October comes slow to Texas. The days are still warm, but the wind starts to whisper through the grass. Out here on the ranch, the sky feels bigger, the sunsets burn deeper, and the nights carry a hint of campfire smoke. That’s when I know Halloween’s on its way.
I live about an hour outside Austin — just open land, horses, and a long dirt road that glows gold at sunset. People think Halloween in the country must be quiet, but that’s not true. Out here, we make our own fun.
Last weekend, I decided to throw a little “Ranch-O-Ween.” Nothing fancy. Just friends, hay bales, chili on the stove, and a big fire under the stars. I put out a few carved pumpkins by the barn, hung orange string lights on the fence, and let the horses roam near the gate. The air smelled like cedar wood and roasted corn.
Before everyone arrived, I saddled up my mare, Daisy, and took a short ride around the pasture. The fields were dry and golden, and the wind carried the sound of crows. I wore my favorite brown hat, denim shirt, and a long rust-colored skirt that flared when I rode. Halloween or not, that’s my kind of costume — real, dusty, and a little wild.
When the sun dropped, the sky turned pink, then purple, then black. The lanterns came on, and the whole ranch started to glow. My friend Luke showed up with a guitar. Sarah brought a basket of pumpkin pies. Someone lit sparklers. Someone else brought tequila.
We sat on hay bales around the fire, boots kicked off, passing mugs of hot cider. I looked up and saw nothing but stars. That’s my favorite part of Texas — you can still see the Milky Way out here. The city feels like another planet.
For fun, we told ghost stories — Texas ones, about haunted wells and cowboys who never left the trail. Every time the wind pushed through the trees, someone jumped. I laughed so hard I spilled cider on my jeans.
Later, when everyone wandered off to dance near the barn, I stayed by the fire. The flames snapped, and the horses snorted softly in the dark. I thought about how Halloween doesn’t always need costumes or crowds. Sometimes it’s just a night when the land feels alive and you feel part of it.
I picked up my camera and snapped a few photos — moonlight on the corral, the reflection of lanterns on a saddle, a carved pumpkin glowing on a fence post. Simple moments, but somehow magical.
After midnight, when the last song ended and the fire burned low, I walked back to the porch. My boots crunched over dry leaves. The air was cool now, and the smell of smoke clung to my hair. I poured one last glass of whiskey and sat on the steps, watching the horizon fade to silver.
That quiet — that’s my kind of Halloween. No tricks, no noise, just the sound of crickets and a coyote somewhere far off. I thought about city lights, haunted houses, and crowded bars. Then I smiled. Out here, I’ve got stars, space, and stories. That’s enough.
If you ever find yourself in Texas this time of year, drive out past the highway lights. You’ll see pumpkins glowing on fence posts and the sky wide open. Stop for a minute. Listen to the wind. You’ll feel it too — that small spark of Halloween magic drifting across the fields.
Until next ride,
– Eva Wild
