This story is fully illustrated with photo's to access them go to my home page and open the album Growing Up Ranch Chap 1. The story will have a bold type reference number to key it to the story.
Growing Up Ranch Introduction
I am Vernon Fawcett, and this is the story of my childhood, set in the Laramie Mountains of southeastern Wyoming. My childhood was quite unusual; you see I grew up "ranch" on the Squaw Peaks Angus Ranch also known as the SPAR, near Esterbrook Wyoming.
The ranch began during World War II when the first generation of Fawcett's, the Art Fawcett family, left the Forest Service and took up ranching. Sometime around 1948 the SPAR became firmly established and began to operate and grow. In all, three generations had a hand in working the ranch. From its beginning until financial issues led to the sale of all but a tiny acreage around 1995, this was my home. Our story of "Growing Up Ranch" takes place from 1958 to around 1974 when the family began to depart the ranch for a variety of reasons.
I will not linger over the customs of the times too long, but there are some background understandings necessary to our story. When the Ranch was first acquired the western range had only recently become the owned, and fenced land we see today. In just a few decades open range became fenced acreage, but far up in the mountains, the attitudes associated with those days lingered on. In the lifetime of SPAR, locks were never locked: someone's life might depend on finding food and shelter in an emergency. Neighbors watched over each other's stock; if strays were found they were gathered up and returned. Short courtesy rides to check for strays on each other's land were common, and the code of "leave the gate the way you found it" was the only law required.
Landowners were quite alert to intruders, rustling was not dead, but mainly this land needed care and protection to prevent unintentional damage. One carelessly smoldering cigarette could burn a hundred acres before the fire was even discovered. The burn would take a lifetime to heal. A soda can tossed out of a car would soon have sun faded paint but otherwise be good as new for decades. One motorcycle rider could permanently chew up a whole hillside in minutes, and the scars would never heal over in the harsh climate.
Let me briefly introduce the main characters in our coming story. The First and founding family is the Art Fawcett family. Clarence Arthur Fawcett, who detested his first name and insisted on "Art", came west as a young man in the 1920's. He moved west to stay in the 1930's bringing his new bride Ruth Savage with him. Various jobs moved them from Utah to Idaho, to Wyoming, where Art found the Laramie Peak area and fell under its spell. Prior to settling in the Esterbrook area, first a son Russell and then a daughter Ethel were born and all settled together on the Archie Hamner place which eventually became SPAR headquarters.
The second generation began as a family in 1957 when Russ married Miriam Nauman. Miriam had recently completed her degree in elementary education and Russ soon entered the University of Wyoming, earning his degree Agricultural Journalism. Returning to the ranch after a short internship with the USDA in Washington, they set up housekeeping with their first son Vernon. Soon a second son Paul came along completing their family. They took up residence in a log cabin built by Earnest Newell on what was known as either "Ernie's Place" or "The Lower Place". There was only about a mile separating the two dwellings; in ranch terms the house next door.
The third and final generations were my brother Paul and I. I was born on July 22nd of 1958. After early moves, I settled in on the Lower Place with my parents. There I grew up and completed my education through the 8th grade before schooling requirements forced a move from the ranch in 1974. I worked
summers on the ranch until, having graduated Kelly Walsh High School, I joined the US Navy and permanently departed the Laramie Peak area.
While these are the main characters many neighbors and friends played important supporting roles and our story would have been impossible without them. As I grew up I held the very privileged position of "Art's grandson". This opened doors and allowed freedoms even my peers the other ranch kids did not have among these families. Here is a partial listing.
Newell's -Nearest neighbors, came from some of the earliest homesteaders.
Cooper's -another early homesteading family.
Pexton's -nearest landowners bordering SPAR to the North.
Warner's -nearest landowners bordering SPAR to the southwest.
Prager's -Ranchers up nearer the Peak, real high country ranchers.
Esterbrook residents -several families in rotation but in general about seven year round
Growing Up Ranch Chapter One My Neighborhood
"Whoa! Star". I grabbed the saddle horn and started to dismount and open the gate. Suddenly Star shied and lunged back dragging me with her! "You stupid hors…!" I started to holler when I suddenly heard the unmistakable buzz of a rattler. Sure enough, coiled around the gatepost, in the thin circle of shadow cast by the post, was a fair sized western diamondback rattlesnake. I patted Star and told her she was a good horse. Then we shooed the snake away and the trail ride continued. This was no big deal; just another everyday happening like many others I had "Growing Up Ranch".
This is the story of my life growing up on a small ranch in southeastern Wyoming. I was born in a normal hospital in Douglas Wyoming, July 22, 1958, but nearly everything else about my life was going to be far from normal even for that day and time. (Chap 1 Fig B) You see even in birth growing up on a ranch was different. Most mothers didn't face an hour and a half drive over 40 miles of frequently impassible roads to get to the hospital for delivery. Often ranch families would arrange a short stay with relatives or friends just before the blessed event was to occur so that unexpected events such as storms, vehicle breakdowns etc. wouldn't lead to a delivery far from medical help.
This was just the beginning of the many differences that made growing up a "ranch kid" or as I called it "Growing up Ranch", special and unique. The fact that I was "Ranch" set me apart from the "town kids" whether I liked it or not. Our ranch was actually an extreme example of ranch life so that even among other ranch kids I was considered a bit odd. I was of course too young to appreciate this at first and my parents were not settled into the ranch permanently until I was nearly 2 years old.
(Chap 1 Fig A)
We lived briefly in Laramie Wyoming, spent a short stay in Washington DC. before finally settling down at my father's mountain home. Now began the different life that would forever leave its mark on me as being "Ranch". Nestled in the Laramie Mountains of southeastern Wyoming I grew up on a ranch called the Squaw Peaks Angus Ranch or SPAR for short. I just simply knew it as "The Ranch".
Located about 40 miles south of Douglas Wyoming near the summer resort village of Esterbrook it was as far back into the mountains as you could get without being on top of them. This family ranch was established by my Grandfather Art Fawcett and was my home for 14 years from 1959 to 1973, the timeframe of this story.
The ranch was small by western standards, only 1,000 or so deeded acres with grazing leases on another 10,000 acres of public land. To realize how small this was the rocky, arid, land required 100 acres to support a single cow for a year. Our particular piece was even more rugged than average, enough so that behind our back people would mutter things about "ranching a rock pile".
The ranch was built up piecemeal by Granddad Art. There were two clusters of ranch buildings, the Upper Place or Art's place and the Ernie Newell or Lower Place where we lived. Both dwellings were on the banks of Horseshoe Creek but a mile apart and separated by a small ridge line. There was good water here year round and along the creek enough flat fertile land to raise some winter hay.
(Chap 1 Fig C)
The ranch was isolated in many ways. To get there you had to drive 20 miles to the end of the blacktop leaving Douglas, then rattle dee bang over 20 more miles of gravel road to Esterbrook. Just past there, a turn off onto a four-mile dirt scramble road led down into the ranch proper. Granddad and Dad had to maintain the road themselves from the turn off on in, rain or shine, winter or summer. Sometimes even 4 wheel drives couldn't get in and we had to park "Up On Top" and walk the last mile on foot.
Even in good weather, this road was treacherous. Mom was returning home from Esterbrook one sunny summer day in our brand new Mercury station wagon. Having eased down over the really rocky parts she started along a smooth stretch and picked up a little speed. Just then the right front wheel slipped over the edge of the road jerking the whole car down a steep bank. The car didn't roll over but hidden in the tall grass were several good sized boulders that tore out the cross members as the car bounced over them. One shaken up Mom. One totaled car.
Communications were limited. No telephone, a hand crank local network had fallen into disrepair years ago. CB radios were the main stay and after that good old "let's drop over and see..." did the trick. The rugged mountains blocked most TV signals but one or two channels could be pulled in if you got an antenna rigged just right. The only television set (Black and White only!) I had access to growing up was Grandma Ruth's. The one and only channel came from Scottsbluff Nebraska over 300 miles away. We got to watch what we were allowed to watch, basically cartoons and westerns, and there was no doubt who controlled the on-off switch, it was grandma and grandpa.
Mail was our most reliable outside communication mode with daily deliveries to the mailbox out on the main road. Even this wasn't for certain when blizzards hit or floods washed out bridges and roads. Of course, the human element could enter in too. One time our mailman Joe was making his route, it was catalog season so his pickup truck was loaded with mail order catalogs. One portion of the Braae Road follows along the Braae Hill ridge tops, twisting and winding as it goes. The view is spectacular as you look off into the valley below and the Sawtooth Mountains stand in the background blued by distance. The drop off is very steep and about 500 feet or so, too steep to climb standing up but a possible scramble on all fours. Somehow Joe got distracted or lost control and the truck dove off into the draw below. Joe bailed out but the catalogs and mail got strewn all over the hillside.
(Chap1 Fig D)
Wyoming weather was the most isolating factor of all. There was a family saying, "Well it's June 1st, now we won't get snowed in again". Notice I said Snowed IN. I have seen snow flurries interrupt our July 4th picnic while we were wading in the creek. I have also walked from house to barn and back passing from clear to snowing to clear as I went. Pretty extreme stuff; peaks of 100 degrees or more in the summer heat, and dips to 60 degrees below 0 in the winter. Dirt roads baked brick hard in summer sun could be axle deep mud bogs within hours of a storm.
One spring as we returned from a weekly visit to White School and then Douglas, we got a good lesson in just how bad this mud could be. Knowing we had had a good deal of rain Mom chose the Braae Road which had better traction for our return. We slithered along past the Whitaker Meadows and started climbing up around the Pexton Place. One particularly long stretch had the telltale sign of trouble, deep ruts with the center scraped flat by axles high centering as cars and trucks chewed their way through. We made it about halfway through and spun out. Rocking back and forth didn't help. There was no brush or rock to toss in for traction. We waited for someone to come along and help as darkness came. Finally, Pexton's arrived. A brief survey concluded it was no hope tonight, come stay the night with us. In the morning it took two pickups to pull our mired down pickup out of the mud so we could continue on home.
Creeks that barely trickled in summer's heat were roaring torrents in spring snow melt. We had two major floods while I was living at the ranch. Each of these washed out the bridge we used to get to our cabin. Cars had been moved across the bridge in anticipation of this event. Dad and Granddad Art felled a tall pine tree across the creek and that became our foot bridge for several weeks. I can well remember crawling across the log clutching the slippery bark and trying not to look down at the raging water below for fear of getting dizzy and falling in. (Chap 1 Fig E) (Chap 1 Fig F)
Winter snow drifts completely blocked summer roadways forcing detours to ridge top winter roads. We didn't always realize just when the shift to winter roads was due. Another White School trip, and another return, this time in winter. As we sang "She'll Be Comin Round The Mountain" we made the turn off from the Esterbrook Road to the ranch and a drift that didn't seem so deep in the dark swallowed the front end of the pickup. We weren't comin round that mountain anytime soon. We stayed with the truck for warmth and shelter and waited for a rescue party. Not too long and we saw lights coming up from the ranch. A bit of shoveling, pulling and so forth and we were headed to home. (Chap 1 Fig G)
Tornado's while unusual in mountain country weren't unheard of, and we got plenty of microburst straight-line windstorms. These windstorms often had small swirls in them that while not cyclonic had similar effects. I found a four-foot diameter pine tree that had been caught in one of these, twisted like a pretzel before being flung to the ground.
This wind was the one always present elemental force. While it was virtually ceaseless, it often changed moment to moment. To an outsider, there was a nearly constant roaring sound like rushing water. That was the wind bossing the pine trees around. We learned to tune it out except for noticing changes. The wind could help by blowing hills clear of snow for grazing but that same wind put the snow into deep drifts often in some handy place like the horse corral. It carved the rocks into strange monoliths and twisted trees into natural bonsai. It was a blessed relief in the summer heat but in winter a bitter stinging enemy that froze all exposed flesh. We even had a special rule for wind: Never open the car doors on both sides at once unless you really do want to clean out the car. (Chap 1 Fig H)
My family lived at the Lower Place in a three room log cabin built sometime in the 1890's. The downstairs was a single large Kitchen/ Living/ Family room while the upstairs had a partition loosely separating it into two bedrooms. There was a wood cook stove for heating and cooking supplemented by a small electric stove and potbelly heater stove for winter. A single table, 4 chairs, a rocker, an old sofa, and Mom's upright piano were the furnishings. Electricity was run in for lights and the stove but not for heat. We had running water; as long as my brother Paul or I ran when we went to fill the buckets from the creek.
The little cabin was cramped so a small storage building we called the storeroom was put up just back of the cabin. This was piled high with all the normal attic type clutter families carry around. When we had hired help (a rarity: we could barely afford for our family to live here) they stayed in a little 10 by 8 shack up the hill behind the cabin. A tiny stove and washbasin provided minimal comfort and the single bed filled up half the little room. (Chap 1 Fig J)
We called this Ed's house after Ed Hammond the most memorable of our temporary help. One time Ed was making roof repairs on the storehouse. He kept moving the ladder feet closer to the building until he finally had it nearly vertical. He climbed to the top, locked his feet in and reached for his hammer. That reach was a mistake. The ladder teetered briefly and began to fall backward. In apparent slow motion, Ed and ladder landed with a loud "thoomp" on the ground beside the cabin. Fortunately, the earth here was always a bit damp and the grass was up somewhat so Ed only got the wind knocked out of him.
Further up the hill across the upper irrigation ditch was the Fawcett Schoolhouse. No fooling, this was the actual elementary school that I and my brother Paul attended. Being so isolated and apt to be snowed in during winter most ranch families had to either board their kids in Douglas or split the family for the winter, kids and women in town, Men on the ranch. Fawcett's were more fortunate as my mother was a certified elementary school teacher. The school board agreed that in exchange for us finding the teacher and providing the building they would officially sanction the school and pay a modest salary. (Chap 1 Fig K)
The school was a simple one-room building with a short front porch. Two desks and a couple of bookshelves pretty well filled the room. At first, a little wood stove struggled to keep the room warm but finally a small propane stove replaced it and kept the little school toasty warm even in dead winter. Mom was authorized a small amount for schoolbooks and supplies but she was also officially blessed to visit older schools and scavenge for books and equipment. (Chap 1 Fig L)
Just across the driveway from the cabin were the barn and corral complex. Lumped into this was the two-hole'er outhouse that provided our sanitary facilities. It was somewhat hidden from view by the broken down remains of a workshop/garage whose roof had either been removed or never put up. (Chap1 Fig M)
The barn and corral at our place were intended as care for domestic stock only, not a cattle herd. The barn was large, built of hand-hewn logs just like the cabin but was slowly losing the fight to keep it's roof. A hayloft was there but not much use as the roof was missing boards in several places. Paul and I were allowed to put up our own "hay" (real hay, just not much or high quality) and this was where we stored it. It did make a comfortable place to come lay and daydream sometimes and like all the buildings was used in many childhood games. The ground floor of the barn had a dirt/manure floor and was only used as a tack room. Horses were saddled here and we kept halters, bridles, and ropes here as well. When we acquired a retired fighting cock he and his two old biddy hens came to use this as their chicken coop. (Chap 1 Fig N)
The corral had two parts, an inner small corral good for only a couple head of wrangle horses and a newer, outer corral that could overnight 20 or 30 head of cattle. The outer corral included a water gap built down to the creek to make holding stock easier. Water could also be had from the lower irrigation ditch that flowed through the water gap. A huge wild plum bush thicket grew along the fence and this was a boyhood hide out as we could low crawl around inside where no adult dared go for fear of thorns. (Chap 1 Fig P)
At one point a large calving shed was added on to the small corral. It was dry with a fine, sloped roof that lasted until a windstorm the following spring flipped the roof off and laid it down 20 feet behind the shed. This discouraging event was never repaired. The whole corral area suffered from poor drainage and manure buildup over the years. When it rained or snowed there were parts of the corral that became foot-deep muck pits.
The manure was good for one thing, though, Mom's garden. In front of the cabin toward the creek was a garden plot about an acre in size. The majority was used to raise vegetables, staple crops like corn, green beans, peas, beets, and carrots. Mom also set aside a small plot for a flower garden that provided beauty at home and on the church altar at Esterbrook. Paul and I were given a corner to raise our own gardens. We were free to choose anything we wanted to grow. Guidance was given as to what would grow and what wouldn't, but we didn't have to listen. (Hint, don't try watermelon in Wyoming, I never got one to ripen in all my years of trying). Grandma Ruth also raised a large garden and these two gardens eased the financial burdens considerably.
Squaw Peaks was the namesake mountain for the ranch but it was only one of several rugged peaks which dominated the horizon. The ranch land lay across a major fault line and a combination of fault shifts and volcanic action forged a rugged landscape. Let's take a guided tour of the immediate high points that made up my home turf. As we stand on Church Camp ridge we are looking almost due south up Horseshoe creek to the Roaring Fork/Ashenfeldter basin which drains the Laramie Peak area from our side. To our left Horseshoe flows down into it's deep lower canyon following the crack of a major fault line on its way to the Platte River. (Chap 1 Fig Q)
As we look right Rock Mountain looms over the Lower Place. It is a loaf-shaped, bald granite, mountain worn round by the glaciers of the past. There is a boulder choked crack in its face that leads to the summit. A spring ritual was to climb up this short col to greet the spring and survey the country once again. Despite the steep pitch and bare rock scramble even our cow dog, Tilly would make the climb with us each year. Rock Mountain was its official name but within the family, we called it Valhalla. One of my uncles who couldn't remember its real name looked at the rugged rock, often cloaked in fog or lit up by the alpine glow and named it after the Norse warriors resting place. A thickly forested bench along its base leads back to our next peak, Black Mountain. (Chap 1 Fig S)
Black Mountain is a longer, taller version of Rock Mountain, but more forested and not capped by bare rock. Its name could have come from the dark appearance the thick forest gave to it. The U.S. Forest Service maintained a fire tower on top of this peak where the entire Ashenfeldter basin could be seen spread out below. From the ranch this was visible only through binoculars or when the sun would glint off of the tower windows. The watchtower kept in radio contact with local ranch folk as all worked together to control fires. Not only that, it helped to pass the time as watching is pretty tedious. The lady who did most of this was not at all savvy when it came to using the 24-hour military clock. She would chatter up a storm until 12:00 noon at which point she clammed up so as not to have to make those confusing "Fourteen hundred hours" type log entries. At Midnight when the clock began to make sense again, she would once more venture the airwaves. Black Mountain was really the limit of my adventures into the Back Country as we called it. Even on horseback, it was a four or five-hour ride to its base and then there were only a few trails leading beyond. Our cattle used the Back Country as summer range so we would ride through every so often to check the herd and watch for neighbor's strays. (Chap 1 Fig T)
As our gaze continues to the right we see a large gap between Black Mountain and Laramie Peak. Poking up in the middle of this gap is a small lump of rocks called Haystacks. It's two neighbors tower over it, but it does have a distinctive little bump on top. (Chap 1 Fig U)
Passing Haystacks we come at last to Laramie Peak. It is due south of us and seems to take up half the horizon. At 10,000 feet tall it is the highest peak in the Laramie mountain range. Laramie Peak is named for the mountain man Jacque Laramie who first trapped and hunted the area. It has a long buttress on the left that sweeps up to three distinct peaks along the summit and then down to a shorter, taller buttress on the right. It is so imposing that the shape of Laramie Peak is imprinted on me. So much so that if I try to freehand draw a mountain it always seems to look like Laramie Peak. (Chap 1 Fig W)
The summit is home to a cluster of antennas that relay microwave, business band and nowadays cell phone traffic. On the backside of the Peak, a trail has been built up to this summit but it is a full day climb in thin air. This area was isolated enough that it was used as an aerial gunnery range in WWII and old timers who know where to look can sometimes find expended .50 caliber rounds left behind.
The peak is tall enough most private aircraft steer clear but accidents happen. One spring during a very unusual spring blizzard a Piper Cherokee pilot got lost and disoriented in the clouds. As I was riding home I heard the motor as they flew over and wondered why they were flying toward the Peak instead of crosswise as usual. Several days later the Civil Air Patrol search crews located the wreckage. The pilot had nearly made it over the eastern shoulder but had flown into the trees on the summit.
Laramie Peak is a major landmark as it is visible from 40 or 50 miles away. The Oregon Trail pioneers knew it meant Fort Laramie was near and a brief rest before the push, up and over the South Pass. "The Peak" as we always called it, displayed many moods depending on weather and time of year. Here are a few of the most typical faces one might see. (Chap 1 Fig X) (Chap 1 Fig Y)
(Chap 1 Fig Z)
Squaw Peaks is seen in the near foreground between us and Laramie Peak. This is actually a pair of rocky peaks, that when viewed from the proper angle, look like an old Indian squaw wrapped up in her blankets huddled around the campfire outside of her tepee. This was the border between the ranch and what we called the Back Country. In season elk could be found here and we saw some occasional bear sign, just enough to know they were around. On the ranch side of these peaks an older burnt area had left barren cooked boulders amongst whom the wild raspberries grew. Grandma Ruth taught me how to seek out and harvest these tart treats. (Chap 1 Fig AA)
Eagle Peak guards Laramie's right flank as we look further right. From our side Eagle Peak looks like a Bald Eagle, wings raised, crouching over its prey. From the side, it is a slim blade of rock jutting up from the surrounding hills. This is the real high country, home to Spruce and Lodge Pole Pine just like on Laramie Peak. Eagles do nest here from time to time but the name comes from its appearance. That completes the visible ring of mountains that kept watch over our daily affairs.
(Chap 1 Fig BB) (Chap 1 Fig CC)
There were, of course, others. Some were distant enough to be left for other stories, like Windy Peak or the Saw Tooths. Others were smaller, like Grey Rocks, or Spring Hill. While many of the countries rugged rock piles went un-named they provided hearth and home for many creatures. This mountain country was so rugged one could nearly always see where you wanted to go. Getting there was a whole different story.
Growing Up Ranch Introduction
I am Vernon Fawcett, and this is the story of my childhood, set in the Laramie Mountains of southeastern Wyoming. My childhood was quite unusual; you see I grew up "ranch" on the Squaw Peaks Angus Ranch also known as the SPAR, near Esterbrook Wyoming.
The ranch began during World War II when the first generation of Fawcett's, the Art Fawcett family, left the Forest Service and took up ranching. Sometime around 1948 the SPAR became firmly established and began to operate and grow. In all, three generations had a hand in working the ranch. From its beginning until financial issues led to the sale of all but a tiny acreage around 1995, this was my home. Our story of "Growing Up Ranch" takes place from 1958 to around 1974 when the family began to depart the ranch for a variety of reasons.
I will not linger over the customs of the times too long, but there are some background understandings necessary to our story. When the Ranch was first acquired the western range had only recently become the owned, and fenced land we see today. In just a few decades open range became fenced acreage, but far up in the mountains, the attitudes associated with those days lingered on. In the lifetime of SPAR, locks were never locked: someone's life might depend on finding food and shelter in an emergency. Neighbors watched over each other's stock; if strays were found they were gathered up and returned. Short courtesy rides to check for strays on each other's land were common, and the code of "leave the gate the way you found it" was the only law required.
Landowners were quite alert to intruders, rustling was not dead, but mainly this land needed care and protection to prevent unintentional damage. One carelessly smoldering cigarette could burn a hundred acres before the fire was even discovered. The burn would take a lifetime to heal. A soda can tossed out of a car would soon have sun faded paint but otherwise be good as new for decades. One motorcycle rider could permanently chew up a whole hillside in minutes, and the scars would never heal over in the harsh climate.
Let me briefly introduce the main characters in our coming story. The First and founding family is the Art Fawcett family. Clarence Arthur Fawcett, who detested his first name and insisted on "Art", came west as a young man in the 1920's. He moved west to stay in the 1930's bringing his new bride Ruth Savage with him. Various jobs moved them from Utah to Idaho, to Wyoming, where Art found the Laramie Peak area and fell under its spell. Prior to settling in the Esterbrook area, first a son Russell and then a daughter Ethel were born and all settled together on the Archie Hamner place which eventually became SPAR headquarters.
The second generation began as a family in 1957 when Russ married Miriam Nauman. Miriam had recently completed her degree in elementary education and Russ soon entered the University of Wyoming, earning his degree Agricultural Journalism. Returning to the ranch after a short internship with the USDA in Washington, they set up housekeeping with their first son Vernon. Soon a second son Paul came along completing their family. They took up residence in a log cabin built by Earnest Newell on what was known as either "Ernie's Place" or "The Lower Place". There was only about a mile separating the two dwellings; in ranch terms the house next door.
The third and final generations were my brother Paul and I. I was born on July 22nd of 1958. After early moves, I settled in on the Lower Place with my parents. There I grew up and completed my education through the 8th grade before schooling requirements forced a move from the ranch in 1974. I worked
summers on the ranch until, having graduated Kelly Walsh High School, I joined the US Navy and permanently departed the Laramie Peak area.
While these are the main characters many neighbors and friends played important supporting roles and our story would have been impossible without them. As I grew up I held the very privileged position of "Art's grandson". This opened doors and allowed freedoms even my peers the other ranch kids did not have among these families. Here is a partial listing.
Newell's -Nearest neighbors, came from some of the earliest homesteaders.
Cooper's -another early homesteading family.
Pexton's -nearest landowners bordering SPAR to the North.
Warner's -nearest landowners bordering SPAR to the southwest.
Prager's -Ranchers up nearer the Peak, real high country ranchers.
Esterbrook residents -several families in rotation but in general about seven year round
Growing Up Ranch Chapter One My Neighborhood
"Whoa! Star". I grabbed the saddle horn and started to dismount and open the gate. Suddenly Star shied and lunged back dragging me with her! "You stupid hors…!" I started to holler when I suddenly heard the unmistakable buzz of a rattler. Sure enough, coiled around the gatepost, in the thin circle of shadow cast by the post, was a fair sized western diamondback rattlesnake. I patted Star and told her she was a good horse. Then we shooed the snake away and the trail ride continued. This was no big deal; just another everyday happening like many others I had "Growing Up Ranch".
This is the story of my life growing up on a small ranch in southeastern Wyoming. I was born in a normal hospital in Douglas Wyoming, July 22, 1958, but nearly everything else about my life was going to be far from normal even for that day and time. (Chap 1 Fig B) You see even in birth growing up on a ranch was different. Most mothers didn't face an hour and a half drive over 40 miles of frequently impassible roads to get to the hospital for delivery. Often ranch families would arrange a short stay with relatives or friends just before the blessed event was to occur so that unexpected events such as storms, vehicle breakdowns etc. wouldn't lead to a delivery far from medical help.
This was just the beginning of the many differences that made growing up a "ranch kid" or as I called it "Growing up Ranch", special and unique. The fact that I was "Ranch" set me apart from the "town kids" whether I liked it or not. Our ranch was actually an extreme example of ranch life so that even among other ranch kids I was considered a bit odd. I was of course too young to appreciate this at first and my parents were not settled into the ranch permanently until I was nearly 2 years old.
(Chap 1 Fig A)
We lived briefly in Laramie Wyoming, spent a short stay in Washington DC. before finally settling down at my father's mountain home. Now began the different life that would forever leave its mark on me as being "Ranch". Nestled in the Laramie Mountains of southeastern Wyoming I grew up on a ranch called the Squaw Peaks Angus Ranch or SPAR for short. I just simply knew it as "The Ranch".
Located about 40 miles south of Douglas Wyoming near the summer resort village of Esterbrook it was as far back into the mountains as you could get without being on top of them. This family ranch was established by my Grandfather Art Fawcett and was my home for 14 years from 1959 to 1973, the timeframe of this story.
The ranch was small by western standards, only 1,000 or so deeded acres with grazing leases on another 10,000 acres of public land. To realize how small this was the rocky, arid, land required 100 acres to support a single cow for a year. Our particular piece was even more rugged than average, enough so that behind our back people would mutter things about "ranching a rock pile".
The ranch was built up piecemeal by Granddad Art. There were two clusters of ranch buildings, the Upper Place or Art's place and the Ernie Newell or Lower Place where we lived. Both dwellings were on the banks of Horseshoe Creek but a mile apart and separated by a small ridge line. There was good water here year round and along the creek enough flat fertile land to raise some winter hay.
(Chap 1 Fig C)
The ranch was isolated in many ways. To get there you had to drive 20 miles to the end of the blacktop leaving Douglas, then rattle dee bang over 20 more miles of gravel road to Esterbrook. Just past there, a turn off onto a four-mile dirt scramble road led down into the ranch proper. Granddad and Dad had to maintain the road themselves from the turn off on in, rain or shine, winter or summer. Sometimes even 4 wheel drives couldn't get in and we had to park "Up On Top" and walk the last mile on foot.
Even in good weather, this road was treacherous. Mom was returning home from Esterbrook one sunny summer day in our brand new Mercury station wagon. Having eased down over the really rocky parts she started along a smooth stretch and picked up a little speed. Just then the right front wheel slipped over the edge of the road jerking the whole car down a steep bank. The car didn't roll over but hidden in the tall grass were several good sized boulders that tore out the cross members as the car bounced over them. One shaken up Mom. One totaled car.
Communications were limited. No telephone, a hand crank local network had fallen into disrepair years ago. CB radios were the main stay and after that good old "let's drop over and see..." did the trick. The rugged mountains blocked most TV signals but one or two channels could be pulled in if you got an antenna rigged just right. The only television set (Black and White only!) I had access to growing up was Grandma Ruth's. The one and only channel came from Scottsbluff Nebraska over 300 miles away. We got to watch what we were allowed to watch, basically cartoons and westerns, and there was no doubt who controlled the on-off switch, it was grandma and grandpa.
Mail was our most reliable outside communication mode with daily deliveries to the mailbox out on the main road. Even this wasn't for certain when blizzards hit or floods washed out bridges and roads. Of course, the human element could enter in too. One time our mailman Joe was making his route, it was catalog season so his pickup truck was loaded with mail order catalogs. One portion of the Braae Road follows along the Braae Hill ridge tops, twisting and winding as it goes. The view is spectacular as you look off into the valley below and the Sawtooth Mountains stand in the background blued by distance. The drop off is very steep and about 500 feet or so, too steep to climb standing up but a possible scramble on all fours. Somehow Joe got distracted or lost control and the truck dove off into the draw below. Joe bailed out but the catalogs and mail got strewn all over the hillside.
(Chap1 Fig D)
Wyoming weather was the most isolating factor of all. There was a family saying, "Well it's June 1st, now we won't get snowed in again". Notice I said Snowed IN. I have seen snow flurries interrupt our July 4th picnic while we were wading in the creek. I have also walked from house to barn and back passing from clear to snowing to clear as I went. Pretty extreme stuff; peaks of 100 degrees or more in the summer heat, and dips to 60 degrees below 0 in the winter. Dirt roads baked brick hard in summer sun could be axle deep mud bogs within hours of a storm.
One spring as we returned from a weekly visit to White School and then Douglas, we got a good lesson in just how bad this mud could be. Knowing we had had a good deal of rain Mom chose the Braae Road which had better traction for our return. We slithered along past the Whitaker Meadows and started climbing up around the Pexton Place. One particularly long stretch had the telltale sign of trouble, deep ruts with the center scraped flat by axles high centering as cars and trucks chewed their way through. We made it about halfway through and spun out. Rocking back and forth didn't help. There was no brush or rock to toss in for traction. We waited for someone to come along and help as darkness came. Finally, Pexton's arrived. A brief survey concluded it was no hope tonight, come stay the night with us. In the morning it took two pickups to pull our mired down pickup out of the mud so we could continue on home.
Creeks that barely trickled in summer's heat were roaring torrents in spring snow melt. We had two major floods while I was living at the ranch. Each of these washed out the bridge we used to get to our cabin. Cars had been moved across the bridge in anticipation of this event. Dad and Granddad Art felled a tall pine tree across the creek and that became our foot bridge for several weeks. I can well remember crawling across the log clutching the slippery bark and trying not to look down at the raging water below for fear of getting dizzy and falling in. (Chap 1 Fig E) (Chap 1 Fig F)
Winter snow drifts completely blocked summer roadways forcing detours to ridge top winter roads. We didn't always realize just when the shift to winter roads was due. Another White School trip, and another return, this time in winter. As we sang "She'll Be Comin Round The Mountain" we made the turn off from the Esterbrook Road to the ranch and a drift that didn't seem so deep in the dark swallowed the front end of the pickup. We weren't comin round that mountain anytime soon. We stayed with the truck for warmth and shelter and waited for a rescue party. Not too long and we saw lights coming up from the ranch. A bit of shoveling, pulling and so forth and we were headed to home. (Chap 1 Fig G)
Tornado's while unusual in mountain country weren't unheard of, and we got plenty of microburst straight-line windstorms. These windstorms often had small swirls in them that while not cyclonic had similar effects. I found a four-foot diameter pine tree that had been caught in one of these, twisted like a pretzel before being flung to the ground.
This wind was the one always present elemental force. While it was virtually ceaseless, it often changed moment to moment. To an outsider, there was a nearly constant roaring sound like rushing water. That was the wind bossing the pine trees around. We learned to tune it out except for noticing changes. The wind could help by blowing hills clear of snow for grazing but that same wind put the snow into deep drifts often in some handy place like the horse corral. It carved the rocks into strange monoliths and twisted trees into natural bonsai. It was a blessed relief in the summer heat but in winter a bitter stinging enemy that froze all exposed flesh. We even had a special rule for wind: Never open the car doors on both sides at once unless you really do want to clean out the car. (Chap 1 Fig H)
My family lived at the Lower Place in a three room log cabin built sometime in the 1890's. The downstairs was a single large Kitchen/ Living/ Family room while the upstairs had a partition loosely separating it into two bedrooms. There was a wood cook stove for heating and cooking supplemented by a small electric stove and potbelly heater stove for winter. A single table, 4 chairs, a rocker, an old sofa, and Mom's upright piano were the furnishings. Electricity was run in for lights and the stove but not for heat. We had running water; as long as my brother Paul or I ran when we went to fill the buckets from the creek.
The little cabin was cramped so a small storage building we called the storeroom was put up just back of the cabin. This was piled high with all the normal attic type clutter families carry around. When we had hired help (a rarity: we could barely afford for our family to live here) they stayed in a little 10 by 8 shack up the hill behind the cabin. A tiny stove and washbasin provided minimal comfort and the single bed filled up half the little room. (Chap 1 Fig J)
We called this Ed's house after Ed Hammond the most memorable of our temporary help. One time Ed was making roof repairs on the storehouse. He kept moving the ladder feet closer to the building until he finally had it nearly vertical. He climbed to the top, locked his feet in and reached for his hammer. That reach was a mistake. The ladder teetered briefly and began to fall backward. In apparent slow motion, Ed and ladder landed with a loud "thoomp" on the ground beside the cabin. Fortunately, the earth here was always a bit damp and the grass was up somewhat so Ed only got the wind knocked out of him.
Further up the hill across the upper irrigation ditch was the Fawcett Schoolhouse. No fooling, this was the actual elementary school that I and my brother Paul attended. Being so isolated and apt to be snowed in during winter most ranch families had to either board their kids in Douglas or split the family for the winter, kids and women in town, Men on the ranch. Fawcett's were more fortunate as my mother was a certified elementary school teacher. The school board agreed that in exchange for us finding the teacher and providing the building they would officially sanction the school and pay a modest salary. (Chap 1 Fig K)
The school was a simple one-room building with a short front porch. Two desks and a couple of bookshelves pretty well filled the room. At first, a little wood stove struggled to keep the room warm but finally a small propane stove replaced it and kept the little school toasty warm even in dead winter. Mom was authorized a small amount for schoolbooks and supplies but she was also officially blessed to visit older schools and scavenge for books and equipment. (Chap 1 Fig L)
Just across the driveway from the cabin were the barn and corral complex. Lumped into this was the two-hole'er outhouse that provided our sanitary facilities. It was somewhat hidden from view by the broken down remains of a workshop/garage whose roof had either been removed or never put up. (Chap1 Fig M)
The barn and corral at our place were intended as care for domestic stock only, not a cattle herd. The barn was large, built of hand-hewn logs just like the cabin but was slowly losing the fight to keep it's roof. A hayloft was there but not much use as the roof was missing boards in several places. Paul and I were allowed to put up our own "hay" (real hay, just not much or high quality) and this was where we stored it. It did make a comfortable place to come lay and daydream sometimes and like all the buildings was used in many childhood games. The ground floor of the barn had a dirt/manure floor and was only used as a tack room. Horses were saddled here and we kept halters, bridles, and ropes here as well. When we acquired a retired fighting cock he and his two old biddy hens came to use this as their chicken coop. (Chap 1 Fig N)
The corral had two parts, an inner small corral good for only a couple head of wrangle horses and a newer, outer corral that could overnight 20 or 30 head of cattle. The outer corral included a water gap built down to the creek to make holding stock easier. Water could also be had from the lower irrigation ditch that flowed through the water gap. A huge wild plum bush thicket grew along the fence and this was a boyhood hide out as we could low crawl around inside where no adult dared go for fear of thorns. (Chap 1 Fig P)
At one point a large calving shed was added on to the small corral. It was dry with a fine, sloped roof that lasted until a windstorm the following spring flipped the roof off and laid it down 20 feet behind the shed. This discouraging event was never repaired. The whole corral area suffered from poor drainage and manure buildup over the years. When it rained or snowed there were parts of the corral that became foot-deep muck pits.
The manure was good for one thing, though, Mom's garden. In front of the cabin toward the creek was a garden plot about an acre in size. The majority was used to raise vegetables, staple crops like corn, green beans, peas, beets, and carrots. Mom also set aside a small plot for a flower garden that provided beauty at home and on the church altar at Esterbrook. Paul and I were given a corner to raise our own gardens. We were free to choose anything we wanted to grow. Guidance was given as to what would grow and what wouldn't, but we didn't have to listen. (Hint, don't try watermelon in Wyoming, I never got one to ripen in all my years of trying). Grandma Ruth also raised a large garden and these two gardens eased the financial burdens considerably.
Squaw Peaks was the namesake mountain for the ranch but it was only one of several rugged peaks which dominated the horizon. The ranch land lay across a major fault line and a combination of fault shifts and volcanic action forged a rugged landscape. Let's take a guided tour of the immediate high points that made up my home turf. As we stand on Church Camp ridge we are looking almost due south up Horseshoe creek to the Roaring Fork/Ashenfeldter basin which drains the Laramie Peak area from our side. To our left Horseshoe flows down into it's deep lower canyon following the crack of a major fault line on its way to the Platte River. (Chap 1 Fig Q)
As we look right Rock Mountain looms over the Lower Place. It is a loaf-shaped, bald granite, mountain worn round by the glaciers of the past. There is a boulder choked crack in its face that leads to the summit. A spring ritual was to climb up this short col to greet the spring and survey the country once again. Despite the steep pitch and bare rock scramble even our cow dog, Tilly would make the climb with us each year. Rock Mountain was its official name but within the family, we called it Valhalla. One of my uncles who couldn't remember its real name looked at the rugged rock, often cloaked in fog or lit up by the alpine glow and named it after the Norse warriors resting place. A thickly forested bench along its base leads back to our next peak, Black Mountain. (Chap 1 Fig S)
Black Mountain is a longer, taller version of Rock Mountain, but more forested and not capped by bare rock. Its name could have come from the dark appearance the thick forest gave to it. The U.S. Forest Service maintained a fire tower on top of this peak where the entire Ashenfeldter basin could be seen spread out below. From the ranch this was visible only through binoculars or when the sun would glint off of the tower windows. The watchtower kept in radio contact with local ranch folk as all worked together to control fires. Not only that, it helped to pass the time as watching is pretty tedious. The lady who did most of this was not at all savvy when it came to using the 24-hour military clock. She would chatter up a storm until 12:00 noon at which point she clammed up so as not to have to make those confusing "Fourteen hundred hours" type log entries. At Midnight when the clock began to make sense again, she would once more venture the airwaves. Black Mountain was really the limit of my adventures into the Back Country as we called it. Even on horseback, it was a four or five-hour ride to its base and then there were only a few trails leading beyond. Our cattle used the Back Country as summer range so we would ride through every so often to check the herd and watch for neighbor's strays. (Chap 1 Fig T)
As our gaze continues to the right we see a large gap between Black Mountain and Laramie Peak. Poking up in the middle of this gap is a small lump of rocks called Haystacks. It's two neighbors tower over it, but it does have a distinctive little bump on top. (Chap 1 Fig U)
Passing Haystacks we come at last to Laramie Peak. It is due south of us and seems to take up half the horizon. At 10,000 feet tall it is the highest peak in the Laramie mountain range. Laramie Peak is named for the mountain man Jacque Laramie who first trapped and hunted the area. It has a long buttress on the left that sweeps up to three distinct peaks along the summit and then down to a shorter, taller buttress on the right. It is so imposing that the shape of Laramie Peak is imprinted on me. So much so that if I try to freehand draw a mountain it always seems to look like Laramie Peak. (Chap 1 Fig W)
The summit is home to a cluster of antennas that relay microwave, business band and nowadays cell phone traffic. On the backside of the Peak, a trail has been built up to this summit but it is a full day climb in thin air. This area was isolated enough that it was used as an aerial gunnery range in WWII and old timers who know where to look can sometimes find expended .50 caliber rounds left behind.
The peak is tall enough most private aircraft steer clear but accidents happen. One spring during a very unusual spring blizzard a Piper Cherokee pilot got lost and disoriented in the clouds. As I was riding home I heard the motor as they flew over and wondered why they were flying toward the Peak instead of crosswise as usual. Several days later the Civil Air Patrol search crews located the wreckage. The pilot had nearly made it over the eastern shoulder but had flown into the trees on the summit.
Laramie Peak is a major landmark as it is visible from 40 or 50 miles away. The Oregon Trail pioneers knew it meant Fort Laramie was near and a brief rest before the push, up and over the South Pass. "The Peak" as we always called it, displayed many moods depending on weather and time of year. Here are a few of the most typical faces one might see. (Chap 1 Fig X) (Chap 1 Fig Y)
(Chap 1 Fig Z)
Squaw Peaks is seen in the near foreground between us and Laramie Peak. This is actually a pair of rocky peaks, that when viewed from the proper angle, look like an old Indian squaw wrapped up in her blankets huddled around the campfire outside of her tepee. This was the border between the ranch and what we called the Back Country. In season elk could be found here and we saw some occasional bear sign, just enough to know they were around. On the ranch side of these peaks an older burnt area had left barren cooked boulders amongst whom the wild raspberries grew. Grandma Ruth taught me how to seek out and harvest these tart treats. (Chap 1 Fig AA)
Eagle Peak guards Laramie's right flank as we look further right. From our side Eagle Peak looks like a Bald Eagle, wings raised, crouching over its prey. From the side, it is a slim blade of rock jutting up from the surrounding hills. This is the real high country, home to Spruce and Lodge Pole Pine just like on Laramie Peak. Eagles do nest here from time to time but the name comes from its appearance. That completes the visible ring of mountains that kept watch over our daily affairs.
(Chap 1 Fig BB) (Chap 1 Fig CC)
There were, of course, others. Some were distant enough to be left for other stories, like Windy Peak or the Saw Tooths. Others were smaller, like Grey Rocks, or Spring Hill. While many of the countries rugged rock piles went un-named they provided hearth and home for many creatures. This mountain country was so rugged one could nearly always see where you wanted to go. Getting there was a whole different story.
