When I was a boy, my heroes were cowboys. Not the real ones, but the TV variety. I had a Roy Rogers lunchbox, and EVERY BOY in my “midwestern suburban wilderness” had a holster and six-shooter. We were Marshall Dillon and Buffalo Bill Cody. We were Lucas McCain and The Lone Ranger. We were cowboys who made our own rules and lived in the sweet freedom of the range until Mom called us home for dinner. Truth be told, horses are big and kind of scary and I’ve never even held a real gun, but I was a tough little cowboy back in the day.

As I grew, those childhood fantasies were packed away, never to see the light of day. The teenage years gave way to cars and girls and jobs. The dangers “waiting around the bend” were real. I hung up my holster and the dream of becoming a cowboy was covered in the dust of a forgotten trail. As an adult I learned that Trigger, Roy Rogers’s beloved horse, had been stuffed and placed in a museum. It seemed a fitting coda to my cowboy life. Over. Gone. Dead.

A few weeks ago, we took a trip to South Dakota. We had been there before, but this time we traveled with our three youngest grandchildren. Somehow seeing the Badlands through their eyes brought back memories of my cowboy days. From Sioux Falls to Mount Rushmore to Wind Cave to Custer State Park, with each new vista we were bathed in the beauty and majesty of God’s creation. The buffalo, elk, prong horn sheep and prairie dog sightings were spellbinding. Every mountain range and stream, every meadow and vast prairie carried us on to the next adventure. Experiencing these things this time, through the eyes of our grandchildren, added depth and wonder to my travels. I was “saddled up” once again.

The joy of experiencing the beauty and wonder of South Dakota was only surpassed by the pride in my grandchildren on the journey. The 7-year-old and 9-year-old, who as all sisters do, sometimes bicker and get on each other’s nerves. There is often some competition or some perceived injustice. “It’s not fair!” is a rallying cry for a persecuted 7-year-old. Little do they know that I am impervious to the eye-rolling and “death stares” I receive when handing down my judgments. My wife is usually Miss Kitty to my Matt Dillon and the little criminals take solace in her heart of gold. But without order, the West would truly be wild. Miraculously, there were no quarrels, no disagreements, or whining on our trip. I was able to keep my pistol holstered. Their joy was contagious. They were two of the toughest little cowgirls on the range. No complaints, no fear, no hesitation to climb the next hill or wade into the next stream. My prayer is that this newfound confidence will serve them well into the future.

My 12-year-old grandson was Chester to my Marshall Dillon. He was my trusted aide, my confidant, and my sidekick. And he was the only other male on our westward journey. Our job was to “take care” of the womenfolk. His confidence and thrill of the next challenge was matched by the care he afforded his younger cousins. At times, unsolicited, he took the hand of one of the girls to steady their gait on a particularly steep or treacherous path. He showed patience and tenderness beyond his age. He encouraged them and comforted them. He is a hero that the West had never before seen. My prayer is that someday he has a grandson who will be his hero as well.

The thought of a road trip to South Dakota seemed daunting. The hours in the van, the potential exhaustion, the likelihood of whining (mostly mine), the possibility of bad weather, and the expense, gave me pause. “Maybe we shouldn’t…” kept me awake a few nights prior to our trip. But the experience was transformative. The girls were braver than they have ever been before. Our grandson became a young man before our eyes.

And this old cowboy got to come along for the ride.

Peace,

Denis