As I stepped out of the theater, one emotion came to mind. 

Humanity.

Does it take a disaster the size of the largest wildfire in Texas history to see such a show of innocent and empowered humanity?

I come from the dirt roads of West Texas, and most of the people that saw the newly released documentary We’re Here also come from those same dirt roads.

The day of the Texas wildfire, people from all over the state and the country were able to experience or serve up some humanity.

These moments in time become history, and over time they grow into stories that are told and shared.

Let me tell you a story about a region of the world that the famed cowboy poet Baxter Black called “a place where a horse matters.” Now, I don’t know if Mr. Black was talking about the Texas Panhandle, but I’m here to tell you: this is a place where a horse matters.

Now that we’ve got that settled, I can tell my story of humanity and how I view it these days, especially in moments of reflection.

Our counties are big in Texas. I was born in Randall County, and if you look at a map of the Texas Panhandle, you’ll see a bunch of squares. These squares are Texas counties, and they cover hundreds of thousands of square miles.

On the night of the Smokehouse Creek fire, you could see the glow or the smoke from those fast-moving flames across most of the Texas counties in the Panhandle. Folks, this one was big. It’s a moment in time that deserves some attention. I knew that night that things were about to change. In ways no one can foresee just yet, it’s going to come down to whether humanity shines—or takes a back seat to what’s happening in this nation, within our U.S. cattle industry, and the moves being made to secure market access. 

Is this place going to be a place where a horse matters?

To move at the speed of the fire was impossible for those chasing it down. That day, the wind blew over 60 miles per hour—sustained. I joke that this is how we get so leather-faced in the Panhandle. I’ve always thought the fierceness of the Comanche came from battling the wind long before they ever fought an opponent.

The wind gets blamed for everything: bad moods, crooked trees, wildfires. That’s just how it is here in the Texas Panhandle.

Today would be no different. By the time I got to north Amarillo to check on family and see if anyone had been evacuated, I knew the fire, fueled by relentless winds, would burn for days.

I’ve heard the 911 calls from that night. I’ve sat with people who lost everything, and all they can talk about is how their neighbor lost everything too. We are still counting the mortalities of cattle. A wildfire also creates disease, it creates issues not only for the soil but for the wildlife and cattle that had to suffer that rolling wall of flames.

I’ve heard the recordings of pilots being called off the fire just as they were ready to drop the load of retardant. I’ve heard the “pitches” of recovery and relief. Power companies trying to install more solar farms on grasslands, more multinational wind farms, more asset reallocation. Are they going to blame the wind for this shift in assets? Are they going to blame it for starting the fire in the first place?

Four years ago, I decided to dive into some good old West Texas humanity. I stopped everything and poured my life savings into canvassing this nation, searching for humanity and clarity in our current state of affairs.

Help Texas Slim and the Panhandle ranchers rebuild after the largest wildfire in Texas history. Your support will provide much-needed resources like hay, seed, and fencing to restore the land and ensure the survival of their cattle. Together, we can preserve the spirit of West Texas and the livelihoods of those who call it home.

That night, I knew things were moving, and I was about to meet some fascinating people—those “Servant Leaders” who didn’t waste a second to respond. I soon found myself among people who feel like home when you’re around them.

I stayed up most of the night, monitoring, preparing. I knew there’d be work at sunrise. That’s when I started making calls, pitching for donations—inputs, fuel, seed, cash, anything we could get.

Over the next five weeks, I’ll be writing and releasing a series of articles. These stories will be patient, meticulous, and worth telling.

I’ll introduce you to people like Lee Wells, the creator of the We’re Here documentary, who is also a cattle rancher, producer, and business owner. We’re in talks for more screenings. I’m organizing a fundraiser in my hometown, using beef donated by Montana rancher Bryan Mussard of Reminisce Ranch.

Natalie Meeks, founder of Cattle Mafia, loaded up her truck that night and started hauling hay to the Panhandle from East Texas. We’re mapping out conventions we’ll attend together to showcase everything that’s happened.

Then there’s Cal Ferguson of 4F Outfitters, one of the best neighbors and community leaders I’ve ever met. We’ve built fences and facilitated a seed restoration project that you’ll experience firsthand.

I’ll begin telling stories of humanity and how, through this devastation, comes a show and a gift of true humanity.

I don’t want to stop giving back. That’s how I felt watching the premiere of the documentary. I need to bring the vision of humanity I felt to life.

I’m sharing my thoughts with you today because they’re a little scattered. We’ve been through a lot—sleepless nights, reallocating funds, giving when we had nothing, traveling with no fuel, and finding ways to showcase the best in humanity.

I won’t let it go. I won’t quit serving. I’ll honor what’s in front of me, and what we all have before us is a nation that needs more people living in the kind of humanity only these folks know how to give.

These kinds of people and this kind of land—they know it’s a place where a horse matters. The Texas Panhandle.

Let’s trot this one out together.

It’s in our DNA. And we’re here.

I Am Texas Slim. Are you?