What do “simple folk” do on a Sunday afternoon? Recently, in the company of friends, I had the good fortune to enjoy a melt-in-your-mouth-tender-steak meal and some equally attractive toddies in the Ringling Bar in Ringling, Mont. Located on Highway 89 in the southern edge of Meagher County, the unincorporated town has only a handful of people still residing there. Census says one person per square mile for the area.

There’s a building that was once a school house. Across the highway perched on a hill is a church, no longer in use to bring comfort to the populace. That solace can now be found in the Ringling Bar.

On this particular Sunday, a half dozen good ol’ boys seated at the bar were exchanging tall tales. My friends and I were a group of six, doubling the crowd numbers. We sat at a table, ordered food and began the always pleasurable jaw-boning about calving (two ranchers) and music (one musician) and fishing (one mechanic) and gossip (all of us).

---

---

Mechanic-fisherman: “Well, since I arrived in Montana I’ve learned about cattle.”

Pullout quote goes herey asdf sadfTin hent praesti onsequat volore tin etum veliquissim duissectem nonse consequam ipit numsandre tin verit alisse dolorem in vulputp atinibh eugait iurem elit atue faci tat nos acilit lutpat nullut la commy.

Rancher: “That right? So have you worked on a ranch?”

---

---

Mechanic-fisherman: “Nope, but I’ve been up close and personal with cows.”

Rancher: “How’s that?”

The rest of us: (With lips zipped, our ears perked up waiting for a good story).

Mechanic-fisherman: “Yeah, me and Nellie (yellow canine of the Labrador persuasion) went fishing the other day. We had to go through a big pasture and I saw lots and lots of calves.” (Pause. Takes a sip of beer)

Rancher: “That right?”

Mechanic-fisherman: “We didn’t go close to the cattle, just moseyed on. Nellie went swimming and I started casting when I felt a snuffle.”

Rancher: “A what?”

Mechanic-fisherman: “A snuffle. Something was snuffling my hat. So I turned around and I’ll be darned if it wasn’t a little bitty calf, curious as a puppy.”

Rancher: “Yeah, they c’n be that way.”

Mechanic-fisherman: “Uh-huh, I was just reaching in my pocket for my phone when …”

Rancher: “Your phone?”

Mechanic-fisherman: “Yeah, you know, so’s I could take a picture of the little feller. That’s when I heard the rumble and the roar.”

Rancher: “The what?”

The rest of us: “The what?”

Mechanic-fisherman: “Well, I looked up and there was a cow about the size of a freight train. She was flinging snot, pawing the ground and bellowing like a rogue elephant.”

Rancher: “Uh oh!”

Mechanic-fisherman: (Another pause for another sip of beer).

Rancher: (Did not speak, only grinned).

The rest of us: “So what happened!”

Mechanic-fisherman: “I dropped my rod. And ran.”

Rancher: “Ran?”

Mechanic-fisherman: “Yeah, I jumped in the river.”

Rancher and the rest of us: “You jumped in the river?”

Mechanic-fisherman: “Had to. She was too close. I couldn’t have gotten away trying to run around her, that’s for sure.”

Rancher: (still grinning). “Bet that water was cold.”

Mechanic-fisherman: “Sure was! Didn’t catch any fish, but I sure learned about cows up close and personal.” (Pause. Sip beer). Thoughtfully: “Don’t think I’d care for ranching as an occupation. Think I’ll just keep my job as a mechanic.”

And now you know what simple folk do on a Sunday afternoon in Ringling, Mont. ❖