Home on the Range: Dude Ranch Style
Posted on May 29, 2014 by bob in Travel
by Andrea Gross; photographs by Irv Green
The sign says we’re entering paradise. I’m skeptical. The six of us — my husband, myself, our son, daughter-in-law and their two children — are about to spend a week at a top-rated guest ranch. Back in December when we made the reservations, we all agreed this would be a perfect experience for our intergenerational group, but now I’m having second thoughts.
We’re city-folks through and through; better at driving four-lane highways than riding four-legged creatures; more familiar with walking through manicured parks than hiking on canyon trails. And we’re used to plucking fish from market showcases, not from mountain streams. But here we are, on a mountain road in north-central Wyoming.
We round a curve and I catch my first glimpse of Paradise Guest Ranch. It’s in a valley surrounded by more than a million acres of Bighorn National Forest. With the hills awash with wildflowers it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Then I see the corral, and I feel a rumble in the pit of my stomach. The kids — aged nine and six — have never been on a horse; the rest of us have a combined total of, perhaps, ten hours of horseback-riding experience. Will we be the only novices in a group of experts?
The answer becomes clear the next morning when we go to the stables for our first horseback ride. Everyone else is wearing a cowboy hat or riding helmet. We, on the other hand, are decked out in baseball caps and bonnets. Oh, dear!
We exhaust the first wrangler when he tries to take us out on the trail. Grandson can’t make his horse move. Daughter-in-law’s horse goes backwards when she pulls too hard on the reins. I can’t make mine stop eating. But that afternoon a second wrangler takes us into the arena for a course in Horseback Riding Basics.
Granddaughter’s journal. “Day one: My horse’s name is Pollywog. I thought the horse would know what to do, but today I found out that I’m the one who’s supposed to know what to do.”
The next morning we ride a trail — across a stream, up a rocky mountain path, through a meadow, back to the stables. Grandson declares that “now we’re really cowboys.” By Wednesday we’re beginning to feel like pros.
Granddaughter’s journal. “Day four: I think I’ve learned Pollywog’s personality, which is that sometimes he wants to do things his way. But now I can sometimes make him do things my way.
The week progresses, offering us a mix of family-time and individual-time. We ride together and eat together, but in-between we can each explore our own interests. Daughter-in-law and I take a long (for us) hike — proudly puffing our way along trails that rise to an elevation of nearly 8,000 feet. Son tries his hand at fly-fishing, and Husband finishes two books and starts a third. The kids spend off-horse time doing crafts or swimming in the pool.
After dinner the counselors entertain the kids while the adults have a chance to get to know each other. Out of twelve groups, five are adults-only; the rest have children ranging from toddlers to teens. Only three, like us, are first-timers.
Every day we learn something new. One day we have a lesson on wildflowers.
Another day we hear stories of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, who had an “Outlaw Cave” nearby. And another time we watch a moose moseying around the grounds near the fishing pond.
Saturday is Rodeo Day, a chance for the kids to show off their equestrian skills.
“Mount your horse.”
Grandson is too short to do it alone — a ranger has to lift him on — but he grabs the reins like a pro.
“Circle the barrels.” No problem. “Weave between the poles.”
Granddaughter does it at a trot. Six days has transformed them both from Western Wimps to Cowboy Champs.
But it’s at the square dance where Granddaughter really shines. Blond hair flying, she allemandes left and circles right. Wrangler Dave grabs Grandson’s hand.
“Come on, Buddy. Let’s dance!” he calls, as he propels a grinning Grandson ‘round the room.
Then, the next morning, we have our first crisis. None of us want to leave.
“Wait! We have to go down to the barn to say good-bye to Pollywog.”
“Wait! We have to take one more picture of the fishing pond.”
Wait, wait, wait! It takes us two hours to say our good-byes and get into the car.
Grandson’s comment. “Day seven: I like to watch sports, and Wyoming doesn’t have any professional sports teams. But that’s okay. It’s still paradise.”
