My father and mother leased the Pitchfork Bar Dude Ranch during the spring of 1945. My Dad leased and managed this dude (guest) ranch for five years. During the spring we spent time cleaning the cabins, lodge, and out buildings getting ready for the arrival of our first guests during the early part of June. During the summer we entertained paying guests and guided fishing trips into the Thoroughfare country bordering Yellowstone Park (south of Yellowstone Lake). Dad guided and outfitted elk and antelope hunters during the fall hunting season. Occasionally he would guide bear hunters as well. He hunted where we fished during the summer, the Thoroughfare country. In the later part of the season he would guide hunters into the mountains bordering the ranch. The winters were “spent” in Cody, Wyoming or Billings, Montana where dad would find work for the three or four months we would be in “town” ~ always a difficult time for me as I always preferred being at home on the ranch even though that entailed being by myself for long periods of time.
The Pitchfork Ranch was a boy’s dream ~ mine at any rate. I had my own horse, Blue, a blue roan that my dad bought for me from a ranch on the Wind River Indian reservation. He was a true Indian pony, four years old, and, probably, the only horse that I truly owned out right. He was given to me when I was six years old. I was taught to ride bare back with a hackamore bridle (no bit) and for the five years we had the ranch that was the only way I rode. I remember 20 mile pack trips into the mountains and riding bare back the whole way. I would fly fish off of the back of Blue as we followed the trial along the Greybull River up into the Thoroughfare country. In the early stages of our friendship, Blue would simply stop and wait for me to get back on if I were to fall off on one of our adventures. This would usually happen if at a high lope Blue would stop dead in his tracks in refusal to jump an irrigation ditch. He’d stop. I’d keep going. He never left me and ran home. Getting back on, however, was not always an easy matter. Sometimes it seemed like hours before I could find a suitable boulder or fence railing off of which I could jump onto Blue's back. Admittedly, Blue wasn't all sunshine and roses. If he didn't really think it was time for me to get back on his back, as I led him next to the boulder or fence rail, he would stand just far enough away so I would fall just short of him as I jumped from the "loading dock". I believe that is where I first learned I had a temper problem. We had full run of the place and we would go off on wild adventures. Once I was strong enough to open and close wire gates, we would wander in wider and wider circles. Mom would pack a lunch and we would be gone for hours. I missed him terribly during the winter months. He and the other horses that we had, about 35 head in all, were simply turned out in a super large pasture that was rented from the cattle operation of the Pitchfork Ranch. The horses were expected to fend for themselves during the winter months. I do not recall us ever losing a horse during the winter months, either from hardship or just being lost. I do, however, remember worrying a lot about old Blue. He was with us until he was sold at auction in a dispersal sale when Dad encountered financial problems in 1950 when we were forced to move back to “town”. My heart was broken.
During the first year at the ranch when I was six years old not only did I get my horse Blue, I also got an orphan antelope that one of the wranglers found in some sagebrush in a nearby horse pasture. We named him Sparky. Blue, Sparky, and Skip were fast buddies. Sparky grew like a weed that summer. We took turns bottle feeding him. In a surprisingly short period of time he was a young adult who took great delight in testing out his bud horns by placing his head between your legs and butting upward with great velocity, a very painful experience for the males of the ranch and an embarrassing experience for the females most especially if they happened to be wearing a dress. It didn’t take long for everyone to learn to give Sparky a wide berth on his travels around the buildings on the ranch. Interestingly, Sparky loved to eat coal. He found small bits of coal that had been dropped along the way from the outdoor coal bin storage area in the back of the kitchen area of the main lodge. He must have needed some mineral found within the coal. When it came time for us to “head to town” for the winter we left a winter’s supply of coal for Sparky in hopes that he would hang around until spring. I worried all winter about his safety and whereabouts. Upon return that spring we found Sparky and the coal to be gone. I’m sure the coal was inside Sparky. As to Sparky we never really knew his fate. I used to dream that he was in the hills around the ranch keeping an eye on us. Of course for years after when ever we saw a pronghorn buck we would ask ourselves if that was Sparky. Of course every large buck pronghorn that one of dad's hunters shot was also a possible candidate for being Sparky, as well. The existence of Sparky always put an “edge” on hunting for me.
I believe it was during the second year on the ranch that I got Laddy my Australian shepard/collie/ something else mix dog. He was a mutt, beautiful and a constant companion for me all year long unlike my other buddies who had to stay at the ranch when we moved to town in the winter. Laddy was my first dog ~ and he was a special as he thought he was. He could count all the way to one and would occasionally grace you with a hand shake. Rolling over was not worth the effort and “staying” was absolutely an insane idea. In other words, he was not into tricks, but following me and being with me where ever I went was his absolute strength and reason for being. He, Blue and I traveled far and wide occasionally, we thought, seeing Sparky off in the distance checking up on us.
Blue was physically too large to follow Laddy and me on some of our adventures. In particular he was too large to follow a trail that I had blazed/constructed along the banks of Timber Creek through the willows and cottonwood saplings. I did this in anticipation of guiding dude kids into the wilds of Wyoming. Actually, it did work quite well as the kids were always impressed with my explanations of the water falls, rapids, clearings, and other landmarks as we played along the banks of the creek with Laddy as our constant companion. He took as much delight in showing the new kids our trail as I did. He was the original “guide dog”. During our first year away from the ranch after dad’s financial set backs Laddy was hit by a car and killed. I always believed he never saw the car coming as he wasn’t aware of automobiles. He never had to worry about them on the ranch, there just weren’t that many. I’ve had several dogs since Laddy, but never have I had a dog like Laddy. Like first loves he was special.
To be continued.....................,
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