insight pared

KNOWLEDGE SHARED

Outdoor bold

 

To acess Roland's weblog and column archives

 

 

Tip o' the Day

Back a week or two ago, my "Tip o' the Day" was to point out how important water, wood, and a bug-free location is to proper campsite selection. At that time, I also mentioned that, if one were traveling with horses, a fourth requirement should be added: feed for the ponies. Today I'd like to revisit that requirement.

We'll assume you're traveling in wilderness or backcountry where grazing is permitted. (If you must pack all your own horsefeed, then we must discuss a different set of circumstances.) Lets ride, say, into a meadow that appears to have abundant grass for grazing. There's a creek tumbling down from nearby hills -- plenty of water. It's late afternoon, a campsite beckons from each end of the meadow. Which one do you choose?

Take the first one. Why? Because you don't want your ponies grazing too far away from your camp. You see, when a horse fills its belly and looks around for home, you want your camp to be in the way. Go to the far end of the meadow and his route home will be unimpeded.

You can, of course, handle the occasion differently. You can use hobbles, stake out your ponies, or toggle them to a drag log. Personally, I use hobbles. And I'll only turn half of the ponies loose at once, breaking up the buddies -- one tied, one loose.

Even then, my trust is short. If more than one of the loose ponies raises his head to gaze around, I know their bellies are full and they're looking for mischief -- like leaving for distant places. I don't particularly mind walking to distant places, but I want the decision to be mine. When a horse raises its head to stare into the distance, it's time to bring him to the hitchline.

About two hours on good grass will fill ponies for the short haul. Bring 'em in, tie 'em up,. Three or four hours later, you can turn them out again.

Yeah, it's a hassle, but, but it's worth it. If you question my wisdom on the foregoing, consider the far more serious hassle of a bunch of sweat trickling down the crack of your rear as you trudge back to the barn looking for your vanished ponies.

 

Ethan Lester, the 13-year-old Camarillo, California lad who exchanges emails not only says his younger brother is hooked on my Valediction For Revenge Western series, but now he says:

"My dad and my grandma just started reading your books and they love them. Whenever my grandma is over that's all she talks about Jethro and Susan."

The Valediction For Revenge series that Ethan's brother, dad and grandma is reading begins with Echoes of Vengeance

 

POKER OR CAMPING: HE'D DO TO DRAW TO

I met Robert for the first time in September, 1976. He and his brothers and a cousin hailed from the same small valley in western North Carolina mountain country. None fit the hillbilly image they projected by walking the walk and talking the talk. They proved tough as whang leather, however, and developed a keen love for the Bob Marshall Wilderness, easily demonstrated by their returning again and again to hunt with me. Robert's regard for "the Bob" proved most passionate of all during ten subsequent seasons, nine in a row.

It all began when the youngest of the West brothers scheduled a hunt in 1974, then returned home to tell about the huge, wild place and the guy who led him there. The following year, two of Roger's brothers and two cousins showed up on my doorstep. Then Robert joined the group. As a consequence, on his first elk hunt into the Bob Marshall, the guy was little more than the family rookie.

Larger and heavier than his brothers, my private assessment of him was that he'd probably find the long, 27-mile horseback ride to camp and the subsequent tough daily hunts to be too demanding. I was wrong. I discovered there's no way to measure desire and heart by merely eyeballing the North Carolinian's physical dimensions. So he weighed well over 200 pounds, so what? He could still walk like the young 30-year-old clearing contrator he was. And what about his love for the raw unsullied beauty of the land? Where's the measuring cup to judge that?

Robert and I became friends, just as his brothers Whitey, Blackie, and Roger became friends; as cousins Burke and Norris became friends, as nephew Bud became a friend. Jane and I visited in Robert's North Carolina home, met his attractive sweet wife, Donna, fell in love with his four young children. It was in Robert's company that I was introduced to the Smokey Mountains, white lightning, and North Carolina cured ham. Robert introduced me to his mother and father, took me to their remote mountaintop cabin (more a mansion), and said Jane and I would be welcome to use it use it as a vacation reatreat.

Robert made surprise visits to Montana between his hunting trips. He might arrive with a golfing buddy from Atlanta, sit in our yard for a couple of hours drinking iced tea, then disappear as he'd arrived, with a gigantic smile and flashing dark eyes. Sometimes he'd arrive with his Uncle Eddie to visit another uncle who lived in the same valley where Jane and I dwelled. The point I'm making is that Robert West loved Montana and couldn't stay away. He loved Colorado, too, and often visited the San Juan Mountains to fish and for R & R.

Robert phoned regularly, always to laugh and joke, poke fun at his outfitter, and talk about how rich I must be with all the money he and his brothers were paying for their annual hunting trips. He called me "son," though I was a dozen years his senior.

Robert and his brothers played such an important role in my life as an outfitter and guide in the Bob Marshall Wilderness that they're all prominently mentioned in our book Dance On the Wild Side, the story of Jane's and my life of adventure as wilderness guides. In fact there's an entire chapter devoted to the devil-may-care family. And by virtue of the fact that Robert hunted most often of all his brothers and kin, his name plays a prominent role. Quoting from pg. 147 of Dance On the Wild Side:

Elk were scarce . . . "Too hot," I told them. It was true, the weather was blistering. Late in the hunt, Robert and I relaxed against a rock outcrop, eating our lunch. "Mr. Guide Man," the hunter said, "I sure did want to shoot something on this trip." I nodded. What could I say? "Yep. I sure did want to shoot something." When I remained silent, he blurted: "Why don't you make a break for it!"

Robert was joking, of course, just as he joked about life itself. It was that attitude that proved him to be the kind of guy one wanted alongside during the bad times; always cheerful, always poking fun at anyone consumed by downers. Robert lived life fully, cheerfully, independently, smelling the roses, appreciating nature at its best, loving his family, friend to many, enemy to none.

Robert liked to brag, but he always bragged about people, never things! During the early years his father ("Bull" he called him) was first on Robert's bragging list, but he also made it abundantly clear that he loved his mother, too. Naturally his own family counted most and when sufficient time passed and enough blessings developed, the man seized any opportunity to talk about his triplet granddaughters. And if one should doubt the veracity of how adorable they were, Robert could draw and fire photos as fast as Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Corral could talk turkey to the Clanton gang.

The last time Robert called it was apparent something was wrong. When I asked, he said he'd lost quite a bit of weight and was unusually tired. Then he admitted that the Big C had him in a stranglehold and he was trying to shake it through chemo and radiation. As he talked, I recalled sitting with the man atop distant mountains, discussing the important things in life: wife, children, family, the outdoors, politics, religion, and money -- in that order.

Robert passed over the Great Divide August 30. His untimely end left a void in many lives -- including my own. It also leads one to wonder at how unfair some things seem, not the least is how one so much younger, more vibrant, more engaged with family and loved ones can disappear so soon. In Robert West's case, I can only conclude that the Good Lord must want to surround Himself with all the best people.

Robert's brother Whitey tells me the family plans, next July, to spread his brothers ashes in one of Robert's special places in Colorado's San Juan Mountains. I plan to be there in spirit.

 

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (Wild Trails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

www.rolandcheek.com

Comments

for more info about these and other Roland Cheek books

Click Here

Click Here

for detailed info about each of Roland's books

Read Reviews

Read their first chapters

Book four in the Valediction For Revenge series, Gunnar's Mine, is set in Colorado mining country, as is the sixth and final book in the series, The Silver Yoke

to send this weblog to a friend

to tell Roland what you think of his Campfire Culture weblog

Click Here