Leaning against the fence post, you take a slow sip of hot apple cider, the steam curling up into the crisp air. Out in the round pen, a fresh string of young bucks is taking their turn, testing their grit against a fire-breathing mustang. You chuckle, shaking your head, feeling the old aches from your own younger days. The scent of spiced cider lingers, mixing with the familiar smell of the corral—dust, sweat, and leather, the kind of scent that never really leaves you. It’s a good reminder of where you’ve been, but as you take another sip, you’re damn glad it’s not you in that saddle today.