Real estate porn around the ol’ campfire

Days are getting shorter, and nightfall comes sooner in the old cow camp this time of year. Bone-weary drovers sit around the ol’ campfire after a tough day on the trail. The desultory conversation seems to wander, until Sweetwater Slim pipes up and says, “Saaay, didja hear that the Slash V outfit just got sold? Some bitcoin zillionaire paid 40 million bucks fer that sorry piece o’ country.”

“Hell’s bells!” interjected Sourdough. “Them poor Slash V cows spend their lives at a trot, goin’ from one blade o’ grass t’other, tryin’ to stay alive. Forty million bucks?”

“There’s a lotta that new money floatin’ around,” offered Slim, “an’ a lotta city fellers wantin’ to be John Wayne an’ own a Yellowstone o’ their own. They’s just a’slobberin’ over any ranch that comes on the market.”

“An’ there’s a passel o’ them ol’ cow outfits hittin’ the market these days fer serious money.” This from Panhandle, who pulled a dog-eared Sotheby’s catalog from his chap pocket. He brought a coal-oil lamp to the fire and displayed the glossy brochure. “Lookee here, pards,” he said. “There’s a couple dozen o’ them ol’ ranches right here in the Big Empty fer sale.” He opened the thick Sotheby’s catalog to the fold-out scratch-n-sniff centerfold and passed it around to his amigos.

Murmurs of “oooh” and “ahhhh” were heard from the campfire smoke, as the cowboys thumbed through the old Wyoming ranches offered for sale in amounts up to nine figures. They’d worked these outfits, knew them well and were taken aback by the prices and the carefully airbrushed photos and florid prose that described these places.

“Lemme see that.” Cookie grabbed the catalog and turned a few pages. “My nephew works for one o’ them big brokers in Jackson Hole, and he writes this stuff purely to sell ranches to city dudes. He says iff’n ya cain’t sell profit potential, ya gotta sell the purty.” Stetsons nodded at this wisdom. “An’ he says ya gotta invent a new language to do it, he calls it real estate porn. It’s like a code.”

Puzzled glances met Cookie’s words.

Cookie tossed the catalog to Goshen Gus and said, “Read me somethin’ from one o’ them ads, an’ I’ll translate it for ya.”

Gus squinted, ran his finger down a page and read, “Enjoy unparalleled solitude and privacy on your own little slice of western heaven.”

Cookie thought a moment, then said, “First off, ‘little slice’ means it ain’t no bigger’n a wrangle pasture. An’ the rest of it means yer livin’ thirty miles from town down a washed out road, and ya cain’t get off the place in the winter.”

Gus handed the glossy catalog to Deacon from Dayton, who read, “well-watered with sub-irrigated meadows.”

“That un’ easy,” exclaimed Cookie. “What they’re really sayin’ is that the mosquitoes an’ deerflies’ll suck you dry o’ blood iff’n you step outside the house in summer.”

Little Joe the Wrangler read over Deacon’s shoulder and said, “How ‘bout this, ‘An uninterrupted, 360-degree view of wild Wyoming splendor.”

Cookie interpreted, “That place is somewhere in the Red Desert, an’ their ain’t a tree tall enough to block yer view of all them rattlesnakes an’ sagebrush. That there’s a good example o’ fine real estate porn.”

Houlihan grabbed the brochure and read, “a stone’s throw from world-class, blue ribbon trout fishing.”

Cookie waved his greasy cook spoon and said, “That’s real estate porn fer ‘the river is on yer neighbor’s land, an’ he’ll shoot ya iff’n ya try to wet a line.’ See how this works?”

“Ok, Cookie. Iff’n yer so smart, what does this mean?” Powder River Pete taunted, then read, “Room for a man of the West to stretch his legs and get a good, old-fashioned feel for the countryside.”

“Think about it,” Cookie replied. “That means no indoor plumbin’ an’ the outhouse is a quarter mile away from the cabin. Next.”

The Sotheby’s catalog was back in Panhandle’s grip now, and he read, “Thousand-year-old petroglyphs stand guard along your clear mountain creek, speaking ancient native wisdom to those who listen.”

Cookie regarded Panhandle and said, “Pard, you an’ I have worked that ranch, an’ we know what those petroglyphs along Difficulty Creek are sayin’. They say ‘This water will give you the runs. Don’t drink it.”

Panhandle closed the brochure, the campfire light sputtered and Cookie said, “Speakin’ o’ runs, who’s ready fer some beans?”