11 minute read
THE LEGENDARY GEORGE ROSS
Owner of Canada’s Lost River Ranch, a huge operation covering more than a quarter-million acres, Ross was much more than a simple rancher.
James Osborne
ABUCKET OF ROCKS BLOCKED my way as I climbed into the passenger seat of the light plane.
“Oh, I forgot about those,” the pilot chuckled. “Grab a couple and put the bucket on the ground outside, okay?”
Minutes later we were airborne in the two-seater aircraft. Holding a rock in each hand, I couldn’t resist the obvious question.
“What’s with these, George?” I asked, shouting over the roaring engine as we gained altitude from the grass airstrip below.
“You’ll see in a minute,” he shouted back. A mischievous grin danced across his deeply tanned face.
George Ross banked the small plane and pointed it west across Lost River Ranch. His home was near the eastern edge of the huge spread. His brother John, also a pilot, lived at the western end of the beef cattle operation they owned together. Their homes were 90 miles apart.
George was showing me why two aircraft and a dozen riders were needed to patrol the massive ranch, founded in the late 1880s by his grandfather. He’d explained before takeoff that Lost River Ranch covered a staggering 273,000 acres. It spanned a huge swath of land on the prairies of southern Alberta in western Canada, much of it immediately north of the border with the United States. Ranchers call it short grass country—where annual rainfall is so limited the area is borderline desert. Most years, one hundred acres of prairie grass are needed to support just one head of cattle.
It was early afternoon and visibility from 1,000 feet was good. Below, numerous ravines interrupted the undulating prairie. The rolling terrain looked much like long-legged centipedes wriggling their way down to dry creek beds. Water can only be found in those ravines after infrequent rains, and in the spring given enough winter snow. Right now, the bottoms of the ravines were covered with a mixture of brown and green grass, and scrub bush. Occasional groves of trees acted like magnets attracting cattle to their shade.
The aerial view helped explain the ranch’s name. At the end of the last ice age 11,700 years ago, runoff from melting mile-high glaciers had formed enormous rivers that cut deeply into the terrain. These glacial rivers later disappeared leaving vast dry riverbeds many miles wide: thus the term, lost rivers. One of these wide prehistoric riverbeds meandered down the heart of Lost River Ranch.
“Are those your cattle?” I asked, pointing down to a herd grazing in a deep ravine.
“Yup,” George replied. “At roundup time, John and I fly over those ravines. We find dozens of head that way. Riders on the ground can’t spot them.
“That’s where the bucket of rocks comes in,” he said with a grin.
Ah, hah, I thought, rolling the rocks around in my hands. Finally… here comes the answer.
Now, before proceeding it’s important to note his story is set in August 1963, long before the introduction of affordable mobile phones.
“Look in the pocket,” George said pointing to the passenger side door. “You’ll find a notebook and a bag of rubber bands. When we spot some cattle, we write down the number and location on that notepad, tear off the page and wrap it around a rock. The rubber bands hold the notes in place on the rocks. Then we fly over the riders and drop the notes.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” I said. “Ever hit anyone?”
“Oh, no!” he laughed. “But, oh boy, I’ve been tempted a time or two. Truth is we’re careful to drop them well away from the riders.
“I’ll show you,” he added. “You ever fly a plane?”
“Nope,” I replied glancing at the dual control yoke in front of me, bobbing and swaying unattended.
“Grab hold,” George instructed. “It’s just like driving a car. You’ll see. No problem.”
He let go of the controls as I lunged for the yoke on my side. The plane wobbled, and dipped up and down a bit, but regardless George concentrated on writing a note. My seat was too far back for my short legs to reach the foot controls … probably a good thing.
George motioned for me to hand him one of the rocks I’d dropped hastily on my lap. The plane took another clumsy shallow dive as I passed the rock with one hand, my other clinging to the controls. Sweat formed beads on my brow.
The door on his side had both the main window and a smaller window the size of a large envelope. George opened it and threw out the paper-wrapped rock. He took back control and circled sharply. We watched the white object drop quickly and then disappear into brown grass about 100 yards from two riders. One urged his horse to a gallop toward the spot.
“There you go,” he said. “Now they’ll know where to find those cattle we saw.”
This ‘innovative airmail’ was my second surprise of the day… and just as educational as the first.
Earlier that morning, after a crack-of-dawn breakfast of pancakes, multiple eggs and a small steak, George said he wanted to show me something in a corral a few miles from the ranch house. There, cattle were awaiting transport to market.
As we left the house, I instinctively headed toward the well-worn pickup we’d used the day before, parked in front of the wide verandah embracing three sides of the house. George motioned me to a shiny pale green Cadillac. The luxury car was almost new. After instinctively brushing my clothes before getting in, I asked as he drove off:
“Don’t you think we should have taken the pickup, George? It’s pretty rough out here.”
We were heading cross-country over uneven prairie terrain littered with rocks, sagebrush and gopher holes.
“Naw,” George said. “After those drinks we had last night, my head’s a bit tender this morning. This here Cadillac sure does ride nice and smooth. And it has air conditioning. Just what we need, don’t ya think?”
At the corral, George pointed to a steer and described why it would provide top quality steaks. Then he pointed to another. A ranch hand watched us. George explained the cowboy was sitting astride a cutting horse. He’d brought me there to see the horse and rider in action.
George nodded and the cowboy guided the cutting horse with gentle movements of the reins into the herd of about 30 steers. Horse and rider headed for the first steer George had mentioned. The horse seemed to sense the targeted animal.
A remarkable display of teamwork followed. The horse slowly walked toward the steer. As it got closer it began stepping gently to one side and then the other, gradually isolating the steer from the other animals. Occasionally, it would lunge quickly one way or the other as the steer tried to make a break for it. The horse seemed to anticipate the steer’s intentions. Its eyes never left the steer.
The cowboy barely moved.
Finally, the cutting horse had separated the first steer from the herd over to one side of the circular corral. The rider dropped a lasso over the animal’s head and tied the rope to a rail on the corral.
George explained that well-trained cutting horses need little guidance, at most requiring only subtle movements of the reins and pressure from the rider’s knees. The more experienced a cutting horse became the less direction it needed.
The cowboy guided his cutting horse back into the herd toward the second steer. Once the horse had identified the targeted steer it was separated from the herd effortlessly, again with almost no guidance from the cowboy. He lassoed the second steer and tied it to the rail of the corral next to the first.
“Wow!” I said. “The skill and intelligence of that cutting horse is mesmerizing. It seemed as if all the rider had to do was be in the saddle.”
“Exactly,” George replied. “The rider let his horse know which steer to cut and horse did the rest. Dumb animals? Not hardly!
“Those horses are specially bred,” he added in answer to the look of awe on my face. “And carefully trained. A good cutting horse is a pleasure to watch … and quite valuable.”
During the ride back to the ranch house and to our flight over the ranch in his plane, George invited me to his annual barbeque. It would be held the following month. Fellow ranchers and other friends were invited. Some would fly to the event in their own planes, landing on his airstrip.
Following our flight, George invited me to stay another night. It was the weekend and I was single. What the heck!
Daylight came much too early the next day. I met George in the kitchen for a cup of the strong coffee he’d obviously made to combat our shared hangovers. His wife and their two small kids had the good sense not to rise at 5 a.m. like us.
“Bring your coffee,” he said eagerly. “I’ve got something that’ll surprise you.”
Out the back door he went. I scrambled after him.
When I caught up, George was standing at the top of a trenched walkway sloping down beneath a high mound of soil topped with grass. At the bottom, he pulled open a thick wood door and flipped on a light. We walked in and he quickly closed the heavy door behind us.
We were in a cold room. Hanging on hooks suspended from the ceiling were four sides of beef.
“You saw yesterday what good beef looks like on the hoof,” he said smiling at my surprise. “Here’s what it looks like heading for the supermarket.” He explained the sides were to feed their guests at the fly-in barbeque in four weeks.
“The sides will hang to cure in this cold room until the barbeque. Right now, you have another job.”
“What’s that?” I asked, still absorbing the experience.
“You’ve got to pick your steak,” he said.
“Huh?” I managed. George pulled a marker from the pocket of his jean jacket and walked over to the nearest side of beef. He looked it over carefully, top to bottom.
“There’s a good one,” he said. “That’s one of the best steaks here.” He reached over, grabbed the side of beef and wrote my initials on a rib.
A month later I arrived for the fly-in barbeque, trying not to be overwhelmed by the assemblage of famous ranchers, celebrities, politicians, neighbors and a few ‘just plain folks’ like me.
“Come and get it!” George called out at one point. “Time to eat.”
Crews had opened the pit barbeques, unwrapped the sides of beef and placed them on four tables covered with white vinyl tablecloths. On each were carving boards and knives. A fifth table, covered with a white linen tablecloth, held bowls heaped with green vegetables, mashed potatoes, gravy, salads, pickles and horseradish, along with other miscellaneous accouterments, side dishes and condiments.
George’s guests lined up and carvers began filling their plates with enormous steaks.
George walked over to where I was standing.
“There,” he said, pointing to the second table. “Go have a look … get your steak.”
I walked over.
“One of these yours?” a carver asked. I shrugged, not sure where to look.
“What’s your name?” he asked helpfully.
I told him. He repeated my initials.
“There you are,” he said.
Sure enough, there were my initials on a perfectly cooked steak. When the enormous slice of meat landed on my plate, I almost lost control of it. The steak was cooked medium rare. Just the way George said it should be done.
I’ll never understand why that gifted yet selfeffacing rancher made friends with this young man, but I will always be mighty grateful that he did. During numerous encounters before and after that visit and the barbeque, that remarkable cattleman was generous enough to mentor me about life and living.
In the process, I learned why George was so highly respected byranchers and by business and community leaders. His wit, wisdom, natural leadership and wry sense of humor earned him the nickname, the Will Rogers of Canada.
Before his short life ended in 1971 at the age of 48 from a heart attack, George’s impressive list of accomplishments included helping to found and lead major regional and national agriculture groups, develop successful business ventures, write an immensely popular column for a farm newspaper, and serve on several prominent community organizations including a university board of governors.
—James Osborn is an international bestselling author whose varied career has included investigative journalist, college teacher, army officer, vice-president of a Fortune 500 company, business owner, and writer. His latest novel is the award-winning Secret Shepherd, an Amazon bestseller. The novel is his second book in a planned trilogy called The Maidstone Series, named after his award-winning novel, The Maidstone Conspiracy. Osborne has also written more than 120 short stories, some appearing in his short story collection, Encounters with Life, and others in dozens of anthologies and literary journals.
