WEEK     JOB: COWBOY

LOCATION: LA BARGE, WYOMING

ONE DAY IN late January, I got an email from Cody in Idaho. It was two lines long: “My brother is a real cowboy, he makes his living going ranch to ranch. His name is Chet, and right now he’s on a ranch in Wyoming.” I thought, A cowboy. Named Chet. In Wyoming? I’m in. Chet didn’t have an email address, he didn’t have the Internet, nor did he have use for a computer. He would wake at dawn, put on his boots and chaps, lodge a piece of chewing tobacco in his bottom lip, saddle up his horse, and head out to the fields to check on the cows. He said things like “Yep,” “I reckon,” and the classic “Uh-huh.” His duties changed depending on the season, and he wasn’t tied down to anything but the open range. Yep, Chet was a real cowboy.

From Florida, Ian flew back home to Vancouver and I caught a flight to Salt Lake City. Chet’s wife, Billy, picked me up from the airport, and we drove into Wyoming. About fifteen minutes into our drive, Billy said, “Sean, we’re throwin’ ya right into it—we’re headin’ to a ropin’ today!”

“Awesome!”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

An hour later we arrived at the roping. We met up with Chet and his two teammates, and I was quickly immersed in the cowboy lifestyle. The roping was organized in teams of three. Each team would enter the enclosed dirt area with about ten calves. The judge announced the number of one of the calves, then the team of three cowboys had to successfully rope the front and back legs of the assigned calf in the shortest time possible.

Back at the ranch, Chet told me more about a cowboy’s duties. It was calving season, which meant that for the next couple of months new calves would be born every day. Chet’s main priority was to make sure everything went smoothly, that there were no complications with the birth, that the calf was feeding properly, and that each one got tagged. It’s an around-the-clock job, and Chet had to wake up a couple of times each night to go check on the heifers (female cows that have yet to give birth for the first time, usually around two years old).

It was early March, and there was still snow on the ground, so all the cows remained at the ranch. During the summer months, Chet said, typically the cows graze on government-owned, undeveloped land in their natural environment, and he will then ride out to check on them daily.

My horse’s name was Hiccup. He was very gentle, though in his old age he’d become lazy, stubborn, and often reminded me that he was the boss. He walked as fast as he wanted, when he wanted, where he wanted, though he managed to comply just enough so I could never get mad at him. Even though Chet and Billy found my random “yeehaws” funny, unfortunately Chet never said “yeehaw” or “giddy-up”—not even “heyah” when he wanted his horse to go faster. I knew I was a poser, but I still couldn’t resist giving ol’ Hiccup a solid “heyah” when I was certain no one was in earshot and I wanted him to gallop.

Throughout the week, I helped sort bulls, drove the tractor, fed the cows, checked to see if there were any newborn calves, and if so, tagged their ear. It requires a lot of hard work and long days to be a cowboy, with little pay. Chet didn’t care, though. He loved his job, and it provided him with enough money to get by. As with all questions that seem complicated, the answer to Chet is simple: “Money don’t matter, unless ya don’t got none.”

In the past, I had often heard the maxim “Go after what you love, and the money will come.”

I was relieved to hear the same thought from someone like Chet, who put his passion before money and would have it no other way. Or, in his words, “If I was doing this for the money, I’d be a stupid son of a bitch.”