But the whole month was kind of that way. In fact, so much went on that I believe I’ll hyperlink an informal table of contents in this column (a paragraph or two from now), so you can click away and skip stuff that sounds dull, otherwise I may start losing people in the farming stuff. Even though, it was far from dull, I assure you.

Lest you think we just frolick about between adventures, gamboling through green pastures, as it were (not that we haven’t); compressed between the episodes related below are concerted efforts to stay abreast of bookings (tourism’s been a little slow, I don’t care what the bureaus say. Probably a blessing in disguise.), shipping completed bison skulls and robes, and a couple of interesting new and/or old wrinkles. One, we’re developing a website to sell bison meat online. It’ll be available by the half or whole, at $4.95/lb, as well as a "sampler pack" of around 30 pounds, containing basically one of every cut. So far that project has consisted mainly of photography, with a couple of sneak previews here. And for that matter, the site’s not ready for prime time quite yet, so consider this just a teaser.

The other thing is we remain involved in bison politics. There’s some pivotal stuff going on right now, with a rare opportunity to tweak bison management in the Greater Yellowstone Area. We’re just enormously encouraged that Governor Schweitzer is standing up for common-sense solutions. At the moment, negotiations are in, shall we say, sensitive stages so it’d be premature to spill any beans just yet, but it can’t hurt to e-mail the Governor and urge him to stand tall for win-win bison solutions.

But then aside from that, we took some horseback rides in the Bridgers, for one to find the plane crash site from last December that took three lives (and miraculously one was spared), including my neighbor Cliff. And we spent some time farming what used to be Cliff’s. Now you’d think farming to be just stultifying dull, but mercy, this should have been televised as reality TV. I’m told it would just blow away the drivel they have on these days. And then most recently we took a short packtrip in the Madison Range, which follows immediately here and so hardly requires a link, but it’s just so easy to do that it’s stunning that Microsoft lets it happen!

So yes, this past Sunday through Tuesday my wife and I, as well as another couple (college friends departed to Seattle for a time but returned to their Montana homeland) embarked on a packtrip to my fabulous Spruce Bottom hunting camp. Now this campsite, which is curiously unmarked on maps other than my own, is not only a bally good hunting camp, but I’ve camped there now in every season but deep winter and find summer a particular delight. The wildflowers and forage were just incredible, the best I’ve seen in a long time. We not only took the wall tent, but a cooler with ice and beverages, bison steaks, corn and potatoes and juice and a veritable cornucopia of wilderness luxuries. If we’d had the sense to just lay about camp, we’d have come home restored and rejuvenated (well, maybe not, as it turned out), but no. There’s a lake reputed to be full of large, unsophisticated trout what appears to be only a bit over two miles and 2400’ vertical up a canyon. And there’s even a trail, and a neighbor shot a mountain goat up there years ago and says it’s horse-compatible.

Now in spite of what some may claim, I try to make these outings enjoyable, even the (partially) exploratory ones. And I’ve learned the collective stress stays at reduced levels if you explore new terrain on foot the first time, as opposed to horseback. And as it turned out, whoever is next motivated to get horses up that trail is in for some serious axe and saw time. Because as we were reminded by a ranger (a very nice fellow I’ve encountered elsewhere in the backcountry) we were in a wilderness area, and chainsaws are prohibited.

I checked the National Weather Service forecast right before we left, and learned there was a cold front forecast for Monday, but it was centered more in north central and central MT, and not supposed to reach very far into the southwest zones. Besides, this was when we had time available to go, and so we went. Monday dawned to fog banks drifting about, which was actually kind of cool (for a while) on multiple levels. So we set out and after minimal floundering about through the deadfall picked up a little-used but still mostly obvious trail. As often occurs, though, the mapmakers (who think they’re funny) underestimated the distance and vertical. The GPS people seem to be in on this joke, too, and in fact it seemed the weather service must be also and since we wound up with an earthquake that day also it’s enough to make you wonder!

But we soldiered on, took refuge for a time under a specifically sought out dense yet short tree ideal for staying dry under while not getting hit by lightning, and after what seemed like way too long arrived at the lower lake. But the upper lake is the one reportedly just polluted with giant trout, and the map showed it was only over this final little insult of a ridge, which I soon stood atop, where I found myself looking out over a sea of fog.

Now this was an annoyance. I wasn’t going to walk very far down hill in that direction, but the suspect map showed the lake as being right here someplace and so I was startled but not completely surprised when about fifty yards into the fog I all but fell in! My companions arrived moments later, and were likewise taken aback by the lake’s surprise appearance. But there it was, stretching off into the fog for who knew how far, so fishing rods were rapidly strung and cast. As if by divine intervention the fog parted, the basin was revealed, and the fish did not bite. So I rapidly deemed photography the more potentially gratifying pursuit, but by the time I got back over to my pack the tendrils of fog had once again crept in. So I sat down and actually fell asleep for a few minutes, and awoke to a vastly changed vibe. First it fogged in solid, and the wind came up, and the thunder started booming, and then it all but turned to night, in the middle of the afternoon. I believe ominous is the word.

So we beat feet out of there, back down to the lower lake where my friend Dave insisted we must wet a line, too, so we could say we had fished both lakes. And, I promptly caught a fish! This was almost inconvenient at that point, as it meant I had to get my hands wet, but dampness was imminent anyway. After brief deliberation we kept him. Killed him and ate him. Grilled with bison steaks, he provided sustenance that we’d have paid a pretty penny for about halfway down the canyon, but trailside cafés are scarce indeed in those parts and so we staggered on through the downpour in a calorie-deficient stupor until emerging wet and not a little frazzled into fabulous Spruce Bottom, where awaited succor in the form of sunshine, a campfire, dry clothes, and a fabulous meal of grilled bison filets, corn on the cob, fried potatoes, hot and cold beverages, and such a comfortable wilderness camp that we all slept right through the earthquake!

But then we made up for it the next day on our way out, with just a truly awful packhorse wreck. I was riding Strider, with Lexi and Bo packed. Outside camp, you have to climb a noticeable hill, although there’s a good trail and it’s not just too far up the steepness scale. Not surprisingly, their packs needed adjustment before we got too far. I tied Strider to a tree, but in haste or plain stupidity didn’t tie the normal knot, but just a simple knot figuring bark friction would hold it. I’d straightened Lexi’s packs, and was at the back tightening Bo’s cinch, and in fact had just untied the knot, when Strider must have rubbed on the tree, freed himself, and took off like a rocket with Lexi and Bo pigtailed on behind.

That was a bad moment. Watching them take off like that with the sure knowledge that one or both packhorse’s loads were certain to slip sooner rather than later was a guarantee of imminent mayhem. My friends had bailed off by then, and I hopped on Sonny and took off in pursuit. About a quarter mile later we came on Lexi, down off the side of the trail, hanging by her lead rope from Strider, with the rope around a tree so the pigtail didn’t break. Bo (whose packs miraculously never slipped) was braced and holding up her back end via his lead rope pigtailed to the back of her saddle. Sonny wanted no part of that scene, so I bailed off and cut Strider’s pigtail. One of Lexi’s foremost virtues is that she is calm in situations where she could get hurt, although none had approached this one to date and hopefully never will again. Still, when the pressure on her lead rope was gone, she swung downhill and struggled a bit, dragging Bo off the trail with her. It’s just incredibly fortunate that all the deadfall they hit was old and rotten, and easily broke apart. I got down there and cut the other pigtail, freeing Bo who to the best of my recollection never went completely down. But then Lexi continued to slide down the mountainside through scattered deadfall in what was a truly appalling and seemingly endless horror, although she probably only slid maybe fifty yards total, before she stuck in a pile of logs, with her packs just chaos. Against better judgement, I’d diamond hitched a top load on her, and it was a maze of knots that called for cutting, not untying. My buddy Dave had arrived and been frantically called down for assistance, we got the final attachment, her breast collar loose, and she stood up with virtually not a mark on her (one minor abrasion)! I’m calling it a miracle.

She climbed back up to the trail and a couple of hours later we had the gear hauled back up there also, everyone put back together (the items in the top pack got tied on Strider instead) and we got out of there not much before dark; older, wiser, tired, hungry, and massively thankful we’d emerged unscathed from a situation that easily could have gone very badly.

So the lesson here is unless you’re certain your lead horse will stand if you drop his lead rope (most of ours will), always tie him with a secure knot.

But heck, we haven’t even gotten to the farming yet! And you’d think plowing and discing and haying and such would be pretty dull stuff, but I found it just about as grueling as this other little lark I’ve just related.

If you’ve been following these columns you know that we find ourselves farming again. One significant obstacle that loomed was plowing my summer fallow field, 68 acres that needs to be kept free of weeds so next year it can grow us record yields of not only wheat but nutritionally valuable, high in Omega 3 essential fatty acid crops like camelina and golden flax. The catch with this situation is that I am conspicuously short on a decently sized tractor and cultivator. If I pulled into that field with my utility tractor and ten-foot cultivator, they’d have to lock me up when I got done. That’d just put me over the edge, and I don’t have patience for that anymore (probably never did!). So I’d been casting about for a capable tractor and plow that I might rent and/or borrow, and had a couple of options lined up, with availability at the whims of weather and whatever other myriad variables come to bear on these matters.

I’d given the field a shot of Roundup herbicide this spring, which contained it for a while, and then spot-sprayed a few places that greened up again (mostly horsetail, an irony I didn’t deal with on the Hi-Line). But now cultivation was called for, and as the window of opportunity grew near haying season was in full swing, and tractor availability grew tight. But still, the odd thundershower or what have you puts haying on hold for at least a day or so, providing opportunities I was anxious to seize. My son Cody is haying again this summer for the hardest working 81 year old guy in Montana if not anywhere. Instead of doddering about the senior center, Leonard just picked up the MSU haying contract, in addition to his already substantial other commitments, and so his three tractors and fortune in other equipment is a going concern, in a quite literal sense. But one afternoon when I was filling in for Cody (I don’t mind, once in a while. Leonard is a very interesting guy.) we had a little thunderstorm that shut down haying for the immediate future. Leonard was well aware of my plowing dilemma, and agreed that perhaps the next 36 hours were discing weather. Not only that, he offered his best tractor, a newish International, and a heavy-duty disc that would chop up and nicely mix soil and plant matter. Now while the idea of eighty or ninety grand for a tractor gives me consternation, you have to admit they’re a sweet ride. In fact, this was far and away the nicest tractor ever to grace the Rockpile Ranch, and quite likely will remain so (unless we really start selling a lot of buffalo and direct-marketed wholesome grains!). So it was looking like things couldn’t have hardly worked out better, and the plan was to disc until 12:30 PM or so, and hit ‘er again at 5:00 AM, and wrap up this little project in short order.

Another thing that’s vastly different about farming in what passes for suburbia here, versus the middle of nowhere, is that not only is there little privacy (I may put a porta-pottie over there!), but if a fella was to run late at night you could get on a lot of people’s nerves. So as darkness fell I experimented with shifting up and throttling back. I certainly wasn’t short of power, and the reduced engine noise might have scored points or at least reduced the ire of neighbors. Later, several told me what was more striking was the continuous sound of the disc hitting rocks. It was like I was playing some really loud and dissonant chimes out there! Still, when you live in what is still at least a nominally agricultural area, you might have to put up with that kind of thing maybe one night a year. At least I’m not putting in any hog confinement facilities...

As it turned out, though, the powers that be had conspired against my discing into the night. As darkness fell thunderheads built, and shortly after dark a downpour ensued. Simultaneously, I’d overshot a tricky little corner (I was preoccupied with navigating through an old manure pile, where you could get stuck if inattentive). If you’ve ever operated machinery after dark, while these newer implements have lots of lights, they still mainly illuminate the area right around you, and it’s easier to get lost than you’d think. So I bagged it and drove the quarter mile home.

The 5:00 AM re-start only went according to plan for the first fifteen seconds or so. Upon walking out of the house, I discovered one rear gang of discs hanging asunder. The central shaft that supports them had broken. A brief background of my disc experience is necessary for you to understand the depth of my chagrin at this matter. My father was enamored of discing. It does have its place, mainly as a mistake eraser, but in windier, drier climes it leaves the landscape susceptible to wind erosion. But that’s the least of my gripes with discing! Without fail, every time we used ours, we had to work on it, and in my experience there is no surer way to bloody knuckles and profane aggravation than dis- and re-assembly of a disc. With no alternative I tore into it, though, and in not all that long had the gang apart, contemplating the broken shaft. Now my neighbor is a crackerjack mechanic, specializing in machinery, trucks, etc.; the older the better, dba Classical Gas Repair. I can stick pieces of metal together, but this was a welding job that called for expertise, and Jim not only straightened that abused shaft to perfection but welded it to where the repair was nearly indistinguishable from the adjacent steel.

While I can’t explain the metallurgy involved, we both knew that a welded part is sometimes not as strong as the original piece, although in this case it was not made of tempered steel but appeared to be plain old iron and we had no choice but to be optimistic that it would hold. By then Cody was up, and although not particularly overjoyed either to start his day with disc repair had been conscripted to help (Leonard is similar to my Dad in disc devotion, with identical repair requirements, and Cody’d already experienced a few episodes). To our dismay, we discovered we were missing a disc and two spacers, presumably lost somewhere in the field from the night before! Curses!!

Miraculously, we found them with little effort. It turned out the shaft had broken only 50 yards before I stopped the previous evening! So with all the parts in hand we re-assembled the thing with minimal bloodshed and set forth to complete the job under even more stringent time constraints. Another considerable vexation had appeared by this point also, a hole in one of the big rear tractor tires. It never fails, if you borrow something it’ll break or you’ll screw it up somehow, and a punctured tractor tire is a considerable problem. They’re filled with liquid, sodium chloride, for weight and subsequent traction. They’re just godawful heavy, and you’re usually looking at having a tire repair place out for an in-field repair, which gets spendy. This was a slow leak, though, just a slight but continuous bubbling out of caustic chloride, which mirrored my deteriorating mood.

Still, it was good to be tilling the soil once again, at least until about three rounds later when the shaft broke, along with my window of opportunity to complete the task in the available time. The nearest new shaft was in Illinois, couldn’t be next-day’d, and so it was with resignation and disgust that we gave it up and headed for the tire shop. But then this emotional roller-coaster spun once again, when it turned out the leak was from a previously botched repair. I was just relieved that I hadn’t punctured it myself and was happy to pay the $85, but when Leonard got wind of it he pitched a fit with the tire shop (where he is a regular and substantial customer) and they repaired it gratis. Not only that, Leonard insisted I complete my chore with his chisel plow. He’s a heck of a guy…

While the chisel plow was considerably better than nothing, the ground has largely baked hard on that field (lack of organic matter, among other things) and so it didn’t penetrate all that well, resulting in a spotty kill, and so I had to spray the damn thing again anyway!

Good gosh, I dunno, man… I’d think a savvy reality TV producer could have gotten at least a few episodes out of that little ordeal!

Simultaneously, my neighbor Jim had started in on our our haying. As mentioned, he’s an aficionado of antique equipment, and among many other things has a line of haying implements from the 40’s and 50’s. By next year, I’ll have a bigger tractor and baler and whatnot, but for this first year of Rockpile Ranching we’re kind of scrounging by, and while Jim’s stuff is admittedly only one step up from haying with horses or mules, we only had a bit over eight acres to do and it sufficed nicely. In fact, bales made by machinery from that era were made for picking up by hand, and only weigh about 45#, versus the 85-100# backbreakers from more modern implements. And yes, we picked ‘em by hand, with yeoman (woman?) service from my sweet wife. With eight acres, that’s do-able. Next year, we’ll have closer to fifty, and perhaps eighty the year after, so it’s clear we need to modernize up to say, at least the sixties or seventies, but for this year it worked. And, we got a decent hay yield, particularly off a first-year field of timothy that Cliff seeded spring ’04. It’s horse hay deluxe, and I believe by next year I’ll have it certified weed-seed-free and organic, something we’re gradually going to incorporate on perhaps the whole place.

So finally, that gets us down to a venture I took in the Bridgers earlier in the month. As mentioned, what we’re now farming was previously operated by a couple of generations of Lincolns. My neighbor Cliff died in a plane crash last December. Four guys, all pilots, up in a Cirrus 22, crashed on Sacagawea Peak in the Bridgers. They were up watching a motorized glider, operated by a friend of the pilot. The whole accident report is here, but briefly they stalled, and crashed into a ridge. For reasons I can’t easily articulate, I wanted to stand where Cliff died, and look down at the place here. I’d read the preliminary accident report, know several people involved with the rescue and recovery operation (one guy miraculously survived), and so knew about where they’d gone down. I took horses as high as was practical, and hiked from there, and with minor difficulty found the spot.

They came so close… If they’d been five feet higher, they’d have cleared that ridge and still be with us. What really struck me, is it can be such a fine line… Five feet in that case. What’s the saying… no man knows the day or the hour? The survivor; it was just clearly not his day to die. He came to, thrown clear of the wreckage, and started descending through knee-deep snow clad only in tennis shoes and a T-shirt, and presumably blood from head to toe. The glider pilot called in the accident report, and a helicopter was in the air shortly. They found the site right before dark, followed tracks leading away with a spotlight, and shortly saw the survivor waving from below (he had crawled under a tree, but God wasn’t ready for him to die just yet). There was nowhere to set down, but the pilot was able to hover with one skid on the ground. Doug Chapman clambered out, got the survivor aboard, and ten minutes later he was at the hospital.

The lesson I take from this, is nobody knows when it’s their time. I don’t presume to know what the afterlife is like, but I hope it’s devoid of packhorse wrecks. As much as anyone can, you want to enter it with your conscience clear, your heart true, and by grace your soul or mojo or whatever you want to call it saved. Beyond that, though, what is in our power, is to make our time here (however long it may be) count. That’s what you’re supposed to do. I believe it’s our charge; to use our talents for the greatest benefit.

Let’s hope we can all do that.