When I was younger, I was fascinated with old-time Westerns. Whether they starred John Wayne or Clint Eastwood didn't matter. It was all about the adventure. The heroism and danger the films reeked of seized my fledgling imagination and filled my head with visions of wayward ranch hands and duels performed to the desperate beat of chiming clock towers. When my parents informed me that they had purchased a ranch in Wyoming on which we were going to spend our summer vacations, all of my younger self's dreams came true.

In the minuscule town of Chugwater, Wyoming, (populated by a staggering 250 citizens) I found a haven that surpassed even my wildest fantasies. The house in which we found ourselves was settled on an expanse of plain checkered with fields of cattle. On either side, large bluffs rose out of the ground, illuminated in shades of gold and orange throughout the day. We quickly settled in and a new world of imaginary opportunities awaited me.

Skillfully avoiding dangers apparent to a seven-year-old like myself, such as rattlesnakes and barbed wire, I navigated our ranch on my bicycle. I played "Silverado" and "Train Robbery," pretending that my bike was not a bike at all and instead my valiant steed. I collected rocks I had never seen before, scattered among the shallow ravines and yucca plants. I fished for minnows in a pond, played with salamanders from the cattle tanks, and searched for a peek of the raccoon who made a point of leaving his various paw prints in our barn.

The ranch was as much my mother's dream as it was mine. Since her childhood, she has also reveled in tales of the "wild west." My father joins her in admiration of its unique appeal and history. I recall the two of them fondly watching as our barn was built, fussing over the minute details to make certain it was absolutely as they envisioned. During our summers in Wyoming, my entire family was happy. I will never forget the sense of togetherness we shared and the amusing trials we had to endure (one time my miniature horse escaped and we had to search for him over a period of 2 days, for instance - we were triumphant and the noticeably ridiculous situation venerated as a family classic).

It is most likely these joyful memories on the ranch (fondly referred to as "Little Rose" by my mother) that are the reasons for my mental return there whenever I need help cheering up or feeling content. I also have many recollections of my parents being together there. It wasn't long after we had sold the ranch that they announced their pending divorce to me and my brother, making the ranch one of the few remaining monuments to their love. No matter where life takes me, I will always have the thoughts of the Little Rose Ranch to comfort and remind me of days in which I was truly content and carefree.