by Bobbi Phelps
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In spring at the Little Farm, we’d wake to leaves casting a light green tint with poplars and cottonwoods budding as they warmed. Shards of sunshine sliced through the tree tops and warmed the canyon floor. While Mike and Matt handled early-morning chores, I stayed inside the RV and completed breakfast. By the time they returned, coffee brewed on the stove and the aroma of bacon filled the air. They settled on the couch and pushed bacon, eggs, and toast into their mouths at record speed. Before long, their empty plates indicated all was good.
“Look what I found,” Mike said as he held up a black pointed stone. “It’s an Indian arrowhead.”
“Can I have it?” Matt asked as he reached for the sharp object.
“Sure,” Mike said. “But be on the lookout. This canyon was a perfect place for the Indians to live. I’m sure you’ll find many more.” And so we did. Whenever the soil was turned over, getting it ready for planting, Matt and I would scour the land, looking between the dirt rows to see if we could find some more Native American keepsakes.
“What’d you think about getting a mule?” Mike changed the subject and asked me. A toothpick wagged from his lips as he spoke.
“Why would I want a mule? I have Smoky.”
“I’m talking about a machine. It’s called a Mule and it’s made by Kawasaki,” he stated.
“Can I work it? I don’t even know how to operate your motorbike,” I said.
“We’ll drive by the dealership on our way home,” Mike suggested. “We’ll see.”
It turned out to be the best present I had ever received. I loved the mechanical Mule. It had four wheels, headlights, a bench seat, and an open cargo bed with a tailgate. Instead of carrying buckets of water, I could place a huge plastic tank in the back, fill it with water, and maneuver around to the windbreaks and the surviving apple, cherry, and pear trees.
During early summer afternoons, Matt and I took the Mule along the dirt road bordering our property and gathered low-hanging apricots and peaches, branching out from Kelley’s Orchard, its fruit dangling over the roadside fences. We then scrounged our own pastures and picked wild asparagus. If we harvested several bunches each weekend, the asparagus kept growing. We usually had a good crop through August and we never had to plant or weed them. When we returned to the RV, Matt stuffed a fistful of spears into a water glass. Once again, we had fresh asparagus for dinner.
Alongside the flat field on the western edge of our property, lay a shallow pond loaded with marsh grasses. We heard clacking calls from migrating birds: redwing blackbirds, bobolinks, and yellow-headed blackbirds graced the swampy land. They perched on cattail tops, their festive feathers shining in the sun, looking like a just-opened box of crayons. A few times I even heard the melodious sound of a meadowlark, its flutelike voice would stop me in my tracks as I turned and listened to its song.
All across the canyon land, crow-sized magpies swooped in and out of trees and rested on gigantic boulders. In Idaho, the magpie is stunning in its tuxedo colors: its head, chest, back, and tail in vivid black, intensely contrasting against its stark-white body and dark turquoise wings. The bird was not welcomed by duck hunters because it consumed so many waterfowl eggs. They would shoot the beautiful magpies whenever possible. I discovered besides eating eggs of other birds, the magpie is also an opportunist. It feeds on ticks, rodents, carrion, and garbage. I enjoyed the attractive bird as it consumed the repulsive items I didn’t like. I, once again, chose the naturalist’s approach.
While at our Little Farm, I never went near the Snake River without smothering myself with bug repellent. The marshy area was alive with mosquitoes. The dense trees shut out light and welcomed these blood-sucking insects. I waved at clouds of bugs but they always seemed to find me. It was as if their scouts would locate me and report back to mosquito headquarters. I was fresh meat. They whined near my nose and ears and my vision warped into a veil of black specks as they engulfed me. In the heat of the day, they drank my blood and sipped the sweat from my back as I bent to pick fiddleheads for our supper salad. By the time I returned to the trailer, I was covered with welts.
Besides mosquitoes, the thick grasses embraced an abundance of ticks. In the trailer, we checked our skin and hair every night. One time we found over thirty ticks imbedded in Jack’s body. What a difference from the bone-dry land at Sky Ranch. The Little Farm, situated so close to the Snake River, produced many more insects and animals. It was home to skunks, opossums, chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, rodents, snakes, mule deer, and rock chucks (or yellow-bellied marmots). Although rock chucks are roly-poly cute with thick fur and big teeth, they are prolific reproducers with few enemies. In one year, a male could impregnate several females, and each mother could produce four pups. That’s a lot of babies! Because their diet consisted of grasses, they loved our alfalfa fields. During summer the second year, we lost three acres of alfalfa to these bountiful rock chucks.
One afternoon, Matt and a friend from Buhl High School arrived at the Little Farm loaded with guns and ammunition. They crept to the top of a ledge and shot at the animals as they ate through our alfalfa field. Once the shooting started, they heard the rock chucks whistling their distress, warning others of eminent danger. The two boys did a good job. We had fewer rock chucks every time they came to shoot.
When Bill Lemmons from B & B Apiaries heard of our newly planted alfalfa field, he asked about putting some bee hives on the Little Farm. “I’ll even give you a couple half-gallon honey jars.”
And how delicious the honey was! I soon cooked with honey instead of sugar and our desserts and breads became sweeter in the process. Between the fruit trees, ducks, geese, trout, and products from Sky Ranch, we were truly living off the land.
As River Road became more paved, a nearby rancher added a metal cattle guard at one end of his property and a fake one at the other end. The yellow stripes painted on the road mimicked a real cattle guard. Surprisingly, the cows knew not to cross it. With their slobbery noses, hairy ears, and curious nature, they’d approach and smell the yellow lines, but would not dare crossing the painted imitation.
During the following summer, I drove from Sky Ranch, past Filer, and turned north toward the Snake River. My car spewed a cloud of dust as I meandered down the canyon road and approached the wire entrance to the Little Farm. Mike and Matt had trailered Smoky to the canyon an hour before me and were already at the RV, waiting for me to arrive. Having my horse in the canyon all summer long was exciting. I couldn’t wait to explore the hidden niches of the Little Farm from Smoky’s back.
A few days later, Scott and Brad Traxler, young sons of our canyon neighbors, joined Matt and me standing next to our RV. “Want to play hide and seek?” I asked. They had the whole canyon as a playground, and yet they were stymied as to what they should do next.
“Sure,” they said in unison.
“We’ll stay on this side of the road,” I instructed. “There’s plenty of places for me to hide. You’ll never find me!”
“Oh, yes, we will,” Matt said. “I know all your hiding spots.”
I saddled Smoky and told them to keep Jack. Sixteen-year-old Matt rode my Kawasaki Mule and ordered Jack to sit on the floor boards. Brad and Scott each had their own four-wheelers, all-terrain vehicles that are similar to motorcycles but with four wheels.
“Count to one hundred. Then try to find me,” I shouted as I aimed Smoky toward the western end of the property and loped down a dirt trail. Once at the far end, I turned toward the river and wove in and out of tufts of high grass and around green ash trees and willows. The thick leaves billowed and flapped like sails in the wind and for the next hour, they looked for me. With all of them yelling back and forth, I knew exactly where they were at all times. Sitting on top of Smoky, I also had a height advantage. I avoided the boys and moved silently from one area to another. I came out of the marshy woods and cantered through a nearby field, the sun shining on my face. A large mule deer emerged from the shadows and darted, fleeing
deep into the trees beside the river. I waited for another to follow and then we cantered back to the RV. Talk about a playground. You couldn’t ask for a more spectacular place, deep in our canyon with waterfalls cascading on several sides and fruit trees intermingled with huge boulders and flowing ditches. The boys never did find me, but they were hungry and soon returned. It was, once again, time for hot dogs and s’mores.
On our third year at the Little Farm, Mike leased part of our land to a local farmer who trucked in about fifty head of cattle. Every few weeks, Matt, Mike, and I moved the herd from one field to another, a procedure known as “rotational grazing” as it kept the grass fresh and nutritional. Mike took his four-wheeler, Matt had my Mule, and I rode Smoky. He reverted to his expertise as a cattle herder and knew exactly what to do. He positioned himself to ward off any stragglers and drove stray cows back to the main group. Because he turned and twisted so quickly, I kept my seat by squeezing my knees around his trunk and tilting my body with his every movement. We were, once again, a team, and I was in heaven.
Since the Little Farm now had cows on the property, our weekends became a battle between us and massive hordes of menacing flies. Clouds of big-eyed black flies beat at our RV’s screens, eager to get inside. We had to close the trailer’s door as fast as possible; otherwise, a stampede of black flies charged inside and inundated the interior.
As the summer waned and autumn approached, the flies and mosquitoes diminished. We prepared our land for winter, doing necessary farm chores, all new to me. Mike taught me to drive an old 1950s Farmall tractor that was small and simple to operate; I could easily shift the gears and turn the front wheels. We worked together, burning ditches to get rid of the weeds growing on the sides of the dirt road bordering our property. While I steered, Mike held a long metal rod and torched the grass and weeds along our fence line. He walked behind the tractor and to my right while I maneuvered the vehicle to make sure I did not extend the rod beyond his grasp. I was a true farmer’s wife, working the land right beside my husband.
At the end of the season, it came time to load the animals for market, and a cattle truck backed into the far corner of our property. We grouped the herd into a temporary enclosure near the rear of the large, grey vehicle. Once Mike opened the gate, the cows hesitantly climbed the truck’s ramp, banging the metal incline with their heavy feet, bawling and protesting with angry kicks as they fought for passage through the loading chute. Mike whistled, the trucker and Matt waved their hands above their heads, and I sat on Smoky watching the process. Eventually, the cattle were on board and the trucker slammed the back doors shut. The heavy vehicle slowly drove away from the pasture and made its way down River Road toward Buhl.
The next day Mike borrowed a neighbor’s phone and called back to Sky Ranch. He was told that one cow had not joined the others on their journey to market. Checking off identifying ear tags, the owner knew he had not received one of his cows. Matt joined Mike in his pickup while I rode Smoky. We searched the field in which the cattle had last been pastured and located the cow. She had hidden herself in a thick circle of trees, so dense you could only creep beneath the lowest limbs to reach the center.
“You’re small,” Mike said to Matt as they stood beside the pickup, assessing the situation. “Why don’t you crawl in and drive her out?”
“Okay,” Matt said as he walked toward the trees. He looked back at us and then bent to his hands and knees and pushed through the bottom branches. At no time did Mike or I think this was dangerous. We just thought Matt would scare the cow and she’d leave the comfort of the trees. As it turned out, she let out a huge bellow and stomped her feet. She was not going to leave her sanctuary. Matt edged around behind her, yelling and throwing stones in her direction. Eventually, she staggered from the impenetrable thicket and appeared in front of Mike and me. There stood an angry Angus cow with a newborn calf.
We never knew she was pregnant. No wonder she hid from the other cows. Mike opened the tailgate of his pickup and pulled down a wooden ramp. We circled the mother cow and encouraged her to climb the ramp. By this time, Mario had joined us and she succumbed to the four of us prodding her into the pickup. Her calf followed. Angus cows are fierce mothers. Matt had been pretty vulnerable, trying to move her from the thicket. We were extremely lucky she hadn’t attacked him.
When autumn tumbled into winter at the Little Farm, and withering leaves fell to the ground, duck hunting began in earnest. We rebuilt an old shooter’s blind that had been made of scrap wood, its roof covered with stalks of brown reeds. A small bench remained inside. The blind opened on three directions, the largest of which faced the Snake River. Surrounding the blind; cottonwoods, willows, and ash trees grew close together, their drooping foliage touching the water between dense clusters of bushes. This was the perfect blind for our weekend forays at the Little Farm.
In our RV Mike and Matt arranged their gear ahead of the morning hunt. Before the sun reached the canyon, they were awake. I gave them cinnamon rolls and made a thermos for each, one of hot chocolate, the other of coffee. They gathered their equipment and covered themselves with heavy jackets and wool caps. Jack had already bounded down the trailer steps, jumping with anticipation. Still in my nightshirt, I peeked through the curtains as they walked away. Soon they became dim shadows in the early morning light and I returned to bed and crept under the covers.
When the sun rose higher in the sky, I ambled out of bed and changed to a turtleneck, sweater, jeans, and sneakers. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and added a baseball cap. After a cup of coffee, some toast and orange juice, I left to find my boys. I listened to the rush of the Snake and finally heard shots in the distance and headed in that direction. They had left the blind and had taken a boat with all their gear to a little island about twenty feet from shore. I couldn’t see them but I heard duck calls echoing across the canyon. From there, I turned to clean a nearby field of fallen sticks and checked on some newly transplanted trees. A bird squawked and departed as I approached. An hour later, we joined at the RV, and I prepared a hearty breakfast of cereal, orange juice, toast, bacon, and eggs.
“How’d you do?” I asked while I set the table and handed Mike a mug of steaming coffee. I placed juice glasses near the plates and gave the toast a light buttering.
“I shot one mallard, that’s all. But you wouldn’t believe what happened,” Mike said. “Once we were on the island, I showed Matt how to use a duck call. But when I later checked, our boat had floated away.”
“Did you get it?”
“Yup, but what a hassle. I had to cross to shore, walk down the river’s edge, and finally catch it,” Mike said. “But that wasn’t the worst part. I had to drag it against the current, back to the island. It took forever!”
“How’d you do, Matt?” I asked.
“Great. It was fun with Jack. If I had shot one, he would have been right on it.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “I was worried about them. I was afraid Matt would try to cross to shore since I’d been gone so long. The current there is really swift.”
“Good for you, Matt,” I said. “Good that you stayed on the island.”
“Yeah. And as I retrieved the boat,” Mike said with a laugh, “I heard the most God-awful sound coming from the island. No way a duck would respond, but at least I knew Matt was safe.”
They continued hunting for the rest of the season and although Matt never accomplished the intricacies of duck calling, he did get in some good shots. Between the two of them, we always seemed to have plenty of ducks in our freezer back at Sky Ranch.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Fly Fishing Henry’s Lake
After spring planting and before harvest, work at Sky Ranch slowed to a crawl. Employees scheduled vacation days, and Mike booked a week at Staley Springs. The rustic facility had a dozen cabins and sat on the west side of Henry’s Lake, fifteen miles from Yellowstone National Park.
We trailered our fourteen-foot Mirrocraft boat to Interstate
86 and drove past Pocatello. At Idaho Falls we veered off and continued north on Highway 20, turning left toward Henry’s Lake. Even in summer, the highest peaks of the mountains bordering the shallow alpine lake were capped with snow. Five hours after we left the ranch, we arrived at the vintage resort. As soon as we parked beside our designated cabin, Matt and Mike claimed their fishing gear from the back of the truck and ambled toward the lake. They walked away from the cabin, each carrying a float tube, their life vests, and a fly rod. Matt used my old Fenwick rod while Mike brought his brand-new Sage rod. This was my time to relax. Jack followed me around the log cabin while I placed clothes in dresser drawers and cans of food in knotty-pine cabinets. I stocked meat, vegetables, beer, and sodas in the refrigerator and then tackled the fireplace. After placing kindling in the metal grate, I brought in logs from outside. I was nesting. It was what I liked to do.
The boys wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. I braided my hair and dressed in a turtleneck and jeans. Once I laced my hiking boots, Jack and I ambled up the mountain slope behind the lodge. We passed wide meadows teeming with butterflies and colorful wildflowers. Birds squawked and swooped around us, alighting on nearby branches, staring at us. We were the intruders in their space. I turned my face upward and soaked in the late summer sun. It felt good to be free in the woods, to feel happy, to smell the pine-scented air. We climbed higher, walking over a carpet of pine needles, as squirrels and chipmunks gathered nuts for winter. In the distance, I saw cattle grazing in fields beyond the lake and heard a myriad of birds, calling from trees high above our heads. Jack wagged his tail and continued to move up the hill, his nose to the ground.
