A Drover’s Journal
Great Montana Centennial Cattle Drive
September 1989
Roundup to Billings
Written by Carolyn Fraser
Centennial Cattle Drive Drover
Photography contributed
The predawn sky cast a pink hue on the pine-covered hills. In the distance, a low rumble shook the still, cold air. Outlined atop a hill, a slicker-clad rider appeared. A whirring sound, a loud crack and tiny mist droplets exploded from the end of a bull whip.
The rumbling grew louder, and columns of steam blanketed a herd of 250 saddle horses as they were driven off the hill and toward a rope corral surrounded by cowboys. The horses veered left, and another loud crack turned them back on track until they headed for the small entrance to the corral. The cowboys spread out and guided the horses in, then pulled the rope taut to block their exit. Dim lights from chuckwagon lanterns cast eerie shadows on the nervous horses.
The day I had been preparing for since June had finally arrived.
For two full years, dedicated Montanans persevered to fulfill their dream of producing the largest cattle drive in the past century to celebrate the centennial anniversary of statehood. By September 3, 1989, nearly 3,000 cattle, 250 horses, and 125 drovers gathered east of Roundup to organize what many skeptics called an unachievable event.
I was honored to be chosen by Trail Boss Jay Stovall, of Pryor, to serve as a drover. Each of the Montana counties chose one drover and Stovall chose another 40.
The herd we were trailing 60-plus miles to Billings consisted mostly of donated, leased or consigned cattle from Montana families and were all branded with the M over 89. The bulk of the herd was Corriente and Longhorn, with about a quarter being Hereford and other mixed breeds. When the 3,000 head were strung out on the trail, it looked like the old Texas trail drives of years gone by.
On the first morning, Stovall had a thoughtful look on his face.
“You know, when you think about it, this may be the largest gathering of riders since Gettysburg,” he said, in reference to the drovers and the estimated 3,000 riders in the wagon train camp across the river. Tom Bonko, head horse wrangler from Garryowen and a Crow Indian inserted, “Don’t forget about Custer’s Last Stand.”
Laughter echoed through the morning and died down as Stovall raised his hand and began instruction for the best way to herd the cattle.
In another camp, just across the river from our staging camp, the wagon train portion of the drive consisted of some 2,500 riders, 3,000 horses and over 300 wagons. Throughout the week, the “social camp” partied with headliner bands, beverages, and dancing. Our drovers often visited in the evenings after the cattle were settled and the horses turned out, but we remained separate during the daytime moves from camp to camp.
Morning came early and breakfast was served to the drovers by 4:30 a.m. Prepped from six chuckwagons with the best cooks in the northwest, it was a breakfast to rival any restaurant meal. The clatter of tin pans, lull of conversation, and clank of harnesses being laid out bred excitement among the cowboys. We didn’t linger, but quickly consumed it to get on our way.
Each morning Stovall would gather us and give orders for the day. He had a soft voice that somehow penetrated the predawn and he would patiently tell us where we could anticipate trouble with the cattle. His predictions were spot-on. Mud holes, narrow trails where spectators were observing too closely, steep spots that would string out the herd, places we needed to stop and let the cattle rest, timing our speed to keep from interfering with the wagon train, even the spots that he knew the herd would pick up speed and need to be split and held up.
Most days, we split the herd in thirds. Sam Redding, of Hardin, would rough count the cattle out and we kept them in three herds of around 800 head. “Segundo” Bill Brown, of Sand Springs, would take one herd with his drovers while Stovall and Redding split off with the remaining two. Motorola two-way radios kept Stovall in constant contact with his segundos, the wagon train, and the office staff and he was adept at adjusting plans to ensure everything ran smoothly.
Each day, any sore-footed or over-conditioned cattle were sorted out and left to be hauled to Billings. My husband, John Deeney, was solely responsible for coordinating the hauls and it turned out to be a bigger job than anticipated. Most nights, we did not return to camp before 10:00 p.m., sometimes closer to midnight.
One morning, I rode to the front to observe the entire herd. The sight was exhilarating. Stretched out for several miles, the cattle snaked across the dry, dusty flats. Behind the herd, a dust cloud followed for another mile. The highway was lined with enthusiastic spectators. A group of school children sang “Happy Birthday Montana.” My eyes overflowed as I reflected on my heritage and the life all four generations of my family and four generations of my husband’s family had devoted to livestock agriculture in this great state.
The cattle drive, through hardheaded determination, had survived the bitter criticisms for over a year. It was spectacular and we were touching the hearts of millions from not only the nation, but around the world.
The great state of Montana and its people had survived, despite drought, poor prices, diseases, grasshoppers, and depression for over 100 years. The feeling was euphoric.
The final night was designated “family night” when friends and family could come into camp to visit. The traffic began, two long lines, at about 3:30 and did not cease until over 20,000 people had entered the social camp site at the big tent. An estimated 5,000 people were turned back due to the lack of parking space in the huge open pasture.
That night, our cavy, turned in on a huge pasture, was spooked by the traffic, crowds, and rain. When they were wrangled in the morning, we were shy about 20 horses that had escaped and joined the social camp band. This was the first and only incident and didn’t hinder us because it was also “picture day” when nearly a dozen photographers came into camp and had us pose for several hours.
Shortly after noon, we headed the cattle southwest. This was the most beautiful day of the drive. The sky was luminant blue, broken by coveys of cumulus clouds. A long, narrow timbered draw strung the cattle out and from atop a butte, the entire herd could be viewed.
Behind, a slight dust cloud promised the cavy and chuck wagons were enroute, back about a half mile. The well-broke teams faced a strenuous task pulling over the hill, requiring stops about every 100 yards. One of the wagons was slightly overloaded and required a couple outriders to hook on and help pull it over the hill. The Padlock Ranch had contributed the most spectacular of all the chuckwagons.
But the most incredible view was the cavy. Stanley Walter, George Reed, and Joe Fox knew how to handle horses and had fun doing it. Reed was an artist with his bull whip and the horses responded to the crack like they were being driven with a line. When the cavy topped the hill above the Black Horse Patrol, the huge crowd, as well as the drovers who owned the horses, could be heard praising the quality and the beauty of these working ranch horses.
This camp was the first one since we started the drive that had modern amenities and it created a sorrow in knowing we were about to end our journey from one hundred years ago.
“One morning, I rode to the front to observe the entire herd. The sight was exhilarating. Stretched out for several miles, the cattle snaked across the dry, dusty flats. Behind the herd, a dust cloud followed for another mile. The highway was lined with enthusiastic spectators. A group of school children sang “Happy Birthday Montana.” My eyes overflowed as I reflected on my heritage and the life all four generations of my family and four generations of my husband’s family had devoted to livestock agriculture in this great state.”
The last day, the one the cynical critics said would be disastrous to attempt, was the trek down the busiest main street in Montana. We were on a rigid schedule. By 6:30 a.m. the cattle were gathered and started out the gate onto the highway.
Stovall told us to keep the cattle tight so they were easier to handle in town, preventing any damage to gardens, yards, or worse: spectators. Just two miles from camp, people had already gathered, some parking and camping out the night before or arriving as early as 2 a.m. The narrow bridges and observers made the cattle reluctant, and they really strung out – when we reached town, right on schedule, the herd stretched across three miles.
The cattle were trail broke by then. They handled easily and none attempted to escape. Drovers spread out along the sides and kept them moving. The crowds cheered, applauded and sang. Many were toasting the herd with champagne and bringing hot donuts to the drovers.
Easily, the cattle were split at a main intersection and one half of the herd was sent to each of the two auction yards. There was electricity in the air. The spectators were enthusiastic and thrilled to see the drive beat the odds and end successfully. There were no deaths, no serious injuries, and the drive made it to the destinated end.
In the thirty-five years since the cattle drive, many of the great cattlemen and horsemen have been called to “Cowboy Paradise," but their incredible talent and teachings will live on forever. And in those passing years, partaking in such an event was a great honor for which I remain forever grateful.