Sometimes, when we go to our livestock meetings and see all the technology, we forget about the cowboy and the horse.

It was just another camping trip with friends. A gathering, a return to nature, to get a taste of what life was like in the Wyoming forests and plains before Napoleon Bonaparte sold it to Thomas Jefferson in 1803.

Rarely do I hear a bad mule story, especially in conversations comparing mules to horses. Mules are held up most often as having common sense, calmness in a wreck, not having a sense of humor, and sleight of hand (or hoof) tricks.

It was a Colorado winter afternoon when the boys spotted a big cross-bred cow wobblin’ along with her calf trailing behind and a prolapse as big as an army-issue duffle bag.

It had been a long day for Steffan. Frozen pipes, touchy tractors, cranky cows and a stuffy nose. A headache had kept him banging his head against the wall from 6 a.m. to sundown.

So there I was, changing planes in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. A 20-something lady looked up and said, “Well, it’s good to see a cowboy again.”

Somewhere in the annals of land-grant colleges, the ag departments converted from offering a degree in animal husbandry to a degree in animal science.

I was explaining about pregnancy testing to a young veterinary student. She plunged her arm into the cow and palpated.

A while back, I decided to build up my ranching reputation by improving my equipment. I purchased a 1997 crew-cab GMC 1-ton diesel with only 254,000 miles on it. I traded in a ’74 1-ton flatbed F350 with a winch, plus $4,000. I asked the used-car dealer if I could keep the winch. He said it was the only reason he took the flatbed in trade. Cal told me his neighbor Jerry came by to show him his new purchase. A brand-spankin’ new 3Z4 ton four-wheel drive with payments of $600 a month over five years … but what Jerry was most proud of was a 20-ton winch with 50 feet of cable mounted on the front bumper.

Robin lives in a valley that is dotted with grazing pasture and selected irrigated vegetables. She has neighbors who graze yearling heifers to sell in the fall and another neighbor who grows pickling cucumbers. Her heifer neighbors, Barry and Claire, had their yearlings comin’ on strong. The grass held up, and they supplemented them. Their heifer market was good, but one of the requirements of their buyers were that they were guaranteed “open” as opposed to bred. To their dismay, one of the cattlemen in the valley had his bulls – good bulls, no doubt, but still bulls – within “wafting distance” of the 600 yearin’ heifers.