Home on the Range

Packed and loaded, all three dogs settled with their vacation caretakers, we hit the highway in high spirits. Our annual end of June trip to Upstate New York is a much anticipated event. My girls and I have spent the same week at Ridin' Hy Ranch in the Adirondacks for the past dozen years. Many of the families we have met there do the same, so our trip has become akin to a mammoth family reunion.

Sofia has decided at the last minute not to attend, casting a pall on the trip. Although she cited her work schedule and car problems as the stumbling blocks, it felt like she was looking for excuses to stay behind. She kindly offered to stop by the house to feed the cats and rabbit. I had a niggling worry that there was a party in the making, but after several conversations outlining my expectations, coupled with numerous reassurances from my younger daughter, I decided to trust the lying heathen.

The trip takes four hours and becomes beautifully scenic once past the droning boredom of the Mass Pike. As we round the last curve of the mountainous dirt road into the 800 acre ranch, our ritual is to open all of the windows and blast a song. This year we chose “I Want to Check you for Ticks” by Brad Paisley. Neither Zina nor I can hold a tune in a bucket, but we unashamedly belt out the foolish lyrics all the way up to the main ranch house.

Settling in, amidst shouts of hello and hugs of welcome, I feel like I am home. Not so far fetched, really, as my entire family is scattered around the area within an hour or so of the ranch. Zina is grinning broadly and dancing with excitement as she hugs a friend she hasn’t seen for twelve months; everyone is awesome when you see them for 7 days out of 365. I stop for a moment to take an appreciative breath of the crisp mountain air while gazing across the placid lake. Bliss.

A few of the older teenagers run up and fill us in on new activities and ranch gossip. We are informed there is a new banana boat which is hauled behind the speed boat -- we have to try it tomorrow after our early morning ride! One of the girls tells me, snidely, that there is now a masseuse which I might benefit from, considering my age!

On the news front: Jessie, on the wait staff, was dating Lief, a cowboy, but he dumped her for a giantess who chews tobacco! Mike, the head cowboy, is ‘on the wagon’ this year, so watch out – he is grumpier than usual! And so it goes as we head into the dining hall for a family style dinner to be followed by drinks and country music in the lounge.

The weather is hot and sunny for most of the week. We ride, water ski, lounge by the lake, eat, drink, and be merry. The banana boat, which holds six passengers, proves to be a hit. We turn it into a ‘king of the mountain’ event: while the driver is trying to unseat us, we are attempting to knock each other off. Laughter cripples us and we flop around and off the inflatable like fish out of water.

I discover that the little witch with the dig about the masseuse was spot on, and head for the sign up sheet on day three for help with my aching back. A call home confirms that Sofia, spawn of Satan, has had a ripper of a party. Now my brain hurts.

Tuesday evening I creak on down to the arena to watch the rodeo. We know many of the cowboys, which adds to the excitement. There is nothing quite like watching a friend do a face plant as they jump off a galloping horse toward the head of a steer.

Eventually the bugs drive us back to the bar, and we sit around in lighthearted camaraderie. At some point the older kids decide that we should form a “Ridin’ Hy Fat Camp” with the motto ‘No one is too thin to be in fat camp’.

As we design and decorate white tee shirts on my porch the next day, we look up amazed to see that a crowd has gathered. We don the shirts and challenge them to a game of volleyball. Fat camp wins!

Amazingly, there are only a few days left. We begin to miss the ranch before we have even departed and lament the rapid progression of time. Sitting outside on Thursday evening watching the annual children’s scavenger hunt, I have a light bulb moment. I jump up and tell Hoffie, the social director, that an adult event along the same lines would be a wonderful addition.

I begin work on the list with a few cohorts whose arms didn’t need much twisting. It is decided that item number one on the adult scavenger hunt should be a drunken cowboy. Things go downhill rapidly as the night progresses and beers are downed. We kick off the new event at 11:00 PM and a roar of laughter goes up as we head into the bar. Andy, one of the cowboys, is passed out drunk sitting up on a barstool.

Our last day ends with a bonfire on the beach, including a weinie roast and sing-a-long. We poke fun at ourselves about eating so much as we head down to the water. Appetizers had been inhaled at the five o'clock beach party, a full country dinner including dessert at six, and now we were swarming like lemmings toward the grilling hot dogs.

Elbowing for space by the blaze, surrounded by friends, I bask in the warmth of their company and the glow of the fire. Our friend Nicole, who coined the phrase ‘Big Ass Drink’, softly strums the guitar and sings all of my favorites from the 60s and 70s. I see a shooting star and wish for nothing more than to return next year.