Howard Pepper 1918
My father had a ranch twenty miles southeast of Havre. He was born in 1898 and lived his life as if the world had stopped around 1930. Many of the following events can be attributed to that fact.
On a July weekend in 1962, I was excited to learn that we were going fishing on the Missouri River. The members of the party were my dad, Howard, my brother-in-law, Jack, and me, Bob. I am ashamed to say that I was quite excited that my older brother, Bill, was not on the roster. The mission was simple: My dad wanted to catch the mighty sturgeon. He had tried and failed before.
My father met a rancher on a trip to sell cattle in Sioux City. He had invited us to fish a private stretch of the river bordering his ranch. We would have the place all to ourselves. Best of all, Al had caught several large sturgeon there.
Father treated the trip like a military expedition. We packed an enormous WWII Army tent, large enough for three army cots and two large coolers—one intended for fish fillets and the other for food and beer. This was put in the back of a dirty GMC four-wheel-drive pickup.
I was put on worm detail, which is not bad if you know where to look. I was given a Folgers coffee can which I filled with dirt. Since we were on our ranch, I knew there was an ample supply of worms under cow patties. The small pasture with our milk cows was the perfect spot. You just had to make sure they were dry. The worms crawled in the dirt and pale grass when you flipped it over. It only took an hour, then the can was full.
After I returned, I put the can in the barn to keep it cool. Jack and my dad were fixing the fences in the east pasture. I could have goofed off by going to the creek to set off the rest of my fireworks, but I was promised something spectacular today.
Jack and my dad returned on schedule at noon. On our ranch, we ate breakfast, dinner, and supper, not the fancy town labels of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
He asked me, “Is the can full?”
I nodded.
Dad looked at Jack. “You coming to dinner?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got some things to do first.”
He stayed at the barn for a few minutes, messing around with his tackle. I hung around to see what he was doing. We split the load and carried everything to the pickup. We headed to the house for a dinner of baked ham, potatoes, and corn.
Upon our return to the barn, my dad disappeared for a few minutes. He went to the pickup and looked in the bed. “Jack, get another bucket and your net.”
Jack looked puzzled, but he would not question my dad.
Jack’s dad was not around. He grew up poor and dropped out of high school.
He always said, “Howard was the first person who believed in me.”
He told me this story: “I came out to the ranch to help with the hay. I told my mom I would work Howard into the ground. Instead, it was the other way around—by noon, I was ready to quit when he was just starting. He didn’t give me lip, just told me to show up the next day.”
Jack tossed the bucket and net into the pickup. We headed south to the largest beaver dam on our property. My dad got out of the pickup to survey the pond to make sure the beavers were in their den. The beaver’s pond kept water in the stream all summer. He didn’t want to kill his engineers.
Jack got out and took out the set lines, the net, and the can of worms. He handed me a bucket. He walked up next to my dad and started baiting the hooks on the set lines.
Dad turned to look at him and asked, “What the hell are you doing?”
Jack looked astonished and replied, “I’m baiting the hooks so we can catch some suckers for tomorrow.”
“We don’t have all day to sit here and fish for suckers! We have another mile of fence to go.”
My dad took out a half stick of dynamite from the pocket of his overalls. He prepared the fuse with his cigarette in one hand. Jack just stared. My dad crimped the fuse into the detonator with his teeth to finish the job. He put the detonator in the dynamite, lit the fuse, and tossed it into the pond.
There was a thud—a column of water shot straight up from the pond. It was shortly followed by dozens of stunned fish rising to the surface. Dad told me to grab the buckets with water so we could keep the suckers alive. He grabbed the net and began to fill the buckets with suckers, throwing any trout back. Jack stood there stunned. The promise was kept—it was spectacular!
We drove back to the barn, unloaded the buckets of fish and the worms. Dad and Jack left for another afternoon of fencing. I hung around the barn and played with the fish.
The night was a whirlwind of activity. My mother made ham sandwiches and potato salad, so the air was full of the scent of mustard and horseradish. My dad was outside checking off items as Jack loaded the pickup. I had finished filling my little backpack, so I was staying as small as possible to avoid being drawn into the melee. Finally, they got down to the tackle.
Dad seemed obsessed with the sinkers, having fished this spot before. He said, “Is that all the heavy sinkers we have? We’re going to lose some.”
Jack replied, “We can stop at a hardware store to get more.”
“Not a chance. Nothing will be open on the way. Go see Shorty, he’ll have some we can borrow.”
When Jack returned, my dad was finally happy with the tackle. He said, “Everyone hit the sack. We leave at two tomorrow.”
I thought, “Wow, that’s getting up three hours early.”
I woke to the smell of bacon and eggs. We ate, then piled into the bench seat of the truck. I was the designated gear shifter, being in the middle. Even with that duty and the bumpy ride of a dirt road, I was asleep in minutes.
I woke up when we stopped in Fort Benton for gas. I always loved sleeping through a trip. I didn’t have to be bored looking at the endless plains or listening to adults talk about crops or weather. I was at the ranch one minute and at the destination the next.
We went down the highway until my dad suddenly turned onto a bumpy dirt road. A recent rain had made small lakes along it. My dad was excited, “This rain will make the trout come out. We can cast lines for the sturgeon, and Bob can fish along the bank.”
After two miles, we found the spot with three tall cottonwoods on the bank. We quickly set up camp, pitching the tent in the grass behind the trees. I had never seen a river so big. It dwarfed the Milk River in Havre. The water was light blue and clear. White clay banks rose across from the river, reminding me of the White Cliffs of Dover I had seen pictured in a book.
Father said, “Bob, make the fire the way I taught you.”
I gathered stones, setting them in a circle. I stacked kindling, then ran to my father, asking, “Can I use your Zippo lighter?” Once the fire was going, I got out his blackened camp percolator to make some coffee. Jack and Dad had finished baiting the set lines, fastening large steel nuts to the end. They cast them out lasso-style, then came over to the fire for coffee.
While they drank coffee, I was setting up my fishing pole. I was told to fish down the stream from the cottonwoods so our lines wouldn’t cross. My casts weren’t great, so I was after trout and bass. I had already hooked supper while they were finishing a second cup of coffee. It was a nice twelve-inch trout.
I called out, “Look what I’ve caught while you guys are slacking.”
My dad answered, “Nice fish.”
Jack ran to the bank to set up on his fishing pole. My dad followed. While they were setting up, I caught a bass—something we never saw in our creek. Jack and Dad were after sturgeon. I watched as they cast their lines and the weights splashed in the middle of the river.
Suddenly, I heard Jack say, “You got a big one, Howard. Don’t let him snap the line.”
I stuck the handle of my pole in the mud and rushed over. Dad’s fishing pole was nearly bent in half. He was struggling to adjust the drag on the reel so the fish could run out.
He yelled, “Jack, come over and help me!”
In turn, Jack yelled, “Bob, come grab my pole!”
I took the pole from Jack and watched as the two of them struggled to keep the fish on the line. They had just finished with the reel when the fish made a hard run. The line screamed off the pole, then slowed. Dad pulled back on the pole so he could reel the line back in.
“Damn, it’s like pulling a truck out of mud,” he said.
I handed Jack’s fishing pole back to him.
He called out, “Howard, just keep him on the line! I know he’ll tire out before you do.”
Every time Dad made some progress, the fish made another run. The battle lasted an hour until he finally dragged the fish onto the shore. It was a seven-foot lake sturgeon. To my eyes, it was as big as a whale. I noticed Dad limping as he and Jack pulled the sturgeon closer to the camp. I thought he had twisted his ankle.
Jack said, “We should have brought a bigger scale.”
Dad replied, “I should have brought the camera.”
After they got the sturgeon safely next to the fire, Jack and Dad pulled the set lines in. There were several large catfish on the lines along with a school of suckers. We kept the catfish and put the suckers in the bait buckets.
They continued casting. Jack had something on the hook, but it was so big it broke the line before he could land it. They lost weights on snags like my dad promised. We stopped to have Mom’s sandwiches for dinner at two o’clock.
By now, my dad had settled into his chair because it was hot. His line was still in the water. The air was still—the waves of heat distorted the air above the pickup truck. I had taken off my shoes and rolled up my pants so I could wade through the water to cool off.
Jack was so excited by Dad’s catch that he did not seem affected by the heat. Still, he took time to have a rock skipping contest with me. We finished the day fly fishing for trout and bass. By the end of the day, we had enough fish for supper.
I went out to get more firewood, while they filleted the fish to pack in the cooler. I walked to a dead tree at the bottom of a hill. The grass here was brittle and brown, crunching underfoot — not like the green grass at the bank. I skirted some tumbleweeds to get at the dead limbs piled below the tree. As I was picking up branches, I heard the distinct rattle of an angry snake. My heart skipped a beat. I slowly backed away, then turned and ran back to the camp for backup.
I said, “There’s a snake by the firewood.”
Jack answered, “I’ll help you. Let’s scare that snake off!”
We went back to the tree. We found the snake by the firewood and threw small stones at it. The snake coiled—striking again and again. Finally, one of my stones struck the snake on the head.
Jack yelled, “Good shot!”
“Yes!” I exclaimed.
The snake decided we had made our point. It retreated toward a boulder on the hill. Jack and I gathered up the firewood and returned to camp.
We built a nice fire. At times, the smoke swirled around us, the smell sticking to our clothes. The sparks rose into the star-filled sky. My dad was in a great mood. Cans of beer were opened. I even got to take a sip. We sat mesmerized by the fire.
I said, “I wonder if this is how the Indians felt at night.”
My father laughed. “I know they worshiped with tobacco.” He lit a cigarette with the end of a burning stick. “All that’s gone now.”
Jack stretched. “We wouldn’t be camped here if it weren’t gone.”
I said, “I was scared today when you had to sit down. I’ve never seen you limp like that.”
“I hurt my bad leg landing that fish, Bob.”
“I didn’t know you had a bad leg. I know you had polio. Is that why it’s bad?”
“No. I was out in the west pasture riding Dusty. A snake scared him, he reared and fell on his side. He broke my leg.”
“Did you ride him home?”
“He got up and moved away. I had to whistle-call him back. I hooked my arm through the stirrup and told him to go home.
“Wow, did Mom take you to the hospital?”
“Your mother and I weren’t married then. I crawled to the pickup and drove myself in. I was lucky it was my right leg; otherwise, I couldn’t have pushed the clutch.”
“I don’t like snakes!” I said.
“Neither do I,” Dad replied.
We waited until the flames died down, then roasted some of the trout we caught. I was in heaven! I felt grown up. I was part of the conversation with two men. After a few hours, I went to bed, making sure Dad checked the tent for snakes.
He told me, “Goodnight.”
I told him that I loved him.
When the morning broke, I got up and left the tent. Mist rose from the water as the sun crested the bluffs to the southeast. Across the river, a small herd of deer was drinking at the bank.
Jack said, “Look, that’s a blue heron next to the deer.”
I heard the songs of the meadow lark and sparrows in the tree above us. It was going to be a great day.
As the mist cleared, it was Jack’s turn to land the big one. He struggled to bring the fish in between the cottonwood trees but couldn’t do it. It fought harder than the sturgeon. It made a run east down the river. Jack followed, still trying to land it.
As my dad watched him disappear, he laughed and said, “He’ll never land that fish!”
He ended up a mile down the river before he pulled the tired fish in. Dad and I waited for his return.
I looked at Dad. “Think he landed it?”
“Don’t think so.”
We stood waiting.
Suddenly, Dad said, “Look, he’s coming back empty-handed.”
I turned and squinted down the river—I was disappointed to see him walking back without the fish or pole.
“Dad, the fish took his pole!”
Jack must have seen us staring at him because he began to shout and wave. We ran down the beach.
“I’m going to need help to bring it back.”
My dad panicked. “Is it a sturgeon?”
“No, it is the biggest catfish I have ever seen!”
It was indeed the biggest catfish any of us had ever seen. It was five feet long and must have weighed one hundred pounds. Jack and my dad each hooked a hand into its gills to drag it back to camp. Jack spent the morning skinning and filleting it.
This was the final big fish of the trip. Dad got his sturgeon, and Jack got a monster catfish. We packed up camp in the afternoon and left for home. I stayed awake due to the excitement.
Jack said, “Nobody is going to believe how big my fish was.”
Dad sighed, “Should have brought the camera.”
I added, “And a bigger scale.”
We rode in silence for a while.
Suddenly Jack got excited, “We should come back next year with a boat!”
My dad smiled. “If we have a good crop, I just might buy a boat.”
My eyes widened. “If you get a boat, can I come?”
He smiled even more. “Sure you can come.”
When we got back, Jack and Dad told everyone who would listen the story of the two biggest fish we every caught. That year, we had a good harvest. I thought a new boat was on the horizon.
Then one day a neighbor came to visit. When he didn’t find my dad at the house, he walked to the barn. He found him slumped over a feed stall, the sack of grain on the floor. My mother was at work when she got the call. We rushed over to the hospital. He was in critical condition.
After recovering, he was so weak that the neighbors had to help run the farm. A horrible blizzard in January 1965 convinced him that he needed to retire.
Jack and my sister moved to Libby, Montana, in the spring of 1965. His mother and brothers were already there. We went west for a two-week visit. My mother loved the area.
She said, “I hate the stark landscape in Havre. Libby has everything: mountains, woods, lakes, rivers, and streams. With the dam coming in, they will need teachers. I think we should move here.”
She liked it so much that she made my dad look for a smaller ranch to retire to. They found one that seemed perfect with two meadows, a log house, and two barns.
They sold the Havre ranch to the neighbors later that week. My dad cried when we left two weeks later. He felt it was rushed. He had worked that land for forty years. He stopped at the county road and looked back at the buildings. He liked the Libby ranch, but he felt diminished. He said, “It’s a gentleman’s spread—just thirty head of cattle and some hay.”
My brother and I loved it. We would hike to the top of the mountain behind the ranch. To the west, you could see the streams and valleys of the foothills from our mountain to the top of the Cabinet Mountain Wilderness Area. The forest stretched in every direction. Bill and I thought it was mysterious. One day we found a small valley with a grove of old-growth trees. A small stream ran through the valley. The trees were so tall and thick that they cut out the sunlight. Nothing grew below the trees. The ground was carpeted by years of falling needles. It was eerily still.
I said to my brother, “It’s like a church or a cathedral.”
We named it Cathedral Valley. I used it as a place to escape.
The Libby ranch was small, but too much for Dad to handle. One day, as we were climbing aboard the bus, a teacher pulled Bill and me aside.
She said, “Your father had a stroke. Your mother is on her way to the hospital.”
Dad ended up sitting in a chair paralyzed on his right side for the few remaining years of his life. I spent many of those days sitting in Cathedral Valley thinking of all the years with my dad when he was well. We finally sold the Libby ranch and moved to town.
In the end, we never got that boat.
Pepper Pages 