My Very First Ranch Hand Job

Why hello, blog—it’s… been quite a while. I’ve been fine. And you… wow, you look like you’re doing well. That’s good. I’m… happy for you.

Okay—let’s skip the formalities, and I’ll just assume you missed me. The truth is, I missed you too. Without any nonspecific, inanimate objects to type at these days, I’ve begun to suspect that no one is listening to me anymore. So, as desperate as it may seem, I’ve come crawling back to beg for just a little more of your precious storage space. Just a megabyte or two…please. Nothing too serious, I promise. These other readers? Oh, they’re nobody. I hardly even know them. Really.

Let me get you up to speed. I graduated in May from the University of Virginia and took a job as a ranch hand at a particular Colorado horse ranch nestled up against the Rocky Mountains. We own 170+ horses, nearly 11,000 acres, and quite possibly a secluded school for mutants with special abilities. Life out here is absurd. Half the people I’ve met are almost definitely just imaginary projections of what I think “real life” ought to be. Take Claus for example. He’s our 62 year old fishing guide, but don’t let his age fool you. He could, without a doubt, shatter your clavicle into 4 pieces with a single hammer punch. And when he’s not getting paid to fish, he’s getting paid to destroy me in tennis. With pants on. Then there’s Don: the 86 year old wrangler who I’ve never seen do anything but sit on his horse with a thousand-yard-stare…watching…waiting…. I’m convinced he has been dead for over a decade, and not one to break routine, the ranch just props him up on his horse every morning to see if the guests notice. They haven’t. Pretty much everyone else here gets paid to enjoy the perfect 70 degree weather, hike, fish, bike, and take advantage of the high elevation’s special effects.

On the other end of the spectrum, we had Dylan join our ranks a few weeks ago. With the good, you get the bad, and sometimes even the ugly. You may have spotted Dylan in the Silence of the Lambs prequel Red Dragon? No? Well, he was the main character. From the minute our ginger friend showed up, he had the uncanny ability to ask you what you were doing at the moment, no matter how painfully obvious the answer was. Our dorm beds faced each other, and he loved to play this little game: ask me if I was awake at the moment, while I lay motionless in bed, minimizing my breaths to avoid any semblance of consciousness. Oh, how we used to play that game all through the night! Sadly, Dylan is no longer with us, but before he left, he was able to split his soul into one other object on the ranch: the gas powered woodchipper. Perhaps it was my undefeated record in the bed game or just my utter refusal to look him in the eyes, but I could not help but feel that his horcrux did it’s very best to kill me by “malfunctioning” on me the day after he used it. An ominous reminder that you could fire Dylan, but a small part of him would always be on the ranch…. lurking… staring… inquiring what you were doing at the moment…

Besides “el demonio,” as the Dominicans here call him, everyone else has been great. We even have cliques here! It’s exactly like high school, except there's no prom king title for me to lose two times in a row (all politics anyway). And we have ranchmances too! I won’t comment on those until I’ve done a little more research—the thin curtains here make it nearly impossible to hide behind. Nearly…

I will say one thing about my job though: it’s awesome. As ranch hands we are always on call to serve the ranch’s bidding. And as your classic, loyal go-for helper, we may often appear dim-witted and useless. At times I think even road construction workers would be appalled by how much time we spend standing or driving around aimlessly. But it’s all in a day’s work, and I must say we do it pretty darn well. Plus, the second the ranch actually presents its hallowed needs, be it a fire at Woodsie, a trap shooting session, or body parts from the old pet cemetery for the good doctor, we get the job done. And in fashionable plastic cowboy hats that would make John Wayne jealous!

Look at me, blabbering on like a little school girl. I’ll cut to the chase and say what I came here to say: Colorado is sweet. I’m glad I came, and as long as the management here continues to mishear all my inappropriate jokes, I plan on staying through October. Hopefully that’ll leave time for maybe another post?