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Hello,

I’ve told you before, “My heroes have always been cowboys”. But I’ve got a new hero. Aaron, the yardman at the sales ring.

Now, I suppose I had better start at the beginning. With the cow. The wild cow.

I think the cow is about twelve years old. We’ve been trying to sell her for a couple years. Her calves are getting smaller. And she is getting harder to handle. She used to just be wild. You know, stand in the middle of the herd with her head up. Jump in the air and blow by you in the sorting alley. Maybe try and kick you. But you had to kind of enjoy her. Kept you on your toes. Trouble is, I was getting old faster than the wild cow. And getting nervous that she would jump on the grandkids when we’re working cows.

So, last year, we made a serious effort to sell the cow. Since she was wild, she was the first cow down the alley and through the chute when we were preg checking. Into the sell pen she went. Trouble is she was the only cow in the sell pen. One trip around there and she could see this wasn’t good. She came back to us, knocked over all of our vet supplies, crashed through the gate, and headed for the mountain. We decided to sell her next year.

Well, we couldn’t get her out of the timber last spring, so mama and baby stayed at the mountain alone. You wouldn’t see her often. Just a shadow passing through a clearing and disappearing into the fog high on the mountain. She became known as the “ghost cow”.

Eventually, she went over to the neighbors to spend the summer with his cows. Now, the neighbor is an understanding guy, so he didn’t mind. Whenever he mentioned the ghost cow, we would try to sell her to him. We discussed selling a bow hunt on the cow. I thought about putting on camouflage clothes, taking a hunting knife, and going after her alone. I thought about just having Shirley put a mad on, and go after her. But then I felt sorry for the cow.

Finally this weekend, the neighbor said he was moving cows. Daryl, went to get her, because I was scared. They rigged up a trap leading into the trailer, and the ghost cow was looking for a way out and jumped in. Smoother than snot on a doorknob. I was proud of the cowboys.

The ghost cow spent the night in the trailer. Kicked the side, bellering and slamming into the side if you walked by. She was madder than Shirley has ever been! It even scared me!

On Sunday morning I took her over to the sales ring. I stole the newspaper from the yard’s mailbox and patiently read the paper while I waited for the Aaron. The ghost cow was rocking the trailer so it was a little hard to read.

When he came, I warned him about the cow. I knew it was a couple days till the sale, but I dang sure didn’t want this cow at home. He shrugged and let me know he had handled a wild bull the day before, and this cow couldn’t be that bad. How could I argue? I never saw the bull.

I advised him to get the gates set, because when that old cow came out of that trailer she was going to be looking for some fresh meat to eat. He went down and set the gates and hollered to let her come.

And boy, did I. She came out of that trailer looking for the timber. When she saw she was in hell, she turned around and came back for me. I was safe on the fence. Down the alley at a lope, around the corner, and sliding into a pen. Sparks flying off the concrete. Trapped! Almost.

The yardman started to shut the gate. Now the gates in the sales yard are seven feet tall and made of channel iron. That old cow was quick. She bounced off the far side of that pen, did a 360, and hit that gate going nine oh. The gate crashed the yardman in the head and down he went. The cow bellered and camped on him for a second. I was quite a ways away, so I crawled up higher to watch. I’m not real brave, but I am pretty smart.

The cow mauled him around a little, and then I’m not sure if it was his screams or mine that made her leave and come down the alley for me. Anyway, it gave him time to get up on the fence.

I got the cow locked up and I think the smell of the fresh blood made her even madder. Aaron was leaking a little where that gate had smacked him in the temple. He was a little groggy, and staggering a little, but I will tell you one thing. He darn sure knew how to swear at a cow.

When he got done cussing that cow, I suggested, “He go in that pen and teach that cow a lesson”! I’m sure glad he wasn’t carrying a gun, cause I think the ghost cow and I would have been in trouble.

If you eat a burger in the next couple weeks, I’d cook it real good, just in case it’s the “ghost cow”. We don’t want to take any chances on her getting away.

Later, Dean

Dean Meyer is a rancher from western North Dakota. His column, Hat Tips, which usually deals with the lighter side of ranch life, has appeared across North and South Dakota for twenty years. When not planting hay, putting up hay, or feeding hay, Dean enjoys teaching his grandkids bad habits. To read past Hit Tips with Dean Meyer Click Here

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Hello,

Woke up this morning to a cold, wet rain. I always wondered why you would say “wet” rain. Seems kind of redundant. Anyway, it is cold and wet out there.

I keep telling Shirley, “You had better put on an extra layer when you go to do chores. I don’t want you to catch a cold.” And she just glares at me.
“Well, I can’t do them. I have to write an article. Oh, and give the horses an extra bait of grain.” More glare.

Now, they are forecasting five inches of snow for this afternoon and evening in the southwest part of the state. They say it will be heavy, wet snow. I don’t have to remind many of you, but the last time they forecast five inches of heavy, wet snow, we received three feet of heavy, wet snow and it broke nearly all of the tree branches in Dickinson off.

“Shirley, don’t forget to put on a neckerchief. I don’t want you catching the flu!”

Every year, winter kind of sneaks up on us. I’m not sure why that would happen. I mean I am sixty years old. I should know by now that the snow is going to come in the fall and winter. I should not have to dig through the snow to put away garden hoses, lawn tools, and the toolbox with the sections and guards for the mower. I should not have to dig through the snow to find the hoof nippers and the rasp. My overshoes should be somewhere other than where I took them off last spring when the corral dried out. My winter cap should be in the entryway, rather that under the seat in one of the pickups.
“Oh, yeah, Shirley! Put a little straw in the doghouse for Shadow when you go by. I’m working on my article for the paper!”

I was thinking about the time the deer hunters got snowed in at the ranch. First day of deer season. I imagine in the mid-eighties. Started out nice as could be. We had a house full of deer hunters. The morning was nice, but by afternoon, the wind had risen, and we had a full-fledged blizzard roaring. By the next morning, we were snowed in.

Now, these deer hunters had plenty of refreshments. Not a lot of food, mind you, but they darn sure weren’t going to get very thirsty. And I ask you, have you ever been locked up with a bunch of deer hunters that had nothing to do but drink and play cards?

“Shirley, lock that skinny colt up in the barn before you come in, will ya?”

Anyway, these city deer hunters were listening to “the tirty point buck” over and over on a tape player and slopping down beer like there was no tomorrow. Every once in awhile one of them would go over and look out the door and report back that the hunt was off for another day. The card game went on and on and on. Pinochle, poker, and three-card guts. Five card stud and draw poker. You name it. We played it.

By the time the sun broke through the third day, I hated deer hunters. I had lost all of my cash and a good part of Shirley’s jewelry.

I was going to tell you…..

But  I can’t. Cause Shirley is outside hollering like a Comanche. I think one of the bulls has her cornered!

Later, Dean   

Dean Meyer is a rancher from western North Dakota. His column, Hat Tips, which usually deals with the lighter side of ranch life, has appeared across North and South Dakota for twenty years. When not planting hay, putting up hay, or feeding hay, Dean enjoys teaching his grandkids bad habits.

Hello,

Those of you in the ranch business know how weak the horse market is. I imagine it’s a combination of not having a slaughter option, and the recession. If you have to decide who needs feed worse, your kids or your horses, most people kind of opt for the kids. Although some days I wonder.

There was a horse sale here in town the other day. It was pretty tough on young horses. I was visiting with a rancher friend after the sale and he commented, “How things had changed over the years”. He said, “You used to come to the horse sale and they would be giving puppies away. Now, they sell the puppies and give horses away!”

But times were not always that way, and I just heard this morning that the horse market is getting set for a big rebound. You had better buy one while you have the chance! And what the heck, it reminded me of another sale years ago…

Lynn and I had taken a load of bucking horses to Mesquite for a sale. I tell you what, I’d way rather drive through Killdeer or even Dickinson, than Oklahoma City or Dallas. I don’t know where everyone was going, but they were in a hurry.

But we got into the fairgrounds with our load of bucking horses and didn’t cause any wrecks. Oh, we may have created a little road rage. But what the heck, I married an Irish woman, so I’m kind of used to people being a little upset at my behavior.

And you should have seen the bucking horse and bull sale. I guess they had about three hundred bucking bulls and a hundred horses to sell in one day. A long day. But they are used to it and it goes real smooth. Until they got to our horses.

Most of the horses and bulls they sold are pretty well seasoned. Or, I guess you could say kind of wore out. They have been to rodeos for a lot of years, and for many, their best years are behind them.

Ours were a little different. They were bred to be bucking horses and only had been out a few times. At places like Elgin and Stanley. They hadn’t seen the bright lights and all the action. People all over. Indoor arena. And I guess you could say the young riders they had trying the horses were a little overmatched.

Like I said, things were going smooth. Until our horses came in the chutes. One flipped over backwards. One climbed over the chute. We finally got things settled down and got a cowboy out. He got bucked off into the chute and broke a leg. We had to wait for the paramedics to get him out. Twenty minutes. The next guy got hung up and broke an arm. Another twenty minute wait. The third guy was getting nervous. So was the horse. Finally, he nodded. The horse bailed out, turned back to the chute, and threw the cowboy against the chute gate. Concussion. Another twenty minute wait.

By now, we had the rest of our horses in the chutes. And the riders were weakening. They would see Lynn putting a flank on a horse and they would kind of fade into the background. We kept adding money.

A young guy kept eyeing one of our horses. He asked Lynn if the horse was strong. Lynn said he didn’t know, he’d never arm wrestled him. Lynn talked him into getting on. The guy came off quicker than a prom dress. Only the announcer had more taste than me so he never mentioned that.

We eventually got them all bucked but two. Three ambulance trips and no rides. And the best horses were left. I finally got them sold after the sale.

Then I went into the office to settle up. To see if the horse check was bigger than the bar tab. And it was. I mentioned to the sales manager that we would be back next year. He looked at me and in a southern drawl said, “If yawl’s comin’ back next year, see if you can bring your own riders. Ours is a little weak for those northern horses.”

Later,

Dean

Dean Meyer is a rancher from western North Dakota. His column, Hat Tips, which usually deals with the lighter side of ranch life, has appeared across North and South Dakota for twenty years. When not planting hay, putting up hay, or feeding hay, Dean enjoys teaching his grandkids bad habits.

Hello,
Boy, I tell you what, the weather is hard to track. Three days ago, it was in the high nineties and I will tell you, fat guys suffer in that deal. Then this morning, it is really fall. In the forties, spitting a little rain, the wind a whipping across the plains. Green beans from the garden, corn on the cob wanting a little more sun, fresh cucumbers, and new potatoes. It is a wonderful life!

And with fall comes the wrap up of rodeos in the North Country. The finals will be coming up  in Watford in a couple weeks. They have been held there for the past several years. Been so long, you don’t have to worry about who is going to open gates, or who runs the unsaddling chute. You just know Mark will work the arena. Kelly will be arena director. Connelly will be on the out gate. You know the hamburgers will be perfect and the crowds will be big. It goes off pretty darn smooth thanks to a lot of volunteers who like a fast rodeo so they can get to the beer garden.

But one thing you never know about is the Wild Ride. Now the wild ride is a no holds barred bronc riding. You don’t have to mark your horse out, spur, use one hand, and wear a hat, or anything like that. You just have to get on and make the wildest ride you can. Usually on the wildest horses that can be found in the wildest country in the state.

A couple years ago, we were a little short of riders for the wild ride. Only two courageous young men came forward. The champion from last year made a heck of a ride on a horse that did everything but pull a knife. Solly won the bronc riding again.

But the second night, thanks to three hundred dollars and maybe a little beer, we were able to entice four young men into getting on the backs of these broncs.

Now one of them came from a bronc riding family. And he came prepared to win the wild ride! He wore a prom dress. I don’t think that this was his normal attire, not that there is anything wrong with that. He wore a prom dress, wig, and was carrying a sack of baby powder to swing at the horse.

One was a local cowboy that hadn’t ridden a bronc before, but was a pretty good hand and thought he should be able to do it.

The third one was a champion to be. In a few years. I suppose he was fourteen or fifteen years old. A heart and a grin as big as the western plains he ranched on. He had a family of brothers that you could go to the river with. Just giving advice and encouragement with smiles that matched their brothers.

The fourth guy had a little problem. He was recruited from the beer garden. He had never ridden a horse before. He had a pretty good beer belly so you couldn’t fasten the safety vest they were required to wear. So they borrowed some tape from the ambulance crew and wrapped tape around and around his body to hold the vest somewhat shut. He had red curly hair and no hat. With his red, curly hair and his fairly ample middle, he reminded me of Joel Heitkamp!

The crowd was on the edge of their seat as the local cowboy came out first. He made it about three seconds. Before bucking off over the horses head and landing pretty darn hard. The crowd let out a sigh of relief as he recovered his wind and got to his feet.

The cowboy in the prom dress was next, not that there is anything wrong with that. He made a pretty darn good ride. I think. It was a little hard to see through the cloud of powder that was flying through the air. I thought it was a pretty good ride and the judges seemed to think he was pretty attractive in his blue dress with the V front. Cause they gave him the high marked ride.

The cowboy with the taped on vest went third. His helpers had to show him which hand to hold the rein in. They had to put his feet in the stirrups. We tried to get him to hold on with two hands, but he was out of it. His senses had left him for a safer location to watch the event from. That big old paint bronc bailed out of there like he thought Ty Murray was on his back. He kicked over the back of the chutes, bogged his head, and jumped ten feet in the air. Our cowboy was jerked forward, stood up in his stirrups, and catapulted high into the air.

What goes up must come down. Unless you are gas prices. And that cowboy hit the ground like a ripe melon. It popped that vest open farther. I feared for his life. But you know that old saying. God looks after drunks and fools. The cowboy got right to his feet and the crowd roared its approval.

The last rider was young Eric. He might not have ridden the farthest. But right this down in your little black book. You saw a champion get on his first bronc that night at Watford. This guy will make it happen in a few years. Or else his brothers are going to kill him trying!

We’ll see you at Watford next month. It’s worth the drive!
Later, Dean

Dean Meyer is a rancher from western North Dakota. His column, Hat Tips, which usually deals with the lighter side of ranch life, has appeared across North and South Dakota for twenty years. When not planting hay, putting up hay, or feeding hay, Dean enjoys teaching his grandkids bad habits.

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