BYRL KEITH CHADWELL
Baker City, Oregon
About Byrl Keith Chadwell

 

 

 

 

Twenty Dollar Spurs

Ol' Don he was a cowboy
Many a horse ol' Don had rode
It used to take a real bronc
To get ol' Donny throwed

But time is kind of funny
When as the years go by
And things up close get blurry
To once perceptive eyes

and spur rowels on old cowboy's boots
Do ever slower roll
'Cause on all things that once were sharp
Time always takes its toll

So Donny bought a nice green mule
When Don was past his prime
'cept in his heart and in his mind...
"The Cowboy" was just fine

By now he'd gave away... or sold
'bout all his cowboy tack
'cept of course his saddle...
(he'd figured he'd be back)

So we drove to Baker City
Where they sell bronc ridin' stuff
And he bought a bunch of cowboy gear
Until he had enough

~~~

he bought... headstalls, bits and bronc reins
And ropes and lines and such
Enough to break that Molly mule
That we couldn't even touch

And in that pile of cowboy truck
Unknowing as we were
Was that ol' cowboy's undoing...
...a pair of "Twenty Dollar Spurs"

It's not polite to bore folks
With long and tedious prater
When tellin' truthful stories
So I'll cut the chitter-chatter

I'll cut right to the chase
To tell of Don's undoin'
At the bronc corral on Ruckles Creek
The mule...the spurs...his ruin

He wore the spurs that mornin'
Never gave 'em any thought
As he stepped up on that Molly mule
And clucked her to a trot

Now Don had never urged her...yet
Into a gentle lope
So today he thought he'd pop her
With the tail end of his rope

~~~

But lope was not the thing she did
She kept on with the trot
Which spawned a cowboy reflex...
...Don's toes began to drop

And as his toes began to drop
His heels began to raise
It was about as natural...
...As cattle on the graze

I watched...it seemed slow motion
As a spur rowel disappeared
In the hair on the ribs of that molly mule...
Then the action shifted gears

I'v give consideration since
With this head on top my neck
How them "Twenty Dollar Spurs"
Created such a WRECK

Now a wreck in other quarters
Brings cars and trucks to mind
But a WRECK down in the bronc corral's
Much harder to define

When cowboys talk of equine WRECKS
They may speak in hallowed tones
Of broncs and ropes and ol' cowpokes
And all their broken bones

~~~

And so in most capitual tones
I speak of things that were...
When Donny gouged that molly mule
With his "Twenty Dollar Spurs"

When Molly finally made her move
I think I'm seein' double
A blur went by and...my-oh-my...
Ol' Donny's got big trouble...

Cause Molly mule had bogged her head
When first the spurs did bite
And humped ol' Donny o'er them swells...
It was an awkward sight

But he got his self collected...
(I thought he had her rode)
When that mule "sun-fished" and went straight up
Like a jumpin' horny  toad

Ol' Don... in all the fracas
Had let go... toooo much rein
And was frantically collecting it...
HIGH above her mane

By now that Molly mule
had stretched out... straight and tall
With her belly perpendicular
And her nose above the wall

Ol' Donny's feet and stirrups
Were high up on her withers
But his head was pointed toward the dirt
...it was given' me the shivers

~~~

So Don succumbed to gravity
In a heap beside the wall
And Molly stopped three feet away
To just...survey it all

And as the rowels on Donny's spurs
Rolled slowly to a stop
He started speaking harshly
In ways he ought have not

Seemed he wasn't mad at Molly...me...
 or other  things that were.
Just at "HIS -SELF"  for wearing...
 them "Twenty Dollar Spurs"

..so when those bunkhouse tales are told
We'll tell of Don's undoin'
At the bronc corral on Ruckles Creek...
 The mule...the spurs... his ruin

©  2006, Byrl Keith Chadwell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Keith told us: Don Nagy, my brother in law and good friend, is the old cowboy in the poem. We broke a bunch of mules together and some horses back in the 60's near his
home in Western Montana.  During a recent visit to our ranch, he bought one of my un-broke mules. The rest of the story is described in "Twenty Dollar Spurs."

 

Lodge Pole Pine

We took a li’l trip… up the North Fork way

We were packing in on a sky blue day

     The air it was clear and the sun did shine

     I caught me a whiff of that Lodge Pole Pine

 

We saddled the horses and we packed the mules

Goin’ to… Dutch Flat Lake and the Dutch Flat pools

     We took a little bacon and we took some beans

     A dry pair of skivvies and a dry pair of jeans

 

I’d mantied a chain saw on top of a mule

With a nifty container of chain saw fuel

     It had a twelve inch bar it was small and light

     For to cut some firewood at the lake that night

 

Now the wind’s a thing you can never see

But It’d been there…that was clear to me

     To the left and to the right and stacked real high

     Was Lodge Pole Pine…horizontal to the sky

 

I’d read in the paper a while ago

That the Forest Service was out of dough

     And when they announce a dollar decline

      Guess who…Clears the trails of that Lodge Pole Pine ??

 

Never bothered me…no sir… not one whit

Brought my cruiser ax with a double bit

     Plus my “ace in the hole” on top of the pack

     We would whittle out the trail… both up and back

 

The trail was plumb full….it wasn’t just a branch

And we were just not…goin’ back to the ranch

     I was off’a that mare in a single bound

     'bout a minute now, Tom… be a chain saw sound”

 

I grabbed my li’l chain saw off the top of that pack

Started workin’ up a sweat…( runnin’ down my back)

     From the top of his horse I heard Tom say…

     “ Start that thing, Keith… wann’a be here all day”?

Nothin’ ever finer that I ever knew

Than a saw that’d start with a pull or two

     But I’ve handled some saws…(and so have you)

     That you could pull …and pull… for quite a few

 

Then when you’d rested and sputtered around

You’d pull some more… then… throw it on the ground

     Well I pulled and I pulled and I sputtered around

     But I never even once got a chain saw sound

 

Now somewhere t’ward the North Fork … off the trail not far

Is a rustin’ li’l chain saw with a twelve inch bar

     We continued on… we were never lax

     Whackin’ out the trail with …my cruiser ax

 

A Lodge Pole Pine had fell across the trail

‘Bout two feet through with a sixty foot tail

     No way ‘round with a bluff on the right

     The down hill side near dropped out of sight

 

I gauged it from the front… Tom eyed it from the rear

Then he yells up to me… “the saddle horn’ll clear!”

     So I led her up high… got her head down low

     “We’ll get under this snag… if we take it slow”

 

But she didn’t much like that snag o’er head

So she made a big jump and like Tom said…

     The saddle horn cleared… we got over that fear

     Now we got BIG trouble in the rear view mirror

 

I’d dallied the chain saw mule…hard and fast

To the ol’ mare’s saddle horn… that just went past

     The mule had his head up… waay too high

     So he and that snag met …EYE to EYE

 

The mule was bein’ “Mule”… he’d had enough of that snag

Started jerkin’ back big time on the edge of that crag

     The ol’ mare was pullin’ like a Belgian team

     She’s throwin’ dirt and rocks like a dragster’s dream

 

I  sure got’a tell ya…there’s been a time or two                                                

I was a tenant on earth when the rent came due

     This was …”one of them times” … and this durn fool

     Got caught in between… the horse and that mule           

I thought for sure… the rope would bust

Relieve the tension…… settle the dust

     Nope… the rope don’t break… it’s just getting’ thin

     Popin’ and a snappin' right under my chin

 

With that mule a jerkin’ back and thrashin’ around

My ol’ buckskin mare puts her belly to the ground

     And in the twink of an eye we’re all… “just fine”

     As the mule skidded under that Lodge Pole Pine

 

A Hundred miles up (map says ten miles…max)

We just whacked it out with… my cruiser ax

     Never did fish or even wet a line

     We just cleared the trail of that Lodge Pole Pine

 

Back at the trail head… been four days… (or more?)

We slipped the saddles… put our gear in store

     But wait…”Tom, what is this, on the pickup’s glass? ”

    “A FOREST SERVICE TICKET… .NO TRAIL PARK PASS !!!”

 

© 2006,  Byrl Keith Chadwell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Keith told us that this poem, "results from a couple of pack trips my friend, Tom Keaton and I, made into the Blue Mountains of Eastern Oregon. At that time the Forest Service was just beginning to introduce the requirement for 'trail park passes.'  Some of us 'old timers' got a bit wrinkled about the whole idea. Paying for a trail park pass or even registering to use trails which folks had used and helped to maintain for several generations didn’t get a very warm reception.  However, a good laugh at yourself always seems to help smooth things out."

 

Cowboy Credentials

The "wrecks" that they weather
           I would sorta suppose
Are cowboys' credentials
           Not the look of their clothes

If you've ridden for long
            On a range fit for snakes
When you're movin' cattle
            In those rim rocks and breaks

Your horse he might stumble
             Spurrin' down off a rim
to turn that ol' lead cow
             Now things start lookin' grim

Somersault with your horse.
            Some folks call it "a wreck"
Builds cowboy credentials
            If you don't break your neck

"There she is...cut her back...
            That wild eyed ol' brindle"
She starts facin' you down
            And her fire is a' kindle

You sure are mistaken
            When you call her last bluff
Because she's had enough
            Of your horse and your guff

So she sticks her ol' head
            Way up under your horse
In the twink' of an eye
            You've got cowboy remorse

Advanced education.
            Some folks call it "A wreck"
Builds cowboy credentials
            If you don't break your neck

When the trails dark and steep
            And no moon lights your way
Got a pack string of mules
            You hear one of them bray

You'd figured by midnight
            Sure enough you'd be back
Now a mule's in the creek
            Upside down on her pack

A schedule adjustment.
            Some folks call it "a wreck"
Builds cowboy credentials
            If you don't break your neck

You know that big Paint colt
            That you've started to ride
Thinks big rocks eat horses
            Still...you take him outside

You've got to work cattle
             Not just go for the ride
You're pushin' his limits
            All along with your pride

If you can stay with him
            Each time " rocks" eat your horse
You'll build up credentials
            And your tall tales resource

But if'n he dumps you.?
            It's OK "what the heck"
Builds cowboy credentials
            If you don't break your neck

And yes.. You're a "cowboy"
            By the look of your clothes
But now... with "credentials"
            Would you sorta suppose??

© 2006,  Byrl Keith Chadwell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Keith told us: This poem reflects my belief that cowboy poetry should be..."poetry," but it also should be..."credible," no matter who writes the stuff or how brilliant their technique. So, I am poking a little fun at some ways folks might build credibility.

To me, the knowing nod of a grey old head, under a cowboy hat, perched above a pair of bowed legs, will always be the best meter to certify a "cowboy poem" or a "cowboy poet."

 

Grand Canyon Mule Guide’s Dilemma

I was bringin’ up a group out’a  Phantom just last fall                                       

An hour ‘till we “rim out”…. this ol’ gal’s about to bawl                                                      

I get’s her down at Cedar Ridge...her mule… his name was “John”

The challenge now… the “get back up”… with all her “get up” gone                       

 

A simple righteous “push up” woulda surely done the trick

Yet I’m strivin’ to be... “noble”…. not to be a backwoods hick

Her foot’s up in the stirrup… but what’s left is on the ground             

Like… sack feed with no handles… she’s sure plenty big around   

 

She weighs about one ninety eight … yet only five foot three            

She’s a mighty wore out lady…. this “get up’s” up to me

I try to be polite… discreet… and oh so careful too                                         

But… it ain’t always easy when a dude has gained a few           

 

I’m runnin’ out of aces …in my searchin’ for a hold

To help her with her “get up” so that she won’t think I’m bold           

And then from somewhere up above I hear this angel say…

“Just push up on my fat ol’ butt…cause that’s the only way”

 

© 2007, Byrl Keith Chadwell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Keith told us: The inspiration for this poem is from an incident that occurred while I was guiding a group of dudes on the last leg of the South Kaibab trail, coming out of the Grand Canyon’s famous “Phantom Ranch.” Only the mules name and the lady’s height and weight have been changed to protect the mule, the lady and… me. The rest of the story is pretty near the truth. I can tell you… I was laughing so hard after she told me “ where to push,” I nearly dropped this gracious lady. This two day trip ended well and everyone, while tired and sore, insisted they had a great time.

 

 

Scratcher Bell

Folks ‘round knew he worked the bad ones

            When no one could …or would

Just a Baker County cowboy

             Folks ‘round then understood            

 

If you possessed a horse or two

            That had an ornery quirk

“Just get a hold of Scratcher Bell

            ‘Cause he could make ‘em work”                 

 

It really didn’t matter none

            If saddle horse or team

 He always had some cowboy trick

To redirect their steam

 

I suppose that there were those

 Were quick to judge him “rough”

And yes with spoiled horses

            He knew when to be tough                                              

 

He knew when to be gentle too

            Beneath external gruff

A gentle side with colts and kids

            Unless they called his bluff                                 

 

He could rope and doctor cattle…

             In the winter feedin’ hay

He would break a team of horses

             To a Wagon or a sleigh  

 

He was “a hand” out on the ranch

 And Folks ‘round always knew

When “Scratcher” worked those saddle colts

They’d turn out… tried and true

                                               

He was a horseman sure enough

 I marveled at his skills

 But he was an old time cowboy…

            Without the fancy frills

 

I doubt if there’s a person now

            Who recollects his fame

We buried him just North of Haines

            A stone… some words… his name        

 

© 2007, Byrl Keith Chadwell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
                                           

        

The inspiration for “Scratcher Bell”:

 

 

 

Willard W. (“Scratcher”) Bell

Baker County, Oregon       

Sept.  1913  - Aug.  1989

Sgt. U.S. Army World War II

 

In respectful memory of my uncle and my mentor.

 

 

 

Trail Blazers

I followed lots of old time trails

When I was just a lad

 Old timers marked the easy way

 I learned that from my Dad

 

Dad just called e’m blazes

He said… “Son, look at that tree,

You can tell there was a trail here,

            By that scar there you can see”…

 

They found a way… by horse and mule

With trusty ax and gun

To blaze those trails from there to here

And somehow…“get’er done”

 

The ways thru life we try to find

The trails may not seem clear     

But if we’ll pause and… look awhile

A way just might appear    

 

 Through the lessons to be learned  

            From those who’ve gone on through

Their blazes point ”the way to go”

            For folks like me and you

 

We might take for instance…

            The way to train a horse

If we’re not plumb rock headed

            We’ll learn about brute-force

 

And that learnin’ I will wager

Will come with warning tones  

From some of those who’ve blazed those trails

             With sweat and broken bones

 

So we may build on old foundations

It can be lots of fun

And we may go ahead and do

What no one else has done

 

 But if we’re wise we’ll… look awhile

And learn a thing or two

From folks who’ve blazed those trails before

For folks like me and you    

© 2007, Byrl Keith Chadwell
            This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
 

Keith told us:

The inspiration for this poem comes from my ever growing appreciation of all my old time cowboy mentors.  Most of them have gone on over the great divide by now.

 

It is wonderful to see what some deem as “modern” horse and mule training methods being so widely accepted.   However, I hope we never forget that what we now know about horse and mule training came at a price. Our “trail blazers” paid the price with fatalities, bruises, blood, broken bones, endless hours of sweat, and little recognition.   

 

I tire of those who say without qualification that; “old time cowboy horse and mule breaking methods were cruel and used only by the uneducated.”  

 

Many are the unheralded “masters” of days gone by. 

 

“But if we’re wise we’ll… look awhile

And learn a thing or two

From folks who’ve blazed those trails before

            For folks like me and you”       

 

 

 

 

Columns of Two

It is paramount when we pair up to mount                                                                  

            The pairs of mounts which we pare out

Must be pairs of mounts upon which we can count

            It is paramount there’s no doubt

 

For if we go out in a column advance    

On some mounts not well broken to ride                                                        

We all take this stance, there’s a dead even chance

We would skin up our hairy ol’ hide                             

 

The pairs that we pair for our columns of two         

              Must become most reliable hosses

Trained, grained, well maintained, able to hold the shoe

             Good ole’ hosses that knows who the boss is

 

And when introduced to our columns of force

They should not give rise to our ire

These may make of course the good cavalry horse

            That’s ready to work under fire

 

For we must go out on good cavalry horses                                 

 They gave us this job to do                                                          

To subdue hostile forces with small resources                       

 They call us “the boys in blue”

 

Fort Bowie’s our home, as a home it will count

 We will ride out from “home” ‘till we’re through 

One thing’s paramount when we pair up to mount                                                                      

We will ride out in columns of two

 

© 2008, Byrl Keith Chadwell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
 

Keith told us:

South of Wilcox, Arizona off of Highway 186, along the old Butterfield stage route, is a place called Apache Pass. Here is a little water source called “Apache Spring”. The Butterfield trail was constructed through Apache Pass only because of this water source. A detachment of 96 California volunteers came under attack near this spring by Cochise, Mangas Coloradas and between 140 and 160 of their warriors in July of 1862. A raging battle ensued around the spring until the volunteers finally prevailed. On a hill just above this spring is where “Old Fort Bowie” was then hastily built....

In 1866 regular soldiers relieved the volunteers and built a new Fort Bowie where it functioned to protect travelers and commerce near Apache Pass for another 26 years. 

In graves nearby are soldiers who died in the line of duty while serving at Fort Bowie. Men such as; John Brownley, “killed by Apaches, May 1868”; A.J. Bice, J. Petty and T. Donavan, “killed by Indians in Apache Pass, January 1872”;  O. O. Spence, “killed by Indians April 1876, age 25, Medal of Honor winner.”  Here we find these and others who rode out from Fort Bowie in “columns of two.”

 

The photo is a composite of an old picture of troops coming out of Ft. Bowie, and a recent picture Keith took of the same area. 

 

 

This photo is included in our 2007 Christmas at the BAR-D:

 

Byrl Keith Chadwell, coming out of Dutch Flat Lake
 in the Blue Mountains of Eastern Oregon in the late fall of 1993. 
 

 

 

 

 

 

  About Byrl Keith Chadwell:

Byrl Keith Chadwell was born in a Colorado mining town in the late 1930's. Keith started to cowboy, as a youngster, on his grandfather's homestead on the breaks of the Burnt River in Eastern Oregon.

Keith has been breaking and training horses and mules for many years and for over 38 years, he has been packing mules and horses into the high mountains of Western Montana and Eastern Oregon.

With roots that run deep into the ranching, mining and timber history of the Northwest, Keith has a rich and colorful background from which he writes Western Gospel songs, and Cowboy poetry.

You may contact Keith and Barbara at:   rucklescreekranch@hotmail.com

 

 

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