SuzAnne's World Archives - Dunrovin Ranch

Dec 23 2015

Christmas in Montana’s Tinseltown

Hollywood does not own the moniker of Tinseltown. Butte can most certainly claim it as the Montana version. At the turn of the twentieth century, Butte boasted a vibrant vaudeville scene with opulent theaters seating 2,500 that hosted the likes of Mark Twain and Charlie Chaplin, who made his first American appearance there. Butte has been every bit the dream maker and heart breaker that Hollywood has come to represent. As Mary MacLane so aptly put it in 1917, “This Butte is capriciously decorated with sweet brilliant metallic orgies of color at any time, all times, as if by whims of pagan gods lightly drunk and lightly mad.”

Butte can wear the name Tinseltown for another, more literal, reason. Beyond Butte’s nineteenth century siren call to people from across the world looking for a better life, and beyond Butte’s eccentric and splashy multicultural theatrics, Butte has long embraced tinsel as the perfect trappings to turn an ordinary tree into a shimmering Christmas tree reflecting the lights, the colors, and the very dreams of the Christmas season. While I lack the facts to support the supposition, I will bet you that Butte sells more Christmas tinsel per person than any other community in the world.

Growing up in the multicultural milieu that was Butte, Montana in the 1950’s endowed me with a belief in Christmas magic. Butte was more than a flashy and eccentric place. More than a rough and tumble place. Butte had, and still has, a vigorous embracing heart that crosses cultural, economic, and social boundaries to form a vibrant community. To live in Butte is to be “in it” together, to not only honor and enjoy each other’s unique cultural differences, but to celebrate them through food, art, and theater. At no time are Butte’s richly hued split personalities more apparent than at Christmas.

Historically, Butte’s working-class immigrants from across much of Europe brought their Christmas traditions with them, which they proudly exhibited in their distinct neighborhoods. Skilled machinists, carpenters, electricians, and welders applied their crafts to creating elaborate Christmas displays with moving parts, music, and endless lights at volunteer fire stations, churches, and in front yards across the city. The Anaconda Company lit up the majority of Butte mining head frames that dotted the entire city, which could be seen from the Harding Way highway as people drove over the Continental Divide into Butte. White lights on the “M” for the Montana School of Mines (now Montana Tech) overlooking the city were replaced with red and green lights for the season. Uptown business streets were decked out to the nines with music playing, snow falling, and storefronts competing with each other for the most elaborate Christmas decorations. Cold temperatures, warm, welcoming houses, and numerous seasonal parties, musicals, and shows of all kinds were seasonal givens.

Through all of Butte’s seasonal excesses, tinsel was a unifying and essential decorative element for home Christmas trees – lots and lots of tinsel, tinsel that took hours to hang like icicles and properly reflect the twinkling lights carefully. Family bonds were forged, and family fights were ensured over the stringing of tinsel during the holidays. People tried to save tinsel, generally unsuccessfully, from year to year by placing it in the Sears and Pennys Christmas catalogs like a thousand bookmarks – which meant that taking the tree down was as big a job as putting it together.

While the family of my birth was totally engaged with Christmas tinsel, my own family outlawed it from our family tree years ago. My husband and two sons lacked the proper upbringing to put up with its laborious application – and it became increasingly difficult to find and purchase in such places as Alaska. Tinsel just wasn’t de rigueur outside of the Butte area.

Luckily, Fairmont Hot Springs (known to me and all others of a certain age as Gregson Hot Springs) carries on the Butte tinsel tradition in a grand way. Their enormous tree completely covered in tinsel and surrounded by wildlife mounts on the walls, enchants my inner child and takes me flying off to the Butte, Montana Christmas I long to celebrate. They do Christmas right. They go to excesses. All of their outdoor trees sport bright lights of every hue and are laden with fresh fallen snow. Red stocking with names of staff members are hanging from every mantel on every fireplace. It is simply delightful!

My family is more than willing to accompany me to get my Butte Christmas fix with an annual weekend stay at Fairmont. We dine at my favorite old style Butte restaurants, such as Lydia’s Supper Club, converse for hours to solve the world’s problems while soaking in the outside hot pools surrounded by snow, play on the slopes at Discovery Ski Area, and stop in Philipsburg on the way home to revel in the old fashioned Christmas atmosphere and pick up some delicious peanut butter taffy at the Sweet Palace. This weekend trip is a Christmas present to me from my family each year – and I LOVE it.

The 2015 holiday season’s trip was particularly wonderful. It snowed and snowed all day on Saturday, creating tons of powder for my sons’ snowboarding adventures at Discovery. Sunday dawned clear and cold – cold enough for booted feet to squeak as I walked along the shores of a frozen Georgetown Lake. It was nearly winter solstice and the bright rays cast by the low lying sun presented one Kodak moment after the other. It was winter as exactly winter should be. It was the winter of my dreams, the Christmas of my dreams.

Modern Philipsburg could be Butte of the 1950’s with their uptown wreaths, city center crèche, old, ornate buildings – old Butte on a miniature scale. The really enthralling thing is that none of this – Fairmont, Butte, Philispburg – is artificial. It has not been concocted by some marketing guru to satisfy someone’s idea of what an authentic (such an overused marketing term!) Christmas should be. No, all of this is organic and community-created. The staff at Farimont hang the tinsel, the citizens of Philispburg collectively decorate their beautiful mountain town, the same family that started Lydia’s Super Club still serves up the best Italian food in America, hot springs are geological features throughout Montana, and who but Nature or God could sculpt the mountains, light the sun, and forge such a dramatic landscape. My family’s Christmas gift to me surpasses all others in its meaning. I savor it all year long.

As a parting gesture, my Christmas trip ended with a bald eagle in a tree on one side of Montana Highway 1 and a rough-legged hawk on a utility pole on the other side. I will be smiling for a long, long time.

Merry Christmas from Tinseltown, Montana!

Nov 23 2015

Driving Miss Dixie

My love affair with Miss Dixie, my Chevy Silverado 2500HD Duramax diesel pickup with an Allison towing transmission, took me completely by surprise.

I am not a motor head. For most of my life, I really didn’t care much about vehicles. It mattered not to me how they run; I could have cared less about what’s under their hoods. Television ads for pickups have always struck me as an excess of testosterone-driven banality. I shudder at the off-road scenes of pickups tearing up the environment – wheels turning, mud flying, birds scattering, as some young buck extols the myth of the freedom and power that is his, as he careens his pickup truck across the western landscape, singing a cowboy song.

However, anyone who is serious about horseback riding in Montana’s backcountry soon learns that it is inextricably interwoven with driving a truck and pulling a lot of weight – a lot of emotionally important, living weight. Towing a trailer is a reality.

Lacking both the interest and the skills acquired from afternoons spent with a bunch of guys in garages tuning up engines and jacking up frames for dragging on Main Street, most horsewomen are reluctant to learn the basics. We don’t care if it’s fancy, we don’t need roll bars and fog lights, and our identity has nothing to do with the horsepower at our command. We want a SAFE, DEPENDABLE, DRIVABLE machine.

The problem with a laissez-faire attitude towards truck ownership is that it can get you into trouble – serious, life threatening trouble. Pulling the wrong load with the wrong vehicle can take you right into the great beyond.

Heavy loads simply up the driving ante. High speeds, steep terrain, narrow, washed out or soft shouldered mountain roads, Montana’s famous gumbo mud, and winter’s snow and ice can spell disaster. My adventurous spirit and my often misplaced know-it-all attitude has given me more than my share of hair raising moments while learning the ins and outs of towing a trailer with horses.

Mud as slippery as snot and up to my axles on a long road into the Beartooth Mountains – check. Trying to back a fully loaded 4-horse trailer down a mountain logging road only to have the trailer pull my truck off the road – check. Jackknifing the trailer on a hidden patch of spring ice – check. Running out of gas along the Rocky Mountain Front and facing the irony of pulling over in front of a derrick pumping oil out of the ground – check. Flying down Pipestone Pass at too high a speed and holding on for dear life as the weight behind me pushed my truck beyond the breaking capacity – check. (Note: those runaway lanes on Montana’s mountain passes aren’t there for picnicking)!

I have learned a few lessons – the hard way. Now I can back a six-horse trailer down a mountain road with greater ease than I can parallel park my car in downtown Missoula. All of this has made me a much more cautious and skilled driver, and it has turned me into a very discriminating truck consumer.

Miss Dixie did not just fall into my life. She was sought and carefully evaluated before I brought her home to meet the family. My initial reluctance with vehicles practically turned into an obsession for researching the desired attributes when I went to purchase a brand spanking new truck. Towing capacity, power, fuel capacity, turning radius, length of wheelbase, and transmission gear ratios became key elements in my search for the right vehicle.

Then, there she was – on the lot of Karl Tyler Chevrolet. A sleek, black beauty with all the power to take me up any mountain road, with a “smart” towing transmission to bring me down those mountain roads just as safely. A short wheelbase for tight turnarounds, yet roomy enough for five passengers—with comfortable seats and a great radio to boot. Yes, I admit it. I am in love with my truck. We are inseparable. You can call us the Montana Dixie Chicks!

Now I am just waiting for those TV ads to feature a frumpy old horsewomen like me ready to take on the world with the likes of Miss Dixie! Or perhaps I will settle for a great country western song about an old Montana cowgirl and her beloved truck – I think I’ll call up Shane Clouse and ask him to get right on that.

Nov 16 2015

How Lady Lonza Got Her Name

It was never my intent to breed Tennessee Walking Horses; but then Annie, my very first horse, became permanently lame during a freak hail storm that hurtled baseball sized stones into her pasture. Did another horse kick her during their frantic run? Did she fall or run blindly into a tree? We will never know; but after two unsuccessful surgeries, I had to accept the fact that, at only 8 years old, she would be retired from carrying a rider.

When I bought Annie, she had just weaned a beautiful, champaign-colored colt. He had perfect confirmation; his good looks caught everyone’s eyes. Not wanting to breed solely on the basis of color and looks, but for disposition and athletic ability, I called the owners to find out more about him. He got rave reviews for his amicable personality, great gait, and strong body, so I tracked down the stud that had “done the deed.” Arian’s Golden Sun was found living in California – not exactly next door to facilitate a pasture breeding. This meant artificial insemination.

Not having a clue as to what I was getting into, I signed a stud contract, contacted my vet, and began the long process of playing cupid. Instead of arrows in a quiver, my arsenal consisted of cold semen air freighted from California within hours of collection. It was a marathon: run to the airport to pick up the special container with a vile of semen, get the mare to the vet, have him “do the deed,” return the mare within another 24 hours to “do it again,” then ship the container back. Afterwards, wait a couple of weeks, take the mare to the vet for a sonogram to see if she “took,” and start over if she didn’t.

Of course, Annie didn’t “take” on the first three attempts – but hallelujah! She “settled” on the fourth. Then it was just sit back, pamper her, and wait 11 months.

The following June, at sunrise on my father’s first birthday after his death, I withdrew from a largely sleepless night on “foal watch” in the barn and went to my own bed to catch a few “zzzs” before beginning the day’s chores. I awoke a couple of hours later and instantly knew that the foal had arrived. My two geldings were frantically running along the fences, whinnying, and looking towards the barn.

There she was, a beautiful champagne-colored filly: big, strong, curious, confident—stunning! She was a gift from my father. Somehow he had a hand in her being born on his birthday.

After imprinting the foal, I excitedly went to pick up my mother to share the news. Lost in her grief of losing my father earlier that year, she expected to spend his birthday mourning his death. The foal changed all of that. Together my mother and I set up folding chairs near the stall to watch the pair, marvel at the miracle of birth and renewal of life, and to feel Dad’s presence among us. We would name her after him.

The names Bill or William did not, however, offer much inspiration as a name for such a filly. What to do? Then it struck me – I could take his middle name of Lonzo, feminize it with an “a,” and call her Lady Lonza! The Lovely Lady Lonza still rules the pastures.

Shortly after Lonza’s birth, my mother received a small publication from one of Dad’s distant relatives. The thin volume was published by the historical society in a little town along the Mississippi River where my great grandmother, Clara, had her boarding house. The booklet was ostensibly a history of that big mansion – but it really was a tribute to Clara. It chronicled her life there and followed her back to Montana and the “Dun Rovin” cabin. Reading it, I came upon a picture of Clara during their prosperous years. There she was, standing next to her “fancy gaited horse named Lady” with a dog at her side. Here I was – back in Montana, with Dunrovin nailed above my door, my “fancy gaited horse named Lady Lonza” and a dog at my side. This little acorn didn’t fall far from the family tree. Chills still run up my spine.

Annie and Lady Lonza are keep together except when Lady Lonza is out on the trails. They are inseparable, although Annie does not fret when Lonza goes on adventures for days at a time. She seems to understand that it is all temporary and that Lonza will soon be back.

As Annie and Lonza have aged, Annie is no longer the lead mare; rather her daughter is. Annie’s knee has become arthritic which has slowed down her body, but not her spirit. She continues to try to be the firebrand mare she once was by giving all manner of grief to the geldings. She still lays claim to the first hay and demands to be first at the water hole; but it is no long her own strength that gives her that power. It is the strength of her daughter and the strength of their bond. Lady Lonza now protects her mother from all harm.

Nov 01 2015

How Donkeys Came to Dunrovin

It all began with a work trip. As a research consultant for various natural resource management agencies, I frequently traveled across Montana for workshops and meetings. Whenever I was asked to take a project that would require me to spend more than a couple of days in another Montana community, I tried to include some horseback riding. After all, what is the point of visiting some spectacular part of Montana without a horse? My clients were often asked to help find suitable housing for my horse so that I could ride him when not working. These requests were frequently met with silence on the telephone – then, quizzically, “A horse?”

While it did impose a rather unusual requirement on prospective clients, it nearly always ended in a very worthwhile adventure for me. Since most of my clients were natural resource professionals, they were always well acquainted with local ranchers, and those acquaintances were generally the solution to my unorthodox contract requirement. It also had the great benefit of my forming some wonderful friendships with ranchers across the state. I saw this entire situation as a win-win!

On one such trip to the Bozeman area, I housed my horse, Power, at the Gallatin River Ranch. At that beautiful ranch, there lived a charming jack donkey (i.e. stud!) named Onk. Onk was very social and immediately began to hang out with me and Power. Every evening, he would follow me on the trail as Power and I made our way to the top the ridge overlooking the ranch. There he would stop, look down at the barn, glance at us, then nod his head as if to tip his hat, and head back to the barn. I was completely smitten.

Upon returning home, I explained to my family how I had fallen in love with this incredibly handsome and charismatic donkey and wondered about getting one for Dunrovin. Silently, my husband and two young sons just stared back in disbelief. “Why, exactly,” they asked, “would Dunrovin need a donkey?” And, my reply was, of course, “For comic relief!” The lack of a firm “NO WAY!” from the family was taken by me as a resounding “YES!”, and I promptly called the ranch for more details about Onk and his origins. As luck would have it, Onk had – the summer before – bred a lovely little jenny at a ranch near Twin Bridges. That breeding had produced a little jack that was only 3 months old and for sale. It took only one photo and one phone call to seal the deal.

Dunrovin’s first donkey, Señor Kona, more than lived up to his billing as “comic relief.” He soon became Dunrovin’s mascot, loud morning greeter, mischief maker, and the Lovely Lady Lonza’s ever-present side kick. Señor Kona brought a smile to every face and enchanted every child. He was a man about town – visiting schools and nursing homes, pulling a decorated cart, riding in the back of my van, wearing a sawbuck saddle filled with candy treats, winning a prize in UM’s homecoming parade, dressing up for Christmas and Halloween, letting little ones pin velcro tails on his ample rump, and teaching kids about leadership through his “donkey challenge” games.

As part of his training, I took him everywhere with me in Lolo and soon I became known as the Donkey Lady of Lolo – much to my young sons’ embarrassment who tired to distance themselves from the whole affair. Upon visiting the barber one time, my husband was greeted with an exclamation “Well, I’ve been watching your wife drag her ass all around town.” He became a local character well known for waiting for me outside the grocery store or the post office, or for accompanying me to pick up my kids from school (they always walked home a good 100 feet in front of me and never looked back). For holidays, I would dress him up and take him to school. At one point, a secretary came running down the hall to tell me that they had just called a cab for the superintendent and that I should take Señor Kona into his office and announce that his ride had arrived. Everyone got into the act!

His unquestioning trust, playful antics, and sheer exuberance reminded us all that love and joy take many forms and come from many places. His sudden death left a huge hole in Dunrovin’s heart and soul. The mornings became too quiet; there was no big nose and big ears pushing into the tack room in search of treats; Lady Lonza stood silently near his stall with her head hung low. He graced our Dunrovin Ranch sweatshirts as a Montana Legend – and that he most certainly remains – a legend to us all.

About a year after Señor Kona’s passing, I heard of two little jenny donkeys on a ranch near Lewistown. One was the typical gray with a dark cross on its back; and the other was a chocolate brown with an even darker cross on its back. They were half-sisters out of the same jack: one was 6 months old and the other was 9 months old.

This time the question of why Dunrovin needed TWO donkeys didn’t even come up. Of course, Dunrovin needed these two – and we are ever so grateful to have our lovely Divas grace us with their presence. Miss Gertie, the oldest, is named after my grandmother, Gertrude; Miss Maude takes the name of Gertrude’s younger sister, and my favorite great aunt. There is no doubt that Gertrude and Maude smile from heaven with every antic the Divas serve up at Dunrovin. I am certain that Grandma Gertrude and Aunt Maude would see the Divas as sister souls – embracing life, spreading good cheer, and dressing for every occasion.

I am also certain that somewhere Señor Kona’s spirit is keeping an eye on all of us – especially his Lovely Lady Lonza. Señor Kona’s spirit will forever inhabit Dunrovin and his voice echos across the ranch every time Miss Gertie nad Miss Maude tell us to hurry up with the hay!

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!