Cowboy

Like several bloggers my upbringing involved ranching and horses. My father worked many different jobs but always made money on the side shoeing horses. I was riding a horse by myself before my fourth birthday. By the time I was in high school my parent had a small ranch but both had “town jobs”. One guess as to who did 65% of the ranch work.

The best rider I ever saw was my father. He didn’t become part of the horse; the horse became an extension of him. The second best rider I ever saw is my sister. By age 13 she was a certified riding instructor. While I could ride any horse, I was never fond of them. I sat a horse like a sack of potatoes tied to the saddle horn.

“Your cows are out”, is one call no rancher wants to hear. A couple working for the same organization paid for their ranch “hobby” by selling cars. One night they rolled their pickup and were laid up for a few days. At the end of the month I drove their “wash out” checks to them. While I was there, they got that call.

After trying to herd the cows back in with vehicles, I went and saddled one of their horses then rounded up the cows. Afterwards, while enjoying an adult beverage, they started ragging me about my horsemanship.

“Let me ask you one question”, I said. “Are your fucking cows in?”

My mother was fond of saying the two glamorous cowboy occupations were fixing fence and bucking hay bales. When I went in the Army, I hoped to do something fun like driving a tank or shooting a cannon. Instead, the Army made me a combat engineer stringing barbed wire and stacking sandbags.

Not complaining. A cousin joined the Navy to see the world and spent all of his post training on Adak Island.

 Every summer from the time I turned 11 I worked hay fields near Coalmont, CO (North Park at the East side of Buffalo Pass). A big kid, I worked behind the bailer. Two planks side by side with a slot between would be pulled and six bales would be stacked. Then a long crowbar would be rammed into the ground and the bales would “slip” off. The bailer would spit out 2,200 to 2,500 120 lb wire tied bales a day. Old repurposed buck rakes would pick up the small stacks and take them to the main stacks.

Being ranch raised does equip you for life. Whatever situation faces you, you cannot just walk away. You learn to find solutions. The solutions may not be the best, but are better than none. You learn to turn wrenches and operate shop machines. I was never taught how to weld but I can, and have, done a lot of welding.

A small example of finding a solution occurred while I was managing my primary employer’s skylight company subsidiary. A job called for polycarbonate instead of acrylic and our vacuum tanks wouldn’t pull the sheets into uniform shapes. Our foreman and engineer were having a big confab as to how to solve the problem. I went into the store room, picked out a electrical box, placed it over the vacuum port, and viola!  Problem solved. The vacuum draw was slowed down enough for the polycarbonate to form uniformly.

YouTube videos of off road recoveries I find interesting. Growing up, getting things “unstuck” was frequently needed. Watching the pros you see different techniques, many decided on the spot.

Serving as a combat engineer was interesting. You easily spotted the farm/ranch/construction trades raised from the city raised soldiers as we tackled various problems. Mud! Damn I hate the stuff. We were a float bridge company and where you have rivers you have mud. When you get a TD18 buried, you know it is really bad.

So here is a salute to all, men and women, who grew up around agriculture. 

A question. Do Sargents  still get pissed at troopers wearing Air Force mittens?