A Letter to the Gray Wolves Out There

Listen up, Gray Wolves. I’ve got a bone to pick with you (not literally; I’m not into carrion). It’s time you all realized that we’re living in the 21^st century now, and the primitive tactics that you employ to survive are extremely outdated and backwards by today’s standards. Just because you’ve got “endangered species” status doesn’t mean you can go around behaving badly. You may be my favorite animal, but the bear is also pretty high on my list, so watch out.

Not only would I like to try to talk you all into becoming a bit more civilized, this letter is also meant to warn you. While you might sincerely believe that sheep are your mortal enemies, and that they’re out to get you so you’ve got to get them first, they have employed many of us humans as their bodyguards. As you can see, they’re much more advanced than you. They’ve learned the concept of alliances and guarded protection. Should you approach your mortal enemies, there is a high probability that a human will greet you with a lethal weapon of some sort. Once again, watch out.

You may be surprised to discover that us humans have established stores that sell sheep meat and other sheep products, such as sheepskin blankets. Think about it: Is it really worth your life, stealing these items, when you can easily procure them legally? I know it’s difficult to leave your pack of friends to become a responsible adult and work for your keep, but you wouldn’t have to fear that the next raid on the Patterson’s ranch would be your last. I bet you’d even find some items at the store that you’ve never even come across during all your hunting and scavenging. Some of my favorites are fruit snacks (I eat meat, too, but I love these things; you gotta try ‘em), cheese crackers (put a little turkey between two crackers; it’s great!), and Jell-O (‘nuff said).

The next time you’re howling at a moon, take some time and think about your situation. People are afraid of you. Every time a boy cries, “Wolf!” 15-20 villagers show up with various garden tools to fight you. Sometimes you’re so desperate for food that you’re willing to eat three-day-old elk. But there is hope. Look at your cousin, the dog, as a prime example of how you can benefit from an alliance with us humans. And don’t start complaining about how some dogs actually get eaten by us. That’s halfway around the world and it’s nothing you need to worry about in these parts.

Dogs enjoy comfortable lives, especially when compared with your conditions. I have dogs and I give them scratches and rubs all the time. Every now and then I give them super-secret table scraps (don’t tell my wife), things like bits of chicken and rib bones. They even have their own soft beds. You might think that they’re spoiled, but that kind of treatment is very common for a dog. “Domesticated” doesn’t have to have such a negative connotation. It’s got its perks.

I’ll end this letter by saying, “Resistance is futile.” Sure, you’re somewhat protected for now, but once you increase your population size, you’re fair game. Every time you hear a twig snap or an unusual rustle of leaves, you’ll have to be on your guard. A life of running, even if you are free, isn’t a great life. Good luck in your future endeavors of avoiding death during ranch raids.

Defending Autumn

Everyone has a favorite season for one reason or another. I personally find all the seasons appealing in their own ways, but autumn is by far my favorite one. Winter has its amazingly fun sports; Spring has its new beginnings; and hot Summer days paired with cool water are almost unbeatable. But Autumn is always magical for me: the sound of crunching leaves; the smell of wood burning; the sight of bright, dying leaves; the taste of a fresh harvest; and the touch of a slight chill in the crisp air.

We can officially welcome Autumn back into our lives this week. Some of you may dislike the season, and others may love it like me, but whether you like it or not, it’s here. The thing I like most about Autumn is that change is most evident, much like Spring, but less muddy. Leaves explode with color as birds fly south overhead. Fields are harvested and small rodents run about stocking up on any grain or seeds that may have fallen to the ground. The cooler temperatures force woodland creatures closer to the valley floors and people to tinker about with furnaces that require tender love and care to make it through one more winter.

Autumn is a breath of cool, fresh air after a hot, dry Summer, but many people only see it as a precursor to a bitter Winter. Since Winter is my next favorite season, I have absolutely no problem with the fact that Autumn is easing us into freezing temperatures. I consider a little early snowfall a bonus during the Fall months, especially when it happens in September. Plus it’s always nice to pull out your warm clothes from last year and discover that twenty-dollar bill you put in your pocket and forgot about. Cha-ching! You’re suddenly rich! And if you’re anything like me, you love wearing jackets, because it’s too much effort to iron any of your wrinkly shirts and the jacket hides the wrinkles perfectly.

I have purposefully left the best part about Autumn for last, and that is: Football! Whether your son is in the Little League or playing for the high school team, or you’re following your favorite college or NFL team, football consumes the lives of millions of Americans every year, and for a few good reasons, too. One, football snacks and foods (i.e. chips and salsa, grilled items, etc.) are better than any other sports foods (compare against baseball’s hotdogs). Two, men are able to vent frustration by watching their favorite players demolish the opposition, and women can enjoy the parade of men in tights and seemingly-muscle-enhancing padding.

And finally three, it’s the best excuse in the world why you can’t rake up leaves or go chop the head off a turkey anytime between Thursday through Monday. I mean seriously, there’s always a good college game on Thursday, the local high school game on Friday is a community tradition, Saturday is jam-packed with back-to-back action, the NFL dominates Sunday, and then for good measure, there’s some random NFL game on Monday too. “Sorry, honey. Work around the house has got to wait until either Tuesday or Wednesday. Any other day is just plain out of the question. Gotta be able to keep up with the guys at work, you know. Doing research and stuff. All about football. Otherwise they’ll call me names and make fun of me and then I’ll come home and take it out on you and the kids and the dogs…”

As you can see, there are many things that make life magical during the Autumn months. But don’t take my word for it. Pack up your five senses and go use them in the coming days. Observe all the wonderful changes happening right before your eyes while you gather red, yellow, orange and mauve leaves to decorate your home with, but make sure you’re home by seven to catch the big game!

The Monster From the White Lagoon

I stood there, camera poised for the third shot, before I realized that my editor and friend, Martin (aka “The Big Guy”), was backpedaling, trying to regain his balance. Little did I know that his foot had become stuck in a mass of black gooeyness that seemed to seep from the white and gray landscape of the north end of the Great Salt Lake, and he had just freed himself from it with about all the strength he could muster. It appeared a Herculean effort, judging by the way it threw him backward as he fought for a good foothold. Unfortunately, he was able to stop gravity’s tug and he righted himself before I could get any more photos of his potential downfall. The whole thing was over within 30 seconds, but it seemed to last for at least five minutes.

Martin’s two children, who were with us, laughed and cried with delight at their dad’s antics; I personally clapped my hands and said, “What fun! Do it again!” Martin ignored our taunts and immediately found a piece of rotten wood to scrape the burning, molasses-like crud off his leg. To tell the truth, Martin was a little disappointed that I didn’t capture his near-death experience with the camera.

After recovering from the misadventure, Martin looked at me and said, “What is this stuff anyway? Tar? Oil?” I had no idea. It smelled like it could be either. Long, black veins spread out from the main body of the “tar pits”, looking like an alien life form that was attempting to survive in the harsh, saline-rich environment all around it. As Martin and I found out very shortly from an informative passer-by on a motorcycle, we were standing on an oil field that was abandoned a couple of decades ago, known as Rozel Point.

Who would even think that the thick, black substance Martin had found himself stuck in was crude oil? After all the oil spills in the oceans and streams and lakes around the world, one would think it near impossible to simply find oil bubbling up out of the ground anywhere nowadays without a Hazmat crew nearby. We were merely on an excursion, not expecting to find the debris, rusted equipment, barrels, and crude oil that we discovered. In fact, we were headed for the Spiral Jetty, which lies perhaps one thousand feet to the west of Rozel Point. We ended up spending a couple of hours exploring something that we didn’t even come to visit. But boy, it was a blast. Martin’s near-fall was certainly the high point, but there were many other interesting and fun things out there.

Martin and I now have plans to engage in more extensive exploration of the Rozel Point/Spiral Jetty region in the coming weeks. Any subsequent observation of the oil fields will most likely take place from a fair distance. Martin was lucky the first time that he didn’t fall forward. In fact, one of his boys, on the way home, asked, “Dad, what would have happened if you had fallen in?” The matter-of-fact answer was simple, and perhaps shocking to the little one: “I’d have died!” And I am convinced Martin would have then continued in the afterlife to haunt the oil fields as the monster from the white lagoon: dripping with crude oil; trying to catch the pelicans overhead with his super-sticky fingers; and when any new explorers happened upon the seeping goo, he’d yell, “Dare you to step in it!” and then shove them in, causing them to share his fate.

It was fun to learn something about Utah that I would have probably never known had I not gone out to the Great Salt Lake that day. One tiny puzzle piece of Utah history has been put in place and it’s exciting to realize that there are still so many more pieces to put together. More than likely I will never finish the puzzle, but at least I will end up getting a good view of what the finished puzzle would look like.

Go out there and find some puzzle pieces yourself, just watch out for bubbling oil. And whatever you do, don’t play in it!

Give a Little Whistle

I love my dogs, but I can’t get them to do tricks or commands without offering a treat. Allegedly my dogs come from a long line of miniature American Eskimo dogs that were trained at one point to perform in the circus. Those dogs could ride horses and do back flips and hop around wearing tutus. My dogs beg at the dinner table. And they drop toys at my feet for me to throw. Nothing even close to flips. Apparently dogs are only as smart as their owners.

Labor Day weekend brought the Soldier Hollow Classic Sheepdog Championship to our own backyard. Talk about smart dogs. I sat and watched as a man whistled short commands to a dog that was sometimes two or three football-field lengths away. Some whistles told the dog to “Go right,” or “Go left,” or “Stop,” or “Hey! One of the sheep is bolting and you’ve got to round it up before it blows the whole competition for us!” I wish I could simply whistle and my dogs would respond instantly like those Border Collies did. It was fascinating to observe each handler’s unique style and each dog’s skill with the sheep. At times it appeared that the handler was operating the dog and sheep with a remote control, because the cooperation on all sides was near flawless.

I’m sure many of you here in Heber and Midway have had an opportunity over the last few years to attend one of the sheepdog events at Soldier Hollow. Whether you’re a dog person or not, the dogs at these events are sure to amaze and delight. What I loved about the whole experience was the variety of exhibitions and activities. Not only were sheepdogs flaunting their expertise on the hillside, there were dogs leaping off a platform into a pool (which anyone could enter and try to win a prize), there were other dogs jumping through hoops and catching Frisbees, and there were still more dogs showing us humans how to properly herd ducks. It was such a pleasant experience.

After I arrived home Monday from the Soldier Hollow Classic, I instantly began trying to train my dogs to do anything other than “sit” or “lie down.” Fifteen minutes later I was frustrated, so I took them to the park to walk it out. When I saw a group of ducks near a little stream, I remembered what I had learned from the duck-herding dogs, but rather than train my dogs to herd ducks, I allowed them to chase the ducks away and then I used my new-found skills to round them all back up. We did that a few times and then my dogs got bored and indicated that they wanted to go home to beg for treats. I’ve decided to accept the timeless axiom: “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Except for my dogs are only a couple of years old. So I’ve tweaked the saying to fit my circumstances: “I can’t teach my dog tricks.” But hey, I won’t let that get me down; I learned something from a dog at a dog festival: “A young dog can teach a relatively old human (compared to a dog) new tricks.”

Someday I will learn how to communicate with my dogs through whistling. I think it would save time. Rather than explain why my books should not be eaten and watch as my dog cocks its head to the side as if she doesn’t understand, I could give a little whistle that means the same thing and she would get the message loud and clear. No mistaking “treat” for “tree,” or “no” for “snow.” Next time the sheepdog competition rolls around, I want to display my dogs in the “How to Speak Genuine Dog Language” exhibit. Course, you’ll have to walk half a mile to come see it, otherwise my whistles would screw up some poor Border Collie and instead of fetching a group of sheep down the hillside, she’d wind up trying to find a newspaper to bring to her owner.