Amanda: end of Soldier Hollow, beginning of Meeker

Shauna Gourley organized a great little haulout training session on range finewools. Barbara Ray met us in the morning. Both she and I were worried about Monty adjusting to someone else handling around me, but it was no problem. He was a pro. Our work party was quiet and successful, the dogs relaxing after their long rides. Afterwards we went to a fabulous part of Utah hitherto unknown to me, called Fruit Lane, between Ogden and Logan. An intense production belt of all kinds of vegetables and stone fruits being the genius of the season. Peaches!!! A giant box of them. And sour cherries, for pie. Back at Kelly Creek, we watched a couple of agreeable young dogs getting going with their sheep work and headed down to Soldier Hollow.

Park City’s Whole Foods stocked up my camper on the way down with all kinds of great goodies. We had a big chunk of wild caught Alaska King Salmon and rib eyes glorified. Our camp has a picnic table and a pot of fresh basil for the Fruit Lane tomatoes (not mine, but OK). We are the people with everything, a cheerful consolation in case we don’t win the trial. The trial is any one’s game. The odds have improved for the five that qualified for the final day yesterday, which includes me and Roz. Roz tore a dew claw in front which, although superficial, is painful. I had to wrap it before her run so she wouldn’t be banging it on the tough tall grass. Her run didn’t go as well as I would have liked—a difficult, hot time in the afternoon but she took them around gamely with a good finish for a score that got by.

Soldier Hollow is tautly managed trial with a couple of eccentricities. No other trial requires leashes. And of course there is the popularized shed, (not popular with handlers) with eight collared sheep of the sixteen for the double lift final. They bring in about 275 glamourous range ewes. Since that is insufficient to run all the dogs on fresh sheep, they structure the trial to run back the top five dogs from each day and re run the sheep. The management advantages are clear. It could give us ideas in Kingston.

The running here is always a shocker to the uninitiated. It sometimes looks so easy but it is always difficult. The sheep are fleet of foot athletes. Dogs who have never met such racey ovines, do things they never do back home, with grave disappointments to their handlers. Running on them can alter perspectives on dogs, with massive kennel reviews occurring after a trial like Soldier Hollow. It is tough.

My dogs were OK. I made it into the double lift with Roz, running in draw number eight, which means one in the afternoon. I would have considered that unfortunately hot, but cloud cover kept the fantastic heat, that can envelop the afternoons, from gaining any traction. It was hot enough, but nothing like it could have been. Bill Berhow and his senior citizen Pete, turned in a near flawless run for a 148, laying down a gauntlet that was never met. Roz had trouble with the first outrun, which was tricky in the extreme, with the sheep obscured by the big Olympic information center and the Olympic spruce trees that dot the course. She was with the crowd on that problem. Only Pete and Bill succeeded with no redirects, and some dogs were lost altogether in the tall shrubbery above the set out, or the trees below.



The prizes ceremony has something to teach all of us about sheepdogs and show biz. The Scottish pipe band from Salt Lake piped away, the Frisbee dogs made catches, the dock dogs won awards for the longest dock dive. And then the real stars of the show, the sheepdogs, with sheep all around the back made their climb onto the Olympic podiums. Roz wins Silver, representing Canada.

Next stop: Meeker, Colorado.

I left Soldier Hollow on Monday night, putting in a couple of hours to Vernal, Utah. I stopped, slept, and finished off the drive in the early morning. Eastern Utah and western Colorado are high desert, so imagine my surprise when the rain set in. A rainy day in the desert is a rarity. Meeker is like my home away from home. Remember I spent an extra several days here last year, stuck with axel issues on my camper. I know nearly everyone in town, or more accurately, they know me, in a good way.

For the first time ever, and I have been coming here for twenty some years, the parking area was difficult because of mud. Good god, in the desert. Mud in the car park and heavily scented sage brush. This is cheerful, hopeful handlers’ camp. This trial is the convergence of all sorts of handlers, not like Soldier Hollow where everyone is there for one win or another. All is levity and celebration, excitement about the next morning’s sport. The spotting crew moved the flock around the trial field on horseback to acquaint them with all the nooks and crannies and ways of escape. Handlers walked the course, watched the sheep, raved about the beautiful evenness of the flock, how do you do’s, talked of their last trials, ate pizza. The place is abuzz.


The running was just about what you would expect, with telltale signs that the sheep have been a little better handled by their home dogs. They weren’t quite so wild as last year, which usually means better dogs at home, a credit to their head honcho, Julie Hansmire. Dennis Gellings turned in the top run of the day at 83. Our own Ute, Shauna Gourley, turned in an 80 to assure herself a spot in Saturday’s semi finals.. Joni Swanke and Griz scored a 78 with no pen. Clive in next with 77.


Mich Ferraro , Sandy Milberg and I went to the practice field at the mid day. I dusted off Dorey, newly bred to Patrick Shannahan’s Riggs. She ran hot but settled down toward the end of her session. I’ll try to take her again tomorrow. Feist has become an avid sheepdog trial spectator, so much so, she has even come to like her leash.

Tonight Gus and Christine Halandras put on their usual gorgeous spread. What a pair of entertainers they are. And what a joy to see so many friends who are now becoming old friends.

Roz runs late on Thursday. And on Friday I have a fishing trip organized with Bruce Clatterbaugh, my retired banker. We are riding up seven miles to a high lake, fishing for and hour or so and riding back.