In the years after I turned down my unexpected path as “Uncle Al’s” art protégé, I stepped into a bigger role—both on the ranch and helping with the summer and fall association cattle rides. During the school year, I always rode along with Dad on weekends to feed the steers and mother cows. Once the feeding was done, we’d usually swing by Burns Saddlery for coffee and a little “bumming around.”
These days, Burns Saddlery is world-renowned, with its own branded line and a polished storefront. But back then, it was just the harness shop—a modest building on West Main run by third-generation craftsman Vern. He mostly repaired saddles and horse gear. By the 1950s, actual harnesses were already becoming rare.
I’d often get restless and wander through the shop, eyeing the new saddles and gear. But what really held my attention was watching Vern at his heavy-duty sewing machine, stitching leather with the precision of a surgeon. When he finished a piece, he’d dip it into an open-top fifty-five-gallon drum of neatsfoot oil, then hang it to drip dry, the excess oil sliding back into the barrel.
Even now, the smell of neatsfoot oil takes me right back—back to those quiet mornings watching Vern work, listening to the easy banter between two old-timers swapping stories and memories.
Those were honest, unhurried days. Time moved slower. Folks waved with a finger off the steering wheel, and a man’s word still meant something.
Summers meant cattle work, plain and simple. I’d saddle up with Dad again, just like always. My brother ran the farm, but he pulled double duty when school let out—he was a local PE teacher and coach, so come June, he traded his whistle for a saddle horn and helped us ride.
As I got older, I started helping with the irrigating now and then, but my first real job on the farm—once I was big enough to handle a shovel—was clearing weeds from the ditches. It was like an introduction to farming, pay your dues type job, like riding drag. We had one of those old pioneer-style stone grinding wheels to keep the shovels sharp. It worked like a bicycle: I’d sit on a metal seat and pedal to spin the wheel, sparks flying as I held the blade steady. Cleaning irrigation ditches was hard work, but there was something satisfying about it—like you were part of a long line of folks who’d done the same thing.
After that first year, the riding got easier. Not because the country changed—it was still seventy-five square miles of rough, beautiful range stretching eight by ten miles—but because the cattle started teaching us. Once they were turned out, we learned not to over-manage them. They knew the land better than we did. We still stayed up at the summer camp, hauled rock salt to the licks, and kept an eye on things, but more often than not, it was best to let the herd drift on their own. They’d find their way up into the high country—Bull Valley Mountain, the head of Beaver Canyon, and Water Hollow—without much coaxing.
Dad had a sharp eye for grass. He’d watch the hills like a hawk, and when an area started looking fed off, he’d quietly make the call to move them. No fuss, no panic. Just a nod, a cinch check, and we’d be off, letting the rhythm of the land set the pace
It was the summer of ’56 when Dad and I were riding through Beaver Canyon, checking the range like we always did. Near the head of the canyon, we came across a dead heifer. Cattle die now and then—bad water, lightning, calving trouble—but this one had been killed by a bear. That was rare on our range. We had a few black bears roaming the country, but no grizzlies. The last grizzly sighting around here was way back in the early part of the century.
Dad studied the carcass and shook his head. “Black bears don’t usually go after cattle,” he said. “Sheep, sure—but not cows. Probably an old one. Bad teeth’ll drive ‘em to kill livestock.” Not much of the heifer had been eaten. Dad figured the bear would come back in about a week—not for fresh meat, but for the maggots. He was right. We rode back a few times, and sure enough, the bear returned to clean up the carcass once it was good and ripe.
Dad let the brand owner know, but we didn’t take action. Everyone figured it was a one-off. Until it wasn’t. A few weeks later, we found another dead cow. Then another. All in the same stretch of Beaver Canyon. Time to do something.
We rode into town and tracked down a local trapper—a grizzled old-timer who looked and sounded like he’d seen everything twice. He loaned us one of his bear traps, and that thing was a beast. After a quick rundown on how to set it, we gathered what we needed: heavy wire, a bacon rind, and a bottle of anise oil—licorice-scented bait for a bear’s nose.
My brother came along to help. Back at camp, we got to work. We cut two quaking aspen saplings and wired them together at one end to make a long-handled vice. Each spring-loaded jaw of the trap had to be squeezed open and wired in place. That trap had a two-foot opening—big enough to make you think twice.
Dad set the frog latch and wired a stick underneath to keep it from snapping shut before we reached the site. We loaded the trap into a pannier on the pack horse, balanced it with a rock in the other pannier, and rode out for the hour-long trip to the head of Beaver Canyon.
At the site, we followed the trapper’s instructions. Cut and trimmed more saplings, built a ten-by-ten-foot enclosure between four trees to keep the cattle out. We laid the trap inside, chained to the nearest tree. We then strung a heavy wire between two trees and hung the bacon rind right over the jaws. Then came a generous splash of licorice oil.
Bears don’t see well, but their sense of smell is something else. We figured we had a good shot. The last step was delicate—remove the stick under the frog latch, snip the wires holding the trap jaws open, and lightly cover the whole thing with leaves.
Just like that, we were in the bear-trapping business.
We gave it a week. Figured that was plenty of time. Surely by now, we were successful trappers. Horses were saddled, and after the hour-long ride, we glassed the trap site from the government trail high above. Nothing. No bear. Not yet.
Dad took it in stride, but I was crushed. Seventh grade was just around the corner, and I’d been counting on that story—how we trapped a bear—to impress my buddies. I needed that tale.
So, it was back to camp. Another week passed, filled with the usual chores. I waited, impatient as ever, for Dad to say the words: “Time to check the trap.” When he finally did, we saddled up and headed out again.
This time felt different. My confidence had worn thin. I figured it’d be empty again.
But I was wrong.
From our perch above the trap site, I spotted something dark just outside the enclosure. We rode closer. Sure enough, there was a bear—stretched out to the end of the chain, just outside the pen. At first, we thought she was dead. She hadn’t moved a muscle. We watched for a long time, and then—just barely—she twitched an ear.
Still alive. Dad quietly pulled his 30-30 from the saddle scabbard and put her down. The horses got jumpy as we approached, so we tied them off a ways back and walked in.
I’ll be honest with you—the whole thing wasn’t what I’d imagined. She was an old sow, just like Dad had guessed. Probably hungry, doing what she had to do to survive. She’d been caught by a front foot and had fought that trap with everything she had. The poles of the enclosure were shredded, bark stripped from the trees as high as she could reach.
I felt sorry for her.
She’d battled that steel until she was spent. And just like that, the shine of the trapping adventure dulled. It wasn’t the story I’d hoped to tell—but it was the truth.
We rode back to camp, then headed into town to report the successful trap to the association. My brother came along when we returned to the site. We saddled the pack horse, made the ride back to Beaver Canyon, and carefully retrieved the borrowed trap to return it to the old trapper. I remember thinking how that trap looked just as menacing coming out of the ground as it had going in.
We took a few pictures that day—snapshots I still have tucked away somewhere, faded now but full of memory.
Before we left, I did one last thing. I cut the claws from her front feet. Left the back ones—they were smaller, didn’t seem worth taking. I strung the front claws into a necklace, a kind of trophy, and wore it proudly on my first day back to school in seventh grade. I figured it’d be a conversation starter, maybe even a badge of honor.
Turns out, not many noticed. One older kid did, though. He walked up, gave the necklace a hard slap against my chest, and barked, “What the hell is that?” It stung more than just my skin. I took the necklace off and tucked it away.
I think I still have it, buried in a box somewhere. A quiet reminder of a story that didn’t turn out quite the way I’d imagined—but one I’ve never forgotten.