Paul Kern's Cowboy Poetry & Western Verse

CDs by Paul Kern reviewed in "Rick Huff 's Best Of The West Reviews"

2011-05-24T11:06:00.001-06:00

Morning After Rain

Reviewed by Rick Huff

Here’s as honest an interpreter of original works as you’re apt to find! Utah Cowboy Poet Paul Kern has once again managed to project that subtle energy in his low-key approach.

I don’t recall another time a poetry CD’s title track was a mere :52 seconds long, but Kern gets the job done with it. He writes with a clear and careful economy of words to evoke his images, and he does it in perfect meter. All the tracks are worth a close listen, but for those who require them some picks include that title track “Morning After Rain,” “If He Nickers At Yer Comin’,” “I’ll Just Have To Pay Myself,” “The Last Horse Trade,” “Nary A Track,” “A Trajectory Off Course” and “So Long, Lee.” Particularly effective is the musical support on the album from Clive Romney (guitar) and Tom Hewitson (also on guitar, harmonica and mandolin).

Fourteen tracks total.

The CD is available for $10.00 by clicking here with his previous fine release Rimrock.

Rimrock (Where Memories Rhyme)
Reviewed by Rick Huff

Paul Kern subtitles his CD Rimrock with one of his lines "Where Memories Rhyme," then goes on to further define the collection as "Hopelessly Romantic Cowboy Poetry!" I'd call it more "hopeful and art-filled!"This CD is the recorded companion to Kern's book of the same title. The crafting of these verses shows Kern to be wonderfully in command of what he wants to say, and his low key but involved delivery draws you in so you care about the message.

More poets and reciters would do well to take notes on the Jay Sniders, the Joel Nelsons and the Paul Kerns...and, yes, in drawing the comparison I am indeed placing his work on this CD in those ranks (as well as revealing a bias of mine against "theatrical" delivery of Cowboy Poetry)! He understands in recording he's not addressing an auditorium.

Kern's words frequently present lingering thoughts and lessons that transcend the workaday cowboy life. "From a horse camp with its rhythm of chores, you learn the needs of others come before yours" is a good example. His poem "As I Bridle In The Morning" and others are rich with observations. "On Smokey Before I Go" is one of the best I've encountered depicting an old cowboy's last ride. Particularly effective music pads from Shaun Harris Studios used throughout enhance this product.

The CD ($10.00) can be ordered online and paid with a credit card by clicking with your mouse right here.

As Evening Sets on the Yellowstone

2010-06-16T12:06:00.003-06:00

by Paul Kern

For miles you hear the rising howl,
It sends down a fleshy shiver,
Wolves are coming off the prowl,
Over there across the river.

It starts off hauntingly slow,
Then mounts up to the sky,
The pack all joins in down below,
‘Til the howling pitch is high.

It hits you first with forlorn notes,
Drawn out in a minor key,
A dominant fifth from two silver coats,
Accompanies eerily.

A she-wolf joins in all alone,
Throat thrashing at the sky,
Letting fly a syncopated groan,
As evening drifts on by.

The primal whine is wild and high,
A call from another age,
They alone know the how and why,
As it echoes through the sage.

It starts off hauntingly slow,
With a piercing mournful moan,
The pack all joins in high and low,
As evening sets on the Yellowstone.

My Last Visit with an Old Cowboy Friend

2010-06-16T11:52:00.005-06:00

So Long Lee
By Paul Kern

Lee, wake up – he was nappin’ in the fall,
Say who? It’s me Lee, you know – Paul.

Hell, I reckon I’ll be 100 next January 8th.
Just a few more months now, d’ya think He’ll wait?

My mother doesn’t even know me now,
I’ve been away too long.

She lives here in town you know,
I’d like to see her, but she don’t know me now.

Where’s your Dad? I’ve been waitin’ for his call.
He passed away Lee, passed away last fall.

You know we was friends and had done it all,
Best friend I ever had – You say he’s gone now Paul?

The Good Lord has a way of calling us back,
So yer Daddy’s gone now, did you just say that?

Yea - cancer Lee, last fall in Colorado,
My Dad died in my arms, cancer too so long ago.

Hey Lee, remember your buckskin paint?
Sure you do, remember when he wouldn’t wait?

I have him in the trailer out front – want to see?
You bet I do – get that walker here in front of me.

Help me up a bit – a little starched up you see,
Stiffed up in these remanufactured knees.

Hold the door now there - I’m good to go,
Hold my arm now, don’t let my walker roll.

Well hello Indy – my what a good horse you was,
You know Paul, horses are in my blood.

Lee, I’ll help you on if you’d like.
Not now but another day I might.

Best get back inside, I’ll be late for grub,
Damn – it’s good to see you.

Thanks for comin’ and come back again.
You know - I’ve been blessed to have good friends.

Me too Lee. So long - So long Lee.

When Emerald Strikes the Clover

2010-04-26T07:42:00.000-06:00

It is haying season in the west. Last winter many people simply ran out of hay and livestock went hungry for a while. Not only was it generally unavailable, if you could find it the prices were doubled. Several neighbors ended up paying $10.00 a bale for mediocre hay. We had enough hay of our own production for our needs, so the shortage did not affect us. The season has changed and we have swung into action on the Quarter Circle K. Our first crop is in and the second is on its way (Photo is of one of our fields).

Last winter I wrote poem called “When Emerald Strikes the Clover” which was a wistful anticipation of the coming of Spring. What I never mentioned in that poem was that when the alfalfa (clover) grows, the work begins – starting with the repair of haying equipment. I have recently completely rebuilt my hay mower and wanted to share a tip on sickle bar riveting that someone, someplace may find useful. Once that’s done, I’ll add the poem.

Whether you are using a swather or a sickle bar mower to cut hay, both work on the same principle. They each have a long cutting knife that cuts a swath from five to thirteen feet wide. (A swather is a combination implement that not only cuts, but conditions and rakes the cut hay into windrows in a single pass.) The cutting motion is based on a scissor-like action between the stationary rock guards and the blade comprised of two-inch triangularly shaped knife sections individually riveted onto a bar (two rivets each) which is either activated by the tractor PTO (power take off) or the swather itself, if it is a self propelled model.

At any rate – here is the tip. During the mowing operation one of the knife sections is bound to break a rivet and will need to be re-riveted. Breakage may due to hitting a rock in the field or through normal wear. The remaining rivet of the two will need to be removed. To do this, use a clinch cutter that we use in horse shoeing. This tool has a sharp punch on one end and a metal cutting blade on the other end and is made to be struck with a hammer to cut off the clinches of old horseshoes to facilitate their removal. Clinch cutters work just as well to cut sickle bar rivets. Grind the punch end down to the exact diameter of the rivet hole for rivet stem removal. When a section needs to be removed, cut the head of the rivet with the cutting blade end of the clinch cutter by holding it in place and striking firmly with a hammer. The head will pop off. Then take the ground end of the clinch cutter and tap out the remaining stem of the rivet. To replace the section, hold the section and the rivet in place using two hammers – one on the bottom of the rivet acting as a mini-anvil and the other used above to forge-set the rivet head. I am sure that all of this sounds totally Greek to those that have never needed to do this, but for that have, we are talking the same language. I know that there are other ways of doing this, but this works pretty slick and I hope it helps someone out there. If it does, send me an email. I have a bunch of other tricks up my sleeve as well when working with sickle bar mowers.

When Emerald Strikes the Clover
by Paul Kern

The haystack now is melting down,
I see the hoar frost flee,
The wind cuts short her howling moan,
Dark days are blowing over.
A snowbird sings and so will I –
When emerald strikes the clover.

It's calving time and lambing too,
They struggle to breathe free,
Most will live but some just won't,
Cold days are nearly over.
Just hang on for a few more weeks -
Till emerald strikes the clover.

The horses stand in mud unshod,
Their coats hang long and shaggy,
Winter moustache on my bronco's lip,
The shoer is driving over.
They'll be ready again for work -
When emerald strikes the clover.

Springtime fills most every step,
These muddy boots will take,
Don't mind too much the windy cold,
But am glad when it's all over.
I live for days when life ebbs back -
And emerald strikes the clover.

The haystack now has melted down,
And frost takes to the wing,
Breezes wafting light and slow,
Blue skies have taken over.
A songbird sings and so do I -
When emerald strikes the clover.

A Morning After Rain

2010-04-15T13:57:00.000-06:00

Wintertime in January and February can get pretty tiresome in the intermountain west. Though we enjoy the four seasons and have plenty enough to do - horse-drawn sleighing, skiing, snowmobiling and the inevitable indoor home repair projects, it is nice to occasionally cast a glance to the springtime. I wrote this short poem last spring as I had been out to my hayfields early in the morning and came away just striken with the simple beauty of the alfalfa plants glistening in the sunlight that morning after rain - somehow, it just all seemed right and good. The photo is of that same hayfield, but after the first cutting. You'll notice that we do hay the old fashioned way (sans bales) and with pitchfork in hand.

A Morning After Rain
by Paul Kern

I didn’t know alfalfa could be so pretty,
When the plants are just half grown,
But it was that morning after rain,
When shadows left a dewy kiss,
And I whispered as I caught my breath -

I live for days like this.

A Little South of Dixie

2010-04-08T22:18:00.000-06:00

I spent the summer of 1972 as a whitewater river guide on Idaho’s Salmon River – the fabled River of No Return. We escorted our guests and clients through high-water rapids in one-man fiberglass kayaks. We would work in pairs, so that when one of our guests went overboard, one would chase the person and tow him to safety while the other would go after the wayward boat and pull it through the whitewater to shore. We would then regroup, wring out and get back in. Our guests left the trip with a lifetime of wonderful memories. Seldom was there a dull moment – though there were frustrating ones from time to time. For instance I once pulled a woman out of a whirlpool eddy that was strong enough to suck off her canvas sneakers. I felt lucky to have been able to pull her to safety through some tricky currents without going under myself. When we reached the shore, she offered no word of thanks, just a demand that I go back in and retrieve her shoes. Well, I didn’t and she was an unhappy camper from then on.

The Salmon River gets under your skin. This is the river that detoured Lewis and Clark. This is the river that cuts through a series of mountainous canyons so rocky and so steep that there are no parallel roads for most of its length. This is the river of incredible perseverance and power as it carves its way to finally join the Snake, the Columbia and the Pacific Ocean. It is a metaphor to me about overcoming the day-to-day struggles of life. Although it has been quite some years since I last dried out from its waters, it still has a hold on me in my quiet moments. I can almost hear at times the crash and roar of Pine Creek rapids as the waters push on to the sea. I can almost feel at times the wet sand of the river bottom between my toes as I turn my face to the west in the late afternoon sun. My mind’s eye can still see the glance of sunlight on the greenish black water capped with white. The call of the river is a call to arms – to overcome and defeat whatever obstacles are placed in your way. The reward at the end of the course more than warrants the struggle.

In this poem, Dixie is a small hamlet in central Idaho deep in the heart of the Salmon River mountains. The photo is of road's end at Shoup. This is the second poem I have written about the Salmon River. The first was Back to the River of No Return.

A Little South of Dixie

by Paul Kern

A little south of Dixie,
There’s a river flowing west,
With hoary foam and white caps,
Dripping from her breast.

It’s takes a lot of river,
To forge a pathway to the sea,
Where no unhallowed human hand,
Has dammed her – she’s still free.

Through chiseled granite canyons,
That old river still flows west,
And my mind there often wanders,
To ride again upon her crest.

I used to cuss the current,
So wild and swift and free,
‘Til night dreams came a calling,
They are calling now to me.

Unhindered westward on she flows,
And casts her primal trance,
The unruly river is a lively gal,
That calls me forth to dance.

To dance a dance unhobbled,
Under starry western skies,
Where crashing waves through a precipice,
Give hope to weary eyes.

Through granite walls of stony glance,
And canyons of despair,
The river keeps on moving,
As she lashes at the air.

It takes a lot of river,
To forge onward to the sea,
Through dark and narrow wilderness,
She calls and beacons me.

And speaks of oceans,
Calm and wide that lap each foreign shore,
And tells the tale of victory,
Above the crashing roar.

A little south of Dixie,
There’s a river flowing west,

Her waters rage to a peaceful land,
And I shall ride upon her crest.

Mornin' on the Desert

2010-03-19T15:34:00.000-06:00

This old family photo, dating from just after the turn of the century shows a cabin in the Millcreek area of the Salt Lake Valley near the old family farm at 3900 S. and 400 E. Today this area is heavily urbanized and paved over with endless miles of concrete and asphalt. The woman standing in the door is noted as a Mrs. Butler, 91 years old and that with one tooth she can still eat beefsteak and Indian corn. Looking closely at the photo, the flower garden stands out as well as the solid brick chimney of the small wooden cabin. In a way it reminds me of the poem often recited by Jerry Brooks -

Mornin' on the Desert
by Kathrine Fall Pettey

Mornin' on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free,
And it's ours, jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.
No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breathe,
Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and seethe.

Mornin' on the desert, and the air is like a wine,
And it seems like all creation has been made for me and mine.
No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor's miles away,
And a little 'dobe shanty that belongs to me and May.

Lonesome? Not a minute: Why I've got these mountains here,
That was put here just to please me, with their blush and frown and cheer.
They're waiting when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot,
An' we jest go campin' in 'em with a pan and coffee pot.

Mornin' on the desert-- I can smell the sagebrush smoke.
I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke.
Ain't it jest a pity that wherever man may live,
He tears up so much that's beautiful that the good God has to give?

"Sagebrush ain't so pretty?" Well, all eyes don't see the same,
have you ever seen the moonlight turn it to a silvery flame?
An' that greasewood thicket yonder -- well, it smells jest awful sweet,
When the night wind has been shakin' it -- for its smell is hard to beat.

Lonesome? Well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in a town.
But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown.
All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin' free.
An' it's ours jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.

Five Bells Fell Silent at Alcalá

2010-01-29T13:29:00.000-07:00

A little more than a year ago I was making frequent visits to both the Blackfoot Indian Reservation in south eastern Idaho and the Windriver Reservation just north of Lander, Wyoming. I became quite well acquainted with many of the reservation Indians and spent hours in conversation with them. I had the chance to travel around the reservations and got to know the general lay of the land of both. Having grown up in Idaho, it was always a source of pride that Sacajewa, a Shoshone was from my home state. What I learned during my time among the Shoshone on two reservations was that she was ultimately buried in the cemetary on the Windriver Reservation. I have visited her grave on several occasions and though some dispute its authenticity, I do not. It is located near to the monument to her son Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, who was the papoose born at the beginning of the expedition led by Lewis and Clark known as the "Corps of Discovery." Sacajewa carried her infant child all the way to the Pacific shore near the mouth of the Columbia River, where she picked up a sand dollar as a souvenir (later given to Chief Washakie and proudly worn in photos - follow link to see).

During Jean Baptiste's adult life, he was chosen to guide the Mormon Battalion to the Pacific coast at San Diego, where they ultimately arrived at or near the Mision San Diego de Alcalá 164 years ago today on January 29, 1847 (Alcalá means "the castle" in Spanish, taken from Arabic). The papoose engraven on the Sacajewa dollar made it to the pacific shores of our country at least twice - once during the Jeffersonian age of discovery and again during the age of Manifest Destiny that pushed our borders to the Pacific Ocean.

So - that is a long and involved introduction to this short but complex poem; without which it wouldn't make much sense. I visited the Mision de Alcalá as a small boy and remain impressed with its ancient grandeur - which changed jurisdiction from Mexican to American. The arrival of Sacajewa's son signaled the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

Five Bells Fell Silent at Alcalá
by Paul Kern

Five bells fell silent at Alcalá,
And silenced their ancient ring,
When Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,
Walked to the sea that mid-winter morning of spring.

This peaceful strand of destiny,
He’d been there and had seen it before,
Now Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,
With a battalion of men in rags that that they wore,
Stood silent as they gazed at the sea.

Five bells fell silent at Alcalá,
And silenced their ancient ring.
When Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,
Walked the shores of America that mid-winter morning of spring.

My Blue Eyed Bay (Christmas Version)

2009-12-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

My Blue Eyed Bay
by Paul Kern

We did some horse tradin' just after the molt,
Kirby got old Dan and me - an unbroke colt,
When I first handled him he lingered to stay,
This was a real good sign for the blue eyed bay.

Still only a yearlin' he wasn't much use,
I just wanted a horse that'd had no abuse,
To get one I'd have to break him my way,
We'd get along fine, me and this blue eyed bay.

Months of workin' him and sackin' him out,
One step at a time each day left no doubt,
He was a good one and had a good place to stay,
I was startin' out fine with my blue eyed bay.

It took five bouts of buckin' 'fore I hit dirt,
When he finally threw me just my pride was hurt,
That was the last time he'd toss a rider away,
It all came together for my blue eyed bay.

Months passed, he grew and he learned each gait,
But to lope with a rider he preferred to wait,
It would come out in time but in his own way,
He was movin' out fast now - my blue eyed bay.

He loped first on the trail on an uphill swell,
That November mornin' it was clear as a bell,
There was more to come I could easily say,
I'd be gettin' there soon with my blue eyed bay.

A horse worth ownin' has to give satisfaction,
A good head, soft eye and a whole lot of action,
You can get all this if you're willing to pay,,
Most horses keep a' givin' like my blue eyed bay.

One holiday mornin' in the soft arena dirt,
A loose rein, no spurs and no need for a quirt,
He picked up his leads and loped circles each way,
This, a true gift from my blue eyed bay.

Now in that same spirit at this special time of year,
True gifts are those given in love without fear,
They come from the heart and in their own way,
So, Merry Christmas - from me and my blue eyed bay!

A Cowboy Country Christmas

2009-12-12T10:21:00.000-07:00

The world is in turmoil. Our country is waging two wars. My niece's husband is in Afghanistan. We pray for the safety of our troops and trust the right will prevail. At this time of celebration of the birth of our Savior, it is only fitting to remember not only his birth, but also that he gave his life for each one of us. There are others that are sacrificing their all on our behalf. May we not forget their valor. An poignant example of what our boys are doing in Afghanistan can be read here. In the midst of the battle, let us not loose hope - May winds of war stop howlin’, May flames of hate burn out, May our lanterns lighten up the dark - Mid bitter storms of doubt.

A Cowboy Country Christmas
by Paul Kern

It’s a cowboy Christmas evenin’,
Cain’t hardly hear a sound,
It’s quiet by the old wood stove -
There’s no fightin’ on the ground.

There sure is some there overseas,
We trust it’s for the right,
But still you feel it deep inside -
Our kids have gone to fight.

The wind’s a pickin’ up some,
The fire it throws a spark,
The coal oil lantern flickers bright -
As it illuminates the dark.

Some things will never change,
They’ve always been this way,
Red hot flames will all burn out -
Their coals will cool to gray.

On a country Christmas mornin’,
With horse drawn sleighs and such,
A fresh cut pine and turkey plate -
We’ll invoke the Healer’s touch.

May winds of war stop howlin’,
May flames of hate burn out,
May our lanterns lighten up the dark -
Mid bitter storms of doubt.

It’s a cowboy country Christmas,
Why, there’s singin’ comes alive!
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail -
Where faith and grit survive.

Prayer Comes Easy in a Barn

2009-12-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

My children and I built a pole barn from the ground up through the hot winds of a Utah summer. Little by little we were able to provide shelter from the elements and create a place of protection for our animals. I’ll always remember the December morning I went out to feed and found a homeless man shivering in the hay. I gave him a ride into town and tried to help him reconnect with what little support system he had. Some weeks later after I had fed and watered the horses, the sunrise broke over the summits of the Wasatch Range. The snow was crisp and so cold it creaked under foot. My mind went back to Jeff the homeless man. For centuries man has taken refuge in a barn. For centuries they have been the salt of the earth. This poem is an attempt to express the feelings that came over me that December morning.

Prayer Comes Easy in a Barn
by Paul Kern

When sunlight bathes the winter morn,
All creation is reborn.
The horses watered, fed and warm,
Prayer comes easy in a barn.

When Mary’s babe his eyes did open,
He saw the sheep, the goats, and oxen.
In a feeder filled with fresh cut hay,
He first began His earthly stay.

It was cold without, but the warmth within,
Came from the love of his Next-of-kin.
He was not kept from the noble beast;
Nor from the shuffle of its cloven feet.

Simple folk there went and in awe they stood,
Unbathed, unschooled, unread, but good.
To welcome in this newborn king,
Amid the livestock and the steam.

The sounds and smells of earthy creatures
Caressed the child as gentle fingers.
Mary his mother gave birth that day,
To a shepherd for all who’ve lost their way.

It all began in a humble barn,
With the animals, our King was born.
There’s something special that I find,
With the hay and beasts – a peace of mind.

When sunlight bathes the winter morn,
All creation is reborn.
The horses watered, fed and warm,
Prayer comes easy in a barn.

The Christmas Celebration of Helen Dutton

2009-12-04T10:35:00.000-07:00

This is the way it went during a mid-winter Sunday School class in Idaho Falls in the mid-sixties. Families that attended church together made up an assortment of farmers, ranchers, local small businessmen and employees of the National Reactor Testing Station located west of town. Some families had steady incomes - many did not. For more than a few, hard scrabble times were the norm. I remember once a good friend - from such a family telling me that it was tough being poor. You started out with used stuff and then when it broke down there wasn't enough money to have it repaired and so the cycle went - usually downward. I have had conversations with people not from Idaho who tell me, once they learn I grew up there that they have never seen that kind of poverty before. Though, times have improved in the ensuing years, my early associations with kids who sprang from the salt of the earth have given me a degree of compassion for those less fortunate than myself.

The Christmas Celebration of Helen Dutton
by Paul Kern

Christmas had come as quick as it went,
Cold was breezin' through the hot air vent.
Us rowdy kids didn't much give a care,
For what the teacher was sayin' there.

It was cold outside and the snow was high,
It squeaked underfoot as you walked by.
Your breath would freeze inside your throat,
Arctic wind nipped at your old winter coat.

Like colts in the mornin' of an early snow,
We were buckin' up and wouldn't let go.
And then she did it without makin' a fuss -
She asked what we'd all got - for Christmas.

Well, Mike he got a new pair of chaps,
A Stetson, new boots and a pistol with caps.
And Butch by golly got a bunch of new shirts,
Some games and a monster toy called Lurch.

Lanona, the quiet girl, if I correctly recall,
Got a blue gingham dress and a Barbie doll.
And Rayelle the redhead got somethin' too,
A three-speed bike that was fancy and new.

From kid to kid the teacher went round,
We listened good to what the others had found,
Under the Christmas tree - when all of a sudden,
She turned and asked that little Helen Dutton.

The Dutton's lived in a tarpaper shack,
On a ramshackle farm they rented out back,
And well out of sight on a rutted dirt road.
No one should go there - or so we'd been told.

Well, Helen brightened up just a speck,
And we did too, hey what the heck -
Maybe she'd had a celebration too -
Good, that's what families normally do.

Helen Dutton hadn't washed in a while,
But when she broke into this great big smile,
Could it be she was ready to tell us all -
About some new clothes, new shoes or a doll?

Or maybe about a holiday feast with her Dad,
With turkey and ham when he wasn't all mad.
Or maybe a box of oranges and treats and candy,
Or the party they'd had - that'd sure be dandy!

Now it was time for Helen to take the floor,
There'd been none of what was said before.
But she smiled softly as she began to talk -
She'd got a colorin' book and two pieces of chalk.

That's it? That's all? What about the toys?
And sugar plums for good girls and boys?
Not there. Just a crooked smile and tangled hair.
Helen had a few more words to share.

This girl with threadbare clothes and a dirty face,
Would teach us somethin' 'bout dignity and grace.
Little Helen Dutton went on to say -
"Toys don't count much - 'least not on Christmas day.

"Mamma was home and the fire was warm,
And Daddy'd came in from working the farm,
He put up a sagebrush for our Christmas tree,
And we all got excited my sisters and me!"

After a meal of oatmeal and a horehound stick,
Helen reached under the sagebrush and went to pick,
The present with the colorin' book and chalk.
Then Mamma picked her up and gave her a rock.

She whispered somethin' as she cradled her tight,
Like Mary musta' done that first Christmas night.
Those quiet words of Helen Dutton just won't go away -
"Toys don't count much - 'least not on Christmas day."

The Rush of the One-Horse Sleigh

2009-12-01T13:55:00.004-07:00

The Rush of the One-Horse Sleigh

by Paul Kern

They try to get me to, but I can’t convert,
To a motorized sled - now what would it hurt?
It’s not that I object to that kinda’ fun,
Making curves an’ all on a downhill run.

But what I really prefer is a different kinda’ ride,
In a one-horse sleigh with my bride at my side.
There are few thrills that can compare,
To thundering hooves kicking snow in the air.

I call out his name with a touch of the whip,
We charge off in an instant and hope we don’t tip.
Snuggled up warm in a buffalo robe,
Ears covered in fur right down to the lobe.

With gloved fingers ever so light on the reins,
A swish of the tail and a flying lead change,
Spraying fresh snow from a high stepping steed,
A turn to the right he again changes lead.

The creak of the harness and the groan of the sleigh,
Are all notes of the music of a cold wintry day,
Sleigh bells ring out as we flash through the snow,
We dash away now with cheeks all aglow.

The hours rush by in the wink of an eye,
The horse is tired now and, well so am I,
It’s hard to have a better day than this,
I reach over to steal a mid winters kiss.

For years we’ve all sung the songs of the sleigh,
There must be a reason for those carols to stay,
It’s a whole lot more than – the horse knows the way.
Must be the ride and the rush of the one-horse sleigh.

Bring Er' Home

2009-12-01T10:24:00.000-07:00

Christmases past and Christmases present roll into Christmases future. I view these old photos with a little nostalgia - the older one below the poem was taken around 1978 with my parents Reese and Rae, sister Holly and brother Ralph. (I sported a long moustache for more than ten years.) The one to the left was taken in 2001 with my own family as well as horses Dan and Aspen who both have long since departed. The one thing both pictures have in common is an evergreen Christmas tree. I like to feel, especially now that the green color - even in the middle of winter is a sign of eternal life and renewal, which is after all the purpose of Christ's birth.

Bring ‘Er Home
by Paul Kern

Along about December,
On a western mountain slope,
When the snow is deep an’ crusted,
An’ yer head is full of hope.

When each breath crystallizes,
An’ clings a moment to the air,
Then falls upon yer horse’s mane,
An’ hangs - jest like a curtain there.

Night breezes shuffle southward,
The sky is clear and cold,
Ya’ pick a star an’ tell yerself,
An old story you were told.

Of a baby in a lowly barn,
Well – I reckon jest a shed,
For unto you is born this day. . .
Those words dangle in yer head.

An’ live jest like an evergreen,
On that frigid mountain slope.
So ya’ cut a pine that’ll do ya’,
An’ dally tie it with yer rope.

The sun will soon start climbin’,
The mornin’ star has jest blinked out,
That tree yer draggin’ on yer horse,
Recalls what He’s about.

It’s jest a little evergreen,
To spread some Christmas cheer,
So bring ‘er home to remember Him,
As we celebrate this year!

This God Forsaken Land

2009-09-02T14:02:00.010-06:00

Summer has now passed and the days are getting shorter and darker. Though I regret the passage of time, I have taken good advantage of these past three months. After the spring round-up in Grantsville and a mid-June trip with Kathie, Erika my daughter, my mother, sister and brother-in-law to Cornwall and Somerset, England the summer began in earnest. I managed to squeeze in as much back-country riding as possible based out of our cabin and small ranch in Idaho just minutes from the continental divide and Montana. Together with family and friends, we laid down wagon tracks or hoof prints or both in Utah, a good part of Yellowstone National Park, the Lee Metcalf Wilderness Area and adjoining National Forests - from the petrified forests of the Gallatin to the Spanish Peaks overlooking Big Sky and Moonlight Basin to the magnificent alpine Hilgard Basin and beyond. We joined a wagon train to commemorate the sesquicentennial of Gunnison, Utah, danced the night away at the Victorian Ball in Virginia City, where I was asked to recite a little poetry and finished off August with our traditional “Evening in the American West” show where I mixed it up for a large audience with the cowboy trio “Latigo.” While in Virginia City, I came across the following poem. I liked it and thought I would include it here. Montana is indeed a special place.

This God-Forsaken Land

This God-Forsaken Land, they call it,
As they gaze with pitying eye,
Nothing here but sagebrush,
And a vast expanse of sky.

We don’t know how you take it,
Those city folks declare,
And how do you make a living?
Or do you live on air?

They wonder at the twinkle in our eye,
And the smiles we try to hide,
For in all this lonely windswept land,
They can see no cause for pride.

But we could tell them of our ranches,
Where great herds of cattle roam,
And of the flocks of bleating woolies,
That claim Montana as their own.

We could show them our oil wells,
That pour forth liquid gold,
And in those places they call “barren,”
There are deep, rich veins of coal.

They may not see our fertile ranches,
With their fields of hay ad grain,
But nestled there among the hills,
We have them just the same.

This “Loneliness” they talk about,
To us is God’s own peace;
There’s so much of beauty all around,
That our thanks shall never cease.

Our streams are filled with rainbow trout,
We’ve antelope, elk and deer,
We’re a mile up nearer heaven,
And the air is pure and clear.

Our sunsets glow with color,
And in the pearly dawn of morn,
The pungent scent of sage drifts down,
On a breeze that’s mountain born.

We don’t know much of city life,
Or where they seek God there,
But we do know in Montana,
That we find him everywhere.

So to them we’ll leave the cities,
Where the living is so grand,
And we’ll stay in Montana,
In our God-Beloved Land.

(poster for sale in the Virginia – Madison Country Historical Museum, autor not cited)

On the Rosebud

2009-06-26T10:55:00.015-06:00

It has been 133 years today since the Battle of the Little Big Horn. A visit to the battlefield is a sobering experience - even today. News of the combined Indian victory spread in all directions among the Indian tribes by a combination of smoke signals and riders and did so much quicker than among the whites. The effect was electrifying among the native population and may even have emboldened the Nez Perce to resist the encroachments of the U.S.government a little more than would have normally been the case one year later in Idaho and Montana. I remember as a boy re-enacting the battle with my brothers and neighor kids - long before the anniversary of Custer's Last Stand and hit the century mark.

The Battle of the Little Bighorn — also known as Custer's Last Stand and, in the parlance of the Native Americans involved, the Battle of Greasy Grass Creek was an armed engagement between a Lakota–Northern Cheyenne combined force and the 7th Cavalry Regiment of the United States Army. It occurred on June 25 and June 26, 1876 near the Little Bighorn River in the eastern Montana Territory, near what is now Crow Agency, Montana.

The battle was the most famous action of the Great Sioux War of 1876-77 and was a remarkable victory for the Lakota and Northern Cheyenne, led by Sitting Bull. The U.S. Seventh Cavalry, including a column of 700 men led by George Armstrong Custer, was defeated. Five of the Seventh's companies were annihilated and Custer himself was killed as were two of his brothers, a nephew, and a brother-in-law. (Wikipedia)

The author of this poem, William O. Taylor rode with Custer and Reno and was one of the few survivors of the battle. His haunting lines make reference to popular songs of the day that were sung the night before the carnage. The calvary followed Rosebud Creek in their approach to the area of the Little Bighorn river.

On the Rosebud
William O. Taylor

It was June on the banks of the Rosebud,
“The Seventh” in bivouac lay,
Hard and fast on the trail of the hostiles,
We had ridden that long summer day.

And now in a bluff hidden shelter,
We had stopped for a time to take breath,
Knowing well ere the sun set the morrow,
We should ride in the shadow of death.

For our scouts, all excited and restless,
Had returned bringing with them a clue,
That beyond the Divide, in a valley,
Lay the camps of the war gathered Sioux.

And all who followed our Custer,
Knew well that a stranger to fear,
He would strike, be the odds ere so many,
As soon as their camps did appear.

As the twilight grew deeper and darkened,
And all was so quiet and fair,
An Officer group near the river
With songs woke the still night air,

“Little Footsteps Soft and Gentle,”
“The Goodbye at the Door,”
While “Maxwelton Braes are Bonnie,”
Comes to me o’er and o’er,

Songs of home and the fireside,
Songs of love tender and sweet,
And the last one, was it meant for a prayer,
Sent up from the great mercy seat?

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise him all creatures here below,
Praise him above ye Heavenly Host,
Praise Father, Son ad Holy Ghost.”

Good-night, “Good-night” and parting thus,
Each sought his soldier bed,
A blanket spread upon the ground,
The bright stars overhead.

And the next day, on the Bighorn,
Midst savage shout and cry,
And the sun was slowly sinking,
They “laid them down to die.”

Years have passed, and the bones of the singers,
Are mingled in the dust of the plain,
Yet often at twilight I fancy,
I hear once more that refrain,

“I’d lay me down to die.”

And green, ever green in my memory,
Are the songs I heard that night,
By our Officers sung on the Rosebud,
In the twilight before the fight.

The Creak of the Leather

2009-05-01T10:28:00.013-06:00

The west desert of Utah holds many treasures and secrets of the old west. Recently a group of friends rode out through the cedars near Vernon and watched a band of mustangs (wild horses) as the stallion pushed and directed his group of mares - sometimes towards them and sometimes away. Another friend, together with his brother and father have a large cattle operation just outside of Vernon. In one setting, you can see both cattle and wild horses. A couple of weeks ago, my son Peter and I rode out in the same general area along the Pony Express trail near one of the old way stations and one of the very few watering holes along the way to and from Nevada - Simpson Springs. There we encountered another band of mustangs of about the same configuration as well as cattle roaming the badlands. We had lunch in a draw where "the air was so quiet and dead" that it seemed we were actutally reliving the old classic poem by Bruce Kiskaddon - "The Creak of the Leather." I recited it to Peter as we were resting under the cedars with horses dozing nearby in the sun - hobbled and just waiting for us to get back on. I got to thinking that I should add this poem here. I hope you enjoy it. Peter and Indy are pictured in the photo.

The Creak of the Leather
by Bruce Kiskaddon

It's likely that you can remember
A corral at the foot of a hill
Some mornin' along in December
When the air was so cold and so still.
When the frost lay as light as a feather
And the stars had jest blinked out and gone.
Remember the creak of the leather
As you saddled your hoss in the dawn.

When the glow of the sunset had faded
And you reached the corral after night
On a hoss that was weary and jaded
And so hungry yore belt wasn't tight.
You felt about ready to weaken
You knowed you had been a long way
But the old saddle still kep a creakin'
Like it did at the start of the day.

Perhaps you can mind when yore saddle
Was standin' up high at the back
And you started a whale of a battle
When you got the old pony untracked.
How you and the hoss stuck together
Is a thing you caint hardly explain
And the rattle and creak of the leather
As it met with the jar and the strain.

You have been on a stand in the cedars
When the air was so quiet and dead
Not even some flies and mosquitoes
To buzz and make noise 'round yore head.
You watched for wild hosses or cattle
When the place was as silent as death
But you heard the soft creak of the saddle
Every time the hoss took a breath.

And when the round up was workin'
All day you had been ridin' hard
There wasn't a chance of your shirkin'
You was pulled for the second guard
A sad homesick feelin' come sneakin'
As you sung to the cows and the moon
And you heard the old saddle a creakin'
Along to the sound of the tune.

There was times when the sun was shore blazin'
On a perishin' hot summer day
Mirages would keep you a gazin'
And the dust devils danced far away
You cussed at the thirst and the weather
You rode at a slow joggin' trot
And you noticed somehow that the leather
Creaks different when once it gets hot.

When yore old and yore eyes have grown hollow
And your hair has a tinge of the snow
But there's always the memories that follow
From the trails of the dim long ago.
There are things that will haunt you forever
You notice that strange as it seems
One sound, the soft creak of the leather,
Weaves into your memories and dreams.

America the Beautiful

2009-04-16T13:18:00.010-06:00

A good friend, Ken Stevens, of the western performing group Latigo, forwarded this poem to me the other day. I found myself in agreement with its message and decided to post it here. I did a little background check on it through "Urban Legends" and found the following:

Comments: Circulating online since 1997 (at which time its author was listed as "Anonymous"), the above poem — this particular version of it, at any rate — has more recently been attributed to Alabama's notorious Judge Roy Moore. Since it has been vetted by presumably reliable sources, I have listed it here as authentic (see authorship update below).

Judge Moore vaulted to national prominence several years ago when, as Alabama's Chief Justice, he installed a 5,000-pound monument emblazoned with the Ten Commandments in the state's Supreme Court building. His defiance of a federal court order to remove it on grounds that it violated the Constitutional principle of separation of church and state led to Moore's suspension in 2003.

He is also a self-styled poet. In his 2005 book, So Help Me God: The Ten Commandments, Judicial Tyranny, and the Battle for Religious Freedom, Moore evinces a lifelong love of poetry and mentions several of his own efforts, including "Our American Birthright," an inspirational ditty quite similar in style and theme to "America the Beautiful."

Among the sources citing Roy Moore as the author of the poem are The American Spectator, the Associated Press, and WorldNetDaily.com.

UPDATE: The poem was 'partly' written by Moore
In a February 6, 2006 email from the headquarters of Judge Roy Moore's Foundation for Moral Law in Montgomery, Alabama, the organization's secretary Heather Moore wrote: "Part of the poem was anonymous and part was written by the Chief Justice. There are several different versions being circulated [and] this is but one."

America the Beautiful
by Roy Moore

America the beautiful,
or so you used to be.
Land of the Pilgrims' pride;
I'm glad they'll never see.

Babies piled in dumpsters,
Abortion on demand,
Oh, sweet land of liberty;
your house is on the sand.

Our children wander aimlessly
poisoned by cocaine
choosing to indulge their lusts,
when God has said abstain

From sea to shining sea,
our Nation turns away
From the teaching of God's love
and a need to always pray

We've kept God in our
temples, how callous we have grown.
When earth is but His footstool,
and Heaven is His throne.

We've voted in a government
that's rotting at the core,
Appointing Godless Judges;
who throw reason out the door,

Too soft to place a killer
in a well deserved tomb,
But brave enough to kill a baby
before he leaves the womb.

You think that God's not
angry, that our land's a moral slum?
How much longer will He wait
before His judgment comes?

How are we to face our God,
from Whom we cannot hide?
What then is left for us to do,
but stem this evil tide?

If we who are His children,
will humbly turn and pray;
Seek His holy face
and mend our evil way:

Then God will hear from Heaven;
and forgive us of our sins,
He'll heal our sickly land
and those who live within.

But, America the Beautiful,
If you don't - then you will see,
A sad but Holy God
withdraw His hand from Thee..

The Monkey's Viewpoint

2009-03-25T08:34:00.015-06:00

I came across the following account (written around 1923) of Indian fighting, pioneer courtship and a polygamous trial held in Idaho Falls in an old scrapbook in the section tabbed "Family and Friends". Pasted next to the yellowing pages of this part of early history of Franklin - the first white settlement in Idaho, was this poem which appeared on the back of a business card from the Totem Cafe in West Yellowstone, Montana. Evidently someone saw a connection of sorts between the poem and the events described from the pioneering era of southern Idaho. Franklin is just down the road from Preston and Whitney, Idaho.

The Monkey’s Viewpoint

Three monkeys sat in a coconut tree,
Discussing things as they’re said to be.
Said one to the others, “Now listen, you two,
There’s a certain rumor that can’t be true –
That man descended from our noble race.
The very idea is a big disgrace.

“No monkey ever deserted his wife,
Starved her babies and ruined her life,
And you’ve never known a mother monk,
To leave her babies with others to bunk.
Or to pass them on from one another
‘Till they scarcely know who is their mother.

“And another thing, you’ll never see,
A monk build a fence ‘round a coconut tree,
And let the coconuts go to waste,
Forbidding all other monks to taste.
Why, if I’d put a fence around a tree,
Starvation would force you to steal from me.

“Here’s another thing a monk won’t do –
Get out at night and get on a stew.
Or use a gun or a club or a knife,
To take some other monkey’s life.
Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss,
But brothers, he didn’t descend from us!”

IDAHO PIONEER WOMAN TELLS 0F EARLY DAY INDIAN FIGHTING
By Davis McEntire

In the fall of 1863, settlers in southern Idaho and northern Utah were up in arms over the numerous depredations of the Indians. The red men, aroused by seeing their lands being constantly usurped by the invading settlers, were making a last defiant effort to drive the white men from their territory. They were not numerous enough and Fort Douglas was too close to dare engage in a pitched battle, but their ends they hoped to accomplish by guerrilla warfare, by thefts, kidnappings, surprise night attacks, the occasional scalping of a lone white man, and by a thousand and one other petty, irritating annoyances. No one felt secure except in the fort for savages lurked in every ravine, hollow, and clumps of brush, occasionally they would ride into the villages and profiting by the •white man's principle that "it is cheaper to feed them than to fight them" would spend the day begging, quarreling and drinking.

This state of affairs continued until the settlers found it almost unendurable. But the Indians had not committed any acts of violence so there was no excuse upon which they could call out the soldiers. But the savages grew bolder, their depredations grew increasingly frequent and severe. Relates Mrs. Mary A. Hull, an eighty five year old resident of Whitney, Idaho, then a young married woman in Franklin:

"A large party of Indians came into Franklin, early one afternoon when we were all busy threshing and made their camp on the creek bottom below the village. Then of course they began their usual course of begging and pilfering. Nearly everybody was assisting on the threshing machine and so could not watch them carefully, but I happened to be in my cabin at the time and from a back window saw two squaws sneak into our granary, seize two small sacks of wheat and run for their camp. Grain was a precious commodity in those days, so grabbing a pitchfork I ran in pursuit. I gained rapidly on them as they were heavily loaded and what would have happened had I overtaken them is hard to imagine. But I never reached the thieves; instead I turned and ran for my life, for other things were happening with amazing rapidity. A drunken Indian on horseback, came riding from the saloon, encountered a white woman on his way and attempted to run over her. Failing in this he swung a heavy stick and began beating her savagely about the head and shoulders. She screamed, ran, and fell and instantly every man in the village was rushing toward them with upraised clubs and pitchforks. The woman staggered to her feet, he struck her again, but by this time the men had arrived and were striving to thrust the Indian from his horse with their forks. He swung his club, knocked several to the ground and would have made his escape but just then a man ran up with a revolver in his hand, he shook it viciously at the red man and ordered him to dismount but hesitated to shoot. A man by name of Benjamin Chadwick, my brother, jerked it from his grasp, and fired. The Indian fell from the saddle without a word and lay motionless on the ground. Then the war cry was started and Indians came yelling from all directions. I heard the shot; saw the Indian fall, and terror speeding my steps, fled for safety.

"The Indians collected in a body, a few rods from the white men and many were the ugly words and black looks that passed among them. A pitched battle seemed imminent and as the two groups stood eyeing each other, the sir seemed suddenly charged with suspense and danger. A word and the savages would have hurled themselves upon us. It was the Indian chief who relieved the situation. Even as the white men were looking for places of fortification, he rode out from, his band and spoke.

"White man kill Indian", he said, “who is he” We want ‘um. No one spoke but all looked about for Chadwick, but he was no longer there. Sensing that his life was in danger, and knowing that there were those who would give him up rather than plunge the village into battle, he had quietly taken leave. ‘Ben’ was no coward but he was far from being a fool. "He's not here, Indian" replied one of the white men, "you've missed him, he's beat it." But the Indian was unconvinced. “We no care, where he go," he replied, "but we wantum white man. White man kill Indian, Indians kill white man". Simple and crude yet it was the only justice they knew. A dead Indian was a dead Indian reasoned they, and he had been killed by a white man, therefore the only way to right the wrong was to kill a white man--any white man.

"No, Indian", again replied the white leader, "Chadwick did it, you go get him but we'll not give you any other white man". Much parley followed but in the end the Indians retreated to their camp far from satisfied. That evening a delegation of three white men of which my husband, Robert M. Hull, was one, was sent to the Indian camp to carry the pipe of peace and to make negotiations if possible. But the aggrieved Indians proved treacherous and attacked the three men as soon as they entered the camp. Two succeeded in escaping but my husband was held captive. They bound him to a tree and all night long they tortured him, forcing him to yell for Bishop Peter Maughn of Logan, whom the red men wished to treat with.

Taking a lighted pine splinter, an Indian would thrust it into the white man's flesh, saying "Bishop, Bishop", and Hull would cry in agony, "Oh Bishop, Bishop, Bishop, oh Bishop". This, thought the savages, was great sport, it was even better than killing a man, so all that night they kept it up. Every conceivable torture which the Indians could devise they practiced on the unfortunate white man. Burning sticks were applied to the soles of his feet, lighted splinters were thrust into his legs and arms and the savages laughed with delight to hear the flesh sizzle. Salt was rubbed into his blisters, slow fires were built close by him, and as a special treat to the women and children, squaws and papooses were allowed to spit in his face. It was an experience that Hull never forgot.

"The next morning Bishop Maughn arrived from Logan and with him came an interpreter. With his aid the delegations of white men and Indians conferred for several hours. The Indians agreed to release my husband on payment of a large indemnity and the promise that if ever Chadwick did come back to the village, he was to be immediately surrendered. With this the Indians seemed satisfied but they killed a man on Bear River without the slightest provocation, which brought on the famous battle of Battle of Battle Creek, between the Indians and the government soldiers under Colonel P. E. Connor.

"Years later in 1891, Robert Hull was in a camp on the Blackfoot river a number of miles north of Pocatello, when an Indian rode up on horseback and without a word of warning shot him downward through the left shoulder, killing him and also his young nephew who stood close by.

"In Franklin", continued Mrs. Hull a bit huskily, for the recounting of her husband's tragic death had brought tears to her eyes, "we all lived inside the stockade. Every family had its own log cabin and it was built facing the inside of the fort. Of course both cabins and stockade were built of great, solid logs, properly flattened on the sides so that they fitted close together, and any chinks or holes were plastered up with mud so that no light could shine through the walls to indicate the whereabouts of the occupants. Armed sentries, whom we called 'minute men' were posted at each corner of the square fort and they maintained a vigilant watch at every moment of the night.

By day a signal and lookout post was kept up on the top of Mt. Picket now known as the Little Mountain, which towers directly above the little village of Franklin. From the top of the peak one can see all Cache Valley spread out before him and two men kept watch there from daylight till dark. If any Indians were in the vicinity they would send the word down by flag signals and by the same system they would inform the villagers -whether the movements of the red men seemed friendly or hostile. For many years this practice was kept up and never was Franklin the victim of a surprise attack. Pitched battles also were very infrequent but nevertheless the Indians continued to exact their toll of lives until in the seventies. The first man ever buried in the village met his death at the hands of the Indians. Reed was his name and he was deliberately murdered by a band of braves whom he tried to argue with. On another occasion two men, Andrew Morrison and Bill Howell were in the canyon getting out a load of wood when the Indians charged down upon them, volleying arrows. Both men fled leaving their outfit at the mercy of the braves but an arrow overtook Morrison and dropped him in his tracks. Howell ran on uninjured into the village and told his story. A party of riflemen immediately went back to get his corpse before the Indians or wild animals should mutilate it, but to their astonishment he was still living with three arrows in his body. They brought him back to Franklin where he soon regained his health and strength. One of the arrowheads however, remained stuck fast in his side. It was too close to his heart to permit of cutting it out so there it stayed throughout the remaining twenty years of his life."

Mary Hull smiled a trifle apologetically. "I fear that I am telling you too much of the strife, and hardships of pioneering", she said, "I do not wish to give the impression that we pioneers knew nothing but battle, blood, and hardship, for such is not the case. On the contrary we were fairly light hearted on the whole for there were many young people among us and youth is always gay. True, we did not have automobiles nor dance halls, nor cinema palaces, but we had other things and we enjoyed them. Our amusements were hiking, berry picking, parties, and occasionally the bishop allowed us to convert the church house into a dance hall and we would dance merrily, many of us barefooted to the music of some scraping old fiddle. Our favorite dances were the Virginia Reel, French Four, Plain Quadrille, Horseless Four and Scotch Reel, such innovations as Waltzes and Foxtrots were unknown.

"Courtship also was a much different matter than it is nowadays. If a young man felt himself getting giddy he would ask the girl's parents permission for him to 'keep company’ with their daughter. Even then his courtship was carried on at a distance so to speak. The pairing off, the intimacies which young people find so entertaining today were entirely unknown to us. We went in groups, & bunches, we called it, to our parties, and early in the evening we returned, also in bunches. Most of us were strictly orthodox in our morals and behavior and any one who was not was looked upon with plain disfavor, I remember one incident in particular". She chuckled.
"I don't know whether I should tell it or not", she laughed, "but it was the most ludicrous thing I have ever seen in my whole life.

"A certain young man came into our village and speedily proved himself not a desirable character. No one knew where he came from and no one knew where he was going or what his business was in Franklin, but we all knew that he was different from the rest of us and different in an undesirable way and that prejudiced us against him. He did everything which we thought a young man shouldn’t do, from flirting with the girls, to smoking, swearing, and drinking. He was a veritable thorn in the flesh of Franklin's young people. At last ten girls, of whom I was one, held a secret meeting in the schoolhouse and decided that the unwelcome one must go and we formulated a plan whereby he was to be got rid of.

Two days later one of our number who was chosen to be the bait, asked the young fellow to meet her at a designated place, at ten o'clock in the evening. He came on scenting high adventure. He got it. As the unsuspecting undesirable reached the trysting place, ten big, husky, corn fed, country girls leaped out of the shrubbery, armed with a long rope, we seized the unfortunate victim and bore him to the ground. He kicked, screamed, blasphemed, and fought in a most wrathful and ungentlemanly like manner, but in spite of his struggles we bound him hand and foot, and dragging him to the nearest post, lashed him securely to it. All that night we listened, chuckling in our beds to his exasperated screams and yells, and I suppose he'd have been there yet had not some villager, along toward morning, craving a little sleep, gone down, and untied the poor wretch. The next day he packed his worldly all and left Franklin for good. We never saw him again".

Mary Hull's experiences throw an interesting light on pioneer travel. She says:
"All travel was by oxen, horse and buggy, or horseback and of course it was exceedingly slow when compared with the airplanes, automobiles, and passenger trains which we have today. Long trips were rare and touring for pleasure was a thing unheard of. The longest trip I ever took was in 1860 when with some friends I drove from Franklin to Idaho Falls to attend the trial of my husband who was facing a charge of polygamy before the federal court. The journey consumed three days of steady traveling by horse and blackboard. My husband was found guilty and fined six hundred dollars which he paid without a whimper, but he refused to renounce either of his wives and lived with them both until the day of his death in 'ninety one.

"That was my first trip into the Snake River Valley and though I have visited it many times since I shall never forget how it looked then. My first impression was of an enormous flat plain and the most desert like stretch of country I have ever seen. As far as the eye could see the land stretched away in one unbroken terrain, covered with sage, buckbrush and flying sand. I thought it at the time one of the most desolate, most barren places I had ever set eyes upon.

Can't Lose for Gaining

2009-03-17T08:27:00.011-06:00

I found this poem and photo in some old papers from my grandfather Elmer Madsen. He insisted that we call him Elmer and not "grandpa" saying that that made it sound too old - even though he was born in 1889. This photo is of him with a bevy of girlfriends on a picnic circa 1910 most likely in one of the canyons east of Salt Lake City. If you open the photo and enlarge it, you will notice the smiles and laughs captured by the camera - quite a beguiling shot from one hundred years ago. At any rate - enjoy the picnic and then the poem.

Can't Gain for Losing
by Fanny Gudmundsen Brunt

I carefully counted calories,
As at the table I sat,
And visioned my figure willowy,
With thirty-five pouns less fat.

I ate my hot rolls butterless,
My baked potato dry - -
Non-fattening milk my beverage,
And I passed up the rich cake and pie.

My clothes seemed a llittle looser,
And my spiritis fairly flew - -
Soon I'd be wearing a thirty-six,
Instead of a forty-two.

But then came the time of testing,
Where fat women rise or fall - -
Finding lush leavings on grandchildren's plates,
To scrape in the Dis-pos-al.

Wasting was always so sinful,
To children of my generation,
So a bite of this, or a spoonful of that,
I ate just for con-ser-va-tion.

This morning I got on the scales to weigh,
And the numbers went zooming by,
To that same old hundred and eighty - -
Oh rates! Pass the strawberry pie!

A Canyon Adventure 1917

2009-03-13T13:07:00.009-06:00

This little story is from the personal history of my grandmother Amy Smith Shipley Kern. The photo is of Amy and Dirk(right)and her friend Florence(left)and is the one mentioned below.

I should relate here that a lot of my outdoor activity during the First World War was riding my favorite pony that we called Dirk. He was very gentle but had good life and I could do many things with him. My girl friend with whom I usually went riding and I would run races, but the horses got so used to running together that neither one would go much ahead of the other.

One day my girl friend Florence Welch, and I decided to take quite an extended trip, first up East Canyon running east of Avon to the old LaPlatt Mine. Here we stopped and ate our lunch, returning we decided to try Dry Canyon. I think it was called that. At any rate it run south from Avon. After riding for some time we met two young fellows who were stranded with a broken down motorcycle. We stopped and talked to them and were told that they had stopped back up the canyon a number of miles having motor trouble and on leaving they left their camera and asked us to please go back and get it.

Our time was our own and not having any good reason not to help them, we said we would go. They said they hadn’t had any dinner so we gave them the lunch that we didn’t eat while up East Canyon and we had more than we could eat. We rode several miles back to where they had been and found the camera at the place they described. By this time we had traveled as far as we had intended so with the Kodak we returned. When we got to the boys they were still trying to get the motorcycle to run.

They expressed their gratefulness to us and took our pictures on our horses and promised to send us each one when they got them developed. We left them working on their machine and arrived home having had an interesting and somewhat of an eventful canyon trip.

Amy Shipley - Paradise, Utah

The Last Horse Trade

2009-02-20T09:53:00.025-07:00

The Last Horse Trade

by Paul Kern

I was blessed to have had a Dad who taught me to ride,
And across the Utah desert and through the Colorado snow,
He taught me to love the mounts we rode.
Together we left tracks across the mountain west,
From the Windriver Range to the Tetons,
Through Montana and deep in the mountains of Idaho.

And those horses we’d ride - why there was Slippers and Prince,
And – quick before they slip away –
There's Tarsh and Ladd, Latigo, Indy, Spotted Eagle, Smokey and Buck,
And storming through the sage come Jenny and Missy,
Toby and Duke, Dan and Aspen the palomino, Rory the paint.
And Target - my blue-eyed bay.

A lifetime worth living is metered out slowly,
By the wear on your saddle, good horses and a few head of cattle.
It was just last November I drove Dad’s rig home,
A day or two after the service,
When we gathered to recount, retell and relive a life well lived,
I had his truck and trailer - his horse and his well worn saddle.

Since I’ve had his horse Indy in my own herd,
He’s fattened up some and filled out his hide,
He’s got a barn, good feed and I do care for that horse,
Since Dad’s gone now and he just can’t.
But maybe there’s something he can do and I hope he does,
There where he rides beyond the great divide.

You see – I lost my Target three weeks ago today,
In a sudden wreck of crimson snow,
Left rear hock, compound break and rip,
So fast, so horrid, so hopeless,
Such wreckage,
Such sorrow,
I had to let him go.

So by some twist of fate I have Dad’s horse,
And I like to believe that he has mine.
Target always did have that fire in his belly,
I can almost see them both right now,
Charging through the canyons and hills of that celestial range,
And though worlds apart – horses are still the tie that binds.

So now, time moves on and scars the wounds,
Of such great loss and the price we’ve paid,
For wandering through this muddy vale of tears,
On horses - such good horses - all throughout the years . . .
So - when it comes my turn to reach up through that misty veil,
I’ll grasp Dad’s hand, we’ll hug and square the deal - on this,

The last horse trade.

A Little Perspective on Losing Target

2009-02-15T09:39:00.009-07:00

The following narrative is taken from my great-aunt Ida Kern Schaub's personal history. Her lines have given me some perspective on the loss of my prized saddle horse Target. Our vet once said that there are not enough numbers to count the ways a horse can hurt himself. I would add there are not enough words to describe the shock and disbelief at losing a horse in his prime. Aunt Ida's writing has helped me through this past couple of weeks. In the photo above, my grandfather Alfred Kern is driving the span of horses mentioned below that was struck by lightning. The work being performed is in a wheat field. Notice that the horses are pushing, not pulling the header that my grandfather is driving.

From Ida Schaubs' Personal History:

It was before my high school days or so that our family experienced what could have been a great tragedy. As I was on my way home from school one evening, I met Lucille Ballif and she said, "Ida, do you know what happened to your brother? He got struck by lightning." I started to cry and ran the two miles home as fast as I could.

Upon my arrival home I found Alf in bed. Mother and Father, of course, were very much upset. It was in the spring of the year. Alf had been taken out of high school to go out to the dry farm to do the spring work, which consisted of plowing the land and preparing it for the planting of spring grain. All work on farms in those days was done with horses. Tractors hadn't been thought of. Alf was plowing with three head of horses this particular day, when a squall of wind and hail came up. Alf stopped the plowing, took his overcoat and sheltered himself beneath the horses. They were so gentle and knew their master so well. As the storm cleared, Alf got up and looked skyward to see if the clouds had passed, and that is the last he remembered until hours later, according to his watch. His first feeling was that he was in bed just awakening from his sleep. Then he realized that he was numb and couldn't move or swallow. Gradually his senses came back and he realized where he was and that all three horses were dead and that his head was just an inch or two away from the plow shears, and that he felt sick and sore. He managed to get up and hobble over to a neighbor, Jack Bosworth, who then brought him home. They found that the lightning had struck the top of his head and just as a streak of lightning there was a burned streak down the side of Alf's face, singeing his hair, eyebrows and lashes, passing down his left shoulder on to his left arm and glanced off at the elbow. Had the lightning gone down his chest, it would have been instant death, or had his head hit the sharp plow shears, it would also have proven fatal. We were all so very thankful to our Father in Heaven for sparing his life at this time.

The foregoing experience seemed to trigger a year of unusual happenings and accidents with the horses and animals that Father owned. It was thrashing time and Dad brought home from the thrasher a very beautiful mare we called Pearl. She had pneumonia. We called the vet. He prescribed treatment every two hours of mustard plasters and medicine forced down her throat with a long syringe, so Mother and I did the doctoring because Father had to go back to the dry farm. Every two hours Mother and I went to work night and day, trying to save Pearl, but she died after a week or so. Then there was old Jock, a long-legged clumsy critter who was tied to a plow for the night, on a side hill by the barnyard. Who tied Jock to this place no one seemed to confess. Anyway, morning found him dead. As he slept he slid down hill and the rope around his neck choked him to death. That summer we had a lovely little colt about six months old. He contracted distemper and Mother and I tried to nurse him back to health, but he died.

Old Chub, our old faithful horse whom we all loved and who had given the farm so much service, got so lame with what they called "ring bones"" (which I now realize must have been arthritis, because my fingers today remind me of Old Chub's feet), that he could hardly walk anymore, so Father had to shoot him. We all felt so sad about Chub. Coally, a black buggy horse, who used to take us flying in the buggy, really was a has-been racehorse when Dad bought him. He really was a high-spirited and high-strung piece of horseflesh, but a fine buggy horse. Going to Church we'd pass all of our neighbors on the road. Well, that winter, Coally was performing in the barnyard, slipped on the ice, broke his leg, and he had to be shot. We all missed our fast buggy rides.

Father had a fine span of horses that he had replaced for the three the lightning had killed. Alf was working with them at home in Preston, preparing the ground where we planted our vegetable garden. As the horses crossed an irrigation ditch, the harrow they were pulling flipped up out of control. One of the sharp teeth of the harrow struck one horse in one of his hind legs, penetrating deep into the knee joint. Father and the family doctored him for weeks, but they finally had to shoot him. This was a terrible blow to Dad, but I recall hearing him say to Mother one day as they were in the kitchen, "Well Mother, as long as the trouble stays in the barnyard, I won't complain." I really didn't get the full impact of his statement at that time, but I have thought about it many times since.

These foregoing instances practically wiped out all of Father's horses. He didn't have enough to run the farm work with. His good neighbors and friends came to his rescue and gathered up a collection so Dad could purchase some fine new horses.

Classy Bar Link (Target) 2002 - 2009

2009-02-06T08:52:00.010-07:00

It has taken me the better part of a week to gain my composure after the tragic loss of my prized horse Target. Target was involved in a freak driving accident last Saturday, January 30, that damaged his left rear leg to the point where he had to be put down. It was without question one of the saddest days of my life. I had owned Target since he was a yearling, broke him, trained him and became his fast friend. Seldom has there been such shared affection between man and horse. I feel such pain over this loss, it is hard to describe. Target was noble in life and noble beyond belief to his very last breath. Together we rode through the wilderness of Idaho, Montana, Utah and Wyoming. Together we faced down grizzly bears. Together we herded cattle and buffalo. Together we raced Arabians and won.

Target was the subject of and inspiration for many of my poems over the years; A Trajectory of Course, Aroma Therapy, As I Bridle in the Morning, I Like 'em Fat and Sassy, If He Nicker's at Yer Comin' and My Blue Eyed Bay. He was frequently mentioned on CowboyPoetry.com. His image became the logo for my podcast that appears on iTunes and elsewhere on the web. He was also featured on the cover of my CD "Rimrock:Where Memories Rhyme."

In a way it seems like I have just done some unexpected horse trading with my father who passed away at the end of October. At his passing, I took over the care of his bucksin paint horse Indian Chief. Now, at the passing of Target, I am hoping that Dad will look after him on the other side.

On Burn's Creek

2009-01-06T14:13:00.021-07:00

Here is another childhood memory that needed to be written down. I remember this day like it was yesterday. On the way to the trailhead, we were pulling our plywood two-horse straight load trailer through the mud on a downhill slope when all of a sudden the old Jeep Wagoneer (which wasn't old then) jack-knifed and slide out of control until it came to a stop. I think the horses stayed calmer than I did through the whole thing. We got unstuck and continued on our way. It was on the trail at Burn's Creek north east of Idaho Falls and Ririe that we had this experience. Dad's prized American Saddler mare Slippers, which he was riding that day is seen in the photo.

On Burn’s Creek
By Paul Kern

Just a kid on horseback about twelve years of age,
Riding up on Burn’s Creek not far from Palisades,

It rained the night before so the air was crisp and clean,
Morning mist swooned all about throughout the mountain green,

Silver hooves plucked up the freshly wet brown dirt,
And sort’a flung it up – up high around their girth,

The sun had barely crested that Idahoan ridge,
When we did too, my Dad and me - just one of seven kids,

It seemed we saw forever toward the Tetons looming high,
Sunlight streamed throughout the hills, then bounced back to the sky,

There was something special in the air that day,
When Dad got off his horse, doffed his hat and knelt right down to pray,

He said a prayer out loud that still echoes in my ears,
It’s something that just lingers on somehow throughout the years,

Now my Daddy was bowlegged, straight backed and tan,
And those that knew him best, knew him best as a - man’s man,

His grip was strong and tight despite a missing thumb,
His steely eyes saw right through nearly everything you’d done,

But when he knelt to pray, he knew so well his place,
And talked with God as we talk now - us both - just face to face,

He started out a thanking the good Lord for that day,
And for the chance we both had had to come and get away,

He thanked the Lord for other things like - The workmanship of holy hands,
And for being able to enjoy it in a blessed privileged land,

For me, for our family and for a steady mount,
For small things - but in the end the things that really count,

Dad blessed that day and left his mark on a kid twelve years of age,
When he hit the dirt and said that prayer – on Burn’s Creek, not far from Palisades.

Cowboy Christmas Pudding - Recording

2008-12-10T13:24:00.012-07:00

I recorded this Christmas program a year ago so it is somehwat dated, but still the same - it's good to listen to it once more at this time of year - you really don't want to miss Ken Cook's "Joy is a Choice."

This recording contains poems by Ken Cook and Paul Kern with fiddle music by Greg Trafido. Just turn on your computer speakers, hit the play button, sit back and enjoy! And Merry Christmas!

Titles include:

Paul Kern - My Blue Eyed Bay (poem)
Ken Cook - Joy is a Choice (poem, music)
Greg Trafido - Christmas Puddin' (song)
Paul Kern - Prayer Comes Easy in a Barn (poem)

Where Warmth Means Wood

2008-11-12T10:00:00.003-07:00

Lessons learned from my father are reflected in the poem Where Warmth Means Wood. This poem has become through the years somewhat of a standard cowboy poetry Thanksgiving poem. I am thankful to have had such a father. We all miss him but are thankful that the enormous pain he endured from cancer has come to an end. Below is the text of his obituary, which appeared in several western newspapers. Thanks to Margo Metegrano at CowboyPoetry.com for her kind and unsolicited report on Dad's passing. You can read it here.

Reese Shipley Kern passed away October 29, 2008 in Loveland, Colorado after a courageous battle with cancer. He was born May 5, 1922 in Preston, Idaho to Alfred and Amy Kern. He graduated from Preston High School in 1940. In 1947 Reese graduated from the University of Colorado with a B.S. in Chemical Engineering and served with distinction in the Marine Corps in both World War II and again in Korea. He married Rae Christine Madsen on March 19, 1945 in the Salt Lake Temple. They are the parents of seven children. Reese spent his professional career working as a chemical engineer and nuclear physicist. He was the construction project manager of the Power Burst Facility experimental reactor located west of Idaho Falls, Idaho. He was a successful businessman and co-founder of an environmental recovery company in Grand Junction, Colorado. During his lengthy career, he worked for Standard Oil, Philips Petroleum, Allied Chemical and Norman Engineering.Reese was a lifelong member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; serving in many capacities and callings throughout his life. He served as a stake missionary, high councilman, member of several bishoprics, full-time missionary with his wife Rae in Apalachicola, Florida, temple worker and counselor in the Denver Temple Presidency. He most recently served as a temple sealer. One of the highlights of his life was that he had performed the marriages of most of his espoused grandchildren. Although he had a lifelong passion for horses and the outdoors – his last act before entering hospice was to attend to his horse Indy in Stringtown, Colorado – the love of his life was his wife Rae and the family they founded together. Reese is survived by his wife Rae of Loveland, sons Richard (Jaci), Ralph (Connie), Paul (Kathie), Rob (Cindy) and daughters Marilyn Arrington (Howard), Jane McGee, and Holly Thomas (Mike), brothers Earl (Irma) and Demar (Doris). His posterity includes forty grandchildren and twenty-four great grandchildren. A memorial service was held Saturday, November 1 at 10:00 a.m. at the LDS chapel at 1445 W 28th Street in Loveland. In lieu of flowers contributions may be made the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints Perpetual Education Fund at lds.org/pef.

Where Warmth Means Wood
by Paul Kern

In the winter of nineteen twenty-one,
Before the arrival of their firstborn son,
Alf took Amy through snow and ice,
Forty miles by sleigh from Preston to Paradise.

My grandfather felt a little regret,
That a horse and a sleigh was all he could get,
To visit her family as he knew he should,
When travel meant horses and warmth meant wood.

In the winter of nineteen sixty-eight,
Thanksgiving that year just had to wait,
My father drove cattle through drifting snow,
To the shelter of valleys down below.

We just put off our holiday feast,
Grateful for safety of man and beast.
The cattle were cared for best as they could,
When rescue meant horses and warmth meant wood.

A little closer towards the end of the year,
We called on poor families living near,
In a Quonset hut and a tarpaper shack,
Heat was by fire and water they'd pack.

Country radio had made a plea,
To donate a Christmas gift or a tree,
So we took a present to each little child,
They were ragged, dirty and a little bit wild.

Plastic sheets on the windows let in daylight,
And the wind and the snow and the cold of the night,
We tried to help out as they expected we would,
Horses lived better than this; still warmth meant wood.

So here we are in two thousand and some,
It's hard not to let your feelings go numb,
So we remember our folk's blood, sweat and tears,
We try to pass it on down through the years.

From horses to cattle to neighborly ways,
From harness and saddle to one-horse sleighs,
To being kind to man and to beast as we should,
It still means something where warmth means wood.

The Meadowville Road

2008-10-17T08:00:00.001-06:00

Margarite Schutt Gordon, my wife Kathie's great grandmother (also known as Pansy or GG) lead a remarkable life. Born in England, raised in British Columbia among the coastal Indians where her parents were Anglican missionaries and educated in a private school in Salt Lake City. Pansy was a multi-lingual, well traveled and well educated young woman of her time. She lived to be 100 years passing away in San Francisco in the mid 1960's. Imagine her despair when as a young woman in the flower of youth and eligibility her parents moved the family to a remote settlement on the southern reaches of Bear Lake, Utah called Meadowville. Still, Pansy bloomed where she was planted and made a place for herself in this remote corner of the west, discovering horses, cowboys and her life's love and companion - a simple farm boy, cowboy and rustic James Gordon, who's skills as he recalled were breaking horses, fencing and making hay. As Pansy wrote in her memoirs - "Meadowville - I have not the language to describe!" This poem is dedicated to her. The photo is of Meadowville the way we found it a couple of years ago. It is largely a ghost town now. Margarite Schutt Gordon was a remarkable woman of the west.

The Meadowville Road
by Paul Kern

Meadowville - I have not the language to describe,
The high-country cow-country hills of dun,
The desolation and distance too far to drive.
When we came by train and then by stage –
With double-treed horses on a steady run.
There on the Meadowville Road.

Meadowville – I have not the language to describe,
The high-speed break-neck high loping game,
The horse off the track I used to ride,
Over gully and wash and hill and rise –
With scent from the sagebrush just after rain,
Along the Meadowville Road.

Meadowville – I have not the language to describe,
The eight saddled horses tied up outside,
The pick of the litter for a day was mine,
Of cowboy or wrangler or country boy –
And I would make up my mind despite my pride,
Beside the Meadowville Road.

Meadowville - I have not the language to describe,
The high-country lake-country fields of hay,
The high-pitched fiddlers and a French Quadrille.
When I came around and I chose my love –
In the high-stepping glide of a one-horse sleigh,
There on the Meadowville Road.

Meadowville – I have not the language to describe,
The high-flying high-riding years slipped by,
The new ways they came and then we left,
Headed north ‘cross the border and made our lives –
And times changed and we changed and so did I,
Far from the Meadowville Road.

Windy Went Riding for a Fall

2008-10-07T10:47:00.006-06:00

Windy the Waddie in the poem is actually me, sad to say. It was the summer of 1989. This is the tale of a stampeding herd across Idaho State Highway 20 about a mile south of the Redrock Road. The cattle that day were frisky from the start and then something let loose and it all came undone. As I pieced the fragments of my memory together on this one, I figured that one of the lead animals simply lost it, charged out and the others followed suit. By the time the dust settled and the wrecks cleared I had a dislocated shoulder and smashed up rotator cuff that took over a year to heal. Dad ended up with a cerebral hematoma that nearly killed him. There was a good amount of broken leather as well as barbed wire. But the cattle finally were herded up to the summer ranges on the continental divide - and time mended all wounds - together with a little surgical intervention.

Windy Went Riding for a Fall
by Paul Kern

Buck was a big horse with a matchin’ name,
Dapple grey with long flowing mane,
For the most part broke and fat off the range,
But that look in his eye was a little bit strange.

That herd of cattle one day in July,
Had to be moved somewhere else up high,
Off of the flatland no more could they wait,
Up the divide and beyond the gate.

Windy the waddie bridled up and saddled,
From the first Buck, he was a little bit rattled,
But at the start of things all went well,
The herd moved out with the dust and the smell,

Across the rangeland of buffalo grass,
Toward the highway where we had to pass,
Through the fence and the gate and onto the road,
Then north past the corrals we use to load.

As the cattle made their approach to the fence,
Some started to run and lost their sense,
Of direction when they headed back south,
Their north end should’a been their mouth.

But it wasn’t and they weren’t about to turn,
Around as a herd, ‘till half of ‘em’d learn,
To follow the fence and then go ‘round,
In a bovine carousel complete with the sound,

Of squeals and bawls of an upset herd,
Gettin’ more undone as horses were spurred.
The cowboys galloped on their approach,
To jostle the cattle, to cajole and to coach,

Them back in the direction they all should head,
For a moment it worked and then one saw red,
Takin’ off in a flash for Timbuktu,
But I’m not real sure since we never knew,

Now that steer was more than a little undone,
Along the fence it trotted and then it run,
To a stop, spun ‘round and whirled back north,
Causin’ his buddies to charge back and forth.

They were now on both sides of the fence,
Times like this get real intense,
Some runnin’ north and some to the south,
Buck tensed up and foamed at the mouth,

Reined to the left and then to the right,
Confused him more than just a mite,
What he saw goin’ north then headed out,
The southbound critters turned all about,

Opposite of where he tried to lead,
To stop the prospect of a small stampede,
But Windy the waddie and even old Buck,
Were ridin’ on the wrong side of luck.

Leavin’ the cattle and throwin’ a fit,
While passin’ the gate and the borrow pit,
That lined the road on either side,
The saddle rolled and began to slide.

Iron shod hooves skidded and sparked,
Windy knew that his time was marked,
His heart beat hard as it ever did,
The road flew up as his saddle slid.

He lay there a moment then got to his feet,
Windy the waddie went down in defeat.
Buck ran away bein’ chased by the saddle,
Hangin’ down low - same height as the cattle.

That herd of cattle one day in July,
Had to be moved somewhere else up high,
Off they went with a crash and a bawl,
The day that Windy went ridin’ for a fall.

Just Before They Closed the Door

2008-10-01T10:28:00.007-06:00

It's been five years to the day since I finally lost Aspen my
palomino and subject of this poem. He was an excellent saddle and driving horse - just never could get him to pack. I bought Aspen from a kill pen near St. Anthony, Idaho. He had arrived on a truck from Wyoming, but no one seemed to know exactly from where. He had been separated out from the rest of the herd and was being haggled over by a couple of local cowboys. I ended up the high bidder and then bought the horse after a vet check. Over the four years that I owned Aspen, he developed navicular disease and eventually I lost him. I miss that horse but take comfort in knowing that I gave him several good years that he probably would not have had otherwise.

Just Before They Closed The Door
by Paul Kern

Just before they closed the door,
Of the death truck bound for never more,
Tied to a rail with head hung low,
Stood a gelded horse of golden glow.

Run through the rocks, thistles and sage,
Of old Wyoming, five years of age,
Four cracked hooves and tender feet,
Patiently waiting his death to meet.

Just across the northern border,
They take cash, check or money order,
Where many a ring-boned or heevy horse,
Has faced his end at the end of his course.

But why’s he there among this crowd?
This palomino so pretty - so proud?
Who can redeem him from the gore,
Of the death truck bound for never more?

I bid once, twice, thrice then four,
And bought this horse from never more.
New home, new shoes, new life and so,
Ran free the gelding of golden glow.

He’s proved to be a faithful friend,
Saved from the bullet of an early end,
And then I wondered about you and me,
Those who look but who cannot see.

Can He really save us as He said?
Will He buy us from the dead?
Or are we bound for that awful shore,
Door closed, fate sealed forever more?

Matter's litttle if you’re winded or worn,
He can redeem and make you reborn.
Before they close your lonesome door,
The choice is yours – ever or never more.

A Grizzled Face and a Graying Beard

2008-09-29T10:23:00.006-06:00

The horse we loaned out at the time this poem was reality was a sorrel mustang gelding named Prince. Prince wasn’t a bad horse, just not a really good one. I remember one time as a small child in one of the Wyoming wilderness areas that we were riding along the trail with no apparent problem when suddenly Prince was overcome with the temptation to take a side trip down the slope to graze on good grass next to a creek. Small as I was, I could not turn him back and had to call for help. After a short attitude readjustment session administered by my father, we headed back out. Prince did actually throw his head so hard that he knocked the teeth out of the sheepherder mentioned in this tale. I still can see his brand new dentures - the old guy was mighty proud of them.

A Grizzled Face and a Graying Beard

by Paul Kern

A grizzled face and a graying beard,
Somehow matched the sheep he sheared,
A wrinkled brow and wizened cheeks,
Blue eyes that sparkled when he speaks.

The sun had taken its weathering toll,
As wind and rain over him would roll,
His face tanned to leather deeply lined,
Outside in the hills - he just didn’t mind.

About who you are or how you’re seen,
Or how you dress or if you’re clean.
What matters most is what’s inside,
No matter how wrinkled or tan your hide.

But to get something there inside,
It helps to have a mouth full and wide,
Of teeth that can bite and also chew,
So as not to gum like babies do.

This good old herder had done a lot
‘Cept clean his teeth - they’s full of rot.
A dangling smile and a checkered grin,
Was all he had to put his food in.

For him a dentist was a thing to dread,
He’d just drill a hole into your head,
And to boot it would hurt if ever he did,
So it always seemed his smile he hid.

We loaned him a horse to use that summer,
Hoping to help out this old gummer,
Who still had the rest of an ivory or two,
Stuck in the middle of where you chew.

The old horse’s teeth needed a float,
So it’d take a bit on a good note,
Teeth filed to take down the ridges,
Smoothed off and polished on the edges.

But it didn’t happen to this pair,
Both bad in need of dental care,
So they went to work herding sheep,
And got along fine until one deep,

Gully came up they had to cross,
And there the horse gave its head a toss,
Straight back into his bobbing head,
Felt like a blow from a pipe of lead.

From the saddle he fell without a doubt,
Right in the spot where his teeth fell out,
There in the sand in that deep rut,
Toothless and bleeding he rubbed his gut.

Where he the saddle horn had hit,
Horse lurching, with him at full sit.
He picked up his teeth and put ‘em back down.
No sense in taking ‘em back to town.

Where the dentist built a brand new mouth,
Shiny white pearls from north to south,
All glued in both front and rear,
They gave him a grin from ear to ear.

So the horse we loaned out that summer,
Hoping to help out our friend the gummer,
Was what got him dentures all brand new,
Stuck in the middle of where you chew.

Caroline was a Cowboy's Wife

2008-09-26T10:25:00.002-06:00

Lee Jacobsen rode with us up until his 94th year. He now lives in an assisted living center in Idaho Falls surrounded by women of his same age who would love to have his attentions, but Lee says that he already has a wife and that she is waiting for him. Caroline and Lee were our neighbors in Island Park, Idaho. I guess I was reminded of this poem the other day as I was working on a new pole barn we are building out of rough cut lumber I am bringing down from Idaho. Since I don't have any more kids at home to help with the heavy lifting, I have had to employ the efforts of my wife Kathie to lend a hand, hold the level, steady the ladder and so on. Caroline was a woman with caloused hands and a heart as big as all outdoors. The photo is one I took of Lee some years back in the Bridger Teton Wilderness Area at the Ranger Station at Hawks Rest. We had found a pretty but stoved up palomino mare along the trail that had been abandoned. Here we are alerting the Rangers so they can go and rescue her by letting her rest in the ranger corrals for a few days before they take her out to the road.

Caroline Was a Cowboy’s Wife
by Paul Kern

Caroline was a cowboy’s wife,
She could have chosen an easier life,
Well bred and pretty she let it all be,
To marry that Jacobsen boy - Lee.

She fell in love and Lee did too,
He was a 1910 vintage buckaroo,
Who first wandered into Island Park,
On horseback where he left his mark.

A young cowboy on the Railroad Ranch,
The Harrimans gave him his chance,
To live out his dream on the back of a horse,
Caroline followed with no remorse.

From there they worked the Flying R,
A ways up the road but not too far,
Two sons she bore him - one for each knee,
They named ‘em Cody and Larry Lee.

Two lives entwined in the livestock trade,
Caroline made the cowhand grade,
She rode and trailed and fenced and hazed,
Making a home where the cattle grazed.

Caroline knew livestock better than most,
She helped Lee build fences post by post.
All the same she would cook and sew,
Her favorite mare she called Latigo.

In time they bought a place of their own,
The kids were big now, nearly all grown,
Their brand was the Quarter Circle J Bar,
Still they kept on working at the Flying R.

They shared their cowboy ways with me,
How to find strays and where they’d be,
How to run cattle throughout the year,
And how to use old-time cowboy gear.

I’d got thrown off by a horse named Buck,
Caroline came over in her pick-up truck,
She always said to just get back on,
I would have, but that horse was gone.

Lee claimed never to have lost a steer,
Or a heifer or bull regardless the year,
And so the years came and then flew by,
Caroline departed for the sweet by and by.

One quiet morning Lee opened the door,
Caroline’s sewing room was left as before,
Just as she left it before she left him,
Lee’s eyes were misty but not all that dim.

He told me on his headstone next to hers,
There’d be an empty saddle, a rope and spurs.
Someday when he crosses that great divide,
Caroline will be riding at his side.

How to Drive a Doctor Buggy

2008-09-11T10:27:00.003-06:00

Years ago, one of the local doctors in southeastern Idaho gave a talk on emergency preparedness. Among the things he mentioned to his audience of farmers, ranchers and fringe city dwellers was that when there is no access to professional medical attention, veterinary medicines, commonly available to those in his audience could be used on a human. Last week I went out to the horse pasture and discovered that the horses had had an encounter with a porcupine. Rory had only one quill in his nose, but Target had about twenty five - each one very painful. He let me pull out all but seven (with a blindfold and pliers) but then I had to take him to the vet an hour away to have the others removed. In the process he got a tetanus booster and a shot of penecillan. It all reminded me of this silly little poem I wrote some years ago, but until now never let out of the bag. For the uninitiated, there is a play on words -the photo shows a nice example of a classic doctor's buggy.

How to Drive a Doctor Buggy
by Paul Kern

Those who do have seldom confessed,
To some little known ways here out west,
Where folks are few and doctors are too,
Where livestock remedies just have to do.

Travis likes horses with a spring in their stride,
He likes ‘em to buck - it comes from inside,
He gets a charge as they charge from the chute.
His broken bones he soothes with a squirt of bute.

They say that to make a deep cut mesh,
To avoid a scar and prevent proud flesh,
A dab of fura ointment will do the trick,
Keep the flies away and don’t let ‘em stick.

And what about Windy the hired hand?
His secret is quiet as the shifting sand.
He cures his infections - this sawbones traitor,
With penicillin from the feed store refrigerator.

And that good red magic disinfectant spray,
Has healed many a gelding on many a day.
It works the same on both me and you,
Spray it on where it hurts like you’d normally do.

When Zane the bulldogger’s muscles ache,
And nothing’ll help that you’d normally take,
A swipe of Absorbine the horse stuff I mean,
Soothes and relaxes like you’ve never seen.

There’s just one more medi-ca-ment,
That for horses must be heaven sent,
But cowboys and such shouldn’t take it in,
That nasty stuff your horse hates – ivermectrin.

This range of remedies runs wide as the sky,
These old barn secrets don’t seem to die,
They work anytime - dry, damp or muggy,
But will sure enough drive your doctor buggy.

The Heifer's Last Waltz

2008-09-10T10:36:00.004-06:00

For a couple of years I rented a pasture located in downtown Sandy, Utah. It was the remnants of an old pioneer farm that had been in the owner’s family for several generations. There was a good barn and a ramshackle cooling house located over what is now a dry streambed. The remains of a pioneer era covered wagon sat next to the north side of the barn. As I would work the area, I put together a collection of old metal, iron and rusted hardware that had fallen to the ground through the years. There was certain nostalgia to it all that I enjoyed. I must have liked the place more than the escapee heifer described in this poem. Either that or she knew instinctively that her time was near and that she needed to make a break for it while she still had a chance. On the other hand, cattle just break down fences, no matter where and no matter when.

The Heifer’s Last Waltz

by Paul Kern

I still try to forget it but I don’t know how,
The hole in the fence from a Black Angus cow.
She waltzed on through and went AWOL,
Right in front of Sandy City Hall.

We parked the stock trailer next to the gate,
Fourteen police officers stood there to wait,
We mounted our horses me and Pete my son,
Atop Duke and Toby the cow bolted to run.

To the hole in the fence where the police had been,
They ran off with a yell and a raisin’ a din.
A crowd gathered ‘round with hoots and yells,
This uptown rodeo had all the whistles and bells.

It was left up to us to pen this black cow,
We had to get her into that old trailer – now,
Pete cut her off left and tailed for a bit,
I spurred Duke right and the cow threw a fit.

She charged the fence - Toby gave no ground,
Duke nipped at her flanks as he worked her around,
Toby blocked her path by the trailer and truck,
With Duke at a lope this black heifer was stuck.

Into the trailer she jumped and so ended the fun,
The waltz was over - the course had been run,
So we shut the trailer and then entered the street,
And took that heifer down to Gary’s Meat.

Where they arrange for the hooved and for the hairy,
That last rendezvous with the hamburger fairy.

On Smokey Before I Go

2008-08-27T10:29:00.008-06:00

Gary Jacobson of Loveland, Colorado will be laid to rest this Friday. (read obituary) For as long I live I will remember Gary's passing as one of the most ironic events I have ever witnessed. Gary owned a ranch in Buckhorn Canyon in the foothills west of the Ft. Collins/Loveland area and east of Rocky Mountain National Park. He was a good friend of my father and spent nearly as many hours at his bedside in the oncology unit of Poudre Valley Regional Hospital as did family members. At the most critical phase of Dad's cancer, Gary flew to Holland at his own expense and made contact with a Dutch doctor who had developed some rather unorthodox treatments for stomach cancer. He paid for the treatments and imported them and then made sure that the doctors on both sides of the Atlantic were in touch and communicating as they treated my father.

After a recent and severely debilitating round of chemotherapy, Dad had his last PET Scan during which they discovered one remaining dark spot about the size of a thumbnail. It was unclear as to whether the spot was active and malignant or not so they performed a physical biopsy. The results came back negative - the only cells making up the remaining spot were dead cancer cells. They were unable to locate any further trace of living cancer or tumors. For us, this was very good news - and for the attending oncologists as well. So they all decided to celebrate by taking a trail ride into the Colorado foothills last Saturday. The group of five consisted of Dad, Gary, two oncologists (including Dr. Brown) and a medical technician who keeps horses as well. Shortly into the ride, Gary said he was thirsty, got off his horse and took a drink of water and complained of a tightness in his chest. The medical technician put him on one of her horses and they headed back to the trail head where Gary dismounted and laid on the ground to rest. He then went into cardiac arrest in the company of competent medical personnel who did all they could to stop the heart attack in process - but in vain. He passed away there on the trail with his boots on. Gary was not the one who was supposed to die. In many ways, he gave his life for a friend and for a family of friends, who will never forget him nor his thousand kindnesses. Our heartfelt sympathies go out to his wife and children.

This poem was written after Dad's initial diagnosis before he decided to pursue treatment. We had the conversation that lead up to the poem up at the old homestead in Stringtown, Colorado. It is recorded on my CD Rimrock - Where Memories Rhyme and has been described by western entertainment critic and reviewer Rick Huff as "one of the best I've encountered depicting an old cowboy's last ride." The photo is of Dad on his horse Smokey in Cascade Canyon, Teton Range. (Be sure to click on the title of this post to read Scott Child's comment.)

On Smokey Before I Go
by Paul Kern

Eighty-five and still a horseman, been a good run these long years,
He’s owned a string of good ones, but as he reins it in he hears,
Just one last ride if at all I can, on Smokey before I go.
Doc says my days are short, I suppose he’s right – I know.

He keeps a saddle in his truck; it forks an old grain sack.
His wife says just take it in; put it up with the other tack.
Know what I would like to do? Since for today I can’t ride,
Go up to the old homestead and watch the horses hit their stride.

If I rest for a couple of days, and save up the strength I lack,
Maybe I can lift that saddle up, and throw it on his back.
For today just let me be, in cool grass just sitting down,
In the company of horses, miles away from the noise of town.

I’ll gladly trade just one good day, with horses and sky and grass,
For the chemo and the feeding tubes and clinic with walls of glass.
Cancer caught him in its snare - it came stalking an evil way,
Where some pray to heal and others just curse the day.

Eighty-five and still a horseman, been a good run these long years,
He’s owned a string of good ones, but as he reins it in he hears,
Just one last ride if at all I can, on Smokey before I go.
Doc says my days are short, I know he’s right – I know.

A Cowboy's Pay

2008-08-24T10:22:00.007-06:00

By the middle of October, all of our four children with either be married and living away, working out-of-state and living away or pursuing their education at a university. As their father I am very proud of the decisons they have made and of their numereous accomplishments, but still the same, this is a bitter-sweet time for me. It is a time. I have enjoyed our children and have taken great pleasure in watching them grow up and turn into responsible adults. Along the way we have had good times, hard times, fun times and a few bad times, but overall the ride has been a good one. Last night Peter drove off to college with his car packed with his personal stuff, KC will be doing the same later on as he moves to San Francisco to work as a business consultant. Erika - well we'll be driving her to college next week, but she insists we don't hover - just drop her off and leave, which we'll do. And Philip has been married for a while, owns his own home and has a good job. So - time for Kathie and I to figure out the rest of our lives as our kids take wing. The photo was taken some years ago on one of our family sleigh rides. KC is not in the picture as he was in Korea at the time. This poem is included on my CD Rimrock - Where Memories Rhyme.

A Cowboy’s Pay

by Paul Kern

Perhaps you’ll remember the time when they were weaned,
It takes some time for the human kind to go and break away,
But feelin’s of some twenty years come on all picked and cleaned,
And rise up high into my throat and stick – what else can I say?

Pretty soon the day-to-day becomes thoughts just memorized,
It was this way once or that way twice or was it meant to stay?
But what of the boy who took the jumps on a pony that I prized,
And left me breathless as he lifted off astride the dapple gray?

Perhaps it’s just a dusty blur those hopes of years now passed,
It’s something that I treasure and would never trade away,
But what of the boy who used to ride like it would be his last,
And worked along with no complaint in fields of fresh mown hay?

Poetic movement from his horse pure black and highly withered,
Is what I recall from the high-speed chase of cattle on that day,
But his saddle’s empty now and dry and cracked and weathered,
And he’s off a chasing his own dreams and heading on his way.

Perhaps it’s just a passing feeling or something that I dreamed,
It comes at times when I’m alone around the close of day,
But what of the girl who upon that paint sparkled as she beamed,
And broke him of his buckin’ vice like it was so much play?

Pretty soon they’ll all be gone these children we have had,
It seems they’re ridin’ flat out fast to go and make their way,
But the years we rode together have made me mighty glad,
And so we laugh when we look on back – this is a cowboy’s pay.

Gallatin Pack Trip - August 2006

2008-08-19T16:03:00.001-06:00

When the Coyote Calls Down Moonlit Dreams

2008-08-14T10:46:00.003-06:00

On August 18 Kathie and I will celebrate our 30 year anniversary. I first met my future wife when she was dating my cousin and we were freshmen college students. I was a small town kid from Idaho. She was the daughter of society folks from southern Wisconsin and northern Illinois. It took us a few years to finally get things together and begin dating, but when it happened it all went pretty fast not counting the eleven month engagement and a stray boyfriend or two that I had to neutralize along the way.

So here we are all these years later. All of our four kids will be gone in a few weeks - married, off to college or work and chasing their own dreams - leaving Kathie and I at home with time on our hands - time enough to do a little reminiscing - which is the title of an old song by the Little River Band that was plying the airwaves when we were newly married in 1978. We appropriated it as ours and now we seem to have become the very essence of that old worn out song.

Speaking of plying the airwaves, an English radio producer of Western themed broadcasts named Graham Lees included my recording of this poem, set to music (from my CD Rimrock) on his Western Hour broadcast on station HWD Radio on June 12, 2008. It was broadcast to listeners throughout the United Kingdom.

This poem is about a dream I had one night while on a horse-packing trip through the Teton Range when I was fifteen. We were camped for the night in Death Canyon. Funny thing is, it has all come true just as it came to me that night as the noisy yappy coyotes did indeed call down moonlit dreams. The photo above is of Kathie taken just below the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton National Park, where we stayed on a little excursion into Canada a couple of summers ago.

When the Coyote Calls Down Moonlit Dreams
by Paul Kern

Sleep comes fast along the trail,
Twilight, moonlight and a coyotes wail,
Echoes along the canyon wall,
Are a haunting cry and a lonesome call.

Calling tonight through the cold and clear,
To the distant past or some future year.
My eyes grow heavy; I nod off to sleep,
On a saddle blanket in the canyon deep.

When the coyote calls down moonlit dreams,
To a boy still bursting at the seams,
Asleep in the canyon ‘till the morning dew,
Dreams like this always come true.

Evening cool raised a gentle breeze,
As the horses pawed the roots of the trees,
Of the picket line standing tall and true,
The years to come came into view.

You came to me though you never knew,
We walked a while as warm breezes blew,
A seaside, a riverside, a far off place,
I saw your smile, long hair and face.

As sunrise kissed the morning dew,
I knew some day that I would find you,
And each to the other would belong.
It was all right there in the coyote’s song.

We found each other and have lived the dream,
That came beside a mountain stream.
Asleep in the canyon ‘till the morning dew,
Dreams like this always come true.

My Blue Eyed Bay

2008-07-20T10:28:00.014-06:00

I have been doing quite a bit of back-country riding into the mountains surrounding our log cabin. It is located just minutes away from the Idaho-Montana border and the continental divide. I usually keep cattle on my place as well as horses, but have had to trim back on the cattle this year owing to my father's on-going battle with cancer. He has been my right-hand man over the years, but not now. So, we enjoy the horses. Last Friday, Dad was feeling up to a ride after two months of chemo and the subsequent recovery. I took him up to a place we had not been before about ten miles away from the cabin as the crow flies. I won't say where because I'd like to keep it private, but it looks a whole lot like the Canadian Rockies. The trail is good for the most part, though it is a steady uphill climb from the valley floor. In the upper reaches, it gets rocky, steep and slick. You need good sure footed horses experienced in high mountain travel to make it to the end of the trail. Our horses deliver. I was riding my blue eyed bay, a "paint that ain't" that I broke and trained myself. He is six now and is such a prize animal. I wrote this poem when he was just a colt. Although he has thrown me a handful of times in the past, at present he is everything I ever wanted in a saddle horse - and them some. My efforts in breaking and training him have been well compensated. By the way, Dad made the ride just fine on my half draft / half paint horse Rory and was no worse for the wear - despite the rugged country we covered. (See photo below.) This poem is about gifts - I will be eternally thankful to my father for the gift of horesemanship he so freely gave me. The top photo is of me and my blue-eyed bay at trails end last Friday. Target is wearing my favorite hand made slick-fork saddle.

My Blue Eyed Bay
by Paul Kern

We did some horse tradin' just after the molt,
Kirby got old Dan and me - an unbroke colt,
When I first handled him he lingered to stay,
This was a real good sign for the blue eyed bay.

Still only a yearlin' he wasn't much use,
I just wanted a horse that'd had no abuse,
To get one I'd have to break him my way,
We'd get along fine, me and this blue eyed bay.

Months of workin' him and sackin' him out,
One step at a time each day left no doubt,
He was a good one and had a good place to stay,
I was startin' out fine with my blue eyed bay.

It took five bouts of buckin' 'fore I hit dirt,
When he finally threw me just my pride was hurt,
That was the last time he'd toss a rider away,
It all came together for my blue eyed bay.

Months passed, he grew and he learned each gait,
But to lope with a rider he preferred to wait,
It would come out in time but in his own way,
He was movin' out fast now - my blue eyed bay.

He loped first on the trail on an uphill swell,
That November mornin' it was clear as a bell,
There was more to come I could easily say,
I'd be gettin' there soon with my blue eyed bay.

A horse worth ownin' has to give satisfaction,
A good head, soft eye and a whole lot of action,
You can get all this if you're willing to pay,,
Most horses keep a' givin' like my blue eyed bay.

One holiday mornin' in the soft arena dirt,
A loose rein, no spurs and no need for a quirt,
He picked up his leads and loped circles each way,
This, a true gift from my blue eyed bay.

Now in that same spirit at any time of the year,
True gifts are those given in love without fear,
They come from the heart and in their own way,
So, here's to you - from me and my blue eyed bay!

Reese Kern - 86 and still a horseman

The Parting of the Waters

2008-07-09T10:37:00.011-06:00

I was reminded of this poem today when together with my 17 year old daughter Erika, we rode a portion of the Continental Divide Trail in Montana following the Mile Creek drainage up 36 switchbacks to the continental divide and the Idaho-Montana border in the Targhee National Forest just a few minutes from our place at the north end of Island Park, Idaho. The day was picture perfect for a back-country mountain ride a horseback. The winter snowfields on the north slope of Black Mountain are still feeding Mile Creek with abundant run-off. The narrow valley is lush and green. It is springtime in the Rockies with breath-taking wildflowers at every turn. This poem is about a different spot on the Continental Divide - one deep in the heart of the Bridger-Teton Wilderness area. There are two locations in North America where a stream follows the continental divide for a while and then splits in two - one following the Pacific drainage and the other following the Atlantic - this one in Wyoming and another in Alberta, Canada, which is accessible by car. I first visited the American "Parting of the Waters" for the first time during the fall of my fourteenth year, riding our sorrel mustang gelding Prince. It impressed me then and I continue to reflect on the significance of what I saw and felt all those years ago. I have attempted to put some of those impressions down in this poem. By the way, "The Parting of the Waters" is included on my CD "Rimrock - Where Memories Rhyme." Several individuals have purchased the CD for this track alone.

The Parting of the Waters
by Paul Kern

The parting of the waters on the divide,
Recalls our freedom to decide.
The daily decisions we have to make,
Set the very course our lives will take.

For a little distance from their source,
The waters follow the self same course,
They mix and gurgle and flow together,
Giving life to forest, field and heather.

And then abruptly they separate.
Following two paths to a different fate.
One flows east and the other west,
Both are equal but which is best?

One will follow the Missouri wide,
Then the Mississippi on the Atlantic side.
While the other pours into the Snake,
Then the Columbia on the Pacific wake.

Never again shall the twain be one,
The paths they took and the course they’ve run,
Differ so much and to such a degree -
It’s not all that different for them and me.

Friends from when my eyes were young,
Don’t come ‘round where my hat is hung.
For years they’ve not come by my door,
Nor I theirs – we’re different to the core.

Some chased women and others wine,
Some chased money - now ain’t it sublime,
That in the end none of it matters,
If inside you’ve died in shreds and tatters.

Some chose the bottle and some the fix,
They chose the city - I chose the sticks.
I ride my own trail in my personal life,
With horses and cattle and a good-hearted wife.

Give me the desert, the mountains and such,
The wild and unruly with no human touch.
Give me the hard gusting wind in my face,
That I might know myself and measure my pace.

So that when my river has finally dried,
And I meet my maker up yonder divide,
I will have followed an acceptable way,
And pour myself into His ocean to stay.

This old grainy picture of me was taken during the summer of my 15th year with a Kodak Instamatic Camera. It is interesting to compare the sign and the tress with the more recent photo at the top of this post. I am wearing a full pair of leather batwing chaps and a brass belt buckle from the Philmont Ranch in New Mexico. I am holding our mustang gelding Prince (on my right, your left) and Dad's horse, Slippers. This is the only picture we have of Prince.

Only a Cattleman Knows

2008-07-05T10:29:00.005-06:00

A couple of summers ago I jotted down all the complaints I heard from the ranchers and cowboys on several ranches in the Island Park Idaho area, including some of my own. Then, by some quirk of fate they starting to rhyme and I put them down in stanza and verse. This poem is included on my CD "Rimrock - Where Memories Rhyme" and is set to a blues guitar sequence that carries the listener through the myriad of complaining done by grown men that summer to the final punch line. The whole thing wouldn't be so funny except that every single one of the complaints listed here was actually said by someone who had to deal with the problem personally.

Only a Cattleman Knows
by Paul Kern

Give the land back to the Injuns! - I’ve been heard to cuss and say,
If the open range came under wire, it don’t seem to hold much sway.

What a holy mess! – the fences on land the State has leased,
To range-bred cattle barbed wire’s just an inconvenience to the beast.

And furthermore ya’ never know to whence the State is goin’,
If they’ll re-up your lease or not – can’t plan much without knowin’.

We found our branded bally steer down by the Seven Bar,
They say wild cattle ain’t much for herdin’ - how right they really are.

They’re wild as a March hare and four’ve died of brisket disease.
But we hazed ‘em down despite the snow – right before the freeze.

Them cowboys won’t get off their horse and go and do some work,
If they ain’t dodgin’ duty - they’re findin’ somethin’ else to shirk.

I hold it to them the broken fences and the cattle we found dead.
Their rope burn scars on the sorrel mare are healed - but still are red.

Those squatters on the Bureau’s land just don’t respect a herd,
Due to the damage they inflict - a loss of eighteen head occurred.

Never to be found a horseback, they’ve been run off through the trees,
The squatters broke the fences down - and run them o’er with ATVs.

At preg checkin’ time an open heifer broke loose and found her bull,
In workin’ cattle – to stay on top - there’s hardly time to lull.

Hanged if on that parcel I’m dickerin’ on, they ain’t upped the price,
I thought we’d made a deal but now they say – “Not yet, no dice!”

Why, I figgered we had settled things - again and once‘n fer all.
Well I’m as mad as spit and more’n likely - won’t move on it this fall.

That Smoky turned out a good cow horse he only bucks up in the cold,
But calms pert much when lunged a bit - after which he’s good as gold.

But the contract price per live-weight pound has turned out pretty fair,
So next spring when things get up and rollin’ – ya’ bet that I’ll be there.

In life’s remuda there’re tamer mounts, but a green broke one I chose,
For I sure do relish a good complaint - as only a cattleman knows.

Up Alaska Basin Way

2008-07-03T10:42:00.002-06:00

I first started riding the backcountry when I was eight years old. When you start at that early age it’s amazing how easy it is to rack up forty years since the last time you went someplace. I visited Sunset Lake with my family on my first backcountry horse trip as a young boy. This poem is a story of two visits to the same place four decades apart. So often there is no going back because of too many changes or so-called improvements. The places you once loved have either been run over or have been all shot to pieces. Once in every other blue moon or so, it happens that the place has not changed and is still the same. When this rarity happens, it is gratifying to the soul. Sunset Lake is the same now as it was then – a bewitching natural reflecting pool high in the Tetons. This poem follows an ancient literary form known as chiasm. It is verse, which is structurally a mirror image of itself – not too different from Sunset Lake.

Up Alaska Basin Way
by Paul Kern

Up Alaska Basin way,
Then north to Hurricane Pass,
You’ll find the trail to a crystal lake,
Still and smooth as glass.

Forty years have come and gone,
Since packhorses, family and friends,
Made camp on the rocky shore,
Of Sunset Lake where the sky begins.

As the alpine lake touched the sky,
Vespers glowing of red and orange,
Cast their spell upon the eye.

As it was then so is it now.

Lakeshore rocks of years gone by,
Untouched today by father time,
Anchor still water to the sky.

Forty years had come and gone,
We rode good horses on a rocky ride,
My father, my son and I returned,
To Sunset Lake on the Idaho side.

Up Alaska Basin way,
Then north to Hurricane Pass,
We followed the trail to a crystal lake,
Still as smooth as glass.

The Legend of the Yellowstone Stage

2008-07-02T10:37:00.001-06:00

This poem describes a place that we have come to love over the years, it is about 75 miles south-east of our place in Island Park – Hidden Corral -on the north slope of the Tetons in the Jedediah Smith Wilderness Area. Though legend has it that this natural enclosure served as an outlaw hideout, there is no documentary evidence to substantiate that claim. There were numerous hold-ups of passenger stagecoaches in Yellowstone Park between 1886 and 1912. These robberies were kept hushed up by the government so as not to scare off tourists to the Park. They are described in Holdups of the Yellowstone Stage. One of the most daring getaways brought the bandits southward out of the Park, but not all the way to Hidden (or Outlaw) Corral. Other than the actual place and the fact the there were numerous hold ups of Yellowstone stagecoaches, the rest of this poem is pure fiction. Or is it?

The Legend of the Yellowstone Stage
by Paul Kern

There is a place a few of us know,
Six months a year it’s free from snow,
Closed in around by a mountain wall,
Outlaw Corral this place we call.

One way in with no back and forth,
Avoid the south as well as the north,
To the south rises dead horse pass,
The northern ridge is a rocky mass.

Once you’re there it’s best to stay,
Where horses graze on wild grass hay.
This valley, a corral has ever been called,
Many an outlaw over the cliffs has crawled.

To guard the gap that guards the val,
Of the hideout called Outlaw Corral,
From a mounted posse riding the sage,
To catch the thieves of the Yellowstone Stage.

A stagecoach was held up just west of the Park,
By outlaws whose bite was worse than their bark,
They stole everything and then turned to run,
On fast horses of color, pinto and dunn.

Riding south each on a swift mounted beast,
At Fall River and beyond they all headed east.
Hard through the river bottoms and shoal,
Toward the rendezvous camp of Pierre’s Hole.

Down in the valley at the county seat,
The sheriff’s posse was called up to meet;
Eight men at least twenty years of age,
To catch the thieves of the Yellowstone Stage.

The sheriff’s posse knew too well,
That for these renegade robbers to jail,
They had to track them through thick and thin,
From dawn till dusk before the mist set in.

Along the river and north up the draw,
Through lodge pole pines rode the men of the law,
Into the thickets and through the sage,
To catch the thieves of the Yellowstone Stage.

As far as we know for the story they tell,
Of the posse, one rider fell dead near Sawtell,
The rest rode on toward the high granite walls,
Of Outlaw Corral where the coyote calls.

The robbers had prepared for the worst,
From a valley wide and flat at first,
Eight miles of trail that came to narrow,
Testing man and horse; nerve and marrow.

The trail grows narrow, wet, steep and dark,
Over slabs of granite iron horseshoes spark,
Then through the mud and over the snow,
Slick from the spray of the torrent below.

And from the cliffs towering above,
A gun sight and trigger under an outlaw glove,
Could easily be trained on a approaching rider,
No matter the size of the fight in the fighter.

The deputies seven didn’t stand a chance,
Of getting the robbers who’d taken this stance,
Not enough paycheck in a posse man’s wage,
To bring in the thieves of the Yellowstone Stage.

The posse was cornered; they’d run out of cover,
An angel of death above them did hover,
Or was it the devil, hell bent on revenge,
For the good that they’d done for family and friends?

Each one in his turn fell slumped to the brown,
Or they panicked; turned tail and headed on down,
The narrow pass at breakneck speed.
For a narrow escape on a wild-eyed steed.

And so they went free those bandits of yore,
With a handful of shots from a lever action bore.
The booty they buried somewhere down in the sage,
The booty from the hold-up of the Yellowstone Stage.

And now there were five in search of the sixth,
Who’d taken a bullet somewhere up in the sticks,
Just north of Sawtell and south of the lake,
Where forever he haunts for his eternal fate.

Fifty years to the day since he fell to the ground,
A man with old clothes and worn hat was found,
By a young elk hunter just coming of age;
Said he hunted the thieves of the Yellowstone Stage.

The five who fell on that fateful trail,
Will never hear their story to tell,
Or find their partner who’d fallen before,
When they went knocking on heavens door.

When sand cranes rise in sudden flight,
When the mountains thunder on a moonless night,
There rides a ghost posse from a bygone age,
Tracking the thieves of the Yellowstone Stage.

He Should'a Wore His Chaps That Day

2008-07-01T08:00:00.008-06:00

During my years at Central Junior High School in Idaho Falls, Idaho (1967-70) I sang in the school choir. I sat in the back with my friends and for the most part enjoyed the experience of rattling the rafters as we learned our music. During class time, one of the kids would usually sneak in a saddle and tack catalog. It was passed around and was usually given back to its owner tattered, dog-eared and worn. I well remember gazing longingly at a pair of buckskin suede chaps (pron. SHaps) that zippered shut on the sides. I knew I didn’t have the money for them, so I would just day-dream about them. Seemed to make the class go faster. Years later I acquired my own pair, which I still wear. They not only protect my legs from the cold, brush, tree limbs and such, but also shield the inside of my knees from chaffing on the saddle during a trot, lope or a full galloping run. It is usually a good idea – at least for me – to wear chaps during a ride in the backcountry. Sometimes you never know what you’re getting into when you hit the trail. This happened to my father along Targhee creek near the Idaho – Montana border.

He Should'a Wore His Chaps That Day

by Paul Kern

He should’a wore his chaps that day,
Just wanting to get on his way,
Riding high through tall timber,
Crisp fall day and feeling limber.

A tree was stretching out to grab,
To scratch and cut and poke and jab,
It grabbed him as it cut his calf;
Tore it wide in the aftermath.

He then roped his calf back together,
And rode back in on saddle leather.
Old sawbones closed the hole to stay.
He wears his chaps now every day.

The Bar-D Roundup Vol. 3

2008-06-27T15:58:00.006-06:00

One of the best collections of cowboy poetry ever produced is the Bar-D Roundup Vol. 3. The overall tone of the volume is a delightful mix of masterful renditions of contemporary and classic poetry. Follow this link HERE for reviews, airplay information and ordering instructions. You will not want to miss out on this recording. (I guess I should add that I have a track on the recording "At Codding's Place" just after D.W. Groethe's "My Father's Horses" which is one of my all-time favorites.)

When on the Trail a Griz' You Meet

2008-06-01T10:45:00.015-06:00

Yesterday I rode out in the early morning with a group of riders (code for a motley group of cowboys, herders and horsemen) to visit the gravesite of the most famous and notorious of all grizzly bears to have ever roamed the backcountry of Utah - Old Ephraim. Old Ephraim was an outlaw bear who was trapped and killed in 1923 after a long career of terrorizing the stockmen of Cache Valley.

We reached the gravesite after some pretty rough cross-country riding over the "Old Ephraim Cuttoff". In 1966 or so local Boy Scouts and their leaders erected a stone monument to Old Ephraim. We found the place. In that neck of the woods (the rugged mountains south of Logan Canyon), they say to bring your sleeping bag, because you will probably get lost. We didn't and made it back out in good order. A complete recounting of the tale is found right below the poem.

I first heard this story from my grandfather during deer hunting trips in Franklin Basin, just east of Preston, Idaho, which is located in northern Cache Valley. We have a familial connection to this fabled episode of the opening of the West. My great uncle, Ed Sommers (married to my grandmother's sister Zelda) ran one of the largest herds of sheep in Cache Valley and surrounding mountains from the turn of the 20th century and on through to the Great Depression. He hired his sons (and others including my father Reese Kern) Ken Sommers and Fred Sommers to herd the sheep in the mountains during the summer months. The night when Fred Clark trapped and killed Old Ephraim, Fred Sommers was camped nearby with the family herd. He was only 13 or 14 years old at the time but reported that the human ear has never heard such fury as came from Old Ephraim that night. It echoed through the canyons and trees creating such a hellish commotion never to be forgotten. Fred was one of the first on the scene. He later made the rounds telling the tale of Old Ephraim to rapt audiences.

I wrote this poem several years ago about a personal encounter with a large silver tipped grizzly bear on the trail in the Bridger Teton Wilderness Area, south of Yellowstone National Park. In the backcountry of Idaho and Wyoming you have to be prepared for encounters with bears. I have lost count of all the bears that I have come across in the mountains. There are many ways to take care of yourself during such an encounter ranging from avoidance to the use of firearms to the use of pepper spray to playing dead if you have to. Sometimes there is more to worry about than just the bear - your horse for instance.

When On The Trail a Griz’ You Meet
by Paul Kern

A grizzly on the trail we met,
Headed downhill so it couldn’t get,
A full head of steam and a running start,
To grab us and then to pull us apart.

But it probably wouldn’t have anyway,
In front of the bear stood that day,
Three mounted horses whose footfall,
Gave no clue that we were human at all.

We stood there and faced off each other,
Twenty yards 'tween bear 'n boot leather,
When the silver tipped griz’ finished countin’,
It then turned and headed up the mountain.

You see, it’s that shuffling biped booted gait,
Of a human that makes hair stand up straight,
On the backs of the necks of the forest clan,
Who run from it as fast as they can.

The cleated soles and stumbling sound,
Travel the area with a constant pound,
Much too heavy for the weight of the walker,
Compared to the paws of a forest stalker.

But put that biped on the back of a horse,
And travel across a mountain course,
Then much to your own disbelief,
The critters don’t run away like a thief.

The closer you get the more curious they are,
They just want to see this thing from afar,
So they stand there lookin’ and waitin,
Calm and collected with no trepidation.

It’s the beast that’s all covered with tack,
The one who’s withers and saddle back,
Are down below and between your legs,
He’s nervous as heck and walkin’ on eggs.

Meetin’ up with these curious creatures,
With such odd lookin’ unhorse features,
No flowing tails nor matching manes,
In the face of danger his courage wanes.

Don’t worry ‘bout that bear you meet,
Standing on the trail on all four feet,
The six-footed creature he sees through his eyes -
Your horse - could give you a big surprise.

Move fast he thinks, run down the trail,
Away from the grizzly – quick turn tail.
Somethin’ could come loose inside of his head,
You’re riding your very own hazard instead.

So lower your heels and shorten your reins,
Your buddy the horse feels in his veins,
To make a dash away from the bruin,
His claws, his teeth and most certain ruin.

Just stay calm on that saddletree,
Stay together in your group of three,
Shorten the reins and take a good seat,
When on the trail a griz’ you meet.

The Story of Old Efphraim
by Newell J. Crookston

PREFACE
Old Ephraim and Frank Clark were truly great characters who lived and died in this area. In writing this story about them it is my purpose to present the facts in such a way that they will interest the young folk, especially the Boy Scouts of the Cache Valley Council; with the hope it will help preserve the story and keep these rugged individuals alive in the hearts and minds of those who read it, for many years to come.

The information is taken from a copy of the account written by Mr. Clark at the request of Viola Schantz, Zoologist Branch of Wildlife Service, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., as published in the Herald Journal, Tuesday, February 24, 1953, and from hearing Mr. Clark tell the story to groups of Boy Scouts and their leaders around a campfire not far from Ephraim’s grave, also from Henry Aebischer who went with the group and got Ephraim’s head.

Sincere appreciation is expressed to Marianna C. Israelsen who drew the sketch of the bear.

Frank Clark was a little discouraged and perhaps somewhat disgusted when he arrived at his trap that he had set in the wallow a day or two ago. It had been removed from the muddy water and placed upon the bank. The huge tracks of the giant bear were plainly visible in the dust around the pool. Clark knew it was Old Ephraim who had taken the trap out of the wallow so he could enjoy his mud bath without the danger of getting caught in it. He had been doing this all along for several summers, each time removing the trap without setting it off. This great grizzly had been given the name of Ephraim because of his enormous size and prodigious nature. As Clark stood there looking at the trap and wallow he said to himself, “Sometime I will outsmart that old bear and will catch him.” This was the morning of August 22, 1923.

Mr. Clark’s home was on Cherry Creek near Malad, Idaho. He was a quiet sort of a fellow, not much given to talking. I suppose that is because he spent so much time alone. At his sheep camp he seldom had a visitor or saw a newspaper during the entire summer. The camp mover would come there about every six or eight days. He would bring some grub, as they called it, and move the camp to a new spot. As they moved to higher areas they left the camp wagon and used a tent for shelter. It would be set up near a spring or a stream of clear water. Mr. Clark knew these hills like a preacher knows the Bible. There was not a trail, spring or creek that he was not acquainted with. He was a very versatile man, as were other sheep-herders of that day. They had to do their cooking, take care of their clothing, be their own doctor in case of an accident or of sickness, shoe the horses and do many other things that require training and skill, as one can well imagine. He was not entirely alone however. There were three things that were always with him. His horse, his dog and his gun.

There were always tow or three horses and dogs around the camp. The horses were for transportation and were used every day, as he rounded up the sheep to keep them from spreading out too far and moving them onto good feed. One or two dogs always went along with him to help with the job. The others would remain at camp. They took turns with the work, as did the horses. The gun was carried in a scabbard on the saddle and was used mostly to kill marauding wild animals that ventured near the sheep. Mr. Clark carried a .25-35 rifle, which would hold six or eight bullets. He was an expert shot.

When Mr. Clark came to this area July 13, 1911 to herd sheep it was considered the worst bear infested area in Utah. Black and brown bear were numerous and each year a number of them were trapped and killed, but not Old Ephraim, he was a little too clever. Only one man had ever actually seen him. That was Mr. Clark’s pal Sam Kemp from Portage, Utah. Sam was tending sheep in this area the summer of 1913. One morning Sam came almost face to face with Ephraim. As the huge bear rose up on his hind legs, Sam became so frightened and unnerved that he backed slowly away. He was fully armed but could not and dared not fire a shot. So they parted in a friendly manner, going in opposite directions.

This great king of Cache National Forest was widely known. His nightly killings had been going on for years. His activities were first observed in the north end of the forest near Soda Springs, Idaho. Over the years he drifted south as far as Weber County, but for the past ten or twelve years he made his home in the upper areas of the right hand fork of Logan Canyon, Elk Valley and Temple Fork. He had made his wallow about half way up a hollow where water from a spring trickles down the ravine. He would make his visits to the sheep herds for meat and return to the wallow about every six days. Sometimes he would stay around there for two or three days in the weather was hot.

Bears feed on a variety of wild fruits, pinion nuts, rodents and fish. They also like to eat grass and clover, and other green plants; in fact, they will eat almost any kind of food, but once they get a taste of a cow or sheep and learned how easy they are to get, they are not content to leave them alone. Old Ephraim could break the back of a cow or elk with a single blow of his huge paw, but preferred to kill sheep rather than cows.

Bears can’t see very far, but do have a very keen sense of smell and can hear fairly well. They can run fast, too. They can easily out run a horse in the woods. They locate the sheep herds as soon as they come onto the range, and follow them all summer, killing sheep whenever they like. They don’t always wait until it gets dark. They like to kill at daybreak as the sheep start to graze. After they have eaten what they want, coyotes come along and clean up the rest leaving a few scraps for the birds.

Frank Clark was not afraid of bears. He had killed forty-three in the thirty-four years he had spent on Cache National Forest. Government trappers were trapping in his area, trying to get rid of some of the bears. They were getting too numerous and were killing a large number of sheep every summer. Mr. Clear counted one hundred and fifty dead sheep the first summer he came here. The bears were bad killers and scared the herders until they would not stay on the job. The sheep owners were having a hard time getting men to go up there to tend the sheep. Just the day before Mr. Clark went to his trap, eight sheep had been killed in the Reese herd. The bears were not content to ill one or two sheep and eat them, but would run through the herd and knock over as many as they could hit, then take own or two and go.

Even though Clark was discouraged, he was going to keep on trying to catch Ephraim. He put the trap back into the wallow, covered his tracks, also the log chain; then went back to his camp which was about a mile down the hollow near the head of the right fork of Logan Canyon. He knew Old Ephraim would be killing more sheep and would return again to his allow and maybe step into the trap.

The next morning Clark went to the bear wallow to see if anything had happened. There was the trap upon the bank again. This time, however, it had been spring but it didn’t catch the bear. It must have made him suspicious because he had dug a new pool below the other one and drained some water into it. He had taken his bath in it and gone on his way rejoicing. It seems like in the hot August days he wanted to bath every night. It was strange to Clark that an animal as large as him could keep out of sight in the day time. In all these years he had been seen only once. His large tracks were easily seen where he had gone in and out of the pool, so there was no doubt in Clark’s mind who removed the trap and made the new wallow. Clark wasn’t about to give up and decided to make another try at catching him. He set the huge trap again and put it into the new wallow. He stirred the mud good—let it settle over the trap, then covered the log chain and log which was on the outside of the pool attached to the far end of the chain. The log was about one foot in diameter and nine feet long—heavy enough that the bear could drag it if he got caught in the trap. Trappers do not attach the chain of a trap to a solid object because in such a case the bear, if caught in the trap, would chew his foot off or break it off at the jaws of the trap. Clark then got some willows and made a brush with which he removed his tracks from around the pool and made the place look like it had not been disturbed, then went about tending the sheep.

The night of August twenty-third was a beautiful starry night. After supper as Clark sat alone gazing at millions of bright stars so familiar to him in his outdoor life, he could hear the tinkling of bells on the necks of the horses as they were feeding in the meadows and on the hillsides nearby, and now and then the sad call of the lonely coyote—all else was still. The sheep had bedded down for the night, the birds had gone to rest and his dogs were curled up on saddle blankets under the sheep wagon. It was getting late so Clark went to bed. He had been to sleep about an hour or two when he was awakened by a strange sound up the hollow. It was an awful roar and screams mingled with pain and misery. It would ring around the hills and between screams it seemed like everything in the hills was listening for the next roar. He tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t.

Clark didn’t know that Ephraim had gone to his new wallow and in a moment of carelessness had stepped on the trigger of the trap. The mighty jaws of the steel trap had snapped shut on his right leg with viselike grip. Ephraim roared, jumped out of the wallow and started to run. He was terrified when the chain that was fastened to the trap and log stopped him. Old time bear hunters say there is nothing that will enrage a grizzly bear so much as to be caught and held in a trap. The next similar situation is when a mother grizzly is defending her cubs when they are in danger. The enraged Ephraim fought and gnawed at the trap and chain as he dragged the log down the hollow. Finally the log caught between some trees and held him fast. He roared and plunged and fought will all his savage fury. The jaw as of the great trap held his leg in its solid grip. He could not get it off, so started to work on the chain. He followed it to the log and tried to break it loose, but it was fastened securely. There was a ring on the end of the chain and the chain had but put thought it as it had been placed around the log. Ephraim bit at the ring, twisting, crushing and turning until it broke in two. His mouth was bleeding and one of his great teeth was broken off. Now he was free from the log, he started down the hollow again. He was badly hurt—he had been tricked by man and he was going to get revenge.

It is written that the grizzly bear in his primitive state was a very peaceful animal—one who would not start a fight, but when he got into one would fight to the finish. Over the years, man with his rifle has changed the nature of the grizzly and made him the most ferocious fighter of all animals. They all fear him and keep out of his way.

Ephraim bit at the trap and chain but could not get free from its powerful grip, the more he tore at the trap the more severe the pain became. He was raging mad. He knew where Clark’s camp was. He had seen it many times and seemed to know it was Clark who set the trap for him and he was going there and fight it out with him. He screamed with pain and roared with anger as he smashed through the trees and brush in the darkness of the night.

After listening to the roaring and screaming for some time, Clark thought it might be a horse down. They make an awful noise in their agony when they get down. He put on his shoes, got his rifle and in his underwear went up the trail about three or four hundred yards. He hadn’t gone far when he realized that Ephraim had got caught in the trap and was coming down the hollow. The roaring had stopped for a few minutes as Clark went on up the trail. He stopped when the roaring stared again. Ephraim was now between him and his camp, down in the wash in the brush. Clark had walked within about ten feet of him as he was going up the trail. Clark was now shaking from fear and cold—mostly fear. For once he was really scared. He had killed many bears, but this was different. This was a fierce raging grizzly—the largest one ever seen in this country, and it was dark. He was sure there were seven cartridges in his .25-35—all steel balls. What should he do now? Both sides of the hollow were covered with brush. He couldn’t get off the trail in the darkness, so decided to keep quiet and listen to the animal the rest of the night.

Daylight at last and Clark plenty mad went down where he last heard the bear. It was under some willows in a wash. Clark couldn’t see him very well so he got a pole and tried to poke him out. He slipped away and went down near the camp and hid in a patch of willows. Clark went down there and got sight of a part of him and took a shot at very close range. Ephraim rose up in all his greatness—nine feet and eleven inches with the twenty-three pound bear trap clamped on his right foot and the fourteen foot log chain would around his leg held high above his head. His back was toward Clark, the trap sill above his head. He turned around and started for Clark. When he got about ten feel away Clark fired. He staggered back a little—another shot, again he staggered—three more shots and Ephraim still on his hind feet with the trap and chain held above his head. There was a three or for foot bank between him and Clark. When Ephraim came to it he turned around and walked up the creek about fifteen or twenty feet to a place where a trail crossed the creek. Clark thought Ephraim had had enough and was going away, but not so, for him the battle was still on and he was looking for a way to get to Clark. He came up out of the brush and onto the trail that Clark was on. Clark was filled with amazement as he got his first view of the entire body of the great bear. He appeared to be at least twelve feel tall with the trap held high above his head. His right leg, head, neck and breast were smeared with blood from the wounds of his mouth and foot and the six balls of steel that entered his body. Clark could see blood squirting from his nostrils at each breath and blood and foam dripping from his snarling open mouth as he started for him. He had never before backed away from a bear, but this blood smeared charging monster was too much for him. He stared to step back and caught his heel on some brush and fell flat on his back. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could and started down the trail with Old Ephraim close behind. As he rounded a turn he heard his dog Jennie barking. It had appeared at the scene for the first time and was biting at the bear’s heels. Bears don’t like dogs and Ephraim stopped to fight him. Clark burned back and urged the dog on. As Ephraim turned to hit the dog, Clark stepped up as close as he dare and fired the remaining shot into the back of the bear’s head, with a prayer in his heart that it would finish him. It did. The massive form of the great beast fell forward, rolled a little and hit the ground with a thud only a short distance from Clark. A strange, faint, sick feeling came over him. His knees were shaking and buckled as he sat down beside the trail and watched a great spirit depart from a great body. It seemed like a long time, finally Ephraim’s head raised just a little, looked Clark in the eyes and fell to the ground again and all was still.

Was Clark happy? No, he was not happy—only thankful it was all over. He decided then and there he would never kill another bear and he never did.

Mr. Clark now had an urgent desire to see a human being, so went to his camp, dressed, got a rope and went to find his horses which had been frightened away by the terrifying roaring during the night. He want on and on—finally finding one horse on its back in a wash with its hind foot caught in the hobbles that were on his front feet. He removed the hobbles and got the horse on its feet then rode to Sheep Creek to the camp of Joe Brown and had breakfast with him. He then told Joe about his battle with Old Ephraim and asked him to go back there with him.

When they got to Ephraim, Joe was not about to get off his horse, but finally did after Clark had assured him the bear was dead. He measured, nine feet, eleven inches. They estimated him to weigh well over 1000 pounds. They removed the trap and skinned the bear, leaving the head on the body. The hide was almost an inch thick. Clark took it to his camp. Later on he gave the claws away as souvenirs. They tried to drag the body away from the creek but couldn’t, so covered it with brush and set fire to it. For three days Clark continued to burn the body then burred what was left of it.

The news of the killing of this great grizzly, the last one known in these parts soon spread from sheep camp to sheep camp, and the herders rejoiced in the fact that they would not have to worry about him any more.

Dr. George R. Hill, who was Scoutmaster of Troop Five of Logan, heard about Ephraim being killed and reported the incident to the Smithsonian Institution at Washington D. C., indicating that the bear was a very large grizzly. The officials at the Institution doubted that the bear was a grizzly and offered twenty-five dollars for its head if it proved to be a grizzly. They maintained that there had been a few grizzly bears in this area many years ago, but they had long since left.

Dr. Hill suggested to his scouts that they get the head and send it to the Institution. They were all eager to go. He got a map from the Forest Service and took it to Mr. Clark who marked a cross on it indicating where the grave was located. Preparation for the excursion was made and they were on their way about the middle of October. The group included Henry Aebischer, Alma Burgoyne, Harold Rosengreen, Lester Dunford, Fred Hodgson, Henry Daines, Herbert May, Horace Bunce, Ezra Cardon, J. Clare Hayward, Ivan Burgoyne, Jack McGree and probably others, with the leader, Dr. Hill. They camped at the Scout Cabin at the mouth of Cowley Canyon and left for the grave early the next morning. They went up Box Canyon, which appeared on the map to be the shortest, but proved to be the most difficult route. By mid-morning it started to rain and snow and got quite cold. Some of the boys weren’t very anxious to continue the trip. They finally arrived at the hollow about one-half mile above the mouth of Long Hollow. Dr. Hill soon located the mound and they began digging. They had with them a pick and shovel and a box to put the head in. The grave wasn’t very deep and they soon found the body and removed the head. The hair on one side had been burned a little; otherwise it was in good condition. The odor however was anything but pleasant. Some of the boys wanted a vertebra to make into a neckerchief slide so they removed part of the spinal column and took it with them. After filling the grave, they took the head, which was large enough to fill a bushel basket, and put it into a box and it was carried to camp by Dr. Hill and the boys. He took it to his chemistry lab at the college where he cleaned it up and prepared it for shipment and sent it to the Smithsonian Institution where it now rests. The twenty-five dollars was subsequently received and used by the Scouts.

A rock monument has been placed at Ephraim’s grave designating the time of his death and other facts about him. Many scouts visit the spot each year. They love to hear the story of this great grizzly.

Links for more information and photos of Old Ephraim's skull:

http://library.usu.edu/Specol/ephraim.html
http://www.onlineutah.com/oldephraimpics1.shtml

Of Kith and Kin

2008-05-23T10:13:00.017-06:00

It is Memorial Day weekend, so I thought this poem might be appropriate. A while ago, a fellow named Clayton Mascaro wrote and asked me to write a poem for his deceased father, Joe. The Mascaro family was a very prominent ranching and rodeo stock family in the Salt Lake valley for many years. Clayton's uncle Jim, who recently passed away as well ran the rodeo stock, to include bucking horses. I remember one afternoon, I was out in Herriman looking to buy horses and stopped in at the Mascaros'. I noticed a corral full of well tended healthy and very athletic horses that quite simply - caught my eye. I just had to stop out of curiosity and spent the next twenty minutes or so with Jim Mascaro just talking about his horses, their bucking talent and rodeo. A nicer more affable cowboy you could never meet. I was honored when Clayton responded to my poetry and asked me to write something for his Dad. This is what he wrote:

My name is Clayton Mascaro. I have been reading your poems and thought they were very good. My father passed away in January of this year. He was born in 1933 in and grew up in Rose Canyon, in Herriman, Utah. This was a family ranch that raised cattle, goats, and rodeo stock. He owned his own trucking business for 42 yrs. He ran a large herd of sheep. He farmed and loved his family. He was my employer, friend, confidant, and father for 55 years. We rode horses together, ran the trucks together, repaired them together. Chased horses, sheep, etc. together. His passing has left a great void in my life. He is greatly missed.

Would it be possible to write a poem about Joe Mascaro for me to be displayed at his grave site every year in lieu of flowers? How much would the cost be to do such a thing? There is no intention of publishing it for any reason. I just think that he would appreciate such a jester as this, being so personal, just for him, one of a kind.

Thank you for your consideration.
Clayton Mascaro

This is the resulting poem in honor of Joe Mascaro.

Of Kith and Kin
In Memorium - Joe Mascaro
By Paul Kern

I know that you're not down there,
In the willows of the Yellow Fork,
In the shallows of the Canyon of the Rose -
Where quakies stand and trails there bend and twist,
As they snake up to the air.

The long years flew on by somewhere,
In the squinting of a sunburned eye,
In hearts of kin who knew both horse and tack,
Where we ranched and rode and rattlers hissed,
And our mounts kicked up the air.

I know you know that it’s still here,
Your kith and kin and your old ways,
You passed them on before you passed away -
Where we roped and rode and rodeoed,
And the sand blew in our hair.

The years went drifting by somewhere,
In the sifting dust of my mind’s eye,
In souls of kith and kin who can’t forget,
Where cowboys go beyond the great divide,
As they ride off in thin air.

It seems at times that you're still up there,
In the cedars of the grease-rock rim,
In the sagebrush of the Canyon of the Rose -
Where it’s slick and steep I feel you by my side,
And it trails me out somewhere.

Thank you very much for the poem. I really do like it and appreciate it very much. It fits him perfectly. If there is anything that I can do for you don't hesitate to call on me. Again, thank you. (There was no charge.)

When the Hurtin's Over

2008-05-18T10:46:00.006-06:00

We have had a good winter as far as snow pack and water is concerned. The ground has been saturated for a few months and has given new growth to both the grass and the alfalfa in our fields. Springtime growth can be the death knell for horses if they are turned loose to graze a steady diet of rich, lush vegetation after spending the winter on dried hay. Nutrients, proteins and nitrogen all run together in the greenery causing a potential threat of founder in horses if they are not introduced to it gradually.

So – What is founder and what’s the big deal? Founder, also called laminitis occurs when a horse’s hoof basically overheats and comes apart. The hoof wall becomes detached and the main internal bone of the hoof, the coffin bone rotates downward causing extreme pain effectively ending the useful life of the affected horse. Founder is caused by a variety of things, but in this case, it can be caused by the high levels of nutrients in springtime plants – such as nitrogen. These excess chemicals descend into the hoof and become trapped in part owing to the limited circulatory action in the hoof. They put out heat causing the internal tissue to swell at the same time being trapped within the rigid structure of the hoof wall. Something has to give – the supporting laminae come apart and the coffin bone drops. Founder occurs and the useful life of the horse is essentially over. At this point the most humane thing to do is to put him down and end the extreme pain and suffering.

It is important that a horse owner be vigilant against this problem in the spring and then later in the fall with new growth grass. Still the same, the animals want the fresh greenery and will go to great lengths to get at it - including jumping fences as was the cse in this poem. I have resorted to the use of a double electric fence that puts out a whopping 16 volts of shock to keep my horses in the paddock where I manage their feed during the spring.

This poem is about Dan (seen in the photo) – a quarter horse I used to own and his attempt to break out and gorge himself on the new growth. I was not using an electric fence at the time – now many years ago. If I had been, this episode may never have happened. By the way, Dan is also the subject of my poem "Battle of Britchin'"

When the Hurtin’s Over

by Paul Kern

When the hurtin’s over and the pain’s all done,
Your limp is gone and you’ve got back your run.
When the healin’ gives you back your lope,
Your eyes will flash with a spark of hope.

You’ll forget that rusty old t-post,
And about the jump that hurt the most,
You missed the jump; it went through your hide.
The hole it made went deep inside.

Somehow you did it for your own sake,
You pulled off of that metal stake,
And managed to finally cross that fence.
What happened to your good horse sense?

Spring grass on the other side,
Was way too temptin’ for your pride,
Dried hay today? Don’t care if it’s clean.
I’ll take what’s there - it’s fresh and green.

So up you rose into the air,
The fence below became your snare.
We found you outside the gate,
Head down and hurt but not too late.

You spent lonesome days inside a stall,
No chance to lay, no chance to fall,
Just stand there straight and let it heal,
A horse feels pain – it’s just as real.

You lost your standin’ in the herd,
Once you got out, once you were cured,
You had to give up your place,
To that palomino with the bally face.

But the hurtin’s over and the pain’s all done,
Your limp is gone and you’ve got back your run.
The healin’ gave you back your lope,
Your eyes flash again with a spark of hope.

Indian Petroglyphs on Stansbury Island

2008-04-27T22:32:00.007-06:00

There are few things I enjoy more than riding out along some long forgotten trail somewhere in our western hills. The ideal day will be sunny but a little on the chilly side with a slight wind coming over a lake or river or down a draw. On a day like that, horses are at their best – as far as I am concerned. The chill in the air adds a touch of spring to their step and they tend to move out briskly. A little breeze on the wing keeps their attention alert and ears perked up trying to listen for every little thing. Such a day was last Saturday when a small group of horsemen headed out for the ancient Indian petroglyphs along the rimrock of Stansbury Island in the Great Salt Lake. We were guided by Duke North, Chief Deputy Sheriff of Tooele Country, who has patrolled the island range for years.

I rode my horse Target, a registered paint (Classy Bar Link is his registered name) – even though he is a solid blood bay. I chose Target as a yearling because of his well formed hip. Horses get their propulsion and subsequent speed from their rear legs. Fast horses have well formed hips. Target is no exception. I first realized just how fast he is when he started keeping pace with the race horses as they were being exercised at our county equestrian park and race track.

With the cool temperature on Saturday morning, Target was literally chomping at the bit ready to take off. When I gave him the go, we ran and loped leaving the rest of the horses and riders far behind. He was able to keep it up most of the day, with a little rest during the lunch break, where he stood motionless in hobbles for an hour. Target is a very well mannered horse with excellent ground manners, loves people and has a winning personality. He just likes speed and it is a little deceptive because his movement is so smooth that the rider (me) doesn’t realize just how fast he is going until somebody says something or until you all of a sudden look around and realize you are alone.

At any rate, we all got to the rimrock ridge where the petroglyphs are located. Deputy North pointed a few of them out and showed where more were to be seen along the ridge through the quartzite outcropping of rimrock. We then followed the ancient artwork on horseback up the ridge. Along the way we stopped to admire sketches of people, animals, snakes, fish, stars, the earth, the sun, the moon and what looked to be extraterrestrial beings. The glyphs ended at a medicine wheel arrangement of stones at the top of the ridge. Certainly this place had some sort of ceremonial significance to the proto-Shoshoni who inhabited the Great Basin 10,000 years ago.

I have been in the great art museums of Paris on many occasions – The Louvre, the Museum of Modern Art, L’Orangerie and have even visited Monet’s home as well as hung around the artsy town of Barbizon at the edge of the forest of Fontainbleu – admiring the great masterpieces of western civilization, but until last Saturday, I have seldom had the experience of coming face to face with traces of humanity and evidence of their existence on that very spot dating back 10,000 years. It is a feeling of wonderment and awe but also of great personal insignificance – thinking that if you don’t “get it all down before she goes” there may never be a record or a trace of your life on this planet when you go.

This photo in this post is of the petroglyphs along the rimrock of Stansbury Island. Years ago, I wrote a poem called “Rimrock” which has become the title of both my book and my CD. So – let’s ride up again . . . (on fast horses of course).

Rimrock
by Paul Kern

Let’s ride up again and drop the reins,
Along the rimrock as the twilight wanes.
We’ll take in the rimrock’s hidden view,
Where beauties are many and cares are few.

We’ll roll back time and then we’ll recall,
A trip with the horses we made in the fall,
Along the rimrock with sandstone hues,
We were younger then with nothing to lose.

For years we’ve ridden back up to gaze,
Along the rimrock where it clears the haze,
Where miles stretch away and out and far,
You can see the way things really are.

We’ll loosen the girth and pull the saddle,
Layin’ aside for now the cares of the cattle.
Along the rimrock near that old lone pine,
We’ll linger a while where the view is fine.

We’ll settle ourselves down for a spell,
On that spot of ground we know so well.
Let’s ride up again and drop the reins,
Along the rimrock as the twilight wanes.

Tales of the Trail

2008-04-18T16:00:00.008-06:00

I once sent a passel of poems to a well-published western writer for critique and review. He sent the whole bundle back with the exclamation that nothing I had was worthy of print. I found this rather curious since two of the set had already won national awards, a couple more had been published in local media in Montana and Idaho – many had been published on CowboyPoetry.com and I was working with award winning photographer Arthur Myerson on a print project managed by an agent in New York to publish several others. Some poems of the same group were later picked up by universities and schools for use in the lecture hall and classroom. (Now - visualize my left hand lifted to the back of my head in a ponderous scratching motion.)

At the same time, I sent the same bunch to a fellow poet in southern Utah. Most of the feedback was useful, but when she got to “Tales of the Trail” she said she just couldn’t relate since that sort of thing was not part of her experience. I could relate with her not-relating. So many of those old trails are long forgotten by the masses and the media – but that has not always been the case. The discovery and publication of the trail through South Pass, Wyoming that opened the west to wagon traffic in the early 1840’s was as big a development at the time as was sending men to the moon in my generation. Everybody of that generation knew something about it. It had entered the common vernacular together with the Cumberland Gap and the wide Missouri. Now it is largely forgotten among most segments of the population. Only a few even know about it anymore. Those of us that have ridden the trail can relate to Badger Clark of South Dakota who once wrote of “ the piano’s dreamy voice (that) took you out and far, ridin’ old forgotten trails underneath the moon . . .” (The Piano at Red’s) One of those old forgotten trails is the Goodale Cutoff of the old Oregon Trail in southeastern Idaho.

In Emigrant Trails of Southern Idaho published by the BLM in 1993, we read about the cutoff; "The various emigrant trails and later stage and freight roads which followed the general route of Fort Hall—Big Southern Butte/Camas Prairie are included as the Goodale's Cutoff of the Oregon Trail. This cutoff had been used by fur traders for many years, and emigrant wagons had traversed the eastern section as early as 1852.

" 'A very reliable' mountain trader in the Snake country before Idaho was settled, Tim Goodale knew just about all of the Indian and fur trade trails of the valley and mountain country north of the Snake. For the 1862 trip Goodale used the Jeffers Road/Camas Prairie route. Setting out from the Snake River July 22, 1862, Goodale's wagon train collected into a large force to discourage trouble with Indians.

"Near Craters of the Moon, Goodale stopped for a day (July 28) to gather up still more wagons. This precaution gave him a force of 795 men, augmented by 300 women and children. With such a show of strength, his wagons escaped the kind of misfortune of some emigrants who ran into an Indian fight at Massacre Rocks, August 9, on the regular Oregon Trail south of the Snake River.

"Goodale's Cutoff departed the Oregon Trail at Fort Hall, crossed the Snake River Plain past Southern Butte to Lost River, and then headed west across the Camas Prairie. Camas Prairie provided an approach to the Boise region that stayed north of the broad valley of the Snake. The cutoff rejoined the Oregon Trail at Ditto Creek."

Emigrant Trails of Southern Idaho, p. 130
The Goodale route was heavily used in 1852 and 1854.

Big Southern Butte is the most predominant feature of the desert west of Idaho Falls. It is volcanic in nature and there lie in the surrounding vicinity a myriad of ancient lava flows – the most striking ones are found in Craters of the Moon National Monument near Arco. The Goodale Cutoff was not one trail only, but referred to the maze of trails that followed the general direction from Fort Hall past the Big Southern Butte to Craters of the Moon and west to Camas Prairie and then on to Ditto to connect with the main Oregon Trail. The cutoff was used to avoid Indian trouble as well as to herd thousands of surplus cattle from the Oregon Territory to Cheyenne and the Midwest markets.

A favorite past time we all had as I was growing up, and this included adults as well as children – was to spend time out on the “desert” west of town. This necessarily brought us into this maze of old forgotten trails that made up Goodale’s Cutoff. There were old wagon roads carved through the lava rock seemingly in the middle of nowhere. At the time, it was common to come across old out-of-place artifacts that had either been discarded by a passing wagon or had fallen out. One such object was the weathered remains of an old straight-back chair that graced my mother’s flower garden for some years. We found rusty oxen shoes, horns and tracks and trails – all evidence of human migration on the road west in search of a new home.

Home is where every trails leads. Circling back home is the subject of this poem.

Tales of the Trail
by Paul Kern

As time rushes over a concrete bridge,
It slows to a walk on a rocky ridge.[1]
Since just a boy barely five feet tall.
I have followed this backcountry call,

Imprinted young at eight years old,
To follow the tales of the trail I was told,
Those old time trails that I still ride,[2]
Burned deep their brand into my hide.

Up ahead in the next drainage over,[3]
The past meets up with a mounted rover.
Ghost riders of pintos untacked and unshod,
Rise up through the dust of unplowed sod.

Faint rings in the bottoms along a stream,[4]
Come into view in the morning gleam.
Teepee rings face the rising sun -
Circles of home before the ride is done.

Voices of those, whose legends were made,
In rendezvous camps of the beaver trade,
Echo through canyons and fade in the trees,
Where a rusty old trap still holds the keys,[5]

Of a cook fire ring that’s still neatly made -
A circle of home lies there in the shade,[6]
Of a trapper blowing coals on his knees,
Over rocks in a clearing back in the trees.

And of time worn tracks and dusty trails,
Where an old time path is there - then pales.
Dust has settled followed by grass,
It comes into view and then seems to pass.[7]

Those worn out trails of olden date,
Spread over grassland in paths of eight.[8]
Riders and wagons rolled side by side,
To check the dust where the trail gets wide.

Dust that rises, takes wing, then falls,
Signals the past and quietly calls,
To tell the tale of those yesterdays,
And the circle of home over bygone ways.

Trails rocky and steep then easy and wide,
Circle me back each time I ride.
They circle me back each time I roam.
The tales of the trail are of going home.

1 Rocky Ridge – Old Oregon/Mormon Trail, Wyoming
2 Cascade Canyon – Hurricane Pass – Death Canyon, Teton Range
3 Headwaters of the Gallatin, Yellowstone Park
4 Headwaters of the Yellowstone, Bridger Wilderness Area, Wyoming
5 Trapper era beaver trap found near Two Ocean Pass, Wyoming
6 Campsite on the Atlantic side of Two Ocean Pass, Wyoming
7 Nez Pierce Trail, Camas Meadows battle ground, Kilgore, Idaho
8 Old Oregon Trail about eight miles east of South Pass, Wyoming

Some Sweatbands Do

2008-04-13T15:51:00.009-06:00

Long before the days of sun blocking cream and an awareness of the hazards of skin cancer from the burning sun in the rarified elevations of the mountains and high plains of the intermountain west, we wore hats in the summer time – mostly the cowboy variety for the men and boys. Girls and women had a wide brimmed tightly woven straw bonnet. For the most part, these straw hats lasted through the summer and then fell apart and were finally thrown out. It was especially important that the hats be worn when working outside and during family and multi-family pack trips in the mountains of Idaho and Wyoming. My mother saw to it that I had one and wore it when appropriate.

It seems odd how tiny scraps of memory come floating into your consciousness years after their occurrence. I am taken back to when I first discovered wear and tear and a broken strand of straw in one of my boyhood hats. Somehow I felt a small sensation of loss – knowing that soon that hat would be discarded. That wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but I felt that in throwing out the hat, the experiences that had formed that hat and were now part of me would be inexplicably lost. Maybe this would not have happened had I had a felt hat like my pal Mike. His hat had lasted years and was now grimy, nicked around the edges and lumpy all over – but he still had it.

On the other hand, maybe the reason us kids got straw hats was for hygienic reasons. Knowing that there would be rotation in the hat line-up was probably of some comfort to my health conscious mother who I am sure cringed at the sight of those old filthy grayed felt hats. Such hats were easy to be found – I remember so often watching some cowboy hobble down the sidewalks past the Wagon Wheel and thinking that he needed a new hat. The one he wore sure was ugly – the darkened oily sweat band must have acted like glue keeping his lid on in a windstorm. But you never seem to get away form those well worn hats. To tell the truth I have a couple of them sitting around the house right now. They all tell the tale of the wearer. They are personal history in the most personal of ways. Whenever you see one, you know that that feller has been around the block a time or two.

Recent years have seen the establishment of high-end cowboy hat shops that cater to the well healed easterner of the new west. These thousand dollar hats don’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hades of ever developing a well worn greasy sweat band. For the most part they never see work a horseback and seldom see the sun. This little poem gives a few pointers about cowboy hats and the folks that wear them.

Some Sweatbands Do

by Paul Kern

Was it just an old cowpuncher,
Or some saddle tramp with a tooled belt,
Wearin’ that Triple X Stetson of once fine felt?

A hat well worn and past its prime,
A grimy hat abused and long past new,
Oily around the brim where sweat beads through.

You can’t help but sorta’ wonder,
What manner of critters therein abide,
Where they congregate or how they prefer to ride.

That darkened rim around a hat,
Ain’t for sale at any price it just cannot be bought,
It only comes from bein’ there with the workin’ cowboy lot.

That oily grime around the brim,
Is a badge of honor ‘round the cowboy clan,
It’s evidence you know your way and that you know you can.

Some folks’d never wear a dirty hat,
They don’t seem to understand or maybe just plain won’t,
Still the same - some sweatbands do - and others just plain don’t.

This audio file of one of my old podcasts contains "Some Sweatbands Do"

followed by "The Cowboy Song" performed by Jim Dunham.

Why'd He Have to Steal My Boots?

2008-04-04T10:43:00.011-06:00

Badger Clark once wrote about “talk of loss and gain” in his classic poem “The Piano at Red’s.” This poem isn’t about gambling at Red's Saloon and it’s not about winning either – it’s about losing a favorite pair of boots. I understand that that may sound pretty silly in our economy of cheap goods from China, but it hasn’t been all that long when good things were a little harder to come by, especially if you were just a kid trying to spread his wings for the first time. During one of my summers spent up in the hills and mountains of central Idaho, I bought a very good pair of leather boots. They were well built though plain. I lovingly oiled them down with Hubbard’s Neatsfoot oil to waterproof the leather and to preserve them. My intention was to wear them until the time had come to go back home and start school. I had saved my money up for a few months and finally found just the pair I wanted. They were a prized possesion.

One evening a drifter wandered into camp. He was thin and ragged and was wearing a pair of mismatched canvas boat shoes – hardly what a man needed in that country. He said he was hungry and asked to spend the night with us. We agreed in the best western tradition, fed him and gave him a bunk together with the rest of us. All the while we were thinking that we had done him right - until the next morning when in my disbelief I yelled out . . .

Why’d He Have To Steal My Boots?
by Paul Kern

The wilds are home to the roughest of men,

Life’s tough now but was tougher then.
In springtime before I went to the hills,

I looked hard for boots – solid no frills.

I needed a good pair of leather and heal,

And hunted around for just the right deal.
I found ‘em at last in an old ranch store;

They served me well the more that I wore.

A season’s work for minimal pay,

All young and green enjoyin’ our stay,
Workin’ through the long hours of light;

Sleep came easy in the old tent at night.

Around sunset just before night,

A drifter walked up with lips drawn tight,
Said he’d been goin’ most of the day,

Was hungry and tired and wanted to stay.

So we rustled up the beans and the stew,

With all the fixins dished up on the blue,
Speckled enamel plate and dish -

Biscuits and gravy with a servin’ of fish.

After he finished he hit the sack,

Still we all wondered about this hack.
No more to do for the present,

We slept as the moon rose in a crescent.

When we awoke he had got up and got,

I went for my boots underneath of my cot.
They were gone and so was he.

Did this just happen - could this be?

He left behind his old worn out shoes.

Why’d he do it that cussed cayuse?
We had lent a hand to that ol' mooch,

So why’d he have to steal my boots?

Horse Registration Documents

2008-03-28T23:03:00.001-06:00

Registraton papers for a Paint, a Pinto and a Palomino

The Turdhurst

2008-03-28T10:38:00.001-06:00

This is intended to be a word of encouragement to the downtrodden and abused of the world who have hit the proverbial “fan.” No matter how bad things get and how mixed up this world can seem; there is order and optimism at the end of the day. Renewal and rebirth are natural consequences of the human experience. I usually avoid cowboy poetry of the type of "jokes that rhyme" so I must have written this one when my standards were much lower. Still the same this is a bit of family history - my son Peter and I made this purchase together. We still have the old manure spreader and yes, it still works. In fact, my daughter Erika was once concerned that she would inherit it. She shouldn't worry. With the stock market low, gas prices high, crazy weather patterns across the world and truly unfortunate presidential candidates all the way around, maybe this poem is more current than I give it credit.

The Turdhurst

We saw it first in a Thrifty Ad - This “spreader” they called her,
Price was cheap, not too bad.

For all she was when we looked first - “Spreader” yes - but more,
Beheld we a genuine Turdhurst.

Now critters are seldom constipated, - The grass they eat, the grain, the hay,
It all stews and steams and is separated.

The good stuff in and the bad stuff out - Falling fast and falling straight,
To the ground, from whence it sprout.

The Turdhurst with rotor fans - Loaded up with odiferous stuff,
Moves its pile on rotating bands.

Right and left and up and down - Stuff from many a grunt and squirt,
Is widely scattered all around.

Once the manure the fan does fling - Nothing personal it may seem,
It all starts afresh, new life to bring.

When this troubled world leaves no doubt - The Turdhurst rotors you have hit,
Just start afresh and . . .don’t poop out.

A Pinto a Paint and a Palomino

2008-03-28T10:24:00.005-06:00

As long as we are on the subject of Idaho and her rivers (Previous posts have been about the Salmon River) - let's talk about the Snake. This river, one of the most important rivers of the west derives its name from the Shoshone Indians who inhabited most of the area around the river. The Shoshones were also called the "Snake" Indians owing to their fabled zig-zag patterns of moving through the brush and trees during inter-tribal warfare. The Snake River could also be called the Shoshone River with just as much accuracy. In a very real way, I grew up on the banks of the Snake River as it coursed through Idaho Falls. We fished, swam, kayaked and waded in its waters. We knew of of unlucky children who broke through its ice and were never to be found again. We camped along her shore and lazed in the cottonwoods where we once found an old dugout canoe.

From Fort Hall west, the Snake River provided water to immigrants on the Oregon trail. It was our nations lifeline to manifest destiny in the Pacific Northwest. It helped define America, the West and Idaho. It flows at its own pace and in a way is one of nature's timepieces. Along the river time is measured not by a clock, but by the flow of the river and the sky that it mirrors, which in turn reflects alternating sunrises and sunsets with their multi-colored hues.

The Idaho skyscape is a mosaic of ever-changing moods. I have tried to capture some of the magnificence of the overhead realm in these verses. The photo is of the Snake River at sunset. I wrote this poem using three horses I have owned or currently own as subject matter in a metaphorical way. The preceeding post shows registration papers for my pinto, paint and palomino.

A Pinto a Paint and a Palomino
by Paul Kern

The morning hues of red, orange and white,
All run together trailing the night,
It’s an overo daybreak as the minutes fly,
Then tobiano patterns lighten up the sky.

A pinto and a paint gallop over the hills,
East of the Snake just where she spills,
Thundering foam over a precipice,
Where seagulls dive and the rattlers hiss.

As the river courses on to the sea,
Like clockwork it flows away from me,
Rushing away as the sun climbs high,
The river reflects a big mountain sky.

The horses of color trot off on their way
As a palomino sun bursts in for the day,
Rearing up high right about noon,
As fast as it came it’ll be gone soon.

The palomino charges away on its course,
Its gallop is swift for an old aging horse,
To the horizon through the dust of the day,
It’ll return tomorrow a while for to stay.

There as the sun sinks into the west,
The sunset glows in her colorful best,
Vespers blaze bright in that old by and by,
The pinto and paint color back up the sky.

The evening hues of red, orange and white,
All flow together to awe and delight,
It’s a tobiano sunset as eight seconds fly,
Then overo patterns darken up the sky.

At dawn and dusk with horses so bold,
To the palomino as the day grows old,
As the day came, let the day go,
With a pinto, a paint and a palomino.

The Kern Homestead Patent

2008-03-25T11:44:00.006-06:00

Tell Me It Ain't So

2008-03-20T10:35:00.023-06:00

This is a song of Idaho. I grew up in Idaho where my family has been established going on six generations. The Idaho connection began with my great-grandfather from Switzerland, Reinhold Kern who was one of the original homesteaders of winter wheat farmland north of Preston. We have the original patent that he received once the land was proved up. It was signed by the President of the United States himself at the time - President Taft.

Living away from the state for most of the year, but always returning to her mountains, deserts and valleys during the growing season has given rise to the comment made in my direction more than once - "You can take the boy out of Idaho, but you can't take the Idaho out of the boy." There is still room to move around. Time takes on a different meaning in the lava strewn sagebrush plains under the everchanging Idaho skyscape with its ondulating clouds and ever changing moods. The countless mountains, gorges and ravines where you can bask in the western sun in some forgotten, gurgling hot spring . . . such scenes live on in memory and for the most part are unchanged upon return.

Soon we'll put this year's crop of steers out to graze for the summer on my place in Island Park - and I will return. Until then, just tell me . . . it ain't so.

Tell Me It Ain’t So
by Paul Kern

Tell me it ain’t so,
Or at least that you don’t know,
That the sky’s not all that blue up there,
And cascades don’t fall through mountain air.

Tell me it just don’t figure,
When you stop to count each river,
There are more here that begin and end,
Through canyons deep that twist and bend.

It can’t really be,
But at times it seems to me,
That the wind rides cold and coarse,
Over the plains on an unbroke horse.

So tell me that on that plain,
After a storm of desert rain,
There is no scent as the sage awakes,
No rabbits, rock chucks or rattlesnakes.

It wouldn’t make a lick of sense,
To think that this side of the fence,
More mountains grace this state,
Than any other of the forty-eight.

Make it sound like it’s the truth,
There are no mountains called Sawtooth,
No granite spires, no Henry's Lake,
No pines, no firs, no trees that quake.

Just tell me it ain’t so,
That the mountains high and valleys low,
Have more miles of rocky trails,
Than most places have of roads and rails.

So tell me, tell me just once more,
There is no thunder in the Snake River’s roar,
Tell me - go on and tell me it ain’t so,
‘Till I get back to Idaho.

These photos are taken from an old cowboy friend's saddle, Lee Jacobsen now 98 and no longer riding. I bought the saddle and still use it - it is an old slick fork saddle handmade in the 1930's - best saddle I have ever owned.

2008-03-20T10:00:00.002-06:00

Lee's slick fork saddle horn from the Railroad Ranch, Island Park, Idaho

Lambing Time in the Rockies

2008-02-19T08:10:00.014-07:00

It has been a little perplexing to me, as I wander around the western states to attend poetry gatherings, festivals and vintage events of one kind or another, that the overwhelming hero icon of the opening of the west was, is and always will be the cowboy. Much of this image is purveyed by many that are about as far away from the land as one can get. If the truth were told, some of the most published authors and poets in the western/cowboy genre are white-collar folk – advertising executives, slick cover magazine publishers, school teachers, state government bureaucrats and so on. Most that I know don’t even keep a couple head of steers and are uncomfortable around horses. It makes me wonder just how genuine the whole western movement is sometimes. It can’t be real when the sheepherder, the miner, the homesteader, the railroad worker and the farmer and their women and children are excluded from the lore of the west – as it twists around to being all about and only about the cowboy - - - just ain’t the truth.

This poem is about a sheepherder, Jess Croft who was a mentor to my brothers and me during our formative years. Jess was a good man who taught us principles of life in homespun earthly parables that endure to this day. One comes to mind – After docking and castrating lambs one day, he took a handful of tails and asked us if we wanted to grow our own herd of sheep. Of course we all did. He then buried the tails saying that he was planting sheep seeds and that next spring they would sprout into lambs. This got our attention – but somehow it didn’t ring true. He had a twinkle in his eye when he then explained that if we really wanted something, it would have to be founded on the truth – and not just on something somebody said. Lamb tails don’t sprout into lambs. Don’t believe everything you hear. Learn the truth. Well, go ahead and believe this poem – it’s all true.

Lambing Time in the Rockies

by Paul Kern

On the way to the ranch we had to stop,
At a country store to pick up some pop,
Some pliers and pairs of gloves for our hands,
As well as a bunch of small rubber bands.

The pickup took off with a spurt and a wheeze,
For a few days of lambing up in the trees.
It rolled out of the lot and onto the road,
Heading on up once we’d picked up our load.

We stayed in the cabin just built and brand new,
With a Franklin stove and round eight inch flue.
It kept the place warm in the cool spring air,
In the Rockies again, we were glad to be there.

Grandpa Jess cared for the rams and the studs,
The rest of the clan grew the beef and the spuds,
It had been a good season with lots of new lambs,
About sixty were born to the yews and the rams.

The work of the day went forth as planned,
Long dirty tails each got a new rubber band,
Some of the lambs got a freshly docked tail,
Not to mention a good reason to wail.

Females ran in a pen to bleat and to moan,
Young bucks winced whenever they’d groan,
As each was castrated and sent over beside,
A vat holding gallons of sheep dip inside.

Some ewes were covered up to their throats,
With smelly stuff that soaked their coats,
Those that went in couldn’t wait to get out,
To shake themselves off, to bleat and to pout.

Counting the ewes Old Jess kept a tally,
The rams had been sent down to the valley,
As lopped off tails piled up in the grass,
He counted and recounted one more pass.

One more time he scratched his head,
One ewe was missing, he hoped not dead.
Old Jess jumped up and into his jeep,
All through the trees he looked for his sheep.

About the time when the sun sunk low,
We finally found her and hurried to go.
The pregnant ewe lay all distressed,
Unable to birth the lamb that pressed,

Against the birth canal too small,
To let a lamb struggle and crawl,
Out to the air, to light and to life,
Grandpa Jess slowly took out his knife.

He opened the opening a wee little bit
Then onto the ground he took a sit,
To pull the dead lamb from out of the ewe,
Relieved from all that she’d been through.

He picked her up slowly, got a good hold.
She was sweating chills and getting cold.
He then placed her gently back in the bed,
Of the jeep pickup where she quietly bled.

Back to the ranch house on a dirt road,
He anxiously carried his precious load,
Then the truck hit a rut that had a big rock,
The ewe flew out and lay there in shock.

In the dirt she split and came unwound,
Her innards fell out and were lying around.
Carefully lifting her up once more,
He put her back in and closed the door.

Back at the cabin we hung our hope,
On boiling water as we took out the soap,
A needle, some thread, iodine and bands,
Grandpa Jess carefully washed his hands.

He went outside and washed out the ewe,
As best he could, as best he knew,
Then placed her insides back inside,
And closed her up by sewing her hide.

Old Grandpa Jess had done his best,
We went to the cabin to get some rest.
Jess prayed mightily for that old sheep,
Hard as he could, then dozed off to sleep.

Sleep can come in many a way,
The sheep didn’t see the new dawning day,
My throat got lumpy as I watched Jess weep,
Love for his herd went bone marrow deep.

Staying in the cabin just built and brand new,
With a Franklin stove and round eight inch flue,
Part of me grew up in that cool spring air.
That wrinkled old man had taught me to care.

The Single Horse Hitch

2008-01-31T16:21:00.002-07:00

We have an old family story that shortly after my great grandfather emigrated to the West from Switzerland – when he was working for a well-to-do farmer as a day laborer. One of his jobs was to hitch up the buggy for the farmer, his wife and family. Not having been around livestock much, his new circumstances were unfamiliar and he had a lot of learning to do. One morning when he hitched up the buggy to a single horse, he forgot to attache the tugs (or hames) to the single tree. But everything else was done to perfection. When the good farmer and his dainty wife climbed aboard the surrey, settled themselves down and drew up the reins, the horse calmly stepped forward, pulling itself free of the carriage shafts, which then dropped to the ground leaving both the vehicle and its occupants behind. Though eventually they were able to laugh this incident off, it was somewhat of an embarrassment at the time – why – everyone knows how to hitch up a horse! Or do they? Not so much these-a-days. So here is a brief explanation of how it is done, followed by a poem, “The Battle of Britchen” which relates a true tale of breaking an older horse to harness.

First, you need to learn what the various parts of a harness are and where they go on a horse. Basically, you will have a driving bridle with blinders (or blinkers), neck collar or breast collar, a harness saddle (or surcingle), backstrap and crouper and what is known as a spider, which are the leather straps used on the hip of the animal coming off the backstrap, some of their uses include the hold-back straps and the britchen. Coming off of the collar are the hames (also called tugs) which are the thick multi-layered leather straps that actually attach the harness and horse to the vehicle. The tugs often have a short chain on the end that is attached to the single tree of the carriage. (Am I talking Greek yet?) And of course there are the long reins.

Once you have all that figured out, the biggest rule in harnessing is to put the harness on from the front going backwards and to unharness from the back going frontwards. To start off, you place the collar over the horses head and then put on the bridle with the blinkers. Then comes the saddle, which is not what you are thinking, but a light version that basically just holds the whole contraption to the horse. It buckles on the left and has loops for the carriage shafts to slide through and hold. Once the saddle is on, you attach the back strap and crouper and then you pull the tail over the top of the britchen, sometime called a butt strap. At that point, you pull the carriage around back of the horse, and with your helper, push the shafts through the saddle loops, and attach the tugs to the single tree. Then you hook up the pullback straps to the spider. Lastly, you run the reins through the saddle rings and clip them to the driving bit. A quality set of reins will buckle together at the driving end so that they don’t slip away. Once all that is done – you’re ready to go. Some horses are trained to cue from a whip, others from voice and still others - like mine - from the ever so light touch of the reins – not only on the bit, but practically everywhere on their bodies. When you unhitch, you do the same but in reverse order.

A horse well broken to harness is one of life’s little pleasures – and has been for eons of time. So – having said all that, here is my poem. This photo is of my hitching up one of my sleighs for a high-speed romp through snow with a couple of friends last week.

The Battle of Britchen
by Paul Kern

Dan’s a Quarter Horse of Doc Bar blood,
Of cuttin’ horse stock was his stud.
Quick on the laybacks, ropin’ and such,
Faster sideways with just a touch.

But I needed a horse in the hames,
I needed a horse with long reins,
Full harness, surcingle and britchen,
Who’d stand a stop without twitchin’.

Now Dan’s got a real nice disposition,
Even when to hitch you’re a fixin’.
Not too goosey ‘bout all that stichin’,
Collar, hames, surcingle and britchen.

Dan stood there calm and trustin’,
To a buggy, we then hitched him.
That first confined this horse, this mover.
Blinders, plow bit, cinch and crouper.

Buggy shafts and tugs went through,
On both sides like the Amish do.
All done up with blinkers of leather,
This could make for stormy weather.

As we made him pull that thing,
He commenced to buck and swing.
T’warnt so much the shafts and hitchin’,
It was the crouper and the britchen.

The crouper loop commenced to wiggle.
Dan kicked out when he felt the jiggle,
When he pushed north, his back would bend,
The britchen slunk on his southbound end.

‘Neath the crouper were his tail knuckles,
Above were straps and metal buckles.
In the thick of this rubbin’ and itchin’
Dan declared the Battle of Britchen.

His laybacks this time weren’t at a lope,
Backin’ up he pulled at the safety rope,
Twistin’ and backin’ and buckin’ as able,
It was time for me to turn this table.

The shafts were of metal - not to break,
The harness gave up no real estate.
Dan was stuck this he knew,
He’d calm back down once he blew.

And blew he did with a twist and a pout,
Backwards not forwards, he couldn’t get out.
A pull on the reins only pushed him more,
Back we rolled over that pasture floor.

Then a thought became quite clear,
His neck was straight in line with his rear.
This made for a one-horse overdrive,
Dan seemed to have the strength of five.

Then another thought occurred to me,
This straight line broken ought to be.
Dan pushed left, I pulled right,
And so I entered into the fight.

His head went up, his head went down,
I tugged the rein and held my ground.
His neck then bent despite the shafts,
His over-drive ran out of gas.

Dan found the edge of common sense,
The top rail of his mental fence.
He stopped and stood there in his britchen,
Like nothing happened, no hair a’ twitchin’.

The light went on in Dan’s ol’ head,
The harness ain’t a thing to dread.
Fact’s it’s easier than ridin’
No weight to carry, just move out stridin’.

I now have a horse for my cabriolet.
To pull my wagon and I’d like to say,
When ridin’ and drivin’ both are mixin’

Dan’s an old veteran of the Battle of Britchen

The Power of a Livestock Brand

2008-01-15T15:16:00.003-07:00

Yesterday I had a little time to take my horses out for some exercise. I trailered them over to the Salt Lake County Equestrian Park, which has a nice warm indoor arena. I saddled up Target, my five year old and let him pace himself with the race horses from the adjoining track that were being exercised at the same time. Target is the fastest horse I have ever owned and managed to keep up with and even pass some of the race horses. It was fun for the both of us. He carries my brand the Quarter Circle K on his right shoulder. It is a freeze brand applied by the vet when he was gelded between his second and third year.

A freeze brand for horses, as opposed to a fire or hot brand for cattle is smaller – about two and a half inches in size. Cattle brands are about twice that. A freeze brand is deep cooled using dry ice or the equivalent and then applied. It does not sear the hide but it kills the color producing hair follicles leaving the white ones to grow out and form the brand. When done right, it creates a handsome, painless and permanent brand on a horse. Not everyone does this – in fact I know of only a handful of ranchers and stable owners that do. I ran into one after I put up Target and saddled up my big half-draft horse Rory. We got out into the arena and were going around nicely when I noticed this gray haired, gray bearded guy with a dirty old black hat (looking a lot like Gaby Hays) riding a good looking quarter type horse. As I passed, he asked about my horse, saw my brand on his shoulder. I stopped and looked at him at said “Aren’t you the guy from the Rocking P?” There was no way I could remember his name, but I remembered his brand.

We had done some horse trading eight years ago. I gave him an update on a horse named Dan that I bought from him all those years ago. Dan carried the Rocking P brand and was a good horse – about fourteen then, now he has got to be around twenty two. He has a good home in the Colfax, Washington area where a young girl and her family owns him. So we chatted a bit – saddles, draft horses and carriage driving, runaway rigs – he tried to sell me a matching Percheron – I didn’t take the bait. We left the arena at about the same time. I went home and looked up his name in my horse records.

I got to thinking about livestock brands. Not only are they proof of ownership of livestock – and really the only failsafe one. They also form part of the identity of the owner. They are a little like an American family coat-of arms – they tell the tale of the men and women behind them – even when names fade out. Last fall when I sold my cattle to the feedlot, the brand inspector as well as my customer knew that calves carrying the Quarter Circle K came from a certain place and were of a certain quality and were good to go without any further argument. I didn't even need to be present for the inspection as is often the case with brand inspectors. Such is the power of a brand.

The following poem is about branding a springtime calf with my kids. All I can say is that fire branding does hurt and calves do act up – regardless of what you may have seen on TV or the movies.

Resurrection on the Quarter Circle K
by Paul Kern

The cattle fed on grass and corn,
Angus, Herefords, and a skinny Shorthorn,
The blacks and reds fattened up right,
But the Shorthorn’s ribs poked out tight.

Summer wore on and turned into fall,
The Herefords and Angus were ready to haul,
The grass was gone and turned into meat,
But the Shorthorn was too little to eat.

We trust the neighbors but to save a battle,
We mend our fences and brand our cattle.
Still this runty Shorthorn was way too little,
To string up for the hot iron sizzle.

Besides, she warn’t much ‘a temptation,
To a fellow of the rustler vocation,
This heifer was skinny, long and lank,
Red eyed, ornery, bad tempered and rank.

Still skinny, ornery and rank as she was,
It came time to apply the brand to her fuzz.
Hold it, right shoulder, burn it to stay.
The registered brand of the Quarter Circle K.

We roped that bally face ‘bout the neck,
One rope on top and a second below deck,
She pulled and pushed and got real wild,
Nowhere close to meek and mild.

When she crashed it made a terrible thud,
Holding her down there in the mud,
We got her strung up and all throwed down,
But to finish the job there’d be one more round.

As the brandin’ smoke rose in the air,
The less the heifer the ropin’ could bear.
She broke right down and fell on her rump,
No breathin’ at all, just a big bovine lump.

To the best we could reckon, we did surmise,
She must be dead from the glaze in her eyes.
Was she really dead? We hastened to ask,
But dared not answer ‘fore we finished our task.

The brand in the coals was evenly roastin’,
From grey to red her hide for a toastin’,
To singe the hair and cook the hide,
Mid right shoulder on the starboard side.

On came the gloves to pull out the brand,
Out of the flames, grey hot it did land,
Onto the hide of the carcass that lay,
The registered brand of the Quarter Circle K.

The burnin’ stench of hide and hair,
Wafted through the springtime air,
Penetratin’ nostrils of quick and dead.
In every human and bovine head.

It happened then with a powerful jerk,
The cow lurched to life and woke with a spurt,
She jumped in the air to escape her demise,
That wild-eyed spark was reborn in her eyes.

Before she landed the lassos let fly,
Droppin’ to earth as they fell from the sky,
Off flew the lariats and she dashed on her way…
Such was resurrection on the Quarter Circle K.

A Hereford cross with my Idaho cattle brand, the Lazy Quarter Circle K

A Hay Knife Rings Out in the Winter Cold

2008-01-11T15:32:00.001-07:00

One of the most important discoveries made by mankind was how to make hay. The discovery that dried grass and or alfalfa could be stored and used over time in locations away from field and farm made possible the establishment of villages, towns and cities. The invention of hay permitted man to shorten distances required to travel, extended the useful territory of livestock and allowed the development of communities and civilization. It is interesting to note that modern bales so common to our notion of hay are a recent invention coming into use only since the end of the World War II. It is also interesting to note that approximately 40% of all arable land was dedicated to the production of hay prior to the widespread introduction of tractors and combines. Prior to that time, the making, stacking and feeding of hay followed pretty much the same centuries old procedure and was one of the major enterprises of farming and ranching.

On my outfit, the “Quarter Circle K” we harvest just enough hay for our own needs and do not attempt to sell it. Given that our needs to bale and transport are nil, we don’t. We stack it like they used to do everywhere and like they still do in some parts of Wyoming. If you have ever driven around Jackson Hole or Wilson at the foot of the Teton Range, chances are that you have seen some of these old fashioned haystacks sitting out in the middle of the fields. Some of them reach a height of around 15 feet.

These haystacks are built either by using a Mormon derrick (see photo) introduced by 19th century Danish pioneers in Utah, or by a more humble method called the rope method. On the Quarter Circle K we use the rope method – a technique handed down through four generations. This is how it works. At 80% bloom, the alfalfa is mown and raked into windrows for drying. Drying is fast here in the desert – a matter of one or two days in the summer heat. We then shock it – meaning that we go along the windrows and fork them into individual piles or shocks. We may turn the shocks a time or two to ensure complete drying.

When the hay is ready for stacking, we pull the hay wagon through the fields with a tractor. The wagon has been outfitted with a 160’ kernmantle rope (the kind used in mountaineering and sailing). The two ends of the ropes are attached to the back of the wagon – about four or five feet apart and running the two parallel sections of rope along the bed of the wagon towards the front to form a large “U.” Excess rope is gathered and placed in a neat pile on the tongue of the wagon. The shocks are then picked up with a pitchfork and loaded onto the wagon covering the ropes. As the load is made, it is stomped down and compressed.

To unload the wagon, it is backed up to the spot where the haystack will be or already is. It is then unhooked from the tractor and the wheels are blocked to prevent any movement. The tractor is driven around to the opposite side of the haystack and backed up into position. The rope end, forming a bite that was piled at the front of the wagon in then thrown over to the tractor and attached to the draw bar. The rope now encircles the hay and is ready to be pulled out of the wagon. The tractor driver then moves forward pulling the rope and the hay into position on the stack. If done correctly, there is little spillage and the hay goes into position quite nicely and quickly. It is possible to build as high a stack as you have rope for following this method. In the old days, a team of horses was used to pull the hay off the wagon instead of a tractor. The hay will naturally compress and cure in the stack forming a mass that can only be fed out to livestock once it is sawn apart. We use a six foot logging saw for the rough cuts and a traditional hay knife for the smaller cuts.

So finally we get to the introduction of the following poem. In the middle of winter when it is very cold and the metal of the hay knife is contracted due to the low temperature, it rings like a bell as you cut through the hay. This musical performance by a tool known to man for centuries but now largely forgotten in our overly mechanized and silicon world is a wonderful note that brightens an otherwise cold and wintry day.

A Hay Knife Rings Out in the Winter Cold
by Paul Kern

Making hay the old fashioned way,
Is an art long lost and replaced today,
By bales square, rectangular and round,
Tied together, compressed and bound.

When you stack hay like it used to be,
In the old way handed down to me,
Pile it high in a square fence as you stack,
It’ll compress as it dries - there’s the knack.

Remove the fence, there’s a whole lot there,
About eight feet high and eight feet square.
Makes a bale bigger than you’ve ever seen,
With good straight walls of faded green.

Then cover your stack with a sturdy tarp,
Pull out your hay knife and make it sharp.
Those old knives with wood handles offset,
Will cut into a stack just as slick as you get.

When the cold settles in and freezes hard,
And you’re out there throwin’ hay old pard’ -
Thrust into the stack to hear the steel sing,
As the knife glides through, it’ll softly ring.

It only happens when the snow is deep,
When critters leave tracks along as they creep,
Deep in the winter before spring takes a hold,
A hay knife rings out in the winter cold.

Dr. Brown is Black

2007-12-26T09:54:00.010-07:00

Most that know me know that my father has lymphoma. At 85, this may seem to most to just be an indication of his time to go. He has lived a good long life - longer than most. But there is still the fighter in him. An ex-marine and veteran of WWII and Korea, he doesn't seem to be able to just say "die." But lymphoma is a terrible adversary. I have had many friends, associates and family members succumb to various types of cancer. So going into this we hit the well worn roller-coaster tracks of the diagnosis /prognosis and outlook/outcome with more bad days than good.

All the while we kept hearing about a certain oncologist named Dr. Brown. Dr. Brown has been willing to respect the wishes of the family and Dad, which were initially to let the disease simply run its course. But, one evening when it seemed that the end had come, Dad decided not to go. He was rushed to the hospital in Ft. Collins and Dr. Brown came back into the picture. Once the doctor learned that Dad wanted one more fighting chance, the gauntlet was thrown with the declaration "I am not going to lose this one." Massive chemo was administered and life support functions were provided for three weeks of intensive care.

I came into this halfway through and met Dr. Brown early one morning in the oncology ward of the Poudre Valley Hospital. I was a little taken aback. Dr. Regina Brown is black. She has been the only beacon of hope for our family through this ordeal. I noticed the light in Dad's eyes as she entered the room - a spark of hope. As Dr. Brown explained the whole deal - the costs, the benefits, the ordeals and the treatments to follow, she was a pillar of optimism - a fighter by nature and one who has confronted adversity and has overcome it at every step of her life. She brought not only the healer's art but the victor's skill to bear in our family - the ability to look death in the eye and say - "not yet - not now." And then have the ability to act and to do something about it. I told Dad, that in Dr. Brown, he had met his match. Her eye twinkled a bit as she nodded. She can recognize that old fighting spirit that just will not give up until the last gasp of mortal breath.

And so we move forward. Dad is back home, is functional and is able to walk, eat and drive. He will undergo at least two more treatments. There are some lessons to be drawn from this. The first one is that the will to live and the human spirit to overcome cannot be taken lightly. Some have more of this than others - maybe Dad is on the extreme - but in his most weakened state, I looked into his eyes and saw the fight that was not yet willing to be extinguished. The second lesson comes from Dr. Brown, the black woman oncologist who has had to overcome societal bigotry and discrimination to beat the odds of failure that were stacked against her from birth to become such an inspiration to our family in overcoming adversity. It seems like it all just comes second nature to Dr. Brown. She has been such a beacon of hope when there was very little. If our society can produce someone like Dr. Brown, maybe there is hope for the rest of us.

That old fighting spirit and the will to live are priceless commodities. We know that at some point there comes an end for us all - but until then, life is worth living and worth fighting for. Thank you Dr. Brown. There are now two people I consider my heroes. I think the following poem applies in this case.

Broken Things to Mend
by Paul Kern

Broken things to mend,
Are easy to be found,
At my place beyond the bend,
They're scattered all around.

Broken things to mend,
My hay rake, fence and gate,
Some things need me to attend,
While other things can wait.

Broken things to mend,
Are folks tore clean apart,
Who so easy break and bend.
With human soul and heart.

With saving soul and heart,
One was born to be our friend,
Teaching us the healer's art,
Broken things to mend.

Sun don't shine the same on all,
So take time to lift a friend,
A pard' who's ridin' for a fall,
Broken things to mend.

Most everything can wait,
For that helpin' hand you'll lend,
Go on now - 'fore it's too late,
Broken things to mend.

One thing matters most they say,
That will last until the end,
Christ was born on Christmas day,
Broken things to mend.

In Cahoots

2007-11-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem in response to one written by Yvonne Hollenbeck she called "Baloney." Her poem basically states that there are more cowboy poets than there are cowboys and ranchers. I suppose, I have seconded her opinion with this rejoinder. We each had a good laugh at it and at ourselves.

In Cahoots?
by Paul Kern

A wise old man once told me - at least he said that he was wise,
There are far fewer horses - with a twinklin’ in his eyes,
Than there are horse patoots. – now that’s a kindly way to put it,
Which we don’t always do - but will – in this here public writ.

Well, I’ve added up the world and it comes out a little long,
There’s a lot more cowboy poets than places they belong.
The ranchers and the waddies are too few and far between,
I’m beginnin’ to see it clearly now and what it all could mean.

I’ve meditated on it some and it’s jogged my thinkin’ bone,
And believe t’ve found the question to the answer here made known.
Could it be - not sayin’ that it is – that those extry horse patoots,
Have done a deal with cowboy poets and that they’re in cahoots?

Along the Pony Express Trail

2007-11-11T21:36:00.001-07:00

The Heber City Cowboy Poetry Gathering was in full swing last week. This event gains in popularity year after year and attracts most of the big name acts in the cowboy world. Names like Riders in the Sky, Michael Martin Murphy, Sons of the San Joaquin, Bar J Wranglers – and the list goes on and on. It may be rivaling even the Elko gathering in popularity and crowd appeal. In years past, the event has been mostly music despite its name. Thanks to the efforts of Mike Kirkwood, the organizers have made a little more room for cowboy poets on the program. And thanks to Mike, I was able to do a short set Friday evening at 6:00PM – back in the area where two stages were set up for local and regional performers. The audiences were good and seemed to grow as the evening wore on. Poems in my set included “The Trap Corral of Stone,” “A Trajectory off Course” and “Sunday Drivers.” These are all true stories, but I don’t think anyone really believed them.

After a while we migrated over to the other stage and listened to fine performances by Curly Musgrave and Belinda Gail. Dave Stamey then took the stage and was just a delight to listen to. Around 8:00PM a few of us gathered at the Inn by the Creek where Mike and Jolynne Kirkwood were staying in a Swiss style condo, compliments of the event organizers. They invited guests for the evening from among performers from Nevada, Montana and Utah. We had a warm and friendly evening of lively conversation together with a meal of venison, elk and all the fixings – really more than we could all eat. It was good to see Kenny Hall, Curly Syndergaard and Gordon Thomas again, to meet new friends – and to regale anyone that would listen with my deer roping story (see last post).

Kathie and I were the first ones to leave since we needed to be on the Pony Express Trail near Lookout Pass at 9:30AM meaning a very early morning for us. For the second year in a row, a group of good friends met on the trail to spend a day in the vast expanse of Utah’s west desert in the vicinity of the old Pony Express Trail. This area is remote, uninhabited and enchanting. Bands of mustangs roam large areas, huge herds of antelope seem to appear out of nowhere. Deer are easily found. There are few if any visible signs of civilization for as far as the eye can see. Yesterday the weather was perfect and the horses were in fine form as we took out through the trackless cedars, sage and prairie grass.

During the lunch break, I was asked to do a little poetry, as usually happens on our rides. Some of the riders were sorry that they were missing out on the Heber event because of the ride, but still wanted to do it anyway – and if they could get a little poetry under their belts, the day would be complete and there would be no regrets. So, I got up and recited Arthur Chapman’s “The Meeting,” Kathryn Fall Petty’s “Mornin’ on the Desert” my “Trap Corral of Stone” and ended up with that infamous but hilarious poem of Robert Service – “The Three Bares.” Beverly Heggerman took pictures of the mid-day poetry session. The afternoon portion of the ride took us through some wild country – no trails and plenty rocky. We got back to the trucks in time to hit the road home a little before dark. What a wonderful day - sore bodies because of the tough riding, but the endless vistas, the pleasant friendships both human and equine, and the perfect natural setting for a little cowboy poetry – all combined to make a day well worth living. I made a video of this poem some time ago - you can view it in the Cowboy Poetry TV section to the left.

The Meeting
By Arthur Chapman

When walkin’ down a city street,
Two thousand miles from home,
The pavestones hurtin’ of the feet
That never ought to roam,
A pony jest reached to one side
And grabbed me by the clothes;
He smelled the sagebrush, durn his hide —
You bet a pony knows!

I stopped and petted him, and seen
A brand upon his side;
I’ll bet across the prairie green
He useter hit his stride;
Some puncher of the gentle cow
Had owned him — that I knows;
Which same is why he jest says: "How!
There’s sagebrush in your clothes."

He knowed the smell — no doubt it waked
Him out of some bright dream;
In some far stream his thirst is slaked—
He sees the mountains gleam;
He bears his rider far and fast,
And real the hull thing grows
When I come sorter driftin’ past
With sagebrush in my clothes.

Poor little hoss! It’s tough to be
Away from that fair land —
Away from that wide prairie sea
With all its vistas grand;
I feel for you, old hoss, I do —
It’s hard the way life goes;
I’d like to travel back with you —
Back where that sagebrush grows!

Out where the West Begins, 1917

Slip Shod

2007-11-07T10:33:00.001-07:00

Slip Shod

During the summer it didn’t matter much,
My old boots fit good and were soft to the touch,
The hole in the right one let in the dust and the light,
But the left one was still solid and tight.

Now you need to know before I go further,
That my right leg is longer than the other,
Owing to a bad break some years ago,
Sort’ a like a cowpoke or two that I know.

So my right boot tends to scuff and to wear,
Faster than the left one of the pair,
It starts at the heel and moves on to the sole,
Where the stitches and leather melt away in a hole.

And with the coming of a colorful fall,
My boots still didn’t bug me at all,
With the price of replacements so doggoned high,
All that came is was some dust and some sky.

I was bound and determined to make ‘em last,
Remembering that old refrain from out of the past,
Use it up and wear it out,
Make it do or do without.

And besides all that, I was attached to my boots,
A set of high heels, pointy toes and some loops,
At the top of the leathers to pull ’em on snug,
Over my socks with just a light little tug.

Then winter set in with a gust and a growl,
Plenty of snow and winds that would howl,
That old right boot there on my foot,
Let in the mud, the snow and the soot.

So what to do in such a straight?
I scratched my head to ponder my fate,
To part with my boots left me in despair,
Like losing my hat or combing my hair.

So I pondered a moment and devised a plan,
Something so clever that most every man,
Would congratulate me on this stroke of smart,
So proud was I deep within my heart.

I’d grab that tube of liquid nails,
And apply it over the boot that tells,
The tale of many a mile and endless weeks,
And of the sock that through it all peeks.

And then did I - I went to work,
Applying the stuff with a mighty squirt,
I spread it over and mooshed it all in,
Right about where you would find my skin.

My boot was fixed and I was pleased,
What a relief I thought as I squeezed,
My foot into the boot with no more hole.
The uppers were solid and so was the sole.

My big toe seemed awfully warm,
No need to panic - no need for alarm,
It was just nice for once that day,
To be warm in my boot as I went on my way.

Then night came and I sat on my trunk,
To remove my boots and climb into my bunk,
I pulled off the left one and it slid off easy.
As I pulled the right one my gut got queasy.

The liquid nails – you know that glue,
Had set up hard in the shape of my shoe,
And dried to my sock and around of my toe,
Try as I might it wouldn’t let go.

Applying a bootjack to my heal,
I knew then that my troubles were real,
Though my heal came up and then came loose,
My big toe was stuck in that gluey noose.

Tug as I might it wouldn’t let go,
The boot was glued to my sock and my toe.
I sat there and fussed in this a dither of dithers,
Sweat pouring out from my hocks and my withers.

Tugging and pulling only loosened my sock,
It stretched and twisted around of my hock,
Stuck in the middle of a tight toe jam,
I said to myself - I’m in a bind - I am.

In this hour of greatest travail,
My face turned a whiter shade of pale,
I felt the sweat from off of my hock,
Run down my foot and into my sock.

The warm liquid mixed in with the goo,
Melting away the hardened glue.
As the gluey toe jam began to slip,
My cowboy boot slowly lost its grip.

Liberated from this shackle of glue,
I got philosophical as I often do,
Slipping free from these hoppers of clod,
I wondered - Is this the meaning of “slip shod?”