America is full of everyday, ordinary heroes. Our republic survives because of people
like them and here is the story of one.

It was a miserably hot Friday afternoon in September, and we were preg-checking cows.
We began the week gathering the high country of the Big Horn Mountains with the help
of ten guest cowboys. Four days and thirty miles later, we trailed the herd out the Little
Horn Canyon, and crowded them in the holding pens of the Dipping-Vat corrals. We did
our fall herd-health processing utilizing the sweat and enthusiasm of our guest cowboy
crew. They loved the western experience; we loved getting the job done.

Considering the day began in the high mountains at four o’clock that morning, I was
surprised to see guests eager to push cows up the alley at four o’clock that afternoon. I
was hot and tired of inhaling corral dust, when the last cow stumbled out of the chute. I
peeled my OB sleeve from my sweat-soaked left arm and said, “I am headed to the river
for a bath if anyone is interested.”

While the cook crew was preparing dinner at the chuck wagon, ten of us walked to the
Little Horn River for a redneck bath. The standard procedure was to strip to your shorts,
plunge into the freezing river, climb on the bank to soap up, and then leap into the river
one last time to rinse. Bath days are a dual treat for rednecks trailing cattle. Regardless
the days since the last shower, you feel sparkling clean in just thirty seconds, plus you
have the bonus of stretching a seventh day out of six-day underwear.

As wagon master for the outfit, I went first. I took off my hat, stripped to my shorts,
grabbed my bar of soap and made a screaming leap into the icy water. (I never will
understand how it can be so dang hot, yet the river is always freezing cold.) One second
underwater was all I could stand. I staggered into a knee-deep pool to lather up as
everyone plunged into the river.

Cowboys were gasping and splashing out of the water towards the bank when I saw
something amazing. Craig, a guest cowboy from Omaha, floated past me completely
submerged except for his face. His mouth and eyes were open, but he said not a word as
the current slowly pulled him towards the faster water. “Man, that guy is tough,” I
thought to myself. “There is no way I could stay in the water that long.”

Expressionless, Craig’s face slowly rolled underwater as his lifeless body did a threesixty
barrel roll in the current. As his face broke the water’s surface, he was wearing the
same open-mouth, blank stare as before. Drawing on my expensive medical education
and years of experience as a veterinarian I declared, “Craig looks dead.”

With lightning quick reflexes, my highly trained crew grabbed their hats and jumped into
the river to save Craig. (Keep in mind, rednecks are better at body recovery than search
and rescue.) Five bare-footed cowboys in their underwear, dragging a wet, seemingly
dead guy, also in his underwear, up a boulder strewn riverbank is not as glamorous, or as
easy, as it sounds. Other than his wrists, ankles and Fruit-of-the-Loom waistband, there
was no where to grab. When Craig’s face hit the dry dirt of the bank he was coughing up
water, thanks to the resuscitive effect of an atomic wedgy. If it weren’t for the cow
manure stuck to his forehead, and the bleeding scrapes on his knees where we bounced
him off the rocks, he looked like a size-14, unconscious Victoria Secret model
advertising cowboy thongs. Relieved, we watched Craig regain life, but to the trained
eye, it was obvious his six-day underwear wasn’t going to make a seventh day.

Craig survived the near drowning and extreme ribbing that night around the campfire.
We have a rule about being unconscious one day and then riding, so the next morning he
rode the final 12 miles to the ranch with me in the chuck wagon. Once back home in
Omaha, he was extensively examined by his doctor who could find no abnormalities
other than a hopeless addiction to the cowboy lifestyle.

Craig has been back a dozen times since his redneck baptism and has developed a sincere
appreciation for the dying profession of ranching. Although he lives in the mega-byte
world of Omaha, he doesn’t want to see yet another piece of America lost, so Craig has
become a ranching advocate. He has joined the grass-roots group “Guardians of the
Range” in their war against socialists, disguised as environmentalists, which are attacking
America’s original green economy---agriculture.

Consider these words a call-to-arms to mimic Craig; get involved. If you know it was
freedom and not government programs that led to the success of our great American
experiment you have an obligation to educate those ignorant of that fact. (There are
millions who view government as their momma, so there are plenty to educate.)
Remember, there are no monuments on the battlefield honoring moderates and innocent
bystanders. Be a hero. Stand for something.