and with winter coming, an elk would save one steer that could go to market.
Day hunts were Les's favorite. Rising before daylight, saddling the packers with the old sawbucks took only a short time, and the ride to the top of the mountain was underway. The main elk herd was bunched up about a mile down into the Swan Valley and was easily spotted from Rocky Ridge.
Les tied the horses in a small grove of aspen and proceeded on foot to where he could get a good shot. A large bull stepped out of the trees about a hundred yards ahead. Les took aim and fired. The six-point bull went down. What a trophy rack for the lodge! After fetching the horses and the gear, Les quartered the big elk and loaded him up.
The lead packer carried the two hindquarters and the butcher gear. Les tied the rack over the front quarters of the second packer, mounted up, and headed for the top of the mountain. It was late afternoon when the group reached the top of the mountain. Les knew that it would be dark by the time he got home, but the lateness did not present a problem.
As they topped Rocky Ridge, the horses became edgy and the downed timber looked foreboding in the twilight. Suddenly, out of nowhere, shear terror burst onto the scene. Six hundred pounds of grizzly was tearing at the hindquarter of elk on the lead packer. In a flash he was gone, literally propelling the prize trophy through the air and out of sight.
The hunter had all the excitement he could handle for one day. The nervous horses headed downhill for the barn at a fair clip.
Relax time was coming and Les could hardly wait.
Fly Fisherman
Every fly fisherman has stood waist deep in a slow moving stream and hooked into a helpless situation. The crafty old brown trout took the streamer and knew he was in trouble. This had happened before and he knew what to do. A quick jump on the surface and he lunged straight down, behind the reeds and then a quick loop around his favorite old log, and there he sat. I could see him, he looked like a whale although he was probably a five pounder.
Fishing has always been a part of Montana's heritage. From the Clark Fork of "A River Runs Through It" to the mighty Missouri River country, fishing in Montana has become world famous.
In recent years, the fly fisherman has become a common sight on the rivers and streams all over the region. The westslope cutthroat which are famous in the Flathead River drainage attract avid fly fishers from all corners of the world.
Here, in "Up the Creek", Bob captures in bronze the action and excitement of catching a nice sized trout on a fly.
Fishing has always been a part of Montana's heritage. From the Clark Fork of "A River Runs Through It" to the mighty Missouri River country, fishing in Montana has become world famous.
In recent years, the fly fisherman has become a common sight on the rivers and streams all over the region. The westslope cutthroat which are famous in the Flathead River drainage attract avid fly fishers from all corners of the world.
Here, in "Up the Creek", Bob captures in bronze the action and excitement of catching a nice sized trout on a fly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)