I was not raised as an American cow, although in my youth I liked to think of myself that way. Looking back, I understand that several trips to Colorado and work on the ranch of the dude in no way allow me to claim this title. It was during my short stay in the role of the main dealer on a ranch in Montana, I met a girl who, in fact, an American cow. Her name is Pam.
Being shy, I didn't make many friends while I was working on a ranch. I just met Pam through someone who worked there and introduced us, knowing that I needed to go out and make friends around the ranch horses. Pam lived nearby, close enough to ride between our houses. We set off on a journey through the beautiful desert that bordered on the west side of the ranch. Pam knew all the trails through public and private land. Between horse riding and our mutual interest in cowboys, we became fast friends.
Pam became my mentor. Together we went to parties and cowboy parties. Through Pam I managed to meet several cowboys. They would load their horses in trailers and in the back of pickups with side rails and take them to the covered arena to practice penning and skiing during the snowy winter months. I loved the atmosphere and listened to the stories of cowboys about horses and racers. “If he gets this rope under Ole’s tail, he will know why he could buy it so cheap!” It was a small town that lived then, where there were districts, colorful places and wide open spaces. Everyone knew not only everyone, but also their cattle.
Pam is a fourth generation cowboy, or in her case, a cowgirl. Her father started a ranch, but later he chose a more stable electrician and started his own business. He still kept the horses in his place. His first daughter showed no interest in them, but Pam was delighted with the time when she could walk, to the joy of her father. She began to ride at an early age and won her first trophy saddle at the tender age of thirteen. The small town in which she grew up even included a rodeo as one of the extracurricular activities at school.
Pam loved everything about horses. She took me to a western shop and helped me choose my first cowboy hat. It was more money than I really had to spend, but I, unfortunately, wanted to replace the cheap straw hat that I used all summer. Returning to her home, she showed me how to cut the edge. We kept it above the steamed water and remade it. I kept this hat for a long time, despite the fact that it became unsightly and useless after many years of storage in the back of the closet. He could not bring back many pleasant memories. Only recently I finally broke up with this. He was moldy, dirty and terrible because of the shape.
After my brief career as a reporter, I returned to Michigan. For a while I kept in touch with Pam. After graduation, she moved to Arizona and worked in one of these roadside gift shops that specialized in silver and turquoise jewelry and Western souvenirs. Our frequent letters diminished and became Christmas cards once a year until finally the connection between us was lost.
When I bought my first computer and had an Internet service, I started looking for friends from my past. I could not find Pam, but her father lived in the same city, in the same house that Pam grew up in. I wrote down the address and sent her a letter. A few weeks later I received a response. At the time, Pam lived the life of the American Cowgirl. She worked on an Arab horse ranch in Arizona. At one point, she fell on a cowboy, and together they worked at a ranch in Jackson Hall, Wyoming. Later, the couple moved to Arizona, where Pam worked at the trough. Her cowshed career included rodeo work, work on the ranch and even a drop in race horses. It seems that almost any profession that was performed on horseback, has become part of the summary of Pam.
Only when her father fell ill did she return to Montana. In the end, she found herself in the same small town in which she grew up, in a city where she understood that her roots run deep. She changed her career to one that did not include horses. She worked as a flag for a construction company, and then exploited heavy equipment used in road construction. It was there that she met her husband. This is ridiculous, but she managed to fall for someone who was not and never was a cowboy.
As fate had it, I got married and moved to Arizona. Sister Pam lived nearby, and she and her father arrived for a winter visit. About 30 years have passed since we saw each other. Being reunited with old friends is like entering a time machine. We laughed at the old times and our frivolous youth. We played a round of memories with “What happened?” We were a little older and wiser, not more young, naive girls with so many dreams built around cowboys and horses. My husband and I just bought a nursery and were in the process of organizing and updating inventory. Pam filled the back of her truck with a variety of rustic and fancy objects that didn't fit in my man. Pamian passion turned from horses into gardening, and she sought to add to her eclectic landscape, constantly changing work, endlessly.
Pam no longer owns a horse. She told me that now there is so much private property between her father’s house and our old riding trails that you have to attach a horse to get to the national forest lands. Even the bridge that spanned the river, where she spent the hot summer days swimming, her horse tied to its rails, is now privately owned, access is strictly prohibited. Every year she picks up a pair of beef. Her new horse is a quad bike, which she rides on her father’s property, where she feeds livestock, supports fencing and changes flooding in the past at least twice a day.
Pam has more knowledge and experience of horses than many of us can ever hope to get in a lifetime. Her home is a tribute to all who have ever worked as a cowboy and filled with memories that tell about her life, about the life of the American Cowgirl.
© 2013 Kristi Ellison
