A working ranch. Eight beds. Four hundred head.No spa, no signal, no schedule beyond the herd's. The porch faces west, the gate is open, and the nearest light after dark is nineteen kilometres away.
Ask for datesto the nearest neighbour. You'll see their light. Once.
to town. One shop, one bar, a post office open Tuesdays.
of signal past the cattle grid. The landline works. Nobody calls.
head, and the eight of you. That's the ratio.
Ride out with the hands at six, or don't. Walk to the ridge, or don't. Nothing here is a programme. It's a place, and you're on it for a while.
Same ranch, same table, same sky. The difference is how much of the work you want to see.
The old hands' quarters, now one room with a bath. You'll hear the herd before you see it.
Three rooms, one kitchen you're welcome in, and the table where everyone eats at seven.
Five days moving four hundred head off the high ground. You'll be sore. You'll want to come back.
There's a rhythm. It isn't ours; it's the light's and the animals'. You can join any of it and skip all of it.
Tell us the month and how many of you. We'll write back with what's free, what the weather's usually doing, and whether the herd will be up or down. No online booking. It's a ranch.
Ask for dates