Robert’s great-grandfather was Sheriff Haycock. He once went after Butch Cassidy and came upon him on a trail to the hideout.
“It would be in your best interest to turn around and go back to Panquitch,” said Butch.
The sheriff was a reasonable man, so he turned around. And now we have Robert!
I crawled into Butch Cassidy’s hideout and saw the old cabin ruins used by the gang when in this area. We rode in Losee Canyon where a whole herd of sheep and ranchers once died. After lunch at the hideout, we rode out in Casto Canyon. Trees were turning yellow next to towering red rock cliffs.
Pete took us on a tour of the ranch. He has over 300 head of horses and mules. The alfalfa is cut, watered, cubed, and comes out a shoot into a wagon by these amazing machines. The cubes of alfalfa are about two inches square. Pete has tons harvested and stored for feeding his stock. We got to see the cutting, examine the machines, look at the storage area, and watch the horses and mules in their corral. Then we had a drive by tour of the fields and town of Tropic.
Talent night had a group of women in big t-shirts squatted down with knees protruding under the t-shirts, doing a Dolly Parton workout. Wannabe cowboy Joe did a rope spin, how to peel a banana like a monkey and a four-person lifting trick. Some of us showed how older folks could still rock (in rocking chairs), and I read my cowgirl poem. Wrangler Curly recited some of the amazing cowboy poetry he has been sharing this week. These poems end with a funny twist.
Here’s my poem, “Cowgirl UP?” which I read aloud.
A stranger she came into town one sweltering day in fall,
And stood to see come cowpokes dressed in chaps, pointy boots and all,
And she wondered about her getup for she wore no wide-brimmed hat,
While on her feet were snow boots lined with worn fur, just like that.
She dreamed to ride an appaloosa, but she didn’t know for sure:
Did they have spots or were they grey? Could a saddle she endure?
The wrangler put her on a mule, oh, lord for goodness sakes!
She wondered could it be more stubborn than old Missourian rakes
Like her grandpa long deceased, but she clambered up on Pun’ kin and started up the hill.
She began to call him Pumpkin Pie knowing that he will
Take her safely up and down, powered by his mighty ears,
Moving like some hidden gears to make his legs surefooted, strong,
So she could gawk or sing a song.
Now in her home far north a way,
She dreamed to ride Red Rocks one day,
But never did she set her sight
On friends and wranglers who just might
Bring laughter, jokes, and poems too,
So she just wrote this one for you.
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