Oct 17 2015

Killer Kola

I have always had a very strong preference for medium to large sized dogs. They just seem to fit into my life style better. Whenever I would run into a small yapping, heel chasing dog, I would just smile to myself and be very thankful for the more civilized large dogs that share my home. BUT, several years ago, we had a serious infestation of mice in our hay/feed/tack barn and I needed to find an alternative to setting snap traps every day, using poison, or dealing with the “drowning mice in a bucket contraption” that one of our previous ranch managers, Jesse, had constructed based on her memory of dealing with mice on her childhood Tennessee farm. Everyone said “get a cat”. BUT, I know that outdoor cats kill lots and lots of birds in addition to mice – so I didn’t want to go there.

What do to? A conversation with my then hairdresser, Nikki, got me thinking about Jack Russell Terriers. Nikki had two photos of the cutest little Jack Russells on her mirror that I would stare at during each visit to her parlor. They were her sweeties and she extolled their multitudinous virtues every chance she got. Then during one visit, Nikki announced that her cousin’s Jack Russell had just given birth to three adorable puppies and that if I acted fast, I could pick one out for my barn. She was shameless – she produced photos of the three little charmers on the spot. She had already weakened my “no small dogs allowed” attitude from all the conversation during the previous six months, so before I engaged my mind, my mouth blurted out YES.

The very next week, Nikki’s cousin came out with three little furry critters and I picked out the cutest and the most curious one. My then employee, Kyla Two Bulls, suggested the name Kola (or Killer Kola) which means “like a little brother” in the Lakota language. Jewel was unimpressed and tired to object to the name – but was overruled by my enthusiasm for this charming little critter. Jewel, however, was right to be leery of this interloper. Kola immediately laid claim to every part of the ranch. He had arrived and everything else was of no consequence. He even conned Miss Gertie into giving him rides!

Sure, he’s cute, but what about the mice?

A Born Killer!

Kola routinely patrols the hay barn whenever I am out there – and that is the problem. I am not out there very often – only when I feed the equines in the mornings or when I have other chores. I used to do all of the ranch feeding, but now that the program has grown, other members of the ranch team do most of the feeding. I tend to be in my office more than I would like to be and little Kola sticks to me like Velcro. If I’m in my office, he is outside my door or on the comfy dog bed inside; if I am going into town, he is immediately at the door to be let in; if I am out near all the gophers, he does a great job of keeping them in line; and if I am in the barn, he actually does bring in mice on occasion. Clearly, I encourage him with respect to the mice and the gophers – keeping their populations in check is HIS job after all.

This encouraging his killer instincts can present problems, however. Recently I took one of our new wrangler/trail guides, Meghan, along with me on a guided ride in the mountains so that I could teach her the route and introduce her to the way we do things on the trail. Naturally, both Jewel and “Killer Kola” insist on accompanying me on any horseback adventure that I undertake. When they see me getting the truck and trailer ready, they stick like glue to the truck so that we can’t get away without them. They are required to wear jingle bells so that the horses will know that it is them when they dart away from the trails and reappear suddenly.

So here we are – Meghan is in the lead so she can get to know the trail, then the three clients, and I am bringing up the rear. Suddenly, out of the woods comes a baby rabbit with Kola and Jewel on its heels, and right in front of the clients and under Meghan’s horse, Kola grabs the rabbit and dispatches it with one strong shake of his head. Kola then proceeded to run in front of the horses with the rabbit dangling from his mouth. Well, clearly this is not exactly what we had in mind for our guests – and I ended up having to explain that it is impossible for us to encourage Kola with mice and gophers at the ranch only to try to discipline him for a rabbit on the trail. It seems we must be willing to accept the yin with the yang!

Sep 17 2015

Coming Home to Montana

Every time I re-enter my home state, I stop the vehicle, look everyone in the eye, and shamelessly insist that they get out and kiss the Montana ground. My demeanor clearly communicates that saying “no” is not an option. This strict tenet of my life was instilled in me by my father.

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Dad’s ritual of making the entire family get out of the car and kiss the ground every time we re-entered Montana after a trip away seemed fun and daring when I was about six. I loved watching the passersby whip their heads around to catch a glimpse of us knelt over on the side of the road as they sped by in their cars. But, what is fun at six is downright embarrassing at ten, and undoable at thirteen. Dad would go on and on about how much greener it was on the Montana side, how much clearer the air was, how much bigger the fish were–little did I realize that his love of our home would sink so deeply into my own skin.

Where did my connection with animals, wilderness, and my home state begin? My deep Montana roots follow my family trees – both my mom’s and my dad’s – but not in equal measure. In all honesty, it was my dad who had the biggest impact on who I have become. His unbreakable bond with Montana, his natural, gentle way with animals, and his keen interest in science were my guiding forces.

Dad worked for forty-five years as a ventilation engineer in the mines of Butte, Montana. Most of that time was spent underground, in the bowels of the hard rock mines of the Richest Hill on Earth. It was his job to ensure that the miners had air to breathe while toiling in the dark, nearly a mile below the surface. Montana’s mountains and streams were Dad’s weekend antidote to those dark tunnels. We drove and hiked mountain roads and trails; we knew all the spots that would yield worms for our hooks to catch a trout dinner; and we camped for weeks at a time beside alpine lakes.

Those years in the mines took a heavy toll on my father’s health, especially on his lungs. As he approached 70, he was told to seek a lower elevation to give his lungs the benefit of more oxygen. So it was that he and my mother moved to the Washington coast.

For Christmas their first year away, I had a friend make a sign in the shape of Montana, inscribed with the words, “Bill and Phyllis Goodman – Misplaced Montanans.” It hung above their door for some twelve years.

About the time Dad’s descent into Alzheimers was making it impossible for my mother to care for him alone, my husband and I qualified for retirement from our jobs in Alaska. Our children were still young enough to be easily moved without disrupting their lives, so we decided it was time to follow my heart and move back to Montana.

After getting the children settled and enrolled in school, I drove to Washington, took down the sign, and brought my parents back to Montana. As we drove east on I-90, I stopped near the border at Lookout Pass to let Dad feel the immense pleasure of coming home, once again. No longer able to kneel and kiss the ground, both my father and mother lingered for a while, staring into Montana, and then they bowed. It was my father’s last crossing.

His mind did not always understand that he was actually living in Montana again. He would often say to me “Look, SuzAnne, at all the Montana license plates. Isn’t it wonderful!” Even if his mind did not know, his spirit did, and he was happy to be back. So am I.

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Postscript: On a late November afternoon some years ago, as my son was coming home from Wisconsin for a family Thanksgiving, he stopped at the Montana border to send me this picture from his cell phone. Dad’s ritual continues.

Aug 30 2015

Power: My “Mane” Man

Beginnings do not always foretell the story. Power came into my life during a period of sadness, confusion, and stress. I had no business buying a horse. My father was dying. My mother was in a rehabilitation center with a broken pelvis. I was in the middle of a large consulting contract that required me to travel between Montana, Colorado, and Alaska.

The world felt heavy and like it was spinning out of control. The grief of losing my father along with navigating difficult decisions with my mother, my young sons’ busy lives, and travel demands afforded me little time for anything else. I bought Power sight unseen. I took a simple leap of faith and trusted in the judgment of my good friend Barbara.

Young, BIG, and full of himself, Power initially gave me a real run for my money. Unable to stand still, always wanting to be first, rearing up when he didn’t get his way, looking for any weakness in his rider, constantly testing – he was in many ways too much horse for me to handle. We were thrown out of horse clinics for bad behavior.

Yet I persisted, and so did he. We learned each other’s ways. Soft trails with easy slopes meant taking off at full speed. I didn’t need to ask. Downed timber, tight passages, and steep hills – he did not need my guidance; he would find the best route for both of us to pass.

Power was the leader of our herd of nearly twenty horses, a leader in the true sense of the word. Kind and benevolent, yet wielding certain authority, Power was willing to take the risk and go first. He conveyed confidence and calm to his herd followers. Others jockeyed to be near him. They would follow him anywhere with a trust well placed.

We were less a herd of two than a pair – equal partners working together. We took care of each other. Together, we traveled thousands of miles, through snow, rain, lightening storms, hot summer days, crisp autumn evenings, and early morning sunrises.

We picked our way along drop-off cliffs, forged swollen streams and rivers, crossed steep talus slopes, pulled ourselves through deep bogs, negotiated fields pocked with prairie dog holes, galloped through snow covered meadows, and pushed cattle out of the brush.

We encountered bears and cougars, moose and elk, llamas and mountain bikes—and angry dogs. We shared moments of peace, sheer terror, sheer joy, and determination. We faced many obstacles, pushed through moments of fatigue, and found great comfort from each other’s presence. He was my “mane man” and I loved him. I love him still.

Power’s death at the end of March, 2010, came without warning. The hole in my heart is still too big to describe. He allowed me to live my dreams and he made me a better person. Why is my pain at his loss still so very deep? How was my love for him different from the love I hold for others?

I remember hearing a mother’s letter to her child, in which she wrote, “I thought I knew what love was and then I had you.” My love for my children is all absorbing. My love for my husband is central to my life. I realize our lives are full of many loves – and all of them unique—each one opening us up to richer lives.

My love for Power was based on a unique relationship. Humans are predators. Horses are prey. Forming a close partnership with Power required both of us reaching across that vast difference in world views. It required my building trust with an animal who by his very nature was not trusting. But it happened; and it was magic. It opened my eyes to possibilities; it gave me confidence to reach across lesser gaps, to see love and trust in places where I did not see them before.

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