PTCG Ride Along: Searching For Strays In Runaway Gulch
With high highs and low lows, moving cows this past Monday was an emotional rollercoaster.
Archery elk season is in full swing. I’ve been spending way more time creeping around my hunting spots than poking my keyboard, so please forgive me for the recent lack of long form content! Once September ends, life will return to a slower, more manageable pace.
In other news, this week, I took a break from hunting to help Dan look for cows . While saddling, I toyed around with the idea of creating ride along-style Substack posts. So, I took a bunch of videos during the ride with this post in mind, and I’m glad I did. It was a rollercoaster kind of day with high highs and low lows.
Let me tell you about it!
The Mission
Dan’s been busy wrapping up our horse stall renovations (more on that later). As a result, he’s behind on riding. Craving a break from walking around with my own two tired, wimpy human legs, I volunteered to ride so he could finish sawing boards for our new stall doors.
He tasked me with an out-and-back ride down Runaway Gulch to the Bulls gate. I’d ride straight down to the gate, make a 180, and come back up Runaway, and dump the cattle on Paradise Plateau.
“If the cows tore down the dead electric in Reefer Park, don’t worry about it,” Dan told me. “Just focus on Runaway.”
Simple enough. I’d totally be back in time to join our friends at their home for a chicken enchilada dinner at 5:30. Right?
As Dan likes to say, “The plan never survives first contact with the enemy.”
The Ride
I always track my rides with my Garmin watch. Not because I’m counting calories or anything; I just like collecting data. Here’s a few screenshots and a labeled map depicting the ride:
After parking the truck at Paradise Pond, Jazzy, Red, Pepper, and I took off over the plateau’s sagebrush flat, following the main cow trail down into Runaway Gulch. Minutes after starting our trek into the creek bottom, we heard a chainsaw ripping into a tree east of us. Jazzy was a bit curious about the strange sound, but other than that, I just took a mental note of it, ignoring its faint roar as we lost elevation.
It’s hard to hear the chainsaw in this video, but you can see how frequently Jazzy looks and listens to our right as we ride by. She also tends to come to a full stop when she hears a weird sound.
The first seven miles or so were pretty uneventful. A small rainstorm drizzled on us, we admired the changing fall colors and a tree that was struck by lightening, and I wrestled a downed tree blocking the trail. I didn’t start noticing cow sign until we were below the confluence of Bear and Runaway Gulch.
Here’s the lightening tree. You can hear the chainsaw a lot better, too:
Label B on the map marks a location named Reefer Park. Apparently, “reefer” is an old term for a refrigerator, much like “fridge” today. It didn’t exclusively refer to weed. Reefer Park earned its name because its microclimate is always colder than the surrounding area.
Oh, also, here’s what Runaway Gulch looks like:
Pretty nice “trail,” huh?
About a half mile north of Reefer park is a tiny tiny meadow. Two pair and one open cow, or a cow without a calf, were there. I asked Pepper and Red to “get behind,” which means walk behind the horse, so we could slip by them and continue south. We’d pick them up on our way back north.
To my surprise, there weren’t any stray cattle in Reefer Park. However, the dead electric fence Dan installed to block cows from going up the super nasty drainage to the northwest was down.
There must be cows up there, I thought. That drainage is too dense to ride horses through. It’s only accessible via hiking. I’m gonna have to tell Dan some bad news.
We plodded on south, running into eight pair and two bulls between Reefer Park and the Bulls gate. The dogs and I quietly slipped past them, too. But to my disdain, several new trees had fallen down on the cow path. I dismounted and drug another huge dead tree into a ditch so Jazzy could pass through.
Three hours into the ride, we finally made it to the Bulls gate. A single cow had followed us down there. I asked Pepper and Red to get around her, to push her back north.
The dogs exploded. Pepper tore straight after her and Red followed, barking and lunging and thrashing through the forest. The cow was absolutely terrified. She ran in a huge circle instead of going back where she came from. I tried to call the dogs off, but they were too excited. After running a few erratic laps, they finally got her going north.
While I was waiting for the dogs to come back, I heard cattle on the CPW land south of the Bulls gate. There are not supposed to be cows there. More bad news for Dan.
As we went north, Red dropped off into the creek to work the cows on her own. Her decision allowed Jazzy and me to stay on the cleared trail. However, when Pepper noticed her best buddy moving cows, she enthusiastically joined her. The cows spooked. I couldn’t keep up, and I lost sight of them.
I started to panic. If the cows got to Reefer before me, I couldn’t block them from crossing the downed electric and keep them out of the world’s nastiest creek bottom. Jazzy trotted as fast as she could down the rough, rocky trail. The dogs returned to me at the entrance to Reefer, and I glanced up to see the cows trending west.
Shit.
Jazzy got us as close to the cows as possible. I had a great angle where, if the dogs behaved, Red and Pepper could get around the willows, cut the cows off, and drive them up northeast Runaway.
Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I asked the dogs to get around them. Instead of arcing up and around, they slammed the back of the herd. Every cow galloped up the northwest drainage at full speed.
“Come! Come! COME!” I yelled down the ravine, my hoarse voice bouncing off the rock walls. The dogs were so far away, I barely heard their barks.
Sheer frustration set in. My inner toddler came out. I slid off Jazzy and had an honest to goodness meltdown.
Face in the grass, fists pounding dirt; I ugly cried. The dogs came back, finally, tails wagging, thrilled at their pride of moving those cows. I scolded them while snot poured across my face and down my chin. (Shocker: I did not take a video of this.)
I’m not capable of doing this job. I’ve failed Dan. I’ve failed our ranchers. Why do I even try? Overflowing with self-doubt, I ignored Dan’s words about the electric fence from earlier and slouched my way back into the saddle, smearing away tears with a dirty glove. At least I’d still make it to dinner on time.
“Red, Pepper. Get behind.”
We apathetically picked up the two pair and one open. The cows moved quickly and steadily, even when it thunderstormed. But I wasn’t in the mood to appreciate their good behavior.
The ride back up to Nolan’s Park (point D on the map) is steep and stupid. Thankfully, the park is the perfect place to stop and rest before the big switchback. Pepper, Red, and the cows laid down. I dismounted Jazzy and let her have a snack break. Besides the huffing and puffing of large animals, everything was quiet, until two dusky grouse flushed right behind me.
My .22 revolver lives in my saddlebag this time of year for this exact reason.
I tied Jazzy to a tree and got my gun out. I’d never shot around her before, so I had no idea what to expect. I crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t freak out, break a rein, and run away.
The dogs followed me while I eyed the trees for bird-shaped outlines. In aspens, after flushing, duskies almost always perch on a bare tree branch. They stretch their body out and hold perfectly still. Sometimes, they cluck softly. I heard a nearby cluck and shifted my gaze to a standing dead tree. There, on a high branch 20 yards away, stood a grouse.
I raised my single-action Rough Rider, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger. Pop! The grouse was still standing. A clean miss. I turned back to check on Jazzy, and she was merely staring at me. Excellent.
I shot again. A hit! The grouse collapsed on the forked branch. For a moment, I thought it was stuck. Then, its death flaps knocked it loose, and it hung in the air for forever until hitting the earth with a whoomph. Pepper got to the bird first. She sniffed it curiously.
“Good dog, dead bird, good dog,” I said, wishing she’d catch on and help me find future dead grouse. I tucked the bird’s head under its wing and laid it on the ground, then retraced the forest’s outline for the second bird.
There it was, just a few trees over, on another open limb within gun range. I shot the revolver and heard a click in response. Bad round. I spun my cylinder and shot again.
Click. Shit.
I spun it again. Pop! A clean miss. Man, I’m down to one more round! I slowly raised the gun a final time. Cocked the hammer, pulled the trigger, and heard a satisfying pop, followed by another whoomph. Yes!
I ran over to my second bird. Thrilled at my double, I admired both of them on the ground together. The big one was a mature male, the other a younger one. Both were shot in the spine and harbored no meat damage. I couldn’t have shot them better if I had used my .22 rifle.
Given their great condition, I could leave them in the fridge to rest overnight, pluck them, and roast them whole, my favorite way to eat delicious, delicious dusky grouse. Also, Jazzy didn’t give a crap about my shooting. Once she realized the dead grouse weren’t anything to be afraid of, she didn’t care about them, either. Three huge wins.
You know what’d be really cool? Hunting ducks with Jazzy like the trained waterfowling steers of Texas. Who knows, she might be up for that. After all, there’s no ducklings in the fall. (Jazzy’s hilariously terrified of ducklings.)
The feathery redemption flipped my entire perspective of the day on its head. My eyes gleamed, my smile stuck. Enchiladas were getting closer to my belly every second.
Well, until we summited Paradise Plateau. While I was in Runaway, cows tore down the western gate and spilled all over the wrong pasture.
Enchiladas would have to wait.
I cleaned up my mess as quickly as possible. Then, I chucked Jazzercise in the trailer, loaded up Red and Pepper, and sped down the hill towards home. Near the bottom of the Rainbow Road, I wheeled around a blind corner and slammed to a stop.
The chainsawer from earlier drove his truck into the ditch. A tow truck attempted to winch him out. Both vehicles blocked the entire road.
Fantastic. I shut the truck down and watched the free entertainment, accepting that I’d be over an hour late to dinner.
This is ridiculous. How did he even get off the road? Why would you cut rounds that big? How did he even lift those rounds into his truck?! I had (and still have) so many questions.
Fifteen minutes later, the road cleared, and I headed home to unsaddle. I am happy to report that the rest of the evening featured enchiladas, margaritas, hot tubbing, and lively conversations about our friends’ upcoming cow elk hunt. They’re an older couple and neither of them have experienced a successful elk hunt, and this year, they drew cow tags in a location I’m very familiar with and happens to be full of cow elk. Taking them hunting this November is going to be a total blast. Literally, I hope.
Needless to say, I’m ready to get back to my archery season.
What sounds better, moving cows or hunting elk? Do you have a dusky grouse cooking secret? What qualities, realistic or not, would you look for in a horse? When’s the last time you had an absolute meltdown? Are posts like this fun for you to read?
I’ve shared enough of my thoughts; I want to hear yours!