Chickens In Your House

 Last night the Crystal River Caucus met at the Marble community church. The group was essentially divided into two camps: those who think it’s OK to restrict what people do on their own property, and those who believe in “live and let live”. The bulk of the evening was spent discussing the much-debated Special Geographic Area plan. In the past, it was presented to the Gunnison County Planning Commission. They rejected it.

The plan had a few minor revisions in it since the County Planning Commission rejected it, however, it is essentially the same document.

For example: Under the original document, if you didn’t finish building your house and get a certificate of occupancy within 17 years, the approximate cost of fines would be around $1,000,000.00. That’s correct. One million dollars. I’m not making this up! Based on my comment in the public meeting with the planning commission during the first proposal of the Special Geographic Area, the fine has a “reduced” price.

In last night’s meeting, I congratulated the caucus board for being so magnanimous. I said that it reminded me of Russia. When the Russians were oppressed after the Bolshevik Revolution, the government made farmers put animals into their houses. Horses, cows, pigs, chickens. Whatever people owned got to live with them in their homes. It showed the government’s power. After a year, the government told the people, “You can take the cow out of the house.” The relieved farmers were grateful. After another period of time, the government told them that they could take the pigs out. The farmers were quite grateful to the government. Finally, they were down to the chickens, by which time things seemed to be quite normal.

I told the caucus board, “In the same vein as the Russians, I thank you. By reducing the fine in your proposal, we are now down to simply having the chickens in our house.” They didn’t appreciate that comment.

There were comments thrown out to the board like, “How does limiting the size of houses ‘protect and promote the economy’ as shown in your reasons for the regulations”? Or the concerned citizen who rhetorically asked “Isn’t this document a vehicle for telling us what color to paint our houses, or anything else that you want to control?”

The caucus board then resorted to fear of the future. Oil rigs in our quaint little town were one of the first bogey men thrown at us. Then there was loss of tourist income. We don’t have many tourist businesses here. As a matter of fact, we don’t have many businesses at all. We don’t even have a gas station. Our natural beauty was in jeopardy. It was interesting to note that both low brow houses (the epitome of a small town) and recently built, large, well thought out houses, were all used as reasons to accept the Special Geographic Area proposal.

The Special Geographic Area document is full of legal faux pas, ridiculous assumptions (the county isn’t doing enough to protect natural beauty), socialism, government intrusion, innuendo, scare tactics, personal opinion, and illegal proposals. (The county doesn’t have jurisdiction on federal land which encompasses over 90 percent of the proposed area).

The Special Geographic Area proposal is not what this small town community needs. Trash it. Get on with current issues, not scare tactics about the future. Now let’s get government doing the things that it is supposed to be doing.

Grover and the Moose

Horses hate moose. It’s a fact.

 

When I was a Wilderness Ranger in Meeteetse, Wyoming, I rode horses, and saw moose. There were lots of moose/horse stories being told, but I never thought that I would be in the middle of one of them.

My horse’s name was Grover, because he looked like a Muppet: shaggy, one color (black in this case), and a bit wild. Being the low man on the Totem Pole, they let me ride Grover…

It was a rainy, late September day; the kind of day when even a 27 year old can feel in their bones the advancement of winter. The kind of Wyoming winter where it is 30 below zero, and you have to chop the ice on the water tanks for the livestock. As a kid, I used to chop the ice for my dad’s cattle back in Indiana.

Grover and I were headed up the Greybull River trail. Before we got to Venus cabin, there was an opening with a huge bull moose standing at the other side. The moose had antlers that were bigger than anything I had seen in my life. I patted Grover on the neck, knowing that he must have already seen the moose, and that me being on the horse, the moose would quickly walk away. But the moose didn’t.

We were headed toward the moose at a nice horsey pace. Grover’s head was bobbing up and down, as they do when your mount is working hard up in the mountains.

“I’m sure you see the moose,” I said to Grover.

Grover walked along, kind of dopey like. Doo dee doo. Doo dee doo, his head bobbing up and down.

We were about 80 yards from the moose.

“I’m sure you smell the moose,” I reassured Grover, knowing that horses have a keen sense of smell, and can detect danger long before humans. Doo dee doo. Doo dee doo went Grover, walking up the trail with a soggy ranger on his back. We were about 50 yards from the moose.

Another pat on Grover’s neck for a reminder, and then, “I’m sure you can hear the moose milling around,” I said a little louder. It seemed like an urgent reminder, knowing that horses are animals given to fear and running away. We were now about 35 yards away, and the moose wasn’t interested in stepping out of the way. Being a very brave, very stupid ranger, I kept the course. Doo dee doo. Doo dee doo went Grover’s head, bobbing up and down.

Suddenly, Grover’s head jerked up, his eyes grew wide, and he jumped about two feet straight up in the air. He yelled, “A MOOSE!” He spun around, 180 degrees in the air, and hit the ground with all four hooves spinning. The race was on.

If we had been in the Kentucky Derby that day, we would have won by about 4 lengths. That old cow pony pulled speed out of his hind end, and set it on fire. We were flying down the trail, and that horse was wearing Nike horseshoes.

Now I never considered myself a great rider, but I knew one thing: You don’t fall off of a speeding horse up in the mountains. You could get killed, and if you don’t get killed, you might just lay there, all busted up until you die. Your chances of having a grizzly bear come along are as good as having another person show up and look at your from their horse, wondering what you are doing, laying there all crumpled up, and soaking wet.

So I hung on for all I was worth. Narrow, winding, mountain trails at full speed require a certain amount of anticipation when riding a scared, wet horse. You lean inside the curves like a Can am motorcycle racer, and you flop to the other side before you even get to the curve. All the while I was shouting “Whoa! Whoa!”

After about what I estimated to be half a mile, Grover and I rolled to a stop, about like a Land Speed Record holder car would at the Bonneville salt flats. Grover stood there, trembling. His sides heaved in and out as if he had just finished the Boston Marathon, or won the 1000 meters at the Olympics. Grover turned his head back toward me and said “Why didn’t you tell me there was a moose!”

Stupid horse. Wait ’till you hear the grizzly stories…