Wrangle with care
Reprinted from The London Daily Telegraph

Richard Grant sees his teenage daughter only once or twice a year, so he faced a double challenge on their Colorado ranch holiday. He managed to keep his horse happy, but how would he get along with Kezia? Photographs by Margot Harter

We've had a long drive through the mountains from Denver and she's tired and jet-lagged and a long way from anything that looks or feels normal. Now, at the end of an unpaved road in the middle of nowhere, with a big. black evil-looking storm blowing in across the ridgetops, she has to put away Harry Potter, work her feet back into her shoes, heave a sigh, get out of the car and deal with ... 'Ohmygod!'

There are two men walking towards us across a manicured lawn in high-heeled boots, tight highwaisted jeans and big hats. One has his jeans tucked into the top of his elaborately stitched boots and a thick, bristling handlebar moustache and my 13-year-old English daughter is staring at him with astonishment and alarm. The men couldn't be nicer. They shake our hands, take our bags. welcome us to Smith Fork Ranch, introduce us to a charismatic young labrador, Ruger (named after the handgun maker), and show us to a log-cabin suite with plush feather beds and a bowl of freshly picked cherries on the dresser. Kezia eyes the men warily until they leave. Then the questions come tumbling out of her: 'Why are they dressed all weird? Why has that man got that silly moustache? Ohmygod. did you see their jeans? Don't they know how funny they look?

That's how cowboys and ranch people dress in America: I say. 'Haven't you ever seen a Western?

'What's a Western?

'A film with lots of men riding around on horses wearing big hats and shooting guns at each other.'

'Oh yeah, really boring, I always change the channel.' She flops back on the bed. kicks off her shoes, arranges the pillows into a nest, sprawls back and looks around the room: a leather reading chair with a hairy cowhide trim, a portrait of a trout on the wall, a framed magazine cover of a man shooting at birds - and no television set. This place is weird: she says. 'Why do you call it a ranch-thingy?'

'A dude ranch?' Because cowboys call tourists "dudes" and this is a ranch where tourists dress up like cowboys. ride around on horses and halfpretend they're in one of those boring movies.'

'

From top wranglers take a break during a ride out to a backcountry camp; the original log ranch house is now a five-room lodge for guests; cowboy Chuck Gunther instructing guests in the art of calf roping.

Why? she asks. 'Because it's fun: I announce confidently, never having been to a dude or 'guest ranch' before. I hang my own cowboy hat, a handsome brown beaver-felt Resistol. on the peeled-log bedpost and my daughter curls her lip at it. 'God, you're going to wear that. aren't youT she says. 'Do you have to?

'Look: I say. The sun here isn't like the sun in England. It can give you heatstroke which makes you feel sick and dizzy and can put you in hospital. But not if you wear a hat, bccause it keeps your head in the shade. If this storm blows through and it gets hot again [Colorado has just gone through a freak heatwave with temperatures over 40 degrees and more than a dozen heatstroke fatalities], you'll have to wear some kind of hat. a baseball cap at least.'

'But I hate hats: she groans. 'I look retarded in hats.'

'Better hopc it stays cool and cloudy, then.'

'But I want to get brown.'

I have a lot to learn, and not much time and the subject is famously challenging: how to get along with your teenage daughter and, more specifically, how to get her to enjoy herself when all her friends are 5,000 miles away and there is no television and no shops. There must be tricks, insights, strategies born of close observation and trial and error that full-time parents know about but I am a part-timer, an absentee father who has lived on the other side of the Atlantic since she was born.

We see each other once or twice a year, communicate by phone and computer, and every two or three years we go on holiday together. The last time was Paris when she was 11 and full of curiosity and enthusiasm to explore the city, sketch it in her journal, take photographs of it and befriend its waiters, chocolatiers and dogs. Now she's about to turn 14 and what excites her curiosity and enthusiasm these days, as far as I can tell happens within teen pop culture and her circle of friends, and it is certainly not the prospect of dinner with a group of strangers in the wilds of Colorado.

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing out her long blonde hair, leaning in to put on her make-up, when all she reaally feels like is curling up with Harry Potter and a bar of chocolate. She comes out looking very grown up and very beautiful and I tell her so and she smiles an uncertain smile. Then she inspects hersclf,in a different mirror and decides her hair's gone spazzy but I won't hear a word of it and march her out the door to dinner and the last few minutes of happy hour.

These activities take place in a big, long, openwalled pavilion built from giant spruce logs and hung with elk-antler chandeliers. At one end is a bar with a 20-page wine list and a well-chosen selection of spirits and beers. At the other end is a telescope for viewing deer, elk and bear on the opposing mountain and a table laid out with local artisan cheeses. There stand the guests and as we walk towards them I get a vivid flashback of being 13 myself and how awkward and difficult it could be to make conversation with grown-up strangers.

Larry Vaughn, a well-groomed, middle-aged black man from Chicago, has a glass of Jack Daniel's in one hand, an unlit cigar in the other and a slightly abstract way of expressing himself that Kezia finds almost impossible to understand: 'K-E-Zee-I-A? Well all right, I like that name and uh, welcome to the old colony, right? Not that the British were out here as far as I know but correct me if I'm wrong. So uh, not that you neccssarily of course but, hey, the Beatles, right?

Larry is here with two old friends and drinking buddies: a smooth, dignified black sportscaster named Jesse and a wisecracking white guy with a twirly moustache. Then we meet a very blond family from North Carolina whose accents sound like music to me and like weirdness to Kezia: the relaxed, friendly, good-humoured Balchin family from Fleet, Hampshire, with two I3-year-old stepsisters called Sophie: a tightly wound couple from Massachusctts who are doing their best to relax. Then there is a flect of incredibly attentive and personable waiters, waitresses, chefs and bartenders and finally our hosts. Marley and Linda Hodgson.

Marley used to live in New York and designed and manufactured high-end leather goods. He found himself spending too much of his life in business meetings. sold everything, bought the dilapidated Smith Fork Ranch and sank a small fortune into renovating it. Wherever you turn, there are Western antiques and Indian artefacts. handmade furnishings and fixtures, and everything feeds into the ambience of rustic elegance. 'We want you to feel like personal guests at our private ranch:

Marley says. 'Hopefully you'll join us on an overnight camping trip into the mountains and maybe tomorrow you'd like to have dinner with us.'

Tonight my slavering hunger falls on to an cxquisite tenderloin of beef with wild mushrooms and brandy sauce, which Kezia scems to enjoy almost as much as I do. By the time dessert comes out (a concoction of local berries and homemade ice-cream) she is looking happier and more relaxed. When the two men in full-blown cowboy outfits reappear, asking the guests if they want to ride or fly-fish tomorrow morning, instead of looking freaked-out she dissolves into a helpless fit of giggles.

The next morning, after a resplendent breakfast of fresh and perfectly ripe fruit, house-smoked bacon, elk sausage, local organic eggs and dark, rich coffee, the Chicagoans head down to the river with a fly-fishing guide and the rest of us assemble at the horse corrals. It rained in the night. the weather is pleasantly cool with broken sunshine and we're all wearing hats save one.

The wranglers lead out the horses and Kezia starts ooh-ing over a golden-maned palomino but one of the Sophies gets her and Kezia is assigned a paint (piebald) horse called Peppermint for the week. I know even less about horses than about teenage girls but Peppermint seems calm and willing and an invaluable ally to my cause. Kezia has zero interest in the other activities available at Smith Fork - fishing, river rafting, archery, skeet shooting, hiking, frisbee golf or the local scenic attractions - but she likes riding. She knows how to trot and canter but she's used to 'riding English', as the wranglers call it. 'Don't worry, girl. we won't hold it against you: says Barry, a wiry, toughlooking, seriously weathered character with reflectivc sunglasses and a hawk feather in his hat, originally from Louisiana but now leading a migratory life on dude ranches in Wyoming, Colorado and Arizona. The English saddle, he says, is designed for precise, stylish riding over short distances and the Western saddle, like the front scat of a Cadillac, for comfort over long distances. Instead of posting up and down with the trot. you sit back into it.

Kezia's not sure about Barry. There's something unsettling and deeply foreign about him: for one thing, no one's skin gets that leathery in England. But she takes an instant liking to the other wrangler, a young woman called Margot with long, curly hair, glasses and a loud, pealing, irresistible laugh. Margot starts chatting away to Kezia about horses and clothes and this and that and Kezia starts chatting back.

My mount for the week is a larger paint called Sundance. I swing into the saddle and walk him around and he emits a series of long, deep, throaty groans. like a man with a catastrophic hangover trying to get out of bed in the morning. The wranglers tell me not to take it personally- 'he'sjust a groaner' - and give me and the other beginners some basic riding instruction. Then we all file out with Margot in the lead, Kezia behind and me in third position, enduring Peppcrmint's blasts of wind and thinking to myself: heels down, keep the weight in the back pockets of your jeans, lean forward going uphill. I can back going down, what was it really like to be 14 and how different is it for girls?

We splash across a shallow river, then climb a trail Ieading up through oak forests into pines and ethereal glades of silver-barked aspens. Deer bound away from us and in places you can see where bears have raked their claws on the aspens. Ieaving long dark scars in thc pale bark. After two hours or so we reach an area of loose rocks on a saddle between two high peaks and dismount for a rest before turning around.

'How's Peppermint apart from being farty? 'She's all right: grumbles Kezia. I ask her what's wrong and she says, 'It's all steep. It makes me nervous and there's nowhere to go fast. Can't we go somewhere flat?

'Look where we are, Kezia.'

'I know. I hate mountains. They're useless for riding and I'm hot and my jeans are all sweaty and these boots make my feet look massive.'

'All right, that's enough. You sound like you're trying to win a whingeing contest. Let's just make the best of it, shall we?

She looks hurt. shocked, unjustly accused. As if she weren't contending with enough, now her dad's snappy with her. Her mood darkens further and continues all the way down the mountain and into our room, where she flounces into bed with Harry Potter and curls up with her back to the world.

What to do? Here's where I need experience and skills. Should I heap on sympathy and reassurance or just leave her alone and hope it passes? Should I be firm and say I won't stand for it or light-hearted and try to gently tease her out of it? In the end I give her half an hour, then say it's time for dinner like nothing has happened. Over the shaved fennel and artichoke heart salad I try to strike a soothing, optimistic tone and by the time dessert arrives I've got her about halfway cheered up but it feels like I'm driving in a foreign country with no road map.

In the morning, walking down to the horse corrals for another mountain trail ride, she sees Barry walking up towards us and shoots him a sour look. He gets right up in front of her, puts his hands on his skinny hips and says. 'Don't you look at me like that. Iittle girl. You better smile when you see me. How old are you anyway?

Thirteen.'

'I got a daughter back in Louisiana who's the exact same age. Her name's Kaylee. I probably see her about as often as you see your dad and it's hard. I miss that little girl so bad. I know everything can seem kinda poopy when you're 13 but I'll bet you can still have some fun with your dad and the horses and the rest of us. Think you can do that?'

'Yeah: she says and gives him a slightly chagrined smile.

'Barry: I say. 'Is there any way you could take us to do some faster riding on flatter ground?' He says. 'Well, we're not real well set up for flat ground around here but we can probably figure something out. Why don't you meet me down by the corrals at 4.30 this afternoon?

Now it's my tum to be nervous. Walking a horse up or down a mountain trail doesn't bother me but the only time I went fast on a horse a foot came out of the stirrups. my tenderest parts got comprehensively hammered and it was a miracle I didn't fall off. At the appointed hour Barry brings out Sundance and Peppermint and takes us over to a dirt road parallel to the river. We begin with the Western trot. Kezia is bouncing up and down like me and Barry says, 'See, you've got to that English posture. Don't need to be sitting up so proper. Slouch down a little in the saddle. There you go, baby girl. Beautiful. All right, are you ready to go faster?

He kicks his horse and takes off into what the English call a canter and Americans call a lope. We do the same and Barry looks over his shoulder and sees me hanging on to the saddle horn for dear life and yells, Try switching the reins from one hand to the other and back again.'

So I do and in that instant when I have to let go it feels like I'm going to launch off the horse and nail myself head-first into a tree but I keep my feet jammed down in the stirrups and my backside stays more or less in the saddle. Kezia, by contrast, is completely relaxcd, fluid and graceful with her hair streaming out behind her and a big smile on her face. 'You look good, baby girl!' yells Barry. 'Now pull her back into a trot and we'll turn around and go again:

So it goes for the next 40 minutes. When we get back to the corrals I'm in considerable pain but Kezia is bubbling over with excitement - 'Ohmygod that was so fun, that was the best' - and Barry is laughing and complimenting her. On the way up to the cabins she says, 'I don't know why I didn't like Barry at first. He's so nice and he's really funny, too. He keeps calling me "baby grrrl"!'

Above outdoor guide Mark Barnett Jr shows off a freshly caught Colorado Rainbow trout. Below Kezia and her father join the Balchin family on a trail ride.

It took some persuasion, mainly by Margot and Barry, who seem to have more influence over her than I do, but she has agreed to go on the overnight ride and camp-out, despite the fact that she hates ants. spiders and everything else that creeps and crawls, and she hates camping, although she used to love it when I took her on a camping trip in Arizona when she was younger.

We set out on a long, steep, uphill trail but she has been riding in the mountains every morning and every afternoon for nearly a week now and has come to love it. The weather is bright and sunny and the sky is taller and wider and a deeper shade of blue than one ever sees in England. Luckily for Kezia, it's not hot enough for compulsory hats.

After three hours' riding we reach a series of high alpine meadows stirrup-deep in wildflowers of every colour imaginable and stop in one of them for lunch. At the far end of the meadow, as we sit on fallen trees munching sandwiches, a young cinnamon-coloured bear appears and gambols through the flowers to a stream. A few moments later Kezia leaps to her feet with a shriek

and everyone panics. She points down at a lone wasp on the ground. 'Did it sting you? I ask. 'No but I hate wasps: My impulse is to say 'Get over it' but I know that won't help and before I can think of something else to say she's gone over to Margot who's ready with the sympathy and reassurance.

We mount up and ride through higher country where patches of August snow melt into rushing creeks and the views extend for 60 and 70 miles. Then we make a long, winding descent through pines and aspens to our campsite on the banks of a stream in a high valley. We're all tired, dusty and sore after nearly six hours in the saddle and all agreed that it was well worth it. I climb down a cutbank to the stream with Kezia, take off my boots and socks, cool my aching feet in the water and persuade her to do the same. Then I strip to my boxers and submerge completely in the cold water,

with deep satisfied groans. My daughter is looking at me in a way she has never looked at me before and I realise she is mortified with embarrassment, even though no one else can see me. Later she will tell me my behaviour was mad, weird and dorky.

Marley and Linda have come up in advance with laden pack mules and a crew of staff who have set up tents for us and air mattresses to sleep on, and a dining tent with a table and chairs and a selection of wines to accompany the buffalo short-ribs for dinner. Afterwards we all stay up late telling stories and jokes around the campfire. Kezia is having trouble staying awake but there's no way she's going over to that tent in the dark by herself.

Finally the party breaks up and we lie down to sleep. I drift off to the sounds of the river, the melancholy clanging of bells on the grazing mules, the swaying rhythm of the horse still in my hips and then a torch snaps on and I hear the shrill voice of panic: 'Ohmygod, it's a spider!' I pick up my boot and ... 'No, don't kill it!'

When she was younger I loved her just as much but I was more impervious to her moods. Now I find I can't enjoy myself unless she's enjoying herself, too. If she's feeling grumpy or sour, the most delicious food loses its savour, the finest wines taste ordinary, a landscape that would normally take my breath away seems barely worth a glance. And at a moment like this, in the long dusk of our final day at Smith Fork Ranch, watching her run around a field flinging a frisbee with the wranglers and the other guests, looking as joyful and radiant as I've ever seen her, I well over with pride and happiness and nothing else in my life seems to matter.

Now the call goes out from the wranglers to mount up for the last time. We ride our horses back to the corral and then it's time to say our goodbyes. 'Ahmoan miss you, baby girl. It's been a real special thing we've had here and you better make sure your dad brings you back next year: With that Barry gives her a big hug and afterwards he has to sniff and wipe his eyes, doubtless thinking of his own daughter, and puff and blow to regain his composure. Tomorrow it will be my tum. We have done so many good byes and they don't get easier.

On the way back to Denver airport we talk it over and marvel at how nice all the people were, staff and guests alike, and how camping wasn't so bad after all and neither was riding horses in the mountains. And measuring the good times against the bad times, we judge the holiday to be a resounding success. So naturally I find myself wondering what we should do next time.

'If you could design the perfect holiday for yourself,' I say, 'what would it be? She thinks for a few moments and says, 'It would be me and my friends and no grown-ups and lots of shops and we'd have lots of money and there'd be a beach with white sand and blue sea:

A&K Private Travel offers seven nights at Smith Fork Ranch from £2,900 per person on a full-board basis including international flights and transfers. Reservations: 020-7190 7750: abercrombiekent.co.uk

Telegraph Travel 4 February 2006

Contact: Smith Fork Ranch
P.O. Box 401, Crawford, CO 81415
Tel. (970) 921-3454 or Fax (970) 921-3475.
Email: reservations@smithforkranch.com