By Grant Rice grice177@hotmail.com

My brother Garrett and I first came to Skinner Brothers in the late 1970s. And for nearly a decade of summers in Wyoming, throughout the 1980s, we both worked for Skinner Brothers. We were known locally as "the brother's Rice". My last year was 1985, when I led the Open Session, and our ragtag outfit climbed Gannett, Fremont, Helen, Sacagawea, and Dinwoody.

There are so many stories to tell about all of the Skinner brothers, their families, and the wonderful folks who made up the community at Burnt Lake each summer/fall. Lost horses, swimming packhorses, NOLS' rescues, Basque sheepherder camps, midnight "Horseshoe-backs" (Horseshoe-backs is a reference to pack-ins up to Horseshoe. When we were supplying the camp up there we'd run multiple trips back and forth between Burnt and Horseshoe lakes in one day and into the late night and even early morning hours. Left a very sore saddle), difficult clients, difficult campers, the fires of 1988, sightings of Clem's ghost (Clem's ghost was a common sight to anyone staying at the old house by Bob's. My own sighting took place on Fall Creek one evening between Horseshoe & Spruce Lakes), fights with the Forest Service, and stories about stories, from Monte's ranch work, Bob's climbing and survival school work with the Air Force, Courtney's Antarctic ramblings, and Ole's Peace Corps work in Africa.

My favorite story took place late one October, long after life took me away from Pinedale. I was returning East cross-country from California, diverted up from Rock Springs to Pinedale, and caught Monte outside his sheepwagon. It was one of those crystal clear days of late fall, with fresh snow on the ground, and Monte wanted to go Elk hunting up above the Ninth Green and Blueberry Lake off Boulder Ridge. So we saddled up and headed up toward's Black's, Monte on Jake, and me on a horse I can't remember (but think it may have been Amy's old horse). For most of the morning and early afternoon we saw tracks but no animals. And Monte tried some buggling for fun. Nothing beats swaying on horseback, a chew in the cheek, and peering through the trees for Elk. Especially with Monte around telling old stories. I was so happy, in fact, that I was just getting to the point that I was hoping we wouldn't bag an Elk, since I wasn't looking forward to the hot and bloody work of quartering and packing the meat, especially in the wet, cold, inclined, and rocky woods. But at just that point, I think, I spotted something moving off the ridge, about 50-75 yards below us in a deep ravine. Before I could say something Monte was off his horse, had unsheathed his rifle, and was sighting in. Boom. And I'll be damned if he didn't hit a cow dead between the eyes, from 75 yards, between a thicket of tree limbs, almost straight down a hillside, still heaving from the struggle to dismount, unholster, and aim.

It took us about an hour or so to quarter the elk, in a little hollow, without much room, Monte doing most of the work, leaving both of us covered in blood. But Monte was happy to have gotten his cow and we returned to Burnt Lake in the late afternoon light. The Skinners needed three or four horses taken out of Burnt for the winter, so we loaded up a horse trailer (3 horses I think, maybe 4), and headed down the Burnt Lake Road towards the highway. It was getting dark when we approached the last cattle grate before the highway and some noise from the back of the trailer forced Monte to stop in the middle of the road. I went back to look, only to find a horse's hock sticking down through the gap in the trailer door and floor, blood pouring down into the dirt. Turned out that one of the horses had kicked the rear door, bending it, and had subsequently dropped his foot through the gap and broke it almost clean off. It was a horrifying sight. And the panic of the other horses in the trailer didn't help matters any.

By now it was almost dark, and Monte was able to get the horse out of the trailer. We led her to a little clearing just off the highway and decided that the horse needed to be put down. The problem was that we'd left the rifles up at Burnt Lake and didn't have so much as a Swiss Army knife. So we left the horse and drove back to Pinedale to unload the others. And to see if we could find a gun. By now it was dark and a couple of folks passed us on the highway with halloween costumes on. We were covered in blood, both from the Elk and the horse. So I remember thinking at the time that we'd make a good entrance to a halloween party. With flashlights we searched around Bob's for a gun--with no luck. And it was nearly 10pm by the time we were back on the road to the horse. This time with a come along and a ramp for the empty horse trailer. When we arrived back at the turnoff to Burnt Lake, it was pitch black, cold (32 degrees), and I think even Monte was a little nervous as to what we'd find. We looked out at the clearing where we'd left the horse--and saw nothing. And it wasn't until we nearly stumbled over the horse's midsection that we discovered that the horse had gone into shock and collapsed from a lack of blood. It was easy to see that the end was certain for the horse. So the task that remained was taking care of the carcass, since it was just off the road. Monte backed up the pickup and we aligned the trailer and ramp with the heavily breathing horse. By flashlight I could see that my efforts had covered me in blood, and Monte as well. So it was a ghoulish sight. And I was just starting to laugh at the comic horror of it all when the struggling horse gave one last heave of a kick that landed right in my groin. So now I was heaved over myself in pain, my better parts turning black and blue, and the horse thrashing in the cables.

It was not a pleasant half hour or so getting the horse in the trailer. I think I actually saw a tear in Monte's eye. But it was dark and I may have imagined it. In any case, it was a quiet ride back to Pinedale. Not a word. And I remember heading to bed that night thinking that the Wyoming of the Skinner Brothers was a tough and sobering place once the warmth of long summer daylight had passed. I miss the world of Skinner Brothers. It's a way of life that, sadly, is passing. And with it a kind of presence in the world, and a kind of presence among individuals, that is disappearing. Everyone who took part in Skinner Brothers knows what I am talking about. And I look forward to the prospect of connecting with those folks down the road, either in Wyoming or elsewhere, and rekindling that spirit. We all have a lot for which to thank the Skinner family.

Grant Rice