A Cowgirl’s Simple Days
By Ingrid Anderson: Staff Writer
Up in the mountains, where the air is crisp, the rivers and lakes are numbing, and the horses are wild, I feel completely at peace. Where hard work is a way of life and play is earned, my quaint ranch nestled in the Beartooth Mountains is an escape, surrounded by breathtaking beauty. However, beauty is nothing if not earned. Nature can be relentless, and the unforgiving trials I go through when I spend my time in a saddle surely serve to test a cowgirl.
The clock ticks at 5:04 a.m. and I’m already awake. My day starts before the sun has even risen. I tuck my button-down striped shirt into my jeans, slip my boots on under my pants, let down my long, wavy hair, and throw on my battered, brown hat. The mountains do not care how I look, but cowgirls must have a certain amount of class.
“Ha, I’m first to the barn today,” I whisper under my breath; an accomplishment that keeps the ranchers on their toes. I soon saddle up my chosen horse: old Bess. She’s usually a dependable ole’ gal, but she’s awful pissy today. I’ll straighten her out on the trail. My hand runs along the smooth leather of my saddle’s latigo, and I appreciate the saddlemaker’s intricate tooling. I slide my fingers up to the velvety softness of Bess’ muzzle; we admire each other as my rough skin cradles her face. This moment is cut short however, and the rising sun reminds me that I have work to do.
Before long, I find myself out on the trails. My job for the day entails guiding a chipper newlywed couple up into Pebble Creek. These city folk, with their tennis shoes and baseball caps, are always amazed by the Western experience, and I can’t blame them for it. I thank God every day that I get to be on the other end of it.
As the trail winds along, and conversations of work, hobbies, and stories from the couple’s city life drift off into the breeze, I focus on how I can feel the motion of my horse move beneath me. I drink in the pure fresh air that makes my lungs feel cool and the nerves tingle in my nose. The rocks make a perfect clip-clop sound against Bess’s shoes. She’s still acting sensitive today; it's as if every stick on the ground perfectly resembles a snake to her. All is well for nearly twelve miles, as the three of us take in the breathtaking scenery. I now realize that I shouldn’t have jinxed myself.
This perfectly serene and beautiful adventure with my blissfully unaware clients by my side soon turns to chaos. While climbing up a section of steep and rocky terrain, perfectly coiled under a flat granite stone, is a wretched, damn rattlesnake. In a matter of seconds, by some sick twist of nature, old Bess falls back into her once young and wild instincts and takes off bucking. Unbeknownst to me, this old mare still has quite a kick in her. My body is forcibly jolted back and forth, then somehow back again. I squeeze my knees into the side of the stirrups, grip tight on my reins, and pray for the ground not to end up as my next place to lie. The sight in front of me shakes violently as my head whips to the same motion as the horse. I had broke horses before, but then I knew what I was getting myself into. Bess gets a few more bucks in, but soon realizes that her efforts are fruitless; I must not let the horse win.
Shock, concern, but a quiet admiration lie on the faces of my once-chipper clients, whose horses’ hooves thankfully never left the ground.
“We sure got the true wild west experience right there,” the man says.
“And you don’t even have to pay extra,” I respond, trying my best to play off the situation.
He chuckles, and the wife giggles in agreement.
As we head back to the ranch, my hands are dirty, my whole body radiates a sore pain, and the smell of manure lingers on my skin, yet all I can do is smile. My gaze shifts up from the tangled mane of my tired horse, and it’s like I’m seeing it all for the first time again, even though I’ve been up this mountain a million times. I truly believe that I am in the most beautiful place on Earth. The perfectly purple peaks effortlessly scrape the bottom of the clouds; the trees and fields scream their vivid green. Fish jump, birds call, and the water makes its best impression of a perfect mirror. It does not get much better than the sight that presents itself right in front of me.
The drudgery pales in comparison to the pure bliss I feel on this mountain, with a horse beneath me. The choices I make here are seldom easy, but I am always up for the challenge. Bliss does not come easily to a cowgirl, but when it does, oh, it simply does. This sweet, beautiful, but arduous life serves me in the only way I need. I know that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing, for I am rewarded with this creation every single day.