Living the Cowboy Way in Kansas
The real West
Even over the longhorns' bellowing and the saddles' rhythmic creaking, it's the spurs that keep jingling in my ear. There's not a moment in the cattle drive when I lose track of trail bosses Joe and Nancy Moore, thanks to their spurs that are always there, gently ringing like the very voice of the Old West. I hear the metal singing as Nancy lugs a Dutch oven laden with cobbler to the fire and as Joe leads his weary horse to the water tank. The spurs' notes drift away only as the Moores pull off their boots and crawl into canvas bedrolls tucked into the long cottonwood shadow cast by a bright Kansas moon.
As I walk softly over to my own bedroll laid between an SUV and a cabin, I feel downright tone deaf, with my steps producing no more than the dull thud of boots on dust. But this is the real West, and it will take a long ride tomorrow before I can even think about earning my spurs.