COWBOYS OF BABB

by

Leanne Zainer

Bringing in a Few Pair, South Fork Kennedy Creek

Gary Johnson and Sam Whitford at Poia Lake

I wake in the dark, on a mattress in the trailer of a deceased woman who I’ve never known. I light the 1990s-era Coleman stove and make one cup of the good coffee that lures friends to visit me up in the horse camp: instant Starbucks sent from my urban sister out east, cut with rich evaporated milk. All I will drink or eat until I swing off my horse at the end of the day. I can’t expect these cowboys to wait for me on the trail. They’ll be perfectly polite, but if I’m a nuisance, I’ll lose the chance to chase cows with them the coming fall. This is their livelihood—they can’t risk losing a pair of wily bovines to take care of an amateur who wants to play cowgirl.

Gearing up by candlelight, I bend down to strap on a pair of borrowed spurs and catch a scent that means I’ll need to empty another mouse out of the mini trapline we’ve run through the aging trailer my friends Lee Ann and Snicky let me bunk in. I buckle on well worn chinks and zip up a brown North Face jacket to cut the biting wind that seems to always blow along the northern Rocky Mountain front.

I’m nervous, excited. My friend Melody had been apprehensive about my riding with these men. Her husband Bill is always, rightly, a little worried about me. I’d borrowed his nervy cowhorse last fall to move stock down the road from Kennedy Creek. Bill warned: “Oscar’s going to fire if he sees downed fence. But don’t you EVER try to get off into that tangle; if you get caught up, you’ll get dragged and killed.” He’s probably right to be concerned. What am I doing, proposing to chase cows off Chief and Yellow Mountains with the best cowboys I’ve ever met? This won’t be like sweeping up my friends Patty and Kevin Connelley’s herd on the open plains around Browning. Still, even at the risk (likelihood) of embarrassing myself, I can’t miss out on this opportunity. In an unusual moment of weakness, Sam Whitford allowed I could ride along today, and it’s a chance I may never get again: to ride in the northern Rockies with tough natives who ride hard. When I’m with them, I am alive. An academic with generous time off, I used to travel to Europe and South America whenever I had the chance; now, I’m hooked on Babb.

I got a taste of cow work last year, when I first moved to the Blackfeet Reservation to teach at the tribal college. But that was in milder country a bit south, with my buddy Snicky, who tolerates and compensates for my shortcomings and general ignorance, usually more amused than irritated. He and his wife have shown me stunning country, riding to Lake Otokomi, Red Eagle Mountain, Morning Star, and though Ptarmigan Tunnel along the Belly River to Canada, but those scenic rides mostly required a strong back and a good attitude rather than toughness or skill.

I’ve ridden since I was ten years old, when my dad brought home and handed me a portly Buckskin, along with a long rope and railroad spike since we had no stable or fences. I learned on my own, braiding gear from baling twine and reading University of Wisconsin Extension bulletins on equine husbandry. But a casual Midwestern trail rider is not a Montana—much less Native—cowgirl. The one thing that has stood me well through my riding life is lack: as a girl, having to save a year until I could buy a serviceable, used saddle. Bareback of necessity, I learned to stay centered and stay on a horse. And I intend to. No dismounting to stretch my legs today. No holding up the men while I find a shrub to relieve myself behind.

I step out into the dawn and watch red light begin to crawl up Divide Mountain. My paint gelding, Batman, corralled near me overnight, is saddled, bridled, and packed before the sun comes up. I slide a stout knife onto my belt and tuck a flask into the saddle bag in case liquid courage is needed. I make sure it’s secured; I’ve scattered enough receptacles through this country to receive the name “Loses Whisky Woman.” Sam calls and tells me to meet at the parking lot of the Park Café, close by the eastern entrance to Glacier Park. Riding down the hill where I camp, I watch the morning sun animating St. Mary’s Lake. I pass a few early rising tourists gazing at the mountains and recognize how lucky I am to have friends who have opened deeper parts of their world to me. They put me up, feed me, share their children, who are a joy to ride with. Before I met this adventuresome crew, I hadn’t swum with horses since I was a teenager.

Sam Whitford on Double T, by Camp 5

The men pull up, and Batman steps right into the trailer as I’ve been practicing with him. I squeeze in the back between Billy Whitford and Gary Johnson. Gary is my old friend, and he sports an Indian cowboy look: braided hair, a well-worn black hat with an eagle feather dangling, flashy red tough rag around his neck. “You ready to ride, girl?,” he asks. I don’t know the driver, so I keep my mouth shut and just nod.

Current dam. Everyone snugs up their cinches. I mount my handily short Quarter Horse, and we climb north, up an embankment, Batman covering ground with a nice jogtrot. Sam stops and swings around to take in the dazzling view of Glacier Park’s jagged peaks and ribbon of river behind us, asks “How do you like my office?” Locals have let Sam know what livestock they’ve spotted and where. Any casual drive includes bovine reconnaissance. Moreover, a lifetime of experience has taught Sam where the malingering, unruly remnants of the tail end of round up are likely to hole up. You can waste a lot of miles, play out your mount, if you can’t predict not only where cows are hiding out but which of the tangled trails best routes out of the mountains to minimize the cows’ options to escape. These experienced bovine mothers know they will be separated from their calves when the trail ends, so calculate making a break for the brush.

Impressed by his efficiency and intuition, I wonder if Sam is among the last of his kind. The Blackfeet of this reservation are famous horsemen—just watch them rodeo and relay race. But this northwestern corner, under the monolithic shadow of Chief Mountain, has also been home to a small community of Chippewa Cree for generations, a few of whom still earn a living cowboying.

Sam grew up wild chasing around these mountains and flats, came up riding with his father, Hank Whitford, who did cow work for the Paisley and Henkel Ranches. His grandfather, Pete Flammond, drove teams and put up hay at the Galbreath Ranch, where his wife hails from.

We haven’t crossed paths with many children or grandchildren of the owners of the cattle. Or local kids out riding, for that matter. The generation now in their 50s and 60s might be the end of something grand: the know-how and willingness to get in the brushy, high headed survivors who have managed to spare their calves from all manner of predators and don’t submit willingly. Often, the task is more like hunting than herding. Maybe the work is too hard, too wet, too cold in these mountains. Or maybe the reason is simply financial. The job requires maintaining sound horses; shoeing, transporting, feeding and doctoring them; keeping up a truck and trailer and reliable tack—all for seventyfive dollars a day of long days in a short season. Then picking up any work to get by the rest of the year.

We stop for a minute to plan before splitting up. Who will check the salt grounds? Which watering holes are likely? Who will ride hard to the old Sheepherders’ Camp? I hand each man a pack of Marlboros, a small offering I’ve brought for their indulgence. Sam Whitford, dressed for practicality rather than Gary’s cowboy movie chic, pulls down his Scotch cap in the strong breeze. “Leanne, you stick with Bill.” We take a trail northwest. Bill’s stories flow. He’s always entertaining but always watching too. We study the ground. Moose tracks. Mountain lion tracks. Cow tracks. Bear tracks.

Bill shakes his head, “Big bear, big bear. Look at those feet; he must be wearing snow shoes. Do not get thrown if we run into him.” Coming up a draw, we see four pairs of cows in a small clearing. Oscar, Bill’s short-backed Appaloosa, sees them first. Batman perks up. Bill looks at me pointedly— “Keep up.” We start moving them down one of the myriad trails through the Lodgepole Pine and Douglas Fir. When they occasionally break for the thicket, I’m warned: “Do NOT lose those cows.” I’m not given much instruction, typical for locals. They’ve ridden this country for decades; they know and anticipate each other’s movements, know exactly what’s meant by “that gate,” “that coulee.” At first, I’m unsure precisely what a hand gesture demands, how far to go around, exactly when to accelerate. I’m lucky to dodge the cussings the dogs get when they mess up.

Batman serves me well. He has a lot more cow sense than I do, knowing when to push and when to pull back. Sensing when a cow might make a break. I get battered around at first as he focuses on the runaways and weaves between trees that my knees don’t clear, but a few corrections

Sam Whitford on Tower Ridge

make him account for his rider, and by afternoon he’s more supple and subtle than on our frequent trail rides, mild jaunts compared to this adrenalin-soaked work. I quickly learn to copy Bill and throw my legs over my horse’s neck, careful with my spurs, when we need to slip through the closest spots.

High on a slope, we join back up with Gary and sight Sam in the distance. A large creature looks to be facing off with him. A bull moose who figures he owns that clearing. Not as dramatic as the big cat that will advance on Gary a month later or the grizzly that huffs and charges Bill, but a dangerous animal still. All of which gives me respect for these semi-feral cattle, tough enough to keep their offspring safe from the time they’re spilled into the mountains mid-June until the gather in October—or whenever the guys can get in the last, most elusive of them.

Mid-day, we all meet back up. Sam, bringing in large group single-handedly, is smiling. He’s not known to come up empty, so days can get awfully long if he doesn’t hit early on. Sam’s good wife Shug has packed sandwiches for us all, but I’ll wait. I do take sips off the pint of Peppermint Schnapps Bill offers and am warmed through. The riding will get a lot colder over the next months, but even today, the wind stings. Always the wind out here on the Rocky Mountain front.

We’ve collected everyone’s groups into a fair herd of twenty-three pair. We’re not done for the today, though. Sam lays out the next plan: on his hardy one-man mount Slasher, he’ll cover ground fast toward Canada and see what else there is to pick up. Gary will check for a suspected herd near two small, willowy lakes. “Leanne, stay with Bill and push the herd until we come out on the Southfork Kennedy Creek trail.” I’m happy to. Bill’s been solicitous to me all day. And he has the Schnapps. But he challenges me quickly. The trail we’re on goes straight down a steep ravine, with brush on

-cont. on page 39

Gary Johnson sighting cattle, Beaver Lake

Sam Whitford on Slasher and "Wild Bill” Whitford, on Oscar, Swiftcurrent Ridge