Cowboys Always Live

Shoot to kill or leave to live. Emotion bullets cause more damage than silver ones. Living thru chaos propels one for living on the edge. Living on the edge prepares one for defying death.

We’ve all faced moments that stripped us bare — the near misses, the heart-stopping seconds where time slows and you wonder if this is it. Maybe it was a car wreck, a diagnosis, a heartbreak, or a bad decision that turned good sense into shrapnel. But if you’ve ever stared down the edge and lived to tell it… you carry the Cowboy Soul, too.

---

And that right there — that’s the Cowboy Soul.

How many near-death experiences, out-of-body visions, or final destinations does it take to seriously question one’s existence?

A dozen? A couple? Just one?

For me, it was the first one.
And then the next one.
Then a whole lot more after that.

Mine were many — vivid, violent, unforgettable. My grip on life has always been shaky.

At three, I dismantled my crib.
At five, I deconstructed my sister’s new bike.
By ten, I was tagging my dad’s beer fridge — early signs of a restless spirit refusing containment and rejecting authority.

Chaos breeds discontent. Especially in kids.
The seeds were sown; the harvest inevitable.

My escapades moved from farm to city — each bruise and broken rule its own declaration of defiance.

Death never really comes up when we talk about doing stupid things.
We joke — call it a “blaze of glory,” act like bravado makes us bulletproof. But it’s armor for the asinine.
No amount of swagger dulls the crunch of metal, or the flicker of headlights before impact.

I’ve wrecked more cars than I can count on two hands — and split more than a few telephone poles in half.

The first vehicle I drove was a big green John Deere, narrow-wheeled and loud. I was twelve.
Later that same summer, I ditched my grandparents’ ’72 LTD in front of Bobby Jackson’s house.
Their tractor pulled it out.
Maybe that’s where the legend began.

Not content to wreck only my own cars, the list got long:
Parents’ cars.
Friends’ cars.
Rental cars.
Spouse’s car.
Company cars.

I need a self-driving car — or maybe a tank.

At nineteen, I wrapped my uncle’s classic Z around a pole.
Ironically, my next car was a ‘72 LTD, and I didn’t wreck it.

Nice cars, junkers, pickups, vans, even a motorcycle.
No vehicle was safe.

I’ve even been the Ped in an Auto-Ped Accident — three days in ICU after a truck clipped me on a snow-covered road at Mountain High.

Didn’t break the skin… but I feel it now when the cold sweeps in.

The last wreck sent me to prison for Felony DUI. That was a damn nice blue Dodge Ram. Thank God I never killed anyone.

Every near-miss was a mirror.
Every crash, a question.

Was I running from death... or chasing life?

Cowboys always live.
Not because they’re invincible,
but because they refuse to stay down.

We mythologize them — the tilted hat, the dust of yesterday clinging to their boots —
but the truth? A cowboy’s endurance isn’t romantic.

It’s raw.
It’s stubborn.
It’s the art of getting back on the horse even when you know damn well it might buck you again.

Living on the edge isn’t chasing death —
it’s learning to coexist with it.

When you’ve skimmed that edge enough times, you stop fearing the fall.
You start hearing the wind that howls in the space between what ends and what begins.

And that right there —
that’s the Cowboy Soul.

It’s the spirit some mock as “rugged individualism,”
the same one written off by those who think dependence is progress.

But that spirit — that stubborn, stand-your-ground soul —
built this country.

It turned fields into farms.
Forges into factory lines.
Dreamers into doers.

It’s alive today in the quiet majority —
men and women who don’t yell; they build.
Who speak less and do more.
Who shoulder the weight and keep the lights on.

They’re not pre-Trump or post-Trump —
they’re beyond politics altogether.

Their allegiance isn’t to a man.
It’s to a principle: freedom.

Hard work.
Responsibility.
The untamed right to live by your own code.

In a world that sneers at independence,
the cowboy soul still believes liberty is love —
love of self, of neighbor, of country.

And as this nation readies to mark 250 years of triumph and turmoil,
that’s what we’re really celebrating.

Not a flag or a politician —
but that Cowboy Soul that refuses to die,
the one that keeps standing, rebuilding, believing.

Even as loners, we recognize each other.
We nod across the firelight, share a silence, and that’s enough.

Because what binds us isn’t the land we ride —
it’s the liberty we carry inside.

Cowboys don’t live because they’re lucky.
They live because they’ve made peace with losing.

Because every scar,
every dented fender,
every brush with death
carves something sacred into the soul.

So maybe that’s the truth after all:

We survive not to prove our strength,
but to understand it.

And in that quiet, rugged understanding —
cowboys always live.

Cowboy on,

Ric

One of the best playlists to crank up the headphones and ride off into the sunset.