The smell of a ranch is something I have always loved. The grass and horses, the fresh scent of the creek that inevitably runs through the land are things that have lived inside me since childhood, having grown up in a mountain valley. The crisp aroma of freshly fallen snow and the abundant smells of the flora are memories I had missed for a long time living in a congested city.

Having an extended vacation from work, I decided I needed my fix of the country life, so I rented a cabin in the mountains near where I grew up and decided to stay there to rekindle my sense of peace that I consistently had in that environment. The place I stayed was a working ranch and campground. The small wooden dwellings, with rough-hewn wood and stone smokestacks were high on the mountainside. Everyday, the wife of the rancher would have a family style breakfast in the long house for everyone staying at the site. After the hearty meal of pancakes, bacon and eggs, hash browns and biscuits and gravy, we could choose to work the ranch with the cowhands. I needed to get my hands dirty. I normally worked in a white-collar position that left little time even for gardening, let alone working a ranch. The gym was fine for exercise, but it was the fresh air and sweat from an honest day's work that I needed.

After the first few days of simply relaxing, I decided it was time to get to work, so I volunteered to help repair fences on the outskirts of the property. Some of the cattle had escaped through the broken fences. I got in the truck with four other men and started on the rocky road toward the fence sites. The first stop was a mile or so away from the main house and it was there that all of the men, except the driver, got out of the truck. They got their equipment from the truck bed and started lumbering toward an obviously broken fence.

"Am I going to be repairing the fence by myself?" I asked.

"No, Buck is already up there. You'll be helping him. It shouldn't be too much of a job, but he's going to need some help setting the posts."

Who the hell was Buck, I wondered? I imagined him to be a grizzled man of about fifty-five, spitting tobacco from his blackened, broken teeth. It was indeed a shock as we got out of the truck to find a dark-skinned, black-haired young man standing at the fence line. As he turned around, although we were probably thirty feet away, I could see his green eyes glinting in the sunlight. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with his forearm. His hands were clad in soiled gloves. Buck's shirt was hanging on the fence. His tank top was wet and clinging to his massive chest and back, stretching to accommodate this huge man's torso. His black, thick chest hair curled in moistened ringlets on his chest, looking like chocolate frosting on a birthday cake. His tight jeans looked uncomfortable where the huge bulge that was obviously protruding from his crotch stretched the denim. It was clear there was something thick snaking halfway down the inseam of his thigh.

"Hey there," Buck called out, flashing a masculine, intense smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and as white as the new linens on this morning's breakfast table.

"Hey, Buck," called out the driver, whose name was now escaping my memory