Cowboys and Bra Burners - Part II

The old dirt, one lane Forest Road, now the Chief Joseph Highway, as it looks today dropping down into the Sunlight Basin from Dead Indian Pass.

The dudes would begin to arrive within the month and the outfit's horses had to be brought up from their winter pasture near Cody, Wyoming nearly 50 miles away. I threw my saddle and gear into a stock truck and rode with the boss from the ranch to the winter feed ground.

It was a cold, soggy morning as two of us hands saddled up for the first day's drive to the ranch. The owner put on his best show of supervising the village idiots for the sake of Cracky who was riding in the pickup with him and we complied as best we could. We were pretty sure he was explaining to Cracky just how incompetent we were, him being such a westerner and all. We have all been there with folks like that.

I climbed aboard a big, rangy bay and we headed over thirty head of horses right down Sheridan Avenue, the main street of Cody, Wyoming. It is my understanding that it was the last year it was done. I sure wish I had some of the hundreds of photos that were taken by the tourists. The local cops helped with traffic control getting the herd across the bridge spanning the Shoshone River and we strung them out along Highway 120 headed north.

We turned the horses loose on open range twenty miles north for the night, camped out and prepared to head them northwest over Dead Indian Peak and down into the Sunlight Basin the following morning. The light came grudgingly portending another gray, damp day. I was glad for the new three quarter slicker that still hangs tattered but usable in my cloak room here at the ranch. The owner pointed out which horse he wanted me to ride for the push over the mountains and then informed me that Cracky would be riding along with us that day. He said he would catch her horse and told me to take the edge off of him before she mounted up.

He walked out into the meadow and the horse was not about to be caught. In a situation like that you better read the horse pretty well because unless you can corner the critter, you will get one chance, if that, to catch them. The old boy had his opportunity and missed. No harm there as we have all missed catching horses. The big gray horse spun around and kicked him right in the seat of his pants. I ducked my head behind the horse I was saddling so that my grin would not be seen. It was obvious the owner, somewhere in his not-so-fit sixties was in a testosterone crisis over Cracky. It was pathetic, but now in my sixties, I guess I can understand it a bit. I got some oats and my lariat and caught the ornery beast, saddled him and stepped up. He was fresh not mean, just grouchy at having his vacation interrupted. I didn't think Cracky should be on this horse, but it wasn't my outfit.

The owner did the honors of putting Cracky aboard while I went about lining the horses out down the highway before we headed up the Forest Service road towards the mountains. I turned around in time to see Cracky aboard the gray go bouncing across the sage flats with no concept of how to control the animal. It was a wreck in the making. I rode over and shouldered the horse into a wide circle until I could get hold of his bridle. The poor girl was scared out of her wits. Horses are big and can be scary if you have not spent a lot of time around them, so it was not her fault. It was an environment for which she was not prepared.

Those of us that have been around horses and firearms have all dealt with the claims of experience and competency from those that have neither. I have found males to be more inclined in this manner than women. Ask any guy if he is familiar with firearms, and believe me, as an American male, knowledge of and experience with weapons is imbued at birth.

As a firearms instructor I will occasionally come across a weapon I am not familiar with. My approach is to ask the owner or another student that is familiar with the weapon for some basic instruction on how the firearm functions. I still get paid and I learn something without putting myself or others at risk. For horse folks, it is even worse. Ask any dude that walks up to the line for a horse if they have ridden and they all have years of experience. I would not attempt to rappel, fast rope, free fall or fly an aircraft without instruction. But, many folks will climb aboard a sentient, independently reacting animal of over one thousand pounds and expect it to behave like an ATV. Were it not for the basically kind and generous nature of horses, there would be more graves filled and space occupied in neurological wards.

While stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, I trained horses while I was off duty. I had a couple of horses in training at a local stable that boarded private horses as well as rented saddle horses. A group of blacks from the base had come out to go for a ride. The head wrangler was a real southern boy I avoided due to issues of hygiene and his penchant for knocking horses around. He put these "riders" up on horses that were not the best mannered of beasts and one of them took off across the four lane highway that fronted the stables.

The horse bolted out into the roadway with the black guy screaming in panic and was struck by a car. The vehicle came to a stop in the grassy median. The horse, with broken legs flailing, lacerations squirting blood and patches of hide missing, was moaning and kicking on the side of the road. The rider was laid out on the highway. It was a mess to be sure, but as a police officer and combat veteran I had seen a lot worse so I was not too excited about the injured people. There was plenty of other incompetent help running around in a dither to take care of them.

I immediately went to the stricken horse. There was nothing to be done for the suffering animal. I returned to my pickup, retrieved my revolver and put the horse out of his misery. The State Patrol and ambulances arrived and order was gradually restored. I have never understood folks screaming at a crisis scene. Doesn't do a damn bit of good, just makes things worse and certainly noisier. I have had to firmly counsel screaming victims at the scene of disasters to shut the hell up.

Before it was all over, I was threatened with arrest for firing my weapon on a public roadway and for not getting permission from the legal owner of the horse to put it down. Additionally, I was thoroughly lectured by both the uniformed idiots and assorted other Good Samaritans about the inappropriateness of my choice in rendering aid to the wounded animal rather than the wounded people.I would do the same thing again under the same circumstances.

The event was unnecessary and was precipitated by the rider of the dead horse claiming he was an experienced rider and compounded by the stupidity of the wrangler for not being a competent judge of customers. It was about folks making claims of competence where they had none. Rather like Ms. Cracky. Life is tough, but it sure as hell is tougher when you are stupid and maybe a lot shorter. The real tragedy was the loss of the horse.

I helped a very shaken young woman off of the horse, unsaddled him, threw the gear in the truck with the good doctor from Yale and galloped off to catch up with the herd. Those horses knew exactly where they were going and were not wasting any time getting there.

Cracky was driving one of the pickups and would go ahead on the forest road and open the gates while the owner would bring up the rear and close the gates after the herd had passed through. The system worked well and kept the horses lined out and moving without the time to get into mischief.

I just could not help myself. As I passed through one of the gates and rode past Cracky, I leaned down from my saddle and said "So much for equality." It wasn't like I called her stupid or anything. She immediately reported this affront to Yale 1939 and I later heard from the other guy in the truck that the elderly fellow responded with "I'll kill him." You have to be kidding. I know something about killing and I don't use such phrases. I thought it was absurd but this event was the catalyst that would prove to be the undoing of my career as a dude wrangler a few short days later.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Cowboys and Bra Burners - Part I

Burning bras and draft cards were the icons of the late 1960s and 1970s.

Wyoming is part of the inter-mountain west. It is one of my favorite places; no state income tax, lowest population in the Lower Forty-eight, pro-gun, folks are polite, the state is clean with lots of open country and grand mountains. Those that are unkind say that it is a place where men are men, women are scarce and the sheep are nervous.

Wyoming was the first state to grant the vote to women and was way ahead of its time, but I wonder if those intelligent and committed women of a century ago would have signed on to the babbling hysteria of the mid-1970s "Women's Liberation Movement." Betty Friedan, the author of the modern feminist movement, had it right when she advocated that "feminism" should mark the ability of women to assert their goals, but they did not need to burn their bras and hate men. Like so many social movements, it was hijacked by the less intelligent radicals and the man haters became the image of the movement because the press found them a better story. At the same time, males (they do not deserve the designation of men) were burning their draft cards. The females were betraying their sex and the males were betraying their country.

I had no idea that a cowboy was about to step into a political storm because of the social militancy sweeping the nation and finding its way into the remote beauty of the Sunlight Basin.

The middle of May 1975 found the snow melting in the meadows and shedding hair everywhere as the summer staff began to wander in to the guest ranch north of Cody, Wyoming. The owners came from old eastern money and they were a piece of work. They would introduce themselves as "Dr. and Mrs. D... Yale 1939. Brown 1942" (Dates are approximate). I had seen arrogance, but this was a new level for me. Perhaps it was ignorance on my part that such introductory distinctions were common for the eastern ivy league crowd where breeding was more important than accomplishment--one of the many distinctions between the cultures of the Eastern Establishment and cow country where a man's reputation is based upon his word, the last good loop he throws and the way his horse is shod.

Among those working at the ranch for the season was a very comely young lady with the nickname of Cracky (I have no idea how she acquired such a dumb name but I am sure it had some deep existential meaning for her). She was an English major at Washington State University if I recall correctly. She was attractive with a nice figure and long brown hair. She was a "liberated" woman - all about peace, love, tolerance, civil rights, anti-war, anti-cop, Power to the People, women's rights and she was mad as hell at anything the could stand up to pee.

Evenings would find the ranch staff sitting in the dining-kitchen area of the Chef's cabin after supper. I would usually be seated at the long dining table with a Lyman 310 hand loading tool, a scale, can of gunpowder, primers and a box of bullets. I would make reloads for my Smith & Wesson .357 Combat Magnum that I had carried as an LAPD officer. Occasionally, a primer would go off and scare the hell out of everyone which did nothing to add to my popularity.

I have never been comfortable with small talk and envy those with the social skills to engage in chit chat without their eyes crossing in boredom. When the talk would turn to horses, guns or things of a substantive nature I would get involved. The ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) was creating a stir in the nation and bras were being burned furiously by the radical feminists. It was instructive to note that the pretty girls seemed not to engage in the activity nearly as much as those less fortunate in architecture.

Cracky was a very bright young woman and ideologically committed to all of the Marxist notions that were getting into full swing throughout the country, particularly in academic circles. Marxism and militant feminism along with the anti-war and civil rights movements were all linked ideologically and competed for attention.

I confess to adhering to outdated concepts of the proper manifestations of the feminine for women and chivalric behavior for men. I believe that one of my primary functions as an honorable man is to treat women, regardless of age, race, creed or color with respect. I have a duty to protect them from the abuses of dishonorable males and other dangers as best I am able. Commensurate with my antiquated views, I object to women in combat roles in the military or even in support roles that expose them to the chance of being attacked. I object to women working as street police officers, fire fighters, and sports analysts.

When exiting an aircraft into the "Mouth of the Cat", I sure as hell did not want to be following some girlish butt out the door. When I was on the bottom of the pile of a neighborhood in South Central Los Angeles that had turned out on me and my partner, I wanted to see the biggest goons on the department rolling up to get the cretins off of me. If I am down in a burning building, I don't want to be a fatality because the "firefighter" is a gender based affirmative action hire that cannot carry me to safety by herself. If I had the ability, strength, speed and talent to be a professional sports player, I surely would not be comfortable with female sports writers tramping about the locker room and taking offense at the pinups on my locker displaying the beauty of God's handiwork in the female form, and then filing a lawsuit for sexual harassment. Besides, running about in the buff I worry about criticism about any of my possible shortcomings. A good reason to marry virgins.

I have studied the issues of fine, complex and gross motor functions of the human body in my capacities as a weapons instructor, martial arts student, and forensics investigator. My own anecdotal experience and the scholarly literature both support the finding that women often have superior fine motor skills. There is some agenda driven research that suggests that they make better fighter pilots because of their extremely fine motor skills. That still doesn't mean that I want them in harm's way.

As a weapons instructor for the past forty years, I have noticed that women are quite often, in the initial stages of training, better shooters. First, they listen to the instructor and don't bring the "I know how to shoot because I have an appendage between my legs" attitude, and, their fine motor skills are often a distinct advantage. I have run two sniper courses over the course of my career where women were the honor graduates.

My years as a Green Beret taught me that strength, stamina and speed were necessary characteristics if we were to survive the sort of missions we were tasked with. Selection standards, testing and training reflected that. At five feet ten inches in height and one hundred eighty pounds of lean muscle, I had to work hard to meet and keep standards.

On the other hand, Fire Departments have often had to increase manpower (person power for crying out loud) when there are females assigned to the engine because of physical strength differentials. As a Forest Service fire suppression team crew foreman, my team broke down because of the weak links created by the presence of females. It wasn't their fault they could not carry sixty five pounds of gear while slogging through steep, rugged terrain swinging a Pulaski in the heat without adequate water or sleep. It was the fault of the gutless weenies in the bureaucracy that made the decision to put them in that position and thereby place others and the mission at risk. It is about achieved ability not sex, race, color or any other ascribed characteristic.

The point I am making is that we are not all created equal. And, some of those inequalities are gender based. There are differences within the genders based upon the raw genetics of size and strength and ability. I have had the opportunity to study and practice various martial arts over the years with world class instructors. I have worked as hard as I could to master as many of the techniques as I could, but I could never approach the skill of my instructors. I simply was not their equal. Thus, if a job were offered that required martial arts skills, it seems reasonable that any of my instructors would be hired instead of me. Doesn't seem fair though. What about my self-esteem?

I wanted to be an LAPD motor officer, but I was not the required minimum of six feet tall. It just wasn't fair. One night while on patrol down in the "jungle" on Adams Boulevard, my partner and I rolled up on a gang of street thugs gambling and selling dope. I was senior officer on the X-Ray Unit so I took command of the situation. I ordered the nine or ten guys to line up facing the wall in my best military command voice and they all meekly complied while my partner remained in an over watch position. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my command presence when I happened to turn around. Quietly standing behind us were three giants in helmets, leather jackets, trooper pants and boots - LAPD motor officers. Small wonder the clowns all grabbed the wall.

Today, in our enlightened world, we see short, broad-beamed little police persons waddling up to vehicles. Good Lord. They must be running out of police men. I am glad that rotund demographic was not my backup that night as we took down a couple of high profile warrants and weapons out of the group and things might have been a whole lot different without the intimidating presence of those three huge officers backing me up. It just wasn't fair. I would not always be so fortunate in other violent law enforcement encounters where female officers were involved.

Differences are predictable, generally speaking, based upon sex. Police Departments, Fire Departments and the regular military have all drastically reduced their standards to accommodate females and correspondingly smaller males. Brian Mitchell's book Women in the Military: flirting with disaster (1998) is a scathing indictment of the feminization of the military. Equality of opportunity has become replaced by equality of representation. At five foot ten and one hundred eighty pounds, I was one of the smaller guys in my academy class. There are some arenas where size, speed, and strength matter. Bigger officers have to fight fewer suspects and I noticed fewer bullies among the bigger officers than among the smaller guys. Just my experience.

My motorcycle wing man is a tall, blue-eyed devil (his nickname by the blacks in his patrol district) from Tennessee and a Green Beret as well. He is also a former Santa Barbara SWAT officer. Just to be clear, we are known as the "Odd Couple" among our Special Forces and Special Operations comrades. I am the Felix and he the Oscar of the duo. During the initial movement to place women on the street as police officers, he was assigned a new female recruit. As they were walking to their patrol vehicle after roll call on her first shift, he scooped her up over his shoulder and ran across the parking lot setting her down beside the patrol vehicle. Understandably, she was annoyed and asked her training officer why he had done that. He answered that he had just saved her life and then asked if she could do the same for him. I am sure the lesson was lost upon her, but the point is still valid. I am not picking on women. I have even less patience with incompetent males because at least they ought to know better. We start learning in the sand box that the bigger kid gets the fire engine. It may not be fair but it is reality.

Now, all of that said, the best supervisors I have worked for in academia were women and I would work for these intelligent and capable women again any day. The male academic department supervisors I worked for were, with the exception of one, effeminate wimps. I have enormous respect for many of the excellent horsewomen I have worked with that could do far more with horses than I can. I have an unfortunate amount of time as a patient in emergency rooms and hospitals and the very best nurses I have had were women. Their natural caring and gentleness did more to get me well than anything else. Not to say that I have not known good male nurses, but the women were better. Gender based?

Like Thomas Jefferson, I am a firm believer in a meritocracy and not the egalitarian rubbish of a democracy. But, in our current state of imbecility, the mention of possible gender based abilities can ruin a career even if one is the president of Harvard University. Never mind that the data, incomplete as it may be, thus far supports the phenomenon.

http://www.boston.com/news/local/articles/2005/01/17/summers_remarks_on_women_draw_fire/

Cracky was very much like the young women described in the entry for July 19, 2008, I didn't know cowboys were smart. Her mind was made up and that was that. Unable to convince her of the errors of her intellect I turned my attention to separating her from her panties. My best efforts were grandly unsuccessful. Damn, but Wyoming was tough on a cowboy that spring, and it wasn't going to get any better.

Far Rider

See to your weapons and stand to your horses