Dude Ranch

A hot day’s drive to the Dude Ranch yields to respite in the shade of Ponderosa pines. Having helped my parents with their bags I sit with them on their cabin’s small porch overlooking a stream. Dad sits reclined on a wooden bench. He lingers over a glass of scotch from the bottle he brought from home. Mom sits with her thimble of sherry.

Over the gentle babble of the stream a phoebe chats in nearby brush; horses whinny from the paddock awaiting their evening meal. A breeze stirs the tree tops whispering mountain sounds. We hear the telltale heel-toe footfall of cowboy boots as other guests return from a ride to freshen up before dinner in the lodge. The smell of pine, leather and dust.

The kids race across a wooden bridge to our side of the stream from the cabin they and I share. My parents are no doubt relieved to be assigned a cabin on this side of the stream out of constant earshot and eyesight of the grandchildren. There is no lack of love but grandparents and grandchildren can be gears out of sync. I find I am a clutch trying to keep the transmission from grinding.

Max, a cherubic five, races onto the porch followed closely by his older sister.

“Where you going?”

“We’re gonna see the horses!”

“OK, guys, but some rules, OK?”

We go through the list. Stay outside the corral. Be respectful of other guests. No yelling. Careful where you run. Uh huh, Uh huh, Uh huh. I say it as much to mollify my parents as I do to modify the kids’ behavior. Over Max’s shoulder I see my mother ready with more instructions but she keeps them in. My father swirls the ice in his glass happy to defer the care of grandchildren to the parent.

“Be careful near the stream” my mother adds. She can’t help herself.

I put my arm around Max’ shoulder and turn to the clear water. A mayfly hovers just above the surface. I am sure the riffles hold fish and with luck I’ll cast a fly. Maybe upstream. Maybe down. Before us is a pool, three feet deep, with a slight overhang to the bank. I imagine trout waiting below for a grasshopper to misjudge its jump.

“The stream’s deep in places” I say. “It looks over your head”.

“It’s not over my head.”

I turn to Max and we both turn back to the water. The streambed undulates and the sunlight reflects and refracts.

“You may be right, Max, but no playing in the stream without a grownup”.

“I know, Dad. No going in the water without a grownup.”

My mother shifts in her seat, unconvinced. My father rolls his glass and sips, eyes shifting from me to his grandson and back to me, quietly amused.

“Max, I mean it. No going in the stream without a grownup”

“I know Dad. No going in the stream. I know.”

I take his hands and give them a squeeze. I notice dirt under his fingernails, curly blond hair, rosey cheeks. I look into his blue eyes and he looks into mine. He seems to be smiling about what I cannot tell.

“No going in the stream.”

“Dad, I know.”

His sister takes a step off the porch moving toward exploration. Max senses and is ready to go.

“I love you Max”

I let go of his hands and give him a pat on the butt as he turns and races after his sister.

His shorts are already wet.

I turn to my father who smiles and swirls his ice.