14

EARLY YEARS
Chapter 1 Early Years: Pre-1970
"In 1970,1 left the fun behind and began a steady business career, utilizing all 
of the knowledge and experiences of my youth, and, unexpectedly learning about 
the 'supermen in the meat cartel." Rudy "Butch" Stanko
Rudy "Butch" Stanko is a rowdy. All my life I have been a beer drinking hell 
raiser, and, at thirty-seven, I was still drinking pitchers of beer and kicking 
hippies' asses in the honky-tonk saloons. I was hardly what a Christian preacher 
would call a saint; rather he would probably say that I was on the road to hell 
or, at best, that I was obnoxious. However, I would rather drink and tell dirty 
jokes with the boys at the bar than listen to his boring Sunday morning sermons. 
I rather liked my reputation-a rough, tough, Polish cowboy from Wyoming spent a 
lot of money on parties, cold beer, big cars, and, of course, fast airplanes. 
It's the good life if you don't have to look the preacher in the eye on Sunday 
morning.
I no doubt inherited many of my personality traits from my tough dad and the 
rough-tough atmosphere of the drinking, happy-go-lucky meat packing crews that I 
have been around since I was able to walk. Dad and I were both raised in the 
environment of the wide-open ranges of Wyoming, so naturally we were accustomed 
to the free spirited way of life. This free education outside the classroom 
taught me more about how to take care of myself, and how to deal with 
high-pressure situations, than any school system I had graduated from. But more 
than raising hell and having a reputation as the toughest guy around, I love my 
wife and family more than anything in the world. So, in 1980,1 retired with my 
beautiful wife and three children to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, the paradise valley 
of the United States.
Having made enough money to retire for life, I had decided to do what my Dad, 
Rudy Stanko Sr., who had worked his tail off since he was twelve


EARLY YEARS
years old and at sixty-two was still putting in sixty-hour to seventy-hour 
weeks, had never been able to do nor wanted to for that matter-take it easy and 
enjoy the good life. Many of my friends and business associates thought I was 
crazy for quitting when I 'was so successful. I was one of the top meat 
producers in America, and still young. However, two things had occurred which 
made my move attractive, if not necessary. First, I had been the object of a 
probe by the government for various alleged violations of the meat processing 
regulations. This was especially aggravating to me because I had been one of the 
largest taxpaying citizens during Jimmy Carter's administration (I was in the 
80% tax bracket), and also because I had worked so hard to become a success. I 
remember telling Joe Richter, a drinking companion who was always planning how 
to make a fast buck, that: "A person could make more money legally than 
illegally." I was legally making millions, and it would be pure stupidity for a 
man in my position to cheat anyone. We had hundreds of employees and our 
reputation was the main reason for our success. Now, the government was calling 
me a criminal.
Second, I wanted to achieve my personal dream of living in the mountains, 
hunting, fishing, hiking, skiing and doing all of the outdoor activities with my 
wife and kids.
To better understand why I wanted to get out of the rat race, I need to tell the 
reader a little of my history. When my grandfather, Mike Stanko, who was born in 
1886 in Stebna, Poland, came to this country in 1912, unable to speak a word of 
English, he didn't have to contend with the high-pressure business world and 
government controls that now exist in this country and are counterproductive for 
our families' operations. The wide open ranges of Wyoming contained no brick 
walls of government bureaucracies to limit his growth, as they did fifty years 
later. So when Mike Stanko started his meat business at the foot of the Big Horn 
Mountains close to Sheridan, Wyoming, his hard work and knowledge of meat 
processing made him a successful business man within a few years. His primary 
customers were Polish and Italian coal miners and the few wealthy English 
landowners and merchants in Sheridan, Wyoming. His prosperity grew until tragedy 
struck, when Dad was only fifteen years old. One Saturday, when my grandfather 
was butchering beef on the range for the following Monday's market, his wife, 
Anna, had an appendicitis attack and died before Mike returned from the field. 
Had he been there, he could have rushed her by horsedrawn wagon to Sheridan, 
only fourteen miles away. But in those