A whopping 71% of Utahns are against shrinking our monuments. If you have ever been there, you would understand. The extraordinary beauty of our weather-carved deserts and mountains is only thing that makes Utah what it is. There isn’t anything in Utah made by man that can take its place.

Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Please, let’s not let emotions or opinions rule your point of view. Please look at the facts. Let’s not let politics decide what is best for Utah and our country from now on.

I am willing to listen to other points of view, but I am not willing to sacrifice our natural world for profit. 

U.S. Sen. John Curtis walked through Utah to supposedly listen to grassroots ideas, but apparently he learned little and took the easy way out, joining the rest of Utah’s congressional delegation to support downsizing the Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante national monuments.

I thought he was a straight shooter. But instead of standing up and taking the road less traveled, he jumped on the bandwagon. I expected more from him. 

Smiling faces of those who represent us stand behind an individual who cares little about our natural resources in Utah or our country and less about the diverse people who live here.

Has he ever hiked a narrow slot canyon rimmed by 2,000-foot walls? Has he found pottery shards left by the old ones washed down canyon from an infrequent storm? He seems to care only about himself. His legacy and those who fall in line behind him will share that legacy. 

A smile reveals a lot about a person and unfortunately, those smiles are a hiding smile meant to cover up a deed done. A smile like you got away with something, but believe me, everyone sees the truth, including your friends and family. Maybe you can rationalize it, but it will never be enough. 

To me, selling off public lands in Utah is like selling your soul. Utah was magnificent before we came here and I want it to be magnificent when we are gone. Pay and protect this beautiful country forward.

“This land is your land. This land is my land. This land was made for you and me.” Thank you, Woody Guthrie. 

“Father Time don’t leave anyone out and, when you pass on, what you gonna pass down?” “McArthur,” by HARDY. 

Maybe we should elect folk singers to lead this country. At least they would lead with their heart and do what’s right and just. Not to get ahead, but to keep headed in the right direction. A direction that all of us believe in and embrace. A direction so that when we smile, it’s a smile that involves the eyes and a reflection of our soul. A genuine smile, a smile when you see it you know it is true. Not a hiding smile that’s bought and paid for but a smile that you give freely and can live with. A smile where there are no strings attached. A God-given smile. 

Gary “Goog” Beroset is an Oakley resident.

The post Downsizing your soul appeared first on Park Record.

What is it that makes a cowboy a cowboy? What makes the West the West? Why do folks from all over the world want to see a cowboy ride a bull, bronc or rope a steer at the Oakley Rodeo?

Maybe visit the Bolt storefront to buy a new snap front shirt, a silk scarf, a pair of Ariat boots and a new Atwood palm leaf cowboy hat? Maybe even a a nice silk scarf to match. Realizing that the trappings may only be worn that special night in an arena full of like-minded folks.

Maybe it’s worth it to step out of your comfort zone to be part of a tradition and event that has been around for 96 years. An event that is entirely supported by volunteers from that same little town nestled up against the Wasatch Mountains to the east.

Sitting in those stands shoulder to shoulder watching the rodeo queen and her entourage riding around the arena on their stout quarter horses proudly displaying the American flag waving in the crisp mountain air.

If the display of your flag flapping in the wind with the backdrop of the those mountains doesn’t make your heart swell and maybe a tear, as well, I feel sorry for you. Why? Because that is your flag, you are part of it. and it is part of you. Even though attempts may be made to take it away from you and what it stands for. What it means to you is not up for grabs.

Maybe you are not a real cowboy, but then again maybe you are. It’s more than the trappings or even if you travel from rodeo to rodeo during all the Fourth of July celebrations to demonstrate your craft. Maybe you are not destined to compete for that PRCA all-around cowboy title.

You may never have even ridden a horse, but you still love to see that herd stampeding across the pasture on your way up the canyon with a few deer grazing by their side. 

Maybe you are really not that tough. Maybe you feel a little out of place. Maybe you wish you would have grown up in the country closer to the land. However, when that little boy and girl pass you in Ken’s Kash, they believe you are the real deal. You can see it in their eyes. It doesn’t matter if it’s only for one night hooting and cheering, rising out of your seat in sheer joy. 

When the queen and her entourage pull up next to each other and the arena becomes silent. You feel the energy and anticipation down to the tips of your new boots. You also feel a chill through your body that you think you should hide.

But that chill through your bones is not only something experienced by you. Even the real cowboy standing by the chutes, waiting impatiently to mount that the raging bull next him, feels it as well. It’s really shared by all in the arena that evening as the sparse clouds slowly pass overhead.

As you rise and stand for the young girl singing the national anthem with your barely worn cowboy hat held across your chest, you realize that you are the real deal, if only for one night.

Being a cowboy is not about being tough. It’s not about riding a bronc on that special evening. It’s not about whether you own a F350 one-ton truck with a healer riding by your side. It’s not about if you have strung a barbed wire fence.

It is all about how you feel deep down when the flag waves in the wind and the anthem is sung. 

Ninety-six years is a long time. The cowboy life really only lasted until the late 1880s, when beef was herded across the West. However, the Mexican vaquero existed before and after that time, and those skills are still prevalent today. 

Maybe you don’t see it, but when I look across that arena and watch the bullfighters herd the agitated bull back in the chutes wearing those old red Dodge truck chaps, I still see a couple of young cowboys named Dutch and Ken brothers giving that bull rider an easy off to celebrate his ride. They are longtime homegrown legends in their own right.  

Maybe the new bull riders’ names are different while carrying on a tradition. But they too feel that chill though their bones and maybe share a tear or too as well when that flag flutters in the wind.

We are all cowboys at heart because it’s not about how we look, how we dress, how tough we are, how we ride that pony. It’s about how we feel deep down, the feeling you think you should hide. It’s really our heritage even if we didn’t earn it. It’s up to us to carry it on for another 96 years.

That’s the cowboy code: honesty, integrity, and respect for each other. Stand up for the flag and the country it stands for, especially when the you feel that chill through your bones. You too are the real deal.  

Be proud of it, don’t hide it but share it with like minded folks by your side at the Oakley Rodeo every year. It’s a tradition worth keeping and sharing. Like that little boy asked his mom in Ken’s Kash store: Was that a real cowboy that held the door open for us? Yes it was, honey.

Gary “Goog” Beroset is an Oakley resident.

The post The cowboy code at heart appeared first on Park Record.

I always wanted my field reseeded over the years but never seemed to get around to it. Years ago, I did have a neighboring farmer bring his tractor over. I ended up plowing, disking, and harrowing the field with it. He came back and planted. The problem was the seed I bought was only shells because the mice found the burlap bag in his shed before planting. 

Then I heard about a no-till drill, which unbeknownst to me had been around for years. Apparently, it works well on fields where plowing is difficult. The rig is quite a beautiful piece of engineering. The disk cuts a furrow in the field, the drill puts the seed in the ground, and the back wheels following cover the seed up.

I know this isn’t everyone’s idea of beauty, but my field is to me. Even now my wife and I spend time each day sitting on an old donated bench watching the robins forage for worms on our pasture. There is even a small groundwater pond that occasionally the mallards reside on for a short time. 

Anyway, a friend of mine told me about a local farmer who rents a no-till drill from the local soil conservation agency and may be willing to plant my pasture. I was able to get in touch with him, and even though it took awhile, he showed up and planted the seed on the acre pasture.

We had a great time BS’ing about the drill and his years of farming in this beautiful valley. His family had owned a lot of land, but one of the younger members needed money and eventually they had to sell most of it off. The farmer ended up buying a ranch in Wyoming where his son lives and he helps him work the fields.

I know what the phrase “watch the grass grow” really means now. Being at 6,600 feet elevation, the early season is quite cool and the sun takes its time warming up the soil. Germination takes its time and watching every day doesn’t seem to help. I had to move the horses to another pasture and what I thought would be a month or so may be much longer. Problem is even though I don’t have to get up and feed twice a day, I miss my horses, and my dog misses the routine, so we have to just feed the goats instead.

When the farmer was done reseeding the field, I asked him what I owed him. He told me to just send my address to him and he will send a bill. I forwarded my address that day but no response.

I finally ran into my buddy and asked him why I have yet to receive a bill. He just said he’s not going to send me one. My response was why and he just gave a me a blank look. I don’t really know why, but I have a difficult time asking anyone for help even if it’s offered. If I owe someone, I have to pay him, then I can rest.

I remember years ago when I was young my grandmother who loved watching cowboys and Indians on TV said something I remember to this day. Nearing her later years as relatives who passed would leave money behind for her, she told my mom not to give her any more money. I get it. Give it to someone who needs it. The money wasn’t going to benefit her in any way. It was just an irritation.

Back to the farmer who reseeded my field maybe, just maybe, I did pay him back. I think he could tell that I was so excited to see him roll up in his Kubota tractor and no-till drill. We talked for quite awhile and I took pictures of him and his drill and sent them to a few of my friends.

I told him that I wish I would have been a farmer like him. I wish I could have grown up planting the fields, irrigating the pasture, watching the water flood the hay fields, working until dark and getting up at sunrise and back at it again. Maybe even working a full-time job to afford the lifestyle.

I wish I could have grown up close to the soil, understanding what it needed and thankful for what it provided. I wish my sons could have worked beside me, though maybe not so excited to be forced to get up early, but following that path later in life.

When it’s all said and done and the farm is up for sale and divided up and the money comes rolling in to replace the life and lifestyle — the land where my grandfather and my father toiled to give us a better life, where my mom fed us from the same land, where we as kids learned to drive the old ford pickup thru the fresh cut fields — I’ll realize that the dirt, the land, already gave us what we needed. Like my grandmother said: Don’t give me any more money. I already have been given what I need. 

Goog Beroset lives in Oakley.

The post Watching the grass grow appeared first on Park Record.