Sky Ranch

by Bobbi Phelps

  The sun shone through the aspens, creating butter-like colors whenever the leaves shimmered in the wind. I heard rustling from the trees and marveled at the white tree bark below their canopies, the aspens reminiscent of dogwood trees back in Connecticut. I was at peace. Soft cool breezes heralded the arrival of autumn just a month or so away. I turned and retraced my steps, heading down the mountain. As we hiked through a meadow, I picked a handful of blue and orange wildflowers, reminding me of my mother who always had fresh flowers in vases throughout my childhood home.

  When I entered the cabin, I opened curtains and brought in as much light as possible. The main room was a combination kitchen, living, and dining area. At night Matt slept on the couch with Jack sprawled at his feet. Mike and I had a small bedroom next to the bathroom. Near the entrance, a Formica table rested under a picture window facing the lake. I started dinner and arranged the wildflowers in a glass jar. By the time Mike and Matt returned, the low slant of the afternoon light had arrived. I had a meal prepared and a fire blazing, crackling in the grate.

  Once they had washed and sat for dinner, I heard about fishing under the twenty-foot-high “wire.” Beside the main resort building, a stream dumped into the lake and flowed past the wire. It was illegal to fish between the overhead metal line and shore, thereby giving trout a chance at survival. In their float tubes, they maneuvered as close to the wire as possible but only caught and released one cutthroat during the afternoon.

  “Del and Carol were there along with a half dozen other anglers. We all had good luck. But tomorrow, we’ll take the boat,” Mike stated.

  “Where’re we going?” asked Matt.

  “Down the lake, toward the campground. We’ll fish about a mile from here.”

  “Will you be home for lunch?” I asked.

  “No. Just pack something and we’ll stay out all day.”

  Yes! I thought happily. Another day to myself. I would have a chance to identify birds and wildflowers and to hike around Staley Springs with Jack at my heels. It was my time to relax, to remove the pressure of ranch life and the Angler’s business.

  There was no television, or even a telephone, in the cabin. When we gathered at night after dinner, it was just the three of us enjoying the evening. As flames spit up the chimney, Mike placed his Renzetti vice at one end of the dining table and tied several dry fishing flies. He took a Coors can from the refrigerator and flipped open the tab. After he took a deep swig, a frothy white cap covered his mustache. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and stared into the flames, watching a blaze move among the logs. I brought out a deck of cards and Matt and I began playing “kings in the corner.” We filled the room with jeers and laughter as the game progressed. Shadows danced on the walls and Jack fell asleep on the floor. He turned in his sleep and wriggled himself onto his back, his feet in the air. His front paws flexed at the wrist and twitched as he dreamed.

  When the fire began to die, I stirred the logs with a poker and added more wood. Soon the clash of red embers lit the remaining wood. We played cards until the wee hours while Mike tied fishing flies. That night was typical of our evenings at Henry’s Lake and it continued to be so for the rest of the week. Relaxing and fun.

  The last day at Staley Springs meant a morning of fishing for Mike and Matt while I packed. I kissed them goodbye before they walked to the boat dock, loaded with fishing tackle, a thermos, and a camera case. I turned back to complete the cabin chores and just as I began to empty the refrigerator, the front door burst open. Matt charged inside, swaddled in a life vest, and dripping wet.

  “What happened?” I yelled.

  “The boat flipped,” he said while standing in front of me shivering. “I’m freezing!”

  I grabbed him by the shoulders, steered him toward the bathroom, and turned the shower knob to full force. Matt pulled the curtain open and stepped in under the powerful stream, clothes and all. He lifted his head and let the steaming water fall over his body.

  “Where’s your Dad?” I asked through the plastic curtain.

  “He’s getting our boat.”

  Just then, Mike walked in, soaking wet as well. I ran to the bedroom and grabbed a blanket and threw it over his shoulders. He wrapped it around his body, shaking and stomping his feet. I rubbed his back and arms, trying to warm him.

  “What happened?”

  “Matt asked to steer the boat,” he answered as he continued to shiver. “He’s been around boats for years, so I said yes.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “He was doing fine. Then he started to go to yesterday’s fishing spot. I pointed to another area across the lake by the old lodge. But he shifted the tiller too fast. In a second, the boat flipped and we were in the water.”

  “How’d you get here?” I asked as I continued to rub him.

  “Our boat made a circle and was coming right back at us. I thought it was going to run over Matt. It was heading straight toward him.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “As it flew past, I grabbed its side and pulled myself up. I don’t know how I did it but I did. I hit the ‘kill’ switch and the engine stopped. Just then, two boats came over and got us. They picked up everything that floated. The rest is at the bottom of the lake.”

  “I’m glad you’re safe. And our boat?”

  “One of the guys hooked it to his. He towed it in and I dragged it on shore. We can handle it later.”

  “Matt’s out of the shower. Why don’t you get in?” I suggested.

  Matt and I finished packing. I cautioned him, saying, “I’m glad you were wearing your life vest. You never know when disaster can strike.”

  Once Mike loaded our boat, we were on the road, heading down the mountain, past the Tetons toward Sky Ranch.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Twin Falls County Fair

  It was the Friday before Labor Day, known as East End Day at the Twin Falls County Fair. All schools, banks, and businesses in East Magic Valley shut down for that one day.

  As we walked from Mike’s pickup toward the fair entrance during East End Day, a steady stream of spectators surged past us and descended onto the fairgrounds. The local weatherman predicted rain but it made no difference. We never missed a day at the fair. A crowd flowed from vehicles that had been parked, row after row, in a nearby field. It seemed everyone was involved—either as participants, families, sponsors, or volunteers. Murtaugh schools had closed for the week since so many of the town’s children were involved in 4-H.

  I wore dress jeans and a pair of coffee-colored, lace-up leather boots. Over a white shirt, I had on a navy fringed suede vest. I wrapped a red scarf around my neck and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. That was as close to looking like a cowgirl as I could manage. In the meantime, Mike had polished his dark brown snake-skin boots and wore dark jeans with a brass competition belt buckle he had won at a team-roping contest. The white Stetson completed his look. Matt wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and Nikes, typical of his farming friends. The three of us worked our way down the midway, past the games and concession stands, to the animal buildings at the rear of the grounds. In the sheep barn we smelled dirt, animal droppings, and wood shavings. But the stalls were empty. Everyone had gone to the judging ring. For months, our nieces, Gina Dawn and Sarah, had walked their sheep along Sky Ranch roads, teaching their baby lambs to stand and heel until they became forty-pound sheep. Surprisingly, both girls were in the stands, not in the arena with their sheep.

  “Where’s Candy and Woolly?” I asked as I stood beside Georgina. Gina Dawn and Sarah stared at their feet and never said a word.

  “The girls washed and combed the sheep this morning and then they tied them to the front fence,” she said looking at her daughters. “They needed to take showers and change their clothes before we left for the fair. When they came back outside, both sheep were dead. They strangled themselves on their tie ropes.”

  “I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed. “My gosh, they’ve worked for mon
ths with their lambs!”

  “It’s really sad,” Georgina said, looking as if she were going to cry. “Sheep are known for being stupid, but this was incredible.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said to the girls, leaning down and touching their shoulders. After pausing a few moments to take in the tragedy, I asked, “Will you be barrel racing later?”

  “Yes, we’ll be there,” Gina Dawn and Sarah said in unison as they lifted their heads and tried to smile.

  Mike and I sat next to them in the bleachers as a series of children guided their sheep into the dirt arena. They were as clean and polished as their animals. They held tight to the halters and moved their animals in a large circle, either by tugging or coaching. It was a tense time for both the youngsters and their parents. They had worked all summer for that exact moment. Each child stopped in front of the audience, trying to keep their animal still. Then we heard the bidding begin. Because the money went to the individual child and not a professional organization, the prices reached super high levels. Kay Wolverton, my other sister-in-law, and I bid and won a lamb. We had the meat split between our two families, and I knew it would be one dinner Mike would never consume. Typical of a cattle rancher, he considered sheep unwelcome on grazing lands as they nibbled the grass to its stub, leaving nothing for cattle. He called sheep “range maggots” and he refused to eat them.

  Knowing Don had brought their RV to the fair and would be staying the week, we told Georgina we would see them later. We left to inspect the rest of the 4-H sheds and spotted several youngsters washing and brushing their animal charges. Some had cows, others had rabbits, chickens, goats, or pigs. Polly had become quite large, but she was too much of a pet for me to include her at the fair. I showed a picture of her to some of the volunteers in the pig shed. She wore a pink collar when my parents came to visit and joined us on the patio when we sat for lunch. She intimidated my father, but my mother thought she was cute.

  From there we moved to the merchant buildings; then on to specific structures, ones that held antiques, art, photography, flowers, vegetables, and baked goods. Judges attached ribbons to the top contestants; and because Magic Valley was sparsely populated, Mike and I knew many participants and several winners. After checking the displays, we threaded through meandering crowds on our way to the food booths. Volunteers placed salt and pepper shakers, napkins, and the ever-present toothpicks on each table. Winds gathered as we stood in line at one of the Boy Scout stands, and thickening clouds appeared in the distance. Paper plates bent from the weight of our burgers as the three of us walked to a white-painted picnic table and sat down. Winds increased and napkins scattered throughout the grounds. A group of school kids made their way to us and invited Matt to join them at the fun house.

  “Can I?” he pleaded and looked at his Dad. “And can I go on some rides, too?”

  “Sure,” Mike nodded since we knew the boys. The entrance fee to the fair included all amusement rides. We didn’t have to worry about forking over any additional money.

  “Meet us here at six,” Mike instructed. “Listen for the rodeo starting time. They’ll announce it over the speakers.”

  I turned back as the boys raced away. The crowds swallowed them as they disappeared amid a mass of laughter. Mike and I added slices of apple pie to our plates and joined several farmers and their wives at a nearby table. Fair time was that one special occasion when faraway friends, those you don’t normally see, come to town and you have a chance to catch up on their families and activities.

  As the winds intensified, a veil of dust blew through the grounds. We saw tiny tornadoes whirling between the crowds and then we heard the announcement. The rodeo would start in half an hour. Mike and I made our way down the midway, nodding to passing neighbors and headed toward a knot of people, standing in front of the ticket kiosk. Matt came running to us as Mike stood before the ticket window.

  “Can I stay with Kellen and Kirby?” Matt begged. As an only child and living so far from others, I knew it was what he really wanted. “Okay, but ask your father,” I said.

  “Dad! Can I?”

  “Okay. But be sure to be here when the rodeo ends,” he instructed.

  Matt was gone in a flash, swept away in a crowd of youngsters. The rodeo no longer held his attention as it once did. Now it was his friends who captured him. Mike bought two tickets, and handed me a brochure. Team roping was one of our favorite events as Mike was a former competitor and knew several of the contestants. We sat on a hard bench and shouted support as the competitors completed their routines.

  Barrel-racing was another enjoyable event as both Gina Dawn and Sarah participated. They wore cowboy hats and sequined shirts tucked into black jeans. Besides being good looking, they were accomplished riders and crowd darlings. Mike and I watched each one race around three, fifty-gallon drums in a cloverleaf pattern, hugging the barrels and leaning into the curves. As teenagers with shirts sparkling in the stadium lights, they attracted rodeo cowboys, the young men who wore fringed leather chaps and colorful scarves, strutting around the Wolverton RV like parading peacocks.

  The setting sun transformed the horizon from subtle pink to an intense gold. Before long, large cumulus clouds jostled against each other and rolled across the darkening sky. Beams of lights continued to brighten the arena and the rodeo continued. Soon the bull riding event began. It’s the most dangerous contest in a rodeo. It’s an eight-second event, pitting a young man against a bucking, kicking, and spinning bull—one that weighed close to two thousand pounds. The cowboy holds onto a rope tied around the bull’s belly with one hand. The other hand is held high above his head and is not allowed to touch the animal. During the 1980s, riders did not wear helmets or padded vests. It was considered cowardly. Today, almost all riders wear protective gear.

  Clowns were another important feature at the rodeo. They diverted the charging bull from stomping or even goring a thrown rider. When the bull-riding contest started, I stood and climbed the bleachers to go to the restroom. I couldn’t even stand to watch the event. Before long we left the rodeo and gathered Matt. He had waited at the rodeo entrance, his sticky hands wrapped around a paper cone topped with fluffy, pink cotton candy.

  “Where’d you get that?” I asked.

  “Bill bought it for me.”

  As the local bishop, Bill Nebeker was the Mormon equivalent of a pastor and oversaw the Murtaugh ward as well as his own family’s religious instructions. He often invited Matt to their Monday family nights. They were quite close and I appreciated his kindness. As the sky darkened, strings of multi-colored lights fired up around the awnings and amusement rides. As the approaching storm strengthened, I saw the colorful wires begin to twist in the wind, their lights banging against the buildings and dashing into the sky.

  “Step right up. Six shots for five dollars,” a vendor yelled as he ignored the upcoming storm. Mike and Matt headed to the booth, not to be deterred by the wind. They waited their turn and looked at giant stuffed animals they imagined they might win. The object was to shoot moving ducks, bobbing across the back wall. Just as they approached the counter, laden with bolted guns, rain drops hit us and a strong breeze brushed our faces. Then the saturated clouds opened in full force. Colorful wire lights untangled from the rides and fell in heaping messes. We crammed under an awning as a massive deluge poured from the sky. Merchant signs whipped off their places, awnings crippled in the gusts, and garbage cans blew over. Ten minutes later, the storm cleared. Nervous fairgoers headed to the exits, and we followed the pack, leaving the shooting vendor to gather his jumble of ducks and prizes. With our jacket collars pulled up, we proceeded to Mike’s pickup. No matter the weather, we always attended the Twin Falls County Fair.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Boating, Camping, and Fishing

  “Let’s go to Swan Valley this weekend,” Mike suggested. “The fishing is supposed to be great.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Do you want to leave on Thursday or Friday?”

>   “We’ll just take the weekend. We’ll leave on Friday and be back on Sunday.”

  With aspen leaves turning a bright, golden yellow and shimmering in the crisp September wind that particular Friday, Mike hooked our Hyde drift boat and trailer to the back of his truck. He placed his motorbike inside the pickup while I filled our cooler with food and sodas, enough for three days of camping. By late morning we were on the road, heading toward Swan Valley, a stretch of land surrounded by the Targhee National Forest near the Wyoming border.

  Twenty minutes before we reached our put-in spot on the South Fork of the Snake River, Mike unloaded his red motorbike at the take-out ramp. We continued another fifteen miles, following the contour of the river toward the east. In a public, paved parking lot filled with trucks and trailers, we transferred our camping and fishing gear to our trailered boat, and Mike expertly backed it down the ramp. He released the come-along and dropped the boat into the water. I found the “come-along” to be a funny name but it turned out to be a handy device farmers used to winch, or pull, all sorts of items. The ratchets kept the winch from unwinding and it was one of Mike’s favorite tools.

  I held the boat’s attached rope and walked it toward the dock. Mike parked his pickup while I fastened the boat to a metal tie. Once we donned our life vests, Matt climbed into the pointed bow. Mike stepped into the middle seat, sat, and raised the oars. As soon as he had them in the oar locks, I undid the rope and leapt into the squared-off stern. We immediately hit waves and the boat swirled in the current. We moved at a fast pace around an eddy and down the river. Legions of trees lined the waterway, bending from the wind with their leaves twisting in the autumn breeze. Two hours after our departure, we arrived at a relatively flat clearing. When Mike had the boat nosed into shore, I hopped onto the bow, jumped out, and pulled it closer. Once on land we removed our vests and unloaded the boat, lugging supplies to a level site where earlier campers had already dug a fire pit.