I didn’t know exactly what to expect from a stay on an American ranch in Wyoming, but it wasn’t to meet a horse called Goblin. Or Gigi Sparkles. Sure, there’s Pistol, which feels like something a self-respecting cowboy might name a horse, and Belle, which also taps into my Western fantasy. But my steed for the week is leggy grey Quarter Horse, Goblin. I'm surprised by his mischievous name, given his soft brown eyes and gentle soul, and I’m not the only one: “His last rider didn't think he looked like a Goblin,” admits guest lead, Lauren. “The whole time, she called him Giuseppe.”
Goblin lives at Paintrock Canyon Ranch in Hyattville, Wyoming; a blink-and-you-miss-it speck on the map with a quiet clutch of homes, dirt roads and a population of 75, surrounded by nothing but rolling grazing grounds and big, empty sky. It’s named for Paintrock Creek, which begins on the western slopes of Cloud Peak and carves its way through a deep limestone canyon, where the land opens into the Bighorn Basin at around 5,000 feet. Parent company Ranchlands, founded in 1999 by third-generation cattle worker Duke Phillips III, previously held leases on a couple of Colorado ranches, but this is the first they’ve owned outright. “The landscape and community have been easy to fall in love with here,” says Tess Leach, director of business development. “After 25 years of experience, the opportunity to build something exactly how we want it is a dream come true.”
Four out of eight of my fellow guests are regulars – capable types in well-worn cowboy boots who are drawn every year for retreats ranging from wine tasting and painting to horsemanship with multi-award winning cowboy Cam Schryver and fiction writing with no-nonsense American author Pam Houston (“She can be brutal,” says one former attendee. “Last year, nobody got out without crying,”). This time around is a pack trip – swapping basecamp's plush glamping tents for wild and rugged backcountry camping in the Bighorn Mountains. Less comfortable, sure, but with greater opportunity to experience more of the heart of America’s Wild West as it should be: on horseback.
Historically, I've not been a fan of camping. Despite growing up deep in the English West Country, I am living proof that rural proximity does not automatically produce rural competency. But one thing I did love about Somerset life was galloping around the Mendip hills on a pony. It’s that little girl who’s brought me to Wyoming, but also the cultural moment. The American West is really hot right now – interest in US ranch stays shot up 42 per cent in 2024 and the hashtag #cowboycore has racked up over 11 million posts, fuelled by designers sending bolo ties, denim and fringe down the runways, Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter, and shows like Yellowstone offering a blend of nostalgia, fashion and wanderlust rolled into one.
“He's so sweet,” says Lauren, who is showing me how to neck-rein, Goblin diligently weaving left to right under the slightest shift of her hand. I’ve never ridden Western-style before, and the aching in my knees swiftly reminds me I’m not a kid any more. But the colossal vistas on the ride to the Red Wall are a perfect tonic; an oil pastel scene of terracotta burnished cliffs jutting out against smudgy sagebrush plains. “If you think this is good, just wait until we head up to camp tomorrow,” says wrangler AJ, who, unlike a horse called Gigi Sparkles, is exactly who I imagined to find on a ranch in his fringed suede chaps, jeans and plaid. He spent some time in Nashville producing music, but now works the summer season at the Paintrock. “We always had horses growing up, but for a while I didn’t think riding was especially cool,” he says, before a pause: “But here I am now.”
The ride to camp is a six-hour, 2,500-foot climb up the Bighorn Mountains, following along the glittering thread of the creek until it expands into wide open meadows, then again into deep, thick forest. In the middle of cattle country, its peaks rise abruptly from the high plains of northern Wyoming between Yellowstone and the Great Plains. It’s where the Battle of the Little Bighorn was fought in 1876, driven by the discovery of gold in the Black Hills and the US government's efforts to force Native Americans onto reservations. One of the oldest ranges in North America, this exposed rock is nearly three billion years old, predating most of the continents as we know them.
At camp, I have my first test when I ask about the shower and am directed towards the creek. The toilet is a bucket, a shovel, and as much privacy as your preferred rock affords. But I'm placated immediately by a cold beer, a bracing swim, and a plate of something delicious. The food is totally befitting Yellowstone’s Duttons: the likes of potato hash made from Ranchlands’ beef, bison chilli and apple cornbread, all cooked over an open fire. If food were like this every time I camped, I think I'd be far happier to oblige.
The amount of care poured into Ranchlands’ guest program is notable, given it’s hardly central to its model. Nationally, agritourism involves just 1.5 per cent of American farms and generates roughly $1.26 billion, making it a niche but growing supplement rather than a driving tourist force – in this instance, just 20 per cent of the ranch’s income comes from its retreats. But this thoughtfulness has paid off: loyal guests who used to visit its Zapata Ranch in Colorado now make their way to the Paintrock instead. Still, summers in the San Luis Valley have left their mark: “It was my all-time favourite place to ride,” says one long-time guest, who has visited Ranchlands' various outposts around 20 times since 2014. When his favourite horse retired from service, staff called him to say: “If you want her, she’s yours.”
But it's the cattle operation that underpins everything, running on a conservation-driven grazing plan that treats cows as a tool for land restoration rather than mere livestock. Large, mobile herds mimic the historic behaviour of their wild counterparts, creating short bursts of intensive impact on the soil followed by long stretches of recovery. The result is a constantly shifting choreography of herd movements – and on a hazy morning, a distant forest fire causing an atmospheric fuzz to settle over the mountain peaks, Goblin and I are invited to dance.
He's not thrilled about it, frankly, grumbling as the group moves methodically to funnel the herd into a singular moving part. (“These horses are trained to ride trails, not herd cattle,” says rancher Oliver, reassuring us that he can round up the entire 100-strong group solo if need be. “Please don't worry. At the end of the day, it’s just a bunch of cows.”) But as I coax Goblin towards a wayward calf, I’m thrilled when it spins on its heel and rejoins the throng.
Days at camp are refreshingly analogue. Long morning rides, lunch packed in our saddlebags, bleed into swims in the creek, followed by evenings around the fire; AJ on the guitar, guests knitting or scribbling in their notebooks. I learn to fly fish, catching three rainbow trout in quick succession, and read more of my book in four days than I have in as many months. One day, we halter the horses and graze with them at camp, listening to their quiet crunching, a better mindfulness session than any expensive London therapy. On another, we saddle up for a steep climb up the mountain to 9,100 feet, where we look down over the route traversed the day prior like Simba over his kingdom.
On our final morning at camp, frost coats the ground. I take in the scenes one final time on our ride down the mountain, my mind clearer than it has been in months. By the time we reach the ranch, Goblin and I have travelled 75 miles together. One guest, a rancher herself, tells me I’ve been a “good sport” this week. Okay – despite my newfound gusto for camping, I’ve clearly not fooled anyone into thinking I’m some rugged outdoorsy type. But if I were going to try anywhere, I'm glad it's been here.
The West is famously romanticised, commodified and packaged up for people like me. Before my arrival, I spent a couple of days in nearby Cody, drifting through the Buffalo Bill museum, art galleries and tourist attractions, and I’ve worn a cowboy hat to plenty of country music events before ever setting foot in America. But here I wasn’t passively observing the West, in a film or a gallery, nor wearing it like a costume at a show. For a short time, I was actually doing it – riding across open plains, herding cattle, sleeping under the stars. Clumsily perhaps, still unmistakably a city girl, yes, but briefly, a cowgirl too.