By Herb Moore

Special to the Chronicle

Now I reckon you’ve all heard the word; but have you ever experienced it?

Let me take you on an adventure of two young cowboys that got a winter feeding job on a ranch in the Cariboo. Reckon I should explain here the Second World War was still going on and the young fellas who would normally be doing this job were away fighting.

The rancher eyed us up and down and questioned our youth to handle living in a line shack for the winter. “You sure you know what’s involved in looking after them three hundred head for the next four months?” We nodded our heads, “Yep, yep,” we assured him. “They’ll be calving come late February, and I ‘speck’ you to be able to handle that too.” More head nodding.

“We try to get out there every two weeks with supplies, but sometimes if we get a heavy dump of snow it could be longer. So make sure you don’t eat up all the grub; keep some back just in case we can’t get through.”

I’m looking over at George and he’s looking back at me. What he sees is a tall, slim young fellow of 15 years trying to look older and confident he can hold up his end of the job. I see this medium height stocky fellow, probably couple of years older, who’s I’m sure wondering if this isn’t a big mistake.

We leave the ranch headquarters early the next morning. I’m driving the team of percherons hitched to a hay wagon on which we loaded a sleigh that we’ll need to haul hay when the snow comes, the few clothes and other possessions, my saddle and bedrolls, and assorted tools. As I look the tools over, the realization of what they mean starts to settle in. Chopping wood, cutting through the ice so the cattle, horses and ourselves will have water, bale hooks for throwing hay bales around. Best not to dwell on it, I think.

The rancher and his wife are driving out in the ranch truck loaded with supplies to stock the shelves of the line shack. George is riding one of the saddle horses and ponying the other. The horses seem to be in good shape and pretty well broke.

Our arrival at the shack late that afternoon was a further awakening to what we’d signed on for. Situated near a wide creek stood a weather beaten structure sheathed in shiplap which had been haphazardly covered in tarpaper. A board and batten door not looking too secure, a small window with a cracked pane, and a rusting stove pipe sticking through a roof of curling cedar shakes. The first thing I noticed when entering was the strong smell of packrat and could see several places that the floor would need patching to keep them out.

Oh well, the stove seems in good shape. We throw our gear on the bunks, one on either side of the 10 by 12 room. George points out the rickety table that has pulled away from the wall where it had been attached, the two chairs appear to be okay. A quick look at the supplies heaped on the counter and floor and we go out to inspect the corral and huge stackpile of good looking hay. It’s easy to see where the ranchers’ priorities lay. The corral is also in good shape. 

The cattle will arrive in a couple of days so we use the time to try and get the place into some kind of order and agree on a day about change of cooking and feeding the horses.

George had brought an apple box of his possessions and when he unpacked it out came a small portable windup gramophone and a few records. He set about building a shelf on which he sat it and immediately placed on it what was his favourite record. After winding it up I was treated to Hank Snow singing a song I’ll never forget. It is burned into my brain forever.

George and I got along fairly well, both pulling our weight.

After our supper we’d fill the gas lantern with gas, pump it up with air, light it (being careful of the mantle) and when the pressure dropped and the light became dim it was bedtime. George would play his records over and over, in particular the one of Hank Snow singing. “Over the hill down by the stream soon I’ll be back where I can dream back in my old prairie home.”  I had to bite my tongue not to comment on the repetitiveness of the song and create a problem. We had to share this small space and work together in harmony.

It was along in the spring and calving was in full swing which meant you were up most of the night checking on them. It seemed to me I had barely shut my eyes from spending the night helping a couple of first time heifers calf out when I woke to the sound of, you guessed it, Hank!

George, busy making our standard fare of oatmeal mush and feeling in need of song, had wound it up to listen as he was bent over the stove stirring the pot of gruel. That’s when cabin fever struck.

I reached up above my bunk and lifted down my 22 calibre carbine from the pegs on the wall, sat up, brought the butt up to my shoulder and thumbed back the hammer, took careful aim at the revolving record and squeezed the trigger.

The room echoed with the flat crack from my gun. The record shattered in pieces. George spun around from the stove staring at me as I replaced the gun on its pegs, and then at the pieces of his favourite record scattered on the floor. We glowered at each other for seconds, spoke not a word. I lowered myself down in my bunk while George turned back to his stirring. Over the next few weeks while we finished the calving, we didn’t have a lot to say to each other. George would stare at his gramophone and finger the groove in the felt of the turntable, shake his head, mumble a few cuss words in my direction.

When we moved the herd back to the home ranch I collected my pay, ready to head home to hot baths, clean clothes, and mom’s cooking.

I found George, mumbled an apology, shook his hand and offered to pay for the record. He just shook his head and said, “Blame it on cabin fever.”