Wyoming Ranchers Save Their Herds, Then Fire Up the Grill for Firefighters

First, the Philp family chased their cattle and sheep through smoke and spot fires to get them out alive. Then, once the Red Canyon Fire stopped bearing down, they fired up the kitchen and fed the people fighting it.

Lightning sparked the Red Canyon Fire on Aug. 13. Within days it blew up across tens of thousands of acres of rangeland. By the time it reached the Philps’ place along Bridger Creek, the blaze had scorched much of Hot Springs County. The incident command later reported the fire held at about 125,000 acres and roughly 90% contained.

When flames threatened their pastures, father and son Rob and Shawn Philp — both trained firefighters — got the green light from incident command to move livestock. They jumped on four-wheelers and started pushing a mixed herd of their own and neighbors’ cattle through heavy smoke.

“There were little fires burning around them as they were bringing them down,” said Gloria Philp. “Slurry bombers were dropping around them, and a helicopter was dipping out of the pond at Bloomquist Summer Camp.”

It was brutal going. A couple of cows wouldn’t trail and had to be left. Same with a few stubborn bucks as the family hauled most of the sheep out ahead of the flame front.

“That was a pretty harrowing experience,” niece Aley Philp said. “Shawn said they were just pushing the cows down this canyon to get them out.”

Thirty-six hours later, the Philps returned to find what the wildland crews had saved: every structure, half the sheep pasture, and a historic family corral. Even better, the animals had made it.

“By some miracle, they lived through the fire,” Aley said. “We think the cattle might have bedded down in the creek.”

They haven’t come across any wildlife casualties either. On a weekend like that, “lucky” doesn’t begin to cover it.

Neighbors played a big role. Rancher Garrett Herbst helped gather yearlings from a threatened pasture and hauled horses as crews staged up the creek for three days, working lines above Bridger Creek while the fire chewed across rough country. Rob even climbed onto his old road grader to scratch in breaks while helicopters hammered hot spots at the Hayes place next door.

Once the immediate danger eased, the family shifted from herding to hospitality. They knew what a long shift on a fire line does to an appetite — and how far Thermopolis is when you’re grabbing meals between assignments. So the women of the family banded together and cooked for three straight nights.

“We estimate we fed 50 to 70 people each night,” Aley said. “It felt good to thank them for keeping us safe.”

The menu was classic ranch-kitchen comfort: roast beef and ham with all the fixings the first night, steak the second, and then a finale of fried chicken, potatoes, macaroni, biscuits — and piles of cookies. The family calls one crowd favorite “Miner’s Delight.” Gloria joked it ought to be “Fireman’s Delight.”

There were pocket snacks, too. Aley’s mom, Janet, turned out about seven dozen of the legendary Shoshoni School peanut butter Rice Krispies bars, individually wrapped so crews could stuff them in a shirt pocket and keep moving. The timing mattered: on night three, the Pike Hotshots had barely put down their plates when the fire flared; fueled up, they were back on the line within 30 minutes.

The firefighters had their own logistics and food flights coming in, but delivery windows don’t always match a shifting fire.

“They appreciated it because only once, while we were there, did they have food come in — they have to have a safe place to bring it,” Gloria said.

For the Philps, the cooking was payback for a saved ranch — and a small way to steady people living on adrenaline.

“There is something special about a home-cooked meal, cooked with love and intention, to keep them going and keep up the fight,” Aley said.

From four-wheelers in the smoke to frying pans on the stove, the message was the same: thanks. Out here, sometimes gratitude looks like a cleared firebreak. Sometimes it looks like an extra cookie for the road.

The original story by Jackie Dorothy for Cowboy State Daily.