Peru

For ten days in August 2003 with backpacks, cameras and my eleven year old son in tow I traveled throughout southern Peru.

Beginning in Lima, we first traveled to Cusco “the real Peru”, according to our guide and good friend, Isaias Cardenas. From Cusco, we ventured south through Ollantaytambo, Pisac, Quora, Sicuani and onto the remote highlands village of Phinaya, which at 5000 meters was the highest elevation these Kansas flatlanders had ever ventured.

Returning to Cusco for a “breather”, we set off to Machu Picchu and lastly to Puno and Isla Taquile on Lake Titicaca, the worlds highest navigable lake. After climbing half of the 530 steps from the lake to the village of Taquile, Sam exclaimed, “I’d been happy to go home after Machu Picchu”! At 4,200 meters it was quite the hike up, but our efforts were rewarded by partaking in the islands biggest festival - the pachamama feast day.

We found the Peruvians to be warm and gracious people who opened up their homes and hearts to us.

A Simple Promise

Lester Yoder is anxious. It’s been more than a week since he spoke to Millie and she told him the best letter ever would soon be coming his way.

Quietly working away, Lester sheepishly glances out his shop window, hoping for a sign from his friend Perry, signaling today’s mail will deliver the long awaited promise. Still far down the lane with the mail in hand, Perry doesn’t reveal a clue as he strides - head down, his expression well covered up by a large black cowboy hat.

I was first introduced to Lester and Perry at JB’s restaurant in Miles City, Montana where I was meeting rancher, Dave Bliss. A Long Island, NY transplant, Dave headed his compass west 40 some years ago with the belief that ranch life was the only life for him. Rounding the bend into his 60’s now, Dave still carries his lanky frame with a purpose - albeit a bit bowed by time, he wears his age well.

As I joined up with this unlikely threesome, I learned I’d be giving Lester and Perry a ride back to their Amish community in nearby Ashland, Montana as I made my way to the Bliss Ranch. And so it was that I first befriended these two amiable young lads and in doing so, was graced with a touch of serendipity during my westward travels.

The Yoder family came to Montana from their Wisconsin home when Lester was just a boy. After 13 years, the family opted to return to the warmth of an Up North winter in lieu of the routine arctic blast commonly experienced in this high plains country. But, the love of horses and the open range would not relinquish their hold on Lester and so he stayed on. As the first Amish custom saddle maker, Lester is carving out a unique niche for himself, crafting beautiful pieces of art that are quietly being collected by cowboys from across the United States.

“It’s the creative part that pushes me. I can sit down, draw patterns and work with the leather for hours,” Lester says while sniping away at the lambs wool backing for a new saddle. He’s focused now, there seems to be an urgency - a rhythm to his work and thoughts of Millie, are for this very moment at least, visibly removed.

Outside, a brisk wind blows, relieving the late fall leaves from a nearby Aspen tree . . . Lester stops and looks as Perry approaches, but says nothing as he opens the door.

Perry Hochstetler is Lester’s roommate and best friend. He’s the joker, always fronting a big smile that matches his face well. He grins at Lester upon entering and begins talking about what the two should do for dinner. Lester will have none of it.

This moment is about Millie’s letter and it has, at long last arrived.

A soft spoken man with large hands and piercing blue eyes, Lester can barely contain his excitement. His countenance is now duly transformed into that of an 8 year old on Christmas morning. Lester and Millie began dating two years ago while he was visiting his family in Wisconsin. He’s trying to find the right words to describe what makes her so special, but they fall short. Picking up the letter “ooh, that’s heavy,” he smiles. Taking a knife from the work bench, Lester gently slides the blade taking extra care not to tear anything but the seam of the envelope.

Perry, his job now complete, turns himself to the remainder of the mail - while I sit watching Lester, first breathe in each page of Millie’s letter before partaking of her words.

As Lester immersed himself in Millie’s letter, a faint smile came to his face and then he stopped . . . everything. He stopped reading, stopped moving - hell, I swear he almost stopped breathing. And his smile turned into a glow, that grew and warmed the entire room.

Three months have since passed as I sat there watching Lester and I can still feel the fullness of his love for Millie.

A simple promise was delivered that day.

The love of his life awaits him. Come this spring, Lester Yoder will wait no more.

The Gathering

A soft, but steady snow falls as I sit listening to Lucinda crying about ‘A World Without Tears,’ on the radio. Outside, a stiff north wind keeps the whirling snow from amounting to anything more than a temporary nuisance. Still, I choose to remain in the warmth of the car while I wait to meet Ned Hermanson at the junction on Hay Draw road.

Within a few minutes Ned rolls up - we exchange greetings, load my gear into his horse trailer and I jump in the truck. Today, friends will haul their rigs from all over McKenzie County to help the Crighton ranch bring in this years payday. Hermanson himself has driven some 30 plus miles with horses in tow to help out his old friends. Out west one discovers . . . neighbors are measured in square miles instead of city blocks.

Ned and I chat about the day’s work and in short order we arrive at the Crighton’s corral. Horses are quietly unloaded from trailers already saddled up and I realize these cowboys are all about the work at hand, no wasted time here.

The snow and wind have subsided as we make our way up the draws of the Badlands. Diane, my riding partner laughs as she watches the cattle and cowpokes play out their version of hide and seek in this rugged terrain. With each step the aroma of silver sage fills up the crisp morning air. Off in the distance I hear the yelps of cowboys rounding up the wayward cattle. Soon a long procession of momma cows with calves in tow, begin navigating the steep pitches of the snow crested buttes. It’s a routine so polished I sense that horse and rider could almost complete their mission blindfolded.

In a few hours the first part of the day’s work will be completed, but plenty of it remains as separating and shipping the weanling calves off to market will continue on throughout the day. Like a long lived Broadway play every part is perfectly choreographed through time and repetition of work. Each phase of the day is marked with well timed breaks for home cooked meals, washed down with a beer or two and perhaps a schnapps chaser for good measure.

The efforts of today will make the ultimate mark in the yearly finances of the Crighton ranch. Of equal importance is the underlying sense of community apparent in every facet of the day. There is an unspoken thirst for contact with friends not often seen, that is fittingly fulfilled during the Fall gatherings. And so yet another season of passage is complete for this generation of ranchers, who withstand the solitude of seemingly endless days and unrepentant weather to call this land home.

Crighton Ranch - McKenzie County, North Dakota

Robert Kills Enemy

Every where I go, my name always comes up . . . where’d you get that name - how many people did you have to kill to get that name .... is that a real Indian name or did you just make it up? Everybody has something to say about it.

My grandfather earned that name in the 1860’s. His family was at their winter camp in Montana, when they were attacked by the U.S. Calvary. He was 12 years old and the only thing he had going for him was a war club and the guts to go out there and use it, I guess. He hit one soldier on the head and while he was trying to get his horse another soldier rode up and stabbed at him with a saber. My grandfather threw his arms up and the saber went completely through his arm getting caught. My grandfather turned upon the soldier and with the saber still lodged in his arm, beat the soldier with his war club until he was gone.

That’s where he earned his named Kills Enemy and after that he was a man . . . you know he earned that right. He was 98 years old when he died in 1953. There’s a lot that goes with my name. I’m proud of it.

Robert Kills Enemy
Oglala Sioux
Nearby Bullhead, SD.

Flat Rock Ranch

The drama of this landscape isn't in the obvious, it's in the nuances - the light hits a certain way and it's full of color, teaming with life; the light fades and it's flat, nondiscriminating. This terrain has been shaped over time by the elements . . . it is harsh and subtle, unique.

It takes a different eye to see it, you really have to be paying attention, get quiet. It's a brittle, fragile environment, once it's been altered, the character of place is forever changed.

The Little Missouri National Grasslands are like a young girl that’s too pretty for her own good . . . everybody wants a piece of her.

Oil development is rampant right now - knocking down hillsides, clearing away the prairie and leaving in its place mazes of roads for huge tankers to race across, and equipment that squeals and pounds day in and day out, breaking the clearness of the silence of the open spaces. The oil breaks down not only the character of the landscape, but also the community that for generations has lived within it.

There is tremendous value in living with nature, of being part of the natural cycle of life. It’s a hard life and not necessarily pretty or fun or romantic, but it builds character. The thing I object to is changing the land - the essence of a place. We should have more respect, let it teach us - it has a lot to tell if we care to listen.

I ‘own’ this ranch but that’s just people language on paper . . . you can’t own place. It's my privilege to be here, and it's my job to take care of it as best I can while I'm here.

Deb Stonecipher

Flat Rock Ranch

Halfway between Beach and Watford, North Dakota
as the crow flies . . . sort of.

Gary Tescher

“A lot of ranchers would most likely tell you that nothing beats the smell of fresh cut hay and that’s pretty high on my list too.

But, my favorite is the smell of a good horse . . .

That fresh cut hay . . . around here you can only smell that towards the end of June. But, I can smell my horses every day of the year. First thing I do when my horses come up to me is throw my arm around them and smell their neck . . . it’s my way of letting them know I’m their friend.

It’s just one of them small things . . . one of the reasons we do what we do. Small things that don’t mean much to some people - mean more to others.”

Gary Tescher
Squaw Gap, ND