Cranky Cowgirl Episode Two

June 11, 2025 – Buffalo, WY

I pulled into Buffalo after a 12-hour drive from Gunnison. No frills. No detours. Just highway miles, alone with my thoughts and a deep ache to stop moving. Once across the Colorado state line it was mile after mile of bright green rolling hills, a few oil wells, and antelope dotting the in-between.

I set up camp in a fog of fatigue. Fed Beamer. Collapsed for a while, then tried to find something decent to eat. All I came up with was a dry chicken sandwich from Hardee’s. Something that looked as if the maker had tossed it against a wall before throwing it into the bag. 

I haven’t cooked in the trailer yet—just nuked a few things in the microwave. I haven’t been anywhere long enough without friends, restaurants, or fatigue to feel like building a fire and pretending I’m “camping.”

June 12, 2025 – Buffalo, WY

My birthday. No cake. No streamers. Just me, Beamer, and the Big Horn Mountains. Plenty of well wishes from friends, thanks to Facebook and texts. A birthday quad latte from Starbucks in Sheridan, complete with a finely hand-illustrated cup.

I would’ve pointed the car toward Crazy Woman Canyon (because of course), but the road was closed for repairs. The land out here is equal parts scar and hymn—weather-carved, ancient, full of surprise around every bend in the canyons and the mountaintops where I wandered. So different from the southern part of the state, which was a near-endless sea of grassland, broken only by the occasional pump jack or a startled pronghorn.

The sandstone sang in silence. The thunderheads stayed at a respectful distance. I rarely even turned on music, listening to the wind in the trees and canyons and watching for moose, elk, deer, antelope, bear—and those little prairie gophers with a death wish, darting in front of my tires at 60mph.

It wasn’t a party. It was better.

The best gift came later that afternoon. I’d wandered down through the Big Horns, grabbed a sandwich in Lovell (I think), and headed up into Big Horn Canyon for more scenic therapy. The Pryor Mountain Wild Horse Sanctuary lies just out that way too.

I pulled off at the first gravel turnout I found, overlooking a lake and a stream. I’d just touched my camera on the seat beside me and was about to get out to grab my long lens when—hoofbeats. Loud, unmistakable hoofbeats. One, then two, three, four horses came barreling into the clearing, not twenty feet from my car.

I froze, jaw dropped. They were magnificent—muscular, healthy, wild. At first, I didn’t believe it. They looked too well-fed, too majestic to be real. They stopped in pairs, curious but calm. I got out slowly, camera in hand, expecting them to bolt. They didn’t.

I turned my back to them for a second to attach the long lens. When I turned back, they were still there, watching me, grooming each other, munching on grass. One gave me a few up-and-down nods, which I have absolutely no idea how to interpret. I clicked. I whispered. I just stood in awe.

Then one began walking—deliberate but calm—toward the left side of my car and down the embankment toward the lake. His ears perked. Across the water were three more horses. He kept going. The others followed. I stayed. Just watching.

I didn’t follow. I didn’t want to intrude. I ate my sandwich and let the moment stay sacred. Then I drove on. Eyes peeled for more wild beauty, but knowing—that was the gift. And it was grand.

June 13, 2025 – Buffalo, WY

Birthday’s over. The birds are quiet. The camper sounds like it’s dying a slow death. Nothing’s broken exactly—it’s just the refrigerator, the water pump, and the fan all whining in slightly different keys. Like a mechanical barbershop trio from hell.

I’m one part hungry, two parts hot, and five solid parts done with it.

The AC grumbles. The pump grinds. And I can’t really stretch out unless I clear a space between the camera gear, hiking boots, Beamer’s stuff, and all my “just in case” nonsense. Turns out, I wasn’t the light packer I thought I was. But hey, if there’s an earthquake in northern Wyoming tonight? I’m ready!

Two more full days of towing this fiberglass tantrum back to Oregon. Then comes the real fun: making sure it’s roadworthy enough to sell.

Tonight? I don’t want to write anything poetic. I just want to sit very still and dream about a quiet room where nothing hums, bumps, grinds or barks. (A fantasy in my house, too.)

But… there was some magic this morning.

It began with a thunderstorm. A full-blown pre-dawn sky tantrum—lightning, grumbling clouds, and just enough rain to remind me I’d left the windows cracked. Beamer snored through it like a freight train.

Then—hush. A stillness like the world took a deep breath and forgot to exhale.

And then? Birds. A full-blown, feathered, post-storm hootenanny. Wrens with opinions. Jays cracking jokes. One raven in the distance reciting beat poetry. It was like someone flipped a cosmic switch labeled “ALLEGRO.” The trees throbbed with melody. The world rebooted in surround sound.

I made coffee. Gave Beamer his morning scritches after our dance. Pulled on my boots and headed out to Art of the Cowgirl, camera slung over one shoulder, thunder still humming in my ears.

June 14, 2025 – Buffalo, WY

I’m no cowgirl. Just a lifelong wanna-be. I’ve always dreamed of horses, a ranch on a river somewhere. Maybe with someone or maybe just me and a couple dogs and a barn cat or two. A porch with a view that goes on for days. The silence of open land. No neighbors in earshot or view. A rifle by the door sounds right, too.

I’ve chased that dream westward for decades. Colorado, Montana, New Mexico, Arizona—always a little bit romantic, a little bit reckless. What can I say? I like cowboy butts and cowgirl swagger. The old west still pulls at me. The simplicity. The grit. The solitude. I know I’m romanticizing it, but maybe that’s the point.

My horse experience? Not much. I grew up in the suburbs of Portland and then St. Paul until I was eighteen. A few trail rides, riding lessons later on down the road. A little riding in Colorado; a rent-for-horse-care trade for a guy outside of Santa Fe—caring for four horses and two enormous burros in exchange for an apartment. 
I loved that.

I read books, watched Monty Roberts videos, swooned over a friend’s mustang years ago. I didn’t spend nearly enough time with her, but something about that horse opened a door in me. I think that’s where my research and love of wild horses began.

My camera followed. I started drifting from portraits and landscapes toward horses, partly because the older I get, the less patience I have for humans—and partly because they just… fill me up. Being near them slows time. I could brush and hang out with a horse for hours. Just walking into a barn makes me smile from the inside out.

A little side story here—though it doesn’t quite fit, it also kind of does.

My mom was born in what’s now a ghost town: Valentine, in the northeast corner of Montana. Just sagebrush and silence now. One summer, while cooking on a ranch nearby, (within a hundred miles) I tracked it down—bouncing along dirt roads in my old van, wondering what kind of woman she was. She died from brain aneurysm when I was four, and no one ever told me much about her. At the time, I thought I shouldn't ask. I’ve pieced her story together from fragments and intuition. A little fact. Some old photos. A lot of longing.

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I should be back in Oregon by the 16th.

Mixed feelings, to say the least. Part of me craves space, a toilet that really flushes, and not having to do an interpretive dance with Beamer every morning just to make my coffee and feed him.

The other part? Not looking forward to it at all. Not just the catching up, but the re-entry. I’ve been off the digital grid most of this trip other than writing these notes. No TV. No Facebook. No soul-sucking headlines. Just friends, dogs, roads, and open sky.

And honestly? That’s the part I’m going to miss the most.