“-18 degrees”, they had said.
“45 mph winds blowing from the Northeast”.
Alone, out on the Argentina La Pampas, broad-brimmed leather hat brim bowed low over his bushy moustache against the biting, blowing snow, the old grey-haired Gaucho slowly plowed through the deep drifts on horseback. Warm wool pancho trying to protect his wrinkled body.
“Damn, seven cattle still missing, the aging Gaucho said to himself.” “I’m an old throwback.”
“All the other Gauchos drive around in warm trucks looking for their cattle.
Maybe the thrill has gone.