Tag Archives: moose

How To Move A Cactus

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So there I was, untying a cactus from a tree. Not just any old cactus, but a 7 foot tall cactus. No, make that two cacti. They weren’t exactly up in the tree. They were leaning against the tree. I’m the one up in the tree on a small branch. As I’m struggling with the knot, I’m thinking to myself, “I hope this branch doesn’t break, or I will land on the cactus.” Of course this was taking place just one hour after Jason and I saw our first dead moose laying on the side of the road. Man, living in Colorado is challenging.

 

There are two things in this world that I hate working with: sheep, and cactus. Yesterday, 1000 sheep went walking by onto our road as they were being driven home out of the high country. Today was Seven Foot Tall Cactus Day.

 

I’m struggling with the knots on the cactus while wearing rubber gloves. How rubber gloves are going to protect you from the prickers, is anybody’s guess. The guy who tied the knots, never intended to untie them himself. He must have tightened them with vice grips.

 

I got the cacti untied, climbed down, and Jason showed up with a hand cart. The owner said that we could wrap the thin white cloth around the cacti for transport, and that way we would “hardly get any prickers” in us. Brother! I told Jason that I wanted to go back to the truck, get a machete, and chop the top 3 feet of of the impending disasters off. When I suggested wrapping cardboard around the towering pincushions, everybody agreed. Jason and I went wheeling the flopping cacti to the truck and loaded them in.

 

On the way back to the store where we were delivering the cacti, Jason hit a bump, and when we opened the back door of the delivery truck, the cacti (which had been strapped down as best we knew how to strap flopping seven foot cacti in minuscule pots , down) were laying on their side. More cardboard, more ropes to hoist the cacti onto their feet, more tape. We just about lost Jason and one of the cacti off of the hoist lift on the back of the truck. Can you imagine laying in the bushes with a seven foot octopus full of prickers on top of you? “One Adam Twelve. See the man laying under a cactus at _______. Be advised to wear welding gloves upon arrival…”

 

We got the cacti into the store, unwrapped them, and leaned them up against a wall. They were so floppy, that the previous owner had the gardener remove them from the house, and tie them to a pine tree outside, so we could come and remove them.

 

What a day. I even got into an argument with the GPS. I knew full well where we were going. I had just been to a birthday party near there a few weeks ago. These GPS contraptions often take you the long way around. ‘ Turns out the GPS was right. And she’s never even been to that part of Colorado, before.

 

I’m not sure. If you had the choice, would you rather lay under a seven foot cactus, or a dead moose?

Grover and the Moose

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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…