The boys pretty much pretended I didn’t exist, and when school started they focused on school and sports. Tara accepted the idea because the marriage would land her permanently in Wyoming near her mother and friends. Without difficulty she settled into the tiny Moran Elementary School.
Because Jane’s small three-bedroom home would be a tight fit for the five of us, we wanted to remodel the garage into a master bedroom so the kids would have their own rooms. We were broke. Ranching, training horses, and horseshoeing was barely keeping us afloat.
To prepare for the event with Microsoft, Jane and I contacted a local rodeo contractor to rent his livestock. We hired local cowboys and cowgirls to compete in bull riding, saddle bronc and bareback riding, barrel racing, team roping, and “mutton busting,” an event in which kids ride sheep. We hired a local caterer for the barbeque and asked our friends and neighbors to help serve food.
In late September as the days grew short and aspen trees turned gold, busloads of Microsoft executives from all over the world arrived at the ranch. We had no idea what we were doing. The caterer showed up late. We scrambled trying to get everything done. Despite our inexperience we managed to pull off the rodeo. The folks at Microsoft raved about how much fun they had. After calculating our profit, we discovered we had made more money in one evening than during an entire summer’s worth of horse training and shoeing. We had earned enough to remodel the garage.
29
MORAN, WYOMING, 1997
Jane and I were married on November 8, 1997 at the lodge at Luton’s Teton Cabins. It was owned by Jane’s sister and brother-in-law and was just across the highway. We didn’t send invitations. We told people to come and celebrate and join us for a potluck meal. More than one hundred friends and family showed up including my Mom and Dad. Luke and Tara performed a dance that they had worked up together.
Jane and I took a quick honeymoon to Southern California, and then headed straight back to Wyoming to start our new life. We found that we were very compatible; we worked well together and lived conflict-free. Step-parenting, however, was more difficult than we had expected. While not combative, the boys continued to act like I was invisible. The vocabulary around me consisted of two words—yes and no—even during meals when we tried to share time as a family. Jane agreed that we needed to make changes, but neither of us was sure what to do. What brilliant idea did we come up with? Hold a family meeting.
We called the kids out of their bedrooms to join us at the kitchen table. I looked straight at the boys. “We are a family now and need to act like one. Let’s get one thing straight. You don’t have to like me but you will respect me as the leader of this family. Do you understand?” Their shoulders slumped as they looked at the floor. Tears welled up in their eyes. “Tara, you, as well, must respect Jane. Do you understand? Do any of you have anything to say?”
None of the kids said a word, but all three sobbed quietly.
Finally Peter asked, “Can we be excused now?”
Unsure what else to do, I said, “Yes. This family meeting is adjourned.” Sniffling, the kids returned to their rooms. I turned to Jane. “Well, that didn’t go too well, did it?”
“No.”
I had misread the boys. They were very sensitive and needed little discipline. I knew I needed to apply my horse training philosophy: Allow as much time as necessary and don’t force things. When working with horses I had found it is better to do too little than too much and risk damaging the relationship. This approach requires proper feel and timing. It had become apparent that Luke and Peter were much more like abused, sensitive, and frightened horses than belligerent and disrespectful ones. They needed a gentle hand.
Jane told me more about Peter and Luke’s history. Because of Jane’s two divorces the boys had been uprooted a lot. During her second marriage their stepfather had been pretty critical of them, so when Jane divorced him the boys had been delighted because it allowed them to move back to the home ranch and into a tiny log cabin next to Jane’s parents. For the first time, they experienced the security of roots, and of growing up near cousins and extended family.
When Grant and Jane married in the fall of 1997 in Moran, Wyoming they took on the difficult challenge of merging two families.
But then tragedy struck. On a bitter December day the temperature plummeted to minus thirty degrees and froze the water pipes in the old cabin. Jane was off cleaning a customer’s house when her brother-in-law crawled under the house with a torch to defrost the pipes.
Late afternoon Jane returned home to see her cabin ablaze. The cold temperatures hampered the local volunteers’ ability to fight the fire.
The fire destroyed the cabin and almost all of Jane’s and the boys’ belongings. Distraught and crying, Peter asked, “Mom, why do terrible things always happen to us?”
For the next two years Jane and the boys had to live with her parents. Jane’s father, Walter Feuz, a man who had loved his children, suffered from Alzheimer’s disease that caused him confusion and anger. While the boys worked with their 4-H calves, he would chase them around with a pitchfork.
Luke, who had a calm way about him, would respond by saying, “Come on, Grandpa. Let’s go see Grandma.” He’d take his grandfather by the arm and lead him like a child to the house. By the time I came to Wyoming, Jane’s dad had passed away. The boys had no reason to believe that our marriage would be any different than the prior two.
Our first winter together in the cold Buffalo Valley seemed to drag on forever. To earn a bit of money I started some young horses for clients in Colorado, but riding in deep snow and below-zero temperatures was a challenge. Two Thoroughbreds that were not accustomed to the slippery conditions fell with me multiple times. I always managed to get my foot out of the stirrup and move my leg out of harm’s way, but would often end up with a face full of snow and more down the front of my jacket. This aggravation worsened my winter blues.
The short gray days seemed to surround me, and squeeze. Though I had taken in a few horses, my dream of a great horse career was slipping away. The strain of having almost no money to support my family wore me down.
We did what we could to make ends meet, and took whatever work we could find. Jane continued to clean houses for wealthy Jackson Hole homeowners and sometimes I would help. This was hard on my ego. I’d gone from training some top polo horses and playing the Sport of Kings to cleaning houses.
At the time, we had no other options. Training horses and cleaning houses didn’t bring in enough income, so we shoveled snow from people’s roofs to prevent them from caving in. On weekends the kids helped us shovel, and though the work was physically demanding, it slowly began to knit us all together.
Though our family situation was improving slightly, the confinement of the frigid, short days and the pressure of step-parenting overwhelmed me at times. I sometimes felt that familiar urge that first began when Dad shipped me to Aunt Florence’s and Uncle Oscar’s and back. I wanted to keep searching until I found whatever it was that would calm the urge that kept telling me to move on.
Jane’s steadiness and commitment provided me with the safety and support to express my feelings. No matter what I said, she didn’t criticize. About the boys she would often say, “Don’t worry. They’ll come around in time.” Still, I wasn’t sure I could make everything work. I loved Jane and couldn’t stand the thought of hurting her, but the same old restlessness kept coming over me. It would not let me go. Like a frightened horse, I wanted to break and run.
We were having dinner one evening at a neighbor’s ranch when our friend, Pastor Mike Atkins, approached me in his quiet, gentle way. He said, “Grant, I need to share something with you.”
I had no idea what he was about to say.
“I had a vision of you as a wild horse, thin with a shaggy mane and tail running around and around the corral looking over the fence trying to break out and run away. I don’t know what this means. Does it make sense to you?”
His words took me
aback. I had not dared to talk with anyone—including Jane—about my restlessness.
In my expression Mike must’ve seen that his analogy had resonated. He said, “I saw another horse, too, beautiful, sleek, and healthy. If you’ll resist the urge to run, someday you’ll be that second horse.” He made direct eye contact. “But if you run you will end up like the thin horse, scared and hungry with no one to care for you.”
From that day forward, every time I felt the need to run, I clung to Mike’s exhortation.
OUR NICHE
OUR NICHE
30
MORAN, WYOMING, 1998
I made it through my first winter in Moran. New grass was emerging between the melting snow banks. Responding to an ancient drive to move with the seasons, Sandhill Cranes migrated back for the summer. I knew how they felt. The challenge of being a stepdad, the long winter, the financial responsibility for three kids, and our unknown future weighed heavily on me. As the prehistoric-looking birds glided down and landed in the pastures whooping to each other, I walked to the barnyard to think and spend time with my new horse Freckles. I was developing a strong bond with him.
Freckles came from the TZ Ranch near my parents’ place in Palisade. I had ridden several colts for Griff, a wonderful man who owned the TZ. Griff had taken me under his wing and had lent me his best horse, Chub, to work mustangs during my demonstrations for Friends of the Mustangs. Chub was one of the finest horses I had ever ridden.
That spring while visiting my folks, I took Jane to meet Griff and look at his horses. Griff said, “You two get in my pickup. I have something to show you.” During the long drive to show us some new cattle range that he had just purchased, Griff gave us some sound marriage counseling. He drove to a pasture of horses and pointed out a young apricot-gray gelding with bold, perfect conformation. “That’s Chub’s full brother,” he said.
I stared at the beautiful gelding and thought, If he’s anything like Chub, he’ll be an incredible horse. I’d sure like to have him. But we didn’t have any money.
Griff turned to me. “I want you to have him.”
I wasn’t sure what he was getting at and didn’t know what to say. “Well, okay.”
“I’ll take three thousand for him. You can pay me when you get the money.” For a horse of his quality, the price was a bargain. And Griff’s comment had not been in the form of a question. At the time I had no idea about the role this horse would play in my life.
At home that spring, Freckles’ winter coat was falling out in gobs. Needing relief from the itchiness, he walked up to me. I rubbed him all over then walked on by myself to hike along the Buffalo Fork River, praying that things would be okay.
With his easy-going and personable disposition Freckles relates to horses and humans alike. He has had a central role in many of Grant’s colt training seminars. Photo by Jayme Feary.
I traipsed over remaining snow drifts and pushed through willow thickets heavy with moose droppings. The ice had barely cleared from the river.
As I rounded a bend in the river and broke into a clearing, there in front of me lay a huge pair of moose paddles. Rarely does a bull moose lose both antlers in the same place. The matched pair, which would be worth a lot of money, was like a gift. But the money seemed unimportant compared to the reassurance I felt in finding them. To me, it was a clear sign.
As soon as the temperature began to warm, people started calling about horse training. Clinic participants from Colorado brought an assortment of horses: three unbroken mustangs, an Arab mare that had hormone problems, a Thoroughbred jumper with fear issues, and an unbroken mule. Because I was new to the area, I accepted every horse no matter its problems.
Opportunities arose to conduct more clinics in Colorado and Kansas. They rekindled my desire to be a horseman who helps both horses and people, but back home the work of pasturing yearling cattle, training horses, and doing ranch work was just too much. Jane and I decided we needed an employee. We hired a young green buckaroo, Jeremy Morris, who was interested in learning more about horsemanship.
To increase our income we started hosting a series of team pennings. Team penning is a sport that requires three riders to cut three specific cows from a herd of thirty, and then move the three to the opposite end of the arena and into a pen. The fastest time wins. This sport had been growing in popularity. We could use our own cattle and charge a stock fee, doubling our profits on the cattle.
Jeremy involved our kids Peter, Luke, and Tara, and various cousins, who before long were winning prize money. The new business helped our family work together as a team and have a lot of fun.
When winter arrived the team pennings ended and horse training became impossible because of the deep snow, so I had to take a job an hour away operating a ski lift in Jackson at Snow King Mountain for eight dollars per hour. Jane continued to clean houses, and on the weekends all of us, kids included, shoveled roofs.
Luke was a senior in high school. How we would pay for his college we had no idea. Though we had worked very hard to build a savings account of $5,000, that amount wouldn’t help much. Then Luke’s Uncle Jim, a business executive, issued a challenge: If Luke could get into an Ivy League school, Jim would loan him the money. Luke applied to most of the Ivy League schools, but he pinned his hopes on Harvard.
We had heard how difficult it was to be accepted at Harvard, and Jane had her sights on a more conservative school like Holy Cross in Boston. One morning at the breakfast table, Luke was talking about Harvard and Jane said, “I’m praying for Holy Cross.”
Luke’s expression turned stern. “Mom, if you can’t pray for Harvard, don’t pray at all.” Surprised, Jane and I both chuckled. So that’s what she did.
Luke mailed all his applications and we set about surviving another winter. In the spring while Luke was visiting his dad in California, we received an envelope in the mailbox. Return address: Harvard University. We called Luke on the phone. “You got a letter from Harvard. Do you want us to open it, or should we wait until you get home.”
“No, see what is says.” I tore open the envelope and read the letter. Luke had been accepted. We were speechless. We hugged each other and thanked God. As far as we knew, Luke was the first student graduating from Jackson Hole High School who had ever been accepted to Harvard. He also had been offered a good scholarship.
About that time I had a strange but powerful dream, after which I awoke and nudged Jane. She wiped her eyes and tried to wake up. “What is it now?” she asked.
“This is weird. I keep seeing this thing on the ranch that looks like a big white submarine.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“A tent,” I said, “I had a dream about a big white tent, like a circus tent.”
Jane could have laughed me out of bed, but as usual she did not. The next morning over coffee we discussed the dream. I was certain it had meant something. But what? What did a tent have to do with anything? We talked about buying one. But for what? Where could we find one, anyway, and how much would it cost? For what purpose would we use it?
A couple of days later, Thelma, an elderly lady who had been renting the bunkhouse, stopped by our house. She looked apprehensive. Sheepishly she said, “I know this sounds kind of strange, but I need to tell you, I keep envisioning a big white tent on your property.”
Her declaration stunned me. I said, “Really? I had a dream about the same thing.”
Hers was all the confirmation we needed. We contacted tent dealers and found a used one without poles and stakes, which we could make ourselves. The price: $5,000. We applied to the county for a temporary use permit, which would have to be renewed each year.
In the spring, we hired Jeremy and his best friend Willum, and I drove to the nearby national forest to cut poles for the tent. We couldn’t afford to rent equipment that would help us erect the tent, so we pushed, pulled, and grunted. Jeremy wiped his brow and asked, “Isn’t this supposed to be done by elephants?” We laughed, an
d together we finally managed to lift the tent, which stood out from the bucolic landscape like a white submarine.
Soon after we erected it, an old classic red-and-white Cadillac with a set of steer horns attached to the grill drove up pulling a flatbed trailer hauling an antique chuck wagon. A lanky, fifty-something cowboy with long gray hair and a handlebar mustache stepped out. He wore his Levis tucked into knee-high red cowboy boots. Deep creases ran across his weather-beaten face. A young man got out with him. His front teeth were missing, and duct tape held his cowboy boots together.
The older cowboy smiled. In a deep voice that sounded like a radio announcer’s he said, “I’m Dancer. Dancer Davis from Montana. This here’s my side kick, J.D. I’m looking for a place to do my Dutch oven cookout. I noticed your tent here and decided to pay you folks a visit.” He saw me looking at his wagon.
“I call her El Mira.”
“El Mira?”
He winked. “Yep, because she’s all mine.” He leaned back and roared with laughter.
Dancer said he had been the camp cook on a reenactment of a cattle drive from Texas to Montana. “I rode a horseback and slept under the chuck wagon the entire way. No motel for me. No, sir.”
During this period The Horse Whisperer, a best-selling novel by Nicholas Evans, had captured the public’s attention. The book was based on the life of horseman Buck Brannaman, another student of Ray Hunt’s. I decided the “horse whisperer” phenomenon might attract customers, so Jane and I decided we should partner with Dancer. Because Freckles unusually calm disposition seemed to reassure frightened colts, I would use him to work colts in a round pen, and then Dancer would serve an authentic Dutch oven cookout. Dancer would entertain by reciting cowboy poetry. Tourists driving to and from Yellowstone could enjoy the experience and a beautiful location in the shadow of the Tetons.
We termed our effort “creative agriculture.” Dancer voiced our radio ads. He and J.D. built sawhorses upon which we laid sheets of plywood for tables. He painted a large sign that we erected on the highway: “Chuck Wagon Cookout & Horse Whispering Demonstration Nightly.”
Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Page 15
