Pantless

Every once and awhile, I will post a story from my life as a National Geographic Photographer. This is the first of many true stories. Enjoy!

Years ago I was assigned to photograph a family branding in western Nebraska.  The ranch was located miles from the nearest town, so the family kindly invited me to stay at their house. 

The first morning, I woke to soft light coming through the window of my guest room.  A pre-dawn mist washed over the pasture where the horses were grazing. The sky was streaked with clouds and the sun was about to rise.

I grabbed my camera, raced down the stairs and out the front door, hoping to make it to the pasture ahead of the rising sun. As I reached the fence, a single horse came to me.  The sun rose and ignited a stunning mackerel sky.  It was perfection. As the magic melted away, I raised my arms and let out a grateful shout. 

Then I turned around.

Three cowboys leaned against a fence nearby, sipping coffee, and staring at the crazy lady from National Geographic. It was then that I realized I was wearing just a t-shirt and underwear.  I had been so excited about the light and the horses and the sunrise, that I had forgotten to put on my pants.

Pictures must be harvested when they happen, so humiliation sometimes comes with the job. Being lost in the flush of a fleeting moment is what brought me to photography and what keeps me enthralled.

I wish that everyone could have these moments—so consumed by what they love that they forget to put on their pants.

There is nothing quite like the messy joy of a family branding in the American West. It’s a wild and wonderful gathering of the generations for hard work and great food.  Branding day is bigger than any holiday for these families.

Grandparents arrived with pies and cheesy casseroles. Cousins ran around in cowboy hats, gleefully arresting each other.  Then all hell broke loose.

Cowboys on horseback appeared over the ridge, driving an unhappy herd of mothers and calves into holding pens. Once the gates were closed, ropes were spun with impressive accuracy as horsemen separated the bawling calves from their helpless mothers.

  One by one, calves were hauled to a roaring fire where other ranch hands quickly ear-tagged, castrated and applied a hot brand to their backside before releasing them back to their mamas. It was a sooty, noisy, well-orchestrated mess. 

Calf testicles were tossed into a waiting bucket.  They would later be breaded, fried up, and passed around—a challenge masquerading as a snack.

Yes, I did.

         At the end of the day, a little cowboy named Clint, wearing an enormous black hat that nearly swallowed his chubby face, approached me and, in his best seven-year-old-drawl, said,

“Wanna see me wrestle a steer?”

         I grinned and followed him.  He led me to a little black and white calf that probably weighed 50 pounds, and the sweaty wrestling began.  The calf never moved an inch. He just stood silently, looking at me with the eyes of a patient pet who had tolerated this routine many times before. 

When Clint finally gave up, I asked him the name of his calf.  He responded with one word.

“Michelangelo.” 

I was impressed.  Out here, far from any museum, this little guy had named his calf for one of the greatest artists who ever lived.  Great parenting, I thought to myself. 

Then Clint continued,

“I got some other ones back at the barn, named for the other Ninja Turtles.”

Clearly, I was the one who was out of touch. I’d forgotten about the cartoon characters that were so important to little boys.  I was introduced to Clint’s other calves— Donatello, Leonardo, and Raphael.