The Bag Lady - Part III of III

Tassie, Far Rider & Zulu near Fig Springs (1994)




Leading the way as Tassi followed, I chose a serpentine path weaving between the creosote, palo verde, mesquite, cactus and rocks. She actively maintained a two pace distance in a relaxed and willing manner.

Sudden explosive movement of gray-black camouflage thirty yards away in the chaparral, accompanied by the noisy snuffling of a small herd of stampeding javalina startled all of us. Tassi's instinctive reaction was to shy away, however, her training has taught her that the rider is her security. She closed up and touched my shoulder with her muzzle.

Riding as I do in rough country this is the response I want. I don't want to be afoot and I want my horse to trust me. There is no more demonstrable proof of trust from the equine than their coming to you voluntarily, especially when the closure response overrides the strongest of equine defensive reactions -- flight.

The rowdy little pigs disappeared and things settled down. I checked my cinch and swung back up. Twenty minutes later I reined up on the ridge overlooking Fig Springs. It was easy to see why the Essary's had chosen this place to settle. In the dryness of the upper Sonoran desert, Fig Springs is an oasis of mesquite trees and, incongruously in this rough place, an enormous clump of fig trees. Most importantly, it was a source of the earth's lifeblood -- water.


We sat a spell and enjoyed the view. The mare stood quietly as she alertly surveyed the surrounding country. A delicate touch of the spur and we headed down the slope with Tassi’s shod hooves clicking on the rocky ground. The sounds of rough country riding are part of the pleasure of being surrounded by the Good Lord’s handiwork. Steel shod hooves on rock, a lever action rifle jacking a round into the chamber, the four clicks of a Colt single action being brought to full cock, the blowing, snorting and neighing of a horse, wind in the sage, water tumbling over rock or leaking from a spring pipe, the crackling of a campfire, and the creak of saddle leather is a symphony unknown to urban dwellers.


A small herd of cattle were resting in the corrals east of the well. Tassie and Zulu watered at the trough keeping a close eye on the cows. The windmill creaked as the fan slowly turned and cool, clear water ran from a pipe jutting out of an enormous rusting water tank. I enjoyed a refreshing drink from the pipe, stepped down, loosened the cinch and tied Tassi to an ironwood tree.

An abandoned wellhead and the foundations of the original homestead gave mute testimony to the efforts of the original homesteaders. First opened to homesteading in the early 1930's, Fig Springs was settled by Fate and Della Essary. He was a former Texas Ranger and had served as a deputy in Douglas, Arizona before hitching up his wagon and coming north. The account by Pauline Grimes of her families' experiences in settling this piece of country is a tribute to the qualities of perseverance and courage these people possessed. Pauline’s manuscript is well worth reading for history buffs. It is depressing in its own way in that it paints a very clear picture of how nice this country was before it got all cluttered up.

In Ms. Grimes' book, she described how they used the well to provide swamp cooling for sleeping during the hot summer nights. The concrete slab where they put their beds was still present along with bits and pieces of the wooden frame surrounding it. Muslin cloth was hung from the frame and the pipe from the well provided water that kept the cloth soaked. As the breeze blew through, the air was cooled and dampened. Comfort in a harsh land.

A foreign, mechanical sound grated against my ears. I quickly glanced to see if Tassi was secure, commanded my protection trained K-9 to heel and stepped into the concealment of the chaparral. Ten years experience as a Special Forces soldier in hostileplaces around the world and several more years as a remote country law enforcement ranger have made me very cautious when I'm out in rough country.


My reaction to this invasion was irritation as I recognized the growl of an off-road vehicle. A moment later, an ATV hove into view from the southwest with a man and a young boy aboard. There was a high-powered rifle in a forward mounted scabbard on the vehicle and I could not see any other weapons. I slipped the hammer thong off of my five and a half inch barreled .45 Colt single action and stepped out into view.

The ATV rolled up and after "howdy's" the driver asked how to get through the cattle pens to the eastbound trail. I pointed out the gates and we discussed javelina hunting, weather and terrain as men do when they meet in this country. I bid him “adios” and he drove up to the first wire gate and his young companion got off to open it.


Some of the gates in this country are tighter than a bull’s ass in fly season and it takes some stout to undo them. The youngster lacked the strength, so the man dismounted the four-wheeler and went forward to assist. As he stretched to unfasten the gate, I could see the print of a shoulder holster harness under his jacket. That is why I go armed. I thoroughly approve of law abiding folks carrying weapons. If you don't carry a weapon when out in remote areas, or in town for that matter, I am suspect of your good sense. I'm a great believer in equality. Not the rhetorical equality of the noisy breast beating political activists, but the equality assured by Colonel Sam Colt. The identification of the weapon under his coat reaffirmed my practice of being civil but cautious with strangers. Maintain a safe contact distance, keep your gun side away, be sure your weapon is ready for deployment, and keep your gun hand clear.

The sun was plunging rapidly into the mountains on the western horizon. Eventide's deep purple and darkening shadows were stealthily creeping into the small, narrow valley that spilled southwest from the spring. The quickening breeze held a sharp warning of the coming night beginning to stalk the desert. I retied the silk wild rag around my throat, buttoned my jacket, pulled on elk hide gloves, reset the hammer thong on my .45, rechecked Tassis' equipment, led her out and mounted.

Horses are a prey species and nature has equipped them with acute faculties for the detection of danger. Night is a dangerous time for any prey species because it is the killing time. All of us were more alert as we started down the trail. There is an excitement and exhilaration brought about by the forces of nature that makes life truly worth living. The cold wind and coming darkness made me feel more alive with an increased awareness of my own vulnerability.

The overflow from the windmill had created a half-acre of boggy ground. I stepped down from the saddle on the off side, dropped the mecate to let the mare know I expected her to remain in place while I checked all of her shoes for tightness prior to riding into the muck. I used this opportunity to handle her all over her body including under her tail and flanks, and between her hind legs. I pulled on her tail, flapped my saddlebags and popped my saddle leathers. She paid close attention to me but remained nailed to the ground.

I gathered up the mecate, looped and tucked it into the thong at the front of my chaps and stepped back into the saddle. There are common things we do in everyday life that provide us with sensory as well as symbolic pleasures that transcend the action itself. Things like lighting a campfire, slipping a finely balanced weapon into a holster, pulling a favorite book from the shelf. Every time I throw my leg over a horse I get a thrill. Horses, like weapons, are enduring Western symbols of freedom. Something neither understood nor shared by urban dwellers and those in other parts of this land.

I brushed Tassi forward by lifting the reins softly against the right side of her sleek neck. This asks her to move her nose just off centerline so that she can see exactly where she is stepping. She responded correctly by moving her left front hoof out at a slight angle. She eyed the bog warily and hesitated. This is where timing and proportionality are so important. She needed the freedom to evaluate the obstacle to determine how best to negotiate it, but she didn't need enough time to decide she could refuse. I firmly nudged her forward with verbal encouragement and just a touch of the 1888 silver dollar rowels set in my Crocket spurs and she stepped out into the dark and watery ground.


She sank into the muddy ground and snorted as she hyper-collected trying to get all four feet out of the black, sucking muck at the same time. Sinking just past her fetlocks must have seemed to her as if she were sinking into a bottomless pit. For a young horse, that was enough for her first experience.


Backyard raised horses don't know about most natural obstacles. It is the trainer’s obligation to deliberately expose the horse to a variety of natural and man-made obstacles the horse does not encounter it its home environment. The trainer must have the experience to teach a horse how to deal with obstacles in a manner that does not injure or frighten the horse. It is the building of confidence and it doesn't happen overnight.

After successfully crossing the bog, we worked back and forth across a small gravel bottomed stream that she handled easily, grateful for the firm footing. Going home is the best time to get the horse to walk right out. I hate to ride a lazy horse. This is also a time when in the attempt to develop a fast, smooth walk, lots of bad things can happen. Riders get to banging and jerking on the head gear and the horse starts learning to anticipate by raising their head out of position, wringing their tails and just plain getting mad. Bad habits are often not merely reinforced, they are actually created, and, much good training is undone.

It was full dark when we reached the horse trailer. We pulled up about a hundred yards out and sat quietly in the wind and broken starlight. I slipped the thong on my Colt and we listened and watched for any activity near my rig. After a few moments we rode in. I unsaddled Tassi, curried the damp saddle mark and loaded her.

Standing in the cold, dark silence of the Sonoran desert winter night listening to coyotes yipping and calling close by, my Rhodesian pressed close to me trembling with the excitement of primordial emotions as he too listened to the call of the wild. I drew tranquility mixed with the excitement of the hint of danger present in the darkness. As I stood listening to the sounds of Tassi munching hay in the trailer and feeling the reassuring warmth of my dog pressed against my leg, I was reminded of the words to a song performed by Ian Tyson about why men like me "ride for short pay."


Standing in the pale blue wash of starlight, it was difficult to believe over a million people were crawling all over one another in the rat race of modern urban life less than thirty miles of an owl's flight under the smeared glow visible on the southern skyline.

I envied the prospectors, pioneers and frontiersmen who had first come to this place on foot, by wagons and on horseback. They had endured the hardships and earned their place in this inhospitable and beautiful land. The desert, if it doesn't kill you, gives rewards that far exceed anything our manicured modern comforts can provide. Harsh land builds physical and spiritual strength. It is heartbreaking to watch the land’s natural beauty destroyed at the hands of dirt pimp developers and a species without the sense to limit our own numbers to the available range and water. As Will Rogers noted "They ain't makin' any more of it." Instead of the pioneers and stockmen of earlier times, financiers, government bureaucrats, and an endless variety of cops, lawyers and ribbon clerks now infest this broken land. Future generations won’t miss the wild, rough country of the West because, like freedom, they will have never known it.

I checked the position of the Big Dipper and noted that I was four hours closer to dying than I was when I first saddled Tassi. All of us were healthy, happy and I was forty dollars richer. As the cowboy said after reading a big city newspaper "Hell, they all must be crazy back there."

The Bag Lady - Part II of III

Pepsicap Mountain

A distinct butte, identified as hill 3291 on modern topographical maps, thrusts up half a mile northeast of where I stood. In archeological terms, it is a fortified hilltop with Hohokam ruins dating from the 10th through 13th Centuries perched defensively on its crown. The country around these parts contains numerous reminders of the earlier inhabitants from the ancient indigenous peoples to the rugged Spanish and Anglos of the 19th Century.

The monograph mentioned earlier, has a hand drawn map showing a peak to the southeast of Table Mountain called Pepsicap Mountain. Modern topographic maps show Table Mountain as Table Mesa, an arrogant redundancy of the Spanish by ignorant Anglos. The settlers of the 1930's, when this area was first opened to homesteading, referred to hill 3291 as Pepsicap. The cracked and fissured rim rock "cap" of this old volcanic cone does look very much like a bottle cap.

The indigenous inhabitants and early settlers of the West were straightforward about naming places, as a review of the historic literature will reflect. Their prose was more literate and expressive than what we are used to seeing today and they were less pompous about giving names to the landmarks of this harsh and beautiful land. Contrast that approach with the grandiose names given the endless ticky-tack subdivisions scarring the urban landscape. It is another example of corporate mentality "progress" where the market rhetoric of shallow and artificial descriptions has replaced a true connection to the land.

I climbed a small rise fifty yards from Tassi. I sat and listened to the wind in the palo verde trees watching the cloud shadows play hide and seek in the canyons of the surrounding mountains. The contrast of light and shadow gives the desert its most striking character. A Harris hawk silently drifted past, cottontails hopped about, and deer and javalina had left their script printed in the sand of the creek bottoms.

After a few moments, Tassi unclamped her tail and stood hipshot and relaxed enjoying the meager warmth of the afternoon sun. She had passed another lesson. It was not a lesson completely learned by any means, but successful nevertheless. I walked back to her speaking softly as I checked my equipment and untied her. Carrying my rifle, I led her across the slippery bedrock to a place where she could drink. Ever the opportunist, she opted for a snack of some tender grass shoots growing nearby instead.

Young horses getting started under saddle need practice being led in rough country, especially where the footing is loose and steep. Over the years I have seen more riders run over leading a horse uphill than downhill. It all goes back to training. Horses do what they know. If horses are allowed to speed up every time they come to an incline while being ridden, why expect them to know the difference when they are being led?

My training philosophy begins with the concept of teaching a horse to “follow” rather than be “led.” It is a crucial distinction. Just now, I needed to get up a steep ten foot bank on the edge of the draw without getting run over, or worse, having the horse run around me and get into cactus or loose footing and tumble back down the slope on top of me. It has all happened to me many times over the years and I didn't need any more practice.

I am a traditionalist. In some circles, that is a euphemism for being outdated. I train "practical" horses for use in rough country. The traditional methods and philosophies of handling horses have been developed over the centuries because they work. Born and raised in the land of the Nevada and Idaho buckaroo, where the California Bridle Horse tradition was followed, I am a hackamore man. Whether I'm riding a horse in a hackamore or a bridle, my horses wear a bosal and neck rope with a twelve to fifteen foot mecate or "get down" line attached. My horses are trained to be led cavalry style with their nose about two feet behind my shoulder and to increase the distance when going up and down steep slopes. They are taught to stand and hold their position while I negotiate an obstacle first and to come to me on command guided by the lead line. This method saves a lot of wrecks and reinforces the transference of leadership and trust from horse to rider. This is not accomplished without some exciting moments now and again. But that is why I train horses. I like the excitement and I'm less likely to get hurt or to injure the horse in the process than someone less experienced.

I chose a spot with reasonably good footing and no serious obstacles. In this country, cactus and large rocks are some of what I consider serious obstacles for young horses. I turned to face the mare and gently waggled the mecate back and forth. The action causes the bosal to tap her on both sides of her jaw. Her ears pricked forward and her head came up in a full alert posture as she shifted her weight slightly to the rear. If I were to keep this up, she would back up. It is a handy way to get a horse to move backwards by remote control and continue to face you at the same time.

I scrambled up the incline making sure Tassi did not attempt to follow me until invited. Once I reached the top, I asked her to join me by slapping my chaps once and speaking encouragingly. She quickly began her ascent. Horses see the world differently than we do. With her athletic ability and a very determined sense of independence, she veered sharply to her right up a steeper but shorter portion of the cutbank. I corrected her with the mecate, timing the correction to create a minor loss of balance and footing for her. To regain her footing, she had to reenter the path I wished her to take. It's not that she couldn't handle the route she chose with ease. The purpose of this exercise is to teach her to do exactly what I ask. In her career, this obedience may save her life and that of her rider.

I do not advocate this kind of exacting performance for all of her ride time. Horses need to be able to make their own decisions and be allowed to relax and enjoy their rides. Most trail riding is best done under "general orders". But, on demand, the horse must do precisely what is asked of them.

Most folks just sit on a horse. They don't ride them. It is only the generous, kind and gentle nature of horses that prevents more people from getting hurt. My experience teaching traditional western horsemanship classes is that most people sitting on a horse think they are riding if they can keep the horse between the ditches. This underachieving approach to horsemanship is because a large number of horse enthusiasts have no idea just how sensitive and capable of precision the horse is.

Tassi and I repeated the slope a couple more times and she quickly understood what she needed to do. I patted her neck affectionately and blew in her nostrils. She nuzzled me in return, raised her head and gave me a haughty glance very clearly stating "I knew that".

Many people have a romanticized view of what horse training is all about. Few of them realize it is tedious and repetitive work. It is this fundamental nature of horse training that accounts for why so many horses are under-trained. The repetitive nature of horse training can be extremely boring and physically demanding. Take the last drill of scrambling up and down the slope for instance. Pleasure riding is supposed to be exactly that, "pleasure." Repeatedly negotiating a steep bank on loose footing wearing boots and chaps is not much fun, at least not after the first time. But, that is what a horse trainer is paid to do. They will repeat the necessary drills, no matter how tiring, for as long as it takes to get the point across. The backyard trainer will often get a horse through a situation and then congratulate themselves and the horse for a job well done believing the horse now knows all about it. Usually, they won't ask the horse to repeat the drill again, or, they will avoid teaching the horse to deal with the obstacle and instead, teach the horse to refuse. Ergo, an untrained horse, or worse, a horse trained to resist.

I carefully slid my rifle back into the scabbard on the off side and dug a small coil of parachute 550 cord out of my saddlebags. I attached one end to the mecate guide loop on the fiadore and looped the mecate around the saddle horn.

I want my horse to follow me rather than be led. The definition of terms is necessary to understanding the concept of “follow” vs. “lead. Follow: "to come or occur after." Lead: "to guide, or cause to follow one, by physical contact." The essential distinction between these two terms turns on the voluntariness of the action. To "follow" implies a self-directed, voluntary act. To be "led" means some sort of physical connection with its subtle threat of coercion.

As a young wrangler and apprentice trainer I had to occasionally ride and repair fence. I didn't have to build them, you understand. The code of the western cowboy still meant something even back in the 1960s. One of the elements of that code was that if it couldn't be done from horseback, cowboys didn't do it. We had "rosinjaw's" or "hired help" to do such undignified work. Cowboys, rough string riders, and wranglers rode. None of this running errands for the boss in a pickup, and, perish the thought, nothing to do with a shovel or hammer. Times have changed, and not for the better. As the horse wrangler and rough string apprentice, I was low man on the totem pole of the rigid aristocracy of cow country. "Hired help" wasn't even on the pole.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out that when I had to do chores I wasn’t getting much done working one-handed -- the other being employed in holding my horse. Hobbling took too long and I still had to retrace my steps. Tying a horse to a barbed wire fence wasn't an option. I wanted to train horses and the sooner I got my chores done, the sooner I could get back to working colts.

These circumstances demonstrated the importance of “liberty training.” A horse that is not easily caught or one that will run off is one of the most irritating habits a horse can possess. In the remoteness of western cow country, such a habit can be life threatening. It should be obvious that two-legged drive is no match for four-legged drive. Yet, it just amazes me how many folks will chase a horse. Like they think they're actually going to catch it. If a horse will not voluntarily come to you, you better have hold of him, or corralled where you can corner him. Riding fence, checking and doctoring stock, putting out salt, or other range work often times two days ride or more from the barn is no place to be afoot. Horses need to come to you of their own free will.

Parachute cord is so light compared to the mecate that it creates the illusion of no direct connection to the rider and the horse thinks they are actually free. As long as the horse stays within two paces of me, I make no corrections. This business of "correction" is a whole lot more complicated than it seems. Training horses, like anything else, is a matter of technique and timing. I've learned lots of technique in my forty odd years of starting and riding horses. I'm still working on timing.