the north dakota badlands
the hart cross ranch, my late uncle steve & love of the west
Lesser known to many, but well known to me, is an area just east of the Montana/North Dakota boarder, where the vast Montana plains are interrupted with drastic buttes, gullies and ravines. They call this area the North Dakota Badlands, also known as Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Home to the Hart Cross Ranch. I mentioned the Painted Canyon Lookout, in my most recent post about driving back home, which gives a good view of how vast the the area really is. I always ask Jake to stop here, as it’s about all we have time for it seems. I figured I’d share why this area is so special to me - and always will be.
Growing up, we raised cutting horses on our family farm in Minnesota where my dad bred, raised and broke horses to sell and use for competition. He was heavy into team penning, which is a timed cow working event where a team of three riders enters an arena with thirty cattle and works together to separate 3 specific cows from the herd into a pen at the opposite side of the arena. All of which must be done under 90 seconds. It’s a sport that evolved from a common ranch task of separating cattle to be branded, treated or relocated. We’d load up the truck & trailer just about every weekend in the summertime and a couple times a month in the winter, traveling around the midwest and as far as Oklahoma and Texas for championship shows. Every competition had a point system and if you placed well, you’d earn points (or sometimes money) that would punch your ticket to the world show. A place to get yourself known and if you did well enough earn some cash, a saddle, belt buckle and a jacket to boot.
There was a particular competition in North Dakota, when my dad was hurting for another teammate and got connected with a rancher from the North Dakota Badlands; Steve Hartman. This cowboy can only be described as a rough around the edges, always chomping on a Marlboro Red and cussing over something. He had a raspy voice that was often slurred by whiskey but, this man was a real cowboy and it was hard to beat his horsemanship. Without knowing the guy or ever meeting him they won the whole damn show and figured they had something worth holding onto. They continued to meet up at these competitions (& win) and became friends because of it.
I remember the first time my mom and I were invited to stay at Steve’s ranch just outside of Theodore Roosevelt National Park - the badlands. You’d get off the interstate in Medora and when you reached the National Park entrance you’d tell the ranger you were heading to the Hart Cross Ranch. They’d let you in, free of a park pass. The road to the ranch is filled with buffalo, elk, wild horses and my childhood favorite; prairie dogs. I remember one trip to the ranch where a whole heard of bison was on the road, not interested in moving. Many of them were sticking out their tongues making a groaning roar, that’s comparable to a lion’s. We kept inching the truck closer hoping they’d cut us a path when suddenly 2 bulls started ramming each other in the head breaking into a total brawl. Tufts of brown fur were flying through the air and with every clash our whole truck would shake. They eventually fought their way off the tarmac and we were free to carry on. Felt like some African Safari shit - far from anything that would happen on the roads back home in Minnesota.
Once you crossed the park boundary the pavement turned to red dirt which is when you knew you were getting close. As I got older, I began to recognize specific buttes, especially the one that sat behind Steve’s house. The driveway was long and gaited and after making it inside you were greeted by 2 cattle dogs and a Schipperke named Tootsie. Steve would be standing on his porch with a sweat stained straw hat and hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey. His wife Connie would emerge from the house and walk across the sharp red rock barefoot - always barefoot - to hug you hello. We’d retreat to the porch from a long day’s drive and enjoy the dry sage- scented breeze that was always blowing around there. I remember looking up at the ceiling that all of the Hartman’s friends would burn their brand into. I’d always point out ours, feeling touched to have made it up there. I loved going to the Hart Cross Ranch. It was the closest 4 or 5 year old Sadie came to mountains and I loved the vastness of the dry rolling hills. You could see forever standing on that front porch and as far as you could see was land that belonged to the Hartmans’. Steve spent Christmas with us one year and said all the trees in Minnesota made him claustrophobic. It’s somewhat of a miracle he even came to visit us. Connie and Steve didn’t leave the ranch all too often. I think they felt they had all they needed right there, plenty to see and endless smoke and drink.
As rugged as Steve was, my shy little self loved him. To this day, I don’t think there’s anyone that could get me laughing as hard as him. I can’t recall exactly what would get me going, but I can assure you it was something that wasn’t particularly appropriate for a little girl. My face would turn red and my stomach would ache and he’d keep it going until I’d just about fall on the floor or his wife Connie would tell him I needed a second to breathe. We’d sit on that front porch until the summer’s sun finally went dark and head down from the main house to the guest cabin. No matter how late we’d stay up laughing, you’d wake up to Uncle Steve riding along the ridge line, on his way back home. You knew he’d been up for hours already.
My dad and Steve would usually disappear for the day doing who knows what. Cowboy shit I suppose. The stories of their mischief seem to come out of the woodwork every now and then now that I’m older. Mom and I would spend time with Connie, who would take us on little walks through their land hunting for choke cherries or petrified wood. Sometimes we’d drive into town to wander or get an ice cream. The whole gang would return by dusk for a late dinner or a ride in the side by side to check on the cattle or pop off prairie dogs with a .22. I kinda cringe thinking about this now. I’m not sure if I was trying to earn Steve’s approval by making my self out to be tougher than I was, but I didn’t miss and if I did, dad or Steve were my back up. The whole reason we were out there decreasing the population, was to keep the prairie dog towns and holes specifically as far from grazing areas as possible. Far too often horses or cattle would step into these wholes and break a leg. Lame livestock is dead livestock in the eyes of a rancher and nobody wants that. (Maybe) this justified what we were doing. I do remember one of rides around the ranch when I saw a baby jack rabbit and Steve slowed down the rig for someone to take a shot. I screamed “no” in agony and remember both my dad and Steve swirling around shocked that I suddenly decided to have an opinion on the matter; a rather dramatic one. Steve’s tough eyes softened up and we drove away. Prairie dogs, sure, but merking a baby bunny was where I drew the line. Steve raised a daughter of his own and knew just as well as anyone you won’t always understand a little girl, but you sure won’t break their heart.
My mom and I made it out to the ranch far less than my dad. He was always coming up with some reason why he needed to head west. If there wasn’t some team penning to go to, Steve always seemed to need an extra set of hands to help a neighbor drive cattle or process elk during hunting season and whether he actually needed it or not, my dad was never hesitant to make the day’s drive from our place. There was a point in time we were going to move out there. To be closer to Steve and Connie, the west, and money from the 2008 oil boom. Outside of ranching, Steve worked for a big oil company and was trying to convince my dad to follow suit. I often think how different my life would have been if I’d been raised in western North Dakota. I’d definitely still be riding horses and I would’ve been able to spend a little more time with Steve.
Steve passed in 2021, of a heart attack, while working out on the ranch. A pack a day and plenty of whiskey combined with a stubborn attitude could be to blame, but if he would have stopped prior to his death, quitting just might have killed him too. I remember my parents calling to tell me the news while I was living in an apartment in Minneapolis - just about as different from ranch country as you can get. I called him my uncle Steve, although he was far from kin, he was someone I admired. Most everyone that met him loved him. A genuine character and just about as western as they come. The North Dakota Badlands are vastly different than the mountains of the Rockies that surround me in Montana now. I fell in love with that diet mountain country, looking out the front porch with Steve. Watching someone’s eyes, which, as far as I know, rarely shed a tear, swell up over a landscape makes you realize how special a place can be to someone. Steve called it church and being that it’s about as close to a church I’ve been I can’t and won’t disagree.
Wild places & downright wild people are something I’ve appreciated since I’ve been little, especially those who love the west. I’d love to spend more time at the Hart Cross ranch, remembering my childhood and Steve, but sometimes stopping at the most convenient exit off 90 and looking out at endless buttes and sage is enough to bring back the same feeling I got being out there as a little girl. Sometimes I feel the same way about Montana and Missoula in particular. As much as we love traveling around, we’ve got just about all we need looking out our front porch. So much so that I’ve shed a tear, sometimes two.
Love this. Thanks for sharing this story.
Thanks for sharing this Sadie!