UAV wrangling, rustling, branding, and long drives — out of Sanpete County. Honest work. Steady horse. Steady hand on the controller.
Most folks call for one. By the third year, most call for three or four. I quote flat. No hourly meter. I show up early.
Catching, herding, and managing the day-to-day behavior of your fleet. Whether you've got two birds or two hundred — they need somebody who knows how they move.
Lost a bird in the river bottom? Stolen out of a barn? I'll find it. Signal triangulation, mounted search, brand verification. Most birds come home.
Heat-stamp brand application, witness signatures, co-op registration. The same brand book my granddad registered with the Utah territorial brand office in 1872 still holds up in court today.
Four-day summer camp for kids ages 9-14. Day one is rope. Day two is rope and drone. Day three is the controller. Day four is the drive. Sister Hansen brings the pie.
Point-to-point fleet relocation, by horseback and ground crew. Mount Pleasant to Vegas. Salt Lake to Denver. We've made the Albuquerque run twice. No bird gets left behind.
The other questions. Fleet structure. Airspace etiquette. Where to keep your birds when the wind comes up out of the south. The boring stuff that keeps the rest from being a problem.
A working record of jobs, days, and the small things worth keeping. Updated when there's something to say.
Two hundred head of small commercial drones, four of us riding, a kid named Brigham learning to swing. We made Vegas Thursday.
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A four-thousand-dollar bird in three square miles of willow brush. Two bearings on a beacon and a buckskin gelding named Bishop.
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Twelve kids, four days, dawn to dinner. Day one is rope. Just rope. Sister Hansen's pie is non-negotiable.
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A runaway Wingtra over the Gallivan Center plaza. SLC PD radioed it in for me. The crowd applauded.
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Forty-three birds, eight farms, fourteen volunteers. Mary Beth Harker does not trust the cloud. Mary Beth has reasons.
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I'll add to it when I can.
Out of Mount Pleasant, Utah. Sanpete County, the long-ish way. Family in the area since Heber Ashton's ox cart rolled in from Iowa City in 1851. Same brand. Same dirt. Different birds.
I came to this work the way most people fall into work that's worth keeping — through somebody else's emergency. A neighbor's commercial bird went down in a wheat field at the wrong time of year. I helped find it. He paid me a hundred dollars and told two friends. They had their own emergencies. The phone hasn't really stopped since.
This isn't a hobby practice. It isn't a tech consultancy. It's a working shop, run out of a barn I built with my brother-in-law Royce in 2019, on the south end of a forty-acre piece my granddad left me. We answer the phone. We show up when we say we will. We don't sell anybody anything they didn't already need.
Or a fleet that needs moving, or branding, or a kid who needs to learn how to throw a rope at something that won't hold still. The phone is on. Call between five-thirty in the morning and ten at night, weekdays and Saturdays.