Paul Marchant

As I was dutifully scrolling through my Facebook feed the other day, I came across a post from my daughter honoring her mother. It was kind of a long post, and there was no flashy picture accompanying it. Those are two factors that would normally dissuade me from taking the time to read a social media post. However, since it was family, I had to at least take a look, right?

My house sits not 50 yards from the corrals. Having the chute, the corrals and the cattle in such close proximity to my humble abode is not entirely without its advantages.

The fall gather almost always proves to be one of the most exhilarating, exasperating, rejuvenating, wearisome events of the entire year.

It was a moment I was simultaneously dreading and eagerly anticipating, kind of like the first time you climbed up on that sweet linebred Hancock colt you sent to the trainer for 60 days.

The first week in August can be hot in Mud Lake, Idaho. It’s not Arizona or Mississippi hot, but it’s a hot that can wear you down, especially if you’re 9 years old and showing your first hog at the county fair.

She got home later than she’d wanted to. She’d been out on a breeding project over by the Nebraska line. It had been a windy, miserable day by most folks’ standards, but a little rain had come with the never-ending east Wyoming wind, so she knew better than to complain.