A Cowgirl’s Life for Me
A Tale of a Texas
Gal’s First Round Up
“Adventure is
worthwhile.” – Amelia Earhart
Up before the first fingers
of light could tickle our pillowcases, my sister and I would greet the Saturday
morning dawn on a bee line to the television. Rabbit ear antennae at just the
right angle, we’d patiently watch Popeye beat up the bad guys, Yogi Bear steal
another picnic basket, and then…finally…the beloved “King of the Cowboys”, Roy
Rogers would appear. We’d happily watch as Roy, faithfully followed by his
Queen of the Cowgirls, Dale Evans, would outsmart yet another ner’-do-well,
usually upon his trusty steed, Trigger. Of course, Nelly Belle and driver Pat
Brady, along with cowboy’s best friend Bullet were usually along for the ride
and integral to the action. If memory serves, this dose of cowboy ways was
often chased with a helping of “The Lone Ranger” and maybe even a Saturday
morning “Wagon Train” rerun.
Imaginations saturated with
all-things-cowboy, my sister and I, and usually a cousin or neighborhood chum
or two, would run outside to begin our self-scripted reenactments of western
adventure. Being the younger, I was always relegated to what I deemed a lesser
role portraying Bullet or even Nelly Belle; however, now that I’m older and
wiser I feel certain these roles added great character to the person I am still
becoming!
The cowboy life, the western
way, the romance of life on horseback; these were certainly part of the fantasy
of my childhood, yet they never found their way completely out of my visceral
longing for reality. Fast forward to early 2008 – I’m reviewing an email
newsletter from singer/songwriter/author and friend, Mike Blakely, which boldly
proclaims “The First Annual Romp, Stomp, and Chomp Round Up” to be held in April.
A quick perusal and I frantically fire back a reply to Mike that reads, “I’m
IN!”.
Westward Ho
“To have courage is to
have the life you want.” - R.C. Jonas,
cowgirl - 1904
Husband and family dutifully
informed, lesson plans in place for the sub, schedules for feeding the cats and
birds tacked on the fridge, one last check of things packed, and I was finally
ready to hit the trail west. Anticipation is a beautiful thing and must
certainly release endorphins or other such chemicals that ignite some lesser-used
synapses in a pleasing way; however, the evil twin entwined with those
wunderkinds manifests in errant little worries…”Am I sure I can handle this?”,
“Just what is a stampede string and do I really need one?”, “I haven’t ridden
much in the last 30 years.”, “Geez, am I sure
I got everything on that list?!”. No more time to worry; my modern day wagon
train has just pulled up.
I meet up with Mike, his two
gallant steeds Major and Red Man, the F-150 which is about to become completely
loaded down with my stuff, and we ready ourselves for the almost eight hour
journey to deep West Texas.
“The First Annual Romp,
Stomp, and Chomp Round Up” is to be held on an 80,000 acre ranch located about
43 miles south of Alpine, Texas. Worked as an active cattle ranch by a team of
brothers, the spread is made up of the vast, rugged beauty that is beholden to
this part of Texas. A round up is held about two to three times a year, and any
number of the brothers and wives, along with a handful of kindred spirit friends,
meet up for a few days of livin’ the cowboy life and working the cattle. A
visit to the ranch earlier in the year by Mike and past round-up
attendee/cowboy (as well as singer/songwriter) Jeff “Wild Horse” Posey lead to
the idea of opening up the event to folks like myself that had always pined for
the chance to experience ranch life, or missed the days when they were actively
ranching. Throw in some great campfire music each night (ala Mike and Jeff),
bring in a bona fide chuck wagon and cookie, send out a “Things to Ponder” list
(like getting a stampede string), and well, pard’ner…there ya have it.
With the last of my things
securely stuffed in the back of the truck, we point due west on Interstate 10
under a low scud sky. Doesn’t bother me a bit – I am incredibly excited to
finally be on the way to living a dream of almost 45 years. We stop off for a
great Texas Bar-B-Q lunch, then settle back in to hours of Texas vista and
talk. Somewhere west of Ozona, the green, rolling terrain of the Texas Hill Country
has transitioned to rugged, dry flat lands accentuated by mesas. As we enter
the expanse east of Ft. Stockton, we begin to see the multitude of mammoth
windmills sitting proudly atop the mesas. As the 3 blade props spin, I can’t
help but think it looks like some comically choreographed dance of objects
alien. Roswell isn’t actually that far away, you know.
South from Ft. Stockton, we
head on an arrow straight road towards Alpine. The scenery is ruggedly handsome
with more interest than was found along I-10. Miles and miles of mountain
bordered, cactus dotted plains fill the view, with the occasional small herd of
cattle to be seen. Those cows bring on a whole new thought process for me on
this trip. It occurs to me in a vivid way that I’ll be on horseback in less
than 24 hours, up close and personal with those doe-eyed bovines. Mike probably
wonders what the silly grin on my face is all about as we speed on southbound.
After a brief stop in Alpine
to pick up some ice and another cowboy vernacular item new to me, a wild rag,
we head further south down 118 watching the odometer for the mile marker we
need. The beautiful Santiago Peak is our bearing, along with mileage, for
finding the unmarked gate that leads to the ranch house. That peak will become more
like a desert lighthouse in the days to come.
We find the gate, sigh with
relief when the combo we think is right is actually right, then head down 4 to
5 miles of dusty, rough ranch road. I’m loving every second of it.
We’re the first to arrive.
The ranch house is a quaint white structure, circa 1920’s I’d guess. Alongside
is a “new” bunkhouse – the old shed that’s been converted to 3 nice guest
rooms. Looks like my little tent and blow up mattress won’t have to get broken
in on this trip. There’s a huge watering tank, or pila, that provides a
spectacular reflection pool for Santiago Peak, and a number of pens and such to
the east of the structures. We get the horses situated, unload onto the
bunkhouse screened porch, then pull up some chairs and open a cold one. I scan
my surroundings, listen to nothing but the wind and an occasional bird, peer
out over miles than include no noticeable sign of man… absolutely amazing.
Adequate words are hard to
ascertain when one feels at the epicenter of indescribable vastness, solitude,
and rugged beauty as is this slice of Texas.
About an hour later we hear
what we think is the rumble of vehicles coming in on the other road from the
highway. Sure enough the soon-visible clouds of dust verify for us…the rest
have arrived. A few trucks, horse trailers, and assorted equipment precede the
cast of characters who will soon become highly admired teachers and new
friends. Hellos, handshakes and hugs are exchanged. I’m welcomed warmly and
heartily. No doubt, though, I’m being sized up as the wanna-be cowgirl who has
yet to show her mettle. We help unload, grab some cold cuts and tortillas for a
first-night dinner, make plans for wake-up, then end the evening with a little
campfire music by Mike and Jeff as a few of us sit under a three-quarter moon
hung delicately over Santiago Peak. I ask Mike to sing one of his older songs
that I love, “Three Quarter Moon”, and he does. Life is sweet.
Day One– Tired Takes On a Whole New Meaning
“You must always do
the thing you think you can’t” – Kathleen Harris, cowgirl - 1910
I never sleep deeply in new
surroundings, and the first night on the ranch kept the record intact. With a
full day of work ahead, we were awaked by our trail boss, Von Box, at something
like 5:45 a.m. I was really kind of relieved; the anticipation of the unknown
fringed with almost palpable excitement wasn’t going to let me sleep anyhow. I
grabbed my flashlight, stumbled around in the dark, put on what I hoped were
appropriate cowgirl duds, and made my way to the main house. With the generator
up (which it had been while I was stumbling around in the dark, but I hadn’t
quite figured it out yet!), two of our cowboys, David Aguilar and David
Alexander, had prepared a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, tortillas and coffee.
Hmmm…two nice looking men in cowboy gear preparing me breakfast? Not a bad deal
so far! Once the first cup of coffee found its way to my grey matter, I became
a little more alert and listened intently as Von and his brother discussed the
day’s work. First order was to gather up the iron panels and haul them over to
the Number Three pasture for pen building. Sounds good to me.
Being the only novice
cowpoke, I felt a healthy uncertainly on my place in the scheme of things. I
sure didn’t want to be a hindrance, but I also didn’t want to just observe or
be looked upon as incapable of doing my share – especially since I was a girl cowpoke. Before I knew what’d
happened, the truck and trailer were over by the west side of the pila picking
up panels. I looked around and saw I was the only one not over there. Shoot. I
high-tailed it to the truck, made a feeble attempt to at least move some brush
away from the work area, then jumped up and grabbed on to the trailer as we
moved back towards the house. Hanging off a ranch trailer, dust all around, a
bunch of guys in jeans and cowboy hats…and me. Yep…I’m liking it!
After loading up another
truck, we headed out to the highway towards the south gate. After reaching an
area that has a few pens in place, we begin to unload. I keep trying to get
over to grab on and help carry a fence piece. It’s an eager group, the
aforementioned fellows plus David Aguilar’s 17 year old son, Storm. Everyone is
being extraordinarily polite, which is wonderful, but I quickly sense they feel
the need to protect the lady in some form or fashion. I understand, but I also
need to show them I can do this. I manage to wiggle my way in and grab on to
the back of a panel and help move it in place. Heavy indeed-- I’d guess 150
pounds a piece, if a pound! I go back for more and have to insist once or twice
that “I’ve got it” as one of the guys tries to help me out. I do let them a
time or two, but this is a litmus test for the next few days as far as I’m
concerned. A stumble here or there, but I think I’ve gained a little ground by
the time we get everything off loaded. The remainder of the morning is spent
laying out the pens with cattle strategy in mind. I listen in as much as I can
while I help straight-wire the pieces together. I’m feeling useful and enjoying
the wiring, first as assistant to the two Davids, then on my own. Those years
back when as an orthodontic assistant are paying off nicely as I twist and tuck
the wire. Pens in place, we head back to the house for some lunch.
Horses are saddled once
lunch is over. I ride Mike’s older gelding, Red Man. Since this is my first
solo-saddling job since 1970-something, I ask Mike to give me some quick
tutoring. We’re cinched and ready, foot in the stirrup…and up we go. Feels
great! Red Man and I do a little acquainting; we load up to trailer in to
Pasture 3 (about 9,000 acres) to begin rounding up cattle. I jump in the back
of the bed with Von, Mike, and the two Davids. One asks if I wouldn’t rather
ride inside the truck. “No thanks,” I quickly reply…”I want the whole
experience!” I notice a couple of
sideways glances. About two-thirds of the way in, the truck overheats; our easy
way into the inner pasture is over. No problem, I think to myself; the more
riding we get to do! The boss, Von, asks if I have any silk long johns on or if
I brought any moleskin (other things on that list!). I tell him no, but we’ll
see how it goes. He smiles…sympathetically?
We head out as a whole
group. As we reach the first rise, the panorama unfolds. Santiago Peak is to
the north, Nine Point Mesa to the east. Rolling, rock strewn hills, brush
choked draws, 3-dimensional mountain vistas are laid out like something I could
only imagine before this moment. I’m dumb-struck, almost unable to speak. It is
really and truly like watching myself in some great western epic – this
scenery, a cast of cowboys in chaps, spurs, hats…and me! The horses seem as
excited about the moment as we are. Red Man, despite his 20 years, is frisky
and seems eager to show his prowess as we stealthily find our way down rocky
inclines, then gallop up the next rise. Periodically we stop and take it all
in. I silently hope I don’t sound too inept as I struggle to express the
emotions I’m feeling.
We break off into three
groups. I’m instructed to go with Von, David Aguilar, and Storm. We head off,
allowing a little distance as we each seem to get lost in our own thoughts. I
visit with each of the three occasionally, getting to know them a little
better. We found a few cows and made note of their location for the next day’s
work. As we continued to ride our way into Pasture 4, I was becoming acutely
aware of why my interpretation of the sympathetic smile earlier was in fact
correct. I had developed a very painful open sore on my inner left knee, not to
mention that my inner thighs felt like they’d been on a Thigh Master marathon.
No problem…I’ll just keep adjusting myself and deal with it. Cowgirls do not
complain, and I wasn’t about to break the creed! At this point, a fair amount
of space had found its way between my group as we each searched for cattle. Red
Man and I were on high alert, but I was feeling noticeably weary by this time.
Von and David rejoined me, and I suppose my looks betrayed my answer of “Fine!”
when asked how I was doing. The three of us dismounted and took a break, which
I’m sure was for my benefit…and most appreciated! We found our way to a tank,
then rested as we waited for the others to join us. Oh, how I hoped the boss
didn’t think he’d gotten stuck with a sissy on his hands! Once back together,
we shared stories of where the bovines were hiding, then began working our way
back towards the trailer. Mike, Jeff, and I were told to find our way to a
large, empty pila to await the trailer, thus saving us a hard ride in. Once
again, the boss was looking out for this trail weary cowgirl, I’m sure! As the
late afternoon transitioned to early evening and the ever-increasing
dust-filled wind embraced us, we three sat, talked, and pondered, awaiting our
ride back to the ranch.
A cold drink became the
elixir of the gods and a warm shower was nigh unto paradise at the end of that
first day. Tired, sore but happier than happy, I joined my new friends for our
first chuck wagon meal prepared by the extraordinary cookie and
singer/songwriter/fiddle player, Glen Moreland of Ft. Davis, TX. Newly arrived
that evening were two additions to our crew: Mike Speights, an experienced
rancher from Texas City, and another accomplished hand from the Dallas area who
is a good friend of the family. A full stomach, another round of campfire song
ever-so-sweetly sung by Mike and Jeff, the moon-lit night gently cradling the
Peak…all was well.
Day Two – Wanna-Be Becomes the Real Deal
“A cowgirl gets up
early in the morning, decides what she wants to do, and does it.” Marie Lords,
cowgirl – 1861
The gentle softness of the
morning light over the peak had already
roused me, but I decided I might lay low a minute more. My decision is hastily
reneged as I hear a rap or two on my door as Von’s voice call out, “Hey Paula,
you alive in there?” In fine cowgirl fashion, I manage a hearty “Barely”,
followed by a quick sprint to the restroom to hurriedly throw myself together
for the day. Stepping out into the chilly morning air, I smell the rewards for
having been awaked periodically by clangs and bumps from about 4:30 on. Glen
has prepared a grand chuck wagon breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits from
scratch, and campfire coffee…all done traditional dutch-oven style. Wow. I join
a couple of fellows at the table in Mike and Mike’s bunk room, and find that
I’m next to last to sit and enjoy this meal. Guess this wrangler should’ve
gotten up when the thought first entered her groggy mind.
By the time I enjoy the last
bit of biscuit, the early morning sun is warming the land and the rest of our
company is busy pulling horses. A rancher from Alpine had trailered in about 10
horses the day before and fresh mounts are being chosen. I’d let it be known
that I really didn’t care which horse they put me on, just be sure it had a matchstick
or two’s worth of fire in its belly. A black gelding by the name of Cooley is
bestowed upon me, and we saddle up. Mike relays to me that this horse has a
reputation for being trustworthy and willing. Sounds like a good friend to have
along.
The morning sky transitions
from a soft aquamarine to ever-increasing cerulean as various delays are
encountered. I, again, search for means to be useful but not get in the way.
Not too much I can do as stubborn horses are loaded, “rosebud” (the long,
used-to-be red trailer) becomes stuck, and various other obstacles are dealt
with. The call is made to get in one of two trucks, and we finally head towards
the highway for our short road trip to the south, final destination the
furthest reach of Pasture 4-- approximately 9,000 acres. The boss
apologetically remarks to me that we should’ve been at this point hours ago. I
smile back, say “No problem”, and genuinely mean it.
A couple of local ranchers
have joined the morning’s activities. A few ponder if they were brought in so
some productive rounding-up could take place. These two definitely look like
they know what they’re doing. We later find out they know one of the brothers,
and jumped at the chance to be out doing what they love. I understand that more
today than I ever have. The rest of us mount and head out. My ride today is
amazingly more comfortable. The boss lent me a pair of silky long underwear,
along with a square of the aforementioned mole skin. Having gratefully declared
him my hero, I have a new and profound understanding of what saddle back
chafing and boot blisters are all about, and how these items can make life in
the saddle incredibly better and much more bearable. Note to self: pack the
silkies and bring lots of moleskin next time.
I find myself in the company
of David Alexander, Mike Speights, Mike Blakely, and Von as we ride the fence
line south. The others have branched out to the west and southwest corner. Once
we reach the furthest southern point to be covered, David begins to ride the fence
north. Mike S. falls off about 1,000 feet west as Mike B., Von, and I continue.
We ride this fashion, fanning out with each rider responsible for scoping out
and herding cattle, as well as keeping his right and left rider within periodic
view. Von and I ride on a ways and it’s my turn to take formation. I’m excited;
I want to bring in some cows. Cooley, however, has other ideas. He decides this
traversing over rocks, thorny bushes, and other uncomfortable flora and fauna
requires nothing more than a very slow walk and commences to do so. I remain
somewhat patient, but spur him on when I catch a glimpse of a rider and realize
I’m falling behind. Cooley will give me short bursts of momentum, but makes it
very clear he’s not enjoying it. I’m starting to think the couple of matches
worth of fire is actually not much more than one fizzling birthday candle. We
ride on for what probably amounts to 40 minutes or so. It’s incredible,
amazing, almost surreal. Here I am, on this horse, under a deep blue sky brush-stroked
with wisps of cottony white. I can look in every direction, and do, and see
nothing but miles of rugged, untamed landscape colored in more shades of grays
and blues than I ever knew existed. Dots of green vegetation break up the
montage of gray, looking almost like someone randomly scattered broken emeralds
across the terrain. The green isn’t the only insertion of color in the
landscape, however. The last bursts of firecracker red blossoms of the ocotillo
cactus add their exclamation to the picture, almost appearing to float in
mid-air as the gray spindles that hold them up blend so well with the
background. The presentation of the vistas in each cardinal direction awe me;
the purples and blues blend and fight as they seem to almost call out “Look at me…me
first!” I feel a sense of comfort as I scan the horizon, now recognizing the
landmarks of this vastness. I also feel a sense of aloneness unlike any I’ve
ever felt. It’s not an adverse aloneness or isolation, though; quite the
contrary. Seeing mile after mile of God’s creation of beauty that coalesces
here, the infinite sky adorned with spirals of buzzards, hearing only the wind
or the sporadic screech of a hawk…I feel like the only species of my kind to be
found for countless leagues. Utter joy is interspersed with only the fleeting
moment of worry…not so much anxiety-invoked worry, but maybe some imbedded
caution found in urbanized townsfolk. I brush it off quickly and talk aloud to
Cooley, telling him my thoughts and trying to express my awe. I sing him a
rousing rendition of “Don’t Fence Me In”…never more suitable than at this
moment, in my opinion. If his stubborn gate is any indication, he is not
impressed. We amble along, and I’m determined to find a cow.
As the last strains of my
serenade fade, I do a double take. There on a small ridge due north, I spot a
black cow…or is it a bull? Who cares…I call it, it’s mine! I excitedly tell
Cooley and urge him on. He haltingly obliges and we make better time that we’ve
made all morning. I scan to the east and west. Looks like I’m the only one
who’s seen this critter. All the more excited, we race, Cooley-style, forward.
As I crown the last ridge, it’s apparent that a brushy draw is the gauntlet
between me and this cow. I study it a moment, anxious to capture my find. Not
too bad…looks like there are some lighter areas we can make it through. We head
down and into the most permeable looking section. “Come on, Cooley. We can do
this. Our cow is waiting!” He hesitantly enters the brush, obediently allowing me
to choose our path. I duck wildly as thorny branch after thorny branch does its
best to show me a thing or two. We back out, beaten but certainly not defeated.
I study a moment more, then guide Cooley slightly east, certain we can make it
through and head the cow off to the west. Once again, we enter the thicket…and
once more we retreat, unable to go further than 20 feet or so. I strain to see
if my cow is playing fairly and waiting. Yep, still there. We back off, head
for what looks to inarguably be our passage. Several minutes into it, with more
than a few scratches added to my growing collection and a fresh tear in my
jeans, we are not only in too deep—we’re stuck. There is no way that poor horse
can even turn around without getting gored by Texas-sized thorns, and the
branches I was able to duck going in are certain to win if I try in reverse. We
are in one thorny, tangled, and impassable pocket of a West Texas draw with
only one option – dismount and back my steed out on foot. Now I’d be lying if I
said the thought of “Rattlesnake!” or “Crazed javelina!” didn’t cross my mind
as I swung my leg over to hop off. However, Cooley was depending on me and I
still had a chance, I hoped, at the cow. Our retreat was successful, and after
picking off the larger souvenirs we’d collected on this little venture, we
headed west down the draw until a sand bar greeted us as safe ferry to the
ridge.
As soon as “my cow” appeared
in my line of vision, I noted several riders were a short distance behind on
the ridge. Ah well…at least Cooley and I gave it a determined try. There was at
least one other cow and a couple of calves in view by this time, as well. As I
rode a little further and reconnected with the Mikes and David, along with Jeff
who’d joined us, I replayed my little adventure in the draw. “Well, that other
cow and those calves came up out of the brush,” Jeff remarked. “You must’ve
stirred em’ up.” A satisfied smile crossed my lips, I gave Cooley a pat, and we
spurred our rides to begin bringing in the ten or so head the others had
rustled up.
Our drive to the pens was
uneventful as far as mishaps, but indescribably splendid for experience value.
A small herd, they were amicable to do our bidding and readily entered the pens
as we maneuvered ourselves to guide them. I found myself again in a state of
near entrancement; riding in drive formation bringing in cows…and it’s real!
As the herd joined the
others already there, a fine cloud of dust and all kinds of cow-speak rose to
announce their excitement at rejoining relatives and friends. A couple of bulls
spent their time stirring up more dust as they jousted and bullied, each hoping
to impress the seemingly less-than-interested females. We waited, wondering the
status of the rest of the crew that had ridden east, along with the few who’d
come in from the north. After what seemed like slightly more fence-sitting and
time-passing patter than any of us really wanted, we decided to mount up and
ride northeast to see if we could find out what was going on, as well as assuage
our restlessness. No more than 5 minutes out, we saw a column of dust rising
sunward. Moments later, the spectacle came into view – a parade of cows and
calves coming our way, with scattered riders heee-yahing and whistling encouragement and obedience, their
colorful wild rags whipping about them like victory flags. The pomp and
circumstance went on for some time. I didn’t count, but there had to be at
least 150 head, all marching mostly single file towards the pens. It was a
dazzling sight that I’ll not soon forget.
With the herd secure, we
break for a much-needed lunch. Glen, being the modern day cookie, has arrived
in his pickup that is loaded down with more fresh cooked vittles – macaroni
with meat sauce, cornbread, beans, and cold iced tea. We fill our plates, try
to find a little piece of shade, and commence to eating and visiting. I’m
wondering if any food has ever tasted better.
There’s yet a lot of work to
be done as we gather at the pens. A small herd is separated and loaded onto a
truck for taking to Alpine. It’s like a wrestling match of the grandest kind as
man and beast play little games of “Chicken”. I wisely decide to play the role
of cork, following directions to stand guard at a gap where a cow might decide
to make a break for it instead of entering the truck. I have a grand ol’ time
clapping my hands, whooping and hollering. Guess it worked…not one cow escaped!
The next item on the agenda is to separate out the cows and calves. Once again,
it gets a little more than exciting. I really want to enter the pen and go for
it, but it already seems somewhat crowded. The decision to watch and learn
overrides my opposing desire…this time.
The raucous made by the
distraught cows is almost deafening, and somewhat sad in ways. I watch the
proceedings, along with the wife of one of the brothers who had been with the
team bringing the large herd in. We’re asked if we want to help vaccinate, and
we move towards the equipment, ready to learn. As the fireworks begin…calves
are chosen and flanked, several cowboys hold them while one runs in to
vaccinate and another steps in to brand…we stand by and watch, hoping we’re not
forgotten. It’s a flurry of dust, boots, hooves, searing hot metal,
hypodermics, and sweat. The smell is unforgettable. One of the brothers hollers
out and tells us to help brand. I quickly grab a fiery hot branding iron that’s
been induced to glow like hell’s fires by way of a propane flame. I’m not sure
about this. I’d been watching – the calves surely aren’t happy about the
experience, but they also don’t seem to suffer too terribly much seeing that
they hop right back up good as new. It’s my turn and I advance on the flanked
calf, several of the guys coaching each move. Foot on the calf’s hip to steady
him, firm, direct pressure for an adequate brand, but not too deep of a burn, a
slight rocking motion to guarantee the mark is solid and identifiable. I do my
best which results in a somewhat acceptable brand. Five – ten – fifteen brands
into it and I’ve found some finesse. Three of us rotate for awhile, careful to
keep track of the hottest iron for our turn. I’m invited to take over
vaccinating and readily accept. I’m shown the mark to aim for—the piece of
loose flesh under what I’ll call the calf’s armpit. Position the needle sideways, puncture the flesh but avoid the
muscle, and inject the premeasured dose of vitamin. I almost think the calves
dislike this more than the branding. The whole scene becomes a sort of
choreographed dance. We gingerly step around and aside, and sometimes right on
top of, as each takes his turn in the caper-- from delicate ballet-like moves
to rough and tumble slam dancing, we get it done with no serious mishap.
The last calf of 34 is let
loose and the bewildered youngsters call for their mothers. I’ve watched the
method of bringing down the calves for their work-overs and I want to try. I
take a few steps over to Mike B. and lean in…”I want to throw a calf or
whatever that’s called.” He grins, looks at me and says, “Really? You mean you
want to flank a calf?” I suppose my steadfast smile and stance made it clear I
meant business, and the next thing I know Mike is shouting over to Von to hold
off letting the calves through the gate. A smaller fellow is chosen, Storm and
Von give me the how-to, and I go for it. One hand under the rear flank, another
wrapped around the front leg…lift and bring him down as you follow. Done! After
some whoops and high-fives, the little guy was released and the herd allowed
back to their mothers. It was a touching sight to see mothers and young
rejoined and settling in for the evening.
We trailered back to
headquarters, once again tired, dusty, hungry, and very happy. Another cold one
followed by a hot shower, then a hearty meal of fried steak, mashed potatoes,
beans, and the sweetest peach cobbler this side of Georgia crowned the close of
this glorious day. A few of us die-hards made our way to the campfire and
settled in for a lullaby of cowboy song winsomely sung by Mike B. and Jeff,
along with a few numbers added by Glen once his duties were complete. The
nearly full moon washed our surroundings in gentleness—the land appeared soft,
the jagged edges melted to an almost velvety richness. The desert’s evening
breeze had awakened and it was apparent that it was time to trade places with
the doings of the night. Goodnights were exchanged through yawns and I crawled
into bed feeling abundantly blessed.
Day Three: It’s a Done Deal
“If anyone told me I
could be this content out west, I wouldn’t have believed them.”
Elizabeth Clayton,
cowgirl – 1887
I stretch lazily, open my
eyes, and sit up with a start…it’s light already! A check of the clock shows it
to be 7:15 a.m. I panic momentarily, but remember hearing today would be a
later morning since our work was light. I hoped I hadn’t blown it.
I grab some clean jeans,
throw on a shirt, and yank my boots on. Stepping outside it’s very apparent
I’ve missed the beauty of the rose colored first light, as well as the sun
announcing its presence. However, I had not missed breakfast. Glen must’ve been
in no hurry and had plenty to offer me, the last of the partakers on this
morning. I smiled and made an obligatory apology, filled my plate, and made my
way to the Mikes’ table. Yep, I was the Lone Ranger on this feeding call.
Wiping the last crumb from
my face, I put on my hat and ran to see what was taking place over by the horse
corral. Some fine fellow had already tied my horse to a side fence, the steed
being a beautiful dun aptly named “Dunnie”. It’d been mentioned that I might
want a ride a little more willing, and I was gifted with this particular horse
by the graciousness of one of the brothers. I introduced myself to Dunnie and
went to fetch my gear. Once saddled, the horses were loaded up for a quick ride
to the pens where we’d left the almost 200 cattle from the previous days’ work.
After some conversation to
decide positioning and strategy, we were each placed to create a funnel that
would allow the cattle to exit the pens, but stay together. More whistling,
clapping, and huh-yaws kept the
bovines moving, and we transitioned into an absolutely beautiful cattle
drive—point riders in the fore, swing and flank riders managing the sides, drag
riders keeping the aft in shape. We move comfortably, each position ebbing and
flowing in need and attention to the herd. They plod along mostly willingly,
constantly talking—some appear to be singing to themselves, mothers berate
their playful calves, others call out for company. The bulls tend to stay
together, even if loosely. One bull is a bit ahead and almost appears to chant
as he leads the way north. I never realized cows made so many different sounds.
It’s mesmerizing.
Again—how many times over
now?—I find myself almost giddy with excitement, viewing myself from afar in
this experience. I feel like a real cowgirl. I am happy-- incredibly satisfied
and happy. I work much more confidently than a few days ago. I am able to
anticipate the movement of the cattle, the moves of my fellow riders. We work
as a tight team, ready to jump into action, assist, or get out of the way. I’m
lost in thought for a moment, but notice a particular group of several cows
looking like they might just be thinking about breaking away. I give Dunnie a
little nudge to be sure he’s ready, just in case, and it happens….one rebel cow
decides to make a run for it towards the hills! I react almost instantly; this
cow is one of the head in my chain of dependents and I’m not about to let
anyone down. I spur Dunnie, deciding my strategy in split-second fashion, and ride
fast at a 45 degree angle to the cow’s trajectory. I pull Dunnie in when I
sense we can close off the cow, and we do just that. The renegade gives, and we
three trot back to the herd. The boss, riding swing ahead of me, gives me a
long distance pat on the back and I smile. I congratulate Dunnie and we trot
on.
As we continue to ride the
herd towards the Long Pen on into Cuchilla Trap, four or five vehicles have
stopped intermittently on the highway to our left and take pictures. I
chuckle…that literally was me a couple of years ago. I let myself imagine their
conversations and excitement at coming upon a real cattle drive. I feel so
incredibly lucky to be on this side of the fence. I also, for whatever reasons,
hope they notice it’s a girl on this beautiful dun gelding.
Once the herd has been
safely secured in the trap, we begin the ride back to headquarters on one of
the dirt roads leading from the highway. We’re feeling lighthearted and happy;
many break into full-fledged, wind-whipping gallops. I finish a brief
conversation and decide I don’t want to miss out on this. Dunnie and I gain a
little space from the ones choosing to walk and we’re off like a tumble weed in
a twister. We gallop as long as I can stand it. It’s a phenomenal
feeling--hooves pounding, limbs flapping, the wind rushing past my face. I
think I whooped out loud at least once or twice, feeling none the less
exhilarated than I can imagine any cowpuncher of days gone by felt after a
successful round up and drive. As I tire, and I imagine Dunnie didn’t mind, we
slow to a trot and catch up to two other riders. The comraderie on the rest of
the ride is sweet.
If you think you’ve ever
eaten a good stew, you haven’t. Glen had the most awesome beef stew awaiting us
for lunch, along with beans and cornbread. Sorry, but his has beat any I’ve
ever met in my 49 years thus far. Needless to say, we dined to our heart’s
content, then were granted permission for a luxurious nap. There is definitely
something to be said for siesta, and I think we said it all as we rubbed our
eyes afterwards and prepared for the afternoon’s work.
The cattle that had been
rounded up the first evening and placed in pens at headquarters had not been
worked. Thus, we set about separating calves and beginning the process of
working them. I found myself as head brander for this edition and took care of
most all of the 32 calves, while others flanked and vaccinated.
The last group of calves was
large…very large…and did not look kindly upon 3 or even 4 cowpokes trying to
wrestle them down. Hence, the roping contest began. I watched as each cowboy
took his turn roping the rear foot of a calf so it could be subdued enough to
be flanked. We were down to the last 4 or 5 calves; David Aguilar asked, “Who’s
next?” I stepped forward and said, “I’d like to try, but you’ll have to show me
how.” Always the patient teacher, he set about doing just that. The hardest
part, in my 10 to 12 minutes of experience, has to be keeping the very stiff
rope coiled in the right direction. It can get as unruly as a garden hose
hardened by the sun in wanting to not coil properly. Once the rope was aligned
and ready, David showed me how the loop has to be large and ones finger on the
swinging hand has to point at the target. One throw…fair. Recoil the rope with
some help, a few more pointers on loop size. Second throw…a little better, but
not productive. We go through the process and make ready once more. I tell
David I’ll take one more shot, and then get out of their way. I swing with
determination, hear some cheerleading cowboys on the side, make sure I’m
pointing at the chosen calf’s heel, and throw. It lands within an inch or two
of the heel…I freeze, wondering what’s going to happen. The wary calf steps
back—right smack dab in the middle of my loop! I hear a whole squad of voices
telling me to Pull!, Pull!…tighten the
rope! I do, and almost immediately I have a very unhappy calf on one end of
the rope and 2 or 3 cowboys, helping me along, on the other end. We get the
calf to the working area and I step aside as they commence to flank him. Once
worked, the hapless calf shakes off the dust and trots over to join his
friends. Did he really just glance over his shoulder at me?
After a little time to cool
off, we mount and begin the last work of the trip. The cattle being kept at
headquarters are now ready to take to the trap, and we prepare to do so.
Positions are taken, the gates are open, and the cattle make their way out. A
small calf decides he’s not ready and bolts back towards the pen. I’m close by and
turn to bring him in. Dunnie decides he’s not so keen on the idea and has other
ideas. I get him back under control, but by this time Storm and Mike have been
told to go after the calf. They’re successful and we head of towards the trap.
It’s a smooth run down the dirt road we’d ridden in on earlier. The herd is
situated and we head back in the late afternoon sun.
Our faithful rides are
unsaddled, we reward them with a good meal of hay and sweet feed, and sit back,
boots up, for some refreshment and good conversation. Our little gathering on
the porch of the bunkhouse grows as others join us for talk and laughter. Glen
is busy whipping up what is sure to be the grand finale meal of our time
together. Some invited guests, friends from Alpine and other places in these
parts, begin to arrive and the banter gets lively. I decide it’s about time I
clean up a little and excuse myself to shower.
Refreshed and feeling
amazingly well, I reappear just in time to join the even larger than when I
exited group for one whoppin’ meal of steak (prime rib?), a delicious vegetable
and potato medley, green beans, fresh biscuits, and a spectacular bread
pudding. I seriously doubt the cowboys of old dined as royally as this, but our
group of modern day cowpokes certainly appreciated the culinary rewards we
found awaiting us three times a day!
As I sat contentedly
savoring every bite of my dessert, I noticed the sky had transitioned to that
magical lighting of dusk where the low rays of the sun seem to filter through
fairy dust somewhere out there over the horizon and bathe everything in an
almost surreal wash of color and feel. I hurriedly grabbed my camera and
excused myself as I headed east past the pens and corrals for the closest rise
I could get to. As I made my way to the top, I turned and gazed upon a sea of
colors and textures. The sun was dipping lazily into a blanket of wispy clouds
that made their way from the west horizon up and out as if they had spent the
day with arms extended, waiting to catch the setting sun and escort it to the
other side. I stood in awe, hoping my camera might somehow be able to capture
this so I could share. It didn’t. Even the best camera can freeze a beautiful
moment, even to the point of next-to-the-real-thing likeness. But a camera can’t
capture the feeling, the sounds, the smells, the moment that leaves one
overwhelmed and misty-eyed as the experience of participating in creation as
glorious as this reverberates to the core of ones soul. It’s moments such as
this that I ponder how anyone can doubt Divine creation.
I have to take small breaks.
It’s almost too magnificent, too beautiful to watch the ever-changing calliope
of color and hue makes its way to darkness. I stoop and study the small barrel
cactus at my foot as it prepares its two buds for flowering. It looks like some
funny little creature that’s paused along with me to enjoy this moment. The
rocks are interesting, as well. Almost shingle like, the pale white patterns
they make as they erode into smaller and smaller pieces are fascinating. It
appears as if some phantom must come in the night and arrange them, some in
stair step fashion, some overlapping, some in jigsaw puzzle like formations.
As the last of the sun’s
rays cast beams of color, I turn and notice the full moon has snuck up behind
me, watching as I contemplate my existence. I smile and enjoy the brief moment
of this duet of light as the sun retracts the last of its energy and the moon
shakes off the low clouds in preparation for a big night. I also notice another
beautiful light; the campfire is full and inviting and a group of festive folks
are making their way towards it. I decide to leave my desert sanctuary on this
little hill and start a path towards the earth-bound light below.
The evening continues on a
celebratory note as we enjoy dueling song from Mike Blakely and Jeff
“Wildhorse” Posey. Requests seem to rule the play list and the tunes range from
contemplative to toe-tappin’ to mournful to fun. The music these two have
provided over the course of our gathering has been truly incredible. I may be a
little prejudiced, but I dare you to find more finely crafted song of this
genre. I’m wrapped in a quilt, snuggled in my camp chair, feeling as content as
any worm in a cocoon could’ve ever felt. The full moon light illuminates our
gathering and I notice a circle of faces who, like me, have set the rest of the
world aside and are fully immersed in the gift of this evening together. A bit
later, Glen Moreland, our camp cookie, pulls up a chair and turns the double
dueling into triplicate. He takes his turn in the line up and entertains us
with old fiddle and cowboy songs. It’s hard to stay seated during the livelier
tunes, but no one else seems to have a mind to dance so I content myself with
energetic toe-tapping.
The crowd begins to dwindle
as the moon has covered at least half of the night’s work. I hold out to the
very last even though my eyelids feel like leaden shackles. Those remaining
finally give in and we say our goodnights. The moonlight tucks me in as I nestle
under the covers to greet blessed sleep.
Day 4: Happy Trails to You
“The land is beautiful
and hard, like life itself.” – Pearl Morgan, cowgirl - 1900
The boss had offered me the
chance to go up to one of the large pilas that sits a top a significant rise
and watch the sunrise. There’s only one answer to an offer like that. A knock
on my door at 6:20 and I plunder the covers aside, holler I’m on my way, and
hastily dress to join Von. It’s less cool this morning than the past few days,
but I grab my jacket just in case as we jump in the truck and head up another
challenging ranch road to the pila. The clouds have thickened on this morning,
as well, but we’ll see what awaits.
Once on the rise, Von backs
in so the bed of the truck is facing the east. We find a good seat on the tool
box and watch. After a short minute or two, I turn to the west to see what’s
going on behind us and am met with a sight that makes me exclaim excitedly,
“Wow…look!” An egg yolk moon is laying low on the horizon, hugged by a margin
of gray clouds resting on a mesa. It’s incredible and I can’t take my eyes off
it. A few moments later and the moon has slipped behind the mesa, out of view
completely. I feel honored to have been allowed to see this sight. Our
attention is back on the east.
Von is a little disappointed
at the number of clouds this morning. He comments that the sunrise from here
can be more than spectacular and that’s what he’d hoped to see. The cloud cover
is certainly present, but they’re multi-layered and create much interest in the
continually evolving 360 degree theatre we’re sitting in. It’s much like
watching a water color of pastels that are static only for a brief second or
two. As soon as attention is diverted momentarily to one sector, the previously
viewed one has changed. I find myself swiveling almost constantly as I try not
to miss a thing.
We have interesting talk
with insertions of silence. It’s comfortable, though, and almost necessary for
digesting the scene. Through our conversation, it’s obvious to me that Von is a
man who deeply loves this land and has great respect and appreciation for it
and the creatures it sustains. I decide that is the qualifying factor in many
ways that makes a person a “real” cowboy or rancher. That, and not being afraid
to work hard.
The spectacle continues to
unfold, but an hour has now passed. We all have long drives ahead, so we decide
to get back to headquarters and pack up. I can’t think of a more fitting way to
have ended this journey of becoming a cowgirl, nor of starting the trail back
to my real world.
Upon our return, the grounds
are a hub-bub of activity. I find Mike and help ready the horses. Somehow I
manage to restuff all my things in the pickup; why does it always seem like one
has more stuff on the return trip than on the arrival? It all fits, however,
and we find ourselves ready to hit the road back towards civilization. We say
our goodbyes to this very fine group of people who just four days ago were
complete strangers to me. I am honored to now call them friend. Contacts are
exchanged, safe trip wishes bidden, and we all part with hopes of finding
ourselves together once more, riding south to begin again. I catch the gate as
we depart the dirt road that leads from this little piece of West Texas heaven.
There’s a small tinge of sadness a I latch it for the last time and look north.
The road back to Alpine
parlays almost an hour’s worth of gorgeous views. We decide to extend that
aspect and head east from Alpine via Marathon. Another 60 miles to the north
and we’re in Ft. Stockton with I-10 waiting to greet us. It’s a comfortable
drive over the 6 or so hours it takes to return to Kerrville. We pass it with
talk, music, and a little napping here and there. I take over as wagon master
somewhere a couple of hours west of my drop off destination; it’s my first time
to drive a truck hauling a horse trailer. One more event to check off my
“Cowgirl Musts” list. It’s a different feel, naturally, but not too bad. I just
make sure I have plenty of room to brake if needed, and after about 30 minutes
don’t experience a small start when I look in the rearview mirror and see a
couple of equine faces. Major and Red Man seem oblivious to their new woman
driver chauffer and continue to take in the sights as they munch on their road
trip snack of alfalfa hay.
As my home comes into view,
I realize, despite my being able to spirit myself away both physically and
mindfully, I’ve missed my husband and family. It’s always good to come home, and
I happily anticipate being reunited. Mike takes a brief rest before continuing
on his journey of another two hours. I fuel him up with some snacks, thank him
profusely for the chance to ride Red Man, as well as share the road out and
back, and again count my blessings at having folks such as he to call friends.
This round up, the
experience of living the life of a cowgirl, has been a pinnacle experience. I
left heading west, not having a clue on most every aspect of the upcoming days.
I didn’t know a wild rag from a grocery bag, much less what mole skin or a
stampede string was. Yes, I learned lots of new vocabulary, as well as the ways
of working cattle. I was gifted with new friendships. I saw scenery and sights
that if every human could see, the world might be a more peaceful place. I was
challenged daily and gained new confidence as I did my best to meet each
challenge the best I could. As a teacher, this message is preached daily. Oh,
how we should strive to live this, as
well. I feel blessed beyond measure to have had the opportunity and the means
to have been able to do all of this. May each of you reading this find a
similar blessing of your own—the challenge that has captured your imagination
and dreams, large or small, and the chance to get out there and live it!
Author’s Note: My sincere thanks to the folks at U Ought 2
Ranch of Carrizo Springs, Texas for organizing this round up and making
something like this possible. If you
are interested in participating in such an event, they may be contacted through
their website at www.uought2.com