It was a warm December afternoon. My hunting buddy and I were driving through a Garden County ranch yard in search of the man in charge. We'd spotted a management buck--a deer with poor antler genetics, and we wanted to ask permission to hunt it.

"There he is," my friend, Bob, said, pointing to a corral behind the barn.

I looked in that direction and broke into a slack-jawed grin. The cowboy, dressed in hat and spurs, was atop an extension ladder that was propped against a power pole.

"Only in the Sandhills," I said. "Looks like he's installing a yard light."

Over the years I've had the good fortune to spend some quality time with ranch families. I've learned that Sandhillers are about the most self-reliant folks to come across the Atlantic. One family especially comes to mind. My cousin, Gene, and I were guiding deer hunters on their ranch south of Lakeside. We stayed in a bunkhouse near the sprawling main home.

The rancher's petite wife cooked breakfast and supper for four hunters, two guides, plus her own young family. She shared the secret to her delicious cooking: home grown vegetables from the garden out back.

"I have to water the garden pretty much every day in this sand. It's quite a job to keep the deer and rabbits out," she explained. "This squash comes from Native American seed."

She told us these things while standing at the stove in her boots and spurs.

Later, we saw her hauling feed to a herd of cows in a remote area of the ranch. She was driving some sort of Russian army six by six.

"I have no idea how she opens and shuts that gate south of the house," Gene pondered. "It takes the two of us to manhandle it."

"Yeah...these ranch women are pretty wiry," I reflected.

When people live fifty miles from town they learn how to get by on their own. When a sewer backs up, they clean it out. When a bale processor breaks in two, they weld it back together. When their corral's too dark, then they climb up the pole and install a yard light. "Cowboy Jack" is "Jack of all trades."