My father used to tell me stories about his dad, Kirk, and one thing came up again and again: Kirk hated building fences. But our ranch depended on them. By the time my father was running the I Lazy D
Before Wyoming had fences or towns, a young Danish immigrant named Ike Miller stood on a windswept ridge in Carbon County and made a decision that would define generations.
My great-grandfather Ike w
The HO pasture was our winter range in the early 1980s, a broad sweep of Wyoming land where cattle roamed far and wide. Getting to the eastern reaches to check the herd meant crossing Dirtyman Draw, a
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