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The Platt Ranch Heritage Blog While talking to several people at Mitch and Mary Platt's 80th birthday celebration over the past weekend, I was telling them about my recent foray into publishing a blog for the choir that I sing with in Provo, Utah.  My mind immediately formed a decision to create a blog about the Earl Platt Cattle Ranch in Northeastern Arizona. So this is the beginning post for that blog.  As many of my family members know, I have taken on the role as a family historian about the lives of some of the most influential people in our family.  Many have led incredible lives with some pretty amazing accomplishments.  It is time now to open their lives and histories up to more than just a few in the family.  I hope to introduce more people to the history of a cattle ranch that was started from one cow wandering the ditches of St. Johns, Arizona, and ended up as one of the largest privately-owned cattle ranches in the State of Arizona. I will be making ...
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Rolling in the Mud


 

         I hope I get this story right, but if not then I guess it is just poetic license.

         When Dad was a teenager and working on the ranch, he did much of the same nasty, terrible jobs we were assigned.  Of the stories I heard, my favorite has always been about mucking out the drinker.  If I am not mistaken, this happened at the Ouijee.

         Dad, Warren, and a Mexican fellow were out at the Ouijee cleaning the drinker. Every year or so, the drinkers get chock full of sand, weeds, waterdogs, and nasty, black mud that smells like sewage.  They had drained the water and were in the process of shoveling out the thick, tar-like mud.  Dad and Warren had an idea pop into their heads.  They made a bet with this poor Mexican fellow.  “We’ll give you $10 if you take off your clothes and roll in the muck!”  The poor guy agreed, stripped down and started rolling in the black, smelly goo.  While he was doing so, Dad and Warren pulled out the guy’s wallet, took out a $10 bill, replaced the wallet, and waited for the new mud monster to emerge.

         They lost the bet and gave up the $10 bill to their muddy, smelly companion.  I don’t remember Dad mentioning if their ruse was discovered, but I spent many years hoping for the same chance.

         It never came.

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