Ranch Thanksgiving

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The Birds of Arizona

Compiled and written by Allan Phillips, Joe Marshall, Gale Monson Located between the migratory flyways of the Colorado and Rio Grande rivers, Arizona enjoys a wide variety of winged travelers from both sides. This scholarly and perceptive volume describes hundreds of such visitors and birds-inresidence as well. There are 51 color photographs and 12 sketches.

$36.00 Includes postage and handling Hardcover; 212 pages.

The Land of Journey's Ending

by Mary Austin First published in 1924, Austin's perspective on the Southwest is still a vibrant, classical work. The region provided a perfect backdrop for her brilliant, wide-ranging preoccupations, including history, anthropology, art, folklore, and even metaphysics. Not all of Austin's observations withstand the test of 60 years' time. But this work's foundation of wit and more than a little wisdom remains an inspiration to many creative and visionary people.

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Hopi Photographers Hopi Images

Compiled by Victor Masayesva, Jr. and Erin Younger Documentary work of early photographers precedes the presentation of a collection of black and white and color photos by seven present-day Hopi artists. There are striking contrasts in the portrayals of the gentle but indomitable Hopi people.

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Those Who Came Before

by Robert H. Lister and Florence C. Lister The spirits that linger over the treasury of ruins embraced by the Southwest speak eloquently through former National Park Service Chief Archeologist Robert Lister. A unique feature of this newly-published work is the recognition of relationships among the ancient cultures as well as their distinct differences. The book is heavily illustrated, including about 40 duotone photos from the George Grant collection and a 16-page full-color portfolio by eminent photographer David Muench.

Published by Southwest Parks and Monuments Association $10.95 Includes postage and handling Softcover; 176 pages.

I Married Wyatt Earp

Recollections of Josephine Earp Collected by Glenn G. Boyer In a homey, pleasant style, the spirited Josie Earp recounts five decades of life with her notorious husband. Boyer provides meticulous notes and comments, some of which expose the irrepressible Josie's inclination to keep history's memory of Wyatt Earp as endearing as her own.

Published by University of Arizona Press $6.95 Includes postage and handling Softcover; 277 pages.

Chuck Wagon Cookin'

by Stella Hughes Stella Hughes went through trial by fire as a camp cook when she married an Arizona cowboy in 1938. Over the years she learned about cooking from Apaches, Mexican horsebreakers, and sheer necessity. Along the way she picked up a raucous assortment of cowcamp tales. Her book contains a tasty collection of 112 authentic "old-timey" Dutch oven recipes, spiced with roundup lore and rangeland humor.

Published by University of Arizona Press $9.50 Includes postage and handling Softcover; 170 pages.

Text continued from page 24 house, and you want to pay her a visit, you're going to have to ski up and down that hill. Right?"

And so we learn to "herringbone" uphill, spreading our skis wide apart in front, leaving a pattern that looks like it belongs on a professor's tweed jacket. And, with much noisy hilarity, we try to balance during a short downhill run on those skinny shafts of fiberglass.

The turns, traverses, and stops are really much the same as those used in Alpinestyle skiing, Rick reemphasizes. But we soon discover our extra-long skis significantly alter balance and dynamics. Teeteringdown that stubby slope, we realize we're going to need practice before we master cross-country downhill techniques.

We take a number of spills into the moist, deep snow and blame them on the "snow snakes," mythical white worms that snap at your skis and send you tumbling down. Fortunately, falling down and getting up again are the first things Rick has taught us. Rick, Kris, and Larry all assure us that even experienced cross-country skiers occasionally get tripped up by snow snakes. And when touring in the wilderness, they always carry an extra ski tip to replace one that might be splintered in an accident. Other backcountry safety procedures include skiing with a minimum party of three (if one gets hurt, the other two can ski for help) and toting a good supply of food and a first aid/survival kit.

In cross-country the skier is on his own - there's no handy lodge with a roaring fire and hot chocolate for warming up.

"Cross-country is invigorating for your body, mind, and soul," Kris says. "It brings you a surge of well-being that goes beyond the mere stimulation of physical exercise. Maybe it has to do with reconnecting with our ancestral past, when we relied on our own wits and muscles to meet the challenges of the wilderness. And those challenges still exist, we note - short inclines with icy bumps, winding downhill trails, chilly streams to be forded on foot. With an encouraging nod, Rick sends us off to conquer the landscape alone: "All you need is practice," he assures us.

So, in a line, like an awkward family of ducks, the four of us ski off into the haunting quiet of the woods. Icicles melt with a pleasant plick-plock; the air is frosty and high-country fresh. We see juncos, Arizona jays, tassel-eared squirrels, and deer tracks. And, as we gain confidence, we glow with a newfound sense of freedom. Physical exertion can be tiring, and it's nice to relax in the fragrant shade of a pine tree, snacking on thick chunks of salami, cheese, and chocolate. The clean snow itself makes a refreshing drink, but some skiers carry wineskins filled with refreshment.

As the afternoon slips by, our rest stops become fewer; our stride grows more natural and effortless. We experience pleasure in using our own muscles for momentum-a pride in self-reliance, a joy in healthy exercise.

Larry points out that cross-country skiing requires the movement of every part of your body - arms, legs, feet - all your joints. This keeps you warm, even when it's cold and snowing; it also makes downhill ski clothes too heavy for the cross-country sport. Traditional Nordic garb includes woolen knickers, a crew-neck sweater, and a tasselled cap. But when the Arizona sun's out, that can be uncomfortable. Larry often skis in a cotton T-shirt.

Besides dark glasses, or goggles, suntan lotion, the essential cross-country equipment, skis, poles, and boots can be rented at rates lower than for downhill gear.

Lessons are helpful, although, as Rick observes, a good ski manual or an experienced friend can get a beginner going. He might want to start out on specially groomed trails like those around Flagstaff or the White Mountain villages of Greer, Alpine, and Hannagan Meadow. An advantage of cross-country skiing is it can be enjoyed almost anywhere there's a clear expanse of snow.

In Greer we glided through a fantasy landscape of sparkling white. The sunlight danced off the branches in throbbing prisms, and puffs of morning breeze sent stray flakes glittering down against the glazed blue sky. We took off our jackets as the sun grew stronger; the smell of the conifers was damp, sweet, heady.

It was easy skiing on the ribbonlike road that wound past cabins, bridged a chuckling brook, and finally brought us into the Greer ski area. Clusters of happy people were speeding down the slopes there, but we slid on past them to the hilltop lodge. Over coffee we imagined the fun of a long weekend expedition with a camp in the cozy shelter of a snowbank or in warm bags out under the frosty stars. We thought about blue-white moonlight tours and soft pink tours at dawn, when the sunlight on the fresh snow is incredibly lucid and brilliant. Allowing our dreams to take us far beyond our rude beginner's skills, we pictured ourselves skiing up past timberline, then swooping down into the valley's solemn beauty in a long and graceful series of traverses. For the moment, though, it was plea-sure enough just to glide back up the winding road into the picturesque village of Greer. We'd learned the basics of crosscountry skiing in a single weekend, and now we were enthusiastic advocates of the lively, unaffected winter sport.

Karen Thure is a Tucson-based free-lance writer. Her in-depth photo-essay, Arizona, will be published in February by Oxford University Press.

(Above) Ben Buller, 5, and Abbie Fennell, 6, try out their ski legs at the Kinder School taught by Lisa Nelson. "It's a sport for all ages," says Nelson, "and most times kids pick up on it more quickly than adults."

(Left) Marty Hoffman skis the powder at the Snow Bowl. To be good at the sport, insists Hoffman, the skier has to perfect his turning ability on downhill slopes. It's more difficult than regular skiing, he says.

(Below) "Once you've spent time learning the basics of cross-country skiing you're ready to start out on your own," assures Tim Grier, at right, with enthusiast friends after a day on the snow trails.

Ranch Thanksgiving When the Work's All Done

by Joan Baeza Nine times out of 10, Thanksgiving in Northern Arizona will come nosing ahead of a storm like an old lead cow going to water. A solid front of gray will move across the prairie driven by a northwest wind whipping and slashing the drags. It won't be the kind of gentle storm that gathers in July like a flock of white-winged doves. It won't be flighty like the spring storms that flutter over from California, light here and there and move on. It will be a full-blown storm front, shivering with snow and sleet. A storm that does what it sets out to do-puts an end to autumn. Mother cows go off to their canyons and cedar brakes to wait out the winter. The saddle horses, turned out to pasture, will have to make their own living until they're needed again.

Every year is a gamble to see how long the cattle can graze on mature feed and put on weight before that first storm scatters them. Most Northern Arizona ranchers round up their cattle in October and sell them around the middle of November when they have the biggest gain on calves and yearlings.

When roundup is over and the cattle have been shipped, the holes in the fences are fixed and the hired hands laid off till spring branding. Then, if a man listens, the coyotes will tell him a storm is on the way. A strain of urgency, a frantic unlulated song breaks with dawn.

The coyotes tell him it's time to get out the long-handled underwear, stock up on hay and supplement feed for the cattle, lay in a few cords of firewood, store up canned goods in the pantry, and slaughter a beef. It's a long way to town, and the roads are rough in winter.

Because of the nature of the life and work, country Thanksgiving traditions are different from those townspeople know. In the old days a cowboy often let Thanksgiving get by him. Even the faithful members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons) had little time for celebration. On Thursday, November 29, 1894, Snowflake pioneer Lucy Hannah White Flake wrote in her journal: "All well. This is thanksgiving day. The wind is blowing. There was no school this afternoon so we washed. The men folks are all working on the reservoy [reservoir]."

Later on, when the country developed and roads improved, ranch families came together to celebrate the holidays. The manner of celebration depended on where they came from and who their kinfolks were.

Arizona ranch cooking derived from Texas cow camps and Mexican sheep camps; from Apache wickiups, Navajo hogans, and Hopi pueblos. It came across the ocean from Europe and out on the railroad from Back East. It came from packets of seeds carried in wagons along the Mormon Trail from Utah. It backtracked from California, too.

Thanksgiving dinner on an Arizona ranch is likely to have scents and seasonings never dreamt of by the Pilgrims, but Western ranchers have just as much to be thankful for, maybe more. They have freedom for their heritage. It's in their walk, their handshakes, their slow speech, and easy manner.

A ranch family is thankful if they all made it through spring branding and fall roundup and lived to tell about it. They are thankful for the rain that filled the tanks and made winter feed. They are thankful for the calves and steer yearlings that paid the mortgage. They are thankful, too, for friends and neighbors who helped out with the work.

Most of all, they are thankful for the family which draws together when roundup is over to eat hearty and thank God for partnering with them another year. Thanksgiving is a time a ranch kid is not likely to forget. Although it's not quite the same as it

RANCH THANKSGIVING

once was, Thanksgiving dinner on Southwestern ranches respects its traditions. Most ranch wives have freezers now and weekly access to fresh produce in town, but many have kitchen gardens and put up their own fruits and vegetables. Most ranchers still butcher beef in the fall and freeze it, bottle it, or make jerky out of it.

Even if they have sold out to the subdividers and moved from the old ramshackle ranch house to a split-level in town, women raised on ranches are likely to serve recipes they inherited from mothers and grandmothers.

With every bite of cornbread stuffing, carrot pudding, or mincemeat pie, memories ebb and flow... back to the smell of cedar firing an early morning cook stove. Bacon, coffee, fried eggs. The whang of a pumping windmill. The ring of spurs and clomp of boots on a plank floor. Cold mornings and fresh horses. Faces of those no longer at the table. Memories.

Irene Roberson of Joseph City, past president of Northern Arizona Cowbelles (beefpromoting ranch wives), remembers Thanksgiving dinners at the Tolapi Ranch near Sanders, in Apache County, and later, Black Rock Ranch, in Navajo County. Her mother and father, Wallace and Verna Crawford, moved from drought in New Mexico to drought in Arizona during the Great Depression.

They brought a herd of range cattle and a small band of registered Polled Herefords (a hornless breed) with them. "We lost most of the registered stock in the winter of '36-'37," Irene said. "We went to bed one night and woke up the next morning with three feet of snow on the ground. It snowed for four days. The cattle would drift in front of the storm. They'd hang up in a fence corner. The next spring we found 50 dead cows piled up next to the fence, in one place. My dad lost 125 registered head."

In spite of the adversities of ranch life, Irene said, "We always had great holidays. By Thanksgiving we were through with the big work, but we still had to feed. My dad was the only rancher in the country [Northeastern Arizona] who put out feed in the winter. He fed cottonseed cake. The rest of them just left the cattle on their own. They either made it or they didn't. We had a little wagon and team of mules to put out feed.

"On Thanksgiving Day we got up at 4:00 just like any other day on a ranch. The chores went on. My dad liked his breakfast on the table at 5:00. We sat at the table drinking coffee till daylight. For breakfast we generally had ham, gravy, and hot biscuits, fried potatoes, sometimes pork chops. We always had a big breakfast because sometimes the men didn't come in till 3:00 or 4:00 in the afternoon."

The Crawfords had their own pigs, chickens, and beef, but Verna was never allowed a vegetable garden. "My dad always told her, 'If you wanted a garden, you should have married a farmer,'" said Irene. They bought groceries in Holbrook, Arizona, or Gallup, New Mexico. "We tried to get to town within a month of Thanksgiving," she said.

Besides the family, the Crawfords would have neighbors in to dinner. "There were two old bachelors who shared the holidays with us. Ben Cotton, who joined us on a corner, and Mr. Black. They never drove; they bundled up and rode over horseback. Uncle Ben dipped snuff, and Mr. Black chewed tobacco. They quarreled with each other constantly. If one said something was true, the other one said it wasn't. Then we had a young man who worked for us. He was about 14 and had been orphaned. We usually had a couple of Indian boys, too."

For Thanksgiving dinner her mother nearly always cooked a roast or couple of chickens, said Irene. "She'd season the roast with sage or oregano, salt and pepper, kind of like a bouquet garni," Irene said. "She didn't much mess with the flavor of the beef."

The Crawfords killed their own beef after fattening it in the corral for a few weeks. "My dad always stood 'em up and fed 'em," she said. "Out in that country they'd taste 'sagey' if we didn't. We had plenty of eggs, lots of milk, and cream. One of the men would do the milking. Mother never learned to milk. She used to say she would dry up a cow for a week every time she tried to milk."

The Crawford family, like most ranch families, made their own entertainment. "Mother would play the piano, and we'd all sing. Daddy had a beautiful voice. Then we'd play cards or play games. We'd pop corn in the fireplace at night. Mother used an old tin popcorn popper. I still have it." she said.

"I guess what I remember most about Thanksgiving were Mother's sweet potato pies. You make them just like a pumpkin pie, only with sweet potatoes. Mother always used those dark red Louisiana yams.

"We didn't have much in those days, but we were always thankful for what we had," said Irene.

Babe Whipple of Show Low, Arizona, grew up on a ranch in the Linden area, close to the Mogollon Rim. Times were hard, but she said her mother, Ione Pearce, never complained. "She had eight kids to raise alone when my dad died," said Babe.

Raised in Snowflake, Arizona, Ione Pearce had a teaching certificate from Northern Arizona Normal School. She supported her family teaching school, running cattle, and farming.

"My brother Rog was 16 when my dad died," said Babe. "He ran cattle on our