Thorne Wilder

As told by Thorne Wilder

There are some mornings when you can smell the weather before it even thinks about showing up.

This one hit me right in the nose iron and old water. The kind of smell that tells you the sky’s got opinions. I stepped out onto the porch, coffee in one hand, rag in the other, and looked west. Big, thick-bellied clouds already stacking like gamblers around a poker table, daring the sun to blink.

The air was warm, but not friendly.

The Ritual of Leather

I didn’t need a forecast. When your bones have been bent by winters and flash floods, you don’t ask the news. You ask your joints.

I set up outside the tack room under the overhang. Pulled out my saddle heavy with use, lighter where the leather’s rubbed slick from a thousand rides and uncapped my old tin of Fieldtex balm. Smells like memory. Kind of sweet. A little medicinal. Like a saloon and a doctor’s bag had a baby.

Now, most folks rush things. Spray it down, wipe it off, move on. But not me. When you’ve carried something through storms, over gulches, under stars you treat it with patience. That saddle’s held me up longer than some friendships. I rubbed the balm in slow, like whispering to it, brushing deep into every stitch and curve. That leather drank it up like it’d been thirsty for years.

The Sky Begins to Talk

Round about ten, I hitched up the flatbed with feed and rolled toward the lower pasture. Horses were restless wind always makes them weird. Like they know what’s coming, but can’t quite explain it.

I saw the clouds again. Bigger now. Lower. Mean-looking. I grinned.

A smart man might’ve sped up. But I wasn’t looking to outrun anything. Just had a job to do. I started tossing bales, one at a time, rhythm steady as a train. My gloves were slick, the air so heavy it felt like trying to breathe through a wet tarp.

Then came the first boom. Not close. Not yet. But the kind that vibrates in your ribcage like a warning bell.

Rain Hits

Most folks would’ve bailed. Gone back to the house, checked the radar, maybe made soup. Not me.

I kept tossing feed. The rain came down slow at first, like someone turning a faucet with a shaky hand. Then it let loose. Cold and direct. Soaked me inside a minute. My shirt clung like a bad decision. Hat brim poured water like a gutter.

But I didn’t move.

I just stood there for a second, face to the clouds, letting it all hit me. That kind of storm strips you down not just clothes, but thoughts, pride, regrets. You start thinking about people you haven’t talked to in years. About letters you never wrote. About songs you forgot how to play.

And you also think about how alive you feel, just standing in it. Not doing anything. Just being.

A Short Detour Into the Wind

Now, I ain’t saying I enjoyed the rain, but I didn’t fight it either. I finished feeding the last few horses they didn’t seem to mind the storm, just ate like they always do, tails swishing like metronomes.

On the way back, I took the long route through the cottonwoods. Roads turned to soup. Tires spun. I laughed. Out loud. Alone. Not because it was funny, but because it was real. This was the kind of day that reminded me why I stayed out here.

People think ranching’s about control. Truth is, it’s about surrender. The land doesn’t care about your schedule. The sky’s not interested in your opinions. You don’t manage the land you make peace with it.

End of the Day, Wet but Whole

Back at the barn, I stripped off my soaked shirt, wrung it out, and tossed it over a rail. I toweled down the saddle even though the overhang had protected it. I checked my boots. Still solid. Same with my hands rough, red, rain-streaked.

I didn’t talk much that evening. Just dried out slow by the fire. Ate stew with the crew. Someone mentioned a movie on the laptop. I waved ‘em off.

I grabbed my harmonica instead. Played a little tune that came to me during the storm. Nothing fancy. Just a few long notes tired, wet notes. But honest.

What I Remember Most

It wasn’t the thunder, or the wet boots, or even the saddle balm I’d rubbed in like prayer.

It was that moment, standing still in the storm, arms down, face up — feeling like the sky could take me if it wanted to, but choosing to let me stay.

Some days are about survival.

Others remind you why you bother.