The Art of Barnyard Cussin'

Nothing can stir the soul of man, woman, or child more than an adventure on a Montana dude ranch where one can partake in piece of old west history called cowboy, and blend that with the great outdoors. That is the setting of the story to follow...

It was a beautiful, pristine Montana morning with the horses grazing peacefully about the meadow in belly-deep grass; the sun was rising up to kiss the mountain peaks with warmth. The morning campfire was crackling away outside the lodge, and awaiting the guests, was a fresh pot of cowboy coffee.  It was what we called "Wrangler Breakfast" morning, which entails your guests consuming their meal of steak, eggs, & camp spuds around the fire while watching the wranglers gather in the stock by horseback.  This was my job, and I loved it.  There is nothing like saddling up on a cool, summer morning and heading out to gather in the horses.  It's just you and your horse working together, and the feeling is indescribable.

I was the only wrangler on tap that morning, so I mounted up and headed my horse out the gate. The ranch owned about 80 head of horses and mules, and they knew the routine well of wrangling.  They usually did as they were supposed to, gallop gracefully to the barn displaying their athleticism and grace for the onlookers.  But, there were stragglers; defiant beasts that chose to head the opposite direction or hold their ground in a sweet section of timothy grass. This particular morning, they took a little extra coaxing.  I worked them back and forth across the meadow, pushing firmly but gently until they were in front of the lodge where they all chose to stop. They would take a few steps toward the corrals and barn, then stop and plant their fat faces in the grass. Any time I came near, they would pin their ears, whirl and kick, and circle back around to the tall grass. They knew they had the upper-hand.  After several minutes of this fun, I'd had enough.  My horse had lost any brain he had, my temper flared, and forgetting I had an audience, I opened up and aired out both lungs. 

Now, growing up in the barnyard, you learn the importance of which cuss words to string together to get the best bang for your buck, so to speak.  You don't just throw out the usual simple sentence enhancers. Oh no! You string ‘em all together at one time, so I did. And I enunciated every single word loud and clear.  I took down my lariat and connected rope with hides, let out another incoherent stream of foul language, and chased them in with all I had.  Apparently my crazed appearance was convincing enough that they took off to the barnyard, full-tilt. I cussed and yelled at them the whole way, all the while forgetting about the crowd of  adults, children, crew, and most importantly, my uncle & boss, that had now gathered at the edge of the front lawn to watch the show.  I slammed the corral gate, steam rolling, exploits blaring and stomped my way to the barn. There!  I'd showed them who was boss!  I went about unsaddling and caring for my horse, and huffed up the hill for breakfast with the gang.  As I reached the campfire and guests, I noticed it was awfully quiet upon my arrival. {gasp...insert scene replay & silent foul language.}  Me and my big mouth.  Head down, I grabbed a plate of humble pie and proceeded to politely shovel it in by the forkful, quietly.  As the lump of breakfast soured in my stomach, I was reminded that sometimes, silence is golden.  Will I ever learn?  Hell, no...

Welcome, Greenhorn

Let me preclude this story with a story... I have taken a step out the family business the past couple summers. My life simply took me in other directions, but I have somehow managed to burn up the road between Havre and Seeley Lake with the mad skills of a Nascar driver this summer. Although, Havre is starting to feel more like home, my heart belongs in the mountains. Always.  So, I soothe myself with quick weekend trips to help out and visit family when I can. This 30,000 foot view has given me a whole new appreciation for this operation, and the new guy(s) that are brave enough to accept the challenge of being new to the operation and riding for our brand. It's not easy walking into a family business like ours. 

As most of you know by now, I grew up working for my aunt and uncle's outfitting and guest ranch business in beautiful western Montana. Over the years, I had the honor of being graced with several titles: babysitter, shit shoveler, kitchen help, drag guide, aka the toilet paper (the last one a trail ride of 16 to shut gates, pick up dropped hats, reins, and bring up the rear), kids' camp counselor (there are still a few kids out there recovering from a week of horseback riding and camping with me talking to a counselor of their own!), and backcountry cook. (I use the term cook lightly. Hunger usually won out over taste the first few years of cooking!) 

Eventually, with a little luck, some 7 years of blood, sweat and tears, and a magical 18th birthday, I became a trail ride guide and eventually, barn manager. But never, ever, was I the greenhorn, the new kid on the block, the red-headed, bastard child that showed up in the barnyard with brand spankin' new gear of all the wrong sorts and a fresh tin of Skoal in my jeans.  I was never on THAT side of the fence in this operation... Thankfully...

The greenhorn is the guy that shows up eager the first morning all smiles with no idea of what's in store. His new hat will be deformed and made fun of. He will be the brunt of dirty barnyard jokes and shenanigans.  He will inevitably be drug across the barnyard by Spade, the mule, on shoeing day.  He will saddle horses wrong and get bitched at by second year know-it-all wranglers (usually of the female variety).  He will work from sun-up to sun-up, and meet his ass coming and going on the dusty trail.  He will never drive the truck with the horse trailer. EVER.  He will get the smartest dumb horse in the corral for all intent purposes of teaching him the ropes. He will ride drag behind the mules watching packs and eat enough dust to choke a horse.  If he has a lick of sense, he will learn to completely disappear on his day off if he doesn't want to be recruited for fixing fence, repairing tack or picking rock.  He will dig the latrine at every campsite.  His packs will have to be re-roped and slung correctly. He won't have much chance at socializing with the opposite sex, unless he has the pleasure of packing Miss Kitty, the ornery mule.  He will be teased mercilessly by the seasoned crew, and make all the same mistakes that those before him did. He will forget to close gates, and get to change flat trailer tires.  He will eventually meet the ground when ol' paint makes a high dive through the ground hornets.  He will hear the same songs in the breakfast line every morning, and he will eat more damn hotcakes than he ever thought he could. He will feel bruised, beaten, tired, and sweaty.  His hands will be calloused and his butt will drag.  But, at the end of the season, he will look back on it one of two ways... He may think this is the last year he ever cares to do this, to ride another horse or pack another mule or fix another fence. Or, he will know he's grown in more ways than he could have dreamed. He will have seen more miles of backcountry than most men will ever know about. He will hear the boss man's stories and poems and feel like part of the family. He will love pancakes of all sorts.  He will welcome hugs from the ladies in the kitchen. He will know each of the mules' names and their favorite spots to scratch. He will bond with the horse he's come to know over miles in the saddle, and lay claim to him for the seasons to come.  But most of all, he will walk back into his old life, reflect on the long days of hard work and his time spent at the ranch and be left yearning for more and wishing it were summer all over again.

See ya next year, greenhorn...

Splittin' the Seams

The woes of a 38 year old shopping in an 18 year old world…

I consider myself a comfortable and functional kind of shopper, and I highly dislike shopping for jeans; not nearly as much as bathing suits, but it definitely ranks right up there with waxing your lip, doing dishes, and paying taxes.  However, I do occasionally have to buy them, so I prefer to do my shopping at stores that sell clothing, tack, dog food, boots, feed, and beer (you know…one-stop shop).  That means the selection tends to lean toward functional. Until lately...

Recently, I was in my favorite store, and a bedazzled pair of ripped-out jeans caught my eye.  I thought, "What on earth possesses a woman to want to draw attention to her posterior with gothic crosses and sparkles?"  But after further perusing, I quickly deduced that this design was the only choice I had.  So, I grabbed a pair and headed to the dressing room, all the while my stomach turning at the sight of the price tag. In the dressing room, I stepped out of my duds, and pulled on the pants. Well, I tried to pull on the pants.  Now, I know that fat tends to rearrange itself from time to time, and I possibly ate ice cream the night before, drank a beer, and had sour cream on my potato, but I refused to blame my gluttony on the fact the pants were snug. I had the right size, right?  Tug. Pull. Squat. Suck it in. Wow, who knew it could be such a workout trying on jeans?  Upon searching for the button and zipper, (it was there somewhere) it came to mind that the backside felt a touch “drafty”. The tag listed these as “low rise”, which clearly meant that everyone else would get to see the moon rise. Not only were they “low rise”, they were tight AND sparkly, and created something resembling a “muffin top” out of my midsection. In fact, the idea of removing these pants quickly brought to mind opening a can of Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits. You know, the loud pop sound you get when you beat the tube against the counter?  Yeah… It wasn't going to be pretty. Clearly it would require just as much effort to remove these jeans as putting them on did.

Well, I couldn't get out of them fast enough! I was reminded this is exactly the reason why I don't like shopping for any sort of clothing in this day and age. I might not be in style, or be gracing the cover of Vogue any time soon, but the last time I checked, my horse didn’t care what I wore to the barn.

Happy trails and happy shopping…May you ladies be far more successful than I was!

Legendary Woman

“I figure if a girl wants to be a legend, she should just go ahead and be one.” ~ Calamity Jane

With all this recent news of men wanting to be women, and changing their names, and going from adorning the cover of the Wheaties cereal box to Froot Loops, I only felt it necessary to weigh in on this subject from a ranching woman’s perspective.  Now, if you are sensitive to these issues, chances are I’ve already offended ya, so don’t bother to keep a readin’.  I ain’t here to offend you modern-aged, equal rights kind, because I believe in some of those things too, but part of the cowgirl code is standing up for what you believe in, even if others perceive it to be wrong.  So, here goes nothin’…

In all my years growing up as a female in a man’s ranching world, there has been more than one time I wished I had the physical strength of a man.  Moments like swinging Big Bertha, the post pounder, into the rocky ground while building a few miles of fenceline, or clearing trail with a crosscut or axe, shoveling snow drifts, and packing mules all test a she-man physically. Ranch women don’t lead the typical urban female life.  In this lifestyle, men still physically have the upper-hand. I don’t pretend to have the brut strength to take on a mad bull, or pack out an elk on my back, and ride rough stock for the heck of it.

But there is a place where a woman, if she digs deep enough, has toughness to match her male counterpart.  It comes from the grit in her gut. I’m not referring to the grits she ate at breakfast.  I’m referring to her mental toughness.  A man may call it her crazy-as-a-mama-cow side, but when she taps into that strength, she leaves a man in the dust.  When she channels that crazy into productivity, she’s a force to be reckoned with.  She’s the woman behind the scenes, working long hours, matching a man stride for stride.  She’s the cowgirl that found a softer side to that raunchy little bronc that a man wanted to out-stout and muscle his way through.  She cooks the meals and balances the books.  She juggles kids, schedules, in-laws, outlaws, doctors sick horses, cows, kids, and dogs.  She pauses to enjoy the simple morning beauty and refresh her soul, and meets the day head on with a can-do spirit.  She’s earned every line, callous, wrinkle, and gray hair, and she doesn’t need a glamorous magazine cover photo to express how brave she is on a daily basis.  The bravest and most notorious things she accomplishes often go unnoticed or praised, and she likes it that way.  She simply is a legend without the world knowing.

So I tip my hat to the real women out there.  We weren’t created by some strange phenomenon or whimsical, magical surgery.  We earned every bit of our title, woman, and our place in this world is quietly legendary. So, go ahead and be just that.

~Happy Trails

Cubicle Cowgirl

This is for the cowboy and cowgirl in all of us...

The cubicle cowgirl… I have become her. Somehow, my new life has shaped and molded me into a wannabe professional wearing dress slacks in place of faded jeans, peep toe shoes take the place of muddy, worn boots, and my favorite cowboy hat hangs on my wall instead of my head.  Now I answer phones and sell internet service for a communications company. I answer the phone from 8-5 in my most friendly voice. Instead of gathering frost-back horses in the crisp, morning air, I tolerate being cussed at (karma may be turning the tables on me) for product failures and bill mishaps.  I sit and stare endlessly at a computer within 6 foot padded cubicle walls.  Gone are the mountain trails and pine scent summers I loved.   Some days I can’t find the room to breathe, and my heart feels heavy; my shoulders carry the weight of the world.  My saving grace is the laughter with my co-workers and friends I have made, and the breath of fresh air on my fifteen minute outdoor break.  The satisfaction of a hard day’s work outdoors clearing trails and hosting guests on horseback are faded memories, as I strive to find the deeper purpose of my new and improved life I’ve chosen.  This is the hardest job I have ever had, being something I'm necessarily not.

You see, cubicle dwellers, company CEO’s, doctors, contractors, they all used to tell me how lucky I was to live in the mountains.  I knew it.  I felt it.  Strongly.  I never thought I took my life growing up horseback in the mountains for granted.  Ever. The feeling of luck and love settled peacefully throughout me, and I let it seep into every fiber of my soul.  But the pull of real life had me feeling I somehow wasn’t doing all I should financially for my family.  I used to listen to guests tell me how lucky I was to not hear the sound of traffic and sirens, that my closest neighbor was miles away, that my children were growing up understanding the important ethical things in life; they were unplugged from devices and tuned into their surroundings. They used to tell me how lucky I was to have my parents and family around every day.  (There were days I begged to differ on that subject …haha).  I knew all of these things.

But now, the tables have turned.  I find myself thinking they are the lucky ones.  They are the people that were cut out to work in cubicles and high rises and hospitals.  That is the life they know and love.  They are programmed and hard-wired for the busy life.  They never expected to see a bald eagle soaring in the sky above, or hear the call of a bugling bull, or see new life come to pass on the ranch in the form of calves and foals.  They didn’t expect to look out a window and see mountain peaks or clear mountain streams.  They never knew the love of riding a horse full tilt across a meadow with the wind urging you to pull your hat down tight.  They didn’t see the hush of the land with the setting sun, or the dawn of a new day glancing off the dew in the meadow.  They feel content, while I feel restless. 

The perks of being a cubicle cowgirl with a little financial freedom and comforts are nice, but it doesn’t hold a candle to being the real thing.  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or condescending, but I sure hope that trail comes back around soon…

~Happy Trails

Small Town America

I love being from a small town and community.  There is no place like home, but I love the commonality that spreads across each small town I have traveled through over the years. Ovando, Montana is the epitome of this.  I love that there are still places like this to share with my children; the hometown feel you get when you walk through the doors of a small café or general store.  I love that there is a “howdy” and a friendly smile from a stranger that make you instantly feel welcome.  These are the roots of America, and I am proud to be part of that.  So that is the story behind this story…

Small Town America

Somewhere across small town America, there are families still gathered on a Sunday morning in a church pew, thanking the Man upstairs for all the good in their lives.  There are old men, farmers & cowboys, coaches and dads, preachers and sinners, husbands and brothers gathered in a small coffee shop swapping stories about the latest basketball game played, about kids these days, days gone by, the crops in the ground, calving season, politics, and the weather.

Somewhere across small town America, there are groups gathering for the greater good of human kind, striving to be both.  They still work together to preserve and protect what is important, raise money for those in need, meant for a hand up, not a hand out.  There are not agendas or ulterior motives, but simply effort made for the greater good.

Somewhere across small town America, there are still grandmothers sharing recipes, baking cookies, delivering hugs, and praying for family.  They still grow gardens with fresh vegetables, pluck warm eggs from the hen house, and prepare Sunday supper from scratch.

Somewhere across small town America, there are handshakes still exchanged, a friendly wave from behind the wheel of a truck or tractor. Respect and morals still have value; where you honor your word given.  There are still people willing to work hard every day, getting dirt on their hands and under their nails, and willing to give their neighbor the shirt off their backs.

Somewhere across small town America, man is still a little more connected with their fellow man.  The cell phone service is sketchy at best, and nobody owns a dumb smart phone.  They still put a stamp on a handwritten letter to mail to a friend across the miles. The TV is turned off and families are tuned in around a dinner table at night, talking about their day.

Somewhere across small town America, the roots of good work ethic and honesty run deep.  Men are still men, and women are honored for more than the value of their looks.  A place where you are judged on your honesty and word, not your religion, your skin color, gender, or last name.

Somewhere across small town America, soldiers and veterans are honored for serving their country and the sacrifices they make.  Teachers teach American history and honor the Pledge of Allegiance and salute the flag.

Thank God for small town America.  It is our job to uphold her, teach other generations the value of hard work, time unplugged from technology, spend more time outdoors exploring, instill a little less sensitivity and political correctness and a better sense of humor, and show appreciation for the freedom that rings.  Look around your small town, and honor the foundation of it, those that had grit to establish it, and remember the blood, sweat and tears it took to build it.

God Bless small town America.

Wake Up

Wake up. Your soul, the girl you used to be, the one you always wanted to be…she is talking to you.  She has asked quietly, politely knocked, sought you out, but she’s screaming at you now.  She’s tired of being confined, restricted, and subtly restrained.  She’s there raw and naked staring back at you in the mirror. She’s asking “why”? Why have you ignored her? Why have you worked so hard to keep her in a tight lid box? Why have you put her on the back burner, ignored her uniqueness?  She’s here now… So listen.

She wants to write words that are worth reading and listening to, insightful and helpful.

She’s the one that wants to pass her days surrounded by those she loves deeply. She’d rather spend her time in the company of her horse, her dog, her family, and towering mountain peaks.

She wants to stare at full moons and starlit skies.

She climbs mountains the hard way, her way, to see the tops of peaks, to breathe air deeply until it fills her lungs with more than life.

She would rather be dead broke than live in a 9-5 that leaves her empty, and married to a mortgage payment.  Her bank account has nothing to do with how rich she feels.

She doesn't want to work and slave just to live when her body is too old and tired to reap the benefits.

She’s the one that likes good whiskey; the kind that too much is never enough of. She craves the smell of campfire nights and children’s smiles and small houses full of life.

She craves silence and solitude, but company worth keeping.

She’s music all the way down to her toes. She moves with it, lives in it, feels every word of it.

She’s the one that knew she didn't need a fancy degree to prove her importance, desirability and intelligence to the world.

She knows deep down that her worth isn't wrapped up in being society’s perfect picture. 

She accepts herself as is, fully flawed stitched together with good intentions.

She’s a woman of her word; not judgmental or angry.  She lets go of all the ‘right’ reasons, and with it goes the indecision within her.

She doesn't plan everything; she goes with the flow. She just simply lets go. She goes with her gut.

She trusts, she loves, she believes in miracles and dreams that come true.

She just is…

So, listen to her…she’s all you are and all you have the potential to be.

~Happy Trails

Lessons from a Horse

“We lose ourselves in the things we love. We find ourselves there, too.” ~Kristen Martz

When you think of learning the proverbial lesson, ones pictures themselves in a classroom with a human voice droning back at them in monotone levels about algebraic math.  I can honestly say that those lessons have been long forgotten, and I have yet to find need for them in my daily life.  The most memorable lessons I have learned have been taught to me by my children, my dogs, and last but not least, my horses.

These three are such true reflections of me and my actions; products of the environment they have been exposed to. If this statement is true, my border collie’s narcissistic, paranoid, obsessive, spastic behavior, my kids’ worry, their desire to please and be understood, and their excessive sighing and eye-rolling, and my horse’s need to be around others of his kind, work hard until the job is done, and lack of finesse or foresight of the outcome, and being driven by what’s for dinner, humbly remind me just how much work I have to do. (Did I just admit to a whole new level of crazy?!)  Possibly, but I am okay with that.  It just means I am willing to admit my shortcomings, reflect on them, and do better next time. 

Above all, my horse is my biggest and truest therapy.  Who knows which institution I would be in without him?  This is where the element of lesson enters in because when I am with my horse, I allow him to teach me.  I am, of sorts, his student, but also his partner.  This is when I have to let go of my control, remove all element of judgment against myself and my horse, and allow him to be an extension of me emotionally and physically. 

I am taken back to childhood memories of riding horses; when I didn’t overthink riding, or life, but simply rode for the fun of it.  Tapping into that as an adult is much more difficult, but when I break this lesson down into simple truth, it’s not really as hard as I make it.  These are just a few of the lessons I’m learning from a life with horses:

Respect: Everyone is different, every situation, every past.  Respect it all.

Forgiveness:  Everyone needs it at some point. Remove the element of judgment       because it’s not your job to judge, and the outcome is more harmonious.

Responsibility:  You and you alone are responsible for your actions. Quit blaming               others for the poor outcome.

Strength:  Mental strength is the most important and your attitude is everything.

Believe:  In yourself and your situation; you are worth the time and effort; be positive and stay that way.

Patience:  Accept that things can happen in a different order than what you have in              your mind.

Peace: Find it. You need it in all elements of life.

Hope:  Build your expectations on it and cultivate it.

Faith:  Have it and believe in your abilities and yourself at all times.

Love:  Above all else; never lose the ability to find love in all things in this life.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t always like what I see, but I know I have the ability to change it and do better.  I am ever grateful I have my horse as a reminder that I am a constant work in progress, but to recognize the victories no matter how big or small they may be.