COWBOY POETRY: Yellow Jacket Station

Cowboy poet Bryce Angell

Our final stop came into view. We’d driven 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 October air. Each room was plumbed with propane lights. For sure no light bulb glare.

But one thing that concerned me was the outhouse up the hill. It must have been a hundred yards. At night could be a thrill.

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 had a nip.

My sleeping bag lay by the stove. I couldn’t leave the heat. And sleep was just a blink away. I sure as heck was beat.

I’d have to say around midnight or somewhere there about, my stomach set to growling, ‘cuz the stew was needing out.

I grabbed my boots and flashlight, really moved on out of there. It must have been a silly sight, just boots and underwear.

The dash uphill with cheeks pressed tight was not an easy feat. But nothing could deter me from the outhouse one-hole seat.

I’d only sat a minute. Soon the privy felt like ice. Oh, how I missed my throne at home. They’re dang sure worth the price.

I’m sure the early rangers never gave a second thought. They prob’ly thought this outhouse was the finest money bought.

While walking back I pondered ‘bout those days of old frontier. Then I stoked the fire and climbed in bed. Guess I ain’t no pioneer.

Free News Delivery by Email

Would you like to have the day's news stories delivered right to your inbox every evening? Enter your email below to start!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.