I lived, for a while, in Cheyenne, Wyoming where “Cowboy up!” was a normal part of the conversation.
I loved Frontier Days, the last week in July with parades on Saturday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, and, of course, the “Daddy of All Rodeos.”
Cowboy life – how dramatic and inviting – at least until you think about the reality back in the 19th century.
As they say, don’t squat with your spurs on – and on the trail there were no roadside rest stops with clean restrooms.
Coffee made by throwing a handful of grounds into a metal coffee pot full of creek water.
The smell that comes after herding a couple hundred head (and therefore rears) of cattle. “Cow pies” (yep, that’s what I’m talking about) are even nastier than the “road apples” produce by the horses.
Bathing? Shaving? Clean clothes? Not so much.
So, my (real-honest-to-goodness cowboy) hat is off to those who paved the way.
But I’ll take my twenty-first century comforts, thank you.