The Road to Pergamino

 

Armando Deferrari lives in the provincial town of Pergamino, three hours northwest of Buenos Aires.  Madeleine, Eliseo and I crammed into our two door rental car and hit the road in the afternoon.  The autopista is an Audubon-like free for all of teetering semi-trucks, antique jalopies and kamikazee motor scooters that tried to peel the paint off our Peugeot hatchback as they whizzed by.  Argentines drive like kids in bumper cars – with the pedal to the floor.  Juan Manuel Fangio, an Argentine Formula One racer in the 1950s, won the World Driver’s Championship five times.  So, it’s a matter of national pride to drive like the next Fangio in-training.

“Does this car go any faster?” Eliseo asked, sitting shotgun next to me.   “I’ll try,” I said.  But the four-cylinder engine had me doing a Fred Flintstone more than a Juan Fangio.  Madeleine gasped from the backseat and attempted to fasten a second seatbelt around her.  Eliseo helped navigate out of the city and suddenly the six-lane superhighway dwindled to a two-lane country road.  Buenos Aires transitions from a booming metropolis of 14 million people to a pastoral landscape so abruptly that you half expect a Great Wall of China demarking the two.

(click on image for interactive photograph)

We pulled into the Deferrari residence in the waning hours of the evening.  Armando met us at the gate and my first impression of the large gaucho was that he looked like a ranching version of Santa Claus.  He removed his boina to shake hands with Eliseo and me, and then played the gentleman with Madeleine by kissing her on the cheek.  Armando abides by old school gaucho customs, and the number one rule above all else is the law of hospitality.  Armando and his wife ushered us to their quincho where a plate of homemade empanadas and a bottle of red wine awaited.  We were starved and the spread didn’t last long. After dinner, Armando told me about his and compatriot Pablo Lozano’s extensive travels in the American West.  We played the “Do you know…” game, and then the “Have you been to…” game.  It became clear that he has more friends and seen more places in the U.S. than me.

 

Armando is a thinking man’s traveler, and his favorite topic of observation are the similarities between the gaucho and cowboy.  “The gaucho and cowboy are similar in many ways, and it’s not just that they ride horses and work cattle,” he said.  “I see it that they are products of parallel environments.  The Argentine pampas and the Western plains; the Andes Mountains and the Rockies.  Survival in these elements gave birth to similar stockman cultures.”

We adjourned from dinner exhausted.  Madeleine and I were still recovering from the nearly 48 hours of travel it took to get there.  As we drove to our hotel, the smell of humid air blew through the car window, scented with the aroma of pasture grass.  It called to mind a summer evening on the Great Plains.  I felt the pang of home that Armando spoke of feeling in the north, and I understood what he said that the similarities between gaucho and cowboy are more than just coincidence.

– RTB

Couch Time

I’m busted.  Really.  I’m in seriously deep trouble.  After making the first post The Sidekick about my trip to Argentina, I’ve been pulling couch duty at night because I failed to mention the third member of our travel party.  Ladies and gentlemen, meet my fiancée Madeleine.

Some guys might consider having their lady along a buzz kill.  Not me.  Madeleine is of the tough and beautiful variety.  There aren’t any bonnets and silk stockings in her wardrobe; heck, she doesn’t even wear makeup.  ”Maddy” relishes getting her hands grimmy, and she’s a source of non-stop entertainment with the way she upstages and outworks grown men.  She left me in the dust long ago.  I think it was 1 hour and 15 minutes into our relationship.  That was nearly 5 years ago.

By way of establishing her credentials, Maddy (who is American) and I met in Argentina.  She was studying abroad, and I was working as an outfitter in the Andes Mountains.  We literally crossed paths on a mountain trail.  It happened to be just that day when I’d decided to give up on Argentine women (they’re bad for your health…like country music’s Terri Clark sings: “easy on the eyes, but hard on the heart”).  And, kabooom, I met the love of my life.  She’s fluent in Spanish, rides horses like the wind, is very handy with a camera, and can gaucho with the best of them.  

There.  That should clear the air.  I’m 5′ 11″, but our couch is 5′ 6″.  I’ve developed bent-leg syndrome from sleeping on it. I look forward to erecting my posture back to full stature, which’ll happen just as soon as I hit “send” on this blog…

–RTB

The Sidekick

First rule of travel writing: have a sidekick.  Preferably, someone gullible and hapless.  They should provide color commentary that aggravates the locals, drive during rush hour traffic, fetch coffee at 6 a.m., and buy the first (and all subsequent) rounds at the bar.  They should also be ignorant of the legal system.  That way, when you write about their follies, they have no clue how to take legal recourse against you.

My sidekick in Argentina, photographer Eliseo Miciú, failed on all accounts.  He’s aggravatingly well-mannered, too dignified to fetch anything, and smart enough to know that if he waits, I’ll be the one to do/say something dumb (it happens often).  I end up providing more photographic material for him than he does writing material for me.  It’s a bother.  If Eliseo weren’t a good friend, I would’ve demanded that Western Horseman reassign me a different photographer for the trip.

But the fact is, if I’d have asked editor A.J. for a replacement, he probably would’ve kept Eliseo and found a new writer.  Take a look at the spread for “La Pialada” in July’s WH, and you’ll see why.  Eliseo is a top-tier photographer who just came off a 3-month job shooting the upcoming National Geographic Argentina travel book.

When Eliseo submitted his work, A.J. saw that there were so many great shots but not enough space in the magazine.  So, he posted a slideshow on WH.com.  As I watched it, a realization dawned…I was Eliseo’s sidekick.

– RTB

Saddle Tramp in Argentina

Working as a cowboy journalist is akin to a 19th-century Saddle Tramp.  I travel the American West, discovering new places and meeting interesting people. 

There are a few differences, though:

     A saddle tramp worked for food; I write for a magazine. 

     Their medium was guitar and music; I type on a laptop computer.  

     They rode horseback from ranch to ranch; I drive a Ford F-250.  

     They hosted stories around the campfire; I host a blog. 

Most of the time, I think they had the better deal. But this February, the life of a modern-day Saddle Tramp won the competition. Western Horseman Editor A.J. Mangum assigned me to cover the induction of gearmakers Armando Deferrari and Pablo Lozano into the TCAA.  They aren’t your typical cowboy gearmakers; they’re Argentine gauchos.

A.J. joked that he wished he could take the assignment – who wouldn’t want a working vacation to Argentina?  But, gauchos don’t speak English, so the stories required somebody fluent in Spanish.  That’s me.  Like they say in Argentina, hasta el perro ciego s’encuentra un hueso, cada tanto (even a blind dog finds a bone, once in a while).

Join me this month on Route 287 for a cowboy journalist’s account of Saddle Tramping through Argentina’s gaucho country.  But first, checkout “La Pialada” in July’s WH for a story about attending an Argentine ranch roping  with gearmaker Pablo Lozano. –RTB

They Sold the Y.C. Horses

We were having a drink at Stockman’s, listenin’ to the guitars ring.  Jesse said, “You know, they sold the M.C. horses.”   The opening verse of Ian Tyson’s “M.C. Horses” came to mind when I found out that the Y.C. horses were for sale.  I wasn’t at the Stockemen’s when I heard – I was checkin’ my e-mail at work.  Ginny wrote to say that the Y.C. horse program was liquidating.

The people, they come from everywhere, just to bid on ‘em high and low…

Really, it was just me and my buddy Matt who went to the ranch outside of Bozeman where the YC wintered their herd.  The real sale was the next day, but Ginny and I were friends and she gave me a sneak preview.

And, thereby own a piece of the legend.

The YC isn’t legendary, so much as notorious.  It’s a rich man’s outfit that’s riled-up a lot of Montana folks by folding.  But, hey, a rich man’s loss could be another outfit’s gain.

With the cow herd all dispersed, the old cavvy, she had to go…

Ginny knew that the owner was going bankrupt, and that all assets would be frozen in bankruptcy court.  But, a horse isn’t an asset that you can freeze like a pickup truck parked in a garage.  There are hay and vet bills to pay and if you can’t cover them, she told her boss, then sell ‘em off.  He said “Okay, but when the cavvy is gone, so is your job.”  It didn’t matter.  A good wrangler thinks of their horses before them self.

So, come on boys, run ‘em in./  We’re gonna let this sale begin./  The last of the big remudas, of the mighty M.C.  There’s horses here for everyone/  Saddle ‘em kids, let’s get her done./  By the time that Oregon sun goes down, this outfit’s history.

The Y.C.’s history, but the cavvy lives on. – RTB

(If you haven’t heard “M.C. Horses”, you’re pardoned – so long as you go checkout the album Eighteen Inches of Rain now.  Go on, ‘git.  You’ll forget this blog in a click, but the song “M.C. Horses” will stay with you forever.)

Photography Award

American Horse Publications announced the winners of the annual photography contest, and my image “Shipping Ridge” is a finalist! Once in a while, circumstances align to create the perfect photograph. This was one of those moments. Here’s how it went down…

The Sun Ranch crew was gathering cattle for shipping last Fall. It was dawn, and freezing cold. The shipping corrals are located on Route 287, at the base of this bluff. That’s where I waited for them to appear atop the ridgeline, hoping the sun would crest the mountains in time. It did, just as the gather arrived. The cattle did me a favor by kicking up dust to catch in the light, and the Madison Mountains gave geometric contrast to the ridgeline of cattle and horsemen. It was so cold out that you can even see the steam coming off the horses’ bodies and the puffs of their breath.

I can recognize my buddies James (left) and Justin (right). Their horseback posture is a fingerprint, recognizeable from far away. Guys: this photo and the award are in your honor. Thanks for all the times that you let me stick a camera in your face. — RTB

Range War

Speaking of wildlife migrating out of Yellowstone, I saw the Park Service guys herding bison back into the Park last week.  To free-range or not to free-range bison out of Yellowstone is one of the most controversial issues along Route 287.  A smart blogger wouldn’t go near the topic.  But, I gotta.  It involves horses, cowboys, and the Horseman’s Highway…how can I resist?

The situation in a hoof-print: the bison want to migrate out of Yellowstone, and Federal and State agencies want them to stay in.  Jim Overstreet wrote a good account of the Yellowstone bison gather in the May 2009 WH (“When the Buffalo Roam”).  You can also read-up by visiting the Greater Yellowstone Interagency Brucellosis Committee (containment point of view) and the Buffalo Field Campaign (free-roaming point of view) websites.

For the record, I’m neutral on the topic.  But, what I find interesting is that it’s a modern-day range war.  Unlike the Johnson County Range War of 1892, this is a peaceful conflict.  From what I saw, the three mounted Rangers did a good job of calmly collecting the strays (as opposed to using helicopters and ATVs), and the half-dozen BFC protestors peacefully took pictures and made video recordings, making sure no bison were injured.  No napalm or profanities were tossed around.

I expected the Park Service to be professionals, and the BFC outfit rose to their level.  Despite the beat-up cars, dirty clothes, and dread-lock hair, they were well-organized and focused in their mission.  I spoke with one of the members, Laura, who gave me the run-down on their point of view, before politely excusing herself to get back to protesting.

For all the RVs that travel Route 287 on their way to Yellowstone, it’s refreshing to know that this strip of blacktop can still muster-up the western tradition of a range war, peaceful as it is. — RTB

Elk Wrap

Yesterday, I came across a cow elk rolled up in barbed wire.  She’d tangled herself in seven strands of a tumbled-down fence, and was confounded as a kitten in a ball of yarn.  She was still alive, wide-eyed with panic.  I stopped to help her get free.

The Madison Valley is a primo elk migration corridor.  An estimated 7,000 wapiti winter here, and then head into the mountains for the summer.  15% will migrate as far as Yellowstone National Park.  It’s a spectacle of nature worth seeing…but one that’s hard on elk and fences.

Elk versus fences is a favorite complaint among old-timers around here.  But, as I tried to free this cow, I thought how it isn’t fair to blame the elk for getting stuck.  A fence with seven strands of barbed wire…really?  Someone over-specked this job, and then used wimpy staples to hold the wire up.  No wonder it’s tumbled down into a hazard worthy of Folsom State Prison.  I shivered to imagine the harm it would do a horse. — Ryan T. Bell

P.S. Checkout this video of another elk in need of help. These hunters found a cow elk trapped in an ice cave. Goes to show the myriad ways a lariat comes in handy.

The Last Draft Standing

(Click image for slideshow)

Picking up horses from winter pasture is normally my favorite day of spring. The remuda comes in caked in mud, their coats completely overgrown, with a distinctly equus look in their eye. They have lived in a wild state for the past six months, far from the domesticity of paddocks and corrals. I walk them through, touching each in turn to reacquaint. They recognize me, and their body language says: Oh, it’s you. I guess it’s that time of year again. Part of me wants to turn them back loose when they look at me that way.

This year was different. The winter ranch manager informed me that a percheron had died, but he wasn’t sure which one. They look near-identical. I’ve been preoccupied about spring roundup, wondering which one had fallen. Was it Ben or Barry? I’ve weighed both scenarios to figure who I could do without. The answer is: neither. They were a matched pair, brothers, only two years apart. They learned to drive together on a hay operation in central Montana. The only thing worse than a Ben without a Barry, is a Barry without a Ben. But if I had to choose, I hoped it was Barry who would come in at roundup. He’s the younger horse, he does the heavy pulling, and he drives straightest.

(Click image for slideshow)

Out at pasture, we found the remuda in the willow bottoms. A huge gray rump stuck out, the head buried in fresh grass. I walked around to see his head, imagining a drum roll as I approached. I stepped on a branch – crack – and the gelding looked up. It was Barry. Younger brother of the recently deceased Ben. It was the horse I hoped had made it. The relief of the moment made me feel guilty, like I had wished Ben dead; the heart’s foolish pendulum of emotion.

Perhaps I’m getting too melodramatic about it, but anyone who’s driven will understand the connection between driver and team. Unlike rider and saddle horse, it is you plus two animals. “Team” is the right word. I walked up to Barry, glad to have him still as a teammate. — Ryan T. Bell

Canada’s “Cowboy Trail”

When Route 287 hits the Canadian border, it becomes “The Cowboy Trail”.  It’s the road’s actual name, and there are signs for it everywhere.  Driving along Canada’s equivalent of Route 287, I learned a couple things about ranch life in the great northern.

1) Cattle guards are called “Texas Gates”.  I jokingly asked a waitress if they really did keep Texans out.  “I guess so,” she said.  “You don’t see too many Texas license plates around.”

2) Driving horses are big business in Alberta.  Maybe it’s something in their heritage, but draft horses are a big deal on Alberta ranches.  Percheron, Shire and Belgian teams graze idly, waiting for their turn at the harness.

3) The police are called “Mounties”.  The nickname hails from the days when they were the “Mounted Police”.  That would make for one cool police force, except for that they rode English.

4) Canada puts the “rock” in Rocky Mountains.  The Alberta ranges are the most precipitous, jagged and awe-inspiring mountains this side of Mount McKinley in Alaska.  Intermountain states in the U.S. – like Colorado, Wyoming and Nevada – enjoy chastising states like Vermont and New Hampshire for “mountains” that are more like gopher mounds.  Um…the Canadian Rockies make us look like honorary members of the Great Plains.

5) Canada is a foreign land.  This comes as a surprise to the American traveler, since it appears that we’re more alike than different.  But, there are significant distinctions, and here are a few that jump out:

- They use British spellings of English words. 

- Paper money is colored, like Monopoly money.  It’s hard to take serious that something so brightly colored holds value.

- Their smallest paper currency is a $5.  All smaller denominations are coins.  You get used to hauling around a pocket full of mint. 

- The game of ice hockey is like catnip to Canadians; it makes them crazy.

- The word “ranch” rarely appears in a property’s name.  Usually, it’s the name of the family plus the species and breed of the animal they raise (e.g. Anderson’s Red Angus)

– Ryan T. Bell, eh?