Back in the saddle
Historic Saskatchewan ranch has been part of the family dating back to 1906
NEAR MAPLE CREEK, SASK.— To anyone else, this would be a rather relaxing sight. As the waning, Western sunlight warms the surrounding Cypress Hills with an orange glow, a single mare stands in a corral — patiently awaiting my arrival. As I make my way past the barn and the barbecue and a series of old wagon wheels, my pulse races.
But it’s not excitement that quickens my heart today, in this idyllic setting.
Stepping onto the loose soil of the corral, the horse lazily eying me as she gives her tail a little shake, my heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. Remembering a recent incident involving a horse, what I feel is pure, unfiltered fear.
I’m at Historic Reesor Ranch, a scenic spread of 1,538 hectares in the southwest corner of Saskatchewan. Reached by a series of unpaved “grid roads” that cut through a landscape straight out of a John Wayne movie, the ranch has been here since W.D. and Alice Reesor built a log cabin on the property — then still part of the Northwest Territories — back in 1906.
Arriving around mid-afternoon, I’m quickly introduced to Scott Reesor — a direct descendent of those original settlers, who now operates the ranch with his wife, Theresa. A feather in his cowboy hat and a droopy moustache above his wry smile, I soon see that Scott is quite the character.
Taking me for a tour, Reesor tells me that he was born in nearby Maple Creek and was brought here “when I was dried off — and I’ve lived here ever since.” When asked about day-to-day life on the ranch, he lapses into a bit of cowboy poetry.
Later, as we dine on fat steaks and baked potatoes, I hear more of his work, verses filled with stories of bucking broncos and newborn calves, and sun and rain and the pain of winter.
It all feels right, here in the truest heart of Canada’s cowboy country. A few dozen kilometres to the east, Fort Walsh National Historic Site commemorates the first headquarters of the Northwest Mounted Police — essentially the birthplace of the RCMP and an outpost of order in a previously lawless land.
Reesor, together with his wife, daughter and son-in-law, run a cow-and-calf operation, with the livestock raised and sold to other ranchers.
“Then they’re turned into good eatin’ for someone,” he explains.
But the story of today’s west — once a place where the wide open spaces seemed to stretch as big as the dreams of those who stabbed westward — is one of constricting opportunities.
Reesor says family ranches are becoming fewer and fewer at the expense of corporate operations and those that remain are being pressed to offer additional serves.
His ranch, for example, now offers horseback rides and country dinners and overnight accommodations, both in a bunkhouse and a handful of cabins.
It’s the riding that drew me here. Always a nervous rider, a few months back I had narrowly avoided being thrown from my saddle.
Riding in a line of other amateurs down a mountainside on a very large male, a wasp stung his backside and the horse bolted, my guide just managing to cut off his progress, angling me into a tree, which I held onto with a white-knuckle grip.
But between his slow gait and laid-back old country boy speech pattern, Reesor had a relaxing effect on me and, under his watchful eye, I agreed to give it another try. As we make our way toward my horse — comically named Bucket — I pepper Reesor with questions about safety.
“Well, we always hope we don’t have to bandage any wounds or bury anyone,” he says slowly, now with a mischievous halfsmile under that moustache.
Reaching the mare, I don’t get on — not yet. First, Reesor gives us a little time to get to know each other, handing me a bristly old brush and showing me how to groom with the grain of her hair.
“You always take care of your horse before you take care of yourself,” he says, like an old sage.
Perhaps picking up on my skittishness, the horse pulls away at first, jerking her head to the side, but soon settles down, even seeming to lean in toward my gentle strokes. I ask Reesor whether it’s me, or the horse, that’s more relaxed.
“A little bit of both, I’d say,” he replies, climbing up onto her back to show me a few tricks.
After a quick tutorial on “direct reining” — the easiest way to direct Bucket to turn left and right — and a couple other important instructions (like how to pull back and stop), Reesor pronounces me ready.
“Get up on her and get comfortable with each other,” he rambles. “There’s no need to be in a rush for anything.”
After a couple false starts, I begin to get the hang of it — the memory of that nasty wasp far from my mind as I trot around the coral, Bucket responding promptly and without fuss to my commands. My heartbeat slows, as the sun dips further, toward the hills. Somehow, it all feels right. As I reach the end of my lesson, the open range calls to me, all that cowboy country waiting to be explored, all those trails ready to be trod. Someday, I know, I will ride west — into the sunset. But today, I dismount, giving Bucket a firm pat, pleased with my progress — and happy to be back on the horse. Tim Johnson was hosted by Tourism Saskatchewan and Destination Canada, which didn’t review or approve this story.