by Sarah Mullet

Created on: April 04, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

As a ranchers daughter in the desolate plains of eastern Montana I am well aware of and used to the dreaded winter blizzards that sweep through every year around about April. Some say that Montana is the last of the "old frontier" and I would have to agree with them. Eastern Montana is scarcely populated, but often you see empty old homesteads that look lonely and broken and you can just imagine the homesteaders dreams when they first came to this land. Dreams of freedom, success, and wealth that never turned into reality. No, more often than not, you will hear stories from the homesteaders that lived out the hardships. You hear sad stories of failure, happy stories of success, and bittersweet stories of dreams almost come true. One of the traditional family stories that has been carried on from generation to generation, is the story of my great-Grandpa as a young boy of about 10 years old, getting caught in a blizzard while hunting for food for his family. Please understand that I am the daughter of a true cowboy who is a descendent of other true cowboys and as such, the story gets exaggerated a little bit more every time we hear it. I would like to welcome you, though, to let your imagination run wild and picture things through a childs eyes as you read this story.

It was 1906, 'round about April on a sunny day when my great-Grandpa took it into his head to go on a hunt to bring in some wildlife for his mother's soup. There was a little bit of snow on the ground, but not much-enough to be able to track the game he hoped to bring home. Saddling up his horse, Beaux, he dreamed of the juicy meat this trip surely would bring, and smiling, he started out. Riding north of his family's homestead, towards the badlands, he wandered from his home. He'd been hunting for about an hour and had shot about 4 pheasants, when the sunny harmless day that had once been, clouded over and blew in a storm. Knowing that if he didn't get home soon it would start to snow, he turned Beaux around and started to ride back. Before long, a light dusting of snow began to fall. Picking up the pace a little bit, he prayed to beat the storm home. By now, the wind had started blowing and when the wind blows in Montana, depending on the season, either you get a blizzard, or you get dirt in your eyes. This being winter, it turned to a blizzard, and my great-Grandpa knew he was in trouble. Shivering beneath his ragged and thinning coat, he stopped Beaux next to a lone fence post and got off. Tying

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