Cabin Creek

by Doug Crowe
Tuesday, June 26, 2007 2:33 PM MDT

Back in the mid-’50s, when I worked on the UC Ranch and thought I was a cowboy, there were fewer fences than today. The consequence was huge communal pastures.

When the time came for roundup, the several ranches using these pastures would pool their workers and horses to round up as a group. The epicenter of this operation was a place called Cabin Creek.

There were two log buildings there, the cookhouse and a bunkhouse. As people gathered for this event, the bunkhouse would fill up and canvas teepees would sprout on the surrounding prairie. By the time everyone showed up, there would be from two to three dozen hands and twice that many horses. It was a grand thing to see!

Every morning, we would ride out to gather cattle, bringing them together at a predetermined rendezvous point. There were no fenced bunch grounds or corrals, so once all the riders came in, we'd split into two groups.

Some would be detailed to hold the critters in place, while others would rope, wrestle or brand the calves.

Once finished for the day, we would ride back to Cabin Creek, turn our sweaty mounts loose into the horse pasture, wolf down supper and hit the sack. Next morning before dawn, the cook would start whacking the old iron triangle that hung on the porch. We'd roll out of bed, grumbling and stretching, to head for the cook shack.

The only break in this routine came when one had wrangler duty. Then you had to get up double early and fetch in the horse herd.

When my turn at this chore came around, I left "Bull Wheel,” a sorrel gelding I was using, along with a bucket of water and a few flakes of hay, in the wrangle-horse corral overnight. When the alarm went off at 4 a.m., I cursed and dressed and staggered out to saddle him.

It was darker than the inside of a cow, but finding the horse herd was not a problem. Bull Wheel knew exactly where they were, which n- of course -n was just as far away as possible.

Nevertheless, he went straight to them, and together we pushed them toward Cabin Creek with the dawn just starting to break behind us. When we arrived, the makeshift rope corral we used was up and everyone in place. The horses trotted in without a hitch.

I rode over to the cookhouse, jumped down, hobbled Bull Wheel and stomped inside to grab a bite of breakfast. Hunger satiated, I strolled out on the porch to watch the action. As I came out the door, the horses knocked down the cavy-ropes and headed for parts unknown.

I leaped off the porch, scrambled up on my trusty steed and sunk the spurs to him. He took one hop and fell forward on his nose. I rolled over his neck to land flat on my back in the midst of several piles of fresh horse effluent. I hadn't taken the hobbles off!

The escaping horses were forgotten, as every witness to this event was convulsed by fits of laughter. Bull Wheel arose to stand over me with a look of utter disgust. I couldn't have been more embarrassed, but decided the only way to survive this faux pas was to laugh right along with the rest of them.

So there we all stood in the first rays of the morning sun with our horses disappearing over the horizon, screaming and holding our sides with laughter.

I still drive out to Cabin Creek occasionally. The cabins are in disrepair now, but I can sit on the porch of the cook shack and remember that day. In fact, I remember a lot of days, and a lot of men and a lot of horses.

Sometimes I even hear the men shouting and the horses squealing and see the dust rising. But I usually don't stay very long -- the dust gets in my eyes and makes them water.

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