Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell’s life.
Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.
Our final stop came into view. We’d traveled bend to bend. I wondered if the
forest road would ever have an end.
We’d planned this trip for several weeks to Yellow Jacket Station. The cabin was a
welcome sight, way back in God’s creation.
The woodstove warmed our cabin from the cold December air. But the bunkbeds
held no mattresses, just plywood laid out bare.
And then I got to thinking ‘bout the outhouse up the hill. It must have been near
fifty yards. I shook a shivered chill.
So, my wife warmed up the chicken stew she’d cooked the night before. I ate like
no tomorrow, didn’t know what lay in store.
Outside the night was closing in. I heard a coyote yip. I wondered, “Does he feel
the cold? The fall air bites a bit.”
My sleeping bag lay by the stove. I soaked in all the heat. And sleep was just a
blink away, a long day now complete.
But then, I’d say around midnight or somewhere there about, my stomach set to
growling, ‘cuz the stew was needing out.
I grabbed my boots and flashlight, and I rolled on out of there. I must have been a
silly sight, just boots and underwear.
The dash uphill with cheeks pressed tight met early morning sleet. But nothing
could deter me from the outhouse one-hole seat.
I sat for just a minute. Soon the privy felt like ice. Oh, how I missed my throne at
home, a comfy paradise.
I doubt the old-time rangers ever gave a second thought. They prob’ly thought
this outhouse was the finest money bought.
Then walking back, I pondered ‘bout those days of old frontier. I stoked the fire
and climbed in bed. I ain’t no pioneer.