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Copyright 2008 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
March 2008 Issue
One of my earliest memories occurred in 1944 when I was five
years old. It involved my grandfather and a huge grizzly bear rug.
Grandpa Pence was staying with my family and needed to visit his
brother, my Uncle Lee, about some family business. The two old cowboys
had started ranching in Idaho’s Big Lost River Valley in the early
1880’s, and wanted to tie up some loose ends before taking the last
earthly ride we all face at some point in time.
I remember my dad and Grandpa discussing whether to undergo the
venture, although it was only 25 miles round-trip. Gas was rationed
because of World War II, and Dad was concerned because he used most of
his gas ration to deliver groceries.
Apparently the business was important since they made the trip.
Big brother Ned and I were lucky enough to accompany them.
The largest wall in the room where the brothers met was covered
by a huge grizzly bear rug, with a cougar hide on a smaller wall.
Mounted deer heads, old firearms and various old saddles and tack added
to the room’s décor.
After they finished discussing business, Grandpa poked his pipe
towards the bear skin and said, “That bear damn near skinned me the
day I got him.”
Ned and I kept begging to hear the story and eventually he gave
in. The bear was old and wise, and a very serious cow killer. They tried
every trick they knew, but the bear continued to avoid them.
Following one of the first snows that fall, Grandpa was checking
cattle when he encountered the remains of a freshly-killed and
partially-eaten cow along with fresh bear tracks. He had a 45-70
He set off to track the bear on a tough, young horse he was
breaking. Grandpa indicated his general route by waving his pipe towards
the rugged, near-vertical
Old timers who rode with my grandfather claimed he never walked
when he could ride. I’ve spent a lot of time in the rugged peaks that
line the east side of the high mountain valley where I was raised. I
can’t imagine a bear — especially one who knew he was hunted —
taking a route through those cliffs and rocks which could be followed on
horseback.
Grandpa didn’t mention getting off the horse or having to go
around obstacles to pick up tracks on the other side, but he probably
did. There is a less-rugged area below timberline northwest of
Grandpa spoke colorfully about the toughness of the horse and the
ride. They had covered a lot of rugged country when the tracks led them
to the upper timberline at an elevation of around 10,000 feet.
They found themselves following bear tracks through snow-covered
talus rock. The tracks lead into a small, isolated patch of stunted
limber pine that clung to the limestone slope.
“I shoulda been paying more attention,” the old boy stated.
“Maybe I was jist tired and worrying about how late in the day it was
‘a gettin’. I shoulda seen that them tracks didn’t come out the
other side. We rode up under that little bunch a’ trees and then our
world exploded into snow, roar, teeth and claws!”
The horse took one look at the huge bear that was charging down
on them from above and wisely decided he wanted to be somewhere,
anywhere, other then where he was. Grandpa was left handed and was
carrying the big10-gauge shotgun with the barrels facing to his right.
Somehow he got the hammers cocked and discharged both barrels in the
bear’s general direction as the horse spun hard left and attempted to
set a new speed record for running through loose talus rock on a near
vertical mountainside.
The picture Grandpa painted was easy enough to visualize, even
for a child. The horse would have been naturally nervous from having to
climb up through the loose rocks and snow with bear smell in his face.
The trauma the horse was facing from a charging bear can only be
imagined, but the added effect of having both barrels from a 10-gauge
discharged across its back would have driven the “sheer terror
rating” clear off any horse’s scale!
“I kinda lost track of a lot of things ‘bout then,” Grandpa
stated, poking his pipe towards a saddle sitting in the middle of the
room. “I was fully occupied jist a’ stickin’ with that horse. Even
had to let the shotgun go. Took me at least a mile a’ hard ridin’
through them rocks jist to slow that damn horse down a bit.”
Then they both realized that they weren’t on the bear’s
immediate menu and were able to calm down and catch their breath.
Grandpa couldn’t understand why the bear didn’t get them. It simply
had too much speed and slope advantage to allow them to escape. He sat
on a rock and stroked the horse for a while until he could start
thinking straight.
He tried to visualize the charge and their reaction again. He
thought he remembered seeing dust fly off the bear in the split second
between when he fired the shotgun and had to devote full attention to
just staying with the horse. But the scene was clouded by adrenalin,
gunsmoke, rocks and the spinning horse. He couldn’t be sure.
Besides, the abandoned shotgun lay somewhere up in those rocks.
He pulled his rifle from the scabbard and headed back up the mountain.
He admitted he wasn’t real sure he wanted to make the climb, and the
horse had a lot more reservations then he did.
“Gittin’ that
horse back up that mountain was about as tough a thing as I ever did,”
he stated.
I don’t know what he had the shotgun loaded with, but it had
done the job. They found the bear piled up where his lucky shot had
dropped it. The shotgun wasn’t far away.
Grandpa sat back in the cane rocking chair he occupied, re-lit
his pipe and closed his eyes.
Uncle Lee said “Tough damn country then, more tough times than
good.”
The two old cowboys nodded, rocked back in their chairs and
stared off into the past. I don’t know where their minds went at those
times.
There were the good times with roundups, booze, good companions,
the runaway Mormon girl who became my grandmother, family, good weather,
fat cows and good horses.
But there had been the bad —blizzards that killed hundreds of
cattle while the cowboys rode through deep, crusted snow, in minus
forty-degree weather, trying in vain to save them; the broncs that
bucked and broke their bones; drought; favorite horses that broke legs
and had to be killed; wild cows; trail drives where they nearly froze;
stampedes; and always the serious lack of money.
Neither man had been a saint. There were things they talked about
— the bar room brawls, rustlers, “open range” sheep, driving
stage, attempted holdups and being sheriff.
There were skeletons in their closets that went unmentioned —
some that would rival modern-day soap operas with floozies, wives who
didn’t appreciate floozies, scorned women, and moonshine whiskey. They
had survived the West at its wildest. But age was something they could
not escape.
Ned and I tried to get them to tell us how they got the cougar
hide, but the old cowboys were through for the day. Dad gathered us up
and we headed for home.
Freelance writer, Dan Pence, grew up in central Copyright 2008 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
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