By virtue of a leadership scholarship I’d inexplicably earned, I’d been invited to attend a special three-day preorientation function for a few hundred of the university’s “future leaders.”

Calving season was upon me. I was just finishing up my last hourlong run through the cows and heifers. It had been a cold night, and with 3 inches of snow on the ground, I dared not leave anything to chance.

I was never really fond of forcing myself out of a warm bed to check heifers at 3 a.m., but the chore didn’t seem quite so burdensome under the light of a bright moon. Still, I appreciated the effort of those little stars.

I was on my way to Almo, Idaho – literally on the other side of the mountain from my home place near Oakley – to retrieve one of my cows who’d strayed off to the east and down into the Almo Valley instead of heading west to home, as she should have done during the fall gather.

Under most circumstances, I generally consider myself to be fairly decent, if not entertaining, company. I do, however, have my little quirks and idiosyncrasies, that, if I’m being completely objective, could possibly be construed as minor annoyances.

The little boy took a tentative step my way, and without a hint of apprehension, blurted out, “Hey, are you a real cowboy?”

The Winecup Ranch is one of the iconic ranches in my home country. Situated near the Idaho-Utah line, it’s home to the Bedke family, and as near as I can tell, the fifth (or maybe sixth) generation of cowboys and cowgirls are now being raised there.