Jerry

It was early Fall 1969 on our working ranch–working being the operative word in its most grueling sense. The end of grazing season approached and the limited number of days to prepare for winter pressed upon my family. All too soon, the herd would be rounded-up and driven–on hooves, not wheels–from their summer range under the care of Badger Mountain and transferred to our care to be fed and watched through the winter months to follow.

Working a three-thousand-cow herd on a sixty-four thousand acre spread like ours was daunting. It’s not the calendar that determines every season, but the work required to maintain the herd. Spring–branding, weaning, doctoring, culling. Summer–growing and harvesting feed for the winter. Winter–feeding and calving. Fall–round-up.

Fall round-up wasn’t the only re-location of the herd that happened every year. It happened in the Spring as well but the difference in the work required is remarkable. In the Spring, the herd was all neatly gathered together and weary of the corrals, shoots, and feed and anxious to return to open grazing on the fresh grass of Spring. Opening the gate was nearly all that was required. The Fall was a very different story. The work required to coax a large herd away from their summer haven where they’d been free to roam thousands of acres was daunting indeed. And it seldom passed without some incident or another making that particular season memorable.

Of the days remaining before snow flew, this was a particularly pleasant one–as far as weather goes. It was warm and clear with a gentle breeze to ease the sun’s rays and tune the leaves on the trees to harmonies of soothing whisper. At Jack’s Resort on Jameson Lake, nestled in a coulee just about eight miles from the ranch house, a few campers were taking advantage of the dilly-dally day to fish and relax.

Unlike the lackadaisical mood of the resort, the ranch was a beehive of activity. All hands were busy preparing for the round-up that would come too soon. There were fences and corrals to repair, feed to lay up for the winter, equipment to service, and bills to pay…or somehow delay a bit longer. Truly, a cowboy’s work is never done.

Some disruptions come without any regard at all for the burdens carried by weary hands and bent backs. They demand immediate attention. Such was the phone call from Jack’s Resort on Jameson Lake that day.

The resort manager called to ask that we come and get one of our bulls that had strayed onto the resort and was bothering the campers. Dad couldn’t spare a hand and since this bull, like most domestic bulls, was gentle and docile as a murmuring crick, he asked me to fetch a horse and go drive the bull home. I happily accepted the job. Not only did I love being a cowboy, but I loved whenever Dad trusted me to do a man’s work.

Though I had a choice of more than twenty horses to saddle for the job, it was Jerry I really wanted. He was my dad’s horse and the best horse we had. He was the favorite, and his rider the envy, of every hand on the ranch. Comparing Jerry with the rest of the stock was like comparing Rolls Royce with Cadillac. All our horses were good stock, but Jerry was elite. You could always count on him for any job without wasting time catching him. I had been frustrated many times trying to catch a horse. But Jerry could be ridden from dawn to dusk, turned loose anywhere, and come running when he was called, sticking his nose right in the bridle. He loved to work and seemed hurt if he was ever left behind in favor of some other horse, even if he needed a break after a hard ride. This was a rare chance for me to work with Jerry. He was available, raring to go, and the obvious choice for me.

As soon as I had Jerry saddled, we rode for the lake. Mom had packed a lunch for me since it was expected to be a long ride. Along the way, I encountered Glen Corning’s bird dog, Sam. Sam was notorious on the ranch. Not for any behavior but for how much Glen had paid for him. Though we had dogs aplenty, we’d never heard of anyone paying such money for one. Glen, my dad’s money partner, had reported Sam missing a few days ago, supposing he was stolen. I shared my lunch with Sam and that convinced him to tag along.

By the time we reached the lake, the situation had changed. The bull was no longer bothering the campers but had swam to a small island just a short distance from shore. I was hesitant about swimming Jerry because I had never swam a horse before. Being uncertain, I decided I’d use the resort phone to call Dad. 

“What’s the problem?” inquired the resort manager, though he was clearly aware of the problem and had been watching to see what I would do. 

“Can I use your phone to call my dad?” I responded.

“Nonsense! You’ve got nothing to worry about. Just put your feet up on the pommel of the saddle, wade your horse into the water, and he’ll do the rest. A horse is a natural born swimmer,” he assured me. 

I was only fifteen years old. What did I know.

“Ok, I’ll try,” I said

If Jerry had hesitated at all to go into the water, I would not have pressed the issue. But he didn’t. Not at all. I suppose he had assessed the situation as well as anyone and knew what needed to be done. Jerry’s confidence gave me confidence, even as the water rose above his belly. I was just beginning to relax when suddenly Jerry’s head disappeared under the water. He had stepped off an unseen edge of a cliff that was submerged there.

Having its head abruptly dunked in water is unnatural for a horse and we suddenly found ourselves in a battle for our lives as we both panicked and he began thrashing wildly. I struggled to separate myself to avoid getting tangled and mangled in Jerry’s churning hooves. My chaps, boots and jacket were like anchors weighing me down and frustrating every effort to swim. My greatest exertions seemed futile and my doom and destruction felt certain. Just as I was about spent and ready to give up, something grabbed my collar. It was Sam. With his help I miraculously made it back to solid ground. Determined to go back and help Jerry, I began shedding my clothes. Someone in the crowd that had gathered on shore screamed “Leave him!”. “No way!”, I said. I dove back in. By now he had stopped thrashing. Determined and aided by adrenalin and a stranger from shore who had entered the water to help, we somehow managed to pull Jerry close enough that we could lift his nose above water. “Breathe, Jerry, breathe” I pleaded, but it was too late. Jerry was lifeless.

“Come on, Jerry! Breathe! Please…Jerry. Please God let him live.” But I knew he was gone. I started to cry.

We’ve long since moved from our ranch and settled elsewhere. For now, all we have left of Jerry are memories…and a picture hanging on the wall at home. Joseph Smith said that he would have his favorite horse and dog with him in heaven. We lost part of our family that day. We look forward to seeing Jerry again, running through tall grass to greet us.