The Wreck

The no nonsense, 75 year old cook ran the kitchen with a cast iron fist. We were a bunch of unruly teenagers that saw our summer on the guest ranch as more of a working vacation then a job. She didn’t like it when we got rowdy and would only allow a few boredom breaking activities. One that she tolerated was singing. We sang show tunes, country western ballads, and our favorite – TV show theme songs to pass the time. She only drew the line when we started making up our own lyrics because well, let’s just say they may have been a bit off color at times.

She would not put up with any horseplay like food fights or chasing each other around. If we started any of that she would come out from behind the work table wielding a large spoon or rolling pin and threaten to let us have it. She couldn’t have weighed more than 97 lbs. soaking wet, but nobody dared find out if she really meant it.

One day we walked in to see her standing at the top of the basement stairs, shaking with laughter with tears rolling down her cheeks. We ask her what happened and she pointed down the stairs and choked out the words “We’ve had a wreck”. We all ran to look and there at the bottom sat someone, almost unrecognizable, covered in flour with clouds of white still billowing around him. It was our dishwasher who, when trying to carry a 50 lb. bag of flour downstairs, had missed the last step. We all laughed so hard we cried, not just because of the wreck but because of the sight of her complete loss of composure.

Eventually she pulled herself together and told us to get it cleaned up and get back to work. Still feeling lighthearted someone started to hum until everyone burst out singing “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas”. Out of the corner of my eye I caught her quickly turning to stir a pot so we couldn’t see her smile. Still fighting to maintain order she grabbed a large metal spoon but when she turned to threaten us, couldn’t keep from laughing and ended up using it to direct the choir instead. 

Two In The Hand is Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

Working in the kitchen at the guest ranch I didn’t get too many opportunities to ride or learn to be the cowgirl I dreamed about.  I had already discovered that I was not a natural and was actually somewhat afraid of the powerful beasts now that I had met them up close and personal.  I was determined to overcome my fear so when they asked for volunteers in an emergency situation I stepped up.

The heavy rains the night before had threatened to flood the riding trails due to a beaver dam blocking the creek.  A few of the wranglers had gone out early to dynamite the dam when someone realized one of the pastures near there had not been cleared of horses.  The less experienced staff got a two minute class on how to lead a horse quickly and safely without getting stepped on.  The few wranglers there were catching the horses and putting bridles on them.  All we had to do was lead them back in.

I reached a wrangler and he handed me the lead.  After having only gone a short way another wrangler came up asked if I thought I could handle two at a time.  I didn’t have time to answer before he put the lead in my hand and ran off to get another horse.  Being sandwiched between them was pushing me toward panic so I kept my arms out as far as I could to avoid being crushed.

As I approached the barn I notice some wranglers who seemed to be arguing and pointing in my direction.  One of them held his hand up as though I should stop but before I could, the cowboy next to him slapped his hand down and gestured for me to keep coming.  After a got a little closer he ran out grabbed one of the horses and swung it out and away from the barn, while I led the other one in.

My pride at helping to rescue them from danger was soon replaced with horrified relief when they explained that the two horses I was leading were bitter rivals. The potential for a truly life threatening confrontation was pretty high but the wrangler that handed me the second horse was new and did not recognize the first one.  The argument I had seen was about if the odds of a fight would be better or worse if I stopped and waited for someone to come to my aid.  The final consensus was, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.  Cowboy wisdom or wishful thinking, I didn’t want to know.

Stargazers

Every job has its mundane moments when it seems repetitious and even boring.  You wouldn’t think that could happen in the beautiful Colorado Rockies, but by the middle of the season, even the uniqueness of living on a guest ranch began to wear off.  To the staff, cleaning stalls, washing dishes, and cooking and serving 3 meals a day was beginning to feel more and more like work.  There were certain events each summer that brought the excitement back, like local rodeos and concerts. One of the most anticipated though, was a very special quest.

Many families returned year after year and veteran staff got to know them well, some even developing lasting friendships. One of those guests was an astronaut.  He brought his family every summer and we could always count on two things happening when he was there.  Late night apple pie raids of the kitchen and a staff attitude adjustment ride for some stargazing. After dinner when the guests returned to their cabins staff members would ride with him to our favorite spot on a ridge above the ranch and wait for the sun to set.  It was a time to relax and just be ourselves and looking over the ranch from that spot somehow put everything back in perspective.  When the stars came out our own personal astronaut would point out the constellations. You could tell he was passionate about space and loved sharing that passion with us. He told us what it was like looking down from an even higher vantage point seeing the constellations formed by the lights of the cities and towns.  I remember thinking that they were almost like a reflection of the stars.

The lights of Christmas remind me how a brilliant star announced the birth of my savior Jesus Christ, who is the true Light of the World. The one with the greatest vantage point of all sees the reflection of His light in all those who believe.  Won’t you consider asking Him into your heart so you receive a new life and a new perspective through His passionate and unconditional love for you?

Striking it Real

When I went to Colorado to work on a guest ranch there was one other thing that I wanted to do out West more than anything else.  I wanted to visit a ghost town.  Not a tourist trap with gunfight reenactments, and souvenir hats but a real ghost town with deserted buildings, tumbleweeds rolling down the streets and at least one battered wooden sign swinging from a hook and creaking in the wind. You know, a real ghost town just like the ones on TV and in the movies.

I bought a book about how to find some of the few historic towns that remained untouched.  The closest one to the ranch was a town that grew up around silver mines high in the mountains.  According to the book, at one time the town had 5 restaurants and 3 saloons accommodating the miners and their families.  I followed the map to the location and knew I had found it when I saw the picturesque head frame of the mine shaft that was still standing and a historical marker describing the silver strike as one of the richest ever made.

The only other structure that could be seen was a small shack a short distance from the mine.  I hiked up to it and carefully stepped through the open door and onto the broken and rotting floor boards.  The sun pierced through the scattered holes in the roof as the dust I disturbed floated through its shafts.  There were tattered pieces of wall paper clinging to what remained of the walls.   A small wooden table stood at one end but other than that it was empty. Imagining anyone living, and working in this remote place was difficult if not impossible. None of the re-creations I had seen even came close to what living in such isolated and harsh conditions must have been like.

I wasn’t disappointed by what I found.  It might not have lived up to my expectations but it was real and it was the kind of reality that matured my thoughts and made me want to seek the truth instead of chasing fantasies.

 

High Witness - or The Girl Who Cried Flower

One of the best things about working summers at a guest ranch in Colorado was meeting the other young men and women from all over the country, or out of the country, who also spent their summers there.  Housekeepers, waitresses and cooks were needed as well as wranglers and ranch hands so the staff consisted of city dwellers, flatlanders (otherwise known as Midwesterners), foreigners and cowboys.  A clash of cultures at times but for the most part a wonderful learning experience.  Coming from Illinois, I fell into the flatlander category.  Before the ranch I had never been anywhere farther than Wisconsin so I was pretty naïve when it came to the ways of the West.  It turned out I was not alone.

 Most of us knew little or nothing about mountains, riding, ranching or the beautiful natural habitat that surrounded us. We learned as we went and it wasn’t always the easy way.  Cactus didn’t grow in the middle of the Illinois prairies that I was used to running barefoot through, and neither did nettles.  Pain is an amazing teacher and so is humiliation.

One evening I was late returning from a hike and it was getting dark faster than I expected.  As I finally reached the ranch road leading to the lodge I noticed that both sides were lined with beautiful white flowers.  They weren’t there in the morning when I started out so I thought they had all bloomed sometime during that day.  The entire kitchen staff followed me down the road the next morning just to see them, but they were all gone.  They looked at me as though I had lost my mind and from then on I was the butt of jokes about eating hallucinogenic mushrooms while on my hike etc., etc.  I knew that I had seen them, so I checked every morning so that I could prove it.  That only added fuel to the fire when I had to come back and tell them they were not there.  After dinner one night I went for a walk and there they were again.  I practically dragged a couple fellow staffers down the road to be witnesses to my sanity. One of the locals came with us and really got a kick out of listening to us go on about the mystical disappearing flowers.  Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore and told us that they were Evening Primroses and that they only bloomed at night.  At least I wasn’t hallucinating.

Whatever You Do Don't Grab That Branch

 

Everyone at the ranch was excited about the opportunity to go tubing. The nearby river, that was usually too shallow, was swelled by recent rains, and just high enough for a good ride.  I had great memories of lazily floating on an old car tire inner tube down the deep, meandering, waters of the Fox River back home.  Those memories began to fade when I saw them loading the gigantic tractor sized inner tubes into the horse trailer.  The memories disappeared completely when I saw the river. This deep water wasn’t calm and smooth it was swirling and dark with a relentless canyon carving flow.  

As she was holding the tube so I could climb on, my friend told me to just hang on and down around the bend the current would wash the tubes up onto a sandbar.  The trucks would wait for us there. Knowing I was inexperienced she added, “Whatever you do don’t grab a branch if you get close to the shore, if you are afraid of getting hit by one just duck down as low as you can into the center of the tube”.

With that said she pushed me out into the current.  I couldn’t believe how fast I was going, spinning with the swirling current then bouncing across small bubbling rapids that formed between the scattered boulders.  Suddenly I was headed toward the riverbank where there were overhanging branches.  I remembered the part about ducking but as I sank lower into the center of the tube I felt myself slipping.  Instinctivley I reached for a branch to pull myself up.  It only took a split second to realize why I should have remembered the 1st part of the warning as the rushing current pulled the tube right out from under me.  The branch and my grip were not strong enough to hold me and I splashed into the icy cold water.  Immediately I felt myself being pushed sideways instead of sinking to the bottom.  The sideways momentum gradually brought me to the surface not far from my tube.  I grabbed it and finished the ride clinging to its side and being dragged up onto the sandbar like a fish on a line.

The moral of the story:  When we feel out of control, sometimes we need to fight our first instincts and heed the warnings that come from experience, otherwise we may find ourselves in over our heads.

Sometimes The Simplest Explanation Is The Best

Being a flatlander from Illinois on a Colorado ranch I had a lot to learn.  One of my teachers was the lead wrangler.  He made his living with horses, working the ranch in the summer, guiding hunts in the winter and blacksmithing year round.  My classrooms were the tack room and the barn where he explained the different types of halters, saddles and leads.

 

He knew every horse on the ranch and talked about each like they were old friends.  Doc, the oldest, was still used for beginners.  He would fall asleep saddled at the rail waiting for his rider and his top speed was a cha-cha-cha – walk two steps and trot three, walk two steps and trot three.  General Patton was a large grey that was used in the lead position on rides when the creek crossings were at high water.  He just walked right in without hesitation and the other horses would follow. 

 

One of the wranglers was showing off his new horse tied to the corral fence next to the barn. As we passed by I commented on how beautiful it was.  My horse loving teacher took one look, shook his head, spit in the dirt (he was chewing tobacco) and said, “That horse is loco, pure and simple. (spit) I told him not to buy it and he went and did it anyway. (spit)  There’s gonna be trouble you wait and see. (spit)”  I started to duck under the fence rail to walk over and take a look but he caught my arm and said, “Don’t ever go near that animal”. He said it with such forcefulness  that I pulled back and decided to watch from a distance.

 

As if on cue, the new horse reared up on its’ hind legs neighing and throwing back its’ head with so much force that he pulled down the entire corral gate and part of the fence.  His owner looked stricken as he surveyed the damage.  My instructor, who was the resident expert, pushed back his hat, and said calmly, “(spit) I told you he was loco” and strolled away. 

A Rare Occasion or Oh Lucy III

 The head cook on the guest ranch I worked on was in her 70’s and planning to retire. As her apprentice I learned to cook family style for 110.  My final exam was cooking Sunday night dinner for the new guests.  The menu was always roast beef, baked potatoes, green beans, fresh baked rolls and homemade cherry pie.  It was the most important meal of the week and when I proved that I could serve it successfully I became the head cook.  

The baker and I spent almost all day in the kitchen on Sundays cooking breakfast and lunch for the staff and preparing for dinner.  When the pies were cooling, the rolls were rising and the roasts and potatoes were in the ovens, we finally got a much needed break.  I knew something had gone terribly wrong one Sunday evening when I went back to the kitchen.  The room felt cold and there was no delicious smell of roasting meat coming from the ovens. I forgot to turn them on when I put the roasts in.

Just then the ranch owner came in to check on dinner.  He stopped short then started flinging open the oven doors and pulling the raw roasts out.  He yelled for me to bring him the large knife and turn the ovens on as high as they could go. Slicing the roasts in half he threw them back in the ovens and told me to cut the time on the potatoes before he slammed out the door.  Everyone had a choice between well done and rare meat and the potatoes were a combination of crunchy and mushy. If it wasn’t for the fact that our baker made the best homemade rolls and cherry pies in the world the entire meal would have been a disaster.  The owner apologized to the new guests and explained that there had been a problem with the ovens allowing me to save face during the staff introductions after dinner. He never said anything to me about what happened and I never left the kitchen after the roasts went in again.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Bad Idea

Working on a Dude Ranch in the Colorado Rockies was exciting enough for a girl from the flatlands of Illinois, but I wanted to make the most of my time there.  Deciding to hike to the highest point on the ranch, I asked for tips from more experienced mountain hikers.  They made it very clear that I needed to stay on the trail and be back before dark.  Following their advice I packed plenty of water, an emergency kit, my lunch, and my camera and set off early in the morning. 

 Most of the hike was through tall pine forests and sun filtered aspen groves.  After several hours the trail opened up into a beautiful high meadow with wild flowers and a mountain stream.  There was a large flat outcropping of rock over the stream at the far edge of the meadow.  Thinking that it wasn’t that far off the trail, I decided to sit in the shade under the rock shelf to eat my lunch before continuing to the top.  The sound of the water echoed off the rocks and I almost fell asleep.  Staying there too long I had to hurry to reach the top with just enough time to take a few pictures before heading back.  I reached the lodge just as dusk was turning to dark, exhausted but thrilled to have conquered my first objective successfully.

There was some excited conversation coming from the lodge porch and I asked what was going on.  Apparently, a mountain lion had been spotted by a guest on one of the late trail rides.  A ranch hand said that it was probably old Hank.  When someone asked if he was dangerous he explained that Hank spent most of his time in his den in the high meadow or sunning himself on the top of Table Rock.  He added that the trail rides never went up that high and the only way to get there was by the foot trail that led to the top of the ridge.   I was about to ask for a more specific description of Table Rock but decided I didn’t really want to know.

Wrangling Potatoes

    

 As a young girl from Illinois I could only imagine what it was like to be a cowgirl.  I loved horses and spent hours in front of TV westerns and reading every book about horses and riding that I could find. I thought that even though I didn’t live out west that wrangling horses must surely be in my blood.  Those daydreams were eventually replaced by new and more complicated teenage fantasies.  My worn copies of National Velvet and My Friend Flicka ended up on the shelf in my closet along with my horse statues and the framed picture of my first pony ride.

     My adolescent dreams were suddenly reawakened when after High School graduation I landed a summer job on a Colorado dude ranch.  I pictured myself once again on horseback leading trail rides and dressed from hat to boots in western wear.  When I arrived at the ranch, it was everything I had imagined and more. There was a huge barn, log cabin lodge and out buildings that were designed to look like an old western town.  Cowboys, cowgirls and horses were everywhere and I couldn’t wait to step into my fantasy role and ride off into the sunset.

     When the jobs were assigned the most experienced with horses became wranglers and much to my disappointment the rest of us became housekeepers, kitchen staff and store clerks. There was no fast track, on the job training for trail guides.  I told myself that wrangling potatoes in the mountains was still better than most summer jobs and if I couldn’t be a cowgirl at least I could live in my imaginary world for a little while.

     When the summer ended I had to let go of my adolescent dreams and the more mature wisdom of a high school graduate took over. I realized that it was foolish of me to want to be a cowgirl.  I would just marry a cowboy.