"A lot of cowboys don't like dudes riding with their cattle," Bob Cochran, a cowboy who looks as if he just got off the set of a John Ford western, tells me somewhat delicately. We are moving a small herd up a mountainside, and my son and I have broken the first rule of cattle wrangling: Don't ride too close to the cows.
Now, instead of traveling in a nice, compact group, some are veering off toward the woods to the right, a few have chosen to go left, and the less adventuresome ones are plodding on straight ahead. With an almost imperceptible flick of his reins, Cochran signals his horse to take pursuit of the strays, and my husband, with slightly less aplomb, takes off after him.
Though my husband, Robert, and our two children, Elly, 12, and Jesse, 8, are Easterners, we at least like to think we can blend into new places gracefully, without instantly being branded as tourists. In our less-than-Western garb -- from my baseball cap to Jesse's nylon track pants -- we are clearly dudes at the Boulder Mountain Ranch, a small outfit in southern Utah run by Cochran and Sioux, his wife.
PHOTO: NY TIMES
We were hardly the first city slickers to head out West to play cowboy. Dude ranches have been around since the late 19th century, when the transcontinental railroad made a summer trip to the open range possible, and eager Easterners signed up to try their hands at roping and riding. Over time, many ranches opened up just to cater to the growing number of tourists and, more recently, started offering high-end touches -- from children clubs to spas -- that might take cowpunchers by surprise.
But the tough economics of small-time cattle ranching have led a growing number of working ranches to take in guests. According to Bill Bryan of Off the Beaten Path, a travel booking company, the number of these ranches in the northern Rockies and American Southwest that accommodate visitors as a sideline doubled in the last decade, to about 160. Because ranching is still their primary business, they often have rustic accommodations, not much in the way of luxuries, and can take only a few guests at a time.
That sounded perfect to us. Besides, as is typical of overscheduled dudes, we were trying to fit a ranch vacation into just two days, around a hiking trip in the Escalante wilderness of Utah. Unlike many resort ranches, small operations like Boulder Mountain often have no minimum stay.
So after checking out the Cochrans' Web site ("Grass-fed calves for sale. No implants, steroids or hormones. Delivery possible ... Cowboy Up") and getting recommendations from a local outfitter, I signed us on for a late August visit.
A half-day drive from Salt Lake City put us at the ranch in the late afternoon, ready for action. Sheri Catmull, who with her husband, Gary, manages the lodging portion of the operation, greeted us at the main house.
We took a few minutes to gawk at a roadless expanse of Navajo sandstone canyons through the lodge's arched floor-to-ceiling windows, then headed out through the kitchen and followed a dirt path to our log cabin: a basic one-room structure with a small front porch. Our arrival attracted a herd of curious foals and horses to the door; we all went out to rub noses.
Though it was already 5pm, Cochran agreed to take us on an evening ride in the Dixie National Forest. We met him at the barn, about a quarter-mile from our cabin. There are 36 horses roaming around the ranch. Cochran caught five and saddled them up. After perfunctory introductions, we hit the trail.
Pepper, the Cochrans' springer spaniel, led the way across a meadow -- but when some feisty jack rabbits in the tall grass sidetracked him, we decided it was probably best to follow Cochran, who was about the smoothest rider we had ever seen.
His body was perfectly synchronized with his horse, whether in ascent or descent, canter or gallop; his torso never seemed to move in sharp contrast to the bouncing of the rest of us.
The horses walked at a fast clip without breaking a sweat.
"You ought to know," Cochran told us, "these horses can go as hard and fast as you want them to."
When he talks, his mouth also barely moves, and his words come out slow and even-tempered.
"Now, I have a whole collection of empty whiskey bottles on my mantel -- each one left behind by a rider who decided to let their horse go full out."
Our children are not of drinking age, and my husband and I figured that we would very much like to live to see them into adulthood. We settled for a nice, easy gait on our way to watch the sunset over the canyons of the Escalante, then made our way back to the barn in contented silence.
Though the Cochrans' ranch sits on 160 acres at the base of Boulder Mountain, they have permits to graze their herd of 80 cattle on public land, moving them between mountain meadows in the summer and the lower-elevation canyons in the fall.
The next morning, we were going along to help as Bob and Sioux Cochran rounded up the cattle and moved them to greener pastures.
After a serious breakfast in the main house (mounds of eggs, pancakes, sausage and bacon) we arrived at the barn in time to watch Cochran outfit an unwilling horse with new shoes. After a brief struggle (he won, no contest) the rest of the horses were readied.
In honor of the ride, Sioux, who is in the standard-issue cowboy garb of Wrangler jeans (cut straight and long on the leg), chaps, spurs and a leather belt with a decorative buckle, generously lent Jesse her favorite cowboy hat for the day. With a cry of "Yeee-ha!" he took off, transformed.
The journey began with a steep climb up Boulder Mountain. Mesmerized by the battalion of tall, spindly white aspens that flanked us, we momentarily forgot our task.
Some mooing disrupted our reverie. Through the trees, we saw a few cows and their calves happily grazing.
The Cochrans' herd was on what is called a community allotment. This means that cows from other ranches were mixed on the lot, all grazing together. We asked how we were to separate the Cochrans' brand. Apparently, cowboy etiquette dictates that when rounding up a herd, you help your fellow ranchers by moving along whatever you find.
Cochran warned us that cows understand only bad language. Still, the group we came upon seemed cooperative enough. As soon as they noticed us, they started moving in the right direction, and as we rode on, a few from adjacent meadows joined along, until soon a little group was assembled. We loped along, pleased with our accomplishment.
That's when the trouble started. As the Cochrans rode on the outskirts of the forest, Jesse and I went straight through the meadow, a bit too cozy with the herd. The cows dispersed.
Though we did what we could to repair the damage, the Cochrans eventually parked Robert, the children and me under a tree while they went back to collect the strays. We felt somewhat guilty at having disrupted the roundup -- but it was also nice to get off our horses and stretch our legs. After singing a few rounds of Home on the Range, we munched on cucumbers and tomatoes from Sheri Catmull's garden and tallied up the cows we had collected so far: a mere 26, and not one of them with the Cochrans' brand.
A sudden clap of thunder brought the Cochrans out of the woods at a full gallop. This was no time to be on the mountain, they told us, and we all immediately headed back to the ranch. The Cochrans' three sons, ages 15, 13 and 11, would spend their weekend helping their parents finish up what we had started.
By day's end, we had spent almost six hours in the saddle -- and we had the sore muscles, tender seats, and shins scraped raw by stray branches to show for it.
While we had to move on the next morning, our brief taste of ranch life had left us wanting more.
The Cochrans encouraged us to come back, with one caveat. As Bob Cochran told Jesse, "Just next time, do something about those pants, cowboy."
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