The Rancher told me to head up the hill to deliver salt blocks. Simple enough, except he neglected to mention where the road was. Sometimes ranch work requires a little more figuring out than the directions suggest.
“Just head up the hill. It’s by the spring-fed water trough.”
Those were my directions for delivering salt blocks to the pasture as we turned out some cattle earlier this spring. Simple enough, except that while I had a general idea of where the water trough was, I had absolutely no idea how to get there.
This isn’t exactly an unusual situation for me. There are plenty of times on the ranch when I know what needs to be done but don’t necessarily know how to do it. Or, in this case, how to get to where I need to be. I like having a plan, preferably one with details, even if it’s just a few. Unfortunately, ranch plans often consist of little more than figuring things out as we go.
With a load of salt blocks, I headed toward the pasture in our rusty, trusty side-by-side, where I was supposed to meet The Rancher. I had been to the trough before, although it had been a while—a year or two, is all—but I felt reasonably confident I could recognize the area once I got there.
That confidence lasted until I drove through the gate.
Immediately, I realized I had no idea which direction to go. I looked around for tire tracks, knowing The Rancher had already driven through and figuring I could simply follow his path. But there weren’t any obvious tracks to follow. Undeterred, I pulled out my phone, hoping the map might show a road or at least help me pinpoint where the trough was located. That wasn’t particularly helpful either. There was barely even a cow trail to suggest which direction I ought to head.
I knew the trough was somewhere uphill, and I remembered enough of the country to have a general idea of where it might be. I also knew that sitting at the gate wasn’t going to get the salt delivered. So, after considering my options, I decided to see if I could find my own way up.
The hillside was brushy, rocky and steep, with tall weeds that made it almost impossible to see what was underneath them. There wasn’t much of a trail, which meant I had to pay close attention to where I was driving. I wasn’t interested in finding a hidden rock with the underside of the side-by-side.
I slowly worked my way uphill, looking for a route that seemed reasonably safe, or at the very least not unsafe. At the same time, I kept watching for signs of the spring. I figured the greener grass around the water would act as a sort of beacon. If I could find that, I would know I was headed in the right direction.
And true enough, I eventually spotted the trough. Better yet, I spotted The Rancher standing beside it, both nearly camouflaged by the overgrown weeds. I picked my way across the remaining hillside and pulled up beside him, feeling pretty good about having successfully reached our destination in one piece with all the salt still on board.
He was on the phone when I arrived, explaining why my call for directions had gone completely unanswered. Also, nothing new. I waited for him to finish his conversation, ready to unload the salt and get on with the job.
When he hung up, he looked at me and asked, “Why didn’t you take the road?”
The road?
I figured there was a perfectly good way to get to the trough, but I had managed to miss it entirely. I explained that I couldn’t find a road, so I had simply made my own way up the hill. Laughing to myself, I thought that, having not given me better directions or made himself available to help, The Rancher didn’t really have much room to criticize how I got there. He should just be thankful I did.
It wasn’t long before I had dumped my load of salt, he had the trough up and running, and it was time to head home. I figured I could either take my long, circuitous route home or follow The Rancher and learn the “right” way back. Having now traveled it, I would suggest that the term “road” was being used rather generously. Still, it was considerably easier than the route I had chosen.
The entire adventure probably took 15 or 20 minutes, maybe even less. It certainly wasn’t anything remarkable in the grand scheme of ranch work. We delivered the salt, nobody got stuck, and I learned where the road was for next time.
But I’ve thought about that little trip several times since.
I sometimes struggle with the uncertainty that comes with being given a job I haven’t done before. I want to do things correctly, and I don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of not knowing what I’m doing. There is a certain comfort in tagging alongside The Rancher, watching how he approaches a problem and following his lead. I’ve learned an enormous amount that way, and there is still plenty I need to learn.
But I don’t want to spend my ranching life as someone who simply rides along. I want to contribute, take on some of the responsibility and be someone who can be counted on to get things done. That means occasionally accepting a job without knowing every detail of how I’m going to accomplish it.
I wonder how often we hold ourselves back because we aren’t sure of the best way to do something. We wait for better instructions, more experience or someone who knows what they’re doing to show us the way. There’s value in being prepared and learning from others, but eventually we have to put what we know to use and trust ourselves to figure out the rest.
Of course, that doesn’t mean charging ahead without thinking. There are plenty of situations where guessing your way through a job would be dumb or downright dangerous. Knowing when to stop and ask for help is important. But sometimes we know more than we give ourselves credit for.
I didn’t know where the road was that day, but I knew where I needed to end up. I could recognize the country, look for signs of the spring and choose a route that seemed safe. It wasn’t the most efficient way to get there, but it was enough to get the job done.
Next time I head up that hillside, I’ll take the road. I know where it is now, and I see no reason to fight my way through the brush again. But I’m glad I made that first trip. I learned a little more about trusting my own judgment, and I got the job done without having someone show me every turn. Besides, if The Rancher wants me to take the road next time, he might consider telling me where it is.
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