Vagneur: Taking chances each time we step into the forest

It happens about once a summer, some disgruntled person fires off a letter to the editor about the tragedy of cattle on public land (Hughes: “Ranchers should take more responsibility for their livestock,” July 21).

A man and his family went to Dinkle Lake for some paddle boarding and came upon a “large” group of 10 cows standing around, doing obscene things like muddying up the water, up to and including “pooping” in the water and along the shoreline. 

Maybe the cows were thirsty because there sure isn’t any edible grass along the shore. Cattle, impossible to toilet train, are inclined to evacuate their bowels indiscriminately, like other forest denizens. Kinda like some human campers I have seen over the years, including at and around the lake in question. 

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My first visit to Dinkle Lake (Lake Ann Reservoir, to be exact) occurred when I was about 4 years old. A camping trip with my parents, who pitched a tent back from the lake on a level spot. We were the only people in the area, with one exception: There were sheep roaming the land at the time, and through some miscommunication or simply my running away, I ended up in the sheepherder’s tent, where lacking much of amusement and faced with a language barrier, he gave me a bullet from his ammunition supply. About then, my dad had tracked me down. 

There was a time, or two, when as a twentysomething I’d occasionally party downvalley and sometimes end up with a sweet, young thing who thought the idea of a campfire and swimming nude in Dinkle Lake was a great idea. Likely it was my idea to start with, having heard stories about such activities from one of our hired hands. 

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That was back in the early 1970s, not long after tourism eclipsed agriculture as the leading economic driver of Pitkin County. The ranchers were still making money, so why quit running cattle? Apparently, our families didn’t get the message that someday folks would be unhappy with our way of keeping the herd fed in the summer. But, as we know, the government liked it. 

Generally speaking, a smart rancher with a good line of patter can get a couple cents more per pound for his beef if he extolls the virtue of cool, high-mountain, sun-enriched grass, contributing excellent flavor and high-protein to his grass-fed animals. Health-conscious mothers across America appreciate such knowledge when shopping for their families. 

My recent travels around Dinkle Lake started about 20 years ago when I’d cut through there on my way to the other side of Hay Park. It was a shorter route to some of our cattle salt licks on the eastern drainage. I got to know those trails and the area quite well — shared chain saw duty a couple of times with John Nieslanik ’cause we both used that path.

Usually, the cattle hang out well above the lake, where the shade and the grass are plentiful (water, as well) until the ranchers move them further up the forest, to higher country. 

So, one night, the emergency desk of the sheriff’s office received a call from a mountain biker, hurrying down the hill just after dark, scared to death because all he could see with his dim head lamp was the reflection of many eyes staring back at him from the murk and gloom, assuming, incorrectly, that he was surrounded by bears. A knowledgeable officer got him calmed down about the difference between bears and bovines. 

If you haven’t guessed, I raise a few cows and don’t like getting cow shit on my boots any more than the next guy, but sometimes, it goes with the territory. Whether we live here or are just visiting, we need to remember that we are surrounded by over 3 million acres of White River National Forest. “Land of Many Uses” is emblazoned on many of its signs. 

I understand the letter writer’s frustration of sharing Dinkle Lake with a few cows, just as I totally understand my frustration with dirt bikes, ATVs, and mountain bikers making bandit trails and too much noise near, and passing through, elk calving grounds. 

Sometimes, it all comes in the course of the day; as much as we’d like to, we can’t control it, and unlike Disneyland, where the rides are guaranteed, we all take our chances each time we step into the forest.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.