Beyond: Cowgirl Tales

Nestled among mountain mesas, Kessler Canyon offers up a remote escape from the wired world and into the Wild West. Courtesy of Kessler Canyon.

The Wild West still is—inherently—a place of adventure and discovery

By Jennifer Olson

When pioneers settled the American west, they ventured into and explored the unknown. They raised families, grew crops, built homes, and nurtured livestock in lonely, inhospitable spaces. These original cowgirls prepared a lifestyle and cultivated communities in places like Kessler Canyon near Grand Junction, Colo., where the land is harsh and the animals are wild. My recent visit to the Kessler Canyon ranch reminded me of days when life was similarly simple.

I lived—like those cowgirls—in the stark landscape of a remote corner of New Mexico. Growing up, my sister and I worked on our family’s fruit orchard, raised chickens, tended to our dogs, and rode our grandparents’ horses. I wore cowgirl boots (usually red lace-up ones) and went to rodeos. My grandpa taught us to shoot, and I blasted holes in wormy apples lined up behind our barn.

I enjoyed a safe existence in the same Wild West that treated others harshly. The most traumatic events of my childhood include breaking my wrist while picking peaches, braving the occasional flashflood, and enduring my dad’s battle with cancer. Sure, I emerged from childhood with my fair share of scars and enough quiet toughness to last a lifetime, but I had it easy compared to the early cowgirls. Nevertheless, I identify with these gals. And, just as their example inspired my adventurous spirit then, it inspires me today.

These days, instead of picking apples on autumn weekends, I head off to mountain towns and far-away places to ride bikes, explore new trails, and enjoy stillness in the outdoors. Instead of irrigating the orchard, a regular workweek for me starts with checking my e-mail and scrolling through my Twitter timeline. Then I typically escape outside for a brief morning run or bike ride before spending the day behind a glowing computer screen at the office. Evening hikes and dinner on my front porch bring me back to nature before I go indoors to check my e-mail—again.

During my first hour at Kessler Canyon, I circled the lake, walked along the stream, and enjoyed the fresh air. With no cell phone service and no reason to go online, there was uninterrupted time to simply sit on a rock wall—not that handmade wooden rocking chairs weren’t available—and write. Electronics and wireless connections didn’t distract, but the rugged mesas rising above me on either side did lure my eyes off my notebook occasionally.

I was at the ranch to re-learn what it means to be a cowgirl. And, so far, the landscape alone was working its magic. The unadulterated views reminded me of when I was content with a slow pace of life, as undisturbed and un-extravagant—yet as lovely—as the clear blue sky contrasting with the dusty mesas. The sound of rippling water reminded me that I once sought time alone outdoors to just think or quiet my mind. The calm put the world in perspective. I was relishing this change of scenery.

Although new as a guest ranch, Kessler Canyon sits on 23,000 acres brimming with history. Photographs at the homestead chronicle lives of the area’s first settlers who hunted game, farmed, and thrived in the canyon. The resident chef gardens on site, and the head ranch hands keep horses, but Kessler Canyon is not a working ranch. Guests come to ride horses or ATVS, hunt, fish, mountain bike, and hike. I was there to experience all of the above.

At the skeet range on day one, I felt sick to my stomach during the gun safety talk, and I was worried the kick from the 20-gauge shotgun would knock me on my butt. What if I forgot to put on the safety or accidentally faced the barrel toward a person? Last time I used a gun, I was 10 years old. Even in the controlled shooting range environment, I felt uneasy. I hit the clay “rabbit” on my first shot, though, and my anxiety eased. I had been a good shot even as a kid. My bullets usually hollowed the apples my Grandpa set out for me.

I explored the mesa on a 4-wheeler that afternoon and took in panoramas of undisturbed mountains and desert. I admired abundant wildflowers and spotted mama bear and cub prints in mud surrounding a natural spring. The quiet up there refreshed and reminded me of days when life was all about exploration and discovery outdoors.

Thanks to limited Internet and no cell service, I kept this lesson to myself instead of immediately bragging about it in the cyber-social realm. Still, clever 140-character dispatches whirled in my mind: Busted some clay targets and cruised a fireroad on—not two wheels—but four today; Reverting to my redneck ways this week; Three truths and a lie: I took pleasure in target practice. I devoured a juicy steak. I roped and branded cattle.

Later, I experienced an intimate moment that’s becoming increasingly rare in my daily life—making special connections with new acquaintances. These days, it’s common to “friend” someone after a 30-second interaction online, but it’s uncommon to get to know most “friends” more personally. Floating in a canoe on the lake near the homestead, I talked—dare I say, gossiped?—with two women who were also retreating from the bustling, high-tech world to practice being cowgirls. We barely knew each other yet chatted like old friends. Was it the quiet, the stillness, or the isolation causing this connection? Or was it the absence of an infinite network of cyber “friends” befuddling our opportunity to engage with the flesh and blood women right beside us?

Kessler Canyon, secluded deep in a tranquil valley but just minutes off I-70, is only a few hours from my home. Still, I felt like I was a world away and that time was insignificant. We could have spent hours or 10 minutes on the lake, and it wouldn’t have affected the course of our lives either way.

The lesson I learned while riding horseback at the ranch did affect me, though. I realized that the difference between riding a horse and riding a bike is mainly mental. Both require work, strategy, and control. I’m just a lot better at controlling a responsive, physically sound, full-suspension bike than I am at governing a living creature that should naturally have free will. I trusted the 16-year-old horse would not buck me off, but I didn’t trust its strength or ability to carry me. Plus, he was tired and hungry. He stopped to graze often, and I—being a sympathetic passenger—let him snack. Pushing myself to run when I’m weary is emotionally easier for me than pushing an exhausted animal to a trot when I feel sorry for it. And horseback riding revealed a passive tendency left over from my laidback childhood. “I’m going to be a terrible mother,” I told my riding partner. I couldn’t even properly discipline a horse.

Around the dinner table that final night, I and other ranch guests shared highlights from our stay. Everyone touched on the relaxed atmosphere and attention to old-school values. We all needed a refresher course in the joys of being still, the incentives of patience, and the simplicity of carefree days.

I won’t say I didn’t adore the voicemails, text messages, and e-mails I received after leaving the ranch. It’s nice to know far-away friends are thinking of me, but no one got a call immediately. I waited until I was home, where I could sit still on my porch and talk with my friends one by one, devoting all my attention to life in the moment with them.