Vacations with Cowboys & Indians : Montana : A catered cattle drive through southeastern ranching country turns city slickers into wranglers.

Once familiar with my horse, I settled into his rhythmic sway along the trail. Swept up by the grandeur of Montana’s big sky, my petty aggravations were left in the dust. Or was it ghosts from the past that cast a spell on me? I imagined Indians on the ridge, watching our slow progress, as they might have done when the first cowboys drove their cattle through this territory a century ago.

Surrounded by a herd of 100 cattle, 10 wranglers and five covered wagons, a group of almost 50 novice cowboys like myself were on a cattle drive in the foothills of prime ranching country in southeast Montana. We had signed up with an outfit called Montana Cattle Drives, which charges city slickers about $1,200 for a chance to spend a summer week in the saddle eating dust, sleeping under the stars, taking in the spectacular scenery, chowing down on western grub and weathering sudden storms. It’s a taste of the now all-but-gone Great American Cattle Drive . . . with Porta Potties provided.

Usually these cattle drives, led by seasoned local ranchers and cowboys, take up to 200 head to summer grazing pastures. In this case, our horseshoe-shaped path took 100 beef-on-the-hoof in a circle from the small town of Broadus and back again, mostly for the benefit of the paying “guests.” But that didn’t make the Old West experience seem any less real. Even with catered meals, showers and tents, by the time we had toughed out six days on the trail, we all felt like real cowboys.

I started my adventure one night last August in Billings, Mont., where I enjoyed the last clean sheets and hot shower I would see in a week at the Ramada Inn. The next morning, I joined the other cattle-drive participants in the hotel lobby. They were a mixed group--old and young, families and couples--from 15 states and three foreign countries.

Many were here to escape the bustle of city life. Five guests from Switzerland were taking a peek into U.S. history. Two couples from New York’s Staten Island were looking apprehensive. And Blaine and Mary Nichols were newlyweds from Canada. “My wife and I met on horseback, and I thought it would be fun to go on a cattle drive for our honeymoon,” said Blaine.

We were greeted by Bob Sivertsen, a Montana cattleman who started up Montana Cattle Drives two years ago after he noticed a growing number of urbanites were having cowboy fantasies. Sivertsen, who has a cheery smile and a prankster’s twinkle in his eyes, personally supervises all his cattle drives.

The group was bused from Billings to the town of Broadus, about four hours southeast, to meet our horses and wranglers. Along the way we stopped on the Crow Indian Reservation at Custer Battlefield National Monument, which memorializes one of the last armed efforts of the northern Plains Indians to preserve their ancestral way of life. A ranger led us on a tour of the battlefield grave sites, explaining the events leading up to Custer’s Last Stand in 1876. I was unprepared for the strong emotional impact of the site; our 60-minute stop was not long enough.

We arrived in Broadus in time for lunch and an opportunity to do some last-minute shopping for any cowboy duds we might want, even saddle bags or lariats. Broadus (pronounced BRAH-dus) has a population of only 600 but it is the heart of cattle ranching country.

Montana was built by men who drove large herds of cattle from Texas and other states over a century ago, and it still retains a frontier-town aroma of freshly baked pies and old leather saddles.

Some people in the area have the hobby of refurbishing old covered wagons, and five of them would carry those participants who wanted to experience a cattle drive without the saddle sores.

Our first night was spent on the Smith Ranch, about six miles outside town. Montana Cattle Drives contracts with local ranchers, whose spreads are typically 15,000-20,000 acres, to provide campsites for the cattle drives. At camp, each rider was assigned to a wrangler, each a working cowboy who would take care of all our needs, from pitching tents to saddling horses.

My horse turned out to be a beauty, a tall, pure-black fellow named Black Bart, but I wondered how I was going to control this huge beast. One of the wagon masters took six of us up the gentle sloping hills behind the campsite for what was our first riding lesson. From the ridge, we could see the camp laid out below us: tents and wagons scattered willy-nilly over several acres, several corrals and a large activities tent in the center.

Off in the far corner huddled 100 head of Texas longhorn, and below some wranglers were pitching tents, which ranged from state-of-the-art, high-tech affairs to canvas tepees. A gusty wind suddenly came up, bending the tall prairie grasses that had taken on an amber glow in the twilight. Standing on that hill, my horse’s nose to the wind, I was beginning to feel at peace with the world when an impish dust devil made off with my hat, the sun dipped below the horizon and I rode down to camp.

There, the wind had worked itself into quite a fury as we were entertained before dinner by a group of Crow dancers hired by the cattle drive operator. They must have been doing a rain dance because the water started pouring down and everyone ducked for cover in the large tent. As an electrical storm put on a spectacular show outside, our group sat down to a dinner catered by the Broadus Tastee Freeze. No matter that the main course featured barbecued buffalo tongue, the long day had caused appetites that made even the faint-hearted among us clean our plates.

The next morning I awoke to a dawn light and the sweet smell of chuck-wagon coffee. After a hearty chuck wagon breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage and pancakes cooked to light perfection, we struck camp. Charles Patten, one of the head wranglers, supervised the saddling of the horses. With spirits soaring and the sun now quite high, we lurched out of camp for our first day on the trail.

As we moved the wagons and cattle southeast near the Powder River, all I could see ahead and behind were wagons and riders in colorful array. We plodded along, making little clouds of dust wherever we went.

Some of the terrain did not lend itself well to wagons. Twisting and groaning as though this was to be the end, I was amazed that they could take such punishment without rattling apart. At each big draw, or gully, the riders would ring the banks and watch the wagons’ progress up steep grades, ready to assist in case one got into trouble. Sometimes a cheer went up from the crowd as a horse team strained and puffed its load to the summit.

We were fortunate that one of our wranglers, Calvin Rice, was quite a historian. He made the hills come alive, pointing out where Indians camped many years ago (some rock rings used to secure buffalo-hide tepees were still visible). The trails leading us down to the Powder River over grassy prairies and through rugged pine forests were the same used by U.S. Cavalry patrols in the 1880s. We kept our eyes alert for Indian and cavalry artifacts frequently found in this area.

The days were warm, but in the afternoons--we were usually on the trail from 9:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m., stopping only for lunch and covering eight to ten miles a day--a cool breeze came up. The horses would perk up their ears and act frisky as we neared camp; when we arrived some went straight to the big tent for a cool drink and others headed for the shower trailer, where the cold water felt brisk but wonderful.

Each night’s dinner, catered and brought in, was different: thick Montana steaks, baked beans or buffalo burgers. Our head wranglers, Patten and Jim Wilson, gave roping lessons or showed off with bullwhip tricks. As the stars came out, guitars and harmonicas also appeared, and we nestled in the sweet bales of hay and sang old songs.

By the third morning, it was clear that two days of jolting and jiggling had taken its toll on our backsides. We waddled, limped or groaned our way to our first cup of coffee, and many swore off horses for the day; they would ride in the wagons.

But after a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, and a surprise visit from a German film crew that was making a documentary on the Old West, almost everyone reconsidered. Not wanting to be left out, we all scrambled on our mounts, ready for our big scene.

On the fourth night it rained again. A few brave souls agreed to an evening ride on the Randall Ranch, where we had camped in the foothills near Custer National Forest. And since I left my camera behind, I ended up without a photographic record of the most magnificent sunset I have ever seen. It lasted for nearly an hour, with each new hilltop vista more breathtaking than the last, punctuated by spectacular--but dangerous--bolts of lightning.

We raced our horses to the top of a high wooded bluff, only a few feet wide and a hundred feet down on the other side. When lightning struck very close, most called it quits and raced our horses back to camp with the rain at our backs.

When we brought the cows home to Broadus on the sixth night, it seemed as if the whole town had come out to watch us parade down Main Street. They followed us to the fair grounds for a rodeo, and watched as we competed in the kissing contest, where the object is to plant one on your partner while racing full-speed past each other before rounding the barrels at the far ends of the arena. Later we pounded the dust off our boots dancing at the Big Sky Bar. Feeling, by now, like veteran cowboys, we leaned on the bar, swapping our trail stories.

I spent the last day exploring Broadus by horse-drawn wagon. Others took one last ride in the hills on their now beloved horses. The town put on a farewell street dance, and the high school hosted a concert by Becky Hobbs, a Nashville Country singer.

Charles Patten summed up our cattle drive experience best that night when he said this: “A lot of folks seemed to gather up some of the spirit left over from the people who came West and settled in this country. There’s something special about that.”

GUIDEBOOK

Cowboy Fantasies in Montana

Montana Cattle Drives operates week-long cattle drives five to eight times a year, June to September, in different locations throughout Montana’s eastern ranching country. Two drives remain this year, and both have space available: Aug. 9-16 in the Glen Dive area, and Sept. 13-20 in the Lewistown/Malta area, not far from the Canadian border. Cost is $1,189 per person ($599 for children under 12) and includes all food, entertainment, busing to starting point, horse and tent. Air fare is extra, and participants must bring sleeping bags. Adult cost is $984 for those who drive to the starting point and bring their own horse.

Write or phone Montana Cattle Drives, c/o Bob Sivertsen, P.O. Box 18, Roberts, Mont. 59070; (800) 535-3802 or (406) 445-2288. For other information on other trail rides in the West, see Guidebook on Page L18.