butte

Out Here at Butte Station*

by Dave Rhodes

I am out here on the desert alone,

Just me and the horses at Butte Station,

Where the only shade is devised by man

And the water's always on short ration.

There was a blacksmith and extra rider,

Which meant a little more food on the shelf,

But, the last days of the Pony Express

Find me running the station by myself.

Twice a day, for only two minutes each,

An express rider comes burning on through.

There's only time for a couple of words,

Then he's on a new mount and out of view.

This job is like no other I have known,

And to choose it again would be insane,

Though lessons of life and about myself

Have been my reward, and also my pain.

It takes discipline to be on your own,

To feed the horses, do all of the work,

Take a bath when it's time, or wash the clothes,

And the duties of the station not shirk.

There is pride in all these productive things,

And the feelings, they help bring me some joy,

But, out here there are a few darker woes

That can instill mighty fear in a boy . . .

Like when the sky comes clear down to the ground,

And it seems I'll be squashed in between,

Or when the silence roars like a cannon . . .

That is when I break the spell with a scream!

There are times I am overcome with fear . . .

Imagination's a weakness of mine.

I have heard sounds that I cannot describe,

And seen shapes at night I cannot define.

The lowest thought is that of dying here . . .

Just fading away and no one knowing

That I am gone, or where I lay to rot,

Nor the circumstances of my passing.

Once in a while though, I get a great swell

And am overwhelmed by the endless plain.

While looking at this creation so large

I believe it is the whole of God's domain.

A few times I heard Him talking to me

When I had been trying to think things out.

His voice was as soft as the desert breeze . . .

I always thought'd be more like a shout.

There are beautiful sights in the desert,

And other things that bring peace to the heart,

Like the sun that's going down forever,

Or the smell of the sage fore the rain's start,

And the owl working the mice in the grass,

A coyote yelp in the bright moonlight,

Or the colors that take time to notice . . .

Sometimes, everything can seem all right.

But, most of the time out here is empty . . .

A magnified sense of being alone . . .

Out here next to the alkaline desert.

What a miserable place to call home.

The loneliest stop on the express trail,

The station with the worst reputation,

Where the only shade is devised by man,

And the water's always on short ration.

*This poem is included in the cowboy poetry anthology “The Big Roundup” published by CowboyPoetry.com.

It is available on Amazon.com

Inset at Top: Remnants of Butte Station

Note: Butte Station or Desert Station is now known as Boyd Station after Bid Boyd a station keeper who lived at the site for many years after the days of the Pony Express. The station is located on the southern edge of the salt flats in Utah.