The Beast

  

The Beast

 

I own a 2013 Ford F-250 with a Gen-1 Powerstroke diesel.  Last week, I hit 490,000 miles.  You read that right. 490,000.  I never intended to put that many miles on the truck, but after 13 years of driving to bird hunt, it’s what I have.  The last F-250 I had, was sold at 385,000 miles.  (It was a 7.3 diesel, and I wish I still had it.) Now, as they say, its a thing with me.  And, my plan is to keep driving the Beast to see just how long I can keep it flying. 

I have many friends that ask about how it’s going, how many miles I have, and what am I doing to increase the life of the engine? I thought I’d share some tips.  Some are important, some not so much, but I wanted to put them out there.  Pick and choose.  I also know that discussing diesel trucks is like discussing bird dogs, maybe even more controversial. So, keep in mind I am not a diesel engineer, just a guy with a technical mind that gives far more weight to facts, numbers, testing, and science than anecdotal evidence. 

 

I made a few modifications to the basic truck soon after I bought it, such as swapping out the ridiculous plastic 28-gallon fuel tank for a steel 50-gallon tank, and adding airbags to the rear end, but those are drivability issues.  So, on to the diesel engine.  

 

Find a diesel mechanic you trust. It was more by chance than effort when I found Lucas. He was working for a great shop I’d been using for years.  We met when I had some turbo issues at about 150,000 miles, and he did the work.  He doesn’t mind that I ask a lot of questions and stop in and watch him work. After a while, he left that company and started his own business, and I followed him.  He’s honest and I trust him.  I don’t think I’m getting the family discount, but at least I get what I pay for.  Another fun by-product of a good relationship is communication.  Several times over the years, I would call him while on the road and we would discuss this problem or that.  Invariably, his advice would be spot on.  I have his personal phone number and promised to never abuse that.  A few years ago, my truck was overheating while pulling my camper (8000#) up a long, steep (8-10+%) grade in 95 deg heat in Wyoming, I made it to the top, after several pull-offs and cool-downs, and called Lucas.  I described the symptoms, etc., and he was pretty sure it was the fan clutch on the radiator.  Spot on, it turned out.  The Ford dealership said it was a coolant leak in a line to the turbo and they couldn’t even look at fixing it for 10 days.  That didn’t pass the smell test to my non-mechanic brain.  Since it was all downhill to Georgia, I drove it home and let Lucas fix it.  

 

Important!  First, do not use the dealer recommended oil change interval.  Years ago, I started having my used oil analyzed after every oil change.  At that time, I was using the recommended 7500 mile interval (or when the oil change light illuminated). I discovered I was getting the least amount of engine wear (metal particles per 1000 miles) when I changed the oil at or close to 6000 miles- per the analysis.  I have many reports in the database now and I’m confident my engine internals (bearings, lifters, etc.) aren’t coming apart. And, I am tracking trends, so I can catch abnormal wear before it becomes a problem.  There are many companies out there that will do this for you.  The one I use is Speediagnostix.com, owned by Lake Speed, Jr., a true motor oil geek.  (None of the products I mention give me anything. I just wanted to give you a place to start looking.). Also, I use a full synthetic Shell Rotella T-6 5W-40.  Great oil, available everywhere, including Walmart.  I won’t get into the “100% synthetic” vs. “full synthetic” vs. PAO oil here, but it makes a good story involving lawsuits and advertising.  Full synthetic oil is excellent, especially if you are changing it every 6000 miles. Check out “The Motor Oil Geek” YouTube channel and make your own informed decision.  (Trigger warning:  He uses science and numbers to prove his assertions.)

 

In the past, I used the Ford oil filter.  I found, what I think is a superior product- the PPE oil filter.  A larger capacity, with a lower micron filter media to catch more of the oil contaminants. (Go to:https://ppepower.com/collections/oil-filters and make your own decision.). My Gen-1 Powerstroke uses 14 quarts of oil with the PPE (bigger) oil filter.  The Gen-3’s (’22 and newer) use 15 quarts.  

 

Let’s talk diesel fuel.  The diesel fuel in the U.S. is junk.  That’s important to know, because it relates directly to the “Achilles Heel” in my Powerstroke engine.  My engine has a Bosch High Pressure Fuel pump- the CP4.  The CP4 uses the fuel itself for lubrication- specifically the sulphur in the fuel.  When the US started requiring diesel companies to lower the sulphur content in the fuel, they lowered the lubrication for the CP4 pump.  Consequently, the pump will eventually wear and come apart and send metal parts into the entire fuel system (a $10,000-$15,000 repair).   This could happen under 100,000 miles.  There are a few ways to overcome this problem and keep your diesel running. The first is to install a “disaster prevention Donaldson filter” kit just downstream of the pump.  (https://ssdiesel.com).  When the CP4 “grenades” itself, the metal is captured in the disaster kit fuel filter and the repair cost is significantly less, only a CP4 pump replacement. I read that Cummins and Duramax both have the CP4 pump now, having ‘upgraded’ from the bullet-proof CP3 in 2011 or later. 

 

Important!  The second is to never put fuel in your truck without adding a fuel conditioner. These products add lubricity for the CP4 pump, increase the deficient cetane rating in US diesel, clean injectors, fuel freezing in cold weather, and other things.  Three good ones are Hotshots EDT, Archoil, and Power Service.  YouTube has numerous comparison videos to watch.  I have used all three over the last 490,000 miles.  Currently, I’m using Power Service, mostly because it’s available at nearly every truck stop. Convenience is a factor. 

 

The third is to replace the CP4 with the CP3 (older, reliable) pump, and S&S makes a DCR pump to replace it.

 

I use the aftermarket fuel filters from Doc’s Diesel.  They advertise a much better micron rating media to clean the fuel better.  

 

The Duramax and Cummins diesels have their own failure points, e.g. the grid heater bolt on the Cummins, and the head gaskets on the Duramax with their aluminum heads bolted to iron blocks and expansion issues when they get hot.  I suggest watching “Dave’s Auto” on YouTube to learn about these issues and the aftermarket fixes.   It makes a lot of sense to me to fix before failure, if you know the weakness.  As was explained to me once, “Hope is not a plan.”

 

Two other upgrades to think about are a FASS fuel system (www.fass-fuel-systems.com) and a bypass oil filtration system.  The FASS uses different filters in the fuel line to take out entrained air and water and purify the fuel. It would be hugely beneficial to the diesel owner.  The bypass oil filtration system continually takes a small amount of oil and puts it through a very fine filter and then puts it back in the pan.  It’s an aftermarket upgrade to the oil system.  I don’t have it but wish I’d done it at 100,000 miles.  Fuel and oil are the lifeblood of any diesel, and these two upgrades address them both. 

 

I had my original CP4 pump replaced last week.  I was gambling every time I went west, and I started getting nervous driving those two-tracks in the desert or mountains.  I had the disaster kit on it, and I used fuel additive from day one, but for peace-of-mind, I took the hit and had a new, improved CP4 installed (as well as my third water pump and second serpentine belt).  I think the fact that it lasted so long is a testament to the fuel additives. The Gen-3 Powerstroke on the ’22 and newer trucks have an improved CP4 and some other beefed-up items.  I’d check closely before I neglected the fuel additive, etc.  

 

Back at the start of this, I mentioned how diesel maintenance is a hot-button issue.  I get it.  You might get some ideas to get more miles out of your own beast, and I’m not a diesel mechanic.  Don’t forget the crankcase filter, transfer case, transmission, and differential fluids. I do my own transfer case, fuel filters, and oil changes.  The rest I leave for Lucas. 

 

Bottom line: Diesel maintenance is expensive, but so is the cost of new truck.  I hope to be able to hit 750,000 miles with a new puppy on board. Stay tuned and buy the puppy.   

 

A Dog and a Gun

A Dog and a Gun

By Randy Schultz

 

In the late ’80’s. I bought a used, red, 2-door, F-150 with a V-6, a bench Naugahyde seat, a 4-speed on the floor, and a 6.5’ bed.  It was 2WD with a limited-slip rear end, and I remember I paid top dollar for it- $8000. I loved that truck! It was my main mode of transport back then. Thankfully, it had air conditioning, since I was living in Georgia.  When my wife bought me a Brittany puppy from the “hunting dog” classifieds in the newspaper for my birthday, I knew I was ready to conquer the bird-dog world.  I bought a shotgun at the pawn shop- a 12 ga. Browning A5 with a Cutts Compensator- for the sum of $200.  I ordered some LL Bean hunting boots, the ones with rubber bottoms and leather up top. I found an old plywood box that originally held some jet engine parts.  I cut a door, attached hinges, and bolted them on.  With a little straw thrown in, I had a classy little dog box in the bed of my truck.  For clothing, I figured jeans were fine; I didn’t need gloves, a hat, or sunglasses.  My genetically questionable, "world-class" Brittany was growing up, and when he was a year old, November arrived, quail season opened in Georgia, and I was ready to shoot some birds.  

 

At that time, I was part of a deer lease on 2000 acres in Georgia’s pine country.  The owners decided to clear-cut the pines and leave the hardwood bottoms. Little did I know that it would become prime Bobwhite territory for the next 5 years- until the re-growth got too thick.  I would spend time at work thinking about the property and which area I wanted to cover with my dog.  By the time I arrived home, I knew I’d be leaving the next morning, before light, for the 2-hour drive to the lease. 

 

The next morning, I’d load Rocket in his kennel in the bed of the truck, grab my shotgun and put it in the holder behind my head in the rear window, pack a sandwich, fill a mug of coffee, and back down the driveway headed for some awesome hunting.  I knew every time that truck turned south to hunt that Rocket and I would have a great day.  

 

For several years, I hunted every chance I got.  One year, I made the drive south 57 times.  That was in addition to the weekend NSTRA trials- 10 or 12 trials per season.  Hot, cold, rain, sunshine, sleet, windy, or even snowing a few times, it made no difference to me. It was during that time that I realized I had found my avocation.  

 

It was a simple time.  A dog, a gun, a truck, a place to hunt.  

 

I chuckle and contrast that with today. 

 

I drive at least 1000 (usually 1200 to 2000) miles pulling a camper, in the coldest months staying in motels, sometimes with a friend, usually by myself. My F-250 eats the miles as I churn out 800 to 1100 miles per day.  Too excited to take it slow, I start around 5 a.m. and stop to sleep around dark. In the early days, I’d drive 80+ mph, now not so much. I would hunt states from Michigan to Arizona and up to Idaho, and all the states in between.  When I find a place to hunt, I will unload my considerably better-bred bird dogs, hook up their individual GPS collars linked to my handheld GPS with an integral satellite communication device.  I’ll mark the truck location on my iPhone, GPS watch, and handheld device.  I’ll ensure I have my mapping app on my phone to determine boundaries and mark my track for future reference.  I will also mark every covey (unless I’ve shot birds in this area previously) for a download to my hard drive back home.  Deerskin gloves, a crushable felt broad-brim hat, bird hunting boots, technical pants, a Gore-Tex jacket, and sunglasses to match the cloud cover are also a part of the uniform.  The dogs are off-loaded from their padded, heated, and cooled kennels, and I’ll reach for my bespoke 28 ga., grab a handful of shells to stow in my Wingworks vest, give the dogs a short whistle, and head into the wind.  

 

And yet, all that stuff is really just…stuff.  (Except the gun, I love the gun.)  Am I happier, more excited, or more successful hunting now than I was back in the day?  No. I’m realizing that 35 years ago, I already had all that I needed. Just like that boy or girl in South Dakota who comes home from school, calls the dog, grabs the shotgun, and heads out back to pop a rooster before dinner.  It was much simpler then. 

 

I had a dog, a gun, and a place to hunt.  

 

 

Upland Nation Podcast

Scott Linden and I have a great conversation about bird hunting, public land access, bird dogs, traveling with dogs, camping, and much more!

https://www.uplandnation.com/e/author-blogger-road-warrior-randy-schultz-on-what-counts-goin-down-the-road-and-public-access-hunting/

Endless October 3- The Finish.

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Snakebite- A True Story

Snakebite- What really happened.

 

Blue worked well through the prairie brush.  Sage and grass were on the hills above the alfalfa fields, and we made a pass through green, recently cut grass before moving to the coulees around the edges.  I was confident we weren’t leaving any birds behind.  It was cool in the morning, but the heat of the day was not long coming.  September in Montana is usually hot to warm, although I’ve hunted in cold rain many times. I was hoping for one of those cooler days.  In fact, I delayed my trip this year to try and mitigate the heat, but the normal cycle of early and late hunts to avoid the heat was the plan. 

 Blue is an eight-year-old male Brittany.  He is long-legged and a medium-range dog (100-200 yds) and is a solid, reliable bird dog. I enjoy hunting with him because I turn him loose and go about enjoying a nice walk, waiting for the GPS tone to alert me to the find.  Earlier in the walk, he pointed deep in one of the coulees above the alfalfa, but he was hesitant.  His tail was down, and he moved a little.  I watched him from about 30 yards away as he worked in some brush under a stunted fir tree. It wasn’t normal behavior for him to move like that with a bird on point, so I called him off.  I was worried about a skunk or porcupine.  As I looked closely, I saw he was interested in a huge porcupine.  The “bush” was moving.  It was easily as big as my dog and looked even bigger, covered with quills sticking out.  We moved on. 

 

Truthfully, I’d become casual about the dangers to my dogs.  It’d been many years since a skunk encounter and a porcupine engagement usually took a few minutes, plucking quills.  After 30 years of hunting Montana and the Dakotas and other snakey states, I’d only seen a few, and the dogs always managed to avoid them. 

 

It wasn’t on my mind when, later, I noticed Blue chewing at his paw.  I called him to me, expecting to find a cactus caught in his paw.  He came over, holding the paw up, to allow me to pull it.  This time, as I lifted the paw, he yelped in pain.  I looked closely and didn’t see any cactus, but I did notice a small, bloody mark on the top of his foot.  I turned the leg over and saw another one on the underside of the leg, maybe an inch between them. Also, every time I touched his leg, he yelped.  I knew then we had a problem. He’d just been working on a very thick clump of tall, green flowering plants.  It was so thick, it was difficult to walk through.  I peered into the clump, looking for a light brown Prairie Rattler.  I never did see the snake, which was probably good for him. 

 

Blue was hurting, and his foot was beginning to swell. I was about a half-mile from the truck, so I leashed him up and we started to walk.  He wouldn’t put any weight on the foot now, and the going was slow.  So, I picked him up and carried him.  That 43# was awkward with my gun, etc., but I was beginning to recall my conversation with my bird-dog-vet friend about snakebites. “Randy, the number one best plan is to get the dog to a vet, if at all possible.  Anything else you do, while making you feel useful, will only delay the application of the anti-venom.  The anti-venom will make the difference in the recovery, limit the tissue damage, and may even save the dog’s life. Everything else is superficial, and any delay allows the venom to spread.”  

 

Taking that to heart, I got him to the road, then to the truck and in his crate.   The leg was still swelling.  At this point, he was panting and drooling, and any touch on his leg brought on a yelp.  I cranked the Beast and headed to the nearest vet office, about an hour away. Luckily, the gravel roads were in good shape, and I could keep up a good, if marginally safe, pace through the prairie, headed to the paved highway and into town.  I had the vet office in my contacts and called them once I got a signal.  They were out to lunch when I arrived, and the office was empty.  45 minutes anxious minutes later, a car pulled up and the receptionist arrived.  I carried Blue inside and said, “Snakebite!”  She said all the vets were out doing pregnancy testing.  I won’t say what I was thinking, but she calmly called another town to find out they were closed that day.  Then she called another town’s vet and told me they were open and waiting for me.  It was 90+ miles away.  I will say this about that drive.  I drove with intention.  On the way, I texted my vet at home, concerned about the time between the envenomation and the application of the anti-venom.  She said 4-6 hours would be fine, but she had good results up to 12 hours after the bite. I felt better about my situation and even slowed down a bit.  I rolled up to the vet office 4 hours after the encounter and carried him into the office.   

I immediately felt comfortable with the vet.  38 years as a country vet in Montana, she’d seen many snakebit dogs and knew exactly what to do.  By now, the leg was well swollen, he was still drooling, and the right side of his face was a little slack- all normal reactions to snake venom. The anti-venom was hooked up to the IV, and she came back and said, “He’s in pain, but this will help him feel better.”  It was an injection of morphine. “I’ll keep him overnight and will call you in the morning.”  That night, I got a text that said he was still very sick, but she was going in to change up the medications.  Also, she found another bite mark farther up the leg, near the elbow, and there was no doubt in her mind that he got at least one “full load” of venom.  That was a long, sleepless night at the motel. 

 

Early the next morning, she texted that Blue was better, eating, and drinking, and I could pick him up at noon.  When I pulled up Saturday morning, she was there with him on a lead.  He still looked poor, but he was walking and putting weight on the leg.  He got 10 days off and by the end of the trip, he’d recovered completely.   

 

What I learned:  

 

Venom is nasty stuff.  As it spreads through the body, it creates havoc with the tissues and organs.  The faster the anti-venom can be applied, the better the outcome.  Under 4 hours is the goal. Any delay can result in a worse outcome. 

 

There is nothing you can do to help control the venom.  Benadryl, Steroids, electric shock (really!), and pain meds only delay the application of the anti-venom.  The antivenom completely eliminates the venom by binding to the venom’s toxic compounds, typically within a few hours. They are then eliminated via the liver, kidneys, and lymphatic system. It starts working immediately and effects can be seen in the blood pressure and swelling within an hour.  It may take 24 hours to fully eliminate the bound venom from the body. The aftereffects can appear for several days and gradually subside. 

 

Prairie Rattlers (the only venomous snake in Montana) have a hemotoxic venom.  It affects clotting, bleeding, and coagulation.  It also causes tissue damage, swelling, etc.  Sometimes there is a small neurotoxic effect, as well. 

 

Know where the local veterinarian is located and have their phone number in your contact list.  Have a backup. 

 

Have a pet insurance policy that covers snakebite.  I have an accident-only policy that covers the usual hazards associated with bird hunting.  It’s a great peace of mind during a stressful situation.  I have used it many times (only once for snakebite) over the years.  

 

After consulting with my bird dog veterinarian friend, I chose not to use the vaccine.  That is a personal choice.  For those of you who use it, according to news reports, their conditional license expired, and they are working hard to get it back.  

 

Snakebite is traumatic, but statistics show it is rarely fatal.  The presence of venomous snakes, in my opinion, should not discourage you from heading out to hunt in different parts of the country.  In fact, to my mind, it’s way down the list of scary things.  

 

I consider the event a “wake-up call”.  Like I said, I’ve been pretty casual about snakes over the years.  Will it alter my hunting?  Probably not.  Will it increase my situational awareness about the heat and snakey areas? Absolutely.  I had a “snake bite kit” in my medical bag.  It had steroids, antibiotics, and Benadryl in it.  I never opened it.  When push came to shove, I loaded the dog up and drove like the devil was on my tail.  In fact, that was probably the most dangerous part of the event.  I learned, or re-learned, that “slow is smooth, and smooth is fast”.  So, be intentional, don’t delay, and get the dog to the vet.  The odds are well over 90% everything will be fine.  Good hunting! 

 

My latest book, “Endless October 3- The Finish,” is now out on Amazon in paperback and Kindle formats.  Please take a look.  It will make a great Christmas gift for the bird hunter in your life.  

 

                                    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Western Stories

 Old People Stories

 

Vern grew up on a small farm in Nebraska, one of seven children. He is the only surviving child. He told me about each one of his siblings, how one married and had all girls, and one had all boys, with amazement in his voice.  He told me about life on the farm. He told me about the Oregon Trail, how it cut through their farm, and how you can even see the ruts left in the dirt.   Once he and his sister had to go out and double feed the cows when a particularly bad blizzard was settling in.  He was about 10 and his sister was 12.  The cows were about 5 miles away. After they rolled the hay off the back of the old truck, they headed back to the house and realized the road was drifted over and they couldn’t see it.  In addition, they couldn’t see through the windshield with the snow and ice sticking to it. So, Vern got out on the running board, while his sister drove, and he gave her directions.  They ended up driving across the pasture, into the teeth of the storm, to a cross fence, then driving the fence line a mile until they hit a road that was protected in the river bottom.  Vern got down and pulled the staples from the barbed wire post so they could drive through the fence and on to the road and make their way home.  He said his feet were frostbitten so bad, the bottom layer of skin came off a week later. He said it hurt pretty bad, and he lost all the skin off the bottom of his feet.

 

One day, Vern rode their mule, Bob, to the County Fair.  He asked to enter the race, and was told, “Sure, we have room, kid.”  So, Vern rode Bob to the track.  It was a money race, and money was hard to come by back then.  He got some looks riding Bob, the mule.  He and Bob were in the gaggle of Quarter Horses when they hit the start line.  The Pace Horse veered off the course and the horses took off.  Vern was riding bareback with no bridle, and when the horses took off, Bob took off too and Vern went off the back and hit the ground.  He got up, dusted himself off and watched as riderless-Bob won the race by three lengths. The people in the stands were cheering and laughing in equal parts.  They’d never seen a mule run like that.  Vern was hoping he’d made some money, but they said no.  Only First Place got money, and they had a rule about riderless mules, or horses for that matter.

 

In Wisconsin, one beautiful Fall day, we made it back to the old church that was now a Bed and Breakfast.  I noticed across the road was an old log cabin.  It was squat and low with thick logs, no windows, and a large plank door with a locked chain holding it closed. There were old apple trees scattered about and grown-up pastures and either side of a nice creek.  I asked the proprietor about it at dinner.  He said, “There’s a story about that old place.  It hasn’t been lived in for over 80 years.  We don’t own that place, but wish we did.  The family won’t sell it, but they won’t live there, either. The last time anyone lived there was back in the 1920’s.”   The old man that lived there was the town hermit.  His wife died, and, after that, he only showed his face to take apples to town to sell, or maybe a cow or two, and, then to buy whatever he needed to live for the next month or two.  One winter, it was especially cold.  In Wisconsin, not far from the Lake, that’s saying something.  A blizzard blew in and stayed longer than most. Snow totals were epic, so much so that people were forced to stay inside, and horseback rides or even sleigh rides to town were dangerous.  This wasn’t unusual and those Wisconsin people took it in stride.  This time, however, just getting to the dairy barns to feed and milk the cows was risking frostbite.  Eventually, the storm slackened, and the temperature climbed slowly during the day to the balmy mid-teens.  The townsfolk began to peek out the doors, dig themselves out, and make their way to the store, or bar, and the farmers began to cut their way along trails to get to town.  After a few weeks, someone noticed the old man hadn’t made an appearance.  Once again, not that unusual. Finally, the mailman was able to get down the old, dirt road and make his rounds.  He had mail for the church. He stopped by the old hermit’s cabin, across the road, and banged on the door.  Inside, he found the old man frozen stiff, in the bed, with the fireplace bare and not a stick of firewood left.  The ground was so frozen, they couldn’t bury him on his land until Spring. I forgot to ask what they did with the body until then.

 

Montana was an open-range state back when Gerald’s grandfather homesteaded his 40 acres.  Granddad and his wife built a house and barn and had they had a few cows and were making it all work.  They had a nice little creek that ran by the house, and they had a big garden.  The cows and deer and coons, and everything else that lived around there, loved that garden.  So, he and his wife fenced it off, along with a portion of the creek.  After all, it was his land. One fine, Montana summer day, Granddad was tending garden when four cowboys from the nearest cattle ranch rode up on him.  They informed him the fence needed to come down, because their cows couldn’t access the water.  My impression, given by the grandson of the Granddad, was one of typical Montana farmer bullheadedness with a dash of grit thrown in.  Words were spoken, replies were given.  Before long, Granddad was lassoed and dragged out of the garden, the fence was torn down, and the garden was trampled.  Granddad survived the beating, but the garden didn’t, and that was food they needed to survive.  They managed to get to town, 10 miles away, to report it to the Sheriff, but it made no difference.  The cowboys were named, but amazingly, they never left the ranch that day according to the foreman.  It was a hard winter that year, but Gerald and his family were living proof they not only made it but thrived. 

 

I was quail hunting with a rancher, on his land, in New Mexico.  The ranch was in the Llano Estacado, a vast, waterless grassland in western Texas and eastern New Mexico.  It was flat as a board, and before it was settled in the late 1890’s, riders would get turned around in the trackless plain and die of thirst.  Two events finally allowed the area to be settled.  One, the Comanches were finally settled in the 1880’s, largely due to the Army being equipped with repeating rifles and pistols.  Secondly, the Chicago Aeromotor windmill became widely available, allowing access to the water locked below the caleche (rock) layer.  Now, cows had water and the best grass in the world.  The rancher’s family arrived about then and homesteaded the land and were very successful. We talked about cattle and branding and all the interesting stuff I had questions about.  He told me about how his grandfather and father would, every year, join with other ranchers and have a real cattle drive to the rail head in Lubbock. I asked about fences.  He said riders went ahead and the fences came down.  He said his father was ecstatic when the railroad came to town.

 

40 miles west of the ranch is the Mescalero Ridge, a long escarpment that runs north-south. It bounds the Llano Estacado on the westside.  The drop-offs are severe, and the Comanche would use the ridge to escape from the Army pursuers, using trails down and up only they knew.  In the 1920’s, a young couple stood on the ridge and looked over miles of sand dunes in the direction of Roswell.  They had a brand-new car and figured they could drive across the dunes to Roswell and be there by lunchtime.  They were found weeks later, nearly mummified in the hot, dry air.

 

Other stories about log flumes in the  Wyoming Big Horn Mountains, one-room-school-houses in the Dakotas, hand-dug irrigation canals in Idaho, Indian petroglyphs in the Texas panhandle, Pony Express stations in New Mexico, and vast ranches stretching from Arizona deep into Mexico are only a few of the tales related to me by the interesting people I meet while chasing my Brits across the country.  I look forward, every year, to meeting them and hearing more stories about the hardy and tough individuals that settled the West.

Feeding Raw 2 Feed dogs what they naturally eat!

Feeding Raw No more baked dog food!

The Cowboy

I was in New Mexico and the hunting was good. On the last day of a week-long Scaled and Gamble’s Quail hunt, I was due to take the drive to Arizona to see another friend and chase some Mearns Quail. That morning, the weather took a turn, and the weather-guessers started getting all riled up about “a major storm” moving in. I figured I could at least get a few hours in on some spots and then hit the road. I called my buddy and he said, “I can’t go today, Randy. A friend called and has 30 or so cows he hasn’t messed with all year that need branding before the State finds out they are not. I need to go help him. I don’t think they’ve seen a human in months. This should be good. Why don’t you come by?” And, just like that, this middle Georgia redneck became a cowboy.

I bundled the dogs in the back of the truck and drove to the ranch house. I only knew one guy there. I was the guy with hunting boots and no cowboy hat. It was colder than a well-digger’s back pocket and the wind kept increasing. The storm was supposed to arrive in earnest around noon. Even with all that, I was surprised at the number of people there, especially the women and children. The cowboys brought their wives and children- even some four, five, and six year olds. The little girls had dresses, hats, and cowboy boots and the boys were all carbon copies of their dads- even down to the belt buckles and folding knives. I wasn’t too sure they weren’t chewing something, too. Everyone was bundled up pretty good.

Horses were saddled to push the cows into the chutes, and lariats were unrolled to rope the calves and get them on the ground to vaccinate and brand them- and castrate the males. The women and girls were assigned that task, while the men and boys worked on moving the enclosed adults in to the chutes headed to vaccinations and branding. It was highly organized chaos. All this took place inside a maze of six foot high steel fencing with gates and separate corrals. Everyone,

it seemed, knew what to do- except me. One grizzled veteran, the owner, ambled over to me and handed me a plastic pole. He said it would be helpful if I could stand along the chute, on a ledge, and when told to, tap whatever cow they told me to on the rear end with that short pole to keep them moving. “Be careful with the end of that. It’s got a good punch to it.”

The propane flame started up (I learned later the usual wood fire was deemed impractical in the 30 to 40 mph winds), and the branding irons were laid out to heat up. The horses and riders moved slowly into the large catch pen and began separating the calves and moving the adults in to the chutes. The noise of the cows and calves bawling was constant and loud, until it was just tuned out. I watched one male calf get roped and led in to a separate small corral while a man walked the rope down and picked him up and laid him on his side. Then the cowboy stretched the calf out while lying alongside him and the woman branded him and vaccinated him. Another woman removed what needed removing and sprayed the incisions with antiseptic. The entire operation lasted a few minutes, and the calf was let up and led over to a larger pen and released. I noticed one little cowgirl watch intently as mom performed the procedure, then she started crying and ran away. Mom immediately went to her and picked her up and gave her a hug and set her down with her older sister. Sis took the little one’s hand as they joined mom again. It was ok after that. From top to bottom, the little girl was cowboy hat, thick coat, dress out the bottom, and cowboy boots. She had heart-breaker written all over her. The boys were a little more stoic with hats as big as them and hands in jeans pockets as they followed dad.

Back on the chute, I was dutifully ready with my stick as the line of cows came though the narrow chute one-by-one on the way to the squeeze chute. There they were held while a cowboy applied the brand to their right rear hip. Once that was done, the cow was released into a bigger corral and the next cow was brought up. These cattle had horns wider than the chutes, and it never seemed to be an issue that they would get caught up on gates or each other. But I was careful to pay attention to what was happening around me. Once, a cow stood on her hind legs for a minute before she dropped back into the chute. I noticed that action elicited a few shouts from the cowboys. I was careful to stay out of the way, off the ground, and ready with my little stick. I was happy to be ignored during the seeming confusion and noise, as I took it all in.

Once. a thousand-pound cow wandered in to the calf area with the women and kids. Where she came from, I have no idea, but two cowboys jumped up, opened a gate, and herded her back in to the chutes. Moms and kids never stopped working.

You lookin' at me?

The temperature dropped as the day wore on. The calf operation finished and the women and girls disappeared. Clouds thickened and it was obvious snow was coming. The last of the cows were in the chute. I’d been told to tap a few of the cows on their rear a few times to keep them moving. Each time it did the trick. The end was in sight. “Hey, Randy, do you want to brand a cow?” a cowboy yelled over the wind. “Heck yeah!” I yelled as I jumped off my station. I watched a few times up close, then the grizzled guy handed me a poker with the end red-hot. “Push that on the cow and hold it to the count of three. He’s gonna jump some, so don’t let it come off him or move around. Put it right there,” he pointed at a spot on the cow. I did what I was told and noticed two things immediately. One, that cow was huge. Big, Muscled. Two, she didn’t like it. I pulled the branding iron off her side and was handed another. It was a two part brand and had to be put in the proper spot. I applied the second one with confidence as the cow protested a bit. As soon as I pulled the second one off, the squeeze chute opened and the cow came out and, thankfully, kept going. “Great job, cowboy, let’s go get some food!” the grizzled cowboy said. Rapidly, the set up was broken down and put away, and we all drove to the ranch house.

Everyone was inside the warmth of the house. A fire was going strong, the kids were playing, the kitchen was crowded with cooks and pots and pans were moved around. Beer appeared from somewhere and the conversation was constant. The grizzled old cowboy turned out to be the owner of the ranch, from one of the original ranch families on the Llano Estacado in New Mexico. There were sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters present with neighbors and friends sprinkled throughout the group. I was welcomed completely and regaled with tales and stories about ranch life. The stories were all amazing, and I wondered if I wasn’t being played with a bit.

The old man stood up and the house got quiet. He thanked God for the successful branding and keeping everyone safe, and asked for blessings for everyone there, and thank You for the food. We all said “Amen”. When the food came, it was steaks, beans, salad, and mountain oysters. The beer was cold and the house was almost as warm as the fellowship. I realized what a special treat I’d experienced that day.

After dinner, I had to get on the road. The storm was arriving and I had to drive right into the teeth of it before the roads became impassable. Regretfully, I made my goodbyes with the men and women.  One young man, maybe six years old, came over, hat low on his eyes. He stuck out his hand, raised his head and looked me in the eye, stuck his hand out, and said, as serious as a judge, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Randy. I hope you come back.” I squeezed his hand a little and said, “I hope so too, son. Thank you.” He nodded that cowboy hat one time and walked away. I glanced up at dad and saw the pride he had in his boy, the future of his ranch.

I got into my truck as a real New Mexico blizzard arrived. The North wind was howling as I pulled onto the two-lane headed to Arizona. Just to be clear, I never did then, nor do I now, consider myself a cowboy.  But, I sure saw some real-life cowboys, cowgirls, and ranchers in action. I was warm inside and thankful for what I just experienced. It was a piece of real America.

Sunday Quiet

Sunday Quiet

 

I sat in the choir room, in the back corner, and waited for the next church service.  I enjoyed my quiet time- the key words are “my” and “quiet”, and I enjoyed singing in the choir.  Every Sunday I was home I would show up at 8 a.m. and join the choir for all three services. I attended the middle service after the choir sang at the beginning.  It was a normal, comfortable routine.  When not singing or attending the service, I found a nice, quiet corner in the back of the choir room to read.  

 

One day, an old man came in the room and walked over and sat down a few chairs away.  I can’t remember how it started, but my quiet time between the 8 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. services changed.  Vern, that was his name, was 88 years old.  His wife died the year before, and it was hard on him.  He dressed in a black suit, white shirt and tie.  Week after week, on Sunday mornings, he would find me out and come sit next to me.  We would talk about whatever came to his mind.  He was a veteran of the Navy.  He was in a minesweeper.  “The only wooden ships left in the Navy,” he would say.  He would tell me about the big storms they went through, how the ship almost rolled over, the different troubles they had, and how he was commended for his service by the Commanding Officer. He brought in the actual Commendation, yellowed and typed on an actual typewriter, and proudly read it to me. 

 

Vern grew up on a small farm in Nebraska, one of seven children. He was the only surviving child. He told me about each one of his siblings, how one married and had all girls, and one had all boys, with amazement in his voice.  He told me about life on the farm. He told me about the Oregon Trail, how it cut through their farm, and how you can even see the ruts left in the dirt.   Once he and his sister had to go out and double feed the cows when a particularly bad blizzard was settling in.  He was about 10 and his sister was 12.  After they rolled the hay off the back of the old truck, they headed back the five miles to the house and realized the road was drifted over and they couldn’t see it.  In addition, they couldn’t see through the windshield with the snow and ice sticking to it. So, Vern got out on the running board, while his sister drove, and he gave her directions.  They ended up driving across the pasture, into the teeth of the storm, to a cross fence, then driving the fence line a mile until they hit a road that was protected in the river bottom.  Vern got down and pulled the staples from the barbed wire post so they could drive through the fence and on to the road and make their way home.  He said his feet were frostbitten so bad, the bottom layer of skin came off a week later. He said it hurt pretty bad. 

 

His stories and adventures were entertaining.  Some were funny, some bittersweet, but I never doubted they were true.  One story about a mule had me shaking my head and laughing at the same time.  

 

“The County Fair was a big event every year,” he told me.  They had the usual events with cows, sheep, and pigs.  Kids would show their animals for ribbons.  Moms would bake pies and Dads would go to the turkey shoot.  One event that intrigued Vern was the Quarter Horse race.  The organizers would get eight or ten horses lined up and would lead them out with a Pace Horse around a track.  When the Pace Horse got to the start line, it would pull off the course and the Quarter Horses would take off, finishing in front of the stands.  There was a cash prize for each race with six races in a day. 

 

One day, Vern rode their mule, Bob, to the Fair.  He asked to enter the race, and was told, “Sure, we have room, kid.”  So, Vern rode Bob to the track.  He got some looks riding Bob, the mule.  He and Bob were in the gaggle of Quarter Horses when they hit the start line.  The Pace Horse veered off the course and the horses took off.  Vern was riding bareback with no bridle, and when the horses took off, Bob took off too and Vern went off the back.  He got up, dusted himself off and watched as riderless-Bob won the race by three lengths. The people in the stands were cheering and laughing in equal parts.  They’d never seen a mule run like that.  Vern was hoping he’d made some money, but they said no.  Only First Place got money, and they had a rule about riderless mules, or horses for that matter. 

 

He caught Bob, and this time he borrowed a rope and looped it around Bob’s neck.  “I wasn’t going to let that jerk drop me like that again!” he said. The next race, he noticed the crowd doubled in size and he heard the words “mule” and “Bob” and “fast”.  He was a veteran racer now, and he was ready when the herd took off.  He thinks Bob took offense to his whooping and kicking, because for the rest of the races he never finished higher than third and only first place got the money.  Vern laughed when he remembered his Dad saying, “a lot of money was won and lost on that mule that day!” 

 

Vern and I still see each other every Sunday.  Like old friends, I’ve heard his stories many times.  I don’t need to do much more than nod and pay attention and sometimes ask the appropriate question at the appropriate time.  When he tells me about how he gives every grandchild a new $2 bill every Christmas and they think it’s fake money, I laugh.  I will help him with his dealings with the Veteran’s Administration and check to make sure he’s doing what he needs to get his disability payments.  

 

It occurred to me I was looking forward to listening to Vern on Sundays.  Then, it occurred to me Vern was a good friend.  He is an old man that wanted someone to talk to, and I’m the one that got blessed. 

Learn to Love the Hunt- the Zen of Bird Hunting

 Love the Hunt

If you can learn to love the hunt, you'll hunt longer, happier, with more contentment, and with more energy than if you only love the covey rise.

I can remember many days of long walks, driving to different spots, talking with farmers and ranchers in small town cafes, and getting ‘hot tips’ from those I met along the way.  Most of the hot tips turned out to be over-grazed pastures long devoid of any gamebird.  And, upon reflection, I was never really upset at that.  Most times, after the realization I’d been led astray, the situation would elicit a rueful chuckle and a grudging acknowledgement that it’s only natural to protect a good hunting area.  I thought most of those times, the hot spot in question probably was, at one time, a great place to turn out a dog.

 

Montana, the Dakotas, the Sandhills, and the Grasslands saw many days of long casts with good dogs hunting hard.  Occasionally, we would stumble across birds of one variety or another, but usually it would be tired dogs and legs when we reached the truck again.  As I look back, I remember thinking, “I didn’t find any birds this cast (or even this day!), but I did find where they weren’t.”   Slowly, I was learning what wasn’t good habitat.  The days of walking grazed-over pastures became fewer and fewer- unless we crested a hill to the view of a plum-choked coulee crowded with Sharptail Grouse, or a fence protecting a grassy section of land bordering a cut corn field with Prairie Chickens flying back into the grass from the corn.  In the Dakotas, a brushy ditch bordering a cut wheat field may meander out-of-sight from the road, full of Pheasant and discoverable only by a trudge through the wheat.  

 

Sometimes the habitat was obviously good.  The rain came in quantity and at the right time, and the grass was tall.  Seeds that lay dormant for years finally sprouted in the desert Southwest, and the sand was covered with brown grass producing the next crop of seeds for the next year’s rainfall.  Also, nutritious food for the local quail. But those days and years were rare as hen’s teeth.  I tried to enjoy them as much as possible. 

 

I began to realize that what I most fondly remembered overall was the great surprise of cresting a hill after an hour of slogging through hills and cactus and watering my dogs every twenty minutes, to a scene of diked alfalfa fields on a creek I didn’t know were there. Then, two hours of shooting Sharptail Grouse and Hungarian Partridge while the dogs hit the creek when they got hot.   

 

Looking back, I smiled at the small victory of finding a place not well known by other travelling bird hunters.  The only way I found it was by putting a dog or two on the ground heading into the wind.  I realized my best memories were of times when I wanted to turn around and head back, but suddenly the beeper, or GPS pager alerted me to a dog on point.  

 

Perhaps only a third of the long slogs bore the fruit of a new hunting area, but those new areas elicited an excitement and protectiveness that never went away.  It took a lot of shoe leather to find them, and once marked on the GPS, or the BLM map, or Gazetteer, they were always cherished locations.  

 

While the thrill of a gamebird flush and harvest is exciting, I grew to realize that the search, or hunt, itself is what I remembered. I now understand my motivation behind endless walks with bird dogs in hopes of finding a new area.  I know the ability to go farther, longer, and more often is spurred by the satisfaction of putting the dog noses in the gamebird scent cone.  I like the whooshing sound of the quail covey as much as the next hunter.  Or the cackling and cursing of the seriously upset rooster Pheasant rising out of the shrub. Or the laughing and mocking “nuh-huh-huh” of the Sharptail Grouse rising from the grass alongside the alfalfa dikes. They all bring smiles.  

 

The motivation is truly in the hunt itself.  The memories of long walks with my many different dogs over the years in all kinds of weather and terrain is the motivation for the present season.