Though his vision failed, he still labored to read the book that lay on the table. The old cowboy rubbed his eyes, closed the book and rested his head on it. His hair was disheveled with gray strands going in every direction. He roused when I walked into the room, more from sensing my presence than hearing it. Time had taken its toll. The old cowboy had become weathered with age. His dim eyes drooped and watered. Though his mind and memories weren’t quite as clear, he still recalled old stories. The tales told time and again were ripe with adventure and history.
We talked for a while. Then the old cowboy said, “What did you find in the mountains?” It wasn’t his question that held my attention but his eyes. The weathered face softened, and his dim watery eyes seemed to awaken and dance with life. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a young boy just learning to throw a lasso. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a teenager headed off to the front lines of the war. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a spark of romance. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a young man just starting a ranch of his own. I gave high praise to the land of which he spoke. I described the scenery, the fresh spring water, the rich green grass and the soothing of my soul from just being in such a place. Like a newborn calf, life seemed to leap within him.
His trips to the Eden in the heart of the mountains were fewer. It seemed that part of him longed to see it again with young eyes. The days of riding horseback through the mountains had passed. Though he could not go himself, he reveled in the stories of others – those who shared his love of the mountains. His failing vision and bent body did not erase the memories of so many years. His dim eyes clearly saw the mountains from his memories. His muted ears heard the mountain streams that made their way over river rocks and bounded down the slopes and through the valleys. His dulled senses felt the fresh breeze that whistled through the trees and tugged at his hair.
The droopy dampened eyes, gray disheveled hair, stooped walk, stumbling feet, muted ears and fading memory did not hide the little boy I saw sitting before me. I saw a little boy thrown into manhood. I saw compassion and understanding. I saw someone who had experienced the hardships of life. I saw someone who had seen death. I saw life ignited by that which he so loved.
The old rancher, a genuine cowboy, the last of a dying breed, gave a strong embrace as we said our goodbyes.