15 Minutes in the Wild West

Shortly after three o’clock on a cold Thursday afternoon, I stood from my desk in the Maintenance office, tucked in the back of the General Store on the Crazy Mountain Ranch. I had put in a good couple of hours of work since lunch, attaching inventory “items” to “assets” on a computerized maintenance inventory system, and decided to take advantage of my Federally-granted right to a fifteen minute afternoon break.

I slipped past shelves lined with authentic late 1800’s period hardgoods out the side door of the Store and into the crisp, clear air of western Montana. I sauntered down the main street of this recreated one-horse Wild-West town with my company-issued, brand-new, too-tight Original Fit Cowboy Cut Wrangler jeans, black jacket, gloves, hat, and winter boots.

I headed east on the boardwalk past the swinging doors of the Saloon and Pool Hall, away from the Jail, Bank, and Stage-Coach Stop. Under the weathered wood awning of the Hotel, across the road, a couple of “guests,” who due to an on-line sweepstakes won an all-expenses-paid trip out West to promote brand-loyalty, wandered in a euphoric daze wearing new winter clothes, taking photos with new digital cameras, and smoking their preferred type of Marlboro’s. Gifts. Philip Morris’ way of saying “thank you” for choosing Marlboro.

Glancing up at the dazzling white of the snow-covered western slope of the Crazy Mountains, I hung a right past the Livery, down the open breezeway in the back and into the Ranch Staff Dining Room. Alone, I perused the available fresh-baked pastries, muffins, and cookies on the counter. As I selected a crumble-topped blueberry muffin, a fellow Ranch employee walked in. We were dressed identically and nodded to one another as I cut back to the beverage coolers for a Gatorade.

I stood there reading some corporate postings on the wall as the other guy sat down on the far end of the smallish room. As I turned toward a nearby bench, another man entered. He wore a broad rimmed off-white cowboy hat over his dark hair and deeply tanned skin, a white western cut snap-button shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He could have been any of the hundred or so, Tour Directors, wait-staff, or zip-line operators, who work on the Ranch every day, but for one distinctive feature. As he picked up a couple of chocolate-chip cookies with his right hand, he held a coiled lasso in his left.

A million thoughts flashed through my mind, dating from my boyhood obsession with horses to the YMCA wrangler job I turned down in college to the blurred picture above my desk at home of a rodeo cowboy running down a steer, lasso frozen in time above his head. Could he teach me to toss a loop? Not in this room, it’s too small. The breezeway is pretty tight too. And I’d probably get fired if someone saw me trying to learn on company time. I picked up a pamphlet about cold-weather safety from the table and scanned it as he walked past me to the cooler, grabbed a can of lemonade, and sat down at the table behind me.

I decided that I space and time enough only for talking with this man. Upon regaining my composure, I stepped over and asked if he had been teaching the guests to rope. He looked up and said, “Naw, just showing them some things, doing some tricks and such.”

Relieved that my question had been dignified with an answer, I asked another, “Where did you learn to rope?”

“My grandfather taught me,” he replied with an affirmative head bob.

“Did you grow up on a ranch?”

“A farm. In Oklahoma. You?” His eyebrows shot up as they did whenever I asked him a question.

“I grew up on a farm too. In Minnesota. But we just had crops and hogs. I never had to learn to rope the hogs,” I offered with a smile, which was graciously returned with a chuckle. The other employee looked over from across the room, obviously wishing he would have started this conversation.

“So,” I offered, knowing time was getting short, “do you perform a lot? Rodeos and stuff?”

“Mostly, I get hired as entertainment for big corporate events all around the country,” he trailed off a bit, “But, yeah, I’ve done a bunch of rodeos.”

My break was on its last legs, but I had to know one thing, “I saw a video of a guy who was out here. He did a trick where he stood on top of his horse on the saddle and started throwing a loop big enough to go all the way around himself and the horse,” I pantomimed as I spoke. “Then he took off down the road still throwing his lasso loop around the entire horse! Was that you?”

“Yeah,” he averted his eyes modestly as his face lit up. “It’s a good trick, if you have a horse that will stand it,” he looked up and said.

I wouldn’t have been more impressed if I had just caught Kirby Puckett’s home run ball in Game Six of the 1991 World Series. “Whoa, that’s pretty awesome! Do you still have that horse?”

“Yeah, back in Oklahoma.” As he said that, his eyes softened and voice drifted a bit. Back to Oklahoma and the horse, no doubt, but he seemed to go further. Back to the farm, to his grandpa, maybe a lost lover, or childhood dream.

I wondered then how far most people drift from their dreams or forget them altogether and to what consequence, if and when they realize it. “I better get back to the computer screen,” I said and offered my hand, “it was nice talking with you.”

He shook my hand firmly and, noticing my name tag, said, “Steven. Kalvin Cook, nice to meet you.”