Soapweed
Well-known member
VISIT WITH AN OLD NEIGHBOR
By Steve Moreland, originally written October 22, 2003
We rolled through town about noon today with horses on a trailer, pulled with one pickup, and a portable loading chute hooked onto a Hydra-Bed pickup which also hauled two big round bales of hay. We stopped at the gas station and ran onto a retired rancher neighbor, John Burton, who is about ready to go to Arizona for the winter. We had packed our lunch, originally thinking we would be miles down into the hills come noon. We invited John to eat with us at a picnic table in the local Merriman city park, and we enjoyed a nice visit during dinner.
John has always been one of my heroes. In 1947, he rode horseback from his dad's ranch northeast of Ellsworth in the Sandhills of Nebraska to the Grand Canyon in Arizona. He started his trek in May of that year, and arrived at his destination in November. He started out with three horses but arrived with just two, his saddle horse and a pack horse.
In November of 1997, Carol and I and our three kids made arrangements to ride mules to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. John was wintering in Wickenburg at the time, so we invited him to meet us there and go along on the ride. We left from the South Rim and rode down the Bright Angel Trail on the 8th of November, spent the night at the Phantom Ranch, and rode out the next day on the Kaibab Trail. The nifty part was that John had been through the Grand Canyon on the same trail with his own horses, just fifty years earlier to the day.
He told again about when he left the North Rim on the 8th of November in 1947 and getting half way down before camping for the night. He was down to just one pair of socks, and had hung them on a tree branch to air out overnight. A wicked wind came up and blew one of his socks away. It was nowhere to be found the next morning. The weather was chilly, and one foot got pretty cold wearing his boot with no sock. John found another camper who was willing to sell him a sock. Life was kind once again.
Another story I had heard before from John, but I used this occasion to ask him about it again. It was in the late fall of 1962 or 1963. John had a crippled bull on the north side of the Niobrara River. There had been two nights of twenty degrees below zero temperatures. John figured he had better get the bull home, where there was some hay, before the river froze over. It was three miles west to a bridge, and three miles back. He wasn't sure the bull could walk that far. He rode his horse to the river, across from the bull. His big gelding wasn't real excited about crossing the icy water with large chunks of ice floating, but John persuaded him to the other side. He roped the bull with the plan to drag him back across. The bull had good footing on the grassy bank, and it was slick where the horse was in the water. The bull wouldn't budge. John rode back to the north shore, dismounted, and twisted the bull's tail. The bull jumped into the river, and the horse and bull took off across the freezing water leaving John standing on the north bank.
John didn't have many options. He took off all his clothes, held them high in the air, and stepped down into the freezing swift-running Niobrara. The high for the day was probably 10 or 15 degrees above zero. It was a brisk bone-chilling icy proposition getting to the far side. He said the pebbles and ice were painful to his bare feet at the start, but nothing bothered his numbed appendages by the time he got to the far side. He laid down his coat, sat on it and dried off, using the coat sleeve for a towel. His clothes were dry. He dressed and then had plenty of exercise catching up with the tied together bull and horse. By the time he got his rope off the bull he was pretty well warmed up.
All too soon our sandwiches were gone, and it was time to part ways. John and his wife will be just a bit behind the Sandhill Cranes as they head south to warmer wintering. Best of luck to all of them. We'll look forward to their return in the spring.
By Steve Moreland, originally written October 22, 2003
We rolled through town about noon today with horses on a trailer, pulled with one pickup, and a portable loading chute hooked onto a Hydra-Bed pickup which also hauled two big round bales of hay. We stopped at the gas station and ran onto a retired rancher neighbor, John Burton, who is about ready to go to Arizona for the winter. We had packed our lunch, originally thinking we would be miles down into the hills come noon. We invited John to eat with us at a picnic table in the local Merriman city park, and we enjoyed a nice visit during dinner.
John has always been one of my heroes. In 1947, he rode horseback from his dad's ranch northeast of Ellsworth in the Sandhills of Nebraska to the Grand Canyon in Arizona. He started his trek in May of that year, and arrived at his destination in November. He started out with three horses but arrived with just two, his saddle horse and a pack horse.
In November of 1997, Carol and I and our three kids made arrangements to ride mules to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. John was wintering in Wickenburg at the time, so we invited him to meet us there and go along on the ride. We left from the South Rim and rode down the Bright Angel Trail on the 8th of November, spent the night at the Phantom Ranch, and rode out the next day on the Kaibab Trail. The nifty part was that John had been through the Grand Canyon on the same trail with his own horses, just fifty years earlier to the day.
He told again about when he left the North Rim on the 8th of November in 1947 and getting half way down before camping for the night. He was down to just one pair of socks, and had hung them on a tree branch to air out overnight. A wicked wind came up and blew one of his socks away. It was nowhere to be found the next morning. The weather was chilly, and one foot got pretty cold wearing his boot with no sock. John found another camper who was willing to sell him a sock. Life was kind once again.
Another story I had heard before from John, but I used this occasion to ask him about it again. It was in the late fall of 1962 or 1963. John had a crippled bull on the north side of the Niobrara River. There had been two nights of twenty degrees below zero temperatures. John figured he had better get the bull home, where there was some hay, before the river froze over. It was three miles west to a bridge, and three miles back. He wasn't sure the bull could walk that far. He rode his horse to the river, across from the bull. His big gelding wasn't real excited about crossing the icy water with large chunks of ice floating, but John persuaded him to the other side. He roped the bull with the plan to drag him back across. The bull had good footing on the grassy bank, and it was slick where the horse was in the water. The bull wouldn't budge. John rode back to the north shore, dismounted, and twisted the bull's tail. The bull jumped into the river, and the horse and bull took off across the freezing water leaving John standing on the north bank.
John didn't have many options. He took off all his clothes, held them high in the air, and stepped down into the freezing swift-running Niobrara. The high for the day was probably 10 or 15 degrees above zero. It was a brisk bone-chilling icy proposition getting to the far side. He said the pebbles and ice were painful to his bare feet at the start, but nothing bothered his numbed appendages by the time he got to the far side. He laid down his coat, sat on it and dried off, using the coat sleeve for a towel. His clothes were dry. He dressed and then had plenty of exercise catching up with the tied together bull and horse. By the time he got his rope off the bull he was pretty well warmed up.
All too soon our sandwiches were gone, and it was time to part ways. John and his wife will be just a bit behind the Sandhill Cranes as they head south to warmer wintering. Best of luck to all of them. We'll look forward to their return in the spring.