Saddling Up
Posted: Wed May 09, 2012 6:51 am
I grew up in the mountains of southern Oregon on Dead Indian Road. The Dead Indian country was ranching country. The electrical lines only ran about 4 miles up the road from the airport and we were 9 miles from the airport. Because of this I grew up little bit different than most people; no electricity, no television, no radio except for my crystal set which, if conditions were right, could get the country-western station until 8 PM when they went off the air.
I was 12 when we moved to the Dead Indian country. I help my dad build a log cabin out of 5 x 5 rough-cut cedar timbers and I grew up around livestock. Every summer I worked for one of the ranchers down the road named Henry Lannini. At that time Henry was about 40 years old. When his brothers had moved off the ranch to get married and raise families of their own, Henry stayed home and took care of his mother and the range. Henry was one of the nicest people you'll ever meet but he had a few quirks. Henry was very fond of Copenhagen. He also smoked cigarettes but due to the nature of ranch work often in dry dusty conditions, I think he really preferred Copenhagen. While it was only about 10 miles to the nearest store, he rarely went to town more than once a week unless he ran out of Copenhagen. He could run out of cigarettes, no problem we wouldn't go to town. He could run out of beer and we still wouldn't go to town, but if he ran out of Copenhagen we dropped what we were doing and drove the 10 miles to the nearest store so he could pick up a roll Copenhagen.
One summer I stayed with Henry and his mother, known affectionately to all the locals as Grandma Lannini, for about a month. We were up early in the morning before daybreak and we would work till three or four in the afternoon when it got too hot. We would knock off work for the day, go back to the ranch house and have dinner so we could go to bed early and start all over again the next morning.
Most of the land up the Dead Indian Road was open range; rangeland managed by BLM or the US Forest Service. On this one particular morning we got up before daylight, ate breakfast and went out and saddle the horses. We were going up that morning to check some of the rangeland and to move some of the cattle into areas with better pasture. I saddled up old Charlie, the gelding I normally rode, and Henry saddled up his horse. I heard him say "dammit." I asked, "What's the matter Henry?" "I broke my bridal strap," he said. Then he said, "Hang on, and I'll go fix it." As I finish saddling up Charlie, Henry went into the tack shed. I heard a little hammering and then I heard the most awful noise I had ever heard a human being make in my life. I ran into the tack shed to see what sort of critter had gotten hold of Henry and was making him make such an awful noise. I saw Henry on his knees on the floor by an anvil with his bridle on it. "Are you okay Henry?" I asked. "Yeah, whueeeee,” he said, “just, whueeeee swallowed my chew,” he said. After a few more “whueeeees” he came out of the tack shed, put the bridle on his horse and swung into the saddle.
At this point he got a real puzzled look on his face and started searching his pockets. I could tell he was missing something. He checked his shirt pocket, his vest pockets and finally he found it; his can of Copenhagen. He took out a big dip, packed it in his lip and said, "Okay, now we can go."
Thus began a typical day on the ranch.
I was 12 when we moved to the Dead Indian country. I help my dad build a log cabin out of 5 x 5 rough-cut cedar timbers and I grew up around livestock. Every summer I worked for one of the ranchers down the road named Henry Lannini. At that time Henry was about 40 years old. When his brothers had moved off the ranch to get married and raise families of their own, Henry stayed home and took care of his mother and the range. Henry was one of the nicest people you'll ever meet but he had a few quirks. Henry was very fond of Copenhagen. He also smoked cigarettes but due to the nature of ranch work often in dry dusty conditions, I think he really preferred Copenhagen. While it was only about 10 miles to the nearest store, he rarely went to town more than once a week unless he ran out of Copenhagen. He could run out of cigarettes, no problem we wouldn't go to town. He could run out of beer and we still wouldn't go to town, but if he ran out of Copenhagen we dropped what we were doing and drove the 10 miles to the nearest store so he could pick up a roll Copenhagen.
One summer I stayed with Henry and his mother, known affectionately to all the locals as Grandma Lannini, for about a month. We were up early in the morning before daybreak and we would work till three or four in the afternoon when it got too hot. We would knock off work for the day, go back to the ranch house and have dinner so we could go to bed early and start all over again the next morning.
Most of the land up the Dead Indian Road was open range; rangeland managed by BLM or the US Forest Service. On this one particular morning we got up before daylight, ate breakfast and went out and saddle the horses. We were going up that morning to check some of the rangeland and to move some of the cattle into areas with better pasture. I saddled up old Charlie, the gelding I normally rode, and Henry saddled up his horse. I heard him say "dammit." I asked, "What's the matter Henry?" "I broke my bridal strap," he said. Then he said, "Hang on, and I'll go fix it." As I finish saddling up Charlie, Henry went into the tack shed. I heard a little hammering and then I heard the most awful noise I had ever heard a human being make in my life. I ran into the tack shed to see what sort of critter had gotten hold of Henry and was making him make such an awful noise. I saw Henry on his knees on the floor by an anvil with his bridle on it. "Are you okay Henry?" I asked. "Yeah, whueeeee,” he said, “just, whueeeee swallowed my chew,” he said. After a few more “whueeeees” he came out of the tack shed, put the bridle on his horse and swung into the saddle.
At this point he got a real puzzled look on his face and started searching his pockets. I could tell he was missing something. He checked his shirt pocket, his vest pockets and finally he found it; his can of Copenhagen. He took out a big dip, packed it in his lip and said, "Okay, now we can go."
Thus began a typical day on the ranch.
Was it worth getting sick? Well, I got out of cutting the grass for about 2 years for it. That first time dipping Copenhagen made me higher than any drug I could have took. My brothers threatened to throw up on me in front of Dad to get back at me for not having to cut the grass.