Mad Cows, Crazy Ladies, and Fishing…

By Dennis Kreutz

While visiting in my home town of Pendleton Oregon a few years ago I had a chance to go out to the rural house where I grew up. Most of what I saw was the same as I remembered it from my childhood. The most obvious difference being that it seemed that somehow the Umatilla River that ran behind our house had moved about a mile closer to the back yard. Now, I remember making that hike from the house to the river just about every day in the summer, and it was a long, long way to go fishing, or swimming, or just goofing around on a hot summer day. But now looking across the pasture, it seemed the river was only about half the distance it used to be; go figure.

It now looks like just an enjoyable walk through a well kept horse pasture to the river, with some kids and their riding ponies to watch you. Well I’ll tell you what; it wasn’t like that when I was a kid. Nope, back then you stowed your lunch and fishing gear carefully inside the Army surplus canvas knapsack, tied the fishing rod sections together with string so you wouldn’t lose any in case you had to run, then started sneaking through the fences and tall grass in the pasture. Walking slowly, and sometimes crawling,  keeping a close eye on the herd of Black Angus cattle that roamed the pasture, and Killer the huge Bull that reigned over everything within sight. Now I’m not sure you know it, but it was common knowledge in our neighborhood: Black Angus cattle are genetically engineered to chase anyone carrying a fishing rod.

On a good day we’d get about 2/3 of the way across the pasture before the cattle would spot us, raise their tails straight in the air, start bellowing at the top of their lungs, and the entire herd would run right towards us, with Killer lumbering along behind. We’d make a mad dash for the trees which lined the river, leaping for the lower branches of the first tree we reached that would support our weight, and climb as high as possible before those crazy cattle could get us. Then the Black Angus would circle the tree, Killer snorting and pawing the ground, daring us to come down.

We’d stay up there, yelling insults at them, and if we’d been fortunate enough to pick a Crabapple tree to climb, then we’d pelt them with half eaten apples, after we’d taken a couple bites.

Thinking back now I’m pretty sure those crafty cows herded us towards Crabapple trees to climb into. That way we’d throw them down apples to eat, and they’d watch us get violent stomach cramps from eating the apples ourselves. I’m just going to have to think that one through for awhile, doesn’t seem right that a cow could be smarter than an 8 year old, but then again thinking about my kids at that age...

Pretty soon Killer and the rest of the herd would wander off, pretending to have forgotten about us sitting up there, and we’d be fooled into climbing down and trying to make it to the closest fishing hole. About the time we’d sneak 20 feet or so, we’d hear Killer charging though the brush heading back towards the tree we’d been in. Most of the time we’d be able to get away by running to the river and jumping in, but sometimes it was back up a tree for another hour. As I remember it now, having an epic adventure on the way to the fishing hole, like being chased by animals too dangerous to be sent to Mexico and used in the bullrings, sure did make the fishing more fun when we finally got to do it.

One time my friend and I got chased up a tree, out-waited the beasts, then climbed down and were making our way towards the river, when we heard a tremendous snort from right behind us and found out that Killer had snuck up on us. We raced down the trail, with him gaining on us from behind, and when we got to where the trail met the river’s edge there was a big log spanning the river. My friend was in front and he ran straight out onto the log, with me close behind.

Killer stopped on the bank, calling us all kinds of names in cow talk, but wouldn’t step a foot onto the log so we were safe. Just then my friend, leaning against a dead branch on the log for support, let out a yell as the branch broke off and about a hundred huge black wasps came out of the hole where the branch had been, looking like they’d been shot into the sky with a cannon. In a second about 20 of those wasps turned in perfect V formation, and dived straight to my friend’s shirtless back, raising ugly red welts everywhere they stung him. He leapt into the water on one side of the log, and I jumped, unstung, feet first into the other side.

I had no idea what he was going to do, but I hung onto my fishing rod and swam under water, downstream, for as long as I could hold my breath. We both came to the surface about 100 feet from the log, and looking back we could see the swarm of angry wasps still buzzing around above the log, so it was back to swimming under water until we made it around the bend in the river.

That was another adventure that surely heightened the memories of a good fishing day, and I do mean good, because as soon as I was sure that the wasps weren’t going to find us I stood up and started fishing from where’d we’d stopped in the middle of the river, and soon was hooking into some big Rainbows that were lying in the shade of the overhanging grass along the banks. The only problem was, I had to keep asking my friend to stop whining so loud about the 20 wasp stings on his back; he was scaring the trout.

Another favorite fishing spot was The Big Hole, which was by far the best fishing around, but it was also the most dangerous to get to. It was so stressful to go there and back, and we’d get so worked up talking about risking our lives to catch a couple of fish.... actually a lot of fish.... and the biggest fish around.... and the hardest fighters.... they leaped like Steelhead.... that we’d only put our lives on the line once or twice a week to fish it. The problem with getting there and back was we had to go right past the Crazy Lady’s house. Now, whenever we worked up the courage to go to The Big Hole, it involved a lot of preparation. It was quite a ways away so we’d always go there by bike. First we’d make sure the bikes were in top running condition, everything well oiled, the screws and bolts all tightened down, handle bars adjusted, fishing gear strapped on tight, and for sure we’d remove the playing cards we’d connected to the frame with wooden clothes pins so the cards would make noise when the tire spokes hit them. To go past the Crazy Lady’s house meant we’d be in stealth mode, or die.

We’d ride up the dirt road to a spot just before crossing in front of her property, stop, nod to each other that we were ready to go, and then start peddling up the far side of the road from the Crazy Lady’s house as fast as we could. It was all out concentration, trying to focus on chuckholes or rocks in the road that might throw us off our bikes, but still watching for danger approaching from the house. Nearly every time, just as we’d get to the gate leading to her yard, we’d hear her screaming “get ‘em”, “get out there and get ‘em”! Around the corner of the house, bounding across the weed patch of a yard, and clearing the dilapidated picket fence in an effortless bound would charge her two huge Great Danes.

We knew that the trick to survival was to build up enough speed so that the bikes would reach the far edge of her property before the dogs could grab you, pull you off the bike, leap back over the fence with you clamped in their jaws, take you to the dog house, where they eat you, then bury your bones in the yard along with all of the other kids they’d nabbed over the years.

We knew two things for sure. If the dogs ever got you it was all over, and that for some reason the dogs followed a rule that they could not chase us outside of the property boundaries. Every time but once we made it without them catching us. That one time we made the usual heart-stopping race across the front of the Crazy Lady’s property, but this time as we got to where the gate was located, both dogs were already out in the road waiting for us. There was nothing to do but keep riding as fast as we could, but as my friend was going past them one of the dogs leaped for him, going right over the top of his head, missing him completely. He was so startled that he slammed on his brakes, pitched right over the handlebars, and rolled up the road still hanging onto his bike. When he stopped rolling, and went to climb back on his bike, he was eye-ball to eye-ball with one of the Great Danes. I continued to ride as fast as I could while looking back over my shoulder, seeing him for what I assumed was the last time.

He managed to get away and we made it to The Big Hole, but I never learned how he escaped. When I went around the corner he had still been standing there, holding his bike between him and the Great Danes, and later he refused to talk about it. In fact he didn’t talk to me much at all for a long time after that day, something about abandoning him to the enemy or some such junk. I do remember the fishing that day being twice as good as any other at The Big Hole. That was probably because I was forced to fish for the two of us nearly all day, because my friend was shaking too bad to hold onto his fishing rod, and I had to cover for him. You wouldn’t want to risk your life, then not get in a whole day of fishing, right?