Sunday, September 28, 2008

The Bag Lady - Part I of III


Tassie, "The Bag Lady" and Far Rider



Strands of rusted and broken barbed wire sagged in tangled confusion from rotting mesquite posts staggering like so many drunks across the rocky soil. Abandoned vehicles and dead appliances decorated the beaten ground around the hard worn dwellings scattered among the greasewood and palo verde trees. The area reminded me of some of the country I had seen in the mountains of West Virginia during military training. It was hard to believe that white folks would live like that. An occasional neatly kept cottage or mobile home stood in stark contrast to the harshness of the rough country lying hard against the southern flanks of the New River Mountains.

Fig Springs Road is a rough, rutted and potholed track following an old wagon road lazing eastward away from the usually dry course of the Agua Fria River. I drove slowly to ease the ride on my horse standing spraddle legged in the trailer behind my rig. I had become interested in the area near Fig Springs after reading a privately published monograph by Pauline Grimes (1987), A Land of Our Own. The work is a biographical account of the first permanent Anglo settlers in the Fig Springs area after the turn of the century. Fig Springs lies roughly five miles, as a hawk flies, northeast of the old New River Stage Station along the banks of the Agua Fria River north of Phoenix, Arizona.
I am an avid historian of the Southwest, circa 1873-1911. I also raise and train horses, specializing in working trail horses. As soon as the young horses I am starting under saddle or those that I am re-schooling quit trying to stick my head in the dirt, I get them out into rough country. It works out all around. I have found that horses learn a whole lot quicker when they have a reason to do something on demand and I use the opportunity to explore the out of the way sites of yesteryear in the same manner as those who came before. That is how I happened to be rattling along the old wagon road to Fig Springs. About a half a mile east of Soda Springs across a very beat up and narrow cattle guard, I off-loaded a spirited Morgan mare and saddled up. Tassie is a horseman’s horse. You cannot just sit on her. You have to ride her. She is quick, agile and intelligent with an extraordinary presence about her.

The cool February air was clear with an intermittent breeze blowing from the west. A gray, broken weather front stretched from the Bradshaws eastward across the New River Mountains. The clouds thickened to the north and rain appeared to be falling where they collided with Red Mountain. The dampness and scattered clouds occasionally drifting across an anemic winter sun gave the breeze enough of a bite to be grateful for my split-leather riding jacket.
To the northeast, New River Mesa rises some 1700 feet above the surrounding desert. Local Old Timers have told me that there is a hidden trail that negotiates its massive, lava strewn slopes from the New River side. I've ridden most of this country and glassed the mesa looking for some sign of a trail, but without any luck. There are a couple of places near West Point that look like a working cowboy on a rock-wise horse might make it. Riding other folks' horses for a living, I don't take the kind of chances I used to have to take as a working cowboy pushing range cattle. I didn't like it much then, and I sure don't like it now. I have never seen a cow or a trail worth crippling a horse for.

In addition to working horses, I guide folks into the remote and not so remote areas of Arizona and the Southwest where evidence of the Old West is still to be seen. I call these excursions Ghost Rides. Along the old wagon roads and outlaw trails lie the relics of yesteryear -- mining camps, stage stops, ghost towns and the long dried bloody ground of gun fights, robberies, massacres and other events that we call "adventure.” Life-threatening trouble is a more accurate description of such events. Seeing these places in the often harsh and beautiful country in which they occurred from the back of a horse, just as the participants did over a hundred years ago, brings history alive and makes for a great ride. Today's pre-ride was in search of the first Anglo homestead in the New River area.

Zulu, my big Rhodesian Ridgeback and trail companion, trotted ahead of as we headed east towards Skunk Creek. We crossed a dry wash and turned north paralleling the creek bed along a worn cattle trail. A mile later we swung east skirting a small hill and turned off the trail easing down into an arroyo where several clear, shallow pools fed by a seep reflected the branches of the mesquite trees along the banks.

Training horses is a conditioning process and every ride or handling session with a horse is a training session - good or bad. Horses are creatures of habit if they are anything and consistency is central to the training process. Horses are most secure when their lives are filled with constants. In my experience, horses, like kids, don't learn anything by having it defined to them. They learn by trial and error. Whatever produces not so much the greatest pleasure, but the least amount of discomfort is how a horse prioritizes it's responses to the environment and the events within it. During the training process, horses must learn that when they do the things we ask of them they will not be hurt.

There are a number of fundamental activities a horse must learn in order to have a safe and successful partnership with humans. Among the first things a horse must learn to accept is being tied to something. As a young man back in the sixties, I was privileged to have apprenticed under three of the finest horsemen to ever fork a horse; Ed Connell, the last of the old time Reindores, Del Combs, a 1900's era cowboy, stunt man and head horse trainer for Universal Studios, and Ramon Banuelos, a true Mexican vaquero with hands “as fine as a dealer in Reno.” All of these extraordinary horsemen agreed that three things modern, back yard horses don't get enough of is "walkin', rough country and standin' tied." After forty-five years of riding I couldn't agree more. How many times have you seen horses digging a hole deep enough to bury themselves in when left tied? Horses that paw when tied to a trailer or on hard surfaces run the risk of injury from this annoying habit.

Horses do what they know. If they don't know patience, they will, as often as not, paw the ground when tied. Even with a rider up they will often paw and be foolish. Rather like a kid in church. Most problems with a horse are not the fault of the horse, but rather the ignorance and incompetence of the people handling the animal.

Tassi knows how to stand tied at the rail or to a horse trailer because she has been taught to do so, but that does not mean that she will also quietly stand tied out in the middle of nowhere, on uneven ground with leaves and branches scraping against her and her rigging. Whenever possible, I use any opportunity to help a horse learn something. After first making sure that all sharp projections upon which she might hurt herself were broken off, I tied her to a mesquite branch above the height of her withers in such a fashion to insure that if she moved small limbs and leaves would touch her.

The perfect horse has never been foaled. Emory Henderson, an old-time local horseman once remarked to me "every horse has a hole in it." This little mare's problem is a violent pathological response to certain sounds, most notably the rustle of plastic bags and such. In her early training, I had tied bags and bits of plastic all over her. She had resisted mightily and I had taken to affectionately calling her The Bag Lady. She would strike and kick at the plastic no matter where it might be. This made for a very dangerous situation and we had worked long and hard to change her behavior.

I carefully eased my Winchester model 1873 lever action rifle out of the saddle scabbard and walked off. The sound of steel brushing against leather, while perhaps pleasing to anachronistic ears such as mine, could, if I were not careful, cause this powerful little mare to blow up. She humped up a bit and I gingerly stepped away. She fiddled and fidgeted, as young horses do, and every time a branch would scrape against the saddle, she'd clamp her tail, scoot her hind legs up under herself and stand poised to launch herself into the branches of the mesquite.

She is a sensible little horse and soon realized that there just wasn't any place to go. This good sense cannot be taken for granted. It must first be a genetic characteristic of a particular horse and then it must be developed through training. Horses, dogs, men. I have found there is not much difference when it comes to genetics and conditioning. Her reactions were a study in competing inclinations. Her instinctive reaction, which I will define as reflexive, was to flee from the unusual touching and rustling of the leaves and branches in this unfamiliar place. Her trained reaction, which I will define as a controlled, specific response to a stimulus, and predicated upon her previously reinforced learning experiences, was restraint. She has learned to respect a lead rope, in this case the hackamore’s mecate tied to the tree limb.

Unfortunately, in today’s modern world, most people are far removed from the natural order more commonly found in pre-WWII America. The only interaction with non-human species for most urban and city dwellers is with a domestic pet dog or cat. Horses do not learn like dogs, nor do they possess the same degree of reasoning ability. Reason, as we use it in everyday discourse, means the ability to draw inferences. However, noted California horse trainer Frank Evans says that after fifty years of training, he is convinced that a horse does not possess any ability to reason. In my experience, horses learn through association and pattern development as evidenced by Tassi's reflexive reaction to the strange circumstances but overridden by her respect of the mecate'. For our purposes here, we will take that as evidence of a primitive reasoning ability, at least in the colloquial sense.

Horses worry, and with good reason given their evolutionary history, about being eaten. After a several minutes of trembling, snorting and general wild eyed looking about, she figured out that standing absolutely still was the best way to keep whatever it was that was scraping and rattling from devouring her. Such has been her previous learning experience conducted in the controlled environment of a training arena. She firmly set her ears at a forty-five degree angle, tucked her tail and waited for what she was sure was her impending doom. I chuckled at her interpretation of her state of affairs and reflected on how much pleasure horses and their antics provide for me. I wandered off where I could survey the country and still keep an eye on her.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Range Road Rattler





Chino & Far Rider




I used to have a policy of live and let live with regard to rattlers so long as they stayed away from the ranch headquarters, pastures where my horses graze or my campsites. However, after having had three of my horses struck resulting in high veterinarian bills, emotional distress and worry over their welfare, and the forced early retirement of my grand old horse Stormy, war has been declared and I shoot every one of the miserable sonsabitches that crosses my path.

Stormy carried me for thousands of miles around the West and helped me start a lot of young horses. After the bite, he was never the same. Consequently, I view rattlesnakes as I do Muslims. They are what they are. They started it and the fight is on, permanently or until one or the other of us is eradicated.

Last week I saddled Chino and headed up the Range Road to check the tank at Crossman Well. It was a gorgeous pre-autumn day above 7000 feet here in the high desert and we were trotting along at a nice easy pace minding our own damn business enjoying the Creator's handiwork. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of a rattlesnake striking at Chino's legs. The viper did not issue a warning rattle until after the initial strike.

The reflexes of a horse never cease to amaze me. A rattlesnake strike from the first muscle twitch beginning its attack launch to contact with its target is .08 - .1 second - less than half a heartbeat and faster than the human eye can follow. Chino sidestepped neatly and the snake missed. Incredible reaction and the second time it has happened to me while horseback.

My reaction to an attack against either my animals or people that I care about is very unequivocal - murderous rage. I looked back and could not see the snake due to the rose tint in my sunglasses that washes out greens. This is the second time I have experienced this phenomenon and I guess I am a slow learner. Sunglasses that work well on a motorcycle are not good in this wild country where the possibility of encountering a rattler are common.

I stepped off Chino, yanked the sunglasses off and put Caesar on a sit-stay. Drawing my .44 and leading Chino I went back looking for the little crawler.

I located the snake, a prairie rattler common to the high deserts of western New Mexico. I shoot snakes in the head. I have no problem with killing, but I cannot abide suffering in man or beast. All of my weapons have tactical zeros for point of aim with the range of each zero appropriate to the type of firearm and its intended environment. Additionally, I know the "Snake Zero" for each of my weapons.

The standard is a one inch shot placement at nine - twelve feet. This is a modification of the Very Close Quarter Battle Zero (approximately five yards or less) designed to take a head shot in a hostage or barricaded suspect environment. The accuracy parameters for either a snake head shot or a hostage suspect are approximately the same. The accuracy allows the shooter to hit a suspect in the eye when shielded by a hostage, hit a snake in the head, or to dispatch a wounded or down animal humanely. It requres a bit of "Tennessee Elevation" as most of my weapons fire just a bit high at such close proximity. It is something you just have to know about your weapon. If you do not have that degree of intimacy with your weapon put it away and get yourself a stick. You are not a shooter. You are just a noisemaker.

I have recently been introduced to an extrordinary man through my friend and mentor, Robert Koga. This man, like Bob, is Japanese and, like myself, raised in an orphanage. His resume makes me look like a Sunday School teacher. He is a very accomplished martial artist and serves as a body guard for a number of high profile celebrities.

In his capacity as a guardian, he has been on a number of safaris to Africa. In addition to the usual two legged varmints he has to protect his clients from, he also has to deal with four legged predators and big dangerous snakes.

In a recent article he sent to me he detailed some of his experiences with the Black Mamba, nicknamed the Shadow of Death. Scares the hell out of me.


This snake comes in versions up to fourteen feet in length. It has a neurotoxic venom than can kill a human in fifteen minutes or so, though some of the literature suggests that a vicim will linger in terrible pain and paralysis for up to six hours. The reptile is very aggressive and just happens to also be the fastest snake in Africa. There are folks that want to protect this thing and say it is misunderstood. Never mind the rather alarming number of deaths each year from this very unpleasant fellow. But, there are lots of Africans I guess.

Matt carries a shotgun specifically to be used against this nasty species. He is also a real shooter and my reaction is that if he needs a shotgun to deal with this menace, I need two. I had never considered a shotgun for serpent protection, but after reading about the Mamba and hearing about it from Matt, it makes perfect sense to me.

He will be arriving here at the ranch in a couple of days along with Bob and some other very competent fellows - all former SWAT and Spec Ops guys, and I look forward to hearing more scary stories around the campfire. Damn snakes anyway.
Carrying weapons for dangerous predators, two-legged and four-legged seems like common sense. I never feel sorry for the hikers and bicyclists that get eaten by mountain lions out in California. The same folks that think cougars are nice big kitties. Good thing there are lots of Californians. I have had two of my horses hit by lions here on the ranch. They both survived but came home leaking pretty good.
My saddle rifle is a Marlin lever action in 45-70 caliber when I ride in Idaho, Wyoming and Montana. The country up there has lots of grizzly bears. I have had a couple of near misses with bears and they scare me. Big Baby.

Back to the range road rattler:

I approached the area where the snake had attacked and spotted it perfectly camouflaged in the blue gramma grass and rabbit brush. It was about two feet long and coiled into a classic "S" striking position definitely on the fight and rattling its warning. The roar of the .44 special sent the creature to wherever it is they go. Probably the same place the supposed multiple virgins hang out.

I cut off what remained of its head and buried it to prevent critters from becoming envenomed by eating it. I left the rest for the coyotes with the exception of the rattle that I saved for guests that visit here at the ranch and think something like that is nice to have. I don't have any use for trophy hunters that kill things just to hang on the wall and I don't keep mementos of killing. It may have to be done, but it is not cause for celebration.

My horses are all accustomed to gunfire and Chino just raised his head at the crack of the shot. I have a picket line up at the Close Quarter Battle Range where I tie my horses while I practice. It doesn't take them long to get used to the noise and I never discharge a weapon close enough to damage their hearing. I do not shoot from horseback as I think it is stupid and unnecessary to shoot from a non-stable gun platform with the inherent risk of pain and harm to my horse. I am not about to stuff tampons and have white string tripwires hanging out of my horse's ears. The Mounted Cowboy Shooting competitors do that, but it seems undignified. Some things are just not done.

Buck and the Diamondback:

Not all horses, mind you, are that tolerant of gunfire and a gunshot can have startling consequences. Some years ago, I had a big buckskin horse come to me for training while I was doing my doctoral work in Phoenix. The horse belonged to a bomb tech law enforcement guy and had the unpleasant habit of bucking people off as soon as they stepped into the stirrup.

The horse, named Buck, what else? and I went to work. He proved to be an exceptional horse - big, strong, willing and smart. After riding him for a month or so, I offered to buy him but a veterinarian examination showed him to have navicular disease in a front foot so I had to pass.

After we got through the understanding that bucking was not acceptable behavior, we spent a lot of hours riding out in the the deserts that surround Phoenix and, when he was ready, I trailered him out to the Bradshaw mountains for some serious trail work.
Summer temperatures in the Inferno Valley and the mountains north of Black Canyon City made it impossible to ride until near sundown. Shadows were starting to lengthen and the air cool as Buck and I headed off through the Agua Fria River canyon east of the Bradshaw foot hills. It is wild, rough country and only a person that loves the northern Sonoran Desert can appreciate its harsh beauty. But, it is a hazardous place and requires alertness and an understanding that nature does not care about us. Fail to show her the proper respect and she will kill you graveyard dead.

Buck was moving along at an extended trot down an old mining road two track when I saw the white of the snakes open mouth as it struck at Buck's front legs. Buck merely sidestepped and never missed a beat.

Strike at my horse. Pay with your life. I stepped off and went back after the snake. It was a large Diamondback known for their aggressive and unpleasant social habits. Zulu, my big Rhodesian - Hound Cross was peeking around my chaps at the irritated snake and wanting no part of it. I had the hackamore mecate (lead line) in my right hand as I was still shooting left handed due to the extensive grenade damage to my right hand sustained in 1983. I drew a five inch barreled, Colt Single Action Army, second generation model in .45 Colt and maneuvered around to get a head shot at the snake.

Fortunately, I took a very firm hold of the mecate as Buck was not happy being anywhere near the buzzing snake. The snake decided to retreat and slithered off down the road. It was growing dim in the gathering dusk and the low light was compounded by the shadows thrown by the peaks of the Bradshaws off to the west.

I didn't really know the snake zero and the weapon had fixed sights so I just trusted to sight picture and fundamentals. The snake was maybe ten feet or so away and hauling ass for some cover. I took aim at the back of the viper's head and pulled the trigger.
The next thing I knew I was horizontal in the air, then slamming face down in the rocks and sagebrush as Buck headed north for Cordes Junction. Luckily for me, the training we had done on respecting the lead line overrode his flight reaction, otherwise he would probably still be running.

I picked myself up, checked my Colt for damage and assessed the rest of my body for injuries. I was bruised and had some hide peeled off here and there, but was otherwise in good shape. My chaps certainly had new scars to tell the tale which is why I never step into the saddle without them. Chaps, gloves and a sharp knife are the minimum basic equipment when climbing aboard a horse. At least if you ride outside of an arena.

After Buck calmed down, I led him back to where I had shot at the Diamondback. I really did not have much hope in having made a successful shot, but there the snake was. The big, blunt 255 grain lead round nose bullet had struck just behind the head at the junction of the body and severed the two. Hell of a shot. Goes to show, fundamentals and a good bit of luck works every time. It is also one of the reasons why I do not shoot from horseback.

If I were charging into a horde of heathens during a more exciting time of history, I would have no problem shooting from horseback, though I think I should prefer a saber or a lance, but, alas, such is not the case nowadays. I did have to whack a few bad guys with my riot baton or boken while a mounted law enforcement officer but I was precluded from running them through. I do envy my modern Green Beret comrades that rode down the Taliban on Afghan horses. Killing Taliban from horseback. How cool is that?
Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Rattlesnakes and Fern Feelers

Prairie Rattlesnake




"Environmentalist." A term that makes thinking folks, and even a few Democrats become ill. There are significant differences between holier-than-thou environmentalists and responsible conservationists.

By way of brief explanation; an environmentalist believes the natural world should remain free of any human use or interaction except for those that have government permission. Their approach is restrictive of human activity and basic liberty. A conservationist believes the natural world is there for the responsible use and enjoyment of human beings. The conservationist approach is to facilitate the access of human beings while still providing reasonable protections where they are needed. The issue typically turns on what is viewed as responsible and reasonable. A Sierra Club member is typically at one end of the spectrum and the ATV user groups are at the other.

The Environmental Movement began in the 1960s as a project of the hippie, back to nature craze. The goal of those unwashed, drug addled, draft dodging spoiled brats was to remove all commercial and most recreational activities from public land. During the past forty years, they have grown older but none wiser. While they may have learned the purpose of soap and water, they now do their damage wearing three-piece suits.

The land management agencies have been infiltrated by members of the environmental movement and policies have been implemented that have wreaked havoc with the economies of the rural west. Their efforts have destroyed families and enterprises that were generations old. Most native born westerners that still attempt to raise livestock, harvest timber, mine the resources necessary for industry or recreate by hunting, fishing, camping or riding horses on public land despise the urban elites that claim to know how to manage the West from their desks in the East.

Unfortunately, the environmentalist groups have the excesses of the past to support their attempts to deprive Americans commercial and recreational access to public lands. Over grazing, strip mining and clear cut timber operations laid waste to large portions of public and private land during the late Nineteenth and much of the Twentieth Centuries. Like so many movements, there were well-intentioned motives for protecting our natural heritage in the beginning that ended up being co-opted by the extremists.

The self-righteous rhetoric of tree hugging zealots who have a vision of the planet that would reduce the world's advanced industrialized nations to stone age culture is nothing but a mask utilizing moralistic propaganda for the purpose of controlling people and restricting freedom. It is designed to pilfer the pockets of the tax paying citizen and exert government controls over the use of public lands by the citizens that own it.

Thanks to the spandex clad, pot smoking fern feelers, their three piece lawyers and Birkenstock wearing academic allies, they have nearly succeeded in bringing America to the verge of economic failure. They are greatly responsible for the personal financial suffering of all but the wealthiest Americans in the form of obscene prices for food and fuel while America sits on huge proven energy reserves. Out here in the Big Open, they are hated.

"My name is Al Gore and I am here to help you."

Among the ideas that they have managed to convince their useful government idiot allies to support is the protection of rattlesnakes. The only people besides the wide-eyed environmental types that love the species are herpetologists and religious snake handlers - not folks that most of us find particularly compelling as associates.

Rattlesnakes are protected by federal laws passed by those that never see one in the wild or encounter them coiled up on the porch of a rural cabin or ranch house posing a serious threat to humans, pets and livestock.

The effects of a rattlesnake strike to the flesh of man or beast is profound. The tree huggers that have proudly placed this dangerous creature on the protected list have never seen the affects of a snakebite and their literature advises that few folks die as a result of a strike. Surviving does not tell half of the tale.

What most of the public does not realize is that a strike will result in prolonged and excruciating pain, multiple surgeries, possible limb amputation, permanent nerve damage, and limitation of the use of the limb for life. From my simple and barbaric standpoint, such risk is unacceptable.


The following links provide a well written documentary and photographic record by a thirteen year old victim:

http://www.rattlesnakebite.org/index.htm

http://www.rattlesnakebite.org/rattlesnakepics.htm

Here is an example of urban horse person Greenie idiocy. Recently, I subscribed to a magazine dedicated to trail riding. I thought it might be a good source of information for the type or riding I do. The magazine is just too wimpy for my tastes. It is designed for those that like organized trail riding under very controlled conditions. Not my thing. When "organizers" start telling me I cannot carry a weapon or have my dog along, I find some place else to ride.

In a recent edition, an environmentally enlightened female horse owner wrote a sappy article that included experiences with rattlesnakes around her barn. Apparently, she found an adult rattler inside, managed to trap it and then released it someplace away from her facility presumably in one of her turnouts or pastures. Compounding her dedication to Greenie stupidity, she also found two baby rattlers in her barn and "gently released them outside." For crying out loud. This had to be in California. If her horses had any idea, they would quit the outfit for sure.

This sort of nonsensical thinking pervades virtually every area of our social and political life. These are the same folks that wring their hands about removing all risk in society by taking away the right to bear arms, mandate the removal of swings, dodge ball, merry-go-rounds, and monkey bars on playgrounds and in our parks, while simultaneously advocating the presence of mosques in the local neighborhood and gushing over how open it is to have homosexual sensitivity sessions and the distribution of condoms in our secondary schools. What the hell is the matter with these people?

These folks are the same ones promoting the reintroduction of wolves in the West - the subject of another post in the future. Polyannas without a clue. Most of this crowd also stand in giddy rapture over the prospect of electing a Marxist candidate with a total experience resume of 143 days in the US Senate. You couldn't become a district manager for McDonalds with that amount of experience though you could become a government agent, policeman or a correctional officer. Go figure. Might keep that in mind when it comes time to vote.

Conservation and preservation is important to those of us that love to wander through wild country. We accept the risk of being in those places, and we accept the responsibility of dealing with those risks even if it includes gunfire. For those folks that do not believe we have a right to protect ourselves and our pets and livestock from dangerous things, I would like them to identify which of their family members, friends, pets or livestock they are willing to sacrifice. I wonder how those potential sacrificial lambs might view those so willing to see them potentially suffer or die.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Down the Road


"Down that Red Dirt Road...#2"
Diane Loft



The following morning I went into breakfast for my first meal in twenty four hours and not a word was said about the injured horse. I wasn't surprised as the other employees knew there were problems between me and the boss and they wanted to protect their jobs. I have never had that much sense and have been fired and thrown out of class for standing up for employees or students when they were not being treated right.

Taking care of myself has never been a problem. To this day my pickup is stocked with camping gear, rations, ammunition, books and feed for my dog. My horse trailer is similarly equipped to care for my horses. There was always an outfit that needed a man that could start young horses.

Often, the positions were in remote cow camps and never paid much, but I was respected for the work I did and I didn't have to knuckle my forehead. For company I had Herodotus, Plato, Sir Walter Scott and other friends and teachers tucked in my saddlebags.

Seventeen years later as a drug agent on the Mexican border I would go head to head with a supervisory federal bureaucrat noted for his cowardice and blind eye to corruption. When I needed help from my fellow officers, there was dead silence as they protected their jobs rather than step up. For a long time I made the mistake of thinking that cops, who are supposed to be the good guys, at least back when they were the friends of law abiding citizens, would have the same standards of loyalty and courage that my brother warriors in Project Delta and other Special Forces Groups I served with displayed. I measured every group and individual by the standards of the men I was privileged to operate and fight beside. Big mistake and I was a slow learner.

A fellow Special Forces trooper and retired San Francisco police officer for whom I have enormous respect disagreed with me in a comment to one of my earlier posts about my opinion that "You are now what you were when." Good Irishman that he is, he is wrong. Folks are what they are and they do not often change. The imprimatur is stamped early on. No point in resenting it. Regard them with the contempt they deserve and move on.

The next few days were filled with saddling and riding horses getting them ready for the dudes. There was palpable tension whenever the boss came around and I did my best to avoid him. A curious event occurred that confirmed my negative opinion of the outfit's ownership. While getting the cabins and lodge ready for the summer guests, a woman from Cody was hired to help out. Preparing supper one evening, she cut her hand rather severely and required several sutures to close the wound. The Yale educated MD performed the procedure. I ran into her while picking up my mail one afternoon in Cody and she showed me a letter with an invoice from the good doctor requesting a payment of fifteen dollars for the treatment. Good Lord.

The owner had a pair of Chesapeake Retrievers named Bing and Bell. I called them Ding and Bat - further endearing me to the boss and especially his wife, Brown 1942. Bing weighed in near one hundred twenty pounds. He had the thick protective coat characteristic of the breed and had fought coyotes, dogs and other critters all of his life. He was a big, tough, competent dog. Bell, his female mate was his smaller twin. Both of the dogs were great and I liked them. But, Bing and Chance did not get on. They had had a couple of knock down, drag out fights and Chance had come out the loser. The forty pounds and thick coat gave the bigger Chesapeake a significant advantage. Chance was an impressive fighter, but he was very much outmatched in the engagements with Bing. I had had to sew him up from one of the previous encounters and so I did my best to keep them apart.

Standing beside a stock truck near one of the barns one afternoon, boss walked up asking about something or other and I was not paying attention to the dogs when Bing and Chance got into it. The big Chesapeake knocked Chance off of his feet and had him pinned up next to the dual rear wheels of the truck with his belly exposed. I was afraid that Bing would tear his stomach out and I dove into the fray under the truck. During the brawl, Bing bit me through and through behind the index finger on my left hand. He didn't mean to, I just got in the way during the fight but the hand would be stiff and sore for months.

Bing got Chance by the throat and was worrying him for all he was worth. I grabbed Bing by the collar and the Doctor grabbed a club and hit Chance in the head and face twice. Chance could not get away and it was Bing that had the grip. The dumb bastard swung the club again at Chance's head whose left eye was already blood red from one of the previous blows. I tried to protect Chance and the club hit me on the left elbow.

Enough was enough. When the man raised the club to strike again I let go of Bing and using the skills hammered into me for years in the dojo by my mentor Robert Koga, I stepped inside, trapped his right arm under my left arm, placed the web of my right hand against his throat and shoved him back against the stock truck. I was very gentle under the circumstances following my mentors philosophy of applying no more force than necessary to contain and control him. I had a duty not to hurt him though I did believe he deserved it.

I firmly advised him to stop hitting my dog with the damn club, released him and jerked the bludgeon out of his hand tossing it over the back of the stock truck. It would not be the last time I would have to call upon the skills I learned from my Sensei and closest friend.

http://www.kogainst.com/

Over my decades of living, I have observed that women, social progressives, people of privilege, academics and geeks do not seem to realize that there are times when behavior will result in physical consequences. Spend a little time in a Mexican Cantina, biker or cowboy bars and one learns to walk softly.

The dogs were still struggling but getting tired as I turned my attention back to getting them separated. I told the boss who was grumbling and glaring at me to grab Chance by the hind legs and hold him in place. I reached under the Chesapeake's lower jaw and C-clamped his trachea. At the loss of oxygen, he let go and I pulled him aside. I collected my dog, and surprisingly, he was not badly hurt but the dumb ox actually thought he had won.

At supper that night the story of the fight and my "assault" on the boss was the chief topic of conversation. The stories I heard certainly didn't match my recollection of the incident but I said nothing to correct them. I was surprisingly unmarked from the ass kicking I had supposedly received except for a very sore elbow.

The next morning after breakfast, the boss walked up with a check in his hand. He simply said "I can't use you here." I replied "I'll get my gear". Minutes later I was pulling out. Unknown to me then, I would be back in the fall starting colts and cowboying for the Fear Ranches 100 miles south near the Wind River Range.

As I rolled past the dining hall, Ms. Cracky walked out and said "Too bad it didn't work out." Goofy broad. Why are liberals and the rest of those that bleat about sensitivity, inclusiveness, tolerance, diversity and all the rest of that nonsense such bloody hypocrites? In my experience with those that make up my political and social opposition I have found that they are often moral and physical cowards that preach non-violence because they lack the ability, courage and will to apply justifiable violence against those that have it coming and they want all of the rest of us to rely upon agents of the state or thugs wearing badges to protect us. Remember that when you vote.
Don't get your panties in a bunch. Many of my close friends are liberals by political affiliation and philosophy. They are decent, kind people that I care about very much and they probably truly believe in the rightness of their leanings. I think they are in need of clinical intervention.


My dear friend and brother, Brad Steiner, the founder of Combato - Jen Do Tau, one of the finest "practical" self-defense systems in the world goes ballistic every time I even mention Ms. Cracky or those that make up the constituency of the liberal left. He makes me laugh but I am of a gentler nature.

http://www.americancombato.com/index.cfm

I didn't say a thing as Chance and I headed down the road.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses