Last night of the Gathering, I was surprised by this poster in a window of the Pioneer Hotel. Click to enlarge if your dare.
Last night of the Gathering, I was surprised by this poster in a window of the Pioneer Hotel. Click to enlarge if your dare.
On our way home from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, Robbin and I replay a collage of meaningful moments, fragments of conversations, poetry and music as we cross the Great Basin. Avoiding I-80 and Donner, taking the longer, southern route over Tehachapi instead, it has become like Groundhog Day, both coming and going over the years as we cross the pastel sagebrush expanse of the high desert.
Since 1989, I’ve watched the Gathering evolve from strictly traditional recitations to more contemporary expression rooted in a hands-on, rural ethic of the livestock culture where a man’s word is still his bond, where neighbors trade labor and the land offers a living for those tough enough to endure the whims of the weather. With more hugs than handshakes, it has become a reunion where respect remains high, but we’ve lost a few of the best along the way.
With many new faces, an obvious effort to inject some youth into the offering, it was invigorating and inspirational. Included in a great session with poets Forest VonTuyl from Oregon, Jonathon Odermann from North Dakota and singer-songwriter Tracy Morrison from Idaho, I was assured that the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering will survive with renewed energy and originality. My kudos to the staff for locating so much young talent residing in the West.
I always look forward to visiting and reading with one of my favorites, Patricia Frolander, past-Poet Laureate of Wyoming, pictured above. Robbin and I will continue to replay the moments as we get down to the business of branding calves. It’s good to be home.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Elko, National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, photography, poetry
every valve
leaks a little
there is no
stopping the flow.
– Gary Snyder (“Fixing the System”)
I worried once
about wasting water,
steady drip
at the trough,
at the hose bib,
at the gate valve
green year-round
gathering tree frogs,
snakes and cottontails.
Raining crystal drops
rising with Greenheads
from the tailwater
of the irrigated pasture
on a Sabbath
with my father
instead of church:
he spoke into the clouds.
With the gravity
that holds us close
to this earth,
always a little
leaks by
to remind us.
The old granite stones, those are my people;
Hard heads and stiff wits but faithful, not fools, not chatterers;
And the place where they stand today they will stand also tomorrow.
– Robinson Jeffers (“The Old Stonemason”)
Some like headstones thrust into the earth,
or weather-carved phallic outposts
natives knew by name, those are my people,
my landmarks nodding now as I pass.
They have grown cold and taken shape
from the fires of molten violence—
cracked and fractured piles, wisdom
scattered in the grip of gravity at rest
to hum as homes for rodents and reptiles,
a tunneled settling of colonies to feed
a wilder world. Some pulse with life,
dress with thick green moss, after rain.
But those tattooed with colored lichen
first draw the eye to unravel art,
question what they seem to say—
all good listeners, patient to a fault.
I once dreamed I might have been
a mountain man in another life,
trapped cats and coyotes
instead of beaver—
learned to view the world
through untamed eyes
assessing sign as I became
the prize and placed my twigs
and scents accordingly.
I sifted dirt
to hide the jaws
while writing poetry:
bird-wing fluttering
from a fishing filament
still fascinates me.
Posted in Haiku 2020, Photographs, Poems 2020
Tagged coyote, photography, poetry, trapping, wild, world view
It did not rain a drop despite the forecasts, our neighbors on board to brand some calves, cattle gathered thirty minutes up the hill under blue skies with light, white clouds wanting to turn gray. The sun came out early and the corrals that Earl McKee had begun to renovate over a decade ago were dressed in layers of coats and jackets. However, more than once the sky turned dark with cold wind gusts that kept us hustling.
Always good help and a joy to have Corrine (Ainely) Manes in the branding pen as son Heston keeps himself entertained outside the corral.
Audrey Maze is headed to the “Art of the Cowgirl” to heel behind Shelly Pascoe and JPS Six Guns, Lot 12 for sale, a solid gelding owned by our neighbor Jody Fuller.
We look forward to Brent Huntington’s help and sense of humor in the corral, especially when he brings Sid to help work the ground.
Shane Doering has been great help this year in the branding pens of all our neighbors. Here, he’s working with Collette Taylor’s young roan horse.
A fantastic day, do I dare say fun, with pulled pork sandwiches prepared by Maggie Loverin waiting for us back down the hill. Thank you all!
Posted in Photographs
On the edge of fog, we’ve been gathering Greasy to brand Thursday, while the forecast for rain varies from from a few hundredths to a quarter-inch from a half-dozen Internet weather sites. Above the fog, we shed all the jackets it took to get there, a true inversion layer. Time to fish or cut bait.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, fog, Greasy Creek, photography, weather
nothing left but a river flowing on the borders of heaven
– Li Po (“On Yellow-Crane Tower, Farewell to
Meng Hao-jan Who’s Leaving for Yang-chou”)
A Chinese boat-float
like a leaf among starlit mists
would sell like hotcakes
for those with time and self-respect
nowadays—
an ascension yet from the page,
from discord and dissension,
and damn-near free.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
after the patches, gum
and incessant vaping,
the midnight bellyache
and rattly ambulance ride
to a chair in Emergency
visited by young, head-scratching
teams practicing medicine
by consensus
find nothing wrong
and send me home—
and the second ride
two days later
across the parking lot
from the Doctor’s office.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
after Sepsis
and the gut-wrenching antibiotics
and mind-bending pain
medications:
I build loops in my sleep
and shoot bighorn sheep
from my hospital bed.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
six months later
after the surgeon tells me
what I cannot eat
or drink—after we agree
to wait a little longer.