CALIFORNIA | WEEKEND GETAWAY
Saddling up at Hunewill Guest Ranch
A vaquero's grandson tests his wrangler genes at a dude ranch that seeks to offer an authentic Western experience but still must compete with luxe resorts and cruise lines.
Bridgeport, California
THE HEIFERS are acting surly, but my horse pushes forward. My young crew of 10 or so cowpunchers encircles about 30 head of cattle on a wide pasture in the shadow of a sawtooth mountain just west of Bridgeport. Our horses slowly lead the cattle toward a gate at the far end of the field.
"Move on," I yell, as I nudge my mount with the heel of my boot. "Heeeaaah!"
For a moment, I think I'm a cow-herding, range-riding, genuine cowboy.
Whom am I fooling? I'm just a part-time pretender, one of several dozen greenhorns playing cowboy at a dude ranch only a few miles from a 24-hour convenience store, a corner deli and a big-box retailer. I have donned a pair of old boots and mounted a swayback horse because I think I have the grit and guts to cut it as a cowboy.
At least, that's what I thought.
My grandfather Alejandro was a real cowboy. He had leathery brown hands, a frozen squint and a faded black cowboy hat perched on his head. Back in Mexico, he milked cows, slopped pigs and rode a horse into town for supplies.
Two generations later, I'm a fully integrated part of modern city life, with soft, office-worker hands, iPod buds jammed in my ears and a cellphone clipped to my belt.
So I was thrilled at the idea of spending a week at an authentic working cattle ranch, where I was sure my deep-rooted vaquero instincts would emerge.
But dude ranches today are more like resorts. Even the ranch depicted in Billy Crystal's 1991 comedy, "City Slickers," looks grueling by today's standards. Liability fears and tough competition from resorts and cruise lines have forced dude ranchers to adjust, according to the folks at the Dude Ranchers' Assn., an alliance of more than 100 guest ranches in the Western U.S. and Canada.
That means no potentially risky guest activities, such as cattle branding or horseshoeing. Instead, visitors enjoy swimming pools, hot tubs, saunas and tennis courts.
Grandpa, I am sure, is spinning in his grave.
My search for an authentic cowboy experience leads me to the Hunewill Guest Ranch, on the outskirts of Bridgeport, about 360 miles north of Los Angeles. The 4,500-acre working ranch sits in a wide, flat valley between Yosemite National Park and Bridgeport. More than 190 horses and about 2,400 head of cattle call the sage-studded valley home. The Dude Ranchers' Assn. tells me this is one of the few places that has resisted the resort trend.
In the early 1800s, Napoleon Bonaparte Hunewill struck out from Maine, hoping to make a fortune in gold and timber. He homesteaded and founded the Hunewill ranch in 1861. In the wake of the Great Depression, his descendants opened the ranch to guests. Today, Hunewill's great-great-grandchildren run the business.
On paper, the place sounds authentic. But during my weeklong stay this June, I learn that even Napoleon's offspring have had to adjust to modern times. And I realize I don't mind at all.
MEETING THE MOUNTS
"Grayson!"
"Tyson!"
"Tequila!"
"Elmo!"
The sun crests over the Sweetwater Mountains east of Bridgeport as a dozen wranglers saddle horses on a dirt lot in front of the ranch's sun-parched barn.
The wranglers holler out the horses' names, each of which has been assigned to a visitor for the week. About 50 guests -- nearly half are younger than 14 -- wait at the edge of the lot to hear their horses' names. Mine is Murphy, a muscular bay with a sagging spine and big, soulful eyes.
The horses' hoofs clip-clop as we saunter out to nearby fields encircled by barbed wire and intersected by ditches and channels that feed the wild purple irises and pale green sage in the pasture.
Mornings begin this way: After breakfast, we assemble for a horse roll call and then ride into the fields. The wranglers separate us into three groups based on riding skills. I'm relegated to the buckaroos, a euphemism for greenhorns.
Each day, we work on our riding skills. I start as a novice, learning to turn, stop and keep my butt in the saddle. But by the end of the week, I'm racing across open fields, leaping over ditches, squealing like a kid, my horse's mane flying in the wind.
During breaks, we sit high in our saddles and listen as our wranglers recite a verse or two of cowboy poetry. Most of our wranglers are grizzled cowboys, sporting dusty spurs and CD-size belt buckles. So it's strange and somewhat sweet to hear such sentimentality from these leathery ranch hands.
Sallie Joseph, a big-framed wrangler with flowing brown hair, gets a faraway look in her eyes as she recites an original poem about life on the range.
There's a little something extra here
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 This city got its name in the 1860s. The operation shown here has been under the same management since 1987. |
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