The Lost Fencing Crew
Reposted from Sybil Malmberg’s blog
In the late 1950s The Malmberg Cattle Company (Emil, Charles, and Don Malmberg) leased the Dan Hill Ranch, a full township, for nearly two decades. Being in a block, six miles on a side, it was paradise for ranching with no neighbors to cross. We were blessed, however, with the most wonderful neighbors, the best in the world, having their headquarters beyond our perimeter fence line. The half-way load-out corrals, Doc Reynolds, and Allen Parker were on the north . . . the Minor-Hull, and Secrest ranches on the east . . . Bob and Caroline Sandoz Pifer and Wilmer Russell on the south . . . and Highway #27 and the Modisett Ranch on the west. The Dan Hill Ranch headquarters was 20 miles south of our town at Gordon, Nebraska and 5 miles east on a 2-track sandy road, at the headwaters of the Snake River that wound eastward to eventually be Snake River Falls at Valentine, Nebraska.
Days started early at the ranch. Ringing of the big, red dinner bell at six o’clock sharp for breakfast, roused the hired ranch hands from the sod bunk house. Sleepy-eyed, they tromped into my kitchen. Two ranch hands, new to the fence wagon, went a little white one morning, when the Boss, Emil Malmberg, lined them out saying, “The Malmberg’s fencing is to be in top shape with the barbed wire pulled tight and a strong lever gate opener (that Emil invented) for opening the tight gates easily.”
Everyone nodded in agreement.
My orders came next … pack two lunches for the fence wagon box and six saddle lunches for the cowboys riding that day.
Not wanting any of the work crews to be waiting on me, I bolted into action! Breakfast dishes flew into the dishwasher, while I created the lunch menu in my mind. As I built the lunches, I envisioned them eating my runzas, pickles, carrot and celery sticks, and potato chips washed down with hot coffee from a thermos and, of course, good ol’ sandhill water from burlap wrapped canteens tied onto the saddle horn. Lastly, cherry pie tarts, I made in muffin tins, were slipped into a baggie and everything packed neatly into a paper lunch bag. The opening of the paper bag was folded over tight and stapled to keep it safely intact in the wagon box and saddle bags. (I learned my lesson after a ranch hand spilled out my hard work on the way to his horse one day.)
Don picked up the saddle lunches and the fence wagon lunch box with a kiss for the cook, as my heart swelled with a big smile to have them all gone for the day! The Boss was proud of my no-nonsense finger lunches with minimal waste that could easily be rolled up and stuffed into the wagon lunch box or saddle bags to throw away back at home base. His strict orders were to not leave any trash … except for cigarette butts driven in the ground with the heel of their boot.
Come rain or come shine, every single morning the fence wagon men went out on the fence line. Late one day they brought back their empty lunch box to my kitchen, but I could see they were full of remorse. They’d gotten lost … again … on the 36 square mile spread. The Boss had cussed them out saying in his strong Swedish accent . . . “Cray-ceee bastards, lost again … actually, you have the most important job on the ranch to keep our bloodlines safe from the neighbor’s bulls.” Nodding their heads dejectedly, they opined, “To save our souls, we could not find our way.”
As ‘Mother Confessor’ to all in the bunkhouse, I listened to their trouble … It was a real dilemma, but … Emil’s anger and their predicament sparked an idea!
I asked Don to go with me to the county courthouse Assessor’s office to get a full plat of the ranch. We laid out the plat on the floor and I sketched a replica of all the fence lines on a big poster board. Don gave me the names of each pasture (many of them were the names of homesteaders) and showed me where to place landmarks such as windmills, water holes, lakes, and corrals. We rolled it up and as soon as we got home, I ordered a whole pigskin.
When the pigskin arrived, I cut it up into 24-inch squares and transferred the critical information onto each, making maps for the “lost” fencing crew and cowboys. My pigskin maps were rolled up and secured with a leather thong and given out with the lunches the very next day!
Through the years, I made many pigskin maps, and never again did the fence wagon crew, or any of the cowboys have an excuse for being lost … and taking a nap by the windmill all day!
. . . SYBIL MALMBERG