My love affair with horses began when I was 6 years old. A best friend lived on a farm. When I rode his pony, Honey, for the first time, I was hooked. While my parents never discouraged this, they recognized the pitfall of buying and boarding a horse for their young son, whose interests could change at a moment's notice. By age 13, I learned that people would actually pay me to groom horses, muck stalls, and let me ride for free! This was the first of barn jobs that sustained my interest.
Being from the East, where cows are milked, not roped, a book by Glenn Balch spawned my interest in roping and working cattle from horseback. An education, marriage, two children, and a police career put horses on hold. Then the film City Slickers rekindled my interest. It wouldn't be until years later, at age 48, that I'd actually live the dream.
Not a Dude Ranch!
When I progressed from the yearning to the learning, I surfed Google, expecting to wade through endless dude ranches. I was surprised to find at the top of the first page, "Gordon's Guide to Adventure and Active Travel." Listed were 24 different outfits located throughout the West. The goal was to find something authentic; a budding cowpoke I was, not a "city slicker."
Clicking on several sites, I soon found Wyoming High Country. Reading the first few paragraphs, the phrases, "originating in 1916," "124,000 acres," and "2,000 head," caught my attention. Other features, such as tents, solar showers, and a guest limit of 10, held my attention. What hooked me, though, were two sentences: "The ranch needs people to brand, vaccinate, wrestle calves, hold herd, and rope. Not only does the ranch welcome your help with these jobs, they appreciate your help." Definitely what I was looking for!
Within 24 hours of requesting information, I received a reply from Lila Kenward, director of guest services. I thought of her as the cruise director. During the ensuing months, we became well-acquainted. Lila promptly sent a suggested equipment list that included chaps, saddlebags, raingear, and spurs. Dudes don't wear spurs and ride in the rain, do they?
Anyone who's used frequent-flier miles, especially to Billings, Montana, knows that Lila and I needed to converse frequently regarding arrival and departure dates. Throughout it all, Lila was patient and accommodating. I had every reason to believe that what I was sold, Wyoming High Country would deliver.
As the months passed, when I spoke of my planned adventure, everyone concluded I was either going nuts...or to a dude ranch. Each time I heard the "d" word, I'd correct them, barely concealing my irritation. It's not a dude ranch! I'm going there to work cattle!
The Real Thing
On the anticipated day, when I first touched down in Billings, I could've sworn I was in Maine, not Montana. More passengers were wearing Dockers and fishing vests and carrying rod cases than people like me wearing boots and jeans and carrying a bedroll. Oh well, some people dream of streams teeming with trout; others dream of cows and calves grazing for as far as the eye can see.
As promised, I met Lila at high noon. We picked up three other guests; a father and two sons. We met a mother and daughter at the airport and then, off to Wyoming where we'd join the remaining two guests. Eight in all; this must be the real thing.
We assembled at the home of foreman John Mcleary. He looked and sounded exactly as I'd imagined, his face worn from the sun and wind, his mustache dark and full. His handshake and eye contact were that of a serious man who doesn't take himself too seriously.
We also met wranglers Ed, who looked to be in his 50s, and Connie (Conrad), whom we learned is 71 years young. Before loading our gear and beginning our journey, Lila had us sign waivers of liability. Cattle work is hazardous.
Unlike a dude ranch, where you pull off the highway and drop your bags in a cabin, our stay would be under canvas at an elevation of 8,000 feet. As we started the drive from Lovell up the Big Horn Mountains, we were told it would take almost three hours. Although it was the last week of June, the primary road was still snowed shut.
The journey took us past vistas, canyons, and caves. We all put on brave faces as we traveled the narrow roads with sharp drop-offs, and Ed looked at us more than the road. We were scared to death! I began to think that perhaps the waiver was more relevant to the drive to camp than the cattle work.
Fellow guests Lisa and her daughter, Pam, talked about what they anticipated and why they'd chosen Wyoming High Country. Had I not known better, I would've sworn that we'd talked prior to making our decisions. No dude ranches for them either; they wanted to experience the real thing.
Our accommodations were exactly as promised: wall tents with no floor, folding cots our only luxury. The kitchen was also under canvas. Inside, the cook tent was large enough for food prep and clean-up areas, along with two picnic tables. A third picnic table was positioned just outside. A campfire was placed between the cook tent and the guest tents. Large chunks of aspen served as seats. Virtually all of the social activity occurred either at the picnic tables or around the campfire. We enjoyed the presence of the horses as they grazed within the camp. Below the rim in the side of our mountain was an ice cave.
Water was supplied in a five-gallon jug. Running water came from a continuously flowing spring, and it was quite cold! The shower was a solar pack hung from the limb of a pine tree. The shower stall was a blue tarp hung from the same tree, held in position by fence posts. Basic, but it worked.
We met the remainder of the wranglers at camp. They varied in age from early teens through age 40, including 19-year-old Jennifer, who'd give me some of the most important advice of the trip; more about that later.
Each wrangler was very competent in riding and cattle work. Each was quite gracious when helping. I could tell that they, too, were here for the same reason - to live a life that few get to enjoy today, and then for only a few blessed weeks each year. Only at mealtime were we treated as guests. The wranglers assured that all eight of us were served before they took their place in line.
As I turned in that first night and thought of the days ahead, I had every reason to anticipate what I'd read, not what my friends assumed. No way is this a dude ranch.
