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.

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.

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.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_mamba

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

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.

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.

http://wnd.com/index.php?fa=PAGE.view&pageId=72136

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

Abandoned Horse

Sin, the mare nobody wanted to ride

After my remark to Ms. Cracky questioning her concept of "equality" as I rode through the last gate on the Forest Road, we turned the horses due west and headed over the shoulder of Dead Indian Peak. It was a relief to be in rough country without Yale 1939 looking over my shoulder.

The ranch was still some 20 miles away but the lead bell mare had done this trip for many years and she knew exactly what trail to take down the rough and broken west side of the peak. We picked up the Forest Road twelve miles from the ranch and the ponies got into goin' home gear proper.

The horses came to a very narrow, rough spot in the road and some sort of ruckus ensued causing one of the smaller geldings to get knocked off of the road and down the steep bank through a barbed wire fence. The horse was bleeding from wire cuts and showing signs of distress and shock by the time I got to him. The boss pulled up on the roadway and told me to leave the horse because it was more important to get the rest of the horses back to the ranch and into fenced pastures before dark. I figured the horses would go straight home on their own as they had made the last forty miles with little help from me, but he was the boss, and I reluctantly followed orders.

We arrived at the ranch and pastured the horses at four o'clock in the afternoon with the sun rapidly sliding behind the high peaks of the Absaroka Range to the west. Darkness was only a couple of hours off and the temperature was dropping quickly under the now clear skies. It was going to be a frosty night. By the time we got to the ranch I was pretty wound up about abandoning the horse and everything else to do with the outfit including the arrogant damn Yankee that owned it. It wouldn't be the last time I would have to deal with Eastern money out in sagebrush country.

Observations on personality and character:



During my life I have discovered for myself a truism about folks as follows: "You are now what you were when." If somebody is dishonest, tempermental, easy-going, generous, selfish, cruel, kind or whatever in their youth, they will not depart far from those traits as they travel through life, especially when the chips are down.



One of my less than stellar characteristics is that I am "twitchy." Meaning, it just doesn't take much to get me wound right the hell up about things. I don't let anything slide and if I think something is wrong, I will step up and confront it. I am not always right and have made mistakes. I have paid dearly for my refusal to go with the flow or to not make waves. One reason I never wanted a family was so that I could not be held hostage for the sake of a paycheck. I learned early on that if you want to stand on your own, never have a job, home, possessions, or anything else that you are not willing to walk away from for the sake of principle.


Some folks call my approach intolerant, others call it passion. I call it conviction. Right is right. Wrong is wrong. Moral relativism is the religion of those without integrity and the character to do the right thing regardless of the cost. Admittedly, my conceptions of right and wrong were formed between 1945 and 1960 when we, as a nation and a people, believed in the historical traditions of our founding. I am the product of the Judeo-Christian tradition and the intellectual values of the European and Scottish Enlightenments.




The aforesaid influences have provided the industry, intellect, morality, political concepts of individual autonomy, sovereignty, accountability and liberty that propelled this once great country into the most powerful and envied nation the world has ever known. Our values and our soldiers have provided the moral imperatives and the blood, sacrifice and treasure to bring freedom to more people than any other political system ever devised. Just because this country has abandoned those principles, like we abandoned the little gray gelding, does not make it right or mean that each of us does not bear the responsibility to continue to bear the standard. This country has sacrificed a Constitutional Republic based upon individual liberty for the pottage of a democracy where equality, regardless of competency, is the standard. Free men are not equal and equal men are not free. Damn right, that makes me twitchy.


Meanwhile, back at the ranch:


I changed horses, saddling Sin, a big sorrel mare nobody else would ride. We had had a couple of wrecks early on and found out we liked each other. She would do anything I asked as long as I understood that she was going to buck when I threw my first loop of the day. She would pitch a time or two and then settle down and work all day for me.




I stuffed a halter, bandages, ointment and a nosebag with grain into my saddle bags. Everybody was heading for supper when I rode down the muddy track leading from the ranch to the Forest Road with Chance, my red bone hound, trotting along behind . The boss intercepted me as I passed his log home and he asked where I thought I was going. I explained I was going to go get the injured horse and bring him home. He questioned my judgement leaving at that late hour of the day. I just shrugged and moved on. I wasn't afraid of the dark and I figured he could fire me when I got back.

I rode down the road and it was nigh onto seven PM and getting near full dark when we got close to where the horse had fallen over the edge of the roadway. I didn't know the country and had no idea where a gate might be that I could use to get to the other side of the fence where the horse was located. I didn't think he could make it back up the bank to the road even if I cut the fence and I was concerned that my own horse might fall and get torn up in the fence if I tried to go down where he had fallen through. I wasn't even sure where the horse might be given the six hours or so that had elapsed since we had quit him. I felt guilty about leaving the injured horse, embarrased that I had not stayed with him and not just a little bit angry at myself. I also knew that if I did not return with both horses and myself in one piece that I would never hear the end of it from the experts back at the ranch.

I eased Sin off of the road and, following the fence, we trotted back to the west looking for an opening. Fortunately, we hadn't gone half a mile before we found a Texas wire gate and, stepping down, I led Sin through latching the gate behind us. Swinging up in the failing light we jogged back to the east and pulled up at the edge of a meadow where I quietly sat the mare listening to the country and watching her ears. She swung her head staring intently in the direction of the fenceline. I touched her with a spur and gave her the reins. She moved purposefully with ears pricked toward a stand of trees at the edge of the meadow that was, as near as I could tell, just about where the horse had originally gone down.

We passed through the trees and there in the dim light stood the little gray gelding. He nickered a greeting to the mare and it was plain as newsprint that he was glad to see one of his own. He had wire cuts on a shoulder, his neck and the inside of a foreleg. The leg wound was open and still leaking but it did not appear that any tendons or subcutaneous structures had been badly damaged though he had lost a lot of blood. He was beat up from his tumble through the rocks and had a knot over his right eye that had probably knocked him silly.

I haltered and hung the nosebag on him. He munched quietly while I put ointment on his wounds and bandaged the leg to hold the torn flesh in place. Sin grazed quietly nearby and Chance stood watch while I doctored the little horse. After he finished the oats he looked like he was fit to travel and we slowly made our way back to the ranch in the darkness. It was a beautiful, clear, cold and moonless night. An elk would occasionally bugle and coyotes barked their greetings. The only other sound was the creak of saddle leather, the blowing of the horses, and the click of steel shoes on rock. The starlight cast just enough light to make the muddy road appear as a dark ribbon winding through a landscape of shadows.

Not a light was on as I turned the horses into a small corral with hay and water. I went to my bedroll with an empty belly satisfied that I had done the right thing for one of God's critters.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

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