Wyoming Ranch Girl: A Journey Seeking Respect, Security, and Solace

By Cynthia Galey Peck

It was 1945 when three-year-old Cynthia traveled with her father and mother to create their home on his family’s working and dude ranch, nestled under Buck Mountain in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. For little Cindy, White Grass Ranch became a magical spot within an easy horseback ride to sparkling glaciated lakes and wildlife habit. A resourceful only child, her prominent childhood teachers and friends were the animals on the ranch and in the surrounding mountains. Her horse, Eva, provided her with the means to travel deep into the wildnerness, where she believed God must have lived.

In a fascinating retelling of her childhood experiences on the ranch, Cynthia shares true stories that reveal insight into her unique coming-of-age journey as she embraced Wyoming’s resourceful spirit. While dealing with flawed parent-child relationships, she details how she developed a variety of coping strategies, especially when she learned of a family secret that would change everything and lead her in a new direction.

Wyoming Ranch Girl is a memoir that reveals a girl’s lonely childhood experiences, challenges, and knowledge of animals that eventually brought her to wilderness work and a life of independence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663220509

Cynthia Galey Peck

Cynthia Galey Peck is a former Forest Service employee and the proud mother of two adult children. At age eighty, she now keeps herself occupied by working in her woodshop, taking her pets camping, knitting socks and sweaters, making clothes, and volunteering with the Pleasant Valley Historical Society.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2051-6 (sc)

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Contents

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

List of Photographs

List of Illustrations

List of Characters

Chapter 1: White Grass Ranch, 1945–1950

Eva, My first True Friend

Hammond and Bispham

Winter, A Time of Solitude

Spring

Summers

First Grade

Oma and Opa

Chapter 2: Childhood Challenges

Amiable St. John’s

Attack Walking Home

Daddy’s Little Girl

Chapter 3: Leaving Home, 1952–1957

Sale of the Ranch

Foxhollow School, Autumn 1958–Spring 1961

Tilly, My Companion

Nevis, West Indies

Independence in Philadelphia, Winter 1961–1962

Chapter 4: Practicing Marriage, 1962–1967

Home in an Army Wall Tent

Home at the Fish Hatchery

To Nevis with Infants

Chapter 5: Laramie, 1968

Our Own House, 1969

Mesa Verde Escape

Chapter 6: William King Peck, MD

Back to Rural Living

Pleasant Valley Medical Clinic

The End of an Era

Chapter 7: Pleasant Valley District, 1991–1992

McFadden Horse Trail

Searching for My Birth Certificate

More Adventures Measuring Trails

Chapter 8: Montana Wilderness Summer 1992

Lincoln District

Wilderness Work Begins

Chapter 9: Settling into Wilderness

Will Has Our Backs

Flagging Reroute

Chapter 10: Dogging It

Rambo

Cabin Sweet Cabin

Chapter 11: Gros Ventre Trip with Dad

Riding the Top of the Rockies

Men and Mule Power

Blizzard

Chapter 12: Working a Man’s Job

Achieving Benefits

Living in Ashes

Moonlighting

Chapter 13: Attacked by Cancer

Losing Mom, December 26, 1999

My Forest on Fire, 2002

Bill’s Passing, 2006

Chapter 14: Finding Family

Reflections, 2021

Foreword

Imbedded in the intricacies of a personal journey, this memoir is a wonderful education about prominent families from the East coming to experience the freedom of western culture, with all its mystique, while living as dudes in rustic log cabins with few amenities. In contrast, Cindy was sent to boarding school in Salt Lake City in sixth grade and then to Massachusetts as a teenager and struggled to learn eastern culture with social skills taught to her mostly by her animal companions. Early married life with two children brought difficulties as her husband gave up a stable job with family housing to try to make it as a summer fishing guide, and they and their two children lived in a tent at White Grass and cooked over a campfire. Winters brought unusual hardship for Cindy on the ranch as a child and in other western settings as an adult. This memoir also introduces the reader to the lives of Forestry Service Wilderness rangers in Montana and Arizona, where Cindy worked, typically alone on horseback, pulling mules loaded with tools and supplies in the backcountry. The last chapter of the book tells the story of Cindy’s reuniting with her family of origin when she was in her seventies, including relationships that have continued.

This memoir is an example that one does not have to succumb to bitterness or fall prey to anger and resentment when faced with deep emotional pain and less-than-helpful relationships with one’s peers or parents. Cindy’s stories exemplify moving around, through, and above disappointment to find first some solace, then peace, and then joy, perhaps components of the life journey for most humans.

Cynthia Galey Peck was the only child of Frank and Inge Galey, who married as Frank was being discharged from the US Army as a pilot at the conclusion of World War II. Shortly thereafter, Frank returned to White Grass to reunite with his mother and assist with the White Grass Ranch operations. He brought with him his new wife, Inge, and their daughter, Cynthia, who was three years old. White Grass became Cindy’s childhood home, and she readily adapted to it and loved it, as it presented her with many fulfilling learning experiences. As she had no siblings and no children to play with, due to the relative isolation of the ranch, her prominent childhood teachers were the animals on the ranch and in the surrounding mountains. Animals became her companions and her consolers when she needed affirmation and support, and believing that animals were honest and always told the truth, unlike people. Her horse, Eva, provided her transportation to travel deep into the mountains, where she believed God must have lived.

Hopefully, this memoir can be a great teacher for all about the triumph of the human spirit in unimaginable ways. Cindy had many triumphs in parenting her children into adulthood; leaving one marriage for the support of another that gave her permission to be who she wanted and needed to be; returning to school in her fifties as preparation for her lifelong pursuit (i.e., having a career that could support her independently); and finding profound affirmation as a woman and a person when her biological siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins invited her in as family after she wrote letters of inquiry to find possible family matches.

Cindy continues to maintain loving relationships with her two adult children. Tami has a physical disability as a result of a not-her-fault vehicle accident and endured a tragic end to her marriage. She has since carved out a successful career working for the federal government in the West. David fought his way through dyslexia and, as a late teenager, endured a tough summer of working for his grandfather and his grandfather’s second wife at White Grass. David is now a successful river guide in the Northwest and a successful working artist. His illustrations appear throughout his mother’s memoir.

Cindy became a friend and colleague as I spearheaded an effort to establish the White Grass Heritage Project, a multiyear project designed to document and archive the history of White Grass back to its inception in 1913. Cindy and I have talked for hours about ranch history and the significance the ranch has had on her and her family, staff, and guests, who often returned to the ranch season after season. Cindy’s support in this endeavor has been invaluable. More important and humbling was the profound experience Cindy afforded me as she shared many stories of her life’s journey.

I encourage all to come to know Cynthia Galey Peck in the chapters that follow. By doing so, you may become wiser, and your personal journey may become richer. My journey certainly has.

So, to Cindy, I say thank you. To the reader, I say ready yourself to find joy, laughter, tears, the thrill of triumph amid heartbreak, and the rewards of being a decent human while listening, as best as one can, to guidance from the guiding spirit.

Roger Butterbaugh, PhD

Marriage and family therapist, retired

Caretaker at White Grass Ranch 2011–2018

Coordinator of the White Grass Heritage Project

For more about Cynthia Galey Peck and the White Grass Ranch, visit www.whitegrass.org, which contains many ranch photos, family stories, and oral histories (via print and video) from Cindy, Tami, David, and many others.

Preface

I didn’t think my life was interesting and certainly never thought of writing about it until talking to friends. Questions came up, How did you know how to pack a mule? How are you comfortable going into the forest by yourself for days?

Pat and Gordon Sabine were particularly encouraging, both of them had spent a lifetime in the publishing industry, and were amazed at my going alone to Montana for a job with only a horse and mule, living in the Wilderness for days at a time. Aren’t you afraid? they asked. Your life is so interesting; you must write about it. You must journal. I started to write. Pat taught me about using active rather than passing verbs; show, describe rather than tell. Without Pat, I would never have had the courage to write my story.

I feel especially blessed to have lived in spectacular mountains, Jackson Hole, Wyoming against the Teton Mountains. White Grass ranch was the only home I remember as a child. It is nestled under Buck Mountain. For me it was a magical spot within an easy horseback ride to sparkling glaciated lakes and wildlife habitat. The ranch, homesteaded by my grandfather starting in 1913 was in a natural sagebrush meadow surrounded by lodgepole pine forest sprinkled with a few Douglas fir. In 1990 it was listed in the National Register of Historic Places and in 2005 it became the Western Center for Historic Preservation training facility.

I honored the freedom to have friends among the ranch animals - horses, cows, chickens, cats and dogs. The horses became my siblings as I had no others. Many Days I explored as far as my horse and I could go and still be back at the barn before the horses were turned loose. I climbed to the cirque between Static Peak and Buck Mountain, followed Park trails to the lakes or followed game trails throughout the foothills watching elk and moose, occasionally coming close to black or grizzly bears. I felt especially at home in the forest with the wild animals, though I always respected their space.

I feel fortunate that I grew up in a state that respected women as they were an essential part of settling it. Wyoming Territory was the first to vote for women’s suffrage, appoint and vote women into public office. Jackson, the nearest town to the ranch, was the first to vote in an all-women-town council. Not only were these women in public view, but many were so strong that they held ranches and families together through wild west times; their example influenced me. I only knew strong women and I wanted to be one.

Writing has been a trek with many stops and starts, stumbles and falls, as my life also has had many stumbles and falls, I determinedly picked myself up and found a way to continue towards finding life’s rewards and joy.

My wish is that my readers find something helpful to their life’s journey, in the following pages, finding rewards and joys of their own.

Cynthia Galey Peck

Acknowledgments

In addition to Pat and Gordon’s inspiration, there are too many friends and family members to enumerate. They have continued to support and encourage my writing journey by asking pertinent questions and making germane comments. I send thanks to those family and friends for their unwavering encouragement. Special thanks for your extraordinary assistance in completing this book:

Barbara Richards

Bernie Huebner

Bill Peck

David Kinker

Judith Schmitt

Karen King

Kathy Hunt

Roger Butterbaugh

Marilyn Freegard

Tamara Densmore

In rememberance of Oma, my maternal grandmother, I have used her painting of White Grass Ranch on the cover.

The Will James drawing of a pack train, seen on the first and last pages, was drawn by Will James for my grandparents and used on White Grass’s advertising brochures, a piece of history I wish to honor.

David Kinker, my thoughtful and talented son, drew the illustrations of my treasured items for each chapter heading.

I am thankful for you all,

Cindy

List of Photographs

From the Galey Family Archives

1. Harold Hammond in front of the Main Cabin with the resident antelope herd, 1920s.

2. White Grass barn, built in 1913, the hub of ranch activity.

3. Haying at White Grass with horses and manpower.

4. White Grass barn. Loading hay into the barn loft.

5. White Grass barn in winter, with a few cows waiting to be fed.

6. Inge, Frank, and Cynthia in Carlsbad, New Mexico, 1943.

7. Cynthia and Frank in Carlsbad, 1944.

8. Frank and Inge Galey’s first summer as owner-operators, 1945.

9. Inge and Cynthia in sleigh with team, Snip and Bess, going for the mail.

10. Cynthia fishing at Jackson Lake.

11. The Galey family Christmas card with Little Man and ducks.

12. Marion Hammond’s sitting room in the Hammond cabin.

13. A cocktail party on the Galeys’ front porch.

14. The Galey house in summer.

15. The Galey house in winter.

16. Hammond cabin with dudes and horses. The porch to the right enters Marion’s sitting room.

17. Wrangling horses from the field, with cabin, Static Peak and Buck Mountain in the background.

18. Wrangling horses in, with the Main Cabin.

19. White Grass Pond with riders, with Grand Teton in the background.

20. White Grass pack trip into the Tetons behind Mount Hunt.

21. Cynthia with another Little Man and Dudy.

22. Wanda and Ottmar Freitag (Oma and Opa to Cynthia). Wanda is painting the picture that is the cover of this book.

23. Cynthia and Jim Kinker’s wedding at the Chapel of Transfiguration, Moose, Wyoming.

24. Cynthia and Jim at the reception in the Main Cabin, White Grass.

25. Inge with Tami and David on the steps at Golden Rock, Nevis, West Indies.

26. Cynthia and Jim with Tami, David, and their dog, Gina.

27. Inge with Tami and David at the Crenshaw ranch in Bondurant, Wyoming.

28. Cynthia and Bill Peck wed, with Tami, David, and the dog, Gina.

29. Granny Jones’s kitchen in the cabin that Cynthia and Bill bought in Young, Arizona.

30. Cynthia and Bill in front of their barn in Young.

31. Cynthia backpacking in Death Canyon on her way to Alaska Basin and Cascade Canyon.

32. Cynthia backpacking the five-day trip through Paria Canyon from Utah to Marble Canyon, Arizona.

33. Cynthia riding on her grandmother’s side saddle for Pleasant Valley Days in Young, Arizona.

34. Webb Lake cabin in the Scapegoat Wilderness, Montana. The cabin was Cynthia’s primary place to stay while working in the Scapegoat Wilderness.

35. Cynthia riding and maintaining the Continental Divide Trail in the Scapegoat Wilderness, Montana.

36. Cynthia with tools to remove downed trees from a trail, Lincoln Ranger District, Montana.

37. Cynthia in chaps, duster, and hat.

38. Cynthia with the timber-marking crew, Payson, Arizona.

39. Wilderness Ranger Cynthia in Sierra Ancha Wilderness, first year in Tonto National Forest, Young, Arizona.

40. Cynthia packing the rehabilitation trail crew into the Four Peaks Wilderness, Arizona.

41. Exploring to find an alignment for the Arizona Trail.

42. Cynthia leading volunteer trail workers on the Arizona Trail alignment to build the trail.

43. Cynthia supervising volunteer workers building a stable trail at a water crossing.

44. Cynthia with volunteers at the trail camp she set up and organized, 2007.

45. The Casita, where Cynthia lived for two years while her cabin was being built, 2014.

46. Cynthia’s cabin, her happy nest, in Young, Arizona, 2016.

47. At the White Grass reunion, Judy Schmitt and Rachel Trahern.

48. White Grass reunion in front of the barn that had been moved south of Wilson, Wyoming.

49. Cynthia with her sisters Shirley and Marilyn, 2015.

50. Cynthia with her brother, Dick, and sister-in-law, Robin, 2015.

51. Cynthia’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration with her son, David, and daughter, Tami, 2017.

Maps

Hand drawn by Cynthia

1. White Grass Ranch, Moose, Wyoming.

2. Scapegoat Wilderness, Lincoln District, Helena National Forest, Montana.

List of Illustrations

Pen-and-ink drawings by David Kinker

List of Characters

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CHAPTER 1

White Grass Ranch,

1945–1950

In October 1945, at age three, my parents, Frank and Inge Galey, I arrived at the base of the Teton Mountains, a place of outstanding beauty in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, a place that was frequented by elk, black bears, grizzlies, coyotes, and wolves. The cold weather had already arrived when we came home to Dad’s family ranch, White Grass Ranch.

In the log cabin’s living room, my playpen was the big pole couch. I stayed on its twin-mattress seat with back-rest cushions in front of the river-rock fireplace which emanated the only heat in the room. The cabin, couch and fireplace were all built by Grandpa Hammond. Mom would get angry if I was on the freezing floor. She thought my getting cold would make me sick.

I remember Dad carried me on his hip, supported by his strong arm, into the dark barn, which was filled with new and interesting odors and animals. He held me up to meet Molly and Queenie, the huge sorrel workhorses. Molly’s shiny brown eyes with long black lashes fascinated me. In exploration, I put my finger in one of her eyes. She threw her head and scared me, but Dad told me to speak gently, be calm, and move with slow purpose around the horses. Soon, I was introduced not only to the horses but to dogs, cows, calves, and barn cats that became my playmates and friends. The four-legged ones were my siblings. I don’t have other memories of my first year at White Grass.

Our second winter on the ranch, we were in the Hammond cabin, a log structure Grandpa Hammond built for himself and my grandmother, Marmie. Since it was built for year-round living, unlike the dude cabins, it had a kitchen, a living room, and three bedrooms. It also had a large covered porch facing south, overlooking the field. Our pigs, Porgy and Bess—Dad named them after Gershwin’s 1935 opera—enjoyed the food scraps Mom threw out the kitchen window to them. Porgy and Bess were free-roaming and clean, never smelled, and were friendly.

They would follow us with the dogs to the barn to feed the stock or to the wood pile to fetch firewood.

From the window, I watched the raucous scrub jays come to fight over the small scraps of food Porgy and Bess left behind. My mom, Inge Galey, tired of their constant, harsh calls, but I thought their blue-gray feathers were striking against the crisp sparkling snow. The nearby honeysuckle bush was alive with little black-and-white chickadees who ate the remaining red berries.

The spacious living room had another river-stone fireplace, which Grandfather Hammond had also built. Mom and Dad used the bedroom next to the living room, which acted as a hallway. I had the corner room, the coldest one, just past the bathroom, which had ugly pea-soup-green fixtures but had no water during the freezing winter. The room past mine was Grandma Hammond’s sitting room, which was shut in winter to conserve heat. Northwest Wyoming winters were bitterly cold. The cabins were made of thick logs, but there was no insulation in the floors or ceilings. All the windows were single pane; they collected ice on the inside of the panes.

On bathing day, Mom would put hot water from the stove into the round galvanized wash tub in front of the fireplace. I was washed first and put to bed. Mom would use the same water. Dad received fresh hot water.

One January, I became really sick. The daytime temperatures were below zero. When Dad went outside, he had to wrap a scarf over his nose to prevent his nose hairs from freezing. Mom was afraid to take me by sleigh to see Doc McLeod. So Dad took the team and sleigh to Moose to call the doctor. Doc McLeod skied to the ranch. He listened to my chest and gave me a penicillin shot. Doc McLeod often went on house calls, though maybe not often on skis.

On another snowy day, Dad decided to make bathtub gin. He had a hot concoction on top of the propane kitchen stove. After a time, it boiled over, causing a kitchen fire. With jet speed, Dad dumped a bucket of water onto the stove. Mom cleaned the mess. That was the last time Dad tried to make gin. I think Mom made the decision.

When summer arrived, Mom and Dad focused on gaining clientele to come to the ranch as dudes. Dudes were paying guests who arrived with reservations and were assigned a cabin, served meals, and introduced to the freedoms of western culture, which was filled with horses, wild animals, and leisurely living. Dudes tended to stay for weeks or sometimes months and returned year after year. Dad said that dudes paid better and wintered easier than cattle and horses.

Dad was always busy managing cowboys, animals, and maintenance of the buildings. Mom was busy managing reservations, billing, payroll, the cabin, and the kitchen staff. She also planned menus with Ellen, the cook, each week and ordered staple supplies. The perishables she would pick up in Jackson. With little time for a child, Mom and Dad hired a nanny to care for me. At the end of the dude season, Nanny went to Mom. She said she couldn’t keep up with the rambunctious towheaded four-year-old anymore and wouldn’t be coming back.

Eva, My first True Friend

The following summer, I had a new sitter. She had beautiful, big brown eyes. Her hair shone like gold in the morning sunlight. Eva was a rotund elderly mare who had a flaxen mane and tail. She was chosen because she was calm and reliable. Dad thought if I rode with a saddle, I might tangle my foot in the stirrup and be dragged. Dad lifted me onto Eva bareback. I don’t remember being led.

Pull the reins against her neck like so, Dad said as he demonstrated from the ground. Stop her by pulling on the reins. That’s right. Now take her in a circle here. He pointed.

I rode Eva in a circle to the left and another to the right.

Good girl, he said.

That was my riding lesson. At age four, I was turned loose to explore what I thought was the expanse of the world on Eva. However, my earliest riding was around the 320 ranch acres. I rode to the front gate, to the dump, and back to the barn. Soon I was allowed to go on the dude rides into the mountains.

The following year, I was allowed to explore the trails and woods beyond the ranch fence by myself. Eva always came back to the barn for food. This behavior, called barn sour, served the purpose of her bringing me home with her. If she came back alone, Dad knew to start searching. She was my best friend and always treated me the same no matter my mood. I would go to the barn to see her when the wranglers brought the horses in from the mountain each morning. I would stay with her until she was turned loose in the evening to graze. Everywhere I went, I went with Eva: picnicking at Phelps Lake or Taggart Lake, lazing around the ranch, or taking naps on her as she grazed. I would drape myself over her back with my legs and arms dangling on each side and my face nestled in her mane. I loved the feel of her solid, warm body and her smell of hay, grass, and horse. I don’t know why I didn’t fall off while sleeping on her. I would have brought her into the house, but Mom would have thrown a fit. As it was, I tried to stay in the barn to sleep, which wasn’t acceptable either. I spent all my waking hours with Eva. I would brush her, take her swimming, and try to go on every dude ride.

We explored the forest that surrounded the ranch by ourselves. We followed the riding trails toward Moose and climbed the Teton foothills, following game trails. We were often gone all day. I knew the woods were filled with game, elk, deer, moose, bears, coyotes, and sometimes wolves. Dad told me to watch out for them and never to get between a mother and her young which could be dangerous because mothers were fierce in protecting their young. But the forest made me feel protected by its tall trees. I did not need to share my discoveries with anyone. The woods or barn became more my home than the cabin. I was at peace surrounded by the tall pine trees.

It was a time when I began spreading my wings and felt confident enough to investigate beyond known boundaries. I awoke each morning excited to be on my horse and enjoy the exploration of the mountainside, which satisfied my curiosity. When I saw elk, I would stop and watch, undetected by them. Like the horses, they communicated with body language and showed no mean-spirited actions; they were peaceful and alert to danger. When they detected danger, they ran, often with the bull protecting the back of the herd. They showed me I didn’t have to confront mean-spirited people; instead, I could avoid them.

Hammond and Bispham

As I grew older, I learned that the dude ranch had its beginning in 1913 in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, before Grand Teton National Park was established. My grandfather Harold Hammond was a cowboy from Blackfoot, Idaho, and was well versed in ranch life, hunting, and guiding. George Tucker Bispham was a Rhodes scholar from Philadelphia who came as a dude to Bar BC Ranch to visit his friend Struthers Burt. Hammond and Bispham met at Bar BC Ranch, which was well known as a place where intellectuals, writers, and actors vacationed.

As partners, Hammond and Bispham filed adjoining claims of 160 acres each under the Homestead Act, which was designed to encourage people to move west. Many homesteaders failed because of poor soil or lack of water. But Hammond and Bispham chose well. Their claims included a large natural meadow surrounded by lodgepole pine forests located on a bench under Buck Mountain with Steward Creek nearby, and a mountainside spring was even nearer. The land had good soil covered with sagebrush.

The Homestead Act required the claimant to live on the property and prove it up, so over the next several years, the sagebrush was cleared, and ditches were dug to direct water directed from Steward Creek for irrigation. Fields were planted, harvested, and grazed by cattle. The log barn and cabins were built. In 1923, Hammond and Bispham were awarded ownership. Eventually, Grandfather bought Bispham’s acres. Everywhere I looked, I could see the results of their hard labor. The place filled my chest with joy.

Myth says the area was named White Grass by the Indians who came to hunt in Jackson Hole. It was their meeting place and looked white because of the sage-covered opening that was easily spotted from the valley below. A Clovis point was found near the town of Jackson that confirmed early humans had used Jackson Hole even before the Indians.

Hammond and Bispham’s initial plan was to build a cattle ranch. They chose a brand, H quarter circle B, to mark their cattle and horses. Because of the many friends visiting from the East, the ranch evolved into a dude operation. Hammond and Bispham built more cabins to accommodate visitors. A central lodge was built with a big kitchen and dining room in which to feed the guests. White Grass became a well-known and respected dude ranch.

White Grass dude ranch was a cluster of rental cabins with the added advantage of all meals at the lodge; optional horseback-riding lessons; rides with a wrangler guide; and a beautiful, peaceful, leisurely western setting included in the base price. Nessled in the trees, there was a good amount of distance between the cabins for privacy, and the lodging had wonderful views, often with wildlife grazing in the field. The lodge, called the Main Cabin, exuded western atmosphere; the sitting room had pine-pole couches covered with hides, pole side tables and taxidermy heads of elk, deer and buffalo made by Hammond. The buffalo head hung above the fireplace, which scorched his beard, making him look sad. However, the dudes could see what the native wild animals looked like. The dining room had a large T-shaped table able to seat all the dudes and had miniature Conestoga-wagon lights. Reading books from Bispham’s extensive collection in the library was a favorite pastime. Horses were available for half-day rides or all-day picnic rides. The ranch offered an amazing amount of freedom to the dudes and also to me. As days passed, I might only see my parents at a distance; however, I think, the employees were directed to watch for my safety.

In the early 1930s, the widowed Marion Chandler Galey met Harold Hammond, the dashing cowboy on the Bar BC dude ranch. They were married in 1936 and lived on White Grass. Grandfather Hammond raised silver foxes during World War I. He said the silver foxes helped him keep the ranch. Only three years after they married, Harold died and bequeathed White Grass Ranch to Marion.

Marion’s son, Frank Galey, left Princeton to come west to help manage the ranch in Hammond’s place. Shortly, Frank joined the US Army as war was threatening. Marion Hammond, my grandmother, whom I called Marmie, hired Ollie and Twila Van Winkle to manage the ranch in Frank’s absence. I knew Ollie and Twila when I was very young. As far as I know, Marmie seldom spent a winter on the ranch; instead, she returned to her home in Philadelphia.

Shortly after Frank Galey was discharged from the army in the autumn of 1945, he bought the ranch from his mother for $15,000 and took over the $22,000 mortgage, which in part was the remaining mortgage from when Hammond had purchased White Grass from Bispham. The buildings were in poor repair, and materials were hard to come by after World War II. Dad did the best he could to prepare for the dude season. He continued to raise horses, chickens, cattle, and pigs, but the primary business was the dude operation. At its closing, White Grass was one of the oldest, continuly operated ranches in Wyoming.

—

Besides the ranch culture of freedom and communion with the great outdoors, Wyoming’s culture molded my character. In Wyoming, a person’s worth was measured by the individual’s actions. It became known as the Suffrage State since the 1869 Territorial Legislature was the first to vote to give women suffrage rights. It was the first state to appoint a female judge. In those early days, the ratio of men to women was six to one. The women were also valued because a man was often gone to find employment or herd cattle, leaving a lone woman with children guarding the homestead.

The territory of Wyoming became the forty-fourth state on July 7, 1890. Even though Wyoming was forward-thinking about the rights of women, it was still the Wild West in other aspects. For example, two years after statehood, powerful cattle ranches invaded northern Johnson County. Wyoming historian T. A. Larson called it the most notorious event in the history of Wyoming. Thirteen years after statehood, the incident at Lightning Creek between a sheriff’s posse and the Oglala Sioux killed seven people.

In 1920, Jackson voted in an all-woman town council. The first female mayor of Jackson, Grace Miller, said, The voters of Jackson believe that women are not only entitled to equal suffrage, but are also entitled to equality in management of governmental affairs. In 1925, Wyoming was the first state to vote in a female governor, Nellie Tayloe Ross. This seemed to confirm Mayor Miller’s statement.

Wyoming is still one of the largest states, nearly ninety-eight thousand square miles, though it’s one of the smallest in population (in 2019, the population was still a low 578,759).

Wyoming men needed to be resourceful. Women needed to be courageous. The copyright insignia of Wyoming, a bucking horse and rider, represents Wyoming residents’ rugged, resourceful, and independent spirit. I believe Wyoming’s resourceful spirit influenced my life choices.

Maybe the myth of the ranch as a meeting place was true. Before I started school, Dad held my five-year-old hand as we walked the newly plowed field to check the irrigation ditches. He dragged canvas dams to new locations along the ditch. With a shovel, Dad would set the dams to flood another area. As the water overflowed, the dogs chased the gophers displaced by the irrigation flood. It was a great game for them, even though they never caught a gopher. One day Dad saw a strange shape. He dug it out with his strong, calloused hands to show me. It didn’t look like much, just a longish, rough, rusted object. When we went back to the house, Dad cleaned it. Then it was then recognizable as a hunting kind of knife with silver inlay in the handle. Dad smiled and said it probably had been traded north from Mexico; maybe an Indian had lost his knife at a summer hunting meet at White Grass. This seemed to confirm the myth of White Grass as a meeting place.

Dad seemed glad when I went with him to irrigate, repair plumbing in the cabins, doctor horses, start the diesel generator, milk cows, or feed the stock. To me it was a good time of companionship.

During the winters, we stayed in one of the largest dude cabins, but in the summers, we stayed in whichever cabin wasn’t needed for dude reservations. I was six years old when I went on an all-day ride with a wrangler and several dudes. Afterward, I ran up to the cabin where we were staying, which had only two bedrooms and a bathroom, to tell Mom all about my wonderful day. I busted through the door and faced strangers. I was startled and embarrassed. Where were Mom and Dad? I ran along the central ranch road, screaming for Mom. I was out of breath, hiccupping sobs of fright. I found her in the Main Cabin’s kitchen, sitting at the central work table with the cook, Ellen. She put an arm around my shoulders; her perfume and cigarette smoke drifted around her.

She said, New dudes needed that cabin, so I moved us to cabin number eleven. Cabin number eleven was also a small cabin. As the sweet smell of spices and Ellen’s cooking surrounded me, I calmed down.

As soon as Mom saw Dad, she said, Frank, we have to have our own house. Cindy was hysterical. This child doesn’t know where her home is.

Shortly after, Dad went into the woods and marked the large lodgepole pines he would need for the house. Chain saws sang in the forest, and trees crashed in the precise direction the cuts dictated. Horses puffed, shod hooves dug into the ground for purchase, and logging chains creaked tightly on logs, which were skidded to a pile east of the barn. The foundation for the new house was laid with rock and cement. Two men lifted logs onto sawhorses. Drawknives skidded across them to remove the bark, which had to be done before they were used. In my shorts, I sat astride a log. I would pull a drawknife under the bark toward me. It was a sticky job; the sap made big blisters on my hands. I would be stuck to the logs by the sap on my pants and legs but I was proud to be helping to build our house.

The first few courses were placed by two men lifting the logs. Axes rang as the round notches were cut for the corners. As the walls grew taller, skid logs were leaned against the lower courses. Harnessed with a double-tree block and tackle, amid much shouting, the horses pulled the next log into place. The men, with axes in hand, tightrope-walked on the log wall, chopping a notch to fit the log underneath. When the notch was just right, the log was rolled into place. Skid logs and harnessed horses moved around to the next wall, and the process began again.

By winter 1949, we moved into the Galey house. We had a kitchen, a living room, two bedrooms, and an office—a real home. I had a corner room with an outside door. I had Mom’s special childhood bed from Germany, rather than one of the common pole beds that were in the cabins. I could have possessions, keep them in one place, and enjoy them. I knew where my room was, and it would stay there for me.

Mom and Dad kept open house for dudes and help, which meant everyone was welcome to wonder through the house at all times, but the bedrooms were supposed to be a private area. Dude children also were welcome, but they sometimes came into my room. I had collected butterflies and other bugs and carefully mounted them in shadow boxes, and a dude child crunched them into powder and also damaged my one doll. I didn’t understand; when I visited others homes, I didn’t dream of touching their things. I stopped collecting anything, because I didn’t want the hurt that followed the damage. I liked having my room, but the barn continued to be my rock; it had been solid, unmoving, and unchanging since Dad first introduced me to Molly and Queenie.

Winter, A Time of Solitude

In winter, we had no electricity or running water. We kept our food in an icebox wich was cooled by ice that was collected from a nearby ranch’s pond in early winter. Our meat, usually elk, was hung in quarters on the back porch, where it would stay frozen.