It was one of those awful, bright, beautiful, bitterly cold days where every exhaled breath seemed to hang in the air on the verge of turning into a block of ice before it finally decided to dissipate and drift off into the frigid atmosphere. I pulled the pickup to the edge of the field at the base of the hill and shut the engine off, not fully confident that the diesel in the fuel line wouldn’t gel before we finished the task that lay before us. I wasn’t too eager to open the door and step out, but each of my two sons seemed to have little apprehension about bailing out into the frosty morning air.
Although my oldest son, who was 11 or 12 at the time, had been at this for a few years, the experience was fresh and new to my younger boy, age 5. The virgin snow crunched beneath his 5-year-old feet as he sprinted behind the truck to open the trailer door to unload the horses. This was the first “real” cowboy job for Stensen, my younger boy. He’d spent a pretty good share of his young life atop our old faithful kid horse, Fred, but most of those hours, up to that point, were spent around the home place and in the corral just puttering around. But on this day, it was the real deal, and he couldn’t have been more excited.
The confidence of my 5-year-old son often spilled over into fearlessness, which offered the potential for disaster. I hollered and half-scolded him in a mostly vain attempt to get a handle on his enthusiasm. His mother had calmly voiced her apprehension about her little one taking part in this venture, and I certainly didn’t want it to start with a horse running over the top of him before we even unloaded.
After checking cinches, bits and reins and loading Stensen on his mount, I laid out the plan to my crew. I’d take Stensen with me and ride east to the base of the hill where we could see several cows scattered out through the brush and juniper trees that dotted the gentle slope. My older boy would take a dog and ride to the southwest and gather the cows scattered out in the flat. If all went as planned, we’d meet at the gate at the north end of the field within an hour. From there, we’d trail the cows to our destination just a couple miles up the road.
I didn’t really anticipate serious problems with the impending project, but any combination of kids and critters holds the prospect of disaster, whether great or small. My youngest charge was more than capable of transforming a slight zephyr of a project into a full-blown northern squall.
Stensen and I set off on a long trot in the direction of the cattle on the hill while my older son headed off in the opposite direction. The cows pretty much figured out what was up and began to casually drift in the direction I wanted them to go. As is always the case, though, four or five cows wanted to amble off on their own. In order to keep things moving, someone needed to head over to redirect the wayward cows, but I didn’t want to leave the big bunch and allow them a chance to scatter.
We had a young dog with us, but my dog training skills were at a level even less advanced than my kid training and parenting skills at the time. I explained the situation to my 5-year-old and told him to follow along behind the main herd and keep pushing them in the direction they were going. I figured that was the safest course of action. Stensen, on the other hand, insisted that he could lope around the errant cows and bring them back to where they should be. I thought maybe the task was a bit above his pay grade but relented to his resolute urging.
He wheeled the reliable old palomino around and took off on a trot that quickly became a steady lope, a spray of crystal snow flying up in his wake, reflecting in the cold brightness of the morning sun. I stayed with my group of cows and watched with a touch of trepidation mixed with a healthy dose of pride. A tear rolled down my cheek and dropped on my saddle horn, where it quickly turned to ice as my little one seemed to grow up right before my eyes.
He and old Fred made it around the cows and got them pointed in the right direction. He trotted along behind them, moving from left to right and back again as the little jag of stragglers made their way to me and the main herd. In just a few minutes he’d caught up with me, satisfied with his accomplishment, but not really boastful about it, preferring, instead, to act as if it were simply a matter of doing the job; like he’d been there and done that before. In short order, we finished the little drive, loaded the horses and headed for home.
Now, as I think back on that relatively nondescript job on a fairly regular day, I can’t help but wonder, if not marvel, about the experience. On many such days and with many such chores before and since, my attitude most often was one of ambivalence, at best, if not simply a sort of relieved irritation at having finished one uncomfortable chore only to head on to the next one.
In the years that have passed since that day, I’ve come to realize and appreciate the difference between a good day and a bad day. It lies almost solely in my attitude toward the experience. I’ve discovered that my state of happiness actually has very little to do with the circumstances I may find myself in and everything to do with where my heart and mind are focused. It may not be the only key to happiness, but it most certainly is on the keychain.
