It’s all he’s ever known, really.  Riding horseback, herding cattle, doctoring cattle, respecting the land.  A steward of the land.  The deep-rooted history of a nation and a people.  A way of life.  It’s in his blood – in his family’s blood.  He was born to do this.  Born with an innate ability to communicate with an animal, to somehow know what they are thinking or what they need to help them along - a true, never wavering, respect for the animal.

When we met, I was enchanted - mystified, if you will.  The stories in books and the images on-screen didn’t come close to what this man lived each and every day.  He had a dusty old flat-hat and wore what I would come to know were chinks.  His hands were callused from the rope, but tender in his touch with me.

Growing up, he was fortunate enough to live in a place where some of the greats lived.  He soaked up their knowledge like a sponge.  They were gentle with him.  They recognized his eagerness.  Folks like Jack Swanson, who was always an artist, long before he had a brush in hand.  Bordering his family’s Pine Canyon Ranch was the Dorrance place.  His relationship with Bill was special - to them both - and beyond the scope of mentor or neighbor.  Bill was his best friend.  An 80-year-old man and a teenage boy.  He was privileged and honored.  Bill, along with his brother Tom and Ray Hunt are considered the “holy trinity” in the horse world.  They brought about a new way, a gentler way, of working with your horse – Natural Horsemanship.  Tom is also credited with creating the “wade” saddletree, which is used in just about every western saddle crafted today.  Although, he already knew it, after living with Bill for a summer, it was solidified – he would be a cowboy.  He would chase this life no matter where it led.

Paul's sister, Elissa, Bill and Paul at a branding on Pine Canyon 

After a couple of years at Cal-Poly and cowboy jobs in Nevada, the chase led him to the vast high desert of Oregon.  Where sagebrush and juniper bushes rule the land.  A million acres.  He had pictured it a thousand times when Uncle Brad regaled him with stories of his days there in the 70s.  He just had to see the ZX for himself.  He would take a camp job - sleeping under the stars, alone with the animals.  He loved everything about it – the freezing cold, the sweat, the pride and the respect he had to earn from both humans and animals.  Yes indeed, this life was the one he wanted.  The one he always yearned for.  He found it.

Uncle Brad from the book "The Cowboy"

Although still riding his horses, Bill’s health was declining.  Never one to bother anyone, he quietly checked himself into a nursing facility without discussing it with his family.  It wasn’t their decision after all.  When he heard the news, he came home for a visit.  Sitting in that room with his friend was more than powerful, it was overwhelming.  They chatted for hours – Bill only wanting to know about his travels and horses; he only wanting to thank him – to let him know what he meant to him.  Age never mattered in their relationship, but it mattered now.  He was losing his friend and mentor and he knew it.  A few hours after their visit, Bill passed.

Bill - with thanks to his son Steve for sending this

He was thankful he was able to let one of the men who helped shape him know what he meant to him as a cowboy and a horseman, but more importantly as a man.  Yet, it also reminded him of how much he loved his home.  He was a Californio.  A vaquero.  He stood on Pine Canyon Ranch that day, high above the Salinas Valley and knew it was time to come home.  Serendipitously, the call came upon his return to the ZX.  He would take his leave in Oregon and come home to Carmel Valley and Rana Creek Ranch.  A place he’d played at as a child.  A place he rode horses through the canyons with a middle school crush.  He was home. He would build his legacy here, among the men he admired:  the Askews, the Dorrances, his cousins - the Neuberts.

After dating for a year or so, we both came to the conclusion that there was more for him out there.  He was a talented cattleman now, not just a buckaroo.  He accepted a position in Oregon to run a 6,000-acre ranch.  I agreed to follow wherever his need took him.  Cowboys tend to have wanderlust in their hearts.  Who am I to deny it? 

For the first time, I was able to see his talents in action.  I watched as he rode wild colts, making them into trusty steeds.  I watched him gather hundreds of head of cattle, all by himself, and direct them to where he needed them to go.  I watched his tenderness while bottle-feeding newborn calves when their mother didn’t take to them.  I watched him triple the production of highly impacted dirt in one year’s time – making it more productive than it had been in 30 years. 

My admiration for him grew with each day.  Sadly, my disdain for his treatment by the owners did the same.  Would a simple “good job” be too much to ask for?  Only empty promises of the pay he was worth came.  Only expectations of another Thanksgiving or Christmas that would be worked with no regard for us came.  Only expectations of 18-hour days for months in the heat of summer came.  Had he done too good of a job?  Had he shown them that he would get the work done, with no help, no matter what, on every occasion where it now was biting him like his finely-tuned cow dog?

He was becoming a shell.  He no longer loved the life he chose.  It was now a job as opposed to a way of life. 

No one really makes money in this business anyway, we thought.  But, at least we’d be doing it for ourselves.  All the time, effort and endless days would be for us.  We decided to begin our quest to have our own ranch.  He could do what he loved every day – the spark would return.