No Country For Horsemen, Part One: Moving to Town | Gerry Gesell

Always Something to Chase: Moving to Town (Part 1 of 3)

By Gerry Gesell 

A while back I wrote about moving to town. At some point in a cowboy’s life and sometimes a rancher’s life, the ranch sells, cow prices drop and we simply become too tired. Somehow when we go into town to pick up salt and feed and before we head to the grocery store to grab the week’s worth of “fixins” and a couple packs of cookies, we find ourselves driving around and looking at places on the outskirts of the city, or as we like to call it: “town.” You tell yourself that you’ll never do it and at the same time, you think to yourself “that’s a good little place.” You point out to your wife the little barn, the corrals and a modest roping arena. Your wife notices the house. She knows what’s on your mind.

A year later, all the cows sold, you kept your best horses, or maybe just your favorite. No longer is your kitchen table the desk, but you now have an office where you can handle things, as well as drink your coffee and look over your small place. It’s raining and you think to yourself “now it rains!” The horses are standing under their lean-tos and you count the grackles as they try landing in the mud, only to be outnumbered by the rain drops. The one thing you can guarantee today is that you will not get stuck in the mud putting out feed and checking waters. I’m not alone in this “country,” two places down from me is another rancher from bigger skies than mine who eventually had to move to town when he lost his lease country down in the Trans-Pecos. I know I’m not the first or the only one, and for lack of a better word, it’s a comfort to know that it happens to the best of us.

A day goes by and I’m back at my desk. The sun is slowly rising, but my new view is strictly north. I figured this would be the time the grackles would be grazing on the leftovers of the horses, but they are nowhere to be seen. I’m ok with that. It is Sunday morning and part of my new life is counting cars go by on their way to church. I’m beginning to notice the differences in the cars and trucks and the ways the drivers drive. No, not all of them are headed to the churches scattered across town, but most of them are. My mind drifts to counting cows and taking note of the ones I know, the ones that stand out, like neighbors’ cattle that always seem to find the way over or through the fences. Counting cows is something we should all learn. I tried counting the birds and the rain drops yesterday. I also started to imagine that the birds belonged to my neighbor who has a flock of sheep and that the random cat that scurries around belongs to my other neighbor. None of them are branded.

Speaking of neighbors, I loved the reactions of people when I refer to those who lived miles from me as my neighbors. Most folks have no comprehension of distance and space when it comes to ranch country and ranch life. We don’t speak in blocks, we speak in miles and sections. Now, I have neighbors that can see me taking a leak off my back porch. I’m now the town person speaking in “right there” and “around the corner.” I have begun to think of close destinations in terms of where they would’ve been on the ranch. The Allsup’s is roughly where the Sinclair well was, the school zone is that rocky patch of the cave pasture I never want to take a horse through. And the Dollar General is my new Ivy Windmill pens.

A week goes by and the weather went from wet and cold to warm and windy. Weather that I welcome, for the most part. If we didn’t have the wind, maybe we wouldn’t have the turbines and we might still have the ranch. Although, from my point of view and the view of others in this same ship, it’s our land that they want, not the wind, or eventually the sun. Not a day goes by that I’m not scouting for new paths and ways to get around horseback. I’ve damn near made a million tracks loping circles and working horses in the arena and the cutting pen and I’m feeling the need to make tracks like I used to: long and straight and at a trot. When I first moved to the ranch, I documented the roads and marked their mileage to the pens, the windmills and gates and also full circles through the ranch. I never liked backtracking and only did it if I was missing something or looking for sign. In this country, looking for sign is never that hard or necessary. Compared to some of the outfits I lived on, this country is small. I found myself always looking to the horizon and imagining the ranch being bigger and now I’m imagining town being smaller and the country wide open. It takes an awful big imagination.

Trotting out of the driveway, I make a left, headed west towards the neighbors. I’ve never liked making a circle over my tracks or trotting out and trotting back home the same way, over my own tracks. I found a pretty good circle tho, and it gives me a chance to long trot and give these horses something to look at while getting fit and stretching their legs. I’ve always kept my mind busy while making a circle, going out to check waters, moving cows around, or simply putting wet saddle blankets on my horses. I would daydream, or putting it a better way, I would think on the stories I’ve written, stories I’m writing and stories I would like to write. Occasionally, in the spring, I would keep my eyes on the fence lines, and spend more time making a circle close to water looking for shed horns. It’s always nice finding those big antlers or a matching set. I keep my head down now for a different reason. There sure is a lot of garbage in these ditches and a lot of interesting human artifacts. I have to keep my head about me while trotting down the roads, I spend less time thinking about my stories. Now, I find ways to keep my mind busy but still on the lookout for cars and trucks blasting by. I’ve started cataloging bottles, cans and other artifacts I trot over. In my mind, I’ve started to create the characters that drink a bottle of tequila, a tall boy of bud or eat a bag of flaming Cheetos. They are “no count” for littering but they are the wild cows I track now and the rattlesnakes waiting to strike.

By Gerry Gesell. Gerry Gesell is a San Angelo-based horse trainer, leatherworker, cowboy, and—though he might not admit it—a wordsmith with decades of experience training everything from polo ponies to cow horses. His saddle house is a treasure trove of meticulously maintained tack, reflecting his passion for craftsmanship and functionality. Through his podcast, “Gerry Gesell: There Is Always Something to Chase,” Gerry shares stories of the cowboy lifestyle, horses, and western fashion, blending philosophy, humor, and self-reflection to inspire listeners. At the core of it all is his unwavering belief: “It’s all for the horse.”