Bearlodge Writers

I grew up surrounded by books, fascinated by stories—especially of horses and dogs—and dreaming of Wyoming. Roy and I met at the University of Wyoming and soon were living on Wyoming ranches, first near Laramie, and finally on our own small horse ranch in Wyoming’s Black Hills. We raised four kids and have eight grandchildren.

My love affair with books continues: I’ve read them, bought them, collected them, sold them (established a mail-order bookshop on the ranch), edited them, reviewed them, catalogued and loaned them (was Crook County Library Director for many years), and written them.

Over the years my love of ranch life and the land itself has burgeoned. My dog, Maxie, and I walk over our fields and hills every morning at sunrise (yes, darn near every morning, rain, shine, sleet, or 30-below), and rejoice in the beauty that unfolds around us. What finer combination can there be than to sit on a windy Wyoming hilltop (not in 30-below) with dog, pen, and journal? It’s where I do my best writing.

Maxie Collier Bio

I’m fan of Trixie Koontz, who is dog. I, Maxie, am dog like Trixie (mostly golden). Trixie writes good books with help of her dad, Dean (see Life is Good!: lessons in joyful living and Christmas is Good! Yorkville Press, N.Y, 2004 and 2005). I, Maxie (dog), hope to write some day. For now, listen to Bearlodge Writers read and critique (learn lots). Also, Mom says we rejoice in beauty on our walks. True, especially beauty of good smells (but Mom won’t let me off leash so I can chase deer, bunnies, coyotes—very annoying).

Books:

Co-edited with Linda Hasselstrom and Nancy Curtis:

Crazy Woman Creek: Women Rewrite the American West, Houghton Mifflin, 2004

Woven on the Wind: Women Write about Friendship in the Sagebrush West, Houghton Mifflin, 2001

Leaning Into the Wind: Women Write from the Heart of the West, Houghton Mifflin, 1997

Co-authored with Eleanor F. Prince:

Basic Horsemanship: English and Western, Doubleday, 1974, rev. 1993

Basic Training for Horses: English and Western, Doubleday, 1979, 1989

Basic Horse Care, Doubleday, 1986, 1989; German translation, Müller Rüschlikon, 1992

Poems, essays, reviews, and articles in periodicals and anthologies, including:

Owen Wister Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Westering, Farm & Ranch Living, Smithsonian, National Wildlife, Library Journal, Wyoming Library Roundup 

Wyoming Fence Lines: an Anthology of Prose and Poetry, David Romtvedt, ed., Wyoming Humanities Council and Wyoming Arts Council, 2007

Open Range: Poetry of the Reimagined West, Laurie Wagner Buyer & WC Jameson, eds., Ghost Road Press, 2007

In the Shadow of the Bear Lodge, Bearlodge Writers, Pat Frolander, ed., Many Kites Press, 2006

Wyoming Writers poetry chapbooks, 2007, 2000, 1998, 1995

Western Horse Tales, Don Worcester, ed., Republic of Texas Press 1994

Wyoming Governor’s Arts Award for Literature 2004

Consultant: Encyclopaedia Britannica on horses and horsemanship 2000

Numerous workshops, programs, and presentations (including radio) on writing, journaling, memoir, horses, and women’s writing in the West, 1997-present

A PUP WINS A PLACE ON THE RANCH

Ben, a border collie, began life here on the ranch. He was born to this patch of land in Wyoming’s Black Hills, and it belonged to him. Ben is the son of purebred Margaret, grandson of Sir Robert and Lady Hilary (imported from Scotland), and great-grandson of McTeir’s Ben, an international champion working stock dog.

But Ben needed no fancy pedigree to claim royalty. He held that within himself.

Margaret, with her symmetrical black and white markings, was classic border collie, small and refined, with that famous “eye” and stance. She believed in action. Margaret circumvented our plans for registerable puppies. She cleverly made her own arrangements—the first time with Snoopy, who lived next door on a neighboring ranch. Although he was not registered, Snoopy was still a border collie—or mostly. An older gentleman of more dignity than his name implied, Snoopy had good working stock-dog experience. Margaret chose well.

Ben arrived, the first of six puppies. They were only a few days old when I picked up each one just to cuddle the tiny, sweet-smelling bodies for a moment. They all held their heads away from me, reaching out for a more familiar mama—all except Ben. He nestled his face into my neck, staking a claim that I soon recognized as mutual.

We advertised the puppies, and, one by one, they left home. Down to two, I worried that someone might try to talk me out of my Ben. He had the classic markings of his mother, with a formal white chest that would later develop into a magnificent ruff. Jake, the other pup, looked more like his dad—mostly black, his hair a bit shorter and ears more upright. Ben was irresistible and loving, Jake uptight and aloof.

The folks who next came to look at the puppies left the door of their pickup open. Jake didn’t stop to fiddle around. He made a beeline for it, scrambled in, and waited for them on the front seat. Jake stole their hearts while Ben stole mine.

We had five Jersey cows then, and I began taking Ben with me to bring them in for evening milking. I always kept him on a leash to keep him near me, keep him safe, and keep him from making tactical mistakes with the cattle, sheep, or horses. A pup can be foolish until he establishes his relationship with livestock. He must learn respect for the larger animals while learning not to be intimidated by a cow or ewe defending her young.

Ben would soon work by voice or arm signal, and eventually he would become “ranch manager,” bringing in the milk cows all on his own. But at the beginning, I’d carry him across the creek, and we’d set out on one of the trails to the lower field, or the leased land, or the outer pasture.

That first summer, we walked up the long hill through the ponderosas and range grass of the Milk Cow Piece. Ben waddled and bounded along until he tired, and then I’d carry him, coming over the top of Milk Cow Ridge and cutting across to the upper field. There, the cows grazed the hayed stubble. A cool breeze usually pierced the heat of the day as the sun lowered toward the western hills. I loved the warmth of the little dog nestled into the crook of my arm. Crickets strummed a descant background, while meadowlarks joined robins, orioles, and redwings in evening song.

This was open country—just sky and hilltops, with no buildings in sight. Good thing. No one to see or hear me as first I called the cows (not the traditional “Bos-s-s, bos-s-s,” but my own “Cow-e-e-e-e-e” that stretched out and echoed through the hills) and then took off running.
Gesturing exaggerated signals with my free arm as I ran, I bellowed, “Go round! Go way round!” and followed my own command, gallumping across the fields, huffing and puffing between shouts, the puppy jouncing against my ribs. Over to the west, Herefords scattered, and old Joe snorted and positioned himself between us and his little band of mares, while they nickered their foals in close to their sides.

The Jerseys stared, stopped chewing their cuds, and finally—as we curved around behind them—started for home in their quiet, cowlike way. Vivian led, her cowbell sounding a steady muffled “dong” in rhythm with her steps. She was followed by Janet and Shirley, Helen and Anastasia. The heifers spilled around them, and then settled into a dignified walk. The scents of evening mingled pine and cow and warm earth, fringe sagebrush and juniper, as ponderosa shadows stretched blue and gentle across the fields, distant cliffs turned pink, and sunset deepened into twilight.

I’d set Ben down and we’d walk behind the Jerseys. I’d say, “Good dog! Oh, good boy, Ben!” over and over again. We made a line across the ridge—five cows and a few heifers, Ben, and then me, still panting and glad to be moving at a cow pace.

Our shadows marched with us, a parade of silhouettes sliding over rocks and dipping into depressions. Nighthawks “peenked” and dived after insects, the horses resumed grazing, crickets shrilled, and we headed for the barn. Ben, the working stock puppy, was proudly taking home the cows.

Gaydell Collier

This appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, Sept. 14, 2001

"It is in the appreciation of beauty that our lives are ultimately expressed. This can come in the formation of a perfect balepile, the creation of an attractive casserole, the exquisite coordination of horse and rider, or the writing of a precise poem, a polished phrase."

Maxie Quote: