{"id":4762,"date":"2025-07-01T22:29:24","date_gmt":"2025-07-02T05:29:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.newsmolo.com\/EDC\/2019\/?p=4762"},"modified":"2026-04-23T17:19:48","modified_gmt":"2026-04-24T00:19:48","slug":"skunks-in-the-trough-wildfires-on-the-ridge-surviving-life-on-the-outback-ranch","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.newsmolo.com\/EDC\/2019\/2025\/07\/01\/skunks-in-the-trough-wildfires-on-the-ridge-surviving-life-on-the-outback-ranch\/","title":{"rendered":"Skunks in the Trough, Wildfires on the Ridge: Surviving Life on the Outback Ranch"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"Title: “Of Troughs and Testosterone: A Memoir of the Mildly Brave”<\/strong>
By a Man Who Once Wrestled a Garden Hose – Cris Alarcon<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

I went out to fill the horse trough like any responsible outback rancher does\u2014barefoot, 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.<\/p>\n

Anyway, I\u2019m standing there, garden hose in one hand, pride in the other, when it occurs to me\u2014do mountain lions drink from the trough?<\/strong>
I mean, I\u2019ve seen raccoons wash their snacks in there like it\u2019s 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\u2019s a whole different league.<\/p>\n

And just as I\u2019m 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\u2014no, this was primal. Echoed across the canyon like the opening theme to a horror movie set in a petting zoo.<\/p>\n

And then, clear as day (or a hallucination, let\u2019s be honest), I heard her.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cI don\u2019t need your water, stupid human. I drink the blood of my victims!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Now, normally, I\u2019d have some questions. Like\u2014how fluent is this mountain lion in sarcasm? And what are the odds she\u2019s been reading my Yelp reviews?<\/p>\n

But just then, my nighttime medication kicked in.<\/strong>
You know the one. The one that promises \u201crestful sleep,\u201d but forgets to mention \u201cpossible wildlife telepathy and moderate time travel.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Sat down.
Didn\u2019t even take my boots off.
Because in that moment, I wasn\u2019t sure if I\u2019d need to run, levitate, or negotiate with a cougar named Sheila.<\/p>\n

And that\u2019s how I spent the rest of the night, listening to my heartbeat and wondering:
If mountain lions don\u2019t drink from the trough\u2026 why do they scream like they\u2019ve got a grudge and a podcast?<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter Two: The Bear Essentials of Sanity<\/strong>
In which caffeine meets paranoia at dawn<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"
File Photo<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
\n

Then I blew the steam from a hot cup of coffee\u2014black, like my mood and the power bill I forgot to pay\u2014and leaned against the screen door like some rugged Western philosopher who misplaced his pants but kept his dignity.<\/p>\n

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\u2019s be honest, my inner voice wearing a fur coat and attitude.<\/p>\n

And I wondered, real quiet-like, do the black bear drink from my horse trough?<\/em><\/p>\n

I mean, it\u2019s good water. Comes from a well that I pay for in both dollars and back pain. It\u2019s cold, clean, and just a short waddle away from the berry bushes that are definitely not mine, despite what the Department of Wildlife insists.<\/p>\n

And if I were a bear\u2014and let\u2019s be honest, I\u2019m halfway there before shaving\u2014I\u2019d absolutely belly up to that trough like it was Happy Hour at the Last Chance Saloon.<\/p>\n

Just as I\u2019m chewing on that thought, I hear a noise.<\/p>\n

Now, I\u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n

\n

“Mornin\u2019,\u201d I whispered to the wilderness, \u201cif you\u2019re a bear, I\u2019d appreciate a little heads up before mauling time.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Nothing.<\/p>\n

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

Boots crunchin\u2019. Air still. My robe\u2014yes, I wear a robe, don\u2019t judge\u2014flapping gently like a flag warning all creatures that a confused man is loose on the land.<\/p>\n

And there it was. A muddy paw print by the trough. Big. Round. Definitely not mine unless I\u2019ve started sleepwalking in mittens again.<\/p>\n

I looked around. Nothing but the sound of birds, judgment, and my blood pressure ticking up like it\u2019s late for a dentist appointment.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s 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\u2019s the neighborhood 7-Eleven.<\/em><\/p>\n

Or at least start charging a cover.<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter Three: The Midnight Musk Club<\/strong>
In which I discover skunks, scandal, and the limits of personal dignity<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

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\u2019s right\u2014I installed a wildlife camera.<\/p>\n

Now, don\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n

But it worked.
Oh, friends\u2014it worked too well.<\/em><\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

The first couple hours? Just wind-blown grass and a confused moth doing donuts around the lens.<\/p>\n

Then\u2014at exactly 12:47 a.m.\u2014movement.<\/p>\n

Out of the darkness emerged four skunks<\/strong>, 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,<\/strong> and the attitude of creatures that absolutely did not<\/em> pay rent.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

And then? \"\"<\/p>\n

Skinny-dipping.<\/strong>
No hesitation.
Tail-flashing, splash-thrashing, unabashed nudity<\/em> in the moonlight.
Right in my horse\u2019s drinking water.<\/p>\n

I blinked. Rewound. Watched again.<\/p>\n

They swam. They soaked. One even laid across the rim like a French aristocrat in a scented tub, as if to say, \u201cBring me grapes, peasant.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

And standing just behind them, not participating but clearly supervising, was the largest skunk I have ever seen. I named him Frank.<\/em><\/p>\n

Frank didn\u2019t swim.
Frank doesn\u2019t need<\/em> to swim.
Frank just watched.
As if to say, \u201cYou see this? This is our spa now. Tell your livestock to wait their turn.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

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

\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s it,\u201d I whispered, \u201cI\u2019ve officially lost control. I\u2019ve become the facilities manager for a clandestine skunk spa.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Chapter Four: The Bramble Queen and the Blackberry Betrayal<\/strong>
In which I learn that love is eternal, but thorns are very literal<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Now, if you\u2019ve been with me this far, you\u2019ll know my ranch is less of a well-oiled frontier operation and more of a barely functioning wildlife Airbnb with snack options. We\u2019ve got mountain lions making threats, bears leaving Yelp reviews, and a skunk club that has better amenities than my own bathroom.<\/p>\n

But nothing\u2014nothing<\/strong>\u2014prepared me for The Great Blackberry Incident of \u201825.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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\u2019t your polite, manicured, suburban-grocery-store blackberries. No, sir.<\/p>\n

These are wild<\/strong>, untamed<\/strong>, and guarded by thorns forged in the fires of Mordor.<\/strong>
You don\u2019t pick<\/em> these berries. You barter with your skin.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

So there I was, inside, reviewing last night\u2019s skunk footage like a man who\u2019s 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?<\/p>\n

I paused the video\u2014just as Frank the skunk was doing a cannonball\u2014and leaned out the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cSherri?\u201d I hollered.<\/p>\n

Silence. \"\"<\/p>\n

Then came the sound again\u2014like someone trying to shout through a wool sweater full of bees.<\/p>\n

I followed it, past the trough (still wet), around the chicken coop (currently unoccupied due to unpaid rent), and into the jungle of bramble.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Now, this patch\u2014let me be clear\u2014has grown so thick it\u2019s on the verge of forming its own zip code. Even the deer avoid it. I\u2019ve seen squirrels stop, salute, and go around.<\/p>\n

But somewhere in there, beyond the hostile perimeter of thorny vines and berry-stained regrets, was my wife.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

\u201cI\u2019m stuck!\u201d came the cry.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\u201cWhere?\u201d I asked, squinting.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cIN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLACKBERRIES, CRIS. WHERE DO YOU THINK?!\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

I won\u2019t lie. My first instinct was to grab a machete. My second instinct was to pretend I didn\u2019t hear her and check the skunk cam again. But marriage, as they say, is about choices.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

The vines clawed at me like nature\u2019s bouncers. Thorns poked places I didn\u2019t know I had. But eventually\u2014after what felt like 40 years and a full confession\u2014I reached the center of the thicket.<\/p>\n

And there she was.<\/p>\n

Sherri.
Hair wild. Eyes blazing. Bucket clutched like a sacred artifact.
Absolutely tangled.<\/strong>
But\u2014and this is key\u2014not one single berry was spilled.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

\u201cI saved them,\u201d she gasped, triumphant, bleeding lightly from six fingers.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

I looked at her. I looked at the bucket.
And I realized I had married a legend.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

Chapter Five: Smoke Signals and the Speed of Panic<\/strong>
In which I learn that wildfires don\u2019t care about your plans, your pets, or your half-eaten sandwich<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Then there was the forced mandatory evacuation<\/strong> from the Caldor Wildfire<\/strong>\u2014and 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!”.\"\"<\/p>\n

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, \u201cOh, that\u2019s probably just the sunset,\u201d<\/em> right before your phone starts screaming like it just got dumped by the Emergency Alert System.<\/p>\n

Now, I\u2019d like to tell you we leapt into action like trained survivalists.
I\u2019d like to tell you we had our go-bags packed, fuel tanks full, and important documents neatly labeled in waterproof sleeves.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d like<\/strong> to tell you that.<\/p>\n

Instead?<\/p>\n

I ran outside in Crocs and boxer shorts, waving my phone like it was going to summon a helicopter, and yelling, \u201cSHERRI! START PACKING! GRAB THE DOGS! THE FIRE IS COMING!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Sherri calmly stepped out of the garage holding a five-gallon bucket of blackberries.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cI just picked these,\u201d she said, as if that settled the matter.
\u201cShould I bring jam jars or just the raw fruit?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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

I ran around yelling things like \u201cWhere are the car keys!?\u201d and \u201cHas anyone seen my blood pressure medication!?\u201d while Sherri calmly packed:<\/p>\n