There are men in them thar’ fields!
Mountain Man's manly tools of war: axes!
There were Mountain Men visiting West Yellowstone. Yeehaw!
We saw tents pitched in a field within walking distance of our cozy cabin. It was our first morning in Montana, so our gang of four decided it was only natural to invade their territory and see what was cookin’ under the canvas.
Right away, the kids witnessed other kids throwing axes and quickly got in line for their shot at bloody mayhem. Their goal was to send a tomahawk-like tool flying through the air into a sawed-off hunk of tree. I was terrified, mostly for the people loitering within axe range. I moved back and kept my fingers crossed Marla didn’t have to pay for any digit reattachments.
My attention was distracted by the Mountain Man in charge of the axe event.
He didn’t have any pants on.
Hmm ….
Mountain Man with no pants hands ax to small boy with short pants.
I suspected that somewhere under his upper garments lurked a loin cloth. He had great legs, but I was scared that “things” would make a sudden appearance in all that axe-throwing activity. He didn’t share my concerns, apparently, and didn’t hesitate to SQUAT down to instruct the children.
Look away! Look away! Look away, Mountain Woman.
I wandered off to peruse the Mountain Mens’ tents of commerce and was quickly reminded of how far from home I really was. There was no room here for animal-loving, non-meat-eating Southern Californian liberals like myself.
Everywhere I looked I saw empty shells that once were animals, big and small. There were pelts everywhere. There were wolf pelts, fox pelts, cow and buffalo pelts … then, raccoon pelts and even poor opossum pelts.
Anyone want to buy a dusty steer skull?
Marla and I were further shocked when her animal-loving daughter, Sandy, spent precious allowance dollars on ‘coon-skin hat.
Shoot me now … and skin me while you’re at it.
I saw more men without real pants, or pants that were barely hanging on, and don’t get me started on Mountain Men facial hair, body odor and overall disrepair.
We left the smelly soiree and headed east to the Big Park.
Inside the park
Our drive from West Yellowstone into the park was a long and winding, 14-mile road. Sandy spotted an eagle’s nest along the way, which got a lot of hoorays in the car. Despite the vacancy in the bird’s lodging, we had officially spotted our first bit o’ wildlife, sorta.
We wouldn’t spend a lot of time in the park today. Our strategy was to hit a few “hot” spots recommended by a popular book, check out a ranger station, then get back in time for a leisurely ride atop some retired rodeos horses. Giddy-up!
Inside the ranger station, I stumbled on a book about tragedies inside Yellowstone. The VERY FIRST story was about a man and his dog. Oh boy.
Try shaking this one off
So, it seems this fella was visiting the park, circa 1981, with his dog and a friend. They made their way to one of many hot springs around the park.
Dog bounds out of car, sees pretty blue water and jumps in. Upon hearing the terrified squeals of his pooch, the man does an Olympic-worthy dive and follows his dog into the “pool.”
These hapless visitors didn’t realize the hot spring’s average temperature hovers somewhere near 206 degrees Fahrenheit. Needless to say, the dog boiled, and the man was pulled from the spring, minus the skin of his hands and forearms, which slipped right off. Man died the next day, succumbing to third-degree burns on 100 percent of his less-than-intelligent corpus.
Quickly I slammed the book shut, stuck it back on the shelf and went outside for some fresh air. I was suddenly elated that I had left my own hapless, water-loving pooch at home, safe with my sister. Now, all I had to do was keep Marla’s kids from the park’s hot spots.
Hot pots stink
Our first caldera warning in Yellowstone.
Eager to get out of the car, we found our way to Ojo Caliente, a site that promised our first volcanic adventure.
Oh, goody.
Along the way, these hot spots, or “calderas,” gave us a lovely, sulfuric heads-up. The kids noticed immediately.
“Oh no, what’s THAT? It stinks soooo bad,” Michael said from the back seat. It sounded like he was dying.
Marla laughed with some glee. We now had a great torture device. Act up in Sam’s car and expect windows to open and let the stink in.
I was impressed with the rather innocuous looking hot springs. The smoky mist that rose from the bubbles was heavy and stunk to high heaven. The kids made gagging noises while Marla shot video through the gaseous cloud.
I catch some noxious gas at Ojo Caliente.
Suddenly, I rememberd reading that the gas emitted could render a body dead. Ruh-roh. I quickly told the kids that getting to close to the fumes could make them pass out. Michael promptly did. He lay there for a bit until he realized nobody was paying him any attention, then he hopped back up and posed for some photos.
I thought the mist might do the skin some good. I felt refreshed and enjoyed walking the trail around Ojo Caliente. There’s much evidence here still of the raging, historic fires of 1998. We would see more evidence of the fires everywhere we went. Dead trees littered mountainsides and blackened stumps would remind us that nature had a way of renewing itself from time to time.
Home on the range
The latter part of our Saturday involved four-legged equine types. I prayed there would be cowboys, a.k.a. eye candy.
Once again in the car (a real theme here), we drove west to the Diamond P Ranch. Marla reserved three “ponies” for me and the kids. We had all ridden before, but on this day, I was in charge of the rugrats on a three-hour trail ride. Marla was off to buy groceries for our stay in the cabin. Good times!
(I had to shut my mind off to visions of children thrown from horses and all kinds of hoof-derived carnage.)
We were told to find chaps and hats for our ride. While Michael and Sandy wrestled over the best looking, miniature leather gear, I ditched the chaps in pure fear I wouldn’t find any that would make my thighs look thinner. I found a nice, white hat and headed to the corral for some horse instruction.
Hello, Mr. Heartache!
Cowboy Alan had me at whoa.
My favorite cowboy, Alan, shows us the ropes.
There he sat, atop his fine horse. Underneath the brim of his hat was perfection: a cowboy face to write home about. I was unabashedly smitten.
Alan was in charge of schooling us in the ways of horses. He let the horse jostle him a bit (thanks), so he could show us the elements of go, whoa, and oh no.
We learned that horses don’t really respond to the word “whoa.” They prefer a sharp tug upward on the reins (go figure). But Alan reassured us that if we needed to say “whoa,” that was OK, just make it a nice, manly “whoa.”
Whoa, back up there, pardner.
I must have been high on Montana’s crystal-clean air, because before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Hey Alan, can you please say ‘whoa’ again?”
Alan smiled and let out a toe-curling, manly “whoa.”
My heart melted. I was ready to shove Marla and the kids to the curb and move in with my newfound cowboy.
I would even reconsider those chaps.
Oh, sweet Montana
I spent a few minutes getting to know my retired rodeo horse, Gypsy. Because of his black and white hide, Alan told me they often called the animal “Cow.” Lovely. I wasn’t sure if he was making some underhanded comment about my derriere, which was planted level with his nose … sigh.
Our group heads out for our 2-hour trail ride. That's Michael, in front of me.
The kids sat easily on their mounts, their skinny butts swimming the saddles. After watching our trail comrades get hoisted into place, we proceeded out the corral and into the fields that surrounded the stables.
Over the next two hours, we plodded along, horse nose to horse butt. We crossed the main road, which had my heart slightly agitated. Those visions of squashed children kept getting in my way. I was a bit forlorn, as Alan was forced to stay behind and gear up an unexpected group of new riders. Instead, we got Craig, a funny, married cowboy who told us he was tired and had a difficult horse.
Waah . . .
Happy trails
Sandy's horse Ciero, barrels down the hill, straight toward me!
Sandy probably had the best time of all of us. She got a feisty, happy horse named Ciero, who loved to trot and run.
Aw, geez. No cowboy and now this?
We have a saying, the kids and I. Whenever danger lurks, I caution them to be wise and remember, “If you get hurt, your mother would … ” I let the question hang …
And the kids answer, in unison, “Kill you.”
I said this a lot during the ride (and the visit to Yellowstone in general).
We had a great time, though, letting our horses find their way across fields and up a small rise into a beautiful forest of pine and aspen trees. At some point, we reorganized the horses, and Sandy fell into last place, behind me and Gypsy. I soon got used to hearing her excited laughter every time Ciero fell behind (to eat grass) and then RAN to catch up.
I told Marla later to sign Sandy up for lessons. She rides well and has absolutely no fear of the animal’s amazing bulk.
Our trail took us through amazing fields of flowers and breathtaking views.
A corral of content horses, waiting, sleeping, munching.
Rodeo daze
Sore thighs aside, our gang made its way to the Saturday night rodeo, hosted by the Diamond P Ranch. It’s a family affair, small and local. I wondered if I’d see a particular cowboy, but quickly got distracted by lightning on the horizon and fat drops of rain threatening my hair.
In true Southern California style, Marla bought the expensive tickets, which meant we got to sit under the grandstand canopy. Yay . . . The rain passed by, and the rodeo clowns made their way into the dirt arena.
Generally I’m not a fan of sport that involves animals. I understood, however, that this event mostly involved prized horses, which I could imagine were coddled better than some children. The bulls looked mean, but they were not starving, scarred or otherwise traumatized, from what I could see. I stamped out any dislike for rodeo, and concentrated on the skills demonstrated by the particpants.
I never saw Alan again, but I had fun recalling our introduction!
Alan is pretty. Too bad he wasn’t one of the guys not wearing any pants.