The Cowboy in Me. Estes Park, CO

I remember the day we first met. It was a cool August morning. The thunderstorms that rumbled through the night finally sputtered to a stop

Exhausted clouds crumbled as they made their way across the Mummy Range of Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. There she was, standing alone next to a wooden fence. Her dark brown hair reflected the morning light giving it polished, copper-like appearance. I walked slowly up to her, not knowing what to say. I let out feeble “good morning” like a first grader greeting his teacher for the first time. Admittedly, I was intimidated by her looks, her size. She was pushing seven feet tall, topped out at 1000 pounds, and sported a tan saddle with tangled tassels. He name was Mary, and she was to be my companion for the next two hours.

My teenage son and I had booked a breakfast trail ride with the folks at Sombrero ranch, just outside of Rocky Mountain National Park. It was one of many father / son adventures we had planned during a five night trip to this well-known park.

So, there we were, standing ankle deep in mud the color and consistency of Jiff peanut butter while wranglers with cowboy names like Quentin, AJ and Arturo played matchmaker sizing up seasoned horses with freshly scrubbed city slickers. As I mounted my trusty steed, AJ asked “So Mr. Ward, tell me about your experience with horses and ridin.”

I flat out lied and told him I was a good rider. I also failed to mention that the breed to which I was accustomed had poles through their backs, migrated in tight circles, and was indigenous to shopping malls and amusement parks.

AJ sensed I was bluffing and proceeded to give me steering instructions. “If you wanna go right, you need to pull to the left, right?” AJ said in western twang; a toothpick held firm on his bottom lip as if it were crazy glued there. “Right,” I replied. “You got it”.

It wasn’t long before we were on the trail. After a few minutes, I had a greater appreciation for the people who blazed a trail west to this wonderful part of the country. To think that parents loaded up wagons with youngens and belongings and hit the trail for months, even years, before finally settling. They encountered countless hardships while traveling west: disease, exhaustion, prairie fires, hungry animals, aggravated Indians and getting lost. I barely have enough motivation to load up the car for a day at the beach.

As our horses clopped their way over rocks the size of bread loaves, AJ was quick to provide rapid fire tips on navigating horses on unstable terrain. “Now, when you’re heading down hill ya’ll need to make sure you don’t pull back the reigns too much; makes the horses head come up. With their heads up, they can’t see where they’re going.  And we they can’t see, they’re liable to trip up, throwing you off where you’d likely hit your head on of these rocks.”

For some reason, this elicits laughter from the other guides. Evidently, jokes about debilitating head injuries were acceptable forms of trail talk. And, I later learned that quips about the gastronomical habits of our trusty steeds were also welcomed.

Ponderosa Pines and a grove of Aspen trees funneled us into a grassy clearing flanked on one side by an abandon stagecoach with hitching posts and the other by a chuck wagon and picnic tables. Snow-capped Rockies provided the back drop. Meanwhile horses snorted, tooted, and scratched the dirt of their parking spot while a cook clanged pans to let everyone know he was working hard.

We dismounted and moseyed (because that’s what cowboys do) over to where breakfast was being served. The cook let out a hardy “morning, boys” and piled our paper plates high with bacon, scrambled eggs and biscuits.

We grabbed a bench across from Quentin, one of guides. He looked to be about 30 years old; wiry, rugged with a smile the calms strangers and unruly horses. I asked how he got into this line of work.

“Been doing something with horses for as long as I can remember,” he said with pride. “Had a horse growing up; like some kids have a bike growing up. And look now, I get to ride practically every day in a place as pretty as this. Pretty cool, huh?”

Yeah, pretty cool.

I think we all have our own inner cowboy or cowgirl. It’s just that we aren’t put in a situation to bring him or her out. And often our inner cowboy or cowgirl isn’t the chap wearing kind. It’s the adventurer in all of us that is often kept repressed by fear, the bizarre need to conform,  trappings of city-life,  or whatever the case may be.

Who hasn’t wanted to hit the open road (or trai) l in search of adventure? Begin your days drinking in nature’s glory rather than staring at bumper to bumper traffic? Unplugging but connecting with yourself or a loved one. And it doesn’t require traveling to the west to release the adventurer, the cowboy, the cowgirl in all of us. It’s taking a break from your day to day and discovering who you really are and what you really want to do. And, if that ends up leading folks on a trail ride, I’ll be happy to introduce you to Quentin and AJ.