Thank you, Dad.

I like to drive on old, rough, dirt roads and trails that wander up and down and in and out and around and about.
For pleasure.
Not for work, or to get to and from work.
I call it jeeping. I do it for fun.
Don and I were doing some jeeping last week. We had gone many miles, up one side of a mountain and down the other side. We had seen no one. That is the kind of jeeping we like.
Then we came around a curve and saw a pickup stopped in the (very narrow) road. Three cowboys were standing by the front of the truck. Apparently, they were having a "palaver." That is what cowboys do at trucks, corrals, cafes, and feed stores. Palaver.
My father was an accomplished palaver-er. That's 'cause he was a cowboy.
Well, we had to stop while they moved the pickup to one side so we could drive past. We got a good look at the cowboys while they did this. We are not bad at palavering our own selves, so we pulled up beside the moved-over pickup and stopped between the cowboys. There was one on my (passenger) side looking down the slope. I asked what they were doing. "Looking at our cattle." Sure enough, in the wash at the bottom of the slope, at least a half mile away, were some cattle. Meanwhile, Don was shootin' the breeze (that's another form of palaver) with the men on his (driver's) side. So, after more palavering, we determined that the cowboys had come up the mountain to check on a fence mending crew.
How many cowboys does it take to check on the fence? Three. One to look over the crew and evaluate their competency, one to drive the pickup, and one to keep the others company and thus avoid the chores around the ranch.
During their reconnoiter, they had observed that several head of cattle had passed through the in-need-of-repair fence, and were grazing in the wrong place. Their palaver was directed at correcting the situation. The cattle were over half a mile away from the road, down a steep slope thickly covered in scruboak and manzanita. Not fit terrain for a man on foot. The cowboys had determined that the solution was to drive back to the ranch, saddle some horses and ride out to drive the cattle back through the hole in the fence before the  repair crew had reached that point. They pointed out where the ranch hq was located, "way over there in the valley below that jutting rock." Maybe fifteen miles by air. Maybe forty miles by old, rough, dirt road that wanders up and down and in and out and around and about.
As I said, fun. But not for work. Not followed by a ten mile ride in the saddle over brush covered hills to locate and drive cattle that might have moved to a new spot. Or might be scattered and skittish.
I mentioned that we got a good look at the cowboys. None of the three stood straight. All three were bent and stiff.
So, thank you, Dad, for getting out of ranching before we would have become cowboys, working in country that is much better suited for jeeping than for working in.