A Sojourner’s Tale | Wyoming Ranch Life, Bird Dogs & Upland Dreams

I didn’t plan on arriving in Wyoming in March with grease under my nails and a prayer on my lips (okay, I always have a prayer on my lips), but that’s exactly how the map unfolded. Somewhere between “this will be a breeze” and “why is the check engine light on and the temperature gauge rising,” my trusty 30-year-old converted ambulance—home, office, and gloriously weird conversation starter—decided to audition for a medical drama. We had multiple episodes. Guest stars included: a tow truck driver named Buck, an overnight stay at a diesel shop parking lot in Spearfish SD, that will live in infamy, and me Googling 7.3L diesel troubles at 2 a.m. while whispering, “C’mon, girl, we were so close.”

But thanks to a U-Haul rental van and a lot of help from dear friends, we managed to make it. And the first breath I took on the high plains tasted like sagebrush and second chances.

Ranch-to-Table (and Occasionally, Dust)

I’ve landed at a ranch-to-table upland hunting lodge where the sunsets act like they own the place, and the to-do list reproduces while you sleep. Mornings here begin with my (decaf) coffee that could prop up a fencepost and end with the kind of silence that makes coyotes talk louder.

The “ranch-to-table” part is no joke. The chefs are magicians; they turn ranch-raised beef, duck, guinea, pheasant, and garden greens into plates that make hunters go quiet. Meanwhile, out back, I’m toggling between camera gear and cleaning kits, swapping a monopod for a mop, and learning which door hinges squeak loud enough to spook a pheasant two zip codes away. Luxury guest cabin today, content creation photos tomorrow, SOPs after that… and somewhere in there, a little time to breathe and stare at the way evening light turns the prairie gold.

The Rig That Could (Eventually)

The ambulance rig and I are now on speaking terms again. After our roadside couples counseling—read: a high-pressure oil pump, an IPR valve, ICP sensor, thermostat, tow, and it’s current illness requiring another thermostat, water pump, and either injector cups or a head gasket or head—repairs that cost more than I’m currently making (I’ve started calling it my rolling retirement plan)—we’ve agreed to stay together. There’s a thumbprint of engine grease on the headliner that I’ve decided to keep as a reminder: every good story starts with a detour. And for some reason, for the time being, I am meant to be here.

Inside, the rig is the definition of efficient chaos. Camera bodies live where IV kits used to be, and dog and hunting gear occupy the place defibrillator pads probably once called home. It’s weird. It’s perfect. It’s mine. And, at this point, the rig has logged enough nights in the shop to qualify for its own lodge membership—monogrammed robe, parking spot, unlimited drinks, birds, and all.

Totem & Phoenix: Field Notes

Totem and Phoenix have strong opinions about Wyoming. Totem believes every breeze holds sacred knowledge. Phoenix believes every breeze holds birds. They’re both right.

We’ve been stretching our legs early mornings at dawn and evenings when the sky turns that sherbet color you only get out West. Totem works with patience and elegance as if she were drawing calligraphy in the grass. Phoenix is the spark—an exclamation point in motion—running full out, happy with a grin that could sell drywall to beavers.

I’ve started carrying the camera on our runs to catch what’s true: the way their tails are happy and the split-second when scent turns into certainty and they lock down on point. Those micro-moments play better than any scripted ad—pure, unrepeatable, honest. They are so free and happy here with tens of thousands of acres of canyons and grasslands to explore. And while my heart strings fight the tug to flee to the aspen thickets of the north woods–the landscape I’ve known and loved most of my life–it is incredibly satisfying to watch the dogs working in the vastness of the grasslands.

Things I’ve Learned (So Far)

1. Wind has opinions. It does not care about your hair, your paperwork, or your carefully placed reflector.
2. Dust is glitter’s ranch cousin. It gets everywhere and somehow makes things look better.
3. “Just one more shot” costs thirty minutes. Minimum.
4. Ranch time is different. It’s either sunrise, high noon, or sixty seconds to golden hour.
5. Cast iron > everything. If you know, you know.
6. You can smell rain long before it arrives. And it smells like forgiveness.
7. Mud has modes. There’s “slick like butter,” “grab-your-boot and keep it,” and the terrifying “surprise ice rink in August.”
8. Dust is a lifestyle, not a substance. It’s in the lens caps, the coffee mug, the dog’s eyebrows, and somehow inside sealed Ziplocs and dry bags.
9. Rain changes the script in five minutes. One cloud and you’re skating through gumbo; the next, you’re sunbathing in a wind tunnel.
10. Carry a second pair of socks (and a sense of humor). The socks for your feet, the humor for explaining why you just slid past a gate like a penguin.
11. Tripods double as walking sticks. Especially when the trail turns to pudding.
12. Dog towels are currency. Clean, dry dog = better decisions. Damp, mud-painted dog = chaos agent with a tail.
13. Respect the ruts. If you see them, someone braver (or dumber) tried that road after rain. Learn from both.
14. Seal everything twice. Then accept that dust will still get in and call it “patina.”
15. Wildfires are real on the ranch. Have your kit ready with gloves, masks, shovels, a chainsaw, the water truck full, and a phone with a satellite signal to GPS the coordinates so the airplanes know where to drop the retardant.
16. Think survival all the time. You are an hour away from everything, including doctors, veterinarians, fuel, food, and mechanics.

Wyoming Weather’s Two Personalities: Mud & Dust

When it rains, the ground here doesn’t get “wet”—it gets sentient. The slick clay turns to a polite-looking gray ribbon that will yoink a boot clean off and then grin about it. I’ve learned to test a road–and cattle grates–with one tentative step, the way you might poke a sleeping dragon. The dogs skate, I shuffle, and we all develop a sudden respect for traction. I carry a trash bag to burrito-wrap tripods so they don’t come back looking like chocolate-dipped churros topped with powdered sugar.

Then the wind flips the coin, the sun returns, and the whole world turns to talcum. Dust becomes a roommate: in the rig, in the gear, convincing my iced coffee it’s a latte with “notes of prairie.” I now store cameras in dry bags, keep a tiny paintbrush in my pocket for dials, and accept that my keyboard will forever type with a faint crunch. Every drinking vessel now has a lid that locks down tight, Totem looks elegantly windswept; Phoenix embraces it fully and returns with the expression of a bandit who robbed a flour mill, and no matter how many top sheets and blankets I put on the bed, there is always a fine layer of grit on the bottom sheet.

A bucket of water and wipes for paws and a doormat live outside the rig (if it hasn’t blown away), an old towel inside the door, and a firm rule that camera bags only open upwind. It doesn’t beat the dust—but it does make the dust work for it.

Dreaming West: Preseason Reveries

In the quiet hours, my brain runs the preseason montage on loop. It goes like this:

A finger of dawn uncurls over the canyons, and the black hills and prairie wake in a hush. There’s a whisper of wings somewhere we haven’t looked yet. Totem stacks into a statue, Phoenix turns to stone beside her, and I hold the shutter like a breath. Sharpies and Huns lift like thrown confetti. The light catches just right, and the frame becomes a promise kept: dogs doing what they were born to do, land doing what it’s done forever, and me—lucky enough to witness and tell it true.

I’m sketching ideas for a series—stories stitched together from kitchen to kennel to cover. Portraits of the chefs who plate the land. Close-ups of the hands that mend the fence and tack the cinch. Slow-motion film of setters translating wind into art. And maybe, if Wyoming grants me the moment, a single feather drifting through backlit dust, visible only because the sun was in exactly the right mood.

The Work, the Weather, and the Why

There’s a particular kind of tired you earn on a place like this—equal parts miles walked, rooms turned over, and frames chased. It’s a good tired. The kind that makes sleep heavy and coffee holy. When I mop a floor, I’m thinking about the guest who’ll set their boots there and feel welcomed. When I frame a shot, I’m thinking about an old story told a new way. When I run the dogs, I’m thinking about bloodlines and breath and all the tiny invisible threads that tug us out into the grasslands or aspen thickets again and again.

I came here because I want to experience upland hunting in the West; to watch the dogs work the prairies for Sharpies and Huns. I didn’t plan on the housekeeping part, but that’s another story entirely, and truth be told, there is a certain satisfaction in the work. If I could make a living just upland hunting my Llews, I’d be doing it. Wouldn’t we all?

What’s Next

Next up: more conditioning runs, fine-tuning the photography and video gear, and scouting covers that feel like secrets. If you’re reading this from your own rig, from a porch swing, or from a cubicle where the wallpaper is your last good day in bird country—take heart. The season is coming. The dogs know it. The wind knows it. And somewhere up ahead, a moment is waiting to be seen.

A Note for Fellow Story Seekers

Stories like these are what I love to capture—whether it’s dogs on point, prairie light spilling across a lodge, or the small, honest details of working life out West. If your ranch, lodge, or brand needs that same storytelling through photography, websites, or content creation, let’s connect. Every frame is a chapter waiting to be told. Or, put simply: if you’d like your own story told with honesty and heart, I’d love to help.

Until then, from the ambulance-that-almost-could and the llewellins-who-will—
keep sojourning.

And hug your Llewellin Setter tonight.

Love, M.