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Fishin’

I thought my dad was a master fisherman, I guess just because he was my daddy. He used a casting rod in earlier years and then he graduated to a fly rod. I wouldn’t say he had the greatest form, but I sure enjoyed watching him fly fish. He cast out his line, then pulled and eased out the line with his other hand, letting it flow with the rippling river, teasing the fish and luring them to take his bait. Sometimes it even worked.

He didn’t mind taking us kids fishing – or his grandkids – even though I think he spent most of his time getting hooks out of trees or kids’ hats, or unsnarling a stick we caught. When it was time to go fishing, we were all excited. We gathered up our gear, piled into the back of the truck and headed to the mountains where the fresh streams were home to rainbow and brown trout. Daddy fished those creeks many-a-time. He knew where the good fishing holes were. 

The rule was, “You clean what you catch.” Another rule was, “Bait your own hook.” We would catch grasshoppers or buy a little cup of worms if we weren’t able to dig some out of the garden or from under a rock. I’d bait my hook and some of the worm’s guts or grasshopper brains would squish out. After we caught and cleaned a mess of trout, it was time to eat them. The best fish were fresh and cooked over an open campfire. They were pretty good just taken to the house, battered with seasoned flour, and fried in a cast iron skillet. 

We ate the trout like a sandwich. We held the tail in one hand and the head in the other (unless it had the head cut off). Gingerly, lightly, our teeth sank into the back of the trout. It was so tender the meat slid right off the bones. Yum, yum. By the time we were done, there was a pyramid of intact fish skeletons with tails and heads still attached.

The fishing bug passed down the family tree. My nephew is a master fisherman. He can catch a fish almost anywhere. One year, while traveling out west, we stopped to mine for gems at a roadside stop. We bought a bag of gem gravel and poured some onto a screen. After shaking out the excess dirt, then came the process of dipping the screen in water to wash away the rest of the sediment. We found several sapphires, garnets, and other gems. My nephew shared a bag with some of his family. He shook his screen and dipped it in the water, shaking out the extra dirt. When he lifted his screen, lo and behold, he had caught a fish! No fishing pole required.

In my next stage of life, I plan to take up fishing again. My husband will be joining me. I need someone to get the hook out of my hat or my britches. After all, I did learn some great skills from my daddy. Here’s to you, Man of the Mountains!

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Camping in Paradise

I awoke to the soothing song of the ice-cold mountain stream as it leapt from rock to rock on its journey to the plains. Everything else was still. The tent sagged from the moisture that rested on top. It was so quiet I could almost hear each little drop of water that beaded up and fell. I gently pulled back the flap of the tent and was greeted with the sun already smiling as it approached the valley. It was only 5:00 am but the day was anxious to make its grand entrance and shake us from our rocky beds. I emerged from the tent that shook just enough to shower me with the night’s dew.

Soon the fire was started. Flames licked the sky as tiny sparks shot out from the burning wood and flew into the air. A kettle filled with freshly dipped water from the creek was placed near the fire to get hot. Campers emerged from the tents and lean-to, some clad in long johns, some already shimmied into jeans and wiping sleep from their eyes. They backed up to the fire then found a rock or stump to sit on for their first tin mug of hot Tang or coffee.

Rocks that served as burners had already been strategically placed within the fire ring. Before long, our breakfast was cooking. A few Snow Under the Mountain roots were sizzling in the skillet over hot embers. Those were shifted to the edge of the pan to make room for the hotcake batter. Squeeze butter and honey sat on ready to be slathered over fresh hot hotcakes. We ate our breakfast and discussed where our path would lead us that day and whether or not we would have fresh trout for supper. I never depended on that and carried a supply of other supper options. You eat what you catch, you know, and usually that was nothing.

Fresh cool air filled our lungs and our spirits as we packed up our gear and started up the trail edged with bluebells. Some of the path was smooth and carpeted with evergreen needles. Other parts of the trail were rocky, steep, and jagged. Narrow wildlife trails led through alpine meadows donned with lupine, sticky geraniums, harebells, penstemon, Brown-eyed Susans, and an occasional Indian paintbrush among other wildflowers. As we hiked deeper into the mountains, alpine lakes that looked like they were formed from a giant’s footsteps came into view. They sparkled as a myriad of diamonds danced in rhythm with the breeze on the surface of water.

The sun sank lower in the sky, giving the signal to set up camp. We pitched our tents and started the fire to cook the evening meal. It is a good thing we did not rely solely on the fishermen’s skill (or luck). We managed to salvage enough from the campers’ packs to supplement the meager catch of the day. With the meal finished, everything was washed up and food items hoisted high in a tree to avoid any unwanted furry guests. The evening fire was a time for reflection on the days behind us and expectations for the morrow. Retelling of the day’s events grew with vivid animation and laughter. As the fire died down so did our energy. We banked the embers to keep enough spark alive for the morning kindling.

As the last light faded behind the mountains, I bid the day farewell. With a smile of satisfaction, I pulled back the flap of the tent and crawled into my rocky bed as the mountain stream sang its evening lullaby.

The pictures are from 4 generations

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Preserving the Past

Copper King Mansion

There was a sense of slight unrest in the halls of the Romanesque Revival Victorian mansion as if there was some unfinished business. The faint silhouette of the Copper King mogul sat at the ornately decorated dining room table. The landing of the wide red carpeted stairs was lit by a prism of color reflecting through intricate stained-glass windows. Each room’s décor pointed to the period and style of the Victorian home. History came to life as story after story revealed the characteristics of those who once lived in the lavish rooms. Guests who spend the night in the mansion have a more authentic experience of the life and times of the rich and famous in that era as they get pulled into the historical vortex. It’s easy to sense and imagine the scenes that could have gone on in the household of this wealthy elite family.

Stained Glass Windows
One of the rooms in Copper King Mansion

The scene was much different in the old western historical inn along the Upper Missouri River. It was the gateway for pioneers traveling to the great Northwest. People of all kinds walked through those doors. Stories are told of the inn being haunted which helps bring the imagination alive. The view from the top of the richly colorful stairway offers a view of the lobby below. Looking down, I could almost see shadows of the past as faint figures of women wearing button up boots, poofy dresses and feathered hats walked by. The door slammed silently as ghostly shadows of men wearing bolo ties, cowboy hats and boots with spurs that jingle entered the room. I thought I caught a glimpse of an old Indian in full head dress sitting on the bench along the wooden sidewalk just beyond the window. Maybe it was just a puff of smoke from a man’s pipe. Weary travelers just arriving from the boat ride up the Missouri merely sought a place to rest and have a meal as they waited to load the wagons headed further west over the rough wild country. Other guests, more elite, drinks in hand, mingled at the back of the inn along the river.

Lobby of the Grand Union
Front desk

These aren’t just the stories of others. Rather, I find their history intertwined with my own. The Copper King was an acquaintance of my Great Grandfather. He was a frequent guest at the hotel in Virginia City that was owned by my cousins. One family story is that the “Copper King” was sponsored as a candidate for entrance into the Masonic order by either my Great Grandfather or one of the cousins who owned the hotel. After his acceptance into the Masons, he forged relationships that were instrumental in his climb to fame, wealth and shrewdness. Years later, my Great Grandfather went to visit the Copper King who refused to see him or even acknowledge him in any way. Maybe that’s why I had a feeling of unrest in the halls of the Copper King’s mansion.

Another part of my history of that era was that of Mary Furnish, my 2C2R (second cousin twice removed). Her sister, mother and stepfather were among the group of Brannin relatives that traveled to Montana in 1864 (along with my Great Grandfather, Aunt and other cousins). Mary could not make the trip because of illness. The following spring, she headed west to Helena bringing with her the furniture and Steinway piano. She traveled by boat up the Missouri River. The boat could go no further than Ft. Benton, Montana. From there, travelers had to continue their westward journey by wagon. I have little doubt that Mary Furnish entered the very doors I went through as she stepped into the old Grand Union Hotel.

Grand Union stairway

I love to stay in old historic inns or homes that have been preserved to their former glory. It’s not so much the buildings but the foundations upon which they stand – the history and the stories, some of which are woven into mine. It’s easy to be transported to a different world and imagine how it must have looked. Even the sounds come to life. As I think of it, I remember that some of those scenes are even from my childhood – bowlegged cowboys with their spurs reflecting in the sun and Indians along the boardwalks of Western towns. 

Whether it’s preserving the past and keeping our history alive, or those things from my memories, each causes my heart to skip a beat.

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Don’t Judge a Lens by Its Cover

We peered through the nursery window and scanned the names on the bassinettes until we found the newborn baby boy who belonged to my friend. The cute little guy was all bundled up in blankets and wore a little hat on his head. Daddy snapped a few pictures with his 35 mm camera. We visited my friend for a bit and stopped to take one last peek at the baby before heading out.

We went back to the waiting room where Daddy had left the beat-up old purse he used for a camera bag. When we got there, we looked around. There was no beat-up old purse. Had it only been a beat-up old purse, it wouldn’t have made much difference. It wasn’t worth anything. But there was something else inside the purse – a 200 mm lens. We went to the nurse’s station and asked if someone on staff had picked it up. They didn’t think so but called Lost and Found to check. No, nothing had been turned in. We made a stolen beat-up old purse report.

A couple of days later, I got a call from the hospital. One of the cleaning staff employees found the purse in the trash can in the ladies’ bathroom. 

  • fiber bottle

The lady on the phone said, “All that is in the purse is a bottle of fiber.”

I asked, “Is the bottle empty?”

She said, “I don’t know.” Well, she had not looked. Why would she have looked in a bottle of fiber?

I giggled and said, “Will you open it, please?”

Then she giggled, “Oh my! There’s a camera lens in here.”

“Yep, I’ll come get it.”

Never underestimate a beat-up old purse or fiber bottle. It might just hold a treasure.

Moral of the story:  Don’t judge a lens by its cover. (Things are not always as they appear).

  • Lens that was in the fiber bottle
  • Coffee mug
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The Palouse

One of the most fascinating landscapes I have witnessed is the Palouse region of Southeastern Washington. Green and gold waves roll gently across the open countryside. The smooth rolling hills take on even more characteristics as day washes away the night and when long evening shadows are consumed by darkness. 

  • Yellow fields on the edge of the Palouse

When I travel, I don’t just look for places with gorgeous scenery, but places ripe with history and unique geology. The rolling hills of the Palouse is one of those places. 

  • Green fields on the Palouse
  • Farm on the Palouse

Historically, the Mullan Road ran through this area. In fact, a section of the original road can still be seen. That might not mean anything to most, but for me, it gives a better insight of those who traveled that road from Ft. Benton, Montana to Walla Walla, Washington. It was the first wagon road to cross the Rocky Mountains to the Inland of the Pacific Northwest. The road ran through Prickly Pear valley near Gates of the Mountains where the Gibson brothers, who married a couple of Brannin cousins, ran the toll gate for King & Gillette. The road went through Silver City (where my Grandmother was born) and crossed the pass near Helena before continuing west. My Great Grandfather Brannin traveled that same road when he worked for King & Gillette as a cook and sometimes as a driver of the team that pulled the supply wagon. It doesn’t take much for me to imagine seeing him with the team as he traveled the same area I was in.

  • Events that formed the Palouse region

Geologically, this area is a unique jewel. Years ago, a glacial ice dam rose to 2000 feet high at the Montana Idaho border. The dam failed and flood waters rushed toward the Pacific Ocean. It left behind canyons and carved the Columbia River Gorge. Also, in its wake were a series of lakes. As the glaciers and flood waters advanced from Canada, the bedrock was crushed, creating a fine dust known as glacial flour. The lakes drained and left behind monumental quantities of silt. Southwestern winds blew. Loess dunes formed when windblown glacial flour, dust and silt settled in Southeastern Washington, Western Idaho, and Northeastern Oregon.

  • Fields of gold and green

The Palouse is one of the seven wonders of Washington State, and I can tell you, it is a wonder. Soft rolling fertile hills are covered with wheat and legume fields. Combines and other farm equipment follow the contour of the hills as they comb the slopes, cutting up to 100 acres of grain in a single day. The Palouse has the highest lentil production in the US and has increased its production of vineyards and wineries. 

  • Community on the Palouse
  • Shadows add definition and depth to the loess hills

Steptoe Butte, at 3,612 feet, rises like an island out of the loess hills. From its height, it offers panoramic views of the productive sea of farmland. Depending on the season, lush shades of green fields or shades of brown and gold roll like ocean waves in the valley below. Riparian areas attract a diversity of species of birds and provide the perfect breeding habitat.

  • Steptoe Butte
  • View from the ascent to Steptoe Butte

There are various areas of basalt formations in the region. The Palouse River drops 200 feet and moves quickly through the winding basalt gorge and makes its way to the Snake River. Beside the falls is a series of broken basalt pipes that look like the workings of a pipe organ. 

  • Basalt formations along the road
  • Broken basalt pipes that look like a pipe organ. See the trail around
    the base of the pipes at the top of the falls?
  • The Palouse Falls (note the basalt pipe formation just to the left at the top of the falls).

The Palouse is peaceful and serene. Soft rolling hills and muted blended colors give a sense of pastoral perfection to this verdant landscape. Just looking out over the loess dunes brings a calmness over my soul and renews my spirit. I believe our paths will cross again.

  • Long shadows of evening
  • Sunset over the Palouse
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The Last Leg

Cross Country (Part sixteen)

What a trip! I cringe when I think of my mother as her two youngest kids pulled out of the yard three months earlier. I don’t remember how often we called home, but I venture a guess that it was not often enough for her. After all, there was no such thing as a cell phone so we had to rely on pay phones. Our journey had passed all too quickly as far as I was concerned. Our hearts were sad as we left the land I had come to love as a small child. Instead of looking back, I decided to look forward. to the last leg of our journey.

As I have relayed our story to you, I think of things that I left out, mostly by accident. Just last night I thought about visiting other cousins as well somewhere in California, Townsend, and Hysham. I also left out picking buffalo berries with Babs, picking gooseberries at Olson Field, and chokecherries with ElVera. Buffalo berries are vicious little critters to pick. Long, long thorns protect the berries tucked up at the base of the thorn. You have to be serious about jelly to pick very many of those salmon colored berries. Our gooseberry jelly had little stems in it, otherwise we would still be trying to separate those little woodsy slivers of stem from the much too small berry. But, boy, was it good! Chokecherries make the best syrup and the jelly’s not too bad. We managed to make room for jars of jelly to go home with us. I picked stems out of my teeth for quite some time.

  • Old Faithful

We still had a couple more stops to make. Though we had been to Yellowstone National Park on more than one occasion (and have since then, too), that was our destination, if only just to pass through. There had been an earthquake there about six weeks previously. I don’t remember seeing any effects of the quake. We were only two of 2,239,500 people to visit Yellowstone that year, but we didn’t stay there long. Our road took us through Yellowstone into the Tetons. Those mountains are fascinating. In the geological world of mountains, the Tetons are a relatively young range. They are sharp and jagged and absolutely breathtaking, not worn away by age. We visited the Chapel of Transfiguration with its big picture window that has a picture-perfect view of the Grand Tetons. I remember the mountains looking like “purple mountains majesty.”

  • Chapel of Transfiguration

When we got to Rock Springs, Wyoming, the road was wide open. By that time, knowing that our journey was coming to an end, we just drove. I was surprised that I had about forgotten what trees looked like. The further east and south, the more trees. The landscape changed from being virtually treeless to seeing as many trees on one acre of land as we had seen in five hundred miles. Thick foliage became lush, dense and green on trees that seemed to grow like magic bean stalks. It was then that I thought maybe I had missed the green trees just a bit.

By the time we got to Kentucky, the end was almost in sight. We drove down a country road that wandered through farmland. Fields of tobacco, some freshly cut, reached for miles, separated by trees along the edge of the fields. A thick “fog” hovered over the valley. We came near an old barn that had smoke billowing out of cracks and seams and  under the doors. I thought it was on fire until I saw part of the barn opened up. It was then I saw the barn was filled with tobacco hung upside down as it was smoke curing. I was once again reminded that each part of the country has its own culture and personality.

After that, it was only a matter of hours before we turned into the driveway. I’m sure when we got home, we had many stories to tell. Surely our faces reflected the grand adventures we experienced. We unpacked and took special care with the treasures we brought home. By far, the greatest treasure we returned with was a whole passel of memories of places and people who had crossed our paths. Priceless.

I hope you enjoyed our grand adventure. Thanks for taking the journey with us!

  • Grand Tetons

Part Fifteen

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Memory Lane

Cross Country (Part Fifteen)

Uncle Buster and Aunt Viola wanted us to stay a few more days, but our time was quickly passing like sands through the hourglass. Our cross-country adventure had taken us many extraordinary places – oceans, canyons, deserts, waterfalls, trees, mountains, caverns, prairies and rainforests, and we met many extraordinary people including relatives. But there were still a few places to go and we wanted more time to spend with our grandmother before heading south.

I didn’t grow up near my Montana Grandmother but every time we went to visit, we just picked up where we had left off. The best place in the house to sit was right beside her on the sofa. She wore a cotton dress with a narrow little belt, thick stockings, lace up shoes, and a sweater. An afghan or two was draped over the sofa to be used for her afternoon nap.  She always had a story to tell about family or friends and neighbors. She would talk a while, then click her teeth together, blink her eyes, and smile.

Our cross-country trip would not be complete without going “up the canyon.” Our aunt did the driving. We all piled into her truck and headed to the mountains to the old homeplace. Sis and I rode in the back of the truck and held on as we hit bumps and rocks and forded creeks.  As always, we were in awe of the mountains, streams, wildflowers, antelope and deer, and the fresh air. We pulled into the yard and hopped out of the truck. As my grandmother went into the log house, I could imagine her living there with kids under foot and cooking on the old wood cookstove for whoever showed up at her door. Living in the mountains were for people who were tough as nails. They had to be able to survive long winters and make do with what they had. I had great admiration for her. In fact, everyone I knew had the highest regard and respect for her. She was kind, hospitable, giving, loving, feisty, adventurous and forgiving. Plus, she was soft and squishy and cuddly, and had arms long enough to wrap around a kid or two..

The old cookstove was fed some kindling and a match lit to get the fire going, Sis and I hauled water from the horse trough where the best water in the world flowed out of the pipe that led from the spring. Soon the tea kettle was whistling, and a pan of water was heating for washing dishes. We had our lunch and hot tea at the long handmade wooden table where the family had eaten for years along with lumberjacks, sawmillers, neighbors and friends. After a day in the mountains, we headed back to town. I never tired of going to the mountains. There was always an adventure, even if it were only bumping up and down in the back of the truck or hopping out to open and shut the gates. I don’t recall any time when I didn’t leave the mountains without an ache in my chest. 

My Daddy grew up in the mountains, but my Mother grew up on the prairies. She loved the wide-open spaces where you could see for miles. We couldn’t leave until we visited the house on Tin Can Hill where my grandparents lived for several years. We never knew how the road would be. Sourdough Road is definitely the road less traveled, riddled with deep ruts and stretches of gumbo when it rains.

There was nothing to obstruct the view while driving through the prairie. Prairie grass swayed in the breeze and eagles rode on the wind. After cresting a hill at the curve in the road, a house that looked like a miniature was seen in the distance. There was an old barn that was a work of art. An old willow grew behind the house, indicating that there may have been spring. On one side of the house was a row of Russian Olive trees my Grandfather planted as a wind break. The old house, not so regal, still stands, at least on the outside. It has been used for a shooting range, but the old walls of the house still manage to stand erect. Some of the wooden shingles seem to hang on for life while others are held precariously by one little nail. There’s just something special about that place. I can visualize my Granddad’s old truck sitting beside the house and my mom, aunt and uncle on their horses, clothes blowing sideways on the line. 

The trip down memory lane was over. We drank one last milkshake at the old soda fountain in town.  One more night and then we would head home. The night ended too quickly. With one final look at the mountains, our car turned the opposite direction and headed south. 

Part Fourteen

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I Wouldn’t Eat That at Home

Waves gently rocked the cruise ship. It had been a gorgeous day and we were able to share some of the culture of Mexico before heading out to sea again. We were dressed in our finest as we were seated at the table for dinner. The waiter shook out each napkin to lay them in our laps – all fifteen of us. The table was set with a clean, neatly pressed tablecloth, glasses and silverware lined up just so. 

The menu seemed endless. If you have ever been on a cruise, you know there are lots of cuisines and food choices available. You can find almost anything to satisfy your taste buds from pizza and ice cream to filet mignon and fresh lobster and everything in between. The waiter gave us ample time to decide what we would like before he came back to take our orders. 

When the waiter came to Daddy and asked what he would like, Daddy said, “I’ll have the escargot.” 

“What? Why? You know that’s snails.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t eat that at home.”

  • Sister Ellen

He learned that little trick from Sister Ellen when they went to the Holy Land together along with Cousin Kitty and Cousin Beth. When they got home from that trip, Daddy laughed as he told about Sister Ellen ordering things she would never eat at home. I guess that’s a pretty good philosophy and one that I adopt when traveling. 

Though I’ve never had escargot, and don’t intend to, I did suck it up, literally, and had raw oysters that taste like the salty ocean breeze. Actually, I had them more than once. I have also had squid, which is something else I never intended to eat. 

Sometimes you just have to step out of the box and expand your horizons and your senses.

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Prairies and Mountains

Cross Country (Part Fourteen)

We left our little cabin on Elk Creek to embark on another escapade. A trip to Montana was not complete without a visit to Uncle Buster’s place in the rolling hills of Eastern Montana. He was a prankster and loved to tease the little kids, but he was also full of tales and loved adventures.

We got to his ranch as the oat harvest was underway. I loved seeing the farm equipment at work. Golden fields of oats swayed in the warm breeze that blew off the prairie. A big combine made its way through the field cutting the oats and separating the grain from the stalks. When the tank that collected the oats was full, a trailer attached to a tractor pulled up beside the combine. A pipe shot mountains of gold grain into the trailer. Chaff blew everywhere. We climbed up, grabbed a hand full of oats and let the golden grain fall through our fingers. We scooped up some more and ate fresh raw oats. Before the harvest was over, Uncle Buster even let us drive the combine leaving clouds of chaff and bits of straw in our wake. We helped Aunt Viola prepare the noonday meal for the harvesters. Aunt Viola, Uncle Buster’s second wife, was a Southern girl through and through. She was also a good cook. Her desserts were just as sweet as her slow syrupy Southern drawl. She was so thoughtful and kind to the harvesters and went overboard to make sure they had everything they wanted to eat and drink.

With Uncle Buster, there was always some surprise within reach. One such surprise was going on the sheep drive. Now I had been on a cattle drive and was known as a famous rodeo rider of a bucking malcontent she-horse, so figured I had some experience. The first surprise was when we went out to saddle up the horses and he said, “We’re going in the car.” You can read the previously posted story about our Sheep Drive. Let me tell you, you just don’t know what you’ve missed in life without Great Uncles!

Another adventure Uncle Buster had planned was a trip to Glacier National Park. I was super excited about that! I had never been to Glacier before. They had a small camper hooked up to the back of the old beat up green truck. We crammed into the seat of the truck and headed out. We drove through the town where my mother was born and kept heading north. Oil wells dotted the countryside. Sage brush and prickly pear were scattered through the dry hills with occasional tumble weeds rolling across the road or caught in a barb wire fence. 

  • Uncle Buster & Aunt Viola

We drove through part of the Missouri River Breaks country. That is one place on my list to go back and visit. My Granddad told us many stories of that part of the country. His tales included Sun Prairie Flats, Zortman, Landusky, Malta, the Long X Ranch and the breaks. His voice would break as he spoke with great admiration as he gave descriptions that painted a picture of the beauty and harshness of that land. Uncle Buster was no stranger to that part of the country. He traveled that country by horseback and worked at the Circle C Ranch in Zortman for a time.

As we neared Malta, we were reminded that the Knapp family homesteaded there after the long wagon trek from Oklahoma to Montana. At Malta, we hung a left and stopped in Havre to visit another great uncle and some cousins. I always loved going through Indian Reservations and there were a couple along our way to Glacier along the Montana Hi-Line. That region symbolizes what Montana is all about. It is a land of wide open prairies like my mother liked, fields of wheat and other grains waving in the prairie breeze, cattle grazing in the pastures, towering mountains in the distance, Indian Reservations, big skies, and summer storms rolling across the vast open landscape. Some people look at that and see a lot of nothing. I look at that and see a land ripe with history and beauty. 

We camped at one of the campgrounds near Glacier National Park. The mountains are majestic and beautiful. We stopped and walked through some patches of snow and saw a couple of grizzly bears. They were close enough to see they were bears but far enough away to feel safe. We traveled on the Going to the Sun Road. The mountains, streams and lakes were absolutely breathtaking. Riding with Uncle Buster on a flat straight road was bad enough but riding with him on curvy mountain roads with no side rails was at times maddening. By the time we descended to the valley, I think we were all sweating – except for Uncle Buster of course.

We drove past the deep blue waters of Hungry Horse Reservoir, stopped in Kalispell to visit another cousin and were soon headed back to Uncle Buster’s house. The road back had completely different scenery. At Uncle Buster’s again, we stayed another night then headed back to Big Timber.

Our time was coming to a close and we still had a few more places to go.

Part Thirteen

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The Mountains Are Calling

Cross Country (Part Thirteen)

Sis and I started our cross country adventure on June 14. Almost two months later, along with Uncle Sid who we picked up in Port Angeles, Washington, we arrived in Big Timber, Montana. We had numerous adventures along the way (some of which you don’t know about). You might ask what even prompted such a journey for two young gals traveling across the country by themselves. Well, it seemed simple to us. My brother-in-law once gave us shirts that read, “I’ve got the Crazy Mountains in my heart.” That’s part of the answer. From the very first time I saw the homeplace of my Dad and met my family that lived in the heart of the mountains, I was hooked. I can say with John Muir, “The mountains are calling and I must go.” Is that not reason enough? I wasn’t the only one who felt that tug on my heart.

Uncle Sid was an old cowboy. Though his rodeo days of riding bucking broncs had passed, it was still in his blood. The Montana mountains were in his blood, too, and they were calling all three of us. We arrived in Big Timber just in time for the annual rodeo, which was the plan. If you never went to the rodeo with Uncle Sid or the other uncles, you missed a grand adventure.

It was almost as if the hands of time moved back fifty years and Uncle Sid transformed into a young buck. There was energy, excitement, and a real western rodeo. The town took on the atmosphere of the old west with all the horses, and cowboys and cowgirls in their best western shirts with pearl snaps, jeans, vests, cowboy hats, boots and spurs. The whole town came out to take part in the festivities. Many took part in the rodeo. Even the little kids got to try to ride sheep or tie ribbons on a calf’s tail.

  • at the rodeo
  • Uncle Sid in his rodeo days

Uncle Sid stayed in town a few days before going back home to Washington. He was the most famous bucking bronc rider I knew, the only one in fact. After he left, I figured I’d vie him for that position, but first I needed some practice on the back of a horse. 

Sis and I headed to “the Boulder” to stay with cousin Babs. She set us up in a little cabin along the creek that was a mile or so from the main ranch house. We had a visitor that wanted to share our one room cabin.  It wasn’t quite big enough for all of us and didn’t work out so well, especial for the mouse. You can read that tale in a previous post, O Rats.  

  • Natural Bridge Falls
  • Boulder River

We helped with various things around the ranch but mostly we just had fun enjoying the scenery and spending time with Babs. We had picnics by the creek that ran through their back yard, named the new calf born on the same day as my nephew, threw hay bales onto the back of the wagon one day, rode horses, went to the Cow Belles meeting with Babs, walked around Natural Bridge Falls, and had other adventures.  

When Babs announced we were going on a cattle drive, I was excited! We got up early for the day’s drive and headed out. We drove cattle over the hills and chased them out of the swales and trees. Hats waved in the air and shouts echoed from the ridges as we urged the cattle on. We had our picnic lunch in a stand of Quaking Aspens. As the sun reached the western sky, we made the final push and the cattle were soon enjoying lush green pastures. We rode to the top of the hill and the view was worth every aching muscle. I saw the Crazy Mountains like I had never seen them before. By the end of the day I walked like Uncle Sid, had muscles I didn’t know I had, and had learned several new words of which my Mother would not have approved. Cousin Babs was a great teacher!

  • Ranchers ready for the fall drive a few years after we were there

A few days later, we went on a horseback ride in the mountains. It was a beautiful day to ride the mountain trails. Little did I know I was about to have another grand adventure. Of course, my rodeo ride was quite by chance – and it wasn’t a bucking bronc but rather a malcontent she-horse who had her belly rubbed by a downed wire. Read about that adventure in a previous posting, Rodeo Rider.

Our time with Cousin Babs passed all too quickly. For years, when we saw each other again, we recounted the stories with great animation of that summer at the ranch. Those memories never grow old. The sights, smells and sounds of laughter are almost as fresh as the day it happened.

We had other adventures there as well. Stay tuned for a few more Montana adventures!

Part Twelve