There must be something magical about pancakes because they are featured at every Father’s Day gathering. As I pondered this oddity, I thought back to a memorable pancake breakfast of my youth.

I was ten-years-old when my dad and uncle purchased some cows that came with a new grazing permit high on the Big Horn Mountains. To familiarize us with this new country, Dad and Uncle Burton dragged my brothers, Dana and Blaine, and cousins, David and Kevin, on an exploratory pack trip through the high country. Our journey began in the valley so we were in the saddle about twelve hours before reaching the Lake Creek Cow Camp at timberline around dark. Early the next morning, we repacked two horses with gear and meager provisions knowing night two would be in the Little Horn Cow Camp. Fresh from a good night’s rest and breakfast, we swung back into the saddle. (If “swung” describes small boys tugging on the saddle strings, shinnying up a horse’s leg so you could get a knee in the stirrup).

In those days, pundits were warning of the impending ice age, and snow drifts blocked the jeep roads so we weaved through the bare spots in the timber. Our progress was slow and six hours later, we arrived on the banks of a small reservoir serving the north end of our new grazing allotment. We swung off for lunch; a feast of sardine sandwiches. One loaf of bread, with one can of sardines in mustard sauce, can feed several miniature cowboys, especially if most of them won’t eat sardines. Dana and David chose to starve. Blaine, Kevin and I, ate our fill on the banks of what we later named Sardine Lake.

Dad and Uncle Burton had heard old timers speak of a trail leading from the high country to the Little Horn Parks, so after lunch they told us to wait while they explored the downfall for some remnant of a trail. We waited and waited and waited some more. As typical with brothers and cousins, boredom soon overwhelmed us so we started fighting. Ten-year-old boys burn about 3,000 calories a minute when flinging rocks and pinecones; calories I wish I had later that day. During halftime of our brawl, Dad and Uncle Burton returned telling us to mount up and follow them. Other than tipping over a pack horse in the timber, and the absence of any hint of a trail, the 2,000 foot drop into the parks was uneventful. The shadows were long and my belly was empty when we pulled our horses to a stop two hundred yards from the Little Horn Cabin; between us and dinner, roared the unmerciful, Little Horn River. It was high-water season and we couldn’t cross.

With few options and dwindling light, we trotted a mile upstream to a wider crossing with better footing. We hustled because it is preferred to drown in daylight rather than in darkness. (I don’t make all these rules; I just know them.) We discovered we wouldn’t be crossing there either, so we decided to camp there and try in the morning when the runoff should be at its lowest.

Dinner provisions were marginal. The bread and sardines were long gone but we did have one pound of partially thawed bacon which we wrapped around willow sticks and warmed over the fire. We were so dang hungry we gobbled them down the second the grease softened. (This proved to be mistake.) Once the bacon disappeared, dinner was over, so we rolled out our beds and said “good night.”

Sleeping accommodations on the trail are primitive at best. We zipped two Coleman Comfy sleeping bags together, (a misnomer if there ever was one), stuffed in three skinny Kerns boys, and then covered ourselves with a canvass pack tarp. I must admit I slept right through the midnight thunderstorm, but when Blaine awakened in a panic around three and hollered, “Dad, Dad, I’ve got the scours,” I shot out of bed into the rainy darkness. (Those of you lacking a ranch background may be unfamiliar with “scours”. Without discussing pathology, trust me, when the middle person in the bag has the problem of “scours” it is best to abandon ship.) By the grace of God, dawn eventually broke, the night was over, and so we rode back to the river.

In bright daylight the boiling, muddy river was no longer ominously terrifying, it was just regularly terrifying. (Remember, I grew up in Eastern Montana where we didn’t have water, much less running water.) A series of lariats were tied end-to-end. Dad rode across the river with one end of the safety-line, while Uncle Burton held the slack on the near side. Each of us kids was tied to the middle of the line, and one at a time, we coaxed our horses into the water. Had the current taken a horse down, one, and only one, of the anchor persons would have to let loose the rope so the other could pull a soaked, scrawny kid to safety. Neither my father, nor my uncle had great hearing so I expected to drown as they hollered “What???” back and forth across the river. Fortunately, we all made it across.

Knowing we were starving and could drop dead at any moment, we spurred our ponies from a trot to a gallop enroute to the Little Horn Cow Camp. We slid to a stop at the hitching rail, jerked open the cabin door, raided the root cellar and fired up the cook stove. Within thirty minutes, we had a glorious stack of hot pancakes, and coincidently, it was Father’s Day, June 18th, 1967.

I told you that one long story to make this one short point. Regardless the adversity, it is time spent with fathers which develops strong families. I wouldn’t trade all the long, wet, cold, hungry hours with my father and brothers for all the sardine sandwiches in the world. For America to survive, fathers must return to being patriarchs. For decades progressives have minimized the importance of fathers by replacing them with federal assistance. When was the last time you celebrated a government program over a stack of pancakes? Happy Father’s Day Dad; thanks for your time.