Opinion
We were up long before the first gray on the eastern horizon. We attacked the biscuits and gravy and bacon and spuds like there would be no lunch, because there wouldn’t be.
We worked hard until it was dark. And after dinner, we headed for home — two hours away. When the day was young and full of promise, we were full of words and laughter. But now, it was very quiet in the truck. We were just toughing it out to get home to a warm bed. When that big full moon came up over the Powder River country east of Buffalo, my heart went east to meet it, and suddenly, somehow, it was 1979.
I was young then, and this hard and broken country was a friend to me. A young kid with his first real job, I became friends with the Basque guys who ran sheep in the Powder River breaks. Second- and third-generation sheepmen, they knew the juniper draws, the canyons and badlands from horseback, and they knew the history of the people. Most of them weren’t big talkers, but in time they began to tell me their stories. They told me about their families — the Falxas and Harriets and Irrigarays and Iberlins and more. They told me, too, about the ones who went belly-up — the people who left when lamb and wool prices tanked, or maybe when they just couldn’t listen to the wind one more day. When I’d ask about that old cabin on Powder River or those old broken-down corrals on Cat Creek, they’d tell me about the people who moved on to some other place, some other life. This one was just too hard.
The next morning, I was up and gone again before the sunrise. I think it’s one of the blessings of being a gentleman of a certain age that I seldom linger in bed much anymore. But that same full moon was setting now over Chalk Mountain, an image so stunning that only God or Charles Marion Russell could have created it. And again, my heart went out and my mind went back to those old guys who knew the place so well, and who kindly allowed me to learn it from them: Bob Meer, Martin Lee Sullivan, Louie Irene and the rest. And just like in the Powder River country, there were stories of the people — the people who stayed and the people who left. Each of those people left behind them the relics of their time here. The lodgepole logs cut with an axe and trimmed with a drawknife, the juniper posts and the root cellar hand dug into the side hill all remain as testimony to their hopes and dreams.
They say the winners get to write the history, the losers just quietly move on. But when I think back now on those old faces and those old places, I think that each had something to teach me. Something about optimism in the face of overwhelming odds, something about courage in the face of possible failure, something about being willing to work hard for your family and their future. In a time of artificial intelligence, social media influencers and cultural superficiality, maybe we have to be reminded about things that last.
For me, the things that last are almost all about relationships:
- My relationship with God. Not everyone feels like they need one. But I do. I grew up in my mom’s church. I left it for a different church, and I stayed with that one for several years. But I’ve come to the conclusion that the best relationship with Deity is a simple one. I need a church like a moose needs a hat rack.
- My relationship with Kim. We’ve been married for 53 years, a couple for 56. It’s fair to say that we’ve faced our fair share of challenges in that time. It’s more important to say that we’ve faced more than our fair share of joy. And that’s mostly because of Kim. She is, without a doubt, the finest human being I’ve ever known. She’s kind, intelligent, and deeply committed to her family and friends. She has an unerring moral compass. In a truly difficult situation, she is always absolutely outstanding. She is the great love of my life.
- My relationships with our kids and grandkids. We have a son and three daughters. They’re magnificent people. They are fifth-generation Wyomingites, and they wear their love for the Cowboy State proudly. Perhaps even more important, they are committed to making this a better place, now and in the future. They’re strong, compassionate people who love wholeheartedly. They have given us wonderful grandchildren. Some of those grandkids have made a conscious decision to stay here. Others have followed their dreams to other places. All of them are kind, intelligent and hardworking.
- My relationship with the land. I don’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t in love with wild things and wild places. I think I came here that way. But more importantly, I came here to a family with deep roots in the mountains and deserts of western Wyoming. I spent most of my life caring for what’s left of the greatest part of the interior west, and learning the stories of the land and the people. I’ve tried to use my thoughts and words to inspire others to do the same.
When I move on from this life, I hope these relationships will be my legacy, my gifts to the future. They are real and true. They are the things that matter, the things that last.
