While Sam and I were living the life of luxury here:
he leaned over to me and whispered seductively, "The only other place that complares to here is Eaton's Ranch," and I sighed with contentment, imagining a place equally lovely as Curtain Bluff and ordered another drink with an umbrella in it.
So you can kind of sympathize when three years later I arrived here:
and I felt like I was missing something. Something like a cabana boy.
Eaton's Ranch is located in Wolf, Wyoming, just outside of Sheridan and is the country's first real dude ranch. Its history is fascinating but that didn't change the fact that when we arrived I didn't see blue water, luxurious accommodations, or a wine list at dinner. What I saw was this:
Dust. Lots and lots of dust.
And I felt like this person:
who showed up at a party being held by these people:
...I didn't feel like I quite fit in.
Sam's mother began coming to Eaton's Ranch (hereon to be referred to as "THE Ranch," like it's the only ranch in existance. Because in this family it is.) in the 1940s and I don't think it has changed much. It's still run by descendants of the original Eatons. And the accommodations can be charming:
This is the cabin where my sister-in-law's family stayed with my mother-in-law. It's pretty much as cute as all get out. Our cabin was across the way and had a big, long porch, a tiny sitting room, and three bedrooms with twin beds in them. And it smelled. Like horse butt. Not horse manure, because I rather like the smell of that. Not the smell of a barn or tack, because that has a leathery undertone that is rather comforting. No, horse butt. Not that I've ever actually smelled horse butt, but what I imagine a horse's butt would smell like.
Upon arriving to your first meal, everyone is presented with a napkin ring. Rosemary, my mother-in-law, still has all of hers dating from the 1940s. They make a great souvenir, but they are also practical during your time at the ranch since they hold your napkin. Napkins aren't washed with great regularity and it's important that you keep track of your napkin and ring or you will be held accountable either by having your napkin ring go missing somewhere around the ranch or losing your right to breathe or something in between the two. And meals are hearty, but not gourmet. More like what I would cook while at home. But with more grease. Jimmie was 18 months old and would only eat bread with mayonnaise and bananas and noodles. He would play with his horse napkin ring during dinner and the mayo on his hands wore off all the paint:
Before: After:
Jimmie was 18 months old and it's really hard to explain time zones to anyone under 25, so he was awake every morning by 4. But he looked like this, so you couldn't really get very mad:
and his dad got up with him (always marry someone who doesn't sleep well in preparation for these moments) and took him outside to watch the horses come in.
Rosie gifted us this trip and it truly was priceless, for the memories alone:
Never do this, unless you are prepared to cart your girl child to riding lessons and barns and equestrian team meets while listening to her whine ask for a horse at every opportunity including Easter and probably 4th of July.
Grandma Rosie has a wonderful tradition of taking each of her grandchildren on a 10-year-old trip and two years ago she brought Anna to Eaton's Ranch, now referred to as Anna's "Favorite Place on Earth," as in, "Can we go to the Ranch?" "Do you think we could take a trip this year to the Ranch?" or "When can we go back to the Ranch?" This trip with Grandma was pretty special because her brother and sister took their 10-year-old grandsons as well.
Here's Uncle Dave, Anna, Stanley, Charlie, and Grandma. Aunt Ginger, who died in November, is taking the picture, which just makes me feel all wistful inside and thankful Anna had this time with her delightful great aunt.
So, Eaton's Ranch may not be Curtain Bluff. Actually, in no way, shape, or form is Eaton's Ranch like Curtain Bluff. It's like comparing dust to water, oranges to french fries, pizza to crab cakes. But I get what Sam meant, because I love the place. And by the time we returned home, tired, hot, delayed by a day, I emptied out all of our dirty clothes from our suitcases and sniffed them. I kid you not. I held up the dirty jeans, the cowboy boots layered in dust and manure, and breathed in the scent of Eaton's Ranch. Because it no longer smelled like horse butt. It smelled like every memory we made there.
--A
