Skunks in the Trough, Wildfires on the Ridge: Surviving Life on the Outback Ranch

Title: “Of Troughs and Testosterone: A Memoir of the Mildly Brave”
By a Man Who Once Wrestled a Garden Hose

I went out to fill the horse trough like any responsible outback rancher does—barefoot, shirtless, and mildly overmedicated. The moon was hanging low like it was trying to mind its own business, but I could tell it was watching. Judging. You ever get judged by a moon? It’s unsettling.

Anyway, I’m standing there, garden hose in one hand, pride in the other, when it occurs to me—do mountain lions drink from the trough?
I mean, I’ve seen raccoons wash their snacks in there like it’s a drive-thru sink, and once I caught a bullfrog doing laps like he was in training for the Amphibian Olympics. But a mountain lion? That’s a whole different league.

And just as I’m pondering the feline hydration habits of apex predators, I hear it.
A scream.
Not the kind that comes from your mother-in-law when the power goes out mid-Jeopardy—no, this was primal. Echoed across the canyon like the opening theme to a horror movie set in a petting zoo.

And then, clear as day (or a hallucination, let’s be honest), I heard her.

“I don’t need your water, stupid human. I drink the blood of my victims!”

Now, normally, I’d have some questions. Like—how fluent is this mountain lion in sarcasm? And what are the odds she’s been reading my Yelp reviews?

But just then, my nighttime medication kicked in.
You know the one. The one that promises “restful sleep,” but forgets to mention “possible wildlife telepathy and moderate time travel.”

My heart starts pounding like a bass drum in a high school marching band.
I did what any brave, seasoned cowboy would do:
I dropped the hose, left the trough half-full, and walked calmly back inside like a man who just saw his entire life flash before his eyes in subtitles.

Sat down.
Didn’t even take my boots off.
Because in that moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d need to run, levitate, or negotiate with a cougar named Sheila.

And that’s how I spent the rest of the night, listening to my heartbeat and wondering:
If mountain lions don’t drink from the trough… why do they scream like they’ve got a grudge and a podcast?

Chapter Two: The Bear Essentials of Sanity
In which caffeine meets paranoia at dawn

Then I blew the steam from a hot cup of coffee—black, like my mood and the power bill I forgot to pay—and leaned against the screen door like some rugged Western philosopher who misplaced his pants but kept his dignity.

Staring out at that horse trough again. The same one that had nearly gotten me eaten by a talking mountain lion the night before. Or possibly a hallucination. Or, let’s be honest, my inner voice wearing a fur coat and attitude.

And I wondered, real quiet-like, do the black bear drink from my horse trough?

I mean, it’s good water. Comes from a well that I pay for in both dollars and back pain. It’s cold, clean, and just a short waddle away from the berry bushes that are definitely not mine, despite what the Department of Wildlife insists.

And if I were a bear—and let’s be honest, I’m halfway there before shaving—I’d absolutely belly up to that trough like it was Happy Hour at the Last Chance Saloon.

Just as I’m chewing on that thought, I hear a noise.

Now, I’ve lived long enough out here to know the difference between a squirrel fart and a death omen, and this was somewhere in the middle. A twig snapped. A low grunt followed. I froze, halfway between taking a sip and accepting my fate.

“Mornin’,” I whispered to the wilderness, “if you’re a bear, I’d appreciate a little heads up before mauling time.”

Nothing.

So I did what anyone with a cup of coffee and no real sense of self-preservation would do: I stepped off the porch.

Boots crunchin’. Air still. My robe—yes, I wear a robe, don’t judge—flapping gently like a flag warning all creatures that a confused man is loose on the land.

And there it was. A muddy paw print by the trough. Big. Round. Definitely not mine unless I’ve started sleepwalking in mittens again.

I looked around. Nothing but the sound of birds, judgment, and my blood pressure ticking up like it’s late for a dentist appointment.

That’s when I decided: If the mountain lion drinks blood, and the black bear drinks water, then I probably need to stop refilling that trough like it’s the neighborhood 7-Eleven.

Or at least start charging a cover.

Chapter Three: The Midnight Musk Club
In which I discover skunks, scandal, and the limits of personal dignity

So, after narrowly avoiding becoming a cougar chew toy and then nervously pondering whether a bear was double-dipping in my trough, I decided it was time to take control. That’s right—I installed a wildlife camera.

Now, don’t picture high-tech security with night-vision lasers and face-recognition software. This thing was $39.99 on clearance, came with a cracked instruction manual written in what I can only assume was haiku, and required three zip ties, a prayer, and an unreasonable amount of duct tape to mount to the fencepost.

But it worked.
Oh, friends—it worked too well.

I checked the footage the next morning like a proud cowboy checking on his herd, coffee in one hand and a false sense of authority in the other.

The first couple hours? Just wind-blown grass and a confused moth doing donuts around the lens.

Then—at exactly 12:47 a.m.—movement.

Out of the darkness emerged four skunks, moving in perfect unison like a synchronized marching band no one asked for.
They strutted across the yard like they owned the deed, tails high, heads held higher, and the attitude of creatures that absolutely did not pay rent.

One climbed up onto the rim of the trough with all the grace of a retired gymnast.
The others followed, pausing only to sniff the air like they were checking for paparazzi.

And then?

Skinny-dipping.
No hesitation.
Tail-flashing, splash-thrashing, unabashed nudity in the moonlight.
Right in my horse’s drinking water.

I blinked. Rewound. Watched again.

They swam. They soaked. One even laid across the rim like a French aristocrat in a scented tub, as if to say, “Bring me grapes, peasant.”

And standing just behind them, not participating but clearly supervising, was the largest skunk I have ever seen. I named him Frank.

Frank didn’t swim.
Frank doesn’t need to swim.
Frank just watched.
As if to say, “You see this? This is our spa now. Tell your livestock to wait their turn.”

I watched for eight minutes straight, slack-jawed, coffee cold, questioning every life choice that led me to this moment of wildlife voyeurism.

“Well, that’s it,” I whispered, “I’ve officially lost control. I’ve become the facilities manager for a clandestine skunk spa.”

The footage ended with the troupe waddling back into the night, tails still hoisted like warning flags of doom, leaving behind only ripples and the haunting knowledge that my trough is now the preferred hangout of the Midnight Musk Club. 

Chapter Four: The Bramble Queen and the Blackberry Betrayal
In which I learn that love is eternal, but thorns are very literal

Now, if you’ve been with me this far, you’ll know my ranch is less of a well-oiled frontier operation and more of a barely functioning wildlife Airbnb with snack options. We’ve got mountain lions making threats, bears leaving Yelp reviews, and a skunk club that has better amenities than my own bathroom.

But nothing—nothing—prepared me for The Great Blackberry Incident of ‘25.

It started out normal enough. My wife, Sherri, bless her determined heart, decided to go harvest blackberries from the back of the property. Now, these aren’t your polite, manicured, suburban-grocery-store blackberries. No, sir.

These are wild, untamed, and guarded by thorns forged in the fires of Mordor.
You don’t pick these berries. You barter with your skin.

Still, Sherri braved them each summer like some berry-seeking Valkyrie, armed with nothing but a five-gallon bucket, gardening gloves, and pure spite.

So there I was, inside, reviewing last night’s skunk footage like a man who’s lost all concept of a normal life, when I heard something strange. A distant… noise. Almost like a muffled yell. Then another. Faint. Almost… human?

I paused the video—just as Frank the skunk was doing a cannonball—and leaned out the door.

“Sherri?” I hollered.

Silence.

Then came the sound again—like someone trying to shout through a wool sweater full of bees.

I followed it, past the trough (still wet), around the chicken coop (currently unoccupied due to unpaid rent), and into the jungle of bramble.

Now, this patch—let me be clear—has grown so thick it’s on the verge of forming its own zip code. Even the deer avoid it. I’ve seen squirrels stop, salute, and go around.

But somewhere in there, beyond the hostile perimeter of thorny vines and berry-stained regrets, was my wife.

“I’m stuck!” came the cry.

“Where?” I asked, squinting.

“IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLACKBERRIES, CRIS. WHERE DO YOU THINK?!”

I won’t lie. My first instinct was to grab a machete. My second instinct was to pretend I didn’t hear her and check the skunk cam again. But marriage, as they say, is about choices.

So I did what any loving, duct-tape-scarred husband would do:
I put on my old leather jacket, the one the dog peed on in 2019, and charged in.

The vines clawed at me like nature’s bouncers. Thorns poked places I didn’t know I had. But eventually—after what felt like 40 years and a full confession—I reached the center of the thicket.

And there she was.

Sherri.
Hair wild. Eyes blazing. Bucket clutched like a sacred artifact.
Absolutely tangled.
But—and this is key—not one single berry was spilled.

“I saved them,” she gasped, triumphant, bleeding lightly from six fingers.

I looked at her. I looked at the bucket.
And I realized I had married a legend.

Chapter Five: Smoke Signals and the Speed of Panic
In which I learn that wildfires don’t care about your plans, your pets, or your half-eaten sandwich

Then there was the forced mandatory evacuation from the Caldor Wildfire—and let me tell you, nothing puts your life priorities in sharper focus than being told you have five minutes to leave and you spend two of them looking for your medication and vital papers because you never bothered to make a “Go Bag!”.

It started like any good Western horror story: a hot August wind, the scent of pine, and that orange glow on the horizon that makes you say, “Oh, that’s probably just the sunset,” right before your phone starts screaming like it just got dumped by the Emergency Alert System.

Now, I’d like to tell you we leapt into action like trained survivalists.
I’d like to tell you we had our go-bags packed, fuel tanks full, and important documents neatly labeled in waterproof sleeves.

I’d like to tell you that.

Instead?

I ran outside in Crocs and boxer shorts, waving my phone like it was going to summon a helicopter, and yelling, “SHERRI! START PACKING! GRAB THE DOGS! THE FIRE IS COMING!”

Sherri calmly stepped out of the garage holding a five-gallon bucket of blackberries.

“I just picked these,” she said, as if that settled the matter.
“Should I bring jam jars or just the raw fruit?”

We had three dogs, a confused cat, and a skunk (Frank) who seemed mildly disappointed that his midnight spa might be closing.

I ran around yelling things like “Where are the car keys!?” and “Has anyone seen my blood pressure medication!?” while Sherri calmly packed:

• The dogs’ blankets.

• Our wedding album.

• Half a pie.

• The last of the good toilet paper (she’s not a savage).

Meanwhile, the fire was now close enough that we could see ash falling like sad little snowflakes from Hell.

We finally managed to cram everything into the car—two dogs fighting over the front seat, the cat screaming like a demon in a carrier I forgot had a broken latch, and me trying to decide if we had time to go back for the waffle iron.

And just before we pulled out, I looked back at the house, the land, the horse trough where all this madness had begun…

…and what do I see?

Frank the skunk.

Sitting on the edge of the trough.
Staring at us.
Not afraid. Not rushing.
Just… sipping.

Like “Go on then, run. This spa never closes.”

We made it out fine, thank the good Lord and Sherri’s fireproof pie carrier.
The house survived. The trough survived. Frank is still there, probably running a loyalty program now.

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