I first saw his cowboy hat clearing the tops of the bushes. He was moving in my direction. Clearing the shrubs I saw a stately man, an older gentleman as it turned out. He wore an amply grown, white handle bar mustache and an heir of confidence. A light colored vest topped a darker long sleeved shirt, flannel, I supposed, given the briskness of the desert’s dawn. His long denim covered legs were punctuated by fine looking and well worn cowboy boots. Topping it all was what appeared to be his crowning glory, a well cut and very spiffy looking, ivory, cowboy hat.

“What kind of dogs are those?” his gravelly voice broke the morning’s silence.

“Part Boston Terrier, part Bassett.” I responded.

“Those are fine looking hounds, he said. I’ve had several Boston’s. A well tempered breed.”

During our exchange I learned that his was one of three big rigs parked next to us overnight, traveling together, headed for Colorado. The rigs, each costing more than my house, appeared to be more than well equipped. One pulled an elaborate trailer of mules, the other horses, and the third followed the two.

I wish I could convey in words the depth of my gratitude for being there at that moment – standing in the fog, chatting with a cowboy in the dawn’s new light, and for the opportunity to travel so freely. RV travel was new to my husband, Manuel and me.  It was our second trip from the east to the west coast and we loved taking our time and exploring our beautiful country.

So there I stood, savoring the moment, chatting under a streetlamp, in the middle of a parking lot somewhere in New Mexico – a cowboy, two dogs and me. 🐎