Thursday, August 25, 2016

Cowboys...

I confess. I'm a wannabe. I grew up watching Gun Smoke, Rawhide, and Wagon Train. I love cowboy boots and hats, chaps and dusters. Were it up to me, Levis and a button down collar shirt would be fashion. Friends, like Cary, have been so kind as to give me opportunities to ride horses. I've been thrown seven times, but always climbed back on them to ride again. But I am not a true cowboy.

When Justin, Josh, and I straddled horses and rode into the high Sierras it was like a dream come true. At 60, I still have a vivid imagination and sometimes think I was born in the wrong era. When I was a boy, my dad had a 38/40 rifle--with a saddle ring. I often snuck out of the house, roamed around in a patch of woods, or crossed a branch of the Penobscot River and scouted an island; fully convinced I was in a life or death situation. Danger lurked everywhere.

Campfires, wilderness, and wild terrain still captivate me. My bride, Sandy, along with our children Justin, Josh, and Meagan have the same blood flowing through their veins. Though often trapped in the monotonous drone of autos, deadlines, and modern constrictions, we are adventurers at heart.

Yes, I'm a rhinestone cowboy. No doubt. Nothing more--nothing less. I ride when I can. A bit clumsy. As long as the horse carrying me is compliant--I am fine. I lean out of the saddle looking for "sign." Sign of what, I'm not sure. Unlike our son, Josh, who takes to a horse like a duck to water, I climb on--and hang on whenever the opportunity presents itself.

In this post I have attached a few photos from our trip into the Sierras. Void of pretention, they captivate some of the vistas we were so privileged to experience. I dream of one day riding with the Amazing Wyatt into such wild places.
Justin and me 
Fly fishing in a high mountain lake
Phil, a real, honest to goodness, cowboy



  

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