Just before entering Boise, Idaho, a ranch remains almost intact. On the east end is a housing development, but on the west end cows and horses graze and eat hay, and the bulls live in the field across the road. It's the last vestige of life as it was, a pleasant respite before entering the busyness of the city.
However, the ranch was chosen for a huge housing development with a shopping mall to sustain the development population. Then the economy turned ,and the cattle still have their home. But most important is the fact that the bulls were joined by a bull elk who has taken up residence with them Passersby usually see only his antlers as he lies down to chew his cud in back of the field.
Some people say there's something wrong with him because he doesn't live with the instincts of a wild animal. I say he's smart - so smart that he's become a media star in the Boise newspaper, with countless photographers, and on television.
At mating season he leaves to do his bit to ensure the continuation of the elk population, and then he returns to his life of ease.
His presence is the only bright spot that I've found in an economy in trouble. Without it, the elk and his friends would be gone. It seems that no matter how bad things get, if you think about it, there's always something to lighten the load.
18 December 2009
There's Gold In Them Thar Hills
Yes, gold fever has struck again in Idaho's Boise Basin. Beginning in 1863, more gold was taken from here than from Alaska during the gold rush there. But when it was over it was over, leaving behind a rich history and historic towns that thrive on tourism. Then the price of gold skyrocketed, and more than a few entrepreneurs are at it again.
Or are they more like fishermen? When fishing, if the fish refuse to bite you change the bait. If they still don't bite you change fishing hole sand hope for the best. That's what's happening here There's gold here; it's just a matter of finding an economical way to get it out. So they're digging, trying out their various machines, moving locations, and usually working at a fever pitch. But,.like fishing, it's the thrill of waiting for the big one that keeps you going. And even a few little ones will do - especially in today's economy.
If gold is ever found again in quantity, the world will know about it. Until then, we'll let the winter snows cover it all up, and we'll hope for a shiny spring.
Or are they more like fishermen? When fishing, if the fish refuse to bite you change the bait. If they still don't bite you change fishing hole sand hope for the best. That's what's happening here There's gold here; it's just a matter of finding an economical way to get it out. So they're digging, trying out their various machines, moving locations, and usually working at a fever pitch. But,.like fishing, it's the thrill of waiting for the big one that keeps you going. And even a few little ones will do - especially in today's economy.
If gold is ever found again in quantity, the world will know about it. Until then, we'll let the winter snows cover it all up, and we'll hope for a shiny spring.
Yes, gold fever has struck again in Idaho's Boise Basin. Beginning in 1863, more gold was taken from here than from Alaska during the gold rush there, leaving behind a rich history and towns that thrive on tourism. Then when it was over it was over - until the price of gold skyrocketed, bringing forth entrepreneurs with their dreams.
Or are they more like fishermen? If the fish don't bite you change the bait. If that doesn't work you change fishing holes. That's what's happening here. They dig,.using their various machines, and move to new locations to try again. There's gold here. That's a fact. It's just a matter of finding an economical way to get it out.
If gold is found again in quantity the world will know about it. Until then, winter snows will cover the ground and we'll hope for a shining yellow spring.
Or are they more like fishermen? If the fish don't bite you change the bait. If that doesn't work you change fishing holes. That's what's happening here. They dig,.using their various machines, and move to new locations to try again. There's gold here. That's a fact. It's just a matter of finding an economical way to get it out.
If gold is found again in quantity the world will know about it. Until then, winter snows will cover the ground and we'll hope for a shining yellow spring.
As much as I've been in the woods, I've never seen a wolf. So I was happy to recieve a skull to process. He was taken on Hungarian Ridge near Idaho City, ID by a local hunter.
I was awed by his jaws and teeth. He was equipped to break large bones of any animal. His jaws opened at least ten inches and his large canine teeth would penetrate deep into his prey.
After seeing the size of the animal, I was amazed at the fact that they were brought in from Canada and turned loose on our elk herds here in the northwest. Why it was done is open to question. It seems to me that the losers in the project are the wolves.
Wolves have always killed elk and whatever game is available in the way nature intended. By introducing more wolves, the balance has grown out of control. The harvest of game by man can be controlled through determined territories, length of hunting seasons and the number of hunting licenses issued. No restrictions can be put on wolves who must eat year around. So to keep the game in balance, the wolves must be killed.
Nature takes care of her own. Men seems to conplicate her authority.
I was awed by his jaws and teeth. He was equipped to break large bones of any animal. His jaws opened at least ten inches and his large canine teeth would penetrate deep into his prey.
After seeing the size of the animal, I was amazed at the fact that they were brought in from Canada and turned loose on our elk herds here in the northwest. Why it was done is open to question. It seems to me that the losers in the project are the wolves.
Wolves have always killed elk and whatever game is available in the way nature intended. By introducing more wolves, the balance has grown out of control. The harvest of game by man can be controlled through determined territories, length of hunting seasons and the number of hunting licenses issued. No restrictions can be put on wolves who must eat year around. So to keep the game in balance, the wolves must be killed.
Nature takes care of her own. Men seems to conplicate her authority.
13 December 2009
Return Of The Mountain Man
Roger is now busy with quiet things such as working on his European mounts, but it wasn't always that way. Life with him began as a wild west adventure and continued as such for many years.
I was recently reminded of the near-catastrophe with his father, Mose, just a few days after we were married. It was hunting season, a fitting start for our life together, and Mose decided to take relatives to hunt one of his favorite spots in the country where he had lived all his life. He drove to a basin about ten miles from home, pointed the hunters in the right direction, and then he took a stand in a low saddle nearby in hopes an elk would pass by on its way to feed. He couldn't accompany the hunters because he had a bad heart. They would meet at the pickup at dark.
After dark, the hunters came back to the house, saying that Mose wasn't at the pickup as planned. So, like the wild west of old, horses and riders appeared to scout the country. Those who didn't ride took off in jeeps and other four-wheel-drive vehicles.
In the kitchen of the ranch house, female friends and family waited with Stella, Roger's mother. As the night wore on, conversation wore thin as we attempted to take her mind from the circumstances. Periodically, some would retreat to the couch for a few winks of sleep. Dark turned to daylight, and the road in front of the house was empty of passing cars. The morning wore on, and occasionaly a car came by, but it was unknown. The situation was dire because Mose not only had a bad heart, he was diabetic, he had only one arm, and he was in his late seventies.
Then, at mid-morning, a car appeared in the distance that looked like that of Uncle Bill, Mose's brother. As Stella sat quietly at the table, the rest of the group rose to the windows. "It look's like Bill's car," someone shouted. "Yes, it is Bill's car, but I can't see the driver or if there's any passengers," another chimed in. "I see the driver and I think I see a passenger." "Yes, there is a passenger, but I can't tell who it is." "I see that the driver is Bill." Then the car stopped. All conversation ceased as the passenger stepped out and slowly headed toward the house. "It's Mose!" was shouted in unison as tears of joy streamed down tired faces.
As Mose walked slowly up the stairs and opened the kitchen door all voices were quiet. He nonchalantly placed his hat on the rack inside the door, paying no attention to the crowd in the kitchen. Stella, who was still seated at the table, crossed her arms in front of her, and quietly and slowly said, "Well, where have you been?
"Don't bark at me! I haven't had my breakfast!" was the answer. The kitchen crowd smiled and left The mountain man had returned, and he probably needed a nap before he ate his breakfast.
I was recently reminded of the near-catastrophe with his father, Mose, just a few days after we were married. It was hunting season, a fitting start for our life together, and Mose decided to take relatives to hunt one of his favorite spots in the country where he had lived all his life. He drove to a basin about ten miles from home, pointed the hunters in the right direction, and then he took a stand in a low saddle nearby in hopes an elk would pass by on its way to feed. He couldn't accompany the hunters because he had a bad heart. They would meet at the pickup at dark.
After dark, the hunters came back to the house, saying that Mose wasn't at the pickup as planned. So, like the wild west of old, horses and riders appeared to scout the country. Those who didn't ride took off in jeeps and other four-wheel-drive vehicles.
In the kitchen of the ranch house, female friends and family waited with Stella, Roger's mother. As the night wore on, conversation wore thin as we attempted to take her mind from the circumstances. Periodically, some would retreat to the couch for a few winks of sleep. Dark turned to daylight, and the road in front of the house was empty of passing cars. The morning wore on, and occasionaly a car came by, but it was unknown. The situation was dire because Mose not only had a bad heart, he was diabetic, he had only one arm, and he was in his late seventies.
Then, at mid-morning, a car appeared in the distance that looked like that of Uncle Bill, Mose's brother. As Stella sat quietly at the table, the rest of the group rose to the windows. "It look's like Bill's car," someone shouted. "Yes, it is Bill's car, but I can't see the driver or if there's any passengers," another chimed in. "I see the driver and I think I see a passenger." "Yes, there is a passenger, but I can't tell who it is." "I see that the driver is Bill." Then the car stopped. All conversation ceased as the passenger stepped out and slowly headed toward the house. "It's Mose!" was shouted in unison as tears of joy streamed down tired faces.
As Mose walked slowly up the stairs and opened the kitchen door all voices were quiet. He nonchalantly placed his hat on the rack inside the door, paying no attention to the crowd in the kitchen. Stella, who was still seated at the table, crossed her arms in front of her, and quietly and slowly said, "Well, where have you been?
"Don't bark at me! I haven't had my breakfast!" was the answer. The kitchen crowd smiled and left The mountain man had returned, and he probably needed a nap before he ate his breakfast.
12 December 2009
Recently I picked up my sheep from a breeder who has a flock of 200 American Barbados sheep. Although my sheep is a Suffolk ewe, a woolie sheep with a black face, I like the breeder and I liked his sheep, and so I decided to cross them with the Suffolk even though the Barbados are tiny little things with hair instead of wool For the breeder, his sheep are a means of making a living, but I'm in the sheep business just for fun with a tiny flock to enjoy.
Among his sheep, I noticed a ewe who was crippled. Upon closer observation, I noticed her ear was torn. The breeder told me she was blind, and when she strayed away from the flock, a coyote got her. He agreed to let me take her home.
Whether she and the Suffolk were friends before or they became that way from riding together in the pickup for the 100-mile trip home, I don't know. But the little Barbados mainly ignores the other sheep that are like herself, and shadows the Suffolk who is twice her size. It's as if she finds safety trailing a large animal. The Suffolk, named Beauty by the way, seems fine with the arrangement.
As I write this,. the sun is shining in their snowy pen, and they are lying down together ,soaking up the rays. When Beauty gets up to go into the shed, she'll have the little one right beside her.
No one told anyone to look after the less-than-whole little sheep. No agency had a thing to do with them. That's one of the appealing thing about animals.. They know how to take care of their own. Although Beauty was named in jest, the big sheep who towers above the rest was given a proper name after all..
Among his sheep, I noticed a ewe who was crippled. Upon closer observation, I noticed her ear was torn. The breeder told me she was blind, and when she strayed away from the flock, a coyote got her. He agreed to let me take her home.
Whether she and the Suffolk were friends before or they became that way from riding together in the pickup for the 100-mile trip home, I don't know. But the little Barbados mainly ignores the other sheep that are like herself, and shadows the Suffolk who is twice her size. It's as if she finds safety trailing a large animal. The Suffolk, named Beauty by the way, seems fine with the arrangement.
As I write this,. the sun is shining in their snowy pen, and they are lying down together ,soaking up the rays. When Beauty gets up to go into the shed, she'll have the little one right beside her.
No one told anyone to look after the less-than-whole little sheep. No agency had a thing to do with them. That's one of the appealing thing about animals.. They know how to take care of their own. Although Beauty was named in jest, the big sheep who towers above the rest was given a proper name after all..
07 December 2009
Friends
Recently, I picked up my ewe from a breeder of American Barbados sheep. Although my sheep is a Suffolk, a thick-wool sheep with a black face who towers over the tiny Barbados, I liked the breeder and I liked his sheep so I wanted to cross mine and see what the offspring would look like. For him, the sheep are a means of making a living. For me, my tiny flock is there just to enjoy.
When I picked up the ewe, whose name is Beauty, by the way, I noticed a Barbados who was crippled in one of her legs. Upon closer examination, I saw that her ear was torn in half. The breeder told me that she was blind, and when she strayed away from the flock, a coyote apparently got her. He agreed to let me take her home.
Whether she and Beauty were friends at the breeders or whether they became friends as they traveled together in the pickup I don't know, but when they arrived here the little blind sheep shadowed Beauty's every move. As I write this, they are lying together in the sunshine that fills their snowy pen, soaking up the warm rays. When Beauty goes into the shed, the little sheep will be right beside her as though she realizes she's safe when she trails beside the larger animal. The arrangement seems to be fine with Beauty.
No one told the flock how to take care of the less-than-whole sheep. No agency intervened to dictate arrangements. That's one thing that is so pleasing about the animal world. They know how to take care of their own.
Beauty was named by us in jest. It seems that she was given a proper name after all.
When I picked up the ewe, whose name is Beauty, by the way, I noticed a Barbados who was crippled in one of her legs. Upon closer examination, I saw that her ear was torn in half. The breeder told me that she was blind, and when she strayed away from the flock, a coyote apparently got her. He agreed to let me take her home.
Whether she and Beauty were friends at the breeders or whether they became friends as they traveled together in the pickup I don't know, but when they arrived here the little blind sheep shadowed Beauty's every move. As I write this, they are lying together in the sunshine that fills their snowy pen, soaking up the warm rays. When Beauty goes into the shed, the little sheep will be right beside her as though she realizes she's safe when she trails beside the larger animal. The arrangement seems to be fine with Beauty.
No one told the flock how to take care of the less-than-whole sheep. No agency intervened to dictate arrangements. That's one thing that is so pleasing about the animal world. They know how to take care of their own.
Beauty was named by us in jest. It seems that she was given a proper name after all.
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