Every young man dreams of being a cowboy. At least that’s my perception of the matter. I must admit that its always seemed an appealing occupation to me; the freedom, ruggedness, work ethic, horses, unique apparel, and even its own genre of music round out some of the positives. Of course, the definition of a cowboy has changed over the years and many would argue the authentic cowboy has rode off into the sunset for the last time.
Then there lies the fact that I grew up in a farming community. Milking cows is quite different from wrangling cattle on horseback. No matter how hard you try later in life its hard to hide your roots and mine are colored black and white Holstein. Taken together it seems any childhood dream of mine to become a cowboy is just wasted thoughts distracting me from more practical undertakings.
Fortunately, I’m not one to give up that easily and I’m not always so practical. With no steady job, no house payment, and not much else to loose, I went in search of a job at a western ranch to fulfill this teenage dream of mine. And I found one.
Its not exactly your typical ranch, and I’ll admit by summer’s end I’m not likely to be a cowboy. It’s a guest ranch. People, usually from East Coast cities, come for a week to get a taste of ranch life. One might argue a guest ranch is not representative of the true west, but at least it’s a start, I reasoned. For some unbeknownst reason they offered a job as a ranch hand.
I left shortly before Memorial Day. Of the 1,000 mile drive, the last few were the hardest. As with many new experiences, nervousness overtook reason and suddenly I began second guessing my decision. After all, most anyone can tell I’m not a cowboy. Now here I was with my Midwestern flannel, cheap cowboy hat, and nearly brand new cowboy boots walking into a setting where my lack of authenticity would be sniffed out by others more experienced. I can ride a horse, but I can’t train or shoe one. I can tie a fly to my fishing line, but what fly to use is beyond me. I can water the lawn, but designing an irrigation system for the hayfields is a foreign concept to a Southeastern Minnesota boy. Turning back now, however, was not an option. It would be an embarrassment and the regret of a lifetime. I drove down the driveway determined to take full advantage of my Midwestern work ethic to pull me through and use the next three months to learn everything I could about ranching, cowboys, fly fishing, and the west.
The ranch I work at hosts up to 32 guests each week. Activities include fly fishing, skeet shooting, day trips to Yellowstone, campfires, music, hearty food, and of course, horse back riding. The ranch raises its own beef and pork with 38 head of Black Angus and a four pigs named Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, and Homer. We have 80 horses and plenty of neighboring grizzly bear. I’ll spare you the names of the horses since I have yet to learn them all. It sits on 277 acres along a currently flooded creek and is surrounded by National Forest land in the Sunlight Basin in Northwestern Wyoming.
Upon arriving I was met by the head wrangler, Chay. He took me directly to my housing. Most might imagine a cozy bunkhouse the accommodations for ranch staff. That’s where this ranch masters the unexpected. Upon my arrival, I was escorted across the property to my very own circa 1912 sheep wagon. Four wooden wagon wheels, one door, a window front and back, and a tin roof with a faded red exterior. Lengthwise the wagon measures about 15 feet. At its widest width, 6.5 feet, just enough room to let me stretch out on the queen size bed in the rear. The height of the interior is only about five and a half feet, not enough for me to stand upright. Inside are some storage units painted white. Scattered on the frame are nails and hooks. A coat rack is fastened to the frame near the door. An electrical outlet powers my lamp and small space heater. I’m sure the wagon was level at one point in time, but now it leans a little toward one corner. Not two yards from the wagon is a small stream of cold mountain snowmelt. That’s the fridge. Milk crates hold the belongings we wish to keep cold. Beyond the creek is a bath house. Fortunately, it’s a little newer than the wagon.
Since this is prime grizzly territory, I asked Chay about keeping food in the wagon. He answered my inquiry by recounting an occurrence he had two weeks ago. Rather matter-of-factly he noted a grizzly knocked open the front door of his cabin while he sat watching TV in the evening with his dog. Noted, I thought to myself. No food in the wagon, ever. While making my bed I discovered a half eaten bag of Sun Chips tucked beside the mattress from the previous inhabitant. I’m glad I found them before the bear.
Breakfast is at 7:30, dinner at 12:30 and supper at 6:30, signaled by a dinner bell. Every meal is five star restaurant quality and my first taste of ranch food was salisbury steak wrapped in bacon. Then it was eggs and bacon for breakfast. Lunch hosted turkey sandwiches, with bacon, and the leftover bacon from that was chopped and thrown into the green beans for supper that evening. Around here, I think it reasonable to say bacon has reached condiment status.
In my short time at the ranch I’ve already discovered that without owning a truck, dog, my own saddle and tack, a Carhart vest, and a pair of chaps, I’m in the minority. There are 16 other staff members, some of them wranglers, some housekeeping, some wait staff, an irrigator, and one a fishing guide. They come from Texas, Idaho, Nebraska, Montana, Georgia, and California. Not all have arrived yet, but so far, they seem a pretty friendly bunch. No guests will arrive for another two weeks.
The weather is surprisingly warm. Humidity is low but temperatures have been climbing into the 80’s already. The aspens have just started to leaf out but the threat for snow has not yet vanished.
My long dreamed about western adventure is beginning to unfold. The days seem to go by like a blur but already I’m getting the hang of which direction to turn the unfamiliar shower faucet handles, what’s the latest I can sleep and still make it to breakfast on time in presentable fashion, and what darkness covered objects and shadows are actually pieces of lawn furniture and not a prowling bear.
It’s going to be a good summer. It seems it would be impossible not be good when the view from my office window is snow covered mountains, the stars are my nightlight and my morning commute is a 20-yard walk.
There’s the supper bell now, time to eat. I hope they’re serving bacon.
Happy Trails.
