Tribute To John Peavey

The day before John Peavey’s Celebration of life, I took a little trip out Corral Creek in Sun Valley where we used to ship lambs and line up for the big parade. It’s a place I knew I’d have no cell service, where I could escape the fuss of the festival, where I could maybe, just maybe finally write something up to share…. I was surrounded by memories of my grandfather, there in this quiet place, tucked under an old cottonwood by the creek, and the tears just came rolling out.

I scribbled my speech into a little pocketbook, not stopping to revise, or rethink… my speech reflects directly the fluidity of emotional retrospect I experienced in that moment alone. I’ll translate directly into type for the sake of preservation:

I was lucky enough to spend some time with my Gran-dad in his final days. I’d visit him at St. Lukes hospital, here in Ketchum, just to keep a guy company, ya know?

Those moments were hard on him, confined mostly to bed under the fluorescent light, with only a small window and no view… his mind was yonder… in the sage and cottonwood… on dirt roads and trout streams.

He’d ask me how the cattle faired out there in the desert, and of fences in need of mending, or the integrity of old corrals.

John knew, full well, that Flat Top had sold off the last of its sheep only a few months before this, but… when he lifted his face to me and asked how our sheep were getting along… I choked on my words a little. No way in hell I’d lie to my grandfather, he helped raise me to be honest and kind.

So I told him little truths…

“There are newborn lambs, spread as far as you can see in the Kimama desert.”

“Our herders… Cesar, Roberto, and Adriel are all out there taking care of our guard dogs, tending to the herds, with miles of native green grass ahead of them.”

I boasted of our yearling wool harvest approaching 18-micron, a good fine wool & testament to our selection of breeding stock. Grandad and I would travel all the western states, by truck and plane in pursuit of the finest genetics this country has to offer.

For the last several years we favored Helle Rambouillet Rams out of Dillon, Montana. I didn’t favor so much some of the last bumpy flights in John’s ol’ trusty Cessna, but the rams sired strong lambs with exceptionally fine wool, and we always came home with a good story about our adventures. That’s the memorable stuff right there… remember to travel with your family every chance you get.

The Big Truth is… you see, we did actually “have to sell” our sheep. The whole herd, the camps, the dogs, the horses, the herders all went with them. Leaving us with just the cattle operation still, but the beauty of it though… was in the fact that we’d sold most of them to our business partner, my personal mentor & long-time friend, Forrest Arthur, and to his son actually, Easton Arthur, which is a big win in this industry, when a next generation takes up the reins & keeps the legacy alive.

It's a tough, tough, business and a real struggle to run sheep in these hills, but with our whole fleet and crew adopted to the Arthur Family, we could relish in the fact that those sheep could and would still range over the same ground, with the same herders (whom over the years had become family to us) and I could trust that the Peavey herd would be in good hands.

… My grandad took delight in my stories and all the little truths. Just talking about sheep seemed to keep him happy between micro-naps and a revolving door of medical staff.

He’d wake sometimes, slightly startled by what new face was there to greet him this time… he shot me an odd look, perhaps confused by my identity… he says, “Where’s your hat?”

Concerned, I pull off my Trailing of the Sheep ballcap and give it a look-over.

“No, the one I gave you, the cowboy hat,” he says.

You see… he’d never given me a hat. He tried several times over the years, but my head is just too big and fat to fit his hand-me-downs. All the other Peavey boys got hats, so he gave me a pair of old leather chinks instead one year, after he’d sent me deep into the Sawtooth’s, alone with a pack string and supplies for our herder. I had no experience packing with mules and horses, but he handed me a compass and a map and told me I’d be fine… The journey is five days and I could lean on the experience of our herder Abadon if and when I find him up there.

Reckon I went up a boy,

And came down a man…

Who ought to learn better Spanish.

… Sum-bitch taught his lessons by sink or swim!

But… John’s memory caught up to him in that moment, his expression softened to recognition… he got that twinkle in his eye, ya know? ---That John Peavey charm comes out. He passes a wink and says, “well you ought to wear your hat Cory… we need more of that character around here.”

I love him

And I sure miss him…

But if I ever need to talk with him, all I need do is hike on up the canyon and find some old cottonwood by the creek. He’ll be waiting for me there between the arborglyphs and aspen trees.

Love,
Cory Peavey