I had the good fortune of growing up in the close-knit farming town of Salina, Utah. In the years following World War II, the community was steeped in patriotism and shaped by a kind of unvarnished honesty—people spoke plainly, worked hard, and stood by their word.
I was the youngest of four boys, born nearly two decades after my oldest brother. Our family was anchored by my parents and a 50-acre farm that my father leased from my grandmother. In the early years, dad worked the land and raised sheep. But in 1952, he sold off the flock and secured forest service grazing permits for 33 head of cattle-a shift that marked a new chapter in our ranching life.
If we were poor, it never occurred to me. We had a truck instead of a car, a milk cow in the yard, and a garden that stretched wide with everything we needed. Out back, an underground cellar held rows of bottled fruits and vegetables—my mother’s handiwork, sealed with care. Our house was simple: one bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a front room where we kids slept on a pull-out couch. Heat came from a wood-and-coal stove in the living room, and my mother cooked every meal on a matching stove in the kitchen. My job was to see that the wood chip box was full each night. It was humble, but it was home.
The same year we secured our grazing permits, my father was offered the position of “Rider” by the local cattle association we’d just joined. It was a respected role—he was tasked with overseeing roughly 650 head of cattle, plus calves, belonging to the association’s members. Each year, around the first of June, cattle from neighboring ranches were either trailed or hauled to the association corrals east of town. There, final branding, dehorning, and earmarking were completed, and every animal was run through the dipping vat in preparation for turn-out.
At first light on the designated day, the south gate would swing open, and the entire herd would pour out, beginning their annual journey to the mountain range. Seasoned cows who knew the route led the way, while newer ones and those with young calves brought up the rear. It was a sight to behold—hundreds of animals moving as one, following well-worn trails across the foothills until they reached Salina Canyon, where they turned east toward summer pasture.
But the rest of the day was a different story. I was sent to the head of the basin where it narrowed, just below a ridge where the highway cut through. The cattle were supposed to follow a gravel road around that point, and my job—at eight years old—was to hold the herd there all day. Talk about pressure. Those old cows were itching to get up to their summer range and kept testing me. Snap was tethered near a big rock so I could scramble on and off, but I barely had time to rest. I’d turn the cows back, hustle to my post, and before I could catch my breath—there they were again.
Around noon, I spotted riders coming up the trail. I was hopeful—maybe this long cowboy shift was finally wrapping up. But no such luck. Just then, my mother pulled up in the pickup with lunch. One sandwich later, I was back in the saddle. Those cows weren’t done testing me.
The day dragged on, with the herd constantly pushing against my post. I held my ground until nearly dark, when my dad and brothers finally arrived. Together, we rode a couple more miles up the canyon, unsaddled the horses, watered them, tied them off to some Russian Olive trees, and fed them for the night.
And just like that, my first full day as a bona fide cowboy came to a close—dusty, tired, and proud.
At first light the next morning, we were back in the saddle. The cattle association’s grazing allotment lay entirely north of the highway in Salina Canyon. The plan was simple: each day, we’d gather the lead cows—the ones who knew the way—and their calves, then drive them up one of five trails to spots with good feed and water.
That wasn’t my plan. I didn’t know much of anything. Old Snap and I took up our usual post as drag rider, trailing behind the herd and coaxing the smaller calves to keep pace with their mothers.
After five long days, we reached the main canyon—Water Hollow—where the rest of the herd would settle. By then, the seasoned cows were spent, and we were left with green stock and young calves. Progress was slow, and the shine of cowboy life had started to wear off for this eight-year-old boy.
Eventually, the trail herd found good feed and water. From there, they’d drift upward toward the high summer range as the grass grew tall and sweet.
At the mouth of Water Hollow stood the association corrals—just big enough to hold the cattle when they came down in the fall. Each permittee could sort out their own stock and truck them back to their home ranch. That spot became our lower camp.
A weathered wooden shack sat nearby, just large enough to store saddles, chaps, and gear. A small stream ran through the corrals, enough to water the horses and cattle. We parked an small camp trailer there—one Dad and my brothers had picked up. It had a bed and closet in the back, a stove, fold-out table, and a couch up front. Austere, but comfortable.
We didn’t sleep in the trailer during those first few weeks. Instead, we kept the horses at the lower camp and drove in from town each day. For three weeks, our days followed a steady rhythm: saddle up, ride out to check cattle, haul rock salt to the licks, and move the herd when needed. My other brothers helped when they could, but mostly it was just Dad and me.
Back then, there were hardly any roads on our allotment. Most days required a five-mile ride just to reach the area we needed to work. A few years later, the Forest Service cut a dirt road through the lower range that connected to a neighboring allotment to the north. That made things easier.
Life on the lower range wasn’t romantic. It was hot and dusty, scattered with scrub oak, juniper, sagebrush—and rattlesnakes. Old Snap, my horse, didn’t move fast. I’d let him lag behind until he had no choice but to trot to catch up. That got old quick.
We kept at it until around the first of July, when it was time to move camp to the higher range.
When the time came, my brothers loaded the grain barrel and extra gear, hitched up the trailer, and took the long road around the east end of our allotment to the head of Water Hollow. Dad, Mom, and I saddled three horses and led a fourth, riding ten miles up the trail to meet them at our upper camp. That was the only time I ever saw my mother on horseback. It became a tradition after that—one we looked forward to each year.
The upper camp was a step up. We parked the trailer, built a small pole corral just big enough to keep the horses and cattle away from the grain barrel, and rigged a quaking aspen pole to hang our saddles. One horse wore a cowbell, and the ones that were hard to catch got hobbled before being turned loose to graze.
A spring bubbled nearby, steady and cold—you could fill a bucket in five minutes flat. And nothing tasted better than that first drink of spring water after a long ride. We had it made.
For me, the rest of the summer up on the high range was pure tranquility. Gone were the scorching days and choking dust—replaced by pine trees, quaking aspens, cool breezes, and, well… still a bit of dust. We lived at the upper camp full-time. Saturdays we’d head to town to resupply, then return Sunday morning. Midweek, we’d repeat the trip—usually Wednesday through Thursday.
Each morning started the same. Dad brewed the coffee, and that summer he let me join him. I felt a step closer to manhood, at least in my own mind. Then came the bells—soft clinks in the distance, telling us where the horses had wandered overnight. We grabbed a couple halters, a nosebag filled with grain, and headed out to catch our rides. Sometimes they didn’t want to be caught, for reasons any horseman would understand—but they were suckers for a nosebag.
Back at camp, each horse got his ration of grain. Then we saddled up and rode out. I never knew where we were headed or what the day held until we were already on the trail.
Early in the high country season, most days were spent packing salt to the licks, getting ready to move the cattle higher toward better grazing. We used rock salt back then—reddish chunks hauled in from the mines north of Salina. These days, it’s mineralized blocks. As we removed the rock salt, we’d often have to balance the pack saddle with a plain rock on the other side. Over the years, those rocks ended up scattered across every lick on the range.
Other days were spent checking cattle and nudging them toward greener pastures when the grass thinned out.
There was only one truly hard day that summer. Late July, we had to gather the cattle settled in Bull Valley on the western edge of the allotment and trail them east, back toward camp. My brother came in from town, and we left early. It was nearly an eight-mile ride—about three hours just to get there.
Once we arrived, Dad and my brother began locating cattle and pushing them toward a wide flat where I waited to hold the herd while they searched for more. More pressure for the kid. Eventually, we had all we could find, and the long trail back began.
Let me tell you—fat cattle aren’t keen on leaving familiar pasture for unknown ground. That day, I was glad to ride drag. Keeping those cows and calves moving through deadfall and brush was a job for the grown-ups. Half a day later, tired horses and tired cattle arrived at their new digs.
Through that experience—and plenty more like it—I began to learn something important. Honest, hard work may wear you out, but it leaves you with something deeper. A sense of pride. A sense of grit.
A few more weeks, and I had to leave the mountain. School was calling. Even now, all these years later, I remember that departure with a tinge of sadness. I’d missed playing with my friends that summer, missed the swimming pool—but I’d unknowingly gained something far more lasting.
Before that year, I don’t recall ever riding a horse. Dad kept them at the farm, but I rarely went with him. That summer changed everything. One day I was just a kid; the next, still a kid—but one who was helping out. I wasn’t riding for fun. I was riding with my dad, doing something that mattered. I was contributing to the worth of the family. Not every kid gets to do that.
And one more thing. That summer—and the many that followed—I began building a portfolio in my mind. Hundreds of moments, impressions, and experiences that I could later draw from and project onto canvas. I was lucky. I got to feel that bond between horse and rider. Any cowboy knows what I mean. It’s something special. It’s trust. All that power, and they choose to willingly apply it to the task at hand. That’s all you can ask for.
When I paint, my hope is that the viewer can sense that connection. Feel like they’re there. Feel the emotion. If they don’t—then I’ve missed the mark.