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I am a traditionalist. I like to see at least some things stay the same, and it proves troubling to me when time steals those
elements which are dear to me. Big ranch outfits being fragmented, historical structures in ruin or the passing of older people, I just want them to always be here, a tangible piece of the past, a lasting legacy to revisit, if only in my memories.
For so many years, David Ross was a fixture on the Pitchfork Ranch. He dressed in the old style, did not pretend to accept the new ways, and was always the same, no matter where he might be. An old greasy hat, spurs, boots, dirty jeans, a big bushy mustache, and often pulling on a hand rolled cigarette, you could always be certain that David Ross would not change.
When we became closer friends, I affectionately dubbed him, "Stinky Dave," as he rarely bathed in the winter when the "Forks" sent him to Knox County to ride herd on the wheat fields south of the Davis Lake. In return for the dubious nickname I christened him with , he called me, "Mr. Clean." Often times I would run across him during my photo forays and take some time to visit, taking note of the Winchester 45-70 that he carried in a scabbard beneath his right leg.
My life long friend, Bob Moorhouse, then the manager of the Pitchforks, moved a little tin shed to the Knox County camp so Dave would not have to sleep in his tent. But no one was surprised when Dave stayed in the tent and used the shed for his cookhouse. After all, Dave liked the old ways.
One day, around Christmas, I stopped in to see Stinky Dave, teasing him a bit about the absence of a bath tub in the shed. After a casual glance about the grounds, I noticed several dead mice strewn about the camp. Following some questions regarding his deceased house guests, I soon gleaned that he was managing a successful trapline in the cook shack, although he had failed at routing a rattlesnake that lived beneath the floor. We had a laugh before handing him a pint of whisky, a Christmas gift from me, before leaving for home.
Sometimes, when the solitary life and "home cooking" got to him, Dave would saddle up and ride the several miles to Benjamin. There, at BJ's Country Store, he would hobble and tether his horse near the fuel pumps before going inside to have a sandwich and visit. I could relate to his need for company from my own years, in the mid 1970's, when I lived on the Pitchfork in the little half dugout on Croton Creek. In such an environ, where the wind, winter birds, and howling coyotes become the only other voice beside your own, just the sound of another person is often a welcome respite.
But time seems to always have a way of making that unwanted change. Just recently I learned that Dave Ross had become ill and had to go live with a brother in another part of Texas. Stinky Dave was no longer at the Forks.
The thought of Dave's absence bothers me. The last time I saw him at the ranch, he was napping on the porch of the bunkhouse, replete with spurs, dirty jeans and greasy hat. We chatted for a few minutes before I continued on down to the little trapping camp on the Croton for a morning of repairs and leisure. The thought of him ever leaving the ranch did not cross my mind.
So now, yet another fixture, who is very dear to so many, has moved on. I don't like it but such change will always dictate the lives of us all. Stinky Dave, we will miss you old friend, but your legacy will continue to define what is good, at least to some of us, in these ever-changing times.
Photo 1...David Ross, seated on the right, at the Forks wagon along Croton Creek. Photo with Canon F1N and Canon 80-200mm f4.0 and Velvia 50 ISO film. Hand held.
Photo 2...David's horse tethered at BJ's in Benjamin 11 years ago, replete with the ever-present Winchester 45-70.
Photo with Canon 5D and Canon 70-200mm f2.8L at ISO 100 and hand held.
Photo 3...High tide in David's tenure on the Forks, riding point with the remuda, headed to Wild Cat Pens. Photo with Canon F1N and Canon 300mm f2.8L with Velvia 50 ISO and hand held.
This is what i cherish about Wyman. He is a great story teller!
elements which are dear to me. Big ranch outfits being fragmented, historical structures in ruin or the passing of older people, I just want them to always be here, a tangible piece of the past, a lasting legacy to revisit, if only in my memories.
For so many years, David Ross was a fixture on the Pitchfork Ranch. He dressed in the old style, did not pretend to accept the new ways, and was always the same, no matter where he might be. An old greasy hat, spurs, boots, dirty jeans, a big bushy mustache, and often pulling on a hand rolled cigarette, you could always be certain that David Ross would not change.
When we became closer friends, I affectionately dubbed him, "Stinky Dave," as he rarely bathed in the winter when the "Forks" sent him to Knox County to ride herd on the wheat fields south of the Davis Lake. In return for the dubious nickname I christened him with , he called me, "Mr. Clean." Often times I would run across him during my photo forays and take some time to visit, taking note of the Winchester 45-70 that he carried in a scabbard beneath his right leg.
My life long friend, Bob Moorhouse, then the manager of the Pitchforks, moved a little tin shed to the Knox County camp so Dave would not have to sleep in his tent. But no one was surprised when Dave stayed in the tent and used the shed for his cookhouse. After all, Dave liked the old ways.
One day, around Christmas, I stopped in to see Stinky Dave, teasing him a bit about the absence of a bath tub in the shed. After a casual glance about the grounds, I noticed several dead mice strewn about the camp. Following some questions regarding his deceased house guests, I soon gleaned that he was managing a successful trapline in the cook shack, although he had failed at routing a rattlesnake that lived beneath the floor. We had a laugh before handing him a pint of whisky, a Christmas gift from me, before leaving for home.
Sometimes, when the solitary life and "home cooking" got to him, Dave would saddle up and ride the several miles to Benjamin. There, at BJ's Country Store, he would hobble and tether his horse near the fuel pumps before going inside to have a sandwich and visit. I could relate to his need for company from my own years, in the mid 1970's, when I lived on the Pitchfork in the little half dugout on Croton Creek. In such an environ, where the wind, winter birds, and howling coyotes become the only other voice beside your own, just the sound of another person is often a welcome respite.
But time seems to always have a way of making that unwanted change. Just recently I learned that Dave Ross had become ill and had to go live with a brother in another part of Texas. Stinky Dave was no longer at the Forks.
The thought of Dave's absence bothers me. The last time I saw him at the ranch, he was napping on the porch of the bunkhouse, replete with spurs, dirty jeans and greasy hat. We chatted for a few minutes before I continued on down to the little trapping camp on the Croton for a morning of repairs and leisure. The thought of him ever leaving the ranch did not cross my mind.
So now, yet another fixture, who is very dear to so many, has moved on. I don't like it but such change will always dictate the lives of us all. Stinky Dave, we will miss you old friend, but your legacy will continue to define what is good, at least to some of us, in these ever-changing times.
Photo 1...David Ross, seated on the right, at the Forks wagon along Croton Creek. Photo with Canon F1N and Canon 80-200mm f4.0 and Velvia 50 ISO film. Hand held.
Photo 2...David's horse tethered at BJ's in Benjamin 11 years ago, replete with the ever-present Winchester 45-70.
Photo with Canon 5D and Canon 70-200mm f2.8L at ISO 100 and hand held.
Photo 3...High tide in David's tenure on the Forks, riding point with the remuda, headed to Wild Cat Pens. Photo with Canon F1N and Canon 300mm f2.8L with Velvia 50 ISO and hand held.
This is what i cherish about Wyman. He is a great story teller!
