Cowboy Up

Every one of us has certain things that we hope to accomplish, be they short or long-term desires. Some people actually take the time to create a list or even a small notebook of these goals. But most others just have certain ideas that continually come back to their head as an experience they would love to be involved in. If you've read all the entries on my blog, which I hope you have, you will know that a certain goal of mine has been to participate in a cattle drive. This weekend I was privileged enough to have a slight preview of that experience.

Many of you who know me are aware that I am fascinated by the study of history. If I could have anything in the world, real or fictional, I would without a doubt wish for a time machine. I say this not because I am unhappy in my own era, but I want to know how I got here. My grandfather's cousin has done a considerable amount of research on the Bond family, and my uncle has done the same with my mother's side. Not that any of my relatives that I know of were renowned figures or that all their actions were notable for the history books, but its incredibly intriguing to me to learn about things that came before. You can sum it up so simple as every action has a reaction. Well, I'm living in the reaction, still with the question of what instigated any of their decisions. That and just a simple curiosity of how times used to be keep me a dedicated historian. I can't tell you how often I've been to the Online Handbook of Texas website just to research town names or origins. Living just south of Fort Worth, I can tell you stories about all kinds of landmarks that illustrate how "Cowtown" used to be. With the Chisholm Trail leading into the Stockyards, ranching was a vital industry to the state. Why else would some people from out of state assume that all Texans ride a horse to school? At any rate, I'm a proud citizen of the Lone Star State and all that it represents. In my office, I have a Texas flag proudly displayed on the wall. True, my interior decorating skills leave something to be desired, but at least you get an idea of where my pride stands. (Side note: any of you out there interviewing for jobs, or even just trying to better understand someone in your place of work, take a look at what is displayed in prominent positions in their office. These are the things that are most important to that person, and give you easy conversation starters and bonding topics, but back to my segue into my trip). So when I was given the opportunity to visit Rebecca's grandparents' ranch in Oklahoma to help work their cattle, I jumped at the chance. True, it is not on Texan turf, but the owner of the ranch loves this state, has spent a large amount of time here, and most importantly was willing to have us.

I arrived on Friday afternoon with friends Nick, Rebecca, and Heidi in Frink, Oklahoma, just south of McAlester. Grandma Mary Sue Harden was awaiting our arrival with the "Cowboy Room" and the "Lace Room" having just received clean sheets. We didn't waste too much time before we headed up the road to the Harden Ranch. I've traveled to Oklahoma before but couldn't remember the terrain. The area, in one hyphenated word, was awe-inspiring. Rolling hills of green and spotted yellow grass was interrupted at numerous points with looming trees casting shadows opposite of the cloud-covered sun. The barn stood just across from the old, quaint country home, gated in with steel pipe into an indecipherable maze of corrals and pins. As you would expect, a spotted dog came running out to meet us, happy to see visitors to his spacious backyard. Further proving my point of canine superiority, the barn cats only looked on for a second and snuck back under their building. Waiting for Grandpa Hugh Harden to return from the nearby town of Atoka, we took a quick tour around the barn and met the horses. One large, dark horse walked over to be greeted, shoulders stout and commanding respect. Just behind him was a light-tan, white-spotted horse of a little leaner build. We all jumped over the rails and went to prepare the horses. Nick wasn't sure why his horse kept kicking his back legs as he brushed it out. A lesson learned a little too late was that horses are ticklish along their "flank", which Nick kept disturbing.

Pulling up in the driveway, Grandpa Hugh stepped out of his truck with a trusty blue heeler dog of his own close behind. Quick introductions followed, with the animals not forgotten. Names can tell you a lot about a person if you really pay attention. We'd soon learn just how much of an essentialist our rancher was as we were given a glimpse into his personality through the names of his pets. The blue heeler was appropriately named "Blue". The dark, broad-shouldered horse was named "Red". Still the spotted steed was simply referred to as "that Injun horse". A beige horse on the other side of the barn had been named Cheyenne by the grandmother, who always named her animals after cities. Grandpa Hugh would've named him "Yellow" but he had already had a horse named that not too long ago.

Nick and I took Cheyenne and the "Injun" horse, later named Chief, around one of the ponds down the hill from the barn. They were well-trained and easy to guide, although several times a command for a slight trot was misunderstood by our horses as "Hi Ho, Silver away!" Although I warned Nick, I think I had one-up on him because I made the smart decision to leave the boxers at home and pull out the briefs. Sure, they were at the back of the drawer, but I was thankful for them the whole weekend. Enough said. To allow us to jump ahead in the story, the rest of the evening involved Nick's overconfidence in his apparent God-given steer roping abilities causing him to make out-of-turn comments. Grandpa Hugh quickly humbled him with a pair of gloves, cedar posts, and a fence that needed mending. Needless to say, Nick kept his prideful statements to himself for the remainder of the trip.

The next morning we had a quick breakfast and went back to the barn. This time the pins were filled with large, loafing cattle. Overall, they looked pretty content. I think I would be too if my life involved walking through a buffet line with my family. Sure, my relatives can be quirky at times, but I think that the lack of inhibition in waste removal would scare even them away. Main objective of the day: sort through each group of cows and split off the untreated calves. Basic rule: cows are mental midgets and move in herds out of fear; therefore use that fear to take them where you so choose. The gate system was made more clear to me as we saw that you leave the cattle only one option of where to go. Eventually they find themselves in yet another pin. A few older and experienced relatives were there to help, so Uncle Bob took charge of the gate that released the older, treated cows and moved the younger calves into a smaller pin. Their size was nothing to scoff at, mind you. Calf tends to only mean younger cow, not always significantly smaller.

After that, Heidi and Rebecca brought them about 15 at a time into my even tighter area. Their fear continued to drive them as they all tried to crowd into the corner of the pin. It was at this point that I noticed I had become completely impervious to the fact that I had large animals constantly excreting all over the ground that I continued to walk through. Strange as it sounds, I was a little proud of this accomplishment. The end of the line for our herded friends was just past my post. I would send them one or two at a time down a narrow passageway. This of course involved me jumping in the middle of them, smacking them on the head, neck, or rear with a long stick, clapping and hollering cowboy phrases such as "Yah!" to stir them up, breaking one away from the group to send it in a frightful panic down the chute, then limiting my victory to only one by jumping in front of any others and heading them off until they stepped back to the corner. When Heidi was not in the mix with me, she stood by at the gate to trap in the suckered calf. Nick joined them in the chute to keep them in line and moving towards, what I can only describe as, the Contraption.

Imagine walking down a tight tunnel only to find yourself stopped by another gate. Just when you start to back up you realize that another one has closed behind you and the walls are tightening quickly. Immobilized, you try frantically to kick loose, only to feel no progressing movement and hear only loudly shaking metal. You, my friend, have been successfully maneuvered by several ranch hands into the Contraption. If you were a female, your torture was limited to a shot unfelt in the skin, then a notch placed in your ear to show you had been treated. But the males had a different story coming. For what you once held so dear as a symbol of your manhood was soon to be sliced into with a razor-edged knife, pulled out of their comfortable home, snipped sharply with a set of pliers then sprayed down with iodine. All of the sudden the walls drop and the gate pulls back to reveal a light at the end of the tunnel. Your final defeat comes to a head with your immovable shock. As if the snipping wasn't enough, you're poked in the butt with an electric prod that gives you no choice but to jump free of the Contraption. Have no fear, my friend. It's over. If nothing else, be grateful you at least escaped the fate of the smaller ones who were moved past the first Contraption into the Entrapment, a set of clamps that could disable any movement in your neck or appendages. The ending of course the was the same. Pliers, iodine, the whole nine yards.

The morning ended with a sweet revival of the calves to their mothers. At that moment I wish I could speak Cow because I would've liked to know if all that moo-ing was cursing at us or just relief that they made it through their right of passage. The medication and neutering, after all, was necessary for the ranch and the health of the cattle, but try to prove that to a calf that has been unwillingly coerced into a restrictive metal device.

After a hearty lunch, called of course dinner with supper to later follow, we joined Grandpa Hugh at the roping pin to watch him, this 63-year old man, tear off after steers that were launched out of the chute. Red, his horse, was still in training to replace Cheyenne as his steer-roping horse, but overall they made quite a team. Rebecca left with her grandmother, aunt, and mother to go back to the house, leaving Nick and I with Grandpa Hugh. The rest of the evening involved a string of stories that kept us entertained for at least an hour or so. His advice is more than can be covered in this already extensive story and will most definitely be revisited later, but overall he warmed up to us and began to treat us like men. We took a lot of pride in the fact that he said, "When you got here, the both of you were like a couple of girls. Now you're almost boys." Sure there was some cowboy sarcasm in that, but Grandma Mary Sue reported back to Rebecca after their family reunion the next day. She said all Grandpa Hugh could talk about were his two new ranch hands. "Was he proud of us?" I asked her. "Oh yes," Rebecca said. "Definitely."