Thin Space in the Rockies

This story appears in Palomino County print volume one, "Heritage Reclaimed." The author and interviewer is Editor-in-Chief, Rebekah Iliff. To order your print copy, visit our subscribe page.

For as long as I can remember, Lost Valley Ranch has been one of my favorite places to reconnect with nature, make memories with my family, and be reminded that I am 97% city slicker—even if I do live on a 15-acre farm. 

In the words of country music singer-songwriter Larry Fleet, the Ranch is “Where I Find God.” 

I experienced my first crush, a six foot three inch cowboy, during a square dance at the Ranch. I was maybe seven years old, and his name was Paul. Given my tiny-ness and his tallness, he fell to his knees during a “do-se-do” move so I could look him squarely in the eyes—instead of staring at his crotch. A real class act of a cowboy and a branded memory for me.

My love for animals, particularly horses, started there; and at one point in my life I considered becoming an equine therapist simply because I had observed, first hand, a horse’s ability to heal by doing nothing at all, except being. They reflect back on you what you are feeling, like big, strong know-it-alls. If you are scared, they will be restless, their ears peeling back; if you are relaxed, one of their back legs will fold in, and they will rest a hoof on its rounded edge as if to say, “Now we can take it easy.”

The Ranch is also where I learned to literally get back on a horse. Her name was Black Beauty, and given my adoration for the book series, she could do no wrong. I was on an advanced ride with my dad and a few other adults, and we broke into a gallop out of nowhere. I was startled and my grip on the reins was loose. The trail was narrow, lined by trees; a few seconds after Black Beauty jolted forward I attempted to avoid a low hanging pine branch by leaning to the right instead of ducking toward her neck. This amateur move inadvertently flung my left boot out of its stirrup and threw me off the horse into a pile of dry pine needles. 

While the fall was not fatal, I did momentarily want to die of embarrassment given Paul was the wrangler for the ride. I imagined any sort of affection he had for me was now obliterated due to my ungraceful exit from Black Beauty. I don’t recall anyone being overly concerned for me, after all it was the 80s; so, as any good cowgirl would do, I hoisted my foot back into the stirrup and remounted. Within moments, we were off again, galloping down the trail.

Nowadays, being a cowboy seems en vogue, although there is nothing glamorous about it. Real cowboys are up before dawn, scooping manure out of stalls, corralling uncooperative horses, and getting their hands dirty with all sorts of tasks most of us would find unappealing. There’s grit in it. True grit. Wearing a cowboy hat and boots is only part of the equation; the other part is recognizing there is no human solution for nature’s fury or giant, unruly animals, other than complete surrender combined with stamina. These are the elements that take the cowboy from poop scooper to wrangler to rancher; and any human from thinking they have all the answers to realizing, for the most part, we don’t control anything.

Judd Baker, currently Lost Valley’s General Manager, knows this better than most. I first met Judd in my early twenties, when he was a young wrangler at the Ranch. In the late nineties and early 2000s, many of my family members and friends—all of whom had also spent childhood vacations at the Ranch—were of working age, and Lost Valley gathered them up. “Ranch legacy kids” they were called. They knew the Lost Valley way, and were ready to show off their skills.

My older brother Adam worked in the kitchen one summer, my cousin Dan was on the maintenance crew and eventually became a wrangler; his sister Sarah worked for many years at the Ranch, and eventually captured the honorable title of “head waitress.” Around the same time as Dan, our family friend Ben Anderson made his way to the Ranch after losing his college girlfriend in a tragic accident. He thought he’d be there for a summer, the wide open spaces and horses a salve for his grief. He stayed for years, working alongside Dan and Judd, the three of them growing, shaping, and maturing into bonafide cowboys. They all met their wives at Lost Valley.

After twenty years, I officially reconnected with Judd last March, when our family traveled to the Ranch during my nephew’s spring break. The year prior, I had spotted him and a group of cowboys from the Ranch, hats and belt buckles in tow, as they walked into a church sanctuary in Columbia, Missouri. The occasion: Ben’s far too early funeral—a tragedy, to say the least. They were there to honor their fellow cowboy; I was there to support the family. By the time March rolled around, I hoped he would be willing to give an interview—both as a way to honor Ben, and to talk about why places like Lost Valley are becoming ever more important in a world that seems disconnected. I asked, and he graciously obliged.

Rebekah Iliff: It’s such a pleasure to sit down with you—especially given our shared connection to the Ranch through our dear friend, Ben Anderson.

Judd Baker: Absolutely. Ben left a lasting imprint on this place and the people here. He really embodied what we strive for—kindness, grit, humility. He was the kind of cowboy this place is built around.

Rebekah: That’s a perfect place to start. For those who don’t know, what’s the story behind Lost Valley Ranch?

Judd: Lost Valley’s been welcoming guests since the 1890s, originally known as Graham Ranch under Jim Graham. In 1961, Bob Foster Senior bought it, and he and his son Bob Junior turned it into the guest experience we still honor today. His vision of hospitality, tradition, and service is the foundation we stand on.

Rebekah: That continuity is rare these days. And the Ranch has weathered some serious storms over the years, hasn’t it?

Judd: Most definitely, the Ranch has been through a lot of challenging seasons. The most notable was the Hayman Fire in 2002—at the time the largest wildfire in Colorado’s history, burning over 144,000 acres. We were in its path, but somehow, I would say by the grace of God, the fire split when it reached the Ranch and the main property was preserved. The original barn and ranch house, both built in the 1880s, are still standing and in use today. There’s a deep resilience here.

Rebekah: I know the real magic of Lost Valley is less about the buildings and more about what happens between people. Why do you think families keep coming back generation after generation?

Judd: It’s two things: people and place. We hire staff with integrity—people who are teachable, humble, and genuinely care. We train them well, not just in hospitality but in life skills. Guests trust us with their kids. They feel safe here. And then there's the place itself. We’re in this stunning, remote valley where cell coverage is nonexistent, and Wi-Fi is limited. There are no TVs. That forces people to unplug and reconnect: with nature, with family, with themselves.

Rebekah: That must be a shock for some at first.

Judd: Oh, it can be. But by day two or three, you see people exhale in a way they haven’t in years. You hear conversations around the fire. Kids are riding horses or playing capture the flag instead of glued to screens. It’s powerful.

Rebekah: Speaking of connection—how do you ensure that everyone feels welcome here?

Judd: Our culture is rooted in our core values: humility, integrity, authenticity, stewardship, and hard work. We model that through our staff and trust them to treat every guest with respect and care. We’re not trying to be all things to all people, but we want every person who steps onto this property to feel seen, valued, and at peace.

Rebekah: I’ve heard guests describe Lost Valley as a “thin space”—a place where heaven and earth feel a little closer. How do faith and spirituality play into the Ranch’s daily life?

Judd: That term—thin space—comes up a lot. There’s a stillness and sacredness here. We don’t push religion on anyone, but our faith informs how we live and lead. At the end of each summer week, we host men’s and women’s rides with reflection questions. A lot of emotions come up. People process things they’ve been holding for a long time. It’s not uncommon to see tears or hear someone say, “I haven’t felt this at peace in years.”

Rebekah: That’s rare, and beautiful, and probably makes Lost Valley different from other dude ranches.

Judd: I think that’s probably right. And I also believe it comes back to people. Our staff culture is consistent and strong. We’re intentional about who we bring on and how we train them. That consistency shows in the guest experience. And then there’s the rhythm here. Guests come to ride, fish, hike, and unplug—but they leave with much more than that.

Rebekah: Let’s talk cowboys for a second. What makes a great one?

Judd: Humility. Integrity. A strong work ethic. It’s less about how well you ride and more about how well you serve. That’s the kind of cowboy, and human, we celebrate here.

Rebekah: What’s your personal connection to the Ranch?

Judd: I started coming here as a guest when I was seven. I worked summers in college and then three and a half years after graduating. I even met my wife, Cary, on staff. From 2014 to 2022, we came back as guests, and in 2023, we moved here full-time with our family to take on this role. It’s a full-circle story.

Rebekah: What happens at Lost Valley during the various seasons?

Judd: We operate in Spring, Summer, and Fall. In addition to week-long family stays, we host retreats, church groups, and holiday weekends—Labor Day and Thanksgiving are popular. We also offer three adult-only weeks in the Fall: Cattle Round-Up, Horsemanship, and “Ride, Ride, Ride,” which includes long daily trail rides. Winter is our quiet season—the Ranch is closed, and our team gets a well-deserved rest. We call it our “season to abide.”

Rebekah: I love that. Although I’m slightly afraid of the answer, because part of me never wants the Ranch to change, dare I ask what’s next for Lost Valley?

Judd: We’re in the first phase of a five-to-seven-year master plan to renovate and elevate every space on the Ranch. Right now, we’re building new staff housing, which should be completed by early 2026. Our goal is to improve the infrastructure while preserving what makes Lost Valley special. The world is moving fast—but this place offers a kind of constancy people crave. Our job is to honor that while preparing for the future.

Rebekah: Well, I’m relieved. It sounds like the Ranch is in good hands for those of us old school legacy kids that want to keep our favorite memories intact. Thank you, for your leadership, and for preserving this sacred space so thoughtfully.

Judd: And thank you for helping tell our story—Ben would’ve loved this conversation. 

Rebekah: I’m pretty sure he can hear us.

***

To learn more about Lost Valley Ranch or to book your next epic dude ranch vacation, visit: LostValleyRanch.com. Rebekah’s personal recommendation: Fall is the best time of year, and don’t book for less than three nights.