Pasty White Guy

Click here to listen to: Live from the Hovel on the hill, No.23

(apostrophes and quotes removed on purpose, ...its complicated....)

Pasty white guy
Here in the wild, wild west everything has an Indian name. They have their own regular names of course, but wisdom and experience earns them a special Indian name. Sitting bull, Crazy horse and Yellow hair were all names given to men of extraordinary influence and personal power. Luckily, K-mart was having an end of the season 2 for 1 on Indian names. I have my choice of Pasty white guy or Rubber legs.
Lately, I am too stiff for Rubber legs. When I get off my horse at the end of the day and walk back to my cabin, I resemble someone who is straddling a barrel. There are ways to relieve this. The first day I took a hot shower. The second day I needed a hot shower and two Motrin. By the third day I was really starting to become a real cowboy, so I needed the shower, 4 Motrin, two bourbons and my three boys just to get up on to the porch. I have to call the airline to check on special seating for the bow legged.
I never notice the damage as I ride silently through the pines or splash across the rivers and streams. It is so peaceful and serene here. Only the mountain wind and the bickering of my own sweet children break the peace.
I’m telling Dad!
What? What did I do? Dad! Dad!

I wish the wind was a little louder.

The days here on the ranch start early, and fast. Breakfast at 7:30. That is about mid morning for me. I usually get up around 6 to write. However, these days I am up at 5:30 to get the boys out of bed by 7:00. I am learning many of the things cowboys need to know; How to trot without hurting either the horses back or my own, how to lope without shooting out of my saddle and in to the tall western pines and how to pick up the entire cabin before the housekeeping staff gets there.
We are in one of about 10 cabins on the ranch. It is small, neat and very comfortable. There are about 40 guests staying the week, and a huge staff to take care of them all. I have been to guest ranches before but this staff is exceptional.
The people who handle the horses and the unsteady guests on them are called wranglers. My earlier experience with wranglers is that they are men of vast western riding experience. I could always tell by the deep tans, missing fingers, limping walks and hard plastic back braces that these were men that knew everything there was to know about horses. They had names like Buck, Bill and Quirt. Their life's summers were spent breaking horses, riding in rodeos and going to the hospital. Their winters spent riding through the deep south west, wintering horses and cattle and seeing bone and joint specialists.
The wranglers here are a bit different. The one I rode with today name was Renwick. He has a construction supply business in Pennsylvania, and moved here to retire. He spends his summers coaching guests in riding and winters as a ski instructor. He gets a little sore sometimes but recommends Glucosamine.
One of critical elements that make up a great guest ranch is the kitchen. After a long hard morning of picking up dirty clothes or at the end of a day of riding though country so beautiful that it makes me feel old and smelly, a great meal brings everything into perspective. A long time ago I was told by a ranch hand that all the day’s sores would be relieved by This here bag of dried beans and bacon, messed wit a little crik water, and a shot of ol’ Pete, for starters, the bag and the bottle of Ol Pete had been gently warmed on the rump of his horse all day. As startling as that ‘real western’ dinner was, I think prefer the pork chops stuffed with shitake mushrooms, and the Pinot Grigio we had last night.
Lunches and dinners might be extraordinary here, but the breakfasts are amazing. Cooked to order, delivered lighting fast and always exceptional. Before I can finish saying I’ll have the pancakes, there they are steaming up at me from the plate. A sharp contrast from one of the places we stopped on the long drive from Salt Lake City. There my ham and cheese sandwich took long enough for the waitresses to compare shoes by trying each other’s on, discuss the shortcoming of each and every other staff member in the restaurant and then go for a smoke in the parking lot. Not so bad really, I passed the time watching my 15-year-olds beard come in.




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