July 2014- When I met Teddy, he’d just gotten out of jail. The barely five-foot-tall Montana rancher was deep into his eighties and had fought a lifelong cat-and-mouse game with law enforcers—people he considered generally unnecessary.
This time Teddy had tangled with fish and game, the people who tried to tell him when he could and couldn’t take a trout or an elk from the property his grandparents homesteaded in the 19th century.
Teddy cruised his 4,000 acres in a yellow Piper Cub, a three-legged dog named Doodie always sitting in his lap. The mutt, barely 11 inches tall, shared his master’s attitude toward authority, having lost its leg in a showdown with a particularly nasty weasel.
Today the two were on their way to the highest point on Teddy’s ranch with a bale of wire and a small load of lumber strapped to the airplane in preparation for a little payback.
Teddy often kept track of the ranch land using his Cub. These thousands of acres were the protected breeding ground for a large herd of buffalo, something Teddy was (privately) proud of, yet he ruled the ranch with an iron fist.
Teddy would be the first to tell you that any buffalo calf would soon grow into a thousand-pound animal, and he intended for each one to spend its entire life being afraid of him. That’s how Teddy was able to manage such a large herd all by himself—important when you’re the only ranch hand there is.
Teddy was also a world-class cusser. Every sentence—except when there were ladies present—was seemingly laced with what the world considered some pretty serious profanity. There was almost a Shakespearian lilt to the way Teddy talked. He would place cuss words into sentence where no one had ever thought to put them.
Teddy always had time to exchange insults with the fish and game boys when he flew into the county airport for fuel, regularly parking next to state’s slick Cessna 206 with the official seal on the side.
Truth be told, Teddy enjoyed bantering with the boys. It was about the only human contact he had any more, since he’d outlived most of friends. And his contentious relationship with the law had always been somewhat of a local legend.
As the original owner of his Cub, Teddy had been flying long before any of those boys were a gleam in their daddy’s eye. He’d seen the airport get built, pilots come and go, and much, much more. Aviation—like so many things, in Teddy’s mind—had gotten so commercialized. He preferred the solitude of low-and-slow flying, and these days, anyway, he stayed close to home.
Teddy lived alone now; well, except for Doodie and a 150-pound black bear that he’d bottle-fed since it was barely a month old. The bear would come and go from inside the house, regularly trying to crawl into Teddy’s lap for a bit of affection and the odd chance there would miraculously be one more bottle of milk.
It was late on Friday afternoon when Teddy invited the fish and game wardens to his house. The two uniformed men sat stiffly on his Naugahyde couch, brushing away the dust they’d gotten on their polished black shoes from the long drive to the ranch.
Teddy enjoyed making them wait as Teddy finished preparing himself “a hot one,” a favorite concoction of water, sugar and a liberal splashing of bourbon.
“I have a confession to make, boys,” Teddy began. “I’m building me an illegal elk trap, up on the top of my own damned mountain.”
The two officers looked at him, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. “I flew the Cub in there with a load of lumber and made the enclosure, put a fresh salt lick in there, and I’m prepared to hang a trap door.
“I intend to fill up my deep freeze with elk roast and invite the whole town for dinner. I just wanted you boys to know,” and he took a long sip of his hot one.
The fish and game officers exchanged a glance as Teddy continued. “Now let me just remind you: that big Skywagon you boys fly will never make it in and out of that meadow up there.”
Both officers knew he was right. That meant they would have to hike up to the top of the mountain (it was their duty) and investigate Teddy’s report of this reprehensible violation of the law.
Worse, they would have to do it tomorrow—Saturday—a day religiously reserved for hunting and fishing for almost every Montanan, irrespective of what they did for a living Monday through Friday.
“You boys are going to need to put your boots on,” Teddy grinned and had another sip.
There was a scratching noise at the door like a dog wanting to be let in. Teddy pushed the screen back and the black bear padded in and jumped up on the couch and tried to sit in the lap of one of the officers.
The two wardens were through the open windows almost immediately, somersaulting across the ground. They stood and tried their hand at cursing as well, but of course, they were no match for Teddy.
For weeks the fish and game officers made the long, steep hike to the top of Teddy’s mountain and each week they would see that the elk trap was just short of complete. The last and integral piece, a big wooden door, was leaned against a nearby tree.
Without it being in place, however, any self-respecting elk could come and go from the enclosure at will. Nothing illegal about that.
Each week Teddy would call the wardens and tell them he was fixing to put the door on, this time for sure. And each week the fish and game officers would have to drive out to Teddy’s ranch and hike to the mountaintop.
Teddy never did put the door on, but hell—he and Doodie enjoyed the company.
Screenwriter, philanthropist and good guy Lyn Freeman has been writing aviation articles since before John Glenn joined the Marines. He is the former editor of Plane & Pilot magazine, founder and current chairperson of the Build-a-Plane organization, a master scuba diver, a championship table tennis player and an all-around Renaissance man. Send questions or comments to editor@piperflyer.org.
