The Cattleman and the Bear
By Alec M. Giacoletto — CHS Bonfire Advisor
Sweat dripped down his bald head over the ledge of his forehead to the follicles of his brow from underneath his straw cattleman’s hat. The hand he used to swing a staple-mashing hammer into lifted and swiped with a three-quarter-sleeved forearm to remove the perspiration before lifting to the sky for another round. Whack! Whack! Whack! A shake and rattling of wire echoed through the summer’s air ensured the security of the cattle tight fence because loose cattle took time to wrangle, and time was money to the rancher. Any second spent rounding up steers and moving the critters back into the proper pastures were seconds detached from irrigating, cabin repair, laying new gravel on the obsidian based road into the property, fence upkeep, feeding horses, organizing tools, covering the holes on Meadow Crick’s bridge, or barking at his son – the youngest of his children – to keep busy.
The Cattleman walked down the fence to place another set of staples into a brand new post. He hoped to replace this fence line in the spring with brand new materials, but things didn’t play out that way as was life on the ranch. No option other than a progressive, through-the-season replacement seemed viable. One piece at a time, he dug up a rotten brown post, sunk a new yellow post fresh out of the lumber mill into the ground, spliced barbed wire with a silvery shine between the breaks and holes in the rusty strands, and punched four evenly spaced staples into the fence post to anchor the wires to the wood. He played each of the four wires like guitar strings and the hum wobbled down the line to the opposite end with fading shakes before the breezeless silence returned.
Dusty boots scuffed the earth with each step back to Buck who stood tied to the h-brace down the line behind him, and when he approached, Buck nayed and flicked his head vertically in numerous abrupt motions while he stomped his forelegs in an out-of-rhythm scuffle.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah – I’m coming,” said The Cattleman in his gruff voice.
Buck was a buckskin stock horse with a laid back demeanor and a tall, burly frame at 17 hands high, so his owner preferred him both for his muscular acumen and his low maintenance personality. His last horse, Grumpy, often failed at both tasks and bucked him off into broken arms twice because he was always fussy. As one would’ve observed, he lacked creativity when naming horses, but his equine nomenclature system proved efficient. Less time spent naming a horse was more time spent doing something productive that contributed to the functionality of his operation.
The dusty left boot lifted nearly hip high into the stirrup, and the left hand grasped the horn of the saddle previous to rocking and swaying over Buck to kick the right leg up and over into the opposing stirrup. A heel thump into the steed’s sides and a slow trot down the fence line initiated.
Sage brush coated the hillside downslope onto the mountain grass covered flat sprawling for an endless distance to the west until the backstop of the Centennial Mountains. Cattle in the distance appeared as black dots across the yellow fields to the far off fence line, which set the western boundary of the 1,300 acre property. The stream cut and meandered through the heart of the property with three cricks inhabited by beavers and brookies spilling in at various points throughout the land. To the south, what once existed as lodgepole pine stands now housed weekend warriors, tourists, and transplants from cities such as San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, Salt Lake City, and Denver. These folks were aliens in a foreign land and The Cattleman often wondered if they were capable of understanding his kin. Could they truly comprehend the ache of a sore back from shoveling dirt all day? Did they know the sharp pain felt in one’s thigh when a freshly branded steer’s foot slipped a cowboy’s hold and stamped ‘em right on the meaty spot? Had they sensed the smelly stench of three cowboys busting their tails in the summer's heat digging and filling post holes? Could they understand frustration boiling through their veins when 25-head of steers died from an unexpected illness that ravaged the herd? Pigs would fly before those city slickers knew much about the rancher’s plight outside of their Hollywood-based presuppositions, or so he thought. No matter how many Paramount cowboy and western TV shows they sat and watched, no serial would’ve made them understand.
Eventually, Buck picked up the obsidian covered dirt and gravel road that cut through the edge along the lodgepole pines preceding the grassy flat. The log cabin built during the earthquake that formed the lake laid at the epilogue of the path. The sun progressed toward the Centennials to the west and the sky turned from bright blue to orange and yellow hues, which typically warmed the hearts of the most apathetic souls, yet The Cattleman hardly gave it a second thought. It’s not that he didn’t feel affable toward his gorgeous home, in fact, he loved it, but the ranch consumed his attention nearly every waking moment. When he wasn’t working, he thought about the upcoming work; when the work was done, he already knew what tasks required his attention next because the work was never done. If it was done, one of two things occurred: he sold the place or he died. A halt in productivity possibly meant his family didn’t eat and as a man, a father, and a grandfather such an outcome was unacceptable in his view.
Over the hill to his front, the road rose into an open meadow and a break in the timber. There sat the cabin, the barn, the horse pasture, and his old white Chevy Silverado pickup truck. He rode past the rig as a one man parade, dismounted and unsaddled Buck, stored his tack and tools, and shuffled toward the cabin and into a setting sun amidst an orange blaze glistening on the horizon.
Coffee bubbled in the glass pot when the digital clock on the maker flickered to 5:30 a.m. The Cattleman rose early, every day, to set himself ahead of his work. Time was money, and more time spent working in the morning meant more time to accomplish necessary tasks or account for unforeseen challenges. Beeps rang through the cabin and the slender cowboy buckled his belt, buttoned his pearl snaps, and he lifted the pot and tilted it into a mug with his worn, calloused hands, which were the hands of a rancher. Steam elevated over his blue mug that read “Idaho Cattlemen's Association” in white letters over the silhouette of a black angus steer. He turned and shuffled his worn feet attached to achy legs tied to a worn, high mileage back to watch the sunrise outside the large window pane and peer into the freshly risen day.
After four or five sips among his admiration, he checked the analogue watch on his left wrist, grumbled and walked to the hall to bang on his son’s door.
“Get up! We’ve got things to do,” he said in a raspy voice.
“Urgh!” groaned a response from behind the closed door.
The Cattleman sat and read the paper from the previous day while his boy (a man in his twenties – hardly a boy anymore) dressed and prepared for the day’s work ahead. Creeks from flexing wood and squeaks from sliding metal signaled his entrance into the hallway while he walked over to the pot of caffeine to pour himself a cup. He sniffled, drank, and said in a raspy morning voice, “So are we looking for that bear today?”
The Cattlemen, without looking up from the day-old paper, responded, “Let me worry about the darn bear. You focus on irrigating the south end.”
“Alright, but what if it kills another steer?”
This time he tilted his head away from the paper to glare out of the corner of his eye before saying with a slightly raised voice, “I said, let me worry about the bear you focus on irrigating the south end.”
His son, who wasn’t trying to start a conflict but, rather, cultivate a conversation toward solutions once again raised a bear related question, “In a week the grandkids are going to be crawling all over this place, do we really want a –”
The Cattleman interrupted, but this time he turned fully around to face his son and looked him in the eyes with an agitated tone, “I’ll worry about the darn bear – you’ll irrigate.”
The young man lifted his hands to a surrendered position and tilted his head down. “Alright, alright. I get it. Irrigate.”
As his son drove off on his dirt bike with a shovel tied to the handlebars and hip boots slipped up both legs to irrigate the south end, the old cowboy walked to the barn to saddle Buck and check on the cattle. Rumbles softly shook the air and earth as per usual when a vehicle approached the cabin. A white two-door Ford F-150 with a grill guard, flood lights, a large dent the size of a softball on the passenger door, tiny rust splotches along the front bumper, and Idaho Fish and Game logos on both sides rolled up the road with a trail of dust behind it. It slowed, turned, and parked parallel to The Cattleman’s rig followed by the driver’s side opening and an average height and build blond woman with a ponytail, a brown bomber jacket with Idaho Fish and Game logos on the sleeves, a tan button up shirt with a gold badge on the left pocket, and forest green pants with generic low-top hiking boots stepped out.
“Morning, Rich,” greeted the woman.
“Morning, Lucy,” grumbled the old cowboy.
“I hear you have a bear problem.”
Irritation animated over his face – he didn’t want to have this conversation again, and this continuously reminded him of yet another problem he had to deal with among the never ending list of problems inherent to a rancher’s life. He grumbled, “Something like that.”
“Rich,” she said with a serious tone, “You know you can’t just put a bullet in its head. This ain’t the old days.” Lucy was the local bear biologist and grew up in the area, so she attended school with two of his children. “They’re on the Endangered Species List. If it's a problem, tell me and I’ll contact the U.S. Fish and Wildlife service.”
“Hmph,” he groaned, “Just like y’all helped with Bobby’s wolf problem.”
“Rich, I did everything I could, but I can’t make the feds –”
The Cattleman interjected, “We're out here losing livestock and y’all make excuses. You realize we have enough crap on our plates as it is? There are no guarantees in this business. Not in crops, sheep, nor cattle. The weather screws us, the economy screws us, and now our own government who we pay taxes to screws us. If it doesn’t snow enough, then we suffer; if it snows too darn much, then we suffer. If it’s too hot, we suffer; heck, we suffer if it’s too cold. The beef market is so bipolar it should be institutionalized. Now – now, the people who forced this predator reintroduction and management crap onto us, who said they’d protect our livelihoods, who’ve positioned themselves as the only one’s with the power to fix the problem won’t do squat, so you tell me, Lucy, what the heck am I supposed to do about bears when they kill my cattle, when my little grandchildren are outside playin’ in the woods they run, and you folks won’t lift a finger to stop ‘em?”
Lucy quickly blinked, flickered her eyes, looked down for a moment, and tilted her head back up to stutter into a retort, “I-I get it. I really do. You know my parents. You know I grew up raising animals and farming potatoes. You know I understand, but you also know this is my job. Sure, I do empathize with your pain. I get every pound that turns into every cent counts to a cattleman. I know next year is never a given in this business and you have to make money every opportunity you get, yet I also know killing off every predator in sight is wrong.
“I went to six years of college studying predators to come back and bridge the gap between people like you and folks who want these animals back, so let me build a bridge, Rich. Help me help you.”
“Or,” he responded, “I can take care of it myself.”
“No,” she intensely interjected, “no, you can’t. This isn’t the wild west anymore. You can’t slaughter every clawed and toothed critter behind every tree as your grandpappy did. Not without cause.”
“And killing my cows ain’t without cause?”
“Not if you don’t witness it, and even then, you’re taking a risk. Let me handle it. If it happens again, call me immediately and I’ll take it to Fish and Wildlife Service to plead your case.”
The Cattleman smirked in disbelief, “I’m sure that’ll play out just as well as the last time.”
“You know I did everything I could.”
He groaned and started to shuffle his boots through the dirt in the opposite direction. Lucy spoke up, “This is more complicated than your selfish needs.”
He stopped dead in his tracks and turned over his left shoulder to face her, “My needs? What about our needs? I’ve known your parents and your grandparents since before you were born. They worked hard and did everything in their power to build a world for you to live in. That’s built on putting our cows, our crops, and needs first because without it you wouldn’t be here – I wouldn’t be here if my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents didn’t sweat and bleed on this land. If you don’t see that… if you of all people can’t see that… I can’t do a darn thing about it, but I can do something about a pest posing a threat to my livelihood and my family.”
Lucy sarcastically chuckled, “Ha, ha, yeah, you are right Rich. I do understand. You don’t have the right to lecture me on how I feel about my family. I know full well what they did for me and what they sacrificed. Not a day goes by without my gratitude; however, that doesn’t mean we should kill every bear and every wolf in an eye shot. That also doesn’t mean I want bears to get away with killing a rancher’s cattle.
“I’m trying,” she continued, “to help us. I am trying to prevent you or some other cowboy who can’t let go of the old ways from being charged in federal court for slaughtering a protected animal under the Endangered Species Act. That’s where this might end, Rich. If you choose to kill this bear, you are taking a risk; a risk that ends with you destroying everything and men like you hung to be future examples as the bad guys who poach endangered charismatic megafauna.”
The Cattleman cleared his throat before giving his final thoughts on the matter, “I will do whatever I have to do to protect this land and my family.”
Lucy sighed in irritation. She opened her truck’s door, climbed in, and started the ignition. Both hands on the wheel, the biologist sat in thought and rolled down the window and said, “I understand why you're upset – I really do, and I say this to protect you because I do care: don’t kill any bears. If it comes back, please, call me.”
He stared at the dirt with his arms folded and lifted his head and glared through the brim of his straw cattleman’s hat to say nothing. She looked away, threw the truck in gear and drove off leaving a trail of dust in her wake.
The next day, his son left for the weekend leaving The Cattleman to his own company. On the porch, he sat to admire the swaying lodgepole pines in the afternoon’s breeze with hardly a cloud in the sky. One was left to wonder how such a peaceful place could wreak so much havoc on its inhabitants. Farmers and ranchers never had it easy, but as the world became more civilized, it appeared life was no easier for the west’s cowboys. The hardship had changed in the past 120 years, but new challenges arose the more the holes in the map filled.
A red Dodge pickup truck roared up the dry, dusty road. The operator, donned in a white and blue checkered short-sleeve pearl snap and a cattleman’s hat of his own, climbed out after parking. “What are you doing with your feet kicked up?” He said, “Don’t you have work to do?”
The Cattleman responded, “Well, when you’re as good as me, you finish the work twice as fast.”
“I’ve seen you work. The only thing fast about it’s how quickly you make mistakes.”
The Cattleman smiled, “It’s good to see you Bobby.” The friends-since-childhood embraced before sitting next to each other on the porch. “What brings you over here?” He asked.
Bobby placed a toothpick between his teeth before saying, “I hear you have a few problems.”
“I’m an old rancher. I always have problems.”
“I’m not talkin’ the usual crap. Bear problems,” replied Bobby.
“I have one bear problem. Two… heck, two bears is somethin’ I don’t want to think about.”
“Nah, two: the bear and the bear biologist.”
The Cattleman turned his head, “Lucy? She’s a pain, but she means well. Says she’s tryin’ to save us.”
“She swung by my outfit the other day with the same speech.”
“Oh, yeah? What’d she tell you?”
“Some bull jive about the old times are gone, we have to get used to a world with bears and wolves, keystone species, endin’ up in federal court, yada-yada-yada.”
“Hmph. I’ll give it to her, she’s gutsy. She has to know you’re the last one that’ll crack.”
Bobby laughed, “If she didn’t know then she knows now. Tried to spin somethin’ about keepin’ my nose clean and leadin’ the community. Apparently, if we play our cards right, they might eventually ‘sell tags and hold a huntin’ season for the darn things when they’re recovered.’”
“What’d you tell her?”
Bobby turned away from admiring the mountains to the distance and respond, “I told her, ‘I don’t need no tags and I don’t need no season.’”
The Cattleman laughed, “What’d she say to that?”
“I think she thought it was a joke.” Silence settled in for a few moments before Bobby’s tone turned serious. “Rich, listen, I know you’re a thinker and a problem solver, but this one’s easy. Put a bullet in the menace and be done with it. Bury it in the woods where our properties border and they won’t find crap.”
The silence continued for a few more moments until Rich responded, “She may have a point, Bob.”
“The heck she does! There’s a reason our ancestors wiped ‘em out – bears and wolves – they kill and destroy. They kill our animals and destroy our livelihoods. When the heck does the government do anything for us? Why should they have a say? All we have is our families, our land, our animals, our hard work, and each other. We got mouths to feed: our mouths and the rest of the country. These city slickers want a cheeseburger and a steak at their favorite restaurant or their local grocery store, and they are incapable of providing it for themselves, but they want to tell us how to go about providing it. They want the result but they are appalled by how we produce it.
“Plus, you got little grandkids. What if one of ‘em runs into that bear in the woods playin’ tag? You’ll surely regret not taking care of the problem when you had the chance.”
Conflicted, The Cattleman responded, “I know, I know, I know. The world is – the world is changin’ and I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. I think it’s more complicated than that, but Lucy isn’t wrong. Whether I shoot this bear or not, we’re gonna have to figure out how to coexist with these damn things.”
Bobby said, “Look at you. You’re an environmentalist now. Rich, this is what you have to do.”
“I don’t like it any more than you, Bobby,” said his old friend, “I just… I don’t know.”
Bobby's rickety knees stalled his ascent from the chair before stretching his lower back and saying, “Let me know if you need another shovel; you know where to find me.”
“It was good seein’ you, old friend.”
Bobby casually waved as he walked to his red Dodge and said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I know.”
Evening settled in and the orange hues of the setting western sun blasted over the Centennial Mountains. The Cattleman washed his dishes after dinner and listened to the evening news on the radio before hearing a loud crash from the barn. Water rushing through the pipes and out the faucet ceased and the sounds of naying horses and the thumps of running hooves followed with another crash as the exclamation point. The closet door flew open and he swiped the clothes on hangers to the right revealing the lever action rifle chambered in 45-70 leaning in the corner. On the top shelf, he found a box of 20 shells and frantically dumped the contents in a rush to run out the door toward the noise. Light dimmed and he had just enough to see a potential target. Brass slipped through his fingers into the tube one at a time and it ended with a crank of the lever to chamber a bullet. Stock to shoulder, he peered over his sights while he pushed the broken barn door open, which laid partially open on its hinges from the beast who broke in. Penultimate light rays shined through the window to expose the aftermath. Trash scattered across the floor and a garbage can was missing; someone – something took it. The sounds of rummaging echoed outside the barn, so he slowly backed out of the doorway and pied the corner to the right to reveal what was previously unseen around the building’s side bit by bit. Suddenly, he saw it in the fading light. He saw the culprit’s brown, furry, and large rear end with its head buried in the trash can searching for food scraps. Another step forward to align the shot and a twig snapped and the large male grizzly bear whipped his head out of the can and stumbled into a defensive stance facing The Cattleman.
The beast stood on its hind legs and towered as a giant over his head. To the would-be rifleman, it appeared taller than the trees and wider than a tractor. Thumps pounded his chest while he tried to regain control and composure as conflict divided his mind. Voices of Lucy and Bobby entered his thoughts pulling him in two polar opposite directions: let the bear live and call the U.S. Fish and Service to solve the issue, which may do nothing, or put a bullet in the bear, risk federal charges, and kill a native, endangered predator who was just trying to survive the same as him.
“Go!” He shouted “Get on outa here!”
“Rawr!” the creature belted. It was frightened and appeared to be ready to defend itself, but so was The Cattleman. It dropped to four legs to huff, wheeze, and stomp in his direction.
“Run!”
The bear continued to stomp and its behavior suggested it might charge. Rich aimed down the sights of the rifle and hoped and prayed it’d turn the other way and run.
