Anniversary
Copyright© 2026 by Vonalt
Chapter 6: My New Home for the Season
I was finally able to find my way to the ranch after getting myself lost several times. I drove up to a circle of buildings that made up the ranch complex. I shut the engine off, dropped the kickstand, and climbed off the bike.
I saw a big barn with a corral beside it and several outbuildings while looking around. There was also what I took to be a bunkhouse, the house where the owner lived, a building that looked like an activity center, and a semicircle of what I guessed were guest cabins.
Several expensive cars were parked in front of the semicircle of cabins. I identified a Cadillac SUV, a Land Rover, a Mercedes SUV, and several cars that I had no idea how to identify. They all looked expensive, far more than I would be able to afford in my lifetime.
Some college-aged kid with an attitude came over and said, “Can I help you find where you were going? This is an exclusive guest ranch, not a public campground.”
I oh-so wanted to punch him in his preppy nose, but I restrained myself. I said, “Would you tell the owner that the doctor he hired is here?,” instead.
The punk college kid folded in on himself when I identified myself by my title. I just knew that this was someone I would be having problems with in the future.
I looked around more closely while the kid ran off to wherever he was going to report that I had arrived. I also noticed several school-type buses painted bright red with the name ‘Tuttle Guest Ranch and Horseback Tours’ on the side in addition to what I saw during my initial once-over.
I thought that ‘Tuttle was a name out of a 1950s Southern hick farmer movie’. Yet no one was responsible for their surname; that was predetermined at birth.
I looked over at the huge old farmhouse and saw the rancher who had hired me coming toward me. He held out his hand when he got closer, and wore a smile that stretched from ear to ear across his sun and windburned face.
“I forgot to introduce myself at the Mexican joint the other day. My name is Cletus Tuttle, and my wife, who I see is coming to join us, is Edna. We’re so glad to have someone who shows responsibility and maturity joining us. I am so tired of the whiny kids the university sends us,” Mr. Tuttle said.
“So, have you eaten yet, Dave? Edna’s got some killer venison BBQ on the stove, along with some roasted potatoes and carrots. Interested in joining us?”
I started walking along beside Mr. Tuttle when it hit me. How did he know my name? I hadn’t given it to him. I began to think twice about taking the job and started coming up with excuses why I couldn’t work for him.
Seeing the look of shock on my face, Mr. Tuttle said, “Relax. I knew who you were the moment you sat down beside me at the diner. I figured that you might need a place to hide out from the feds and that drug cartel. I do read the papers and watch CNN on the satellite. I can’t stand those foreigners bringing in that poison that’s killing our people. I dislike the feds almost as much. Remember how they messed up at Ruby Ridge and Waco?
“It’s gotten to the point where you have to be responsible for your own safety and not listen to any false promises coming out of Washington. That’s why I offered you the job. Plus, I think that you have the smarts to help run our operation. I’m tired of some nineteen-year-old telling me that he knows better. We need someone to assist who knows the real world and is good with numbers.”
Edna joined us as we walked back toward the house and said, “I’m glad you decided to come join us, Dave. We need more adults instead of children here to run the operation. Now let’s go in and eat. I’m sure that you have a ton of questions to ask, and it will give us a chance to get to know each other better.”
I learned a lot about the Tuttles and their operation over supper. First of all, they were more than just simple ranchers. Put Mr. Tuttle in a suit, and he could captain any Fortune 500 corporation. He was a shrewd businessman. He had turned a losing ranch that was close to bankruptcy into a thriving, tourist-centered operation; a five-million-dollar gravy train.
They offered a tame outdoor experience for city people who wanted a taste of ranch life without giving up creature comforts. The Tuttles provided the typical dude ranch activities; horseback riding, trail rides, and hands-on cattle work for inexperienced city dwellers. Guests came for a week, stayed in individual air-conditioned cottages, and were thoroughly pampered.
The food prepared for them was typical ranch fare, served in generous portions, as the guests were run ragged from dawn to dusk, and paid quite handsomely for the experience. There were also optional activities held in a building that doubled as the chow hall, for guests and crew.
It was crazy, but many of the ranch’s guests were repeat customers who returned yearly to experience the same outdoor activities, work themselves to exhaustion, and call it relaxation.
The Tuttles were smart enough to run several side operations in conjunction with the guest ranch. They offered horseback rides to interesting local sights, such as Indian village ruins and other historical and scenic locations. These operations were almost as profitable as the ranch itself.
One of the more popular and lucrative activities for ranch guests and outside clients who signed up was the weekly horse rides followed by chuckwagon dinners held at the ranch on Fridays. Everyone would meet out by the corral and be matched with a horse they felt comfortable riding. They would then go for a half-hour ride around the ranch before being led to the chuckwagon, which was parked at a location not too far from the ranch house complex.
Guests would tie up their horses to a hitching rail there, and get in line for a meal of baked beans and cut-up hot dogs, corn on the cob, a roll, and coleslaw. The real draw was eating off a tin plate and drinking cowboy coffee or lemonade from a tin cup. They served brown betty for dessert. The public loved it, and the Friday night meals were booked solid for the entire season.
The Tuttles had definitely found the goose that laid the golden egg.
The role the Tuttles hired me for was managing the daily operations. I was to handle guest issues and problems with the staff. I didn’t know it at the time, but the ranch’s payroll included over fifty employees. Along with the college kids handling daily cabin cleaning and helping guests get where they needed to be, there were ramrods who worked with the horses and handled regular ranch duties, a farrier who cared for the horses, drivers who managed the buses, and kitchen staff who prepared meals and cleaned up after the guests ate.
If there was a problem or a guest who I couldn’t appease, then, and only then, was I to involve Cletus.
The ranch staff lived either in town or in the two bunkhouses on the ranch. They were segregated by sex, and behavior on the ranch was closely monitored. Any infraction of ranch rules resulted in immediate termination; there were no second chances. Turnover unfortunately was high among the college-age crowd.
I would need ranch-type clothing to better fit in at my position as ranch foreman, according to Mr. Tuttle. He told me not to worry, that he would take me to the ranch store in the morning to get the appropriate clothing, the cost of which would be deducted from my wages.
Cletus chuckled as he told me this while we stood up so he could show me the ranch and where I would stay. I don’t think I was supposed to hear his comment to Edna that “We’ll make him a cowboy no matter how bad it hurts him, even if it kills him.” I thought to myself, “What did I sign up for?”
I was asked to move my motorcycle in front of where the trucks were parked in the barn after a tour of the ranch complex. My bike would be safe there and hidden from prying eyes. I gathered my belongings and followed Cletus back toward the house. I assumed that I would take a bunk in the male bunkhouse, so I was surprised when I was led back to the main house and shown a bedroom at the front of the house. The room I was to occupy had formerly been the bedroom of the Tuttle son who was killed in the Middle East.
I followed Cletus out onto the front porch after dropping my bike gear in the bedroom, and joined him and Edna, who were sitting and rocking, observing the guests’ comings and goings. It was like watching ranch hands trying to herd cats.
Listening to Edna and Cletus, I learned that the guest sessions lasted from Sunday afternoon until Saturday morning, and each guest paid $1,600 for the privilege of playing cowboy and living in the guest cottages. That included all activities and food for the week. The usual session averaged fifty guests per week. The pay for the workers, the supplies, and the food the guests ate, came out of that $1,600.
Guests paid $75 each for the Friday night chuckwagon experience, which brought in an additional $2,000 a week. The Tuttles were making money, but they weren’t going to get super-rich. I thought that they could raise their rates and still get the same bookings while earning more, but that wasn’t my decision, so I didn’t say anything.
It was Wednesday night, so there was a campfire circle in front of the guest cabins. The crew had built a huge pile of wood, which they would light at dusk so that the guests could be entertained. Everyone would be entertained by singing cowboy songs, popping popcorn over the fire, and later making s’mores with marshmallows roasted over the flames, with the night’s activities ending in the telling of a ghost story.
Singing cowboy songs, eating freshly popped popcorn, and making s’mores was fun, and brought back memories of summer camps past. The ghost story was, admittedly, a bit corny. Still, for the guests, it was a good evening. I noticed that the Tuttles had left before the ghost story, and most of the guests headed off to the cabins around 9 PM.
The staff assigned to clean up quickly went about the task and finished in less than fifteen minutes. They also left, leaving me sitting alone in front of the fire’s dying embers. I stayed out there until almost 11 PM, watching the fire burn itself out and gazing at the night sky, hoping to see some shooting stars. I was in bed just after 11 PM.
It seemed that I had just drifted off when Cletus came pounding on my door. I glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table; it was 4:30 AM. Cletus hollered that he had let me sleep in since I was new, but I was wasting valuable time in bed and making him late.
I was up, dressed, and stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen fifteen minutes later. I just had enough time to burn my mouth on a scalding cup of coffee and grab an egg sandwich to take with me as I followed Cletus out the door. He led me to the dining hall to check on how things were going. He greeted several people by name and introduced me as his new assistant. Most of the guests smiled at me and made comments about how it wouldn’t take long for me to get used to the day’s schedule. Cletus would just grunt, look at me, and say, “Hah!”
From there, we headed to the machine shed to get one of the trucks. I was informed that we were heading to town. Cletus backed the truck out of the shed after letting the powerful diesel engine warm up. I stood well back so that I wouldn’t get run over. Once he had the truck moving, he hollered at me, “Get a move on! You’re costing me daylight.”
The ride into town was a forty-five-minute drive to St. George. Our first stop was the feed store, where Cletus placed an order for cattle and horse feed for the fall season. Another reason that he wanted me to ride along was to introduce me to the guys at the feed store, so that they would know who I was if he sent me into town alone to order supplies for the ranch.
We were there for about half an hour while he and the men loafed around the store, solving the world’s problems for the president.
Cletus kept checking his watch and finally told me it was time to leave, as the farm store would be opening soon. I sleepily followed after him, hearing the comments behind me wondering where old Cletus had found this one. That did wonders for my self-esteem.
We drove a few blocks and ended up at the farm supply store on the opposite edge of town from where we had come in. Cletus hopped out and quickly walked into the store. The parking lot was already full of pickup trucks at this ungodly early hour. It was the same inside; people were everywhere, picking up bags of feed, looking at machinery parts, and crowding the special-order counter to request parts for long-discontinued tractors or farm implements.
Cletus walked past the people in the various departments, shouting out greetings to some and waving at those too far away to call out to. We walked all the way to the far back wall where Cletus stopped at the cash register and motioned for me to hurry over. I looked around and didn’t see another soul in that part of the store. What did he want me to do, hurry up and wait, or what?
We stood there for what seemed like hours, until an old lady came waddling down the aisle, wearing a name tag on her Western-style shirt that proclaimed her as Marge. She looked at Cletus and smiled.
In a raspy voice that betrayed years of heavy smoking, Marge said, “What can I do for you, Cletus? You come to run off with me like you used to promise back in high school?”
I snorted at that comment, and Cletus turned and glared at me. I settled down, kept a neutral expression, and didn’t make another sound.
“He,” Cletus said, pointing at me, “Needs a complete kit, right down to his underwear. Outfit him and charge it all to my ranch account.”
“You,” Cletus said, again, pointing at me, “Will stay here and not wander off anywhere. Let Marge outfit you. I will be back to get you shortly. Don’t make me late as we have a lot of stops to make.”
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