Memories

The town that I started police work in, Prineville, Oregon, was strictly a cowboy and logger town. This incident occurred in the early 1970’s. There wasn’t a gang problem of any type, outlaw motorcyclist or punk gang bangers avoided the town.. The city had a population under five thousand and there were only six full time police officers and a janitor/jailer. So anyone coming through town had the impression they could cause a lot of trouble and get away with it.

One night an outlaw motorcycle gang decided to stop in the town and take over one of the local bars. They threatened to shoot or cut any cowboy or logger that tried to enter the bar. The local boys got upset, but they didn’t call for the police. Instead the area around the bar filled up with locals boys who were driving log trucks and pickups, and they all had their big game hunting rifles. They didn’t cotton much to the handguns the bikers carried because they were just too small.

The bikers were called out into the street in front of the bar for a fight. The bikers strutted their stuff because they knew they could whip anyone in this cow town. Outside the bar they went. Instead of a dirty biker fight they found cowboys with bigger guns than they had and it was apparent that the bikers were not going to win any type of fight. All the bikers could do was jump on their motorcycles and ride, or run in hopes of fighting another day. What they didn’t notice was they were actually herded down a particular street and forced to drive at speeds faster than their headlights could illuminate the oncoming streets and any hazards that may be ahead of them. In their defense, I would have gone as fast as they were if I thought the log truck behind me was going to run over my motorcycle with me on it..

Suddenly all of the motorcycles didn’t have riders and their bikes crashed. That’s when I got the call. When I arrived at the crash site I found lots of hurting bikers and a lariat rope stretch across the street. The outlaws had received lots of road rash, but not a bone was broken. They refused medical assistance and asked for an escort out of town. I gave them an escort out of town and I never did hear from them again. They didn’t even want to file a complaint against the local boys.

I wonder if they tried to take over another bar in another town, or if they learned not to threaten folks they didn’t know, although I did hear that bikers threatened loggers in Coos County. Unfortunately they were in the national forests and the Log Truck drivers knew the roads. The Bikers didn’t fare well and they ended up in the local hospital and their motorcycles were no longer rideable.

To put things in perspective. Our ranch covered thousands of acres of private, Bureau of Land Management and United States Forest Service lands. With 4000 ewes and 600 cows we were always busy hauling water to our livestock since here was no standing or running water. . I started driving water trucks when I was 10 years old. I grew to a 100 pounds about the time I turned 14 years old. When I went to high school there was one other kid shorter than me and we called him Little Dave. Our private, BLM and USFS lands were all under one fence. There were hundreds of miles of dirt roads and they were open to the public. I drove all of those roads. I never considered that I wasn’t old enough to drive because I didn’t consider my self public. I was a Desert Rat who grew up on a ranch and tolerated the public.

One day I was at the middle well on the ranch loading a water truck. A big pickup pulling a small yacht stopped. The driver got out wearing some very spendy looking fishing clothing. He walked up to me and asked how the fishing was at Dry Lake. Folks, Dry Lake has been without water for hundreds of years. I explained to the man that there was not any water in Dry Lake. He next asked about Cabin Lake. Again a lake that has been dry for hundreds of years, but Cabin Lake had a well. I told the man Cabin Lake was like Dry Lake and had no water. I suggested he go to Prineville Reservoir or East and maybe Paulina Lake. Well he thoroughly cussed me out and said it was obvious I was protecting my fishing spots. Off he went. I didn’t laugh in his face because he was real mad and bigger than me. I wonder if he caught any of the imaginary pumice trout?

I was driving a truck in from Watkins Butte. The truck was empty and I cruising along at maybe 60 mph. It was a retired logging truck with 30 gears for forward and 6 for reverse. It weighed in at about 4 tons. I think I was probably 12 years old. I could shift by sliding off the seat and pushing in the clutch and then shifting. I got pretty good at that, and fast. The road was pretty wide and covered with red cinders. I went around a corner, sort of drifting. To my surprise there was a forest service pickup stopped in the middle of the road with the passenger and drivers doors being open. I started gearing down. It was apparent I was going to hit the pickup. The question was whether I should take the passenger door off, or the driver’s door. I chose the passenger door. Faster than a rabbit, a forest service employee ran onto the road, jumped into the pickup and moved it. I whistled past. You guessed it no brakes. I don’t think I drove many of our older trucks that had brakes.

Learning to shift up and down without using the brakes saved me when Mom took me into get my driver’s license. In the middle of the test the clutch went out. I completed the test by shifting with the engine. The test man told me I took one corner too wide and one corner too short. He passed me and said I did well considering the clutch had gone out. At least I had brakes. I had been driving for 11 years by then. The license was a necessary to do things legally. Like driving to town for groceries, or take broken trucks to the mechanic. Except to put gas in the car, it was the first time I had driven a car. I usually stuck to pickups and trucks.

Becky and I were dating. So we were 16 to 18 years old. We had five water trucks that were old and on this day they were all broken. We had a borrowed hay truck with a water tank strapped onto the bed. It made the truck top heavy, but I didn’t know that. It was also strange to drive because it had getty up go and brakes. Well I was driving my usual speed. Whatever the truck would do. We got to a corner and started around it, except the truck started lifting up on one side, you know like it was going to roll over and scratch its side. I straightened the wheel and drove through the brush. Becky’s comment was that if I had been raised in the timber I would have killed myself several times, and yes I did slow down with that truck because the danged thing was dangerous.

Another trip with water trucks we were each driving a truck. We were about 15 miles from the ranch house. I don’t know what happened, but Becky’s truck quit running. So I can’t remember if we got the water to the troughs, or just dumped a thousand gallons of water in the road. Well we had two trucks, so we decided I would tow Becky’s truck. Remember I did not have brakes in my truck. I told Becky that she was the brakes for the outfit and if she felt we were going too fast she just had to brake. I also told her that the hill by the house would require her to be the brakes. The chain we used left about 10 feet between the trucks. Did I mention that I had the 4 ton truck and she had the 2 and a half ton truck. Off we went at what I thought was a reasonable speed. What I didn’t account for was the dust. Looking back I don’t think Becky could even see my truck. She probably was braking the entire trip, but I never knew. Becky did an excellent job of being towed and we coasted to a stop in front of the house. Dad walked out and stood on the porch. Becky was furious. She stepped out of her truck to give me a talking to. Her clothing and face was covered in a very deep layer of dust. When she blinked there were actually puffs of dust flying off her eyelashes. She was very cute. Dad started laughing, and then we all laughed. I must say that was the last time I towed Becky.

Another time Becky and I were hauling water out past Fox Butte. Something didn’t feel right. I looked in the mirror and discovered the rear duels were walking out from under the truck. What could I do, but stop and dump the water. If I had kept driving the wheels would have come off and the truck would have rolled over and scratched its back. Then we started walking the 10-15 miles back to the ranch. About a mile or two into our walk a forest service rig pulled up and the driver was the district ranger. He visited a bit and then wished us well and said he had to get back to Bend. Now there was room in his rig for 5 and there was only two of them. I know the forest service frowns on giving people rides. However I got irritated. I strongly suggested he give us a ride to the ranch, or the next time he broke down on the desert we would not be giving him a ride. We got our ride.

In spite of my driving Becky still married me.

It was the second night I was working as a police officer. I had a uniform and a gun. I had no instructions about arrests. I had handcuffs but no key and no idea how to use them. I was assigned to ride with the department’s sergeant because I knew nothing about police work and he was to teach me everything I would need to become an effective police officer. The hour arrived for the sergeant to have lunch. He drove to his house and got out of the patrol unit. He told me to drive around for a half hour and then come back and get him. My assignment was to learn the streets and their names.

I was driving on Lamonta Street when I met a Scout, which is a sport utility vehicle. I moved to the right and the Scout moved to my right and seemed to be following me. I moved as far to the right as I could and I ended up sitting next to a building before the Scout went past me. I was terrified that the Scout was going to hit the patrol car the first time I had ever driven one. I was over 40 feet off the street before the Scout went by the patrol car, missing it by inches.

Not being the smartest rookie on the road I decided I had better stop the Scout and find out what the problem was. I followed the weaving vehicle down the road for about a mile, flashing my head lights and pushing various buttons. I finally hit the right button and the emergency over head lights came on and the Scout stopped. I never did figure out where the siren was, but the horn worked. I could not call for assistance because there wasn’t a radio in the car and the sergeant had taken his with him.

As I walked up to the Scout its gentleman driver got out and promptly fell down. It took this rocket scientist a little while before I figured out the guy was what we refer to as ”shit faced drunk”. He was very nice and polite, but he was so drunk he could not stand up. He told me he was driving because he was too drunk to walk.

I locked his Scout up and gave him the keys. I placed him in the back seat of the patrol car and drove to the sergeants house. The trip to the sergeant’s house was interesting because I had only been there once. I got rather lost. We didn’t have protective cages so the drunk was perfectly happy about riding in the back seat of the patrol car. He wasn’t handcuffed because I didn’t know how to work my cuffs, and besides I didn’t have a key for them. The sergeant got into the passenger side of the patrol unit and started a very friendly conversation with the drunk. They had known each other for several years. Finally the sergeant asked why I was giving Alvie a ride home. I explained the driving I had seen and said I thought he was too drunk to drive. The sergeant directed me to the station. He seemed rather pissed off about something.

At the station we placed Alvie in a holding cage. The sergeant told me something about being so damn smart that I could just do it myself. He got into the patrol car and left. Now what was I to do? I didn’t have a clue. I asked the dispatcher and she smiled and called a state trooper in. The trooper growled and asked what I needed. I pointed to Alvie and explained what had transpired, and told him the sergeant had left me to take care of things and I didn’t have a clue about what was happening, or what to do.

The trooper called the sergeant on the radio, but the sergeant refused to answer his radio. The trooper took his gun off and had me take mine off and put them in a locked box. He helped me process Alvie for DUII. He helped me write the citations and fill out the booking slips and lodge Alvie in jail. That trooper saved my bacon several times in the first week and I’ll always be grateful for his help and direction.

About four years later Alvie wrecked his Scout in Prineville. I again arrested him for DUII. He blew a 0.17 both times. Alvie was at least consistent. The second time we met he was just as polite, but I knew what to do and didn’t need assistance from other officers.

By the way, the sergeant was really pissed. I never rode with him again. He somehow filled out my training book, that I only heard about. The sergeant and I became great friends.

When I went to work for Prineville Police Department amazing things happened that would never happen there today. It was October 1971. I was hired and given a badge, handcuffs, leather gear and a uniform. I was not given any instruction about arrests or handcuffing. Heck I was afraid to use the handcuffs because I didn’t have a key for them.

This pursuit occurred the third night I was working as a police officer. I think the sergeant was mad at me for arresting a man for driving under the influence the night before when I was suppose to be driving around and learning the city streets. The sergeant gave me a hand held radio, about the size of a small suit case, and put me in an unmarked 1969 Chevrolet patrol car. The car had a Montgomery Ward light that you plugged into the cigarette lighter to activate. Then the rotating blue light was placed on the dash, not secured either. The unit had a siren. To operate the siren you had to push a button on the dash and hold it down. The emergency light and radio were sitting in the seat next to me. The last thing the sergeant told me was to stay out of trouble for my10 hour shift and to drive around town and learn the streets. Now how much trouble can a recruit get into if he can’t even write a citation and I didn’t have any citations, heck I didn’t even know how to fill them out. I did have a gun, but I had not received instructions on that, and I had never fired a round. The car was similar to my personal car, but I had to learn where the siren button was and how to work the emergency light and siren. Did I mention that I knew zip about law enforcement and procedures?

About four hours into the shift I was down town and headed west on 5^th street. A block away another car was west bound on fourth street. The driver drew my attention by doing something like yelling and flipping me off. Then he burned rubber across the intersection. Well, I decided I should parallel him on 5^th street and see where he went. The next cross street was Deer Street, about three city blocks away. I turned left and he turned right onto Deer Street. We were now driving at each other. Not being too smart I decided to meet him head on, to stop him.

I plugged in the rotating Montgomery Ward Light, which flashed blue all over the world, including into my eyes. The other driver saw the light and turned back east down the alley between 4^th and 5^th street. Down the alley we went at oh too fast speeds. The car ahead of me sort of bounced and continued on. Some fool had dug a trench across the alley, about 2 foot wide and 3 foot deep. Since I couldn’t stop, my car jumped the ditch too.

As we came out of the alley we turned right onto Belknap Street. I was having a little trouble at this time. I think we must have been traveling about 60 mph down the alley. I was trying to hold the light on the dash and push the siren button, and drive. I also tried to use the radio, but it had fallen off the seat and was for my purposes, gone. So I would push the button and grab the light and try to steer, not always in that order.

At the end of the alley things got real interesting. The light came off the dash and went someplace. I was too busy driving to use the siren. The guy I was chasing lost control and his car’s wheels sort of locked and took him in a circle. He jumped a curb and took the front porch off a house, yes the owner was home enjoying a peaceful evening. He was also the town’s fire chief. The car continued turning and went back onto the street and jumped the opposite curb and came to a halt in a lawn.

The driver bailed out of his car and ran. I left the unmarked car in the middle of the street and a foot chase was on. The blue light was on the floor and still working. and the engine was running. Who knows where the suit case radio went. Over a picket fence we went, and under a clothes line, which removed my hat from my head. I tackled the driver and wrestled him to the ground. He promised to be good, and I, since I didn’t know how to use my handcuffs, I didn’t apply them.

He said he would walk back to my car with me. Can you believe it, he lied to me. I let him up and off he went like an express jack rabbit. So the chase was back on. This time I tackled him as he reached a fence. The poor man’s face slid down a rose hedge making some nasty scratches.

This time I sat on him and got my handcuffs out. I held him down as he thrashed about as I figured out how to make them work. This dude was not helping my figuring out how to handcuff him. I’ve ridden horses that bucked less. Once I figured the handcuffs out I pried his hands behind his back and applied the cuffs. He said they were too tight, but I didn’t know how to loosen them, heck I didn’t even have a key. They may have been too tight because I applied them until they were tight on his wrist, I didn’t want them to come off. I pulled him to his feet and walked him back to my car.

When I got back to my car I saw two other city police cars, but no one was around. I couldn’t find the portable radio and the rabbit still wanted to run. I put him in my car and drove to the police station and placed him in the holding room. Did I mention the patrol car did not have locking back doors or a protective cage? I tied the guy into the car with the seat belts. At the station, a state trooper came in and looked at me in surprise. He asked if I had seen my sergeant and the other patrol officer. I told him I hadn’t seen them, but I had seen their cars. He asked if I was alright and then started laughing. He got on the city radio and told the sergeant I was at the station. I don’t know what was said but the sergeant and the patrolman didn’t come to the station to assist me.

The trooper put our guns in the lock box and then called my chief. He told the chief I was alright and he would help me out since my fellow officers were not going to do that. The trooper removed the handcuffs, and the end result was I still didn’t have a key. The trooper told me I was on the sergeant’s shit list. I had been told not to get in trouble, and I had. Since the house that lost the porch was owned by the city fire chief that made things even worse.. He had called in that someone had ripped the porch off his house, and the car was still there.

The sergeant and patrolman arrived on the scene. They not only saw the wrecked car, but in the middle of the street was the unmarked patrol car with the blue light working from the floor. The rookie was missing, the engine was running and he would not answer his radio. In an adjacent yard they found my patrol hat and assumed I had been kidnapped. They put out a panic call for assistance and the trooper had come from his home. While they were searching for me, they thought someone had stolen my patrol car, and now the world as they knew it was turning to shit. Then to have me at the station with one in custody did not help their opinion of me.

The trooper listened to what had happened and then helped me fill out the appropriate citations and booking charges and lodged the suspect in the city jail. To make things better for me in the future, the suspect had been a state champion wrestler at about my weight and had bragged that no one could ever take him to jail. He never did run from me or give me any grief after that. I did know the guy, but had never wrestled him in high school. My wrestling match with him wasn’t a fair match because I was sober and he was drunk.

The poor guy had an interesting life. I helped investigate a stabbing, where he was the victim of a mad woman. Years later he got drunk and wrecked a car and was killed in the accident.

The state trooper was right, my sergeant was very unhappy with me.

RoysMemories2@gmail.com

I was raised on a sheep and cattle ranch. We had 600 cows, not counting calves or bulls. We had 4000 sheep with a partnership with Jack Shumway. Dad and Jack started their partnership about 1954. Our ranch was on the Oregon High Desert. It was a dry land operation, which means we did not have rivers, streams or lakes. Our water came from wells that were 250, 500 and 640 feet deep. Jack Shumway had irrigated property in Powell Butte. He also had a dry land ranch at Evans Wells, which is about 10 miles west of Millican. Jack had property in the Grandview area. I don’t know if any of that land was private property, or if it was all lease land from the United States Forest Service.

The ewes were lambed out in about a month on Jack’s ranch on the west side of Powell Buttes. The property is presently owned and operated by Brasada Ranch as a rural housing development. While the ewes were at Powell Butte they were sheared by a shearing crew. The crew consisted of 8-10 professional shearers. My grandfather was a professional shearer and he ran the crew and provided a propane powered generator to make the electric shearing machines run. Each shearer would average about 100 sheep a day, some a little faster and some a little lower. Shearing means the wool was removed from each ewe in a single piece. Yes I can shear, but I never could shear as fast as a professional, which included by father.

Once the ewes were sheared and had produced their lambs they were separated into four bands of sheep. Three of the bands were made up of ewes that produced twin lambs. The other band was made up of ewes that had a single lamb. I can recall some heated exchanges over single lambs vs twin lambs. Jack wanted singles and dad wanted twins. Jack’s logic was at the end of five months the single lambs would weigh between 5 and 10 pounds heavier. Five months is when the lambs reached market weight and were sold. Twin lambs weighed around a 100 pounds each. Single lambs weighed 105 to 100 pounds. So the twin band of lambs were about 200,000 pounds. The single band of lambs would be about 105,000 pounds.

Once the ewes and lambs were broke into bands a herder was selected. Each herder had a horse and at least 2 dogs. The herder was furnished with a small camp trailer. For every two bands of ewes there was a camp tender. The camp tender contacted their two herders at least once a day. The camp tender had a water truck that could haul between 750 and 1200 gallons of water. Each truck was configured to haul water troughs, and each trough would hold around 150 gallons of water. Contrary to popular belief, the sheep only needed water once a day.

Since Jack’s ranch in Powell Butte was utilize for irrigated crops in the summer, the sheep were trailed to summer, fall and winter grazing. Three of the bands were trailed (walked) to the forest lands north and west of Sisters, Oregon. This project was not as simple as it sounds.

First a band was moved to lands just east of Redmond, Oregon. This was cross country and took a day to get to Redmond. The sheep were watered, using the troughs, and bedded down for the night. As the sun came up the next morning the sheep were trailed through Redmond using Highway 97 and then Highway 126. Dad would lead the band with his pickup. He would call the ewes and they would follow him. In the rear came the herder, leading his horse and accompanied by his dogs. There were additional folks to help with the move. I was often an additional. Cars and trucks coming into the head of the band were stopped by Dad and encouraged just to sit still for a few minutes while the sheep moved around and past them. Vehicles coming from behind were met by an additional. The drivers of the vehicles were instructed to follow the additional, but not to blow their horns. The drivers had to stay pretty close to the additional so the sheep would not get between the additional and the vehicle. The drivers that knew more about themselves and sheep often made the mistake of blowing their vehicle’s horns. Two things happened. First the startled sheep stopped and bunched up around the horn blowing rig. Now no forward motion was made. Second the additional quit trying to help with the rig. The additional usually just stood there until all of the sheep got past, then had a talk with the driver and started over. The impatient driver usually stretched their delay from 5 minutes to 15 or 20 minutes. It did not pay to curse an additional either. Somehow they would forget about escorting the rig.

The sheep were kept moving and not allowed to graze on lawns or in flower beds. I have seen some interesting women. I’m certain the commotion of the moving sheep awakened them out of a dead sleep. Then to their horror their were 3000 sheep walking past their flowers and grass. Out of their houses they flew on a mission, usually in their night wear and slippers. Each carried a tool of some sort, either a mop or a broom. I learned to be respectful and polite to these women. To laugh at them or be rude could result in a thrashing by a mad woman and her broom. The sheep were trailed down the highway to Cline Falls. There was a bridge across the Deschutes River. The sheep were pushed across the bridge and up the hills on the far side. Once clear of the river canyon, the going became easier. The sheep were allowed to bed down for their morning naps. Once they rested a couple hours they were encouraged to continue. However, they were now walking beside the highway and not on it. They continued west until they reached Buck Horn Road. They went down Buck Horn Road until they reached the Lower Bridge area. Then west on Lower Bridge Road until the irrigated pastures were left and then north and west toward Squaw Creek. The main push was over once the irrigated lands were past. West of Squaw Creek was the spring sheep range.

The sheep were never allowed to remain in the same place two days in a row. The herder’s trailer and the sheep’s water were move daily. The sheep would spend a month or two on the forest lands north and west of sisters. When the lands began to dry, the sheep were trailed back through Redmond and back to Powell Butte. The sheep were moved through the area towards Bear Creek Buttes and then onto the summer ranges. That consisted of the Evans Well area and its National Forest lands, our ranch and its National Forest Lands.

I think I was involved in trailing sheep through Redmond when I was the ripe old age of about 10. I was an old hand at getting rigs through the sheep, and being polite to the broom wavers. I do recall one incident. We were coming back towards Redmond when we got caught in a lightning and hail storm. I had just gotten the lesson at school to stay out from under trees during a lightning storm. I was terrified that lightning would hit a tree and kill some sheep. I was busy getting pelted by hail, and yes that hurt, but I was getting sheep out from under the juniper trees. Dad found me and put me in a pickup for my safety and the safety of the sheep.

In the Bear Creek Butte area we had terrible trouble with coyotes. I think one year we lost a couple hundred lambs trailing through there. That was with Dad and the herder trying to keep the coyotes away from the sheep. The Bear Creek Butte area obviously was not sheep friendly. That is where I saw my first wild horse. I didn’t know there were wild horses in the area, but there was at least one. It came into the sheep making all sorts of noise and scattering the band. It attacked the camp horse. All I recall is the noise and the poor camp horse screaming in terror. No I don’t recall the ending of the episode.

One year we trucked the sheep from the Sisters area to the ranch at Brothers. Yes it made the move quicker, but it was a nightmare. First we had to cross the truck scales in Sisters. The weigh master was not friendly. As we stopped on the scales the sheep shifted forward. This made the front half of the truck too heavy. The man was going to write a big over weight ticket. The truck driver said something to the effect, of just a minute. He backed up and slammed the brakes. Now the sheep were shifted back..We went over the scales within the limits. The weigh master was rather pissed. We were flagged around the scales after that. On the desert we put up a chute to unload the sheep. Danged things would not walk from the dark trailer interior to the lighted chute. We open side doors on the trailers for ventilation. Danged sheep began jumping out. They jumped from the top deck to the ground. Probably in excess of 10 feet. They would hit the ground and roll. No broken bones. However it was terrifying and helpless to watch. I don’t think we trucked again.

After the lambs were shipped in August the ewes were mixed into two bands of 2000 ewes in each band. They were kept on the desert until October or November. The ewes were trailed back through Powell Buttes to the Culver and Madras areas for the winter. The ewes were kept on the irrigated pastures from around October to sometime in February. It was sort of fun to be present when Dad would negotiate a lease of pasture and notice the farmer had a stack of hay. If the stack hadn’t been sold he would simply purchase the stack. We supplemented the pasture land with hay. The pasture and stack arrangement worked well for the farmers and the sheep operations. After the winter pastures the ewes were trailed back to Powell Butte to start the next year.

The ranch had 43,000 acres of BLM permits and two townships of Forest Service grazing allotments. Because of that we were required to farm, raise our own hay. Since it was desert and our wells only pumped a maximum of 10 gallon a minute, that left dry land farming. We raised Rye Hay.

In the fall we tried to get everything plowed and planted. In the spring when the rye started up one could tell what had to be reseeded.

The outcome of the crop totally depended on the amount of rain and snow we had, and when it fell upon the fields. When raising rye we had a horse or cow roaming the fields. The day the animal started jerking the plants out by the roots was the time to cut the stuff. A excellent crop was 1.5 ton per acre.

We initially baled the rye, but that was a never ending battle. First it was a Case Baler with a Briggs and Straton engine. The thing started with a crank. You learned quickly not to have your thumb all the way around the crank. Back fires were common and painful. The danged engine was always not starting. Now I am not a mechanic in any since of the word. I was laying across the magneto, probably waxing eloquently with my ignorance. My brother turned the crank, and I can tell you that danged thing was hot and I got a jolt. Everyone laughed, except me. Pay backs were hell. Ron was actually pretty good with engines. He was laying on the magneto and working with something and this time and I turned the crank. I was the only person that thought it was funny.

So to start. The field was plowed using a D Model John Deere, two cylinders. It was a crank start and would actually run on one of its two cylinders. Sort of a crank until it pops. Then there was the drilling the seed into the fields. You towed this drill thing behind a tractor. Couple things. First one had to make certain the thing was allowing the seed to fall and that there wasn’t a plugged hole. Then another detail. One had to make certain that there was enough seed to complete a round in the field. If you ran out it was a walk to the pickup to get more seed.

Next the field was cut using a self propelled swather. I never did run that thing, Ron did the swathing and once had to fend off a rabid coyote. After that I think he carried a rifle. Next it was baling the stuff.

The baler was a wire hand tie. One guy sat on a seat on one side and fed the wires thru the hay. The other guy on the other side sat on a seat and tied the hay into bales. One had to reef on the wires when tying them. Too loose and the bale would fall apart. The work was dusty and dirty. I tried goggles once. Did not work, danged rye got in my eyes anyway. Of course if you got a rye beard stuck in your throat it was a problem. My grandfather got one stuck and for all the liquids and gagging the beard was stuck. The remedy. Get a raw egg and swallow it. The egg white will wrap the beard up and down it goes. He did that while I gagged. The goal was a hundred pound bale. Of course the hay must be dry, because if it isn’t the bales combust and the hay stack burns up.

Next is the hauling the bales out of the field. The theory is to stack the bales on a truck or trailer and then stack the bales in a big stack. However, rye hay is very slick. It would slide off the truck and the stacks would fall apart. Dad finally found a guy who drew a diagram on how to stack and/or haul rye. That worked and I think I can still recall the diagrams.

Then we went to chopped hay. Each winter my grandfather would tow the chopper to Bend and totally dismantle the thing and put it back together. The chopped rye was blown into a wagon. Our wagons held about a ton and a half of chopped Rye. The rye was unloaded into an auger and then blown into a stack. My brother, cousin and I could unload a wagon in under 5 minutes. Only a couple things could go wrong. Ever driven the tine of a pitch fork thru your boot, foot, boot and into the wagon bed? Yup it gets your attention. Then the problem of being too fast was to put in too much hay in the auger and plug the blower pipe. Normal folks would probably be slow and careful and dismantle the pipe and clear the plug. We were not normal, or patient. The plug was usually at the top of the pipe in a corner. So two would hold the ladder up, not leaning against the pipe, we would not want to bend the pipe. The third person would climb the ladder and using a box end wrench take the joint apart, clear the hay and reattach the pipe. One more thing. Never drop a bolt, washer, nut or wrench. They can’t be found in a stack of hay and town for parts was an hour away, each direction. We never fell off the ladder or broke the pipe. When the stack was getting high a person had to stand under the pipe and fork the hay to the side. Side note: Cows loved chopped hay.

In the winter a person had to climb up on the stack and fork the hay down into the mangers. Jets tested radar and pilot abilities over the desert. One day I was on the stack forking hay when I heard a shriek. I know that sound from being raised on the desert. I whirled and looked and a jet was headed right for me, except he was going to have to climb to get over the stack. I did not wait. I threw the fork and baled off the far side. Yes the jet missed. I should have stayed on the stack and counted rivets. It would have been safer than baling off a 20 foot stack.

I cut my finger on the chopper once, got it stuck in the slicing blade while clearing a plug. Yes the thing was out of gear. My finger hurt and bled a great deal. My grandfather was waiting for me to finish the round and then he would take over. I leaned forward to put the Deere in gear, oops the world went black. I tried that a couple times with the same result. I figured I would out fox things, so I put the tractor in gear with my foot. Pretty smart. When I got to my grandfather he was madder than a wet hen. He pointed out that I had driven all over the field, not following the cut rows of rye. He looked at my finger and sent me to the house about 3 miles away. I got there driving a pickup. My grandfather had wrapped my finger in a handkerchief. When I got to the house I went to the bunkhouse and took a nap. I never said anything and not a person asked why I was back early. The next day I wore a band aid and a glove. I almost jerked the finger off.

It was near the end of hauling baled hay season. I think we way over loaded the truck, it was real high. We dipped into a low spot. The load tipped. That was when we realized the bed was not tight to the frame. The bed really tipped. We started climbing up the tipping stack. Then the stacked tipped the other way, and now we were going down. We reversed directions and climbed up again. When the dust settled the hay was on the ground and we were on top of the bales. It took a couple loads to re stack and haul.

We had a few fields. I think the small field was 90 acres. We developed a couple fields by rototilling sage brush. It was a kick when kangaroo rats would explode and the chase was on. Did I mention that the job was hot and boring. If we were fast enough we would catch the rats and have a pet. When Becky and I got married I had a couple. When we returned from our honey moon the rats were gone. They were tame enough they would sit on my shoulder or head and they would climb down into my hand and fill their cheeks with grain. If startled they would spit the grain out and run to the top of my head. My sister was looking out for Becky. She gave the pets to a high school science teacher and he fed them to snakes….

Talking of jet airplanes. I was plowing a lower field when I heard a sound. Above me was a big air tanker. As I watched jets would zip in and refuel. All of this was as they circled above me. We saw lots of jets. They flew low enough they would split a band of sheep, and then climb like mad to get over Bear Creek Buttes. I was shooting at a coyote once. I got a real scare. A jet popped up from the far side of the ridge in the direction I was shooting.

The government relented and we could purchase alfalfa hay cheaper than we could raise rye. We would buy a truck and trailer of hay. The hay rig would pull in and we would unload the truck. Some fool thought up three wire bales that ran between 125 and 140 pounds. 100 pounds bales were bad enough, but 130 pound bales were terrible, especially when I weighed about 100 pounds. However, we did manage. I would throw off the truck and Ron would stack, or reversed. Kids being kids that was an adventure. If the stacker got too close to the truck, the person on the truck tried to hit the stacker. Ever been hit from 15 feet above you by a bale. No harm no foul, and pay backs were hell.

In Redmond Dad purchased a semi truck and trailer of hay. Dad and the trucker were unloading. They were both too old, at least around 60. They took a break. Levi has allergies, severe. I know Levi unloaded truck and stacked the hay into the barn. Dad and the trucker were amazed. Another time Levi and his friend Phil stopped and helped a couple clear and stack a field of hay. I don’t think they accepted pay. I didn’t hear about that for about a year when I met the folks. They said they had been desperate and out of funds to pay for the hay to be hauled. These two mid high school kids just showed up and hauled and stacked their field, saving their bacon.

The winter (1968) that Becky and I got married we were tasked to haul hay from Fort Rock to the ranch, all back roads. I think there may have been a bit of snow. The trip was memorable for a couple reasons. Becky saved my bacon when she warned me the hay stack was falling on me. On the way back I was of course driving way too fast. A tree branch did not clear the load and we left several bales on the road. We arrived at the ranch and realized our loss, so back with a pickup to finish the job.

I was hired by Prineville Police Department as a patrol officer. The first shift was October 21, 1971. I had no prior police experience. I had no education concerning law enforcement. You might say I was a desert ranch boy who was hired as a cop. The city was populated by about 4500 people. The population consisted of ranchers, cowboys, farmers and loggers with a few other sorts thrown in.

There were 5 patrolmen and a janitor jailer. The city police were responsible for the county jail. When the janitor jailer was off duty the patrol personnel had to do hourly jail checks. That meant checking each inmate and seeing skin and breathing. Night shift patrol also had to feed the inmates breakfast.

My first night, it was actually my first shift, as a police officer I was assigned to an experienced patrolman . He had worked three to five years for Prineville Police Department. I think he was suppose to show me the ropes. We were downtown walking in and out of bars, doing bar checks. I later learned the checks were to look for visibly intoxicated persons within the bars and to check with the bar tenders for trouble makers in the bar, or in town. I was impressed at all of the people packed into the bars with low lights and lots of smoke. Heck it was so dark no one could tell what they were drinking or whose drink they had.

Walking back to the station we found a cowboy sitting in some shrubs. What I didn’t know was he was violating the drunk in public law and we were suppose to arrest him and haul him to jail and keep him there until he was sober. Seems as though the experienced officer didn’t like the guy and was afraid of a confrontation. The officer agitated the drunk and turned to walk away. The drunk grabbed his belt from around his waist and swung the buckle at the officers head. Dumb me, I reached out and deflected the buckle and ended up with a split thumb. I pushed the drunk down, and not knowing what else to do, told him to stay there, which he did. The officer asked me why I had knocked the cowboy down. When I told him about the buckle he said we should go back to the station because things were getting out of control. I should have arrested the drunk for numerous things, and lodged him, but I didn’t know about such things and I didn’t know how to make my handcuffs work. I mentioned the incident to the sergeant later that night and I no longer worked with that patrolman for about a year.

About two or three years later I was riding with the same officer when we spotted an obviously drunk driver. I made a traffic stop and a burly guy out of his car. I gave him sobriety tests, which he failed miserably. I arrested him for DUII. He said something about no rookie was taking him to jail. That statement was one I heard a lot for about ten years. I got out my tear gas canister and decided I might as well spray the drunk and hinder his vision before I got taken to the cleaners. He was real big and mean looking.

He looked at me and my can of tear gas and grabbed his belly and began crying. He begged me not to spray him and asked if he could just go to jail. I was amazed at how quickly things had changed. I figured the other patrol officer must be pointing a gun at his belly. I handcuffed the guy and put him in the patrol car and started looking for the other officer. He was no where to be found. I got in the patrol car and radioed the station and told them the other officer must be in trouble because he was gone. I was informed he was alright, he had just walked in the front door of the station and was having some coffee.

I went to the station and made subtle threats to the other officer about walking away. He informed me that he thought I was going to get my ass kicked because the bad guy had done several years in jail for murder. Since he didn’t want to get hurt he just walked to the station. My hope was that this officer would get into a scrape and need assistance. I was going to go and watch him get his come upins, and arrest the winner. However, it never happened.

About the bad guy. About four years prior to my arresting him for DUII he had murdered a guy and had fled to a local bar for a drink. The cops learned where he was and surrounded the bar and finally cornered him inside. He backed between two counters and prepared to do battle. One officer sprayed his eyes with tear gas and the other one kicked him in the solar plexus. The kick was with pointed cowboy boots. It took the poor drunk to his knees. No air, terrible pain and his eyes sort of burned. He thought the tear gas had caused his belly to hurt and no one told him any difference. It sure did help me out.

At the end of my first shifts eight hours I expected my shift to be over. Nope, we worked 10 hour shifts. No one had bothered to tell me. Needless to say when I got home Becky was up and waiting. She was pretty worried.

A few years ago, October of 1971, I was hired by the Prineville Police Department to be a police officer. I was issued my duty gear and told that some of it would need minor repairs. My first inkling that some repairs would be needed, sooner than later, was when I placed my handcuffs into their case. The cuffs fell out the bottom of the case and onto the ground. The weapon I was issued was a model 10 Smith & Wesson 38 with a five and a half inch barrel. The holster was a low ride holster and was made for a revolver with a 4 inch barrel. When I placed the issued revolver in the holster it would fall out because the retaining strap wasn’t long enough to go over the revolver. I couldn’t cut the bottom out of the holster because the chief called that destruction of city property, and besides the front sight would have hung up in the hole in the event of a quick draw, whatever that was.

I took the revolver and issued leather to a local shoe repairman. He smiled and sewed up the cuff case and added a longer strap to the holster. When the revolver was strapped in, it stayed in the holster, but a lot of the gun was hanging out the top of the thing instead of being seated into the holster. The holster was a low ride thing that carried six rounds of ammunition at its top in loops at belt level. The holster also had a swivel and snap. When the snap was fastened the gun stayed locked down to your side. However, it had to be unsnapped to allow me to sit in a car. When I ran, the snap came undone and the gun and holster spun on the swivel and smacked me in the ribs. I learned to run holding onto my gun.

The ammunition that was issued was interesting. I was issued an exact amount of ammunition, 12 rounds for the belt and 6 rounds for the gun. The rounds looked pretty neat to me. I had never been around handguns enough to know what real ammunition for police work should look like. I had been issued 148 grain, full wadcutter, rounds. The rounds are made to travel at a fairly low velocity. They are designed for target practice, shooting holes in paper, and I doubt if they would have penetrated much else. When I figured that out, which took a couple weeks, I asked for different ammunition. A person who was a jail inmate pointed out the flaws of my issued ammunition to me. I was told if I didn’t like what was issued I had to purchase my own, so I did.

The FBI came around a couple times of year and taught regional firearm classes. I had been working for Prineville Police Department for almost a year when I got to the range for the first time, and I had to qualify. I don’t remember if I qualified or if there was any penalty for not qualifying. I do recall the firearm instructor was watching me closely and then he gave me a lecture about how to look down the barrel of a revolver and what a sight pattern was and how to use it. I told him I was doing all of that. He told me I wasn’t and took my trusty revolver from me and he was going to show me how to shoot. He fired 6 rounds and didn’t hit the target. We were at about 15 yards away from the target and it was 3 foot by 4 foot. I had been doing better than that. He took my gun and got a shovel. He dug a hole and threw the gun in the hole and started to bury my weapon. I rescued the revolver and told him that it was all I had and that at least it looked scary and I could throw it at people. He relented and let me have the gun back, but cautioned me about shooting it in public because he didn’t want me to hit some innocent person a block away in the wrong direction. He must have chewed on the chief because I was issued a brand new weapon a few weeks later.

Technology started changing and I purchased bullet pouches. Each pouch carried six rounds. They were made to dump the 6 rounds into your hand and it was faster to reload utilizing the pouches than the belt loops. I soon discovered they dumped all six rounds whenever I ran or got into a fight. Once the ammunition was on the ground I would have to play pick up my ammunition. Then came new pouches when speed loaders were developed. The speed loaders were made so you could place six rounds directly into the revolver’s cylinder. The only problem was if you were not careful the six rounds hit the cylinder and then the ground. I was sort of relieved to start carry a magazine weapon, about 20 years later, less dropping and fumbling.

I found a man who made me a belt, holster and handcuff case. The original belt I was issued was very well worn and was a single layer of leather. It allowed the holster to slide around and was hard on my waist because its edges cut and dug as it swiveled. The holster was a high rise model that allowed me to lock the weapon down with my forearm, for retention purposes. A suspect took my revolver out of that holster when I was fighting with him, and a woman handed me my gun. Another time, after I fought with and handcuffed a man, his wife pointed out my gun, she had placed it on a table. I decided there had to be a better holster. First I purchased a clam shell type holster, and then purchased various holsters made so a weapon had to be extracted a certain way. My last holster actually had a hidden button. I purchased all of my leather, starting in Prineville and ending in Bend.

Uniforms changed to. The worst hat I had was in Prineville. It was a powder blue cowboy hat. It fit the community, but every drunk in the county had a goal and that was to knock my hat off. I got into it with the town toughs one night. To make things even I threw my hat down and stomped on it before the fight started, and then cleaned house . They were moody about me stomping my own hat. I also bought my own handcuffs.

I had my first pursuit in a car and then on foot when I had been on the job for about a week. I finally caught the guy and handcuffed him and took him to the station. At the station I had to call a state trooper in. Heck I didn’t know it took a special key to unlock handcuffs, and I hadn’t been issued one. When I left Prineville and went to Bend I had all of my leather and two pair of handcuffs. I had to purchase my own gun for Bend and carried it for about six months before they issued me one.

Now I watch agencies issue all of that nice equipment. Most of them are issued nylon gear and don’t have a clue that leather gear is still made. My oldest son was issued leather gear while my youngest was issued all nylon gear. I wonder if the new officers really know what they missed out on in this age of technology.

Going to school at Brothers was an experience. It was a one room school with a single teacher, with grades 1 thru 8. We did have electricity and hot lunches at the school. Our parents bought cases of soup we kids heated them for lunch. Except for the kids that lived in Brothers, our family was the closest and we were 8 miles as a crow flies. Unless the snow prevented it Ron, Marilyn and I drove the back roads to school. Ron and I had many a fight over who got to drive home. I don’t think it was about driving I think it was about who had to open the gates.

In later years Marilyn, Ron, Lew and our families were camping at a State Park. The park featured an event where a lady was pretending to be a one room school teacher. Following the script she asked who had ever attended a one room school. The four of us raised our hands, so we ruined her talk. We answered questions for her.

We did not get electricity at the ranch until I was in high school. We did home work via a gas lantern. We had the outhouse up the hill. We did use a propane powered generator and banks of batteries part of the year. The generator went sheep shearing a couple times each year.

Let me introduce you to the Rats. Ron and Marilyn and I were from our family. Lew Constable was living at Brothers and his folks owned the store and ran the post office. Spud Rickman. The McCormick kids, three I think. The Monicals, two or three and 3-4 kids from the State Highway crew. Life was unforgiving. Spud was killed in a hunting accident when he was 15 or 16. He was my classmate. Another boy was drug to death by his horse, after I left the school. A cougar spooked his horse and bucked him off, except his foot got tangled in his Lass Rope.

Lets start with Spud. He was in a true sense all cowboy. He worked cattle on the Rickman ranch from the time he was old enough to get cow stomped. He was an excellent rider and broke ornery horses out for adjoining ranches. He did the rodeo thing. I never could get into that, I had no intention of being bucked off. Spud is the kid that roped an antelope. In the spring the nannies will run just in front of a horse to lure you away from their hidden kids. Spud could not resist. He shook out his rope and tossed it around the nanny. She did not play fair. When the rope got tight she reversed directions and got into the saddle with Spud. Spud got thrashed by the nanny and then his horse threw both of them off. Lesson learned by us Rats, never rope an antelope.

Then there were the Monical boys, Joe and Wayne. Not very big guys and they were about 5th graders. It was deer season and they were moving cattle. A big mule deer buck was in the cows. Since it was deer season, and the cows had been moved the Rats decided to capture their deer. They had a tag, but no rifle. First one roped the deer. The buck did not take kindly to the treatment and charged the kid’s horse. The other boy came to his rescue and also roped the deer. By keeping apart, and their ropes tight they had the buck contained. Well maybe not. They could not release the angry buck and they could not kill him. After dark they made it to their ranch house. The Rats were exhausted. Their horses and the buck were also exhausted, but the buck was still mad. They sat on their horses and cried for help. Their dad arrived. He sent the boys to the house and rescued the deer and the horses. Except for pride, no one was hurt. Lesson learned by us Rats, never rope a deer.

Then there was my family’s story of a badger being roped. It went down a hole and a team of horses could not pull it out. We were building fence on the forest boundary when a half grown badger came by. I had a rope in the pickup, so I proceed to rope the critter. I expected him to run to, and down a hole. Nope, I evidently was given bad information. The rope came tight and the badger charged me. I ran like mad and threw my rope over a tree limb and then pulled the hissing, growling and snarling badger off the ground. Now I could not get very close and he was really mad. My grandfather came by and his dog bit the hanging badger a few times. Now it was enraged. I was admiring my catch when Dad came by. He accused me of playing and told me to turn the badger loose. I pulled my pickup up beside the badger and by sitting on top the cab, I got him out of the rope. The badger kept me on the top of the cab for a couple hours. Lesson learned for Rats, never rope a badger.

The Monicals were around the 5^th grade, or younger. They were hauling hay when lightning hit the hay wagon, setting it on fire. Tough kids, they unhooked the tractor while the wagon and hay burned.

One other story, not ranch related. In Bend we had a skunk killing our homing pigeons. Dad told me to set a trap, and I did. The next morning a skunk was caught, and it was not happy. Dad was going to let me shoot the thing, and I did, but it wasn’t a kill shot. Dad grabbed the gun and killed the skunk. I got smell stuff all over me when taking the skunk out of the trap, I must have been about 10. I met a guy who was raised in the south. His brothers convinced him that if you grabbed a skunk by the tail it could not spray you. He tried lots of times and each failure he would be told what he did wrong. He finally came to the conclusion that they were laughing at him.

I was either in the 7th or 8th grade at The Brothers School, which was the either the late 50’s or the early 60’s. On this particular day the weather was sort of warm. For some reason I had a horse out before the drive to school.

For some good reason I tied the horse to the steps of a shed. Rule of thumb for me was to always tie the horse so the rope was nose level to the standing horse, or tie above its head. I was not to be bothered with such rules, I think I was in a hurry. I tied the horse to the steps. I climbed the steps and was reaching for the shed door when things got exciting. The horse set back and pulled. The steps tore off the shed. The horse became frightened and jerked back. I was standing on the steps. I found myself airborne looking at the sky and then the ground.

The steps were firmly tied to the horse, but they were no longer attached to the shed. I was thinking this was a mistake, and wondering how hard it was going to be to catch the critter dragging the steps. The ground got in my way and I crashed while using my left arm as a landing support. My thumb sort of really hurt. However, the horse came first. I remember catching the critter and putting it back in the corral. I don’t know if that entailed taking a saddle off. I surveyed the shed and the wandering steps. I think I tried to reattached the thing, but I was not able to do that. I went to the house and reported my adventure to Mom. She examined my swollen thumb and decided I should stay home from school. She took my brother and sister to school. I stayed home contemplating life after Dad discovered I had destroyed the new steps.

About 1 or 2 in the afternoon it started raining very hard. Hard enough that Mom decided to drive to Brothers and retrieve the students. I wanted to stay home, but that was not to be. We got the kids and headed back. There was a river of water washing down the road. Our driveway was about 4.5 miles long. Then the temperature began to drop and by dark it was snowing hard with a brisk wind, Dad was not home. He was in the Madras area checking on the sheep and their herders.

Dad was not home and we went to bed. I think he stumbled up the stairs to the house about 10 pm. He said he started down the driveway, but the pickup got stuck in the snow. It was a one ton 1948 Dodge, two wheel drive. He started walking. He could not see, but by shuffling his feet he managed to stay in the road.

The next morning we awakened to a world of white. The snow was deep. Our corral fence was six feet tall and one could walk over it without knowing the fence was there. There was somewhere around six feet of snow. The wind was no longer blowing but the temperature had dropped over night to about 30 below zero. We didn’t have a tractor with a bucket and there was no place to drive because the snow was deep.

I had visions of staying in the house and enjoying the warm fire. No such luck. There were 40 head of yearling heifers in a pen that had to be fed. They were only a 100 yards or so from the hay stack. The hay had to get there and equipment was not working. We got out the toy sleds. First we broke a trail to the heifers. By working we discovered we could haul 2 bales of hay, per sled. That took care of the hay. It took a trip or two, but the heifers got fed. As long as the critters had good feed they were not cold.

The next challenge was to get grain to the critters. The sleds did not seem to work for the grain. We had a donkey. He wanted attention, I guess. We found that he could carry a 100 pound sack of feed without being stressed, and he carried it a whole lot easier that we could. Since a path had been made through the snow we simply led the donkey while balancing the feed on this back High tech.

Next there was another problem. The heifers had no water. Their trough was frozen solid. We built a fire against the trough and melted the ice. I sort of recall that some of the heifers had pink eye that had to be treated. We wrestled critters and treated their eyes daily.

Back to the house we went. I don’t recall being cold. Inside the house two things happened. First I learned about being snow blind. It took several minutes before my eyes adjusted and I could see. That was time I could not bear. Remember the injured thumb? It liked cold weather, but hurt really bad in the warm room. I was staggering and falling to the bathroom where I would run cold water on my hand until I could bear the pain.

For entertainment we did a couple things. we melted spots through the ice on the windows so we could sort of see out and we played cribbage. I learned how to do math in my noggin. My grandfather was snowed in with us. He was a stickler for counting correctly. I thought I was a whiz at the game. On my honeymoon I whipped out a cribbage board. My bride promptly cleaned my clock.

We got into the routine of working with the stock and surviving in the house. Then one day we saw a wonderful sight. The county road grader was plowing its way to the house. We were set free. I think my grandfather took his pickup ad drove back to his home in Bend. Dad was able to retrieve his pickup. In the back of the pickup was a box or two of food and our pet dog. The dog had died of cancer and Dad was bringing her home to bury. I don’t recall running low on food, but I sort of recall having a limited menu.

From this storm I learned that we could survive in adverse conditions and that the livestock depended on us to eat. They were the priority. The storm killed off a lot of our resident quail; I think they burrowed under brush and could not get back out through the snow. We did have several horses on the open range. I wondered if they would all die. After the storm broke they came to the house in good condition. They were tough.

Life went on. The weather warmed and the sheep and cows still had to be attended to. We even had to go back to school.