In early June my dad drove me up the dust-choking unpaved roads of rural Montana to meet the Mannix family and kick off my summer job as a ranch hand. When we arrived, introductions and small talk were made in the yard outside the house, and, though some big lightning scarred cottonwoods provided shade for the old two-story clapboard house with its screened-in porch, we were gathered near the car in the blazing hot sun.
I was 14 and my dad thought working on a ranch would be “good for me.” It was the life he knew growing up, and he wanted me to experience it too. I was never sure if his intention was to motivate me, punish me, or just find out if I had what it takes to survive, but I knew he thought we would both learn something if I spent a summer on a ranch.
