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[{"type":"text","text":"Organizing your Tupperware....."}]

Bonus vid 2 2 25 26

Cowboy State Daily is Wyoming’s largest newspaper with Wyoming’s most experienced journalists. 

<title>Bonus Video 2: Wednesday, February 25, 2026 | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Organizing your Tupperware.....

Bonus Video 2: Wednesday, February 25, 2026

Heinz mark

Mark Heinz

Wildlife

Wyoming hunters seeking next fall’s trophy bulls and bucks can start looking now. After months of explosive growth, elk and deer antlers are about as big as they’re going to get for the year.

Good nutrition is the key. With the onset of spring, bucks and bulls must first recover the body mass they lost over the winter. Then they continue eating like hogs, pumping additional nutrients into antler growth.

In peak season, typically in early summer, antlers can grow up to an inch a day.

During the process, a fuzzy substance called “velvet” covers the antlers. It looks like its namesake, but is actually skin, dense with blood vessels and covered with short, dense fur.

As summer wanes, the velvet starts to dry, and the animals rub it off on trees and brush.

Once the velvet is rubbed off, elk emerge with a clean set of headgear, just in time for fierce, 

 associated with the rut, or mating season.

The elk rut starts in mid-September and lasts “well into October,” retired U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist Bruce Smith told Cowboy State daily.

The deer rut usually starts in late October, peaks in November and might run into December.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Cycle Starts In February"}]

Buck and bulls go through a yearly cycle of growing, shedding and then re-growing their antlers, with each set getting larger than the previous year’s.

Large bull elk start shedding their antlers as early as February, said Smith, who was the senior biologist at the National Elk Refuge near Jackson from 1982 to 2004 and now lives in Bozeman, Montana.

Smaller bulls and spikes (male elk that have only single-tine, spike antlers) might not shed theirs until April or May, he said.

With that jump-start, larger bulls might start growing antlers by April, Smith said.

However, they’re still trying to make up for the nutritional deficit coming out of winter.

Antler growth can’t really kick into high gear until late spring or early summer, when green, nutrient-rich grasses and other plants become available, Smith said.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"The cycle is similar for deer, he said."}]

Elk are primarily grazers (grass-eaters), while deer are browsers, relying heavily on shrubs and forbs.

After mid-July, hot dry weather settles in “like we’re having now,” Smith said.

Foliage starts to dry out and its nutritional value wanes, so antler growth slows to a stop.  

Bull elk might then seek green “riparian areas and wet meadows,” which could help boost a final antler growth spurt, Smith said.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Nitrogen And Lead"}]

What all of that means is that hunters eyeballing bulls and bucks now, in mid-July, can have get a reasonable estimation of how big they’ll be during the fall hunting seasons after the velvet comes off, Smith said.

He noted that elk habits can be driven by “nitrogen and lead.” (The latter being a reference to the lead in hunter’s bullets).

"They are attracted to nitrogen, and they’re afraid of lead,” he said.

The nitrogen, or nitrates, is the primary nutrient that is easily digestible and promotes antler growth, Smith said.

Antlers might frequently be called “bone,” which is reasonably accurate, he added.

“It’s certainly more like bone than another other particular tissue or structure that you might find in the animal’s body,” Smith said.

The entire region had a mild winter and early spring, which bodes well for wildlife, and antler growth, Smith said.

He lives in Montana, which also saw significant rains recently. That also helps with antler growth.

So, Smith expects at least average antler growth in Montana bull elk this year.

It might not be so great in Wyoming, which leaned toward the dry side this spring and early summer, said avid hunter Owen Miller, who lives in northeast Wyoming.

“They (antlers) grow fast from the start of the growing stage. This time of year, it looks like they’re growing faster because each tine (point) is growing,” he told Cowboy State Daily.

 “A dry year, like this summer has been, also has an effect on them. With less green foliage around, and being dry, it has fewer nutrients,” he added.

“Both bucks and bulls can be smaller than the previous year, due to water shortages and fewer nutrients during drought,” he said.

Mule deer rack 8 24 23

<title>After Growing Fast Through July, Elk And Deer Antlers About As Big As They’ll Get | Cowboy State Daily</title>

During the peak antler growing-season of spring and early summer, Wyoming bull elk and buck deer can add an inch per day to their antlers thanks to lush foliage. Now that it's the peak of summer, antler growth will grind almost to a halt.

After Growing Fast Through July, Elk And Deer Antlers About As Big As They’ll Get

Welsch mug

Jeff Welsch

Outdoors

A few hundred yards downstream, after 70 miles of twists and turns and memories and restoration of a base human spirit, a white pickup truck appeared beyond the vertical lip of a canyon wall on river right and disappeared swiftly behind another tower of rock on the left.

Almost in unison, 22 hearts — one for each first-time floater on the revered emerald gem that is central Idaho’s Middle Fork of the Salmon River, including and especially mine — sank.

The truck harkened an inevitability we all understood and accepted, but still dreaded as this jarring reality loomed ever larger each day.

We were plying the last stretch of the crown jewel of America’s wild rivers and, in my case, closing the book on an elusive spiritual pursuit 40 years in the making.

An odyssey that began six days earlier with a backcountry flight into a dirt airstrip was now a few half-hearted oar strokes from takeout at busy Cache Bar, after a left turn and one more mighty rapid on the Main Salmon River.

Silence engulfed us, save for the ever-fainter roar of the last of the Middle Fork’s 100-plus rapids, the chirp of chukars pecking at bugs on a boulder-strewn shore, and the goodbye echoes of wind whispering off canyon walls that towered above us like granite cathedrals.

Our bearded and tanned trip leader Murph, no stranger to this moment and its emotional swings, swiveled his head toward the four other yellow rafts and read our collective minds like a seasoned therapist.

“Welcome,” he announced, “to the most depressing place on Earth.”

Murph himself was wrestling with those emotions, as he’d conceded he would when he first gripped his oars at the Indian Creek launch site in the heart of America’s largest contiguous wilderness area.

He pirouetted his raft 180 degrees and pointed it upstream, putting the growing vehicle traffic out of sight if not out of mind, and we all followed suit. We gazed one final time up the waters we’d covered, contemplating a landscape unmatched in the Lower 48 states.

Even the group’s six 11-to-14-year-old kids, who’d spent the morning playfully smacking the water’s surface with paddles and gleefully celebrating drenching descents through rapids with foreboding names such as Devil’s Tooth and Foreplay and House of Rocks, solemnly rested those same paddles across their knees.

No heart was at once more melancholy and yet full as the one belonging to the second-oldest member of the expedition.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Mine."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Unaltered For Millennia"}]

The Middle Fork of the Salmon is born at the confluence of gin-clear Marsh and Bear Valley creeks on the eastern edge of the Sawtooth Mountains. The river carves a serpentine chasm through the craggy Idaho Batholith and, climactically, Impassable Canyon, the third deepest gorge in North America.

Its waters plunge an average of 30 feet per mile, producing nearly continuous rapids over its 104 miles.

Its flow, unaltered for millennia, is regulated purely and solely by Mother Nature — no dams, no agricultural pumps, no diversions, no community water systems, no wastewater effluent, no rip-rap and no spans save for a handful of suspension bridges for foot and equine trail traffic.

The trout fishing is world-class, the hot springs restorative, the rapids exhilarating as well as 

 with one notable and intensely personal exception 

To safeguard the Middle Fork’s fragile integrity, a scant seven launches per day are allowed between commercial and private trips. The odds of the average citizen winning the Middle Fork lottery are about 1 in 55, with 20,000 applicants vying for roughly 350 slots each year.

President Jimmy Carter wasn’t encumbered by such long odds in August 1978 when he floated the Middle Fork, along the way instilling in his wife, Rosalynn, a passion for fly-fishing. Two years later he would sign the Central Idaho Wilderness Act into law, the name soon to change to Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness.

“I think if I had to pick out the three or four best days of my life in politics, it was the time I spent going down the Salmon River by raft two summers ago. This was a delightful trip,” Carter said at the 1980 signing. “The River of No Return, encompassing the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, is indeed one of our nation’s treasures.”

Even the Colorado River of the Grand Canyon, for all its aura and remoteness, is bookended by dams, its flows dictated by the demands and whims of far-flung water users.

The Middle Fork is as pure as the driven snows that blanket its upper reaches and feed it, along with the dozens of creeks that sustain and nurture it.

The mere utterance of the words “Middle Fork” moves riverkeepers worldwide to genuflect.

A Middle Fork descent became a vision quest for me a few years after Carter’s visit, when as a 20-something Idaho journalist and budding river enthusiast I was struck by the local reverence for it.

Grown man-card-carrying, beef-eating, Idaho-bred men admitted to weeping at the sight of those same anti-climactic trucks and boat trailers.

While awaiting my turn, I rafted and kayaked many of the West’s great whitewater rivers — Idaho’s Main Salmon, Lower Salmon, South Fork of the Payette, South Fork of the Boise, and even the impossibly elusive Selway with its single launch per day; Oregon’s Rogue, Deschutes, McKenzie and Illinois; the Alberton Gorge section on Montana’s Clark Fork; and my splashy introduction to rafting at age 22 in Lunch Counter and the Big Kahuna rapids on Wyoming’s Snake — measuring each against a vision of the Middle Fork adventure certain to come.

Yet year after year, hope gave way to futility.

The lottery sneered at my every annual application. Speed dials in hopes of a rare cancellation were fruitless. Invitations from the friends who’d occasionally struck Middle Fork gold were always ill-timed.

And, of course, there were those all-consuming daily demands such as parenting and work.

Compromising my chances, for many years testosteronal stubbornness prohibited me from even considering one of the commercial trips, which I derided as for soft East and West Coast elitists.

Over time, I’d begun to concede in the twilight of my own serpentine journey that my dream would always be just that, and that any Middle Fork floats would be relegated to vicarious YouTube fantasies.

Then, for the Christmas of my 66th year, my wife, Sherry, herself once a river rat who’d said “yes” to our engagement on one Rogue River descent and “yes” to matrimony at the same remote lodge on the same day a year later, handed a laptop computer displaying an invoice to my son Matt, whose eyes knowingly widened.

“Do you think he’d like this?” she asked with an impish grin.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Matt nodded vigorously."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"He nodded even more emphatically."}]

Matt handed me the computer and my eyes moistened as I saw the words: Middle Fork Adventures.

After 40 years, I’d finally won the Middle Fork lottery.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"No Outside World Access"}]

On July 15, after the short flight from Stanley to Indian Creek, I wandered down the launch ramp. For the first time, I dipped a sandal into the waters of a stream I’d touched only with my eyes from 30,000 feet.

“Holy waters,” I said to a guide I’d just met, and he nodded with a smile.

For the next six days, we would have no access to the outside world, save for the seven-person crew’s emergency satellite phone and a brief stop at a pastoral lodge and hunting camp called Loon Creek Ranch.

It is one of several guest ranches and busy airstrips grandfathered into “The Church”, a counter-intuitive concession nevertheless necessary to persuade politicians that this national treasure merited protections under The Wilderness Act of 1964.

At Loon Creek, Starlink made Apple Pay and thus the purchase of huckleberry ice cream possible in a tiny white “store” with mule-deer antlers above the door, across a yard from the horses and pack mules in a nearby corral.

Cell phones were otherwise of no use except for time, photos/video and satellite mapping until they inevitably died.

For the 22 of us, the dopamine urge to doom scroll on social media each morning left our fingertips with surprising ease the moment we took off from Stanley and banked across the flanks of the Sawtooths. Early pining for World Cup results also tapered quickly.

A lanky 14-year-old boy from Seattle, paddling alongside Matt in an inflatable kayak, or “ducky”, offered that his baseball team was in the state playoffs.

“But I’d rather be here,” he said, his parents beaming later when the sentiment was relayed to them.

Day after day, we navigated rapids, hiked to Sheepeater pictographs, soaked in hot springs, drank straight from cold springs, caught wild cutthroat trout, climbed to waterfalls, poked around abandoned cabins once inhabited by crusty hermits, admired bighorn sheep and bald eagles and mule deer, and sat contemplatively in the mist of a cool grotto surrounded by 500-foot walls.

And from dawn to dusk, in our rafts and on our hikes and at lunch stops and around the campfire, we engaged in a lost art.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"We talked."}]

An eclectic group from each corner of the country and varied walks of life converged and, for a week, we became family.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Entering The Cheese Grater"}]

On the penultimate day, just a few hundred yards from our final camp at Otter Bar, I plopped into a ducky for the final time and followed Matt into a Class III rapid called Cliffside that’s notorious for “munching” inflatable kayaks.

Its name comes from the bony cliff on the left known as “Cheese Grater Wall”. As fate would have it, the rapid is most challenging at the present and otherwise ideal flow of 2.5 feet; it’s easier to skirt at higher water in the spring and slows to a relative trickle later in the summer.

“I have seen more botched runs and wall crashes in this rapid than any other,” wrote Matt Leidecker in “Middle Fork of the Salmon River: A Comprehensive Guide”, as if he knew before I did that I would indeed one day float this river.

I deftly navigated the first wave, riding its crest like a cork, then instantly knew my fate was sealed when a side wave surged off Cheese Grater, pushed the nose of my ducky hard right, and left me helplessly parallel to another wave that upended me into the maelstrom.

Down I went, gashing my shin on a submerged rock, before eventually emerging between waves long enough to claim a single hurried breath. Down I went again only to re-emerge moments later in time to gasp for another breath between waves and see I was in a headlong rush toward the Grater.

I raised my hands, briefly flashed on whether a ledge might suck me underneath the wall, pushed off and was summoned into the depths a final time. Upon my third emergence I managed two breaths and spied calmer water a few smaller waves ahead.

“Are you OK?” Murph shouted from his rescue raft, shifting from first responder back to boat captain. “Just stay calm.”

I nodded, and moments later another guide pulled me by my life jacket into the back of an oar raft, shaken but otherwise unbruised except for my shin and my ego.

“Welcome to the Salmon River Swim Team,” Taylor said with a grin once he knew I hadn’t inhaled a pint of Middle Fork Pale Ale. “It’s an exclusive club. We’ve all been there.”

My penance came that night in what guides call “booty beer.” I had to announce around the campfire what I did wrong (listened to the guides tee-hee), what I’d do different (not follow Matt tee-hee) and what I’d learned (people were legit scared when my yellow helmet twice vanished into the depths) before a rite of passage required me to guzzle a 12-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon from toe to heel out of my river sandal.

It was, fittingly perhaps, the first time I’d ever flipped either a raft or so-called IK, giving me a kinship with this river unlike any other. The Middle Fork had taken something from me while at the same time giving something back.

The next morning, as we reached the confluence of the Middle Fork and Main Salmon, we grudgingly turned our rafts back toward the transition zone and what our culture curiously calls “the real world.”

“Thank you, Middle Fork!” Murph yelled one last time, looking over his shoulder up the canyon and saluting the restorative powers of the river and its wildness.

From the back of an oar boat, Matt and I watched an eagle talon a trout from the depths before we stood and held on tight for a final bucking bronc ride through Class IV Cramer Creek Rapid.

As we sat back down on the tube, the ramp at Cache Bar and its throngs of milling people inching ever closer across another placid emerald gem, Matt turned and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “you finally made it.”

Yes, I finally made it, and my heart, though tinged with melancholy and a sense of loss that still has me off-balance as I write, was full at long last. 

Middle Fork rafts

<title>Getting Access To Float The Middle Fork Of The Salmon River Is Like Winning The Lottery | Cowboy State Daily</title>

One of the most difficult rivers to gain access to float is the pristine Middle Fork of the Salmon River. The odds are 1 in 55, with 20,000 applicants vying for 350 slots each year. After trying for 40 years, Cowboy State Daily's Jeff Welsch won the lottery

Getting Access To Float The Middle Fork Of The Salmon River Is Like Winning The Lottery

Kolby fedore

Kolby Fedore

Around Wyoming

[{"type":"text","text":"Some people collect souvenirs."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Rick Bonander collected adventures."}]

The 74-year-old Casper businessman has spent a lifetime following whatever lay beyond the next ridge, whether that meant getting lost in the Montana mountains as a boy, building one of Wyoming's most successful pipe companies, or tracking elephants, lions and Marco Polo sheep across six continents.

[{"type":"text","text":"The adventures now surround him."}]

Bonander is difficult to miss. Tall and broad-shouldered with a barrel chest, bright blue eyes and a neatly trimmed white mustache, he greets visitors with an easy smile and the confidence of someone who's seen enough of the world to know that almost everything eventually becomes a good story.

He settles into a hand-carved chair as thousands of glass eyes stare back from every direction.

Outside his home's picture windows, Wyoming stretches toward the horizon.

Inside, a crocodile lounges across the stone floor on a wooden peg leg Bonander built after discovering the reptile had lost one of its own. A leopard crouches from an upper ledge. A rhinoceros stands nearby. Cape buffalo from Zimbabwe and antelope from Africa fill every corner.

[{"type":"text","text":"Elephant feet have become leather-covered stools. "}]

"My trophy room doesn't mean anything to anybody else," he said. "But to me, I could sit out here with a drink and just daydream about each and every animal and the hunt. Every one of them I can replay in my mind."

[{"type":"text","text":"For Bonander, the room isn't about what he killed."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"It's about where life took him."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Adventure Calls"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Bonander was raised to wander. "}]

Growing up in Bozeman, Montana, he spent weekends hunting, fishing and camping with his two younger brothers. He shot his first deer at 8 years old and, by 14, was hunting on his own.

One snowy afternoon, after following a wounded deer farther than he realized, he became hopelessly lost in the Montana backcountry. Darkness settled in. Panic followed.

Sit down. Think. Figure out where you are. 

He found his bearings and walked himself home, carrying a lesson that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

That same willingness to venture into the unknown has followed him since. 

After earning a construction engineering degree from Montana State University and serving as a military police dog handler at a nuclear missile site in Washington, Bonander moved to Casper.

[{"type":"text","text":"Five years later, he gambled on himself."}]

In 1982, armed with just $260 and a willingness to outwork everyone around him, he started Intermountain Pipe. Delivering casing to drilling rigs around the clock, he built what would become one of Wyoming's premier oilfield pipe companies.

His son now runs much of the business, but Bonander still comes to the office most days.

[{"type":"text","text":"Fifty years of experience, he says, is hard to replace."}]

Building a successful company satisfied the engineer in him, but it never quieted the explorer.

For years, he devoured books about Africa before finally deciding to take "just one" safari.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"I thought I'd get it out of my system,\" he said."}]

Instead, he was planning the next trip before the airplane carrying him home had even landed. He returned to Africa more than 30 times. 

Over three decades, Bonander has hunted in countries stretching from Zimbabwe and Botswana to Tajikistan, Australia, Argentina, Scotland, Croatia and New Zealand.

[{"type":"text","text":"What keeps drawing him back?"}]

"The adventure," he said. "Getting to see new people, new places, new things."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Killer Elephant "}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Bonander never planned to hunt an elephant."}]

In 2002, he traveled to Zimbabwe hoping to pursue Cape buffalo and plains game when camp received word that a villager had been killed by a rogue bull elephant.

Years earlier, someone had tried to kill the animal with an AK-47. Instead, the bullets shattered its shoulder, destroyed much of its trunk and left it crippled. The elephant survived, but according to Bonander, it had become dangerously aggressive.

"It was missing a foot and a half of its trunk, and it was mean," Bonander said. "He wanted to kill people."

Zimbabwe wildlife officials asked whether Bonander wanted to help remove the elephant.

Trackers followed fresh prints through thick brush until they found the bull drinking from a sandy riverbed. Carrying a borrowed century-old .470 Nitro Express double rifle, Bonander eased to within about 35 yards.

[{"type":"text","text":"His first shot struck the elephant's shoulder."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"The bull spun."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"His second shot hit the opposite shoulder."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"The elephant staggered another 20 yards before collapsing."}]

For Bonander, it underscored something many Americans don't often see: in parts of Africa, hunting is also wildlife management. Dangerous animals, crop raiders and aging bulls are sometimes removed under government authority to protect both people and habitat.

[{"type":"text","text":"Nothing went to waste."}]

Villagers butchered the elephant where it fell, carrying the meat home to feed their families.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Accidental Giraffe "}]

By then, Bonander had hunted hippos, rhinoceroses, lions, elephants and more antelope species than he can easily count.

[{"type":"text","text":"One animal never interested him much."}]

The giraffe towering over his living room today wasn't his idea, he says, but his brother's.

"Mean old giraffes," as Bonander describes them, can become a problem too. As they age, dominant bulls sometimes attack and kill younger males competing for mates, making them candidates for wildlife management hunts.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"He talked me into it.\" "}]

The brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, counted to three and squeezed the triggers together.

[{"type":"text","text":"Later, they discovered their bullets had landed barely an inch apart."}]

Now the giraffe's head is neatly mounted in his house. Its feet, meanwhile, hold up an end table.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"High Elevation "}]

Bonander has stalked lions through tall African grass, fully aware "they can hunt you back."

He has also hunted hippos and crocodiles, animals responsible for thousands of human deaths across Africa each year and capable of turning a quiet riverbank into chaos in an instant.

[{"type":"text","text":"He's stood within yards of elephants."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"But the closest he ever came to dying wasn't because of an animal."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"It was because there wasn't enough air."}]

While pursuing Marco Polo sheep in Tajikistan's Pamir Mountains, Bonander climbed above 17,000 feet, where every breath felt thinner than the last.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"It just about killed me,\" he said with a laugh."}]

Hours of climbing over loose rock left him exhausted. Every step demanded more effort. Every breath came harder.

[{"type":"text","text":"Coming back down proved worse."}]

At one point, he collapsed beside the trail, struggling to breathe as his guides urged him to keep moving.

Eventually, he reached camp carrying one of the world's most coveted mountain sheep — and a newfound respect for high altitude.

[{"type":"text","text":"Ask him what he remembers most, though, and he'll tell you: The view. "}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Jagged mountains stretched to the horizon, untouched and impossibly wild."}]

The hunter later celebrated with a glass of Scotch around the campfire, replaying the day's adventure beneath a sky crowded with unfamiliar stars.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Before It's Too Late"}]

Casper's Rick Bonander went to Africa once "to get it out of his system." Thirty-two trips later, the 74-year-old has tracked lions, hunted a man-killing elephant, took on a three-legged crocodile, and filled his home with memories from six continents.

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