by Bobbi Phelps
“No. I’m not going to any damn hospital.”
And he didn’t. After loading their horses and returning to the valley, Lou went home and drank the night away. Mike checked on him later that night and again the next morning. He guessed the finger had seared shut from the rope burn and no infection had set in. Surprisingly, Lou offered to cowboy for Sky Ranch the following week, roping and doctoring as usual.
“When you move cattle from your summer grazing range, where do you take them?” I asked Mike as we continued down the mountain road.
“I’d hire a cowboy or two and round them up. We’d herd them into a cattle truck and transport them to a feed lot.”
Along the Rocky Mountain highways, I passed many silver cattle trucks, high metal eighteen-wheelers with large air holes spaced every foot or so. And when I drove from Twin Falls to the ranch, I maneuvered around the Hansen feedlot. The lot, divided into several enclosures, held only dirt and manure with nothing growing inside. Workers threw hay and a specialized growth feed into a trough alongside the edge of the pens. Tractors pushed dark soil and manure into large mounds around the barren ground. The piles looked at least four-feet high with one cow invariably standing on top. “King of the castle,” I thought. While in the feedlot, the beef cattle gained weight until they left for slaughter, adding to the operator’s profit.
I continually increased my knowledge about ranching—either by listening to Mike’s explanations or by being observant as I drove around nearby communities. Once I inquired about a “female heifer.” Little did I know the word heifer is the name for a young female cow. After he laughed at my mistake, Mike told me about the birthing process.
“I’d wear a plastic glove that reached to my shoulder. It protected my shirt and gave me easy access to the womb,” he said. “First, I’d position the pregnant cow into a head gate and put on the sterile glove. With the glove on, my hand could easily slip into the birth canal.” Once inside, Mike knew if the cow needed help completing the birth. If so, he’d wrap a small metal chain around both front hooves and slowly pull, inching the calf outward. Once its hips cleared the cow, the calf would drop headfirst into the straw, covered with moisture.
“I’d clean out the calf’s nose and mouth and then dry its body with a burlap sack.”
Mike continued, “When the calf raised its head, the mother took over, licking mucus from the calf’s body and encouraging it to stand. Once it stood and began nursing, I knew everything was okay.”
Mike told me that beef ranchers describe their cattle as ‘mother cows,’ which meant the ranch had a cow and a calf. Instead of telling people how many cows Sky Ranch had, he explained, “I’d just say, a few hundred MCs. Ranchers understand.”
I absorbed cattle information like a sponge, listening to Mike’s stories, questioning him about specific items, and asking for more details. Since I was constantly curious and our relationship was still new, Mike happily obliged my interrogations. How different life on the ranch was from my youth. I had grown up in a neighborhood full of children, had animals as cuddly house pets, and swam beside sandy beaches along Long Island Sound. Nowhere had I ever experienced the broad expanse of prairie lands enclosing massive farmlands, devoid of any real population. I found the prospect of adjusting to this barren landscape appealing, even imagining my life with Mike as another great adventure. Little did I know what the future held for me.
* * *
On my first solo trip to Sky Ranch, I marveled at the quiet scenery. Individual farms were neatly organized in a mosaic of parcels, from orange to yellow to green and brown, like a muted kaleidoscope. Their colors scattered in the emptiness of huge fields, surrounded by a few huddled trees and bushes, planted not only as house decorations but as protection against the strong winds blowing through the valley.
After I drove across the Hansen railroad bridge, past the cutoff for Murtaugh on Highway 30, I looked for street signs. Nowhere did I see typical road designations, like Maple Drive or Smith Lane. Instead, I noticed only numbers. Mike had told me to turn right at 4900. Rural addresses in Idaho were county grid numbers, arranged by north, east, south, and west. Supposedly, if one knew the coordinates, finding the location was easy. In reality, almost everyone used visual directions. They’d say, “turn right at the green house” or “five miles past the old potato cellar.”
When I saw 4900 on a street sign, I turned right and began to notice familiar houses and barns. There weren’t many but I remembered them from previous trips to the ranch. Halfway down the street, the asphalt turned to dirt beneath my tires, a road that now resembled a waffle iron—with potholes and bumps along the way. I twisted my silver Subaru from right to left, dodging to avoid the worst of them.
While I continued on the gravel road, a large tractor came toward me. As we passed each other, I looked into the cab and saw a young boy at the wheel. He looked to be about twelve, yet he drove a huge expensive vehicle, probably transporting it from one field to another. It amazed me how farmers allowed, and even encouraged, their young boys to drive pickups and enormous farm equipment. I believed children should be more mature before permitting them to handle such huge vehicles.
On my return from visiting Mike at the ranch, I ventured into Murtaugh, a tree-shaded farming town a mile north of the highway. There were no traffic lights, no banks, and only one tiny gas station. A few commercial businesses comprised downtown: a pool hall, a small grocery store, a café, a post office, and a hardware store. The Community Building Supply store on Boyd Street reminded me of a tiny Wal-Mart. It had appliances, gifts, fishing and hunting supplies, farm goods, and hardware . . . all packed into one building. And it saved nearby residents from driving to Twin Falls if they only wanted to buy a few items.
From there I followed the old highway as it curved along the Snake River canyon. Tumbleweeds blew in front of my car and became snared in strings of barbed wire fences bordering the road. They stacked in bunches, so thick they formed a solid barrier. This was a typical sight in the blustery conditions throughout the prairie lands. The old road eventually merged into Highway 30 with the sun dipping from the sky as its last rays reached across the highway. I continued to drive west and pulled into my gravel driveway as dark dusk enveloped the land.
Chapter Four
Fly Fishing Honeymoon
On the afternoon of August 7, I became Mrs. Michael M. Wolverton. My parents flew in from Florida and joined Mike’s family and friends for an intimate ceremony at the Methodist church, a small building tucked into a Murtaugh side street. I wore a light pink chiffon dress, fitted at the waist and falling to my knees. Mike wore a navy suit with a white shirt. This was the first time I had seen him wear something other than jeans. He wore his extravagant, ostrich-leather Tony Lama boots, now gleaming with dark brown polish.
Afterward we had a small celebration at our newly built home at Sky Ranch. Mike and I had designed the home from a myriad of house plans, and our furniture had arrived a few days prior. The decoration was sparse but our couches, beds, and chairs were in their appropriate locations. Mike carried me over the garage-door threshold and into the kitchen. The wedding party soon followed. Typical of many houses across Idaho, family and friends used the back door. Strangers and formal company came in through the front door.
The outside of our brick house was patterned after a Tudor home on Harrison Boulevard in Boise. It had a steep, cedar-shake roof, a protruding gabled dormer, and multi-paned windows. I paused and looked at the kitchen. It had a full refrigerator with a matching freestanding freezer, two ovens, a microwave, and a gas range. What a dream kitchen—amazing when one considered what a dreadful cook I was. Mike must have thought these appliances would inspire and contribute to my future culinary successes. I hoped he was right.
A black, handheld Motorola radio rested in an electric base on the white, manmade Corian countertop. It stood a bulky eight inches high and had a five-inch antenna extending from its top. I had never used a portable radio and had never even
seen one before coming to Idaho. It wouldn’t be long before I’d know the Motorola system by heart, but at the moment it looked formidable. The radio announced discussions from three other ranches besides our own, and I could hear their conversations as they could hear ours.
The stairs to the second floor started just to the side of the front door. Underneath the staircase a deep closet contained a garden hose attached to a faucet. Because any emergency vehicle would take almost an hour to reach us, we had to rely on our own water supply to douse a house fire. The living room had glass-fronted, mahogany cabinets on each side of a wood-burning fireplace. On the south wall large windows had unobstructed views of nearby fields, with the opposite space opening to a step-down room dominated by a pool table and bordered by a wooden railing. Down the hall was Mike’s office and a guest bathroom. The master suite accommodated the north end of the house. Cheerful sunlight streamed in through its three tall windows facing the South Hills. Upstairs were two bedrooms for Mike’s children, Christa and Blaine, along with a bathroom, and a large office over the garage for the Angler’s business. His children lived with their mom but visited us whenever their school schedules allowed. Amazed by this beautiful home and my husband’s welcoming family, I envisioned a life of comfort and class—similar to the assets I had growing up in Connecticut. I was ecstatic.
Gathered in the dining room, family and friends held glasses of sparkling wine and listened to congratulatory speeches. Mike mentioned our next day’s agenda.
“What? You’re going on your honeymoon with your parents?” Del Carraway, one of Mike’s fishing buddies, asked. Mike and I, along with his parents, were driving to Montana the following morning. I had our tent trailer packed with camping supplies and he had his pickup loaded with angling gear.
“What could be better?” Mike responded with a smile as he hugged my shoulder and pulled me closer. “Fishing with Dad and having Mom cook the meals.”
Merle and Margaret had a bus-like, recreational vehicle and pulled our fourteen-foot Mirrocraft boat. Mike towed our tent trailer behind his pickup. We drove through Yellowstone and set up camp near a large lake on the Flathead Indian Reservation, north of the national park in Western Montana. As only our two vehicles were present, we had absolute privacy and excellent fishing. Margaret, a tall, slender woman in her late sixties, prepared the meals while I placed glasses and plates on the outdoor table and cleaned up afterward. During the day I fished and photographed with Merle. He had health issues so I ran the boat. On the last day, Margaret made a special dinner and wanted us to eat together. However, when the fishing was hot, it was difficult to coordinate the anglers with a specific time to eat.
“Mike’s too far away,” Merle stated as he spied his son at the remote end of the lake. “He can’t see us waving.”
Mike fished from a float tube: a nylon-covered inner tube. He rested on a mesh seat in the middle of the tube and wore belted chest waders. He had swim fins attached over his wading boots, allowing him to maneuver the tube wherever he wanted to go. Because Mike fished from such a distance, it would have taken him over an hour to paddle back to his parent’s motorhome.
“Okay,” I said from the rear of our fishing boat. “Let’s pick him up.”
Sitting near the motor, I held the rudder and propelled the boat across the large lake. Once I circled Mike’s tube and pulled the Mirrocraft close to him, I cut the engine and drifted to his side. He grabbed the gunnel and hung on. Once he settled next to the boat, I slowly glided back toward the campground.
“Go faster!” I heard him shout over the roar of the motor. The thirty-five-horsepower Evinrude outboard caught immediately. I pushed the gear lever forward, gunned the engine, and we flew across the water. Massive waves plastered Mike’s back and practically swamped him in his float tube. He clung to the boat’s gunnel, his knuckles white and powerful, trying not to be swept under the rush of water. As soon as I saw him struggling, I cut the engine. Mike wiped his face, repositioned his fishing rod, and stared at me in disbelief.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.
“You said, ‘Go faster.’”
“No, I said, ‘No faster.’ Let’s take it a little easier this time,” he said as politely as possible. We took off again, but at a much slower pace. Merle turned toward me, a slight smirk filling his face. I think he thought the soaking of his son was quite funny.
Chapter Five
Making Meals
“How do you make over-easy eggs?” I asked Margaret over the telephone. I only knew how to cook scrambled eggs. She laughed as she answered.
“Put some oil in a skillet and turn up the heat. Drop eggs in the oil and try not to break the yolk,” Margaret instructed. “You want the whites to be firm and the yolk soft,” she added. “Flip them over and cook them on the other side, but only for a few seconds. Then they’re ready. Don’t worry. Mike has patience—especially if he’s hungry.”
While making the first breakfast in our new home, I felt intimidated by the process. Mike expected a hearty, three-course meal. I was not an enthusiastic early-morning eater. My own breakfast consisted of one piece of buttered toast and a glass of orange juice. For Mike’s breakfast, I made coffee, poured a glass of orange juice, and prepared a half grapefruit. The citrus scent drifted upward as I sliced each individual wedge and placed the turned-up grapefruit on a small plate. The second course was a bowl of cereal and a glass of milk. When it came to the third course of bacon and eggs, I had to call his mother.
She reminded me that we lived over four thousand feet in elevation and everything took a little longer to cook. I fried two eggs as she instructed and they turned out just fine. Bacon drained on paper towels and two pieces of toast popped from the toaster. Butter and jelly sat on the kitchen table along with a gallon of milk and an ever-present container of toothpicks. To the side of his plate stood a mug of coffee. I felt proud of my accomplishment. I had actually completed his breakfast.
The smell of bacon drifted to our bedroom, its airborne invitation beckoning Mike to the kitchen. He started right in with his meal as he had a busy day ahead. After his first course, he scraped his bowl of Raisin Bran and wiped a dribble of milk from his mustache. Then he began his bacon and eggs portion. I had heard farmers were hearty eaters and that morning I saw one in action. Mike could go through countless calories when lifting heavy seed bags, carting bulky machinery parts, and working large equipment. Because his breakfast consisted of the same items day after day, I adjusted. Before long, it became just another acceptable ranch routine. When he finished, Mike leaned down and kissed me.
“See you at lunch,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll have it ready at noon,” I called back over my shoulder as I began to scrape the dishes and load the dishwasher. Although the sandwiches would be ready as stated, I never knew when he’d actually appear. Farmers don’t conform to regular work hours. Mike came home whenever his chores allowed him an hour’s break. While he worked, I decided to plant tulips and daffodils around the two entrances of our circular driveway.
Three employees arrived later in the day and began to install a split-rail fence across the lawn next to the dirt road. They used an auger, or fence-hole digger, attached to the back of a tractor to dig the post holes. I had read about people getting their clothes caught in the rotating device, whipping at such speeds, their legs and arms were actually ripped off. It was one of the most dangerous items at the farm and I kept my distance. Mike appeared and supervised the actual installation. He then had his men shovel wide holes and plant vibrant rosebushes, alternating their yellow and orange colors next to the fence.
“These are beautiful, Mike. I’m so happy. Our house is actually becoming a home.”
* * *
During the first few days after moving to the ranch, I decided to introduce myself to our nearest neighbor. The Moss family owned a ranch bordering ours, a mile or so from our house. I turned east from our gravel driveway, drove over the dirt road to their whit
e brick house, and pulled in beside a dusty pickup. I stepped from my car and walked up the path to their front door. Candyce Moss, a young blond about ten years old, greeted me. Once I introduced myself, she pointed to the field adjacent to their lawn.
“Mom’s on the tractor,” she stated.
Gravel crunched under my tires as I steered to the edge of the field and halted. From there I watched a tractor approach me. I exited my Subaru as the tractor began to turn. Then it stopped and paused. The cab door opened and a blond woman emerged and jumped from the machine. We met in the field and shook hands.
“Hi. I’m Bobbi Wolverton,” I said. “I married Mike last month.”
“So, I heard,” she said. “I’m Marsha Moss.”
What a beauty. I couldn’t believe she wore a full face of makeup with foundation, mascara, and bright pink lipstick and painted nails. This was a woman who had just been driving a tractor, turning over dirt in a dusty field! As she said, she had been “tilling” the soil. Her tractor had steel tines that pulverized the dirt and sod, getting it ready for planting. We chatted for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries, and talked about each other’s family.
“I have two children, a boy and a girl,” she said. “You met Candyce.”
“Mike has Blaine and Christa but I don’t have any. When I moved to Twin Falls, I found employment at the Times News. I also own a calendar company.”
“Wow! Two jobs. And I thought I was busy,” she said. “I rep for a small fashion company in Salt Lake. I drive there every few weeks when I’m not in the field helping Dean. He’s my husband.”
At the end of our conversation, I asked her to visit. We agreed on a date and she returned to her tractor while I drove home to prepare dinner. Mike expected three hearty meals a day when we were at the ranch. Thank goodness, my calendar company required we attend five business conferences a year. That was our time to splurge and dine at fancy restaurants—and to give me some respite from my daily cooking chores. Mike and I also had fishing and photographing jaunts all over the world: from Alaska to Argentina, from Canada to the Caribbean, and from Hawaii to New Zealand. With these trips, we could be away from Idaho for three weeks at a time. If I had had to live at the ranch day in and day out, I would have burned out. The constant travel kept me energetic and our love blossomed.