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

"I didn't know cowboys were smart"

Rex Ranch, Amado, AZ.



February 1975. I hired out as a dude wrangler at the Rex Ranch in Amado, Arizona. Never having herded dudes before I was not sure what to expect. It would prove to be a less than successful experience.

The Rex Ranch was a grand old place in the tradition of the mid-twentieth century dude ranches. Like everything else, the place has changed to keep pace with the changing demographics of those that now come out West for recreation. It is promoted as a haven for the urban yuppie elite seeking pampering in a socially and environmentally correct atmosphere. The advertisement says it comes complete with spa, bird watching and other heart pounding events. There is not even a mention of a horse. Good Lord, but the West is truly gone.


The description on the current Ranch History page reads like a diversity seminar. It is enough to make you vomit.


http://www.rexranch.com/history.html


The ranch provided nice quarters, great food, decent horses and a nice selection of pretty and accommodating female staff for after hours recreation. Most of the guests, at least the ones that rode horseback, were very nice people. The ranch paid a small wage and I was expected to make my money on tips. I was never comfortable accepting tip money. It is servile and an affront to the dignity of an independent man. Some of the guests from back east that were of a more timid nature found me a bit too edgy. I could not and would not play the phony, blustering Old West character that so many of these places expected. I did not get on well with the owners, and that was mostly my fault because I just do not have the personality to be properly subservient to my economic betters. I had been places where things really mattered, and this wasn't one of them.


In an earlier post, On Aggression, IQ & Social Policy July 12, 2008, I discussed my introduction to and interest in ethology (the comparison and study of predatory habits in upper mammals including man). Included in the course content, were issues addressing violence and killing in the animal and early hominid world. Additionally, the role of sexuality, natural divisions of labor, the power of sexual politics, and the establishment and defense of territory were discussed from a cultural anthropological and ethological point of view. Throughout my university years as student and professor, the principles of ethology would provide a focal point of intense ideological enmity, and established the battleground for the intellectual warfare between myself and the social architects and moral entrepreneurs of post modern, deconstructionist, Progressive social policy. In particular, the radical, Marxist feminists absolutely hated the ideas, and by extension me. Most of the students, however, loved the ideological contrast with the nonsense they were receiving at the hands of the mainstream academic community.


As the winter dude season wore on into early spring, I found myself one warm day herding three female members of a very wealthy and prominent American family on a ride into the Upper Sonoran Desert. The border area in those days was still a relatively safe place and citizens on both sides of the cultural and geographic border lived in quiet harmony with one another. On Saturday nights, in the company of two Mexican vaquero friends, we would ride across the border to an old time cantina. The beer was cold, tequila cheap, and the food was great. The men were tough, the senoritas warm and everybody damn sure knew how to have a good time. Of course, if you were inclined to insult someone you had to be prepared to defend or pay with your life. Them Mexican boys know about knives and the women aren't too shabby either. Kept everybody polite.


The three silver spoon females in my care were a mother and her two college age daughters. Both of the young women were pretty and, as might be expected, a bit spoiled though not in the malicious sense that so many privileged youth often exhibit. Mom was well kept as only real money can do. The young ladies were students at Brown University and Vassar College. As we rode along towards Tortilla Well, I did the usual guide thing explaining the flora and fauna of the desert and a bit of the local history. The conversation became more animated as the young women began to grill the cowboy about his political and social views.


The ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) was the big domestic issue at the time. It had piggy backed onto the Civil Rights Movement. Somehow, in the confused politics of the time, the Viet Nam War, and by extension, those that fought in it, was thrown into the mix. Politics was becoming about blame and group identification. The political philosophies connected with these movements were based on various forms of Marxist ideology. The lexicon of the Left began to be filled with terms that were mandatory in conversation to demonstrate one's political enlightenment. Emotionally based arguments filled with accusations of oppression, exploitation, environmentalism, American imperialism, racism, ad naseum were the stock in trade of those whose real motivation was to realign the power base from the competent to the incompetent based upon gender and skin color. It was the beginning of victim hood politics and cry baby activism. The real hidden agenda that we see maturing today and will see even more so in the upcoming election with its probably disasterous results is about income redistribution and transfer of wealth.


The engaging young women were eager to point out the backwardness of traditional male thinking. Sex was a tool of oppression and the male libido was the cause of racism, war, environmental destruction, starvation in the Third World, leprosy, mental retardation and every other known evil past, present and future. Until that time, I had no idea how awful we Anglo-Caucasian guys were. Damn. The inevitable nonsense about full physical equality was the mantra of Feminist politics. I could understand the ugly broads feeling that way, but not the pretty capable ones. Particularly bewildering was the fawning acquiescence of a good many of the new generation of psychologically neutered post-adolescent males to the same stupid ideas. Then again, it made sense if they wanted to get laid.


Men are not really, on average, bigger, stronger, and faster. That was just a construct of male patriarchy and a further example of white, male-dominated oppression of women and people of color. Women were just as capable of being soldiers, cops, firemen, steel workers, and professional hockey players as any man - and, if there were some disparity in physical ability and or strength, they should be given special considerations and allowed to participate regardless of the negative effects upon efficiency. Gender and race norming of testing and qualifications became all the rage. If some people died or were injured due to incompetence or lack of ability to perform to standard, that was the necessary price of a more harmonious world. And, if they happened to be white males, and especially if they were baby killing Viet Nam veterans, well, they deserved it. Bloody Hell.


I countered with ethological arguments regarding the obvious quantifiable physical differences and divisions of labor found throughout the natural world. The socio-biological principles offered were met with sniffs of abrupt dismissal. It was obvious to these privileged women that I was a prime example of a knuckle dragging misanthrope. I was devastated. Male chauvinism and domination had to be stamped out regardless of the assault upon logic and the prima facia evidence present in the natural order. The young ladies were not to be confused by facts that went against their firmly established ideological bias.


We arrived at the well and as we stepped off our horses, I knelt and drew a mathematical matrix in the sand illustrating the biological basis for a portion of my argument. I gathered up the lead ropes of the horses and led them off to the well for water. A subtle shift of the wind allowed me to overhear a whispered remark that would provide the motivation for me to sacrifice nearly everything I had to achieve a University education. One of the young women said to her sister and mother "I didn't know cowboys were smart."


It isn't what she said that pulled my trigger, it was what she did not say. Until our intense and animated conversation, these people, and most others just like them, assumed that if a man made his living in boots and spurs on the back of a horse, he was stupid. As pampered elitist products of the Eastern Establishment, they had no idea about cowboys and ranchers. Anybody in the livestock business that can make a living inspite of weather, market conditions, the harsh and often dangerous working conditions, environmentalists, and the damn government is hardly stupid. Something I have learned in a life spent around those kind of folks and ranchers is that ranchers could learn to do and be successful at most of whatever the fly over crowd does, but based upon experience, the fly over crowd does not do well at ranching. They have to rely upon a rancher to run their weekend outfits for them.


A kind, older friend would later note while I was attending university that I was seeking education for the wrong reasons. He said I was seeking it as a form of revenge. Maybe so. But it worked. When you start out in life with less than others, you are faced with a choice. Submit to your circumstances and blame the unfairness of life or, you can tighten your cinch and get the hell on down the road. It is a matter of character. Somebody might point that out to Chocolate Nagin, Jesse Jackson and the denizens of New Orleans.


Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

On Aggression, IQ & Social Policy

In 1973 while stationed with the 7th and 8th Special Forces Groups in the Canal Zone for operations in Central and South America, I had occasion to take a Cultural Anthropology Course offered through Florida State University. It would prove to be an intellectual epiphany and would shape and direct my studies through my baccalaureate and on to graduate school and post graduate studies. My interest in the genetics and ethological principles comparing animal predator behaviors with similar behaviors in humans would prove to be a cause of much dismay for many of my liberal Progressive professors during my University studies.


During the course I was introduced to authors Robert Ardrey, Conrad Lorenz and R.A. Dart. My term paper was well received by the professor for the insights and examples I was able to give that supported the tenets of Lorenz and Dart and so eloquently synthesized by Ardrey in African Genesis. The examples I gave were based upon my own field observations in the wild as a young cowboy. In the remote deserts of northern Nevada and the rugged mountains of Idaho I had observed aggression first hand in the behavior of both domesticated stock and wild animals. The ethological connections I drew were based upon my observations of the predatory and violent behavior of minority populations on the mean streets of Los Angeles and the behavior of soldiers and the enemy during the Viet Nam War.


Aggression is part and parcel of the behavior patterns of most species including humans. The territorial imperative for physical space, sexual rights, and access to limited resources is defined by applied aggression whether it be on the savannas of Kenya, the ghetto thug committing a violent crime, or the Wall Street broker "making a killing." The behaviors I had observed in the black communities of South Central Los Angeles and the Latino populations of the San Fernando Valley and East L A as a Los Angeles Police Officer confirmed the ethological perspective that man's behavior very closely mirrors that of the advanced predators. Our basic instincts, hard wired into the reptilian sub cortex portions of our brains do not differ from the four legged predators with whom we share this planet.


The more I studied, the more I became convinced that in the Western civilized portions of the world, we were doomed to failure in most of our domestic crime control policies, particularly in those areas where high representations of minority populations exist in the closed communities of the inner cities. Hyper-sexuality, low impulse control, an abysmal lack of responsibility, a deliberate hostility to and rejection of the basic codes of civilized behavior, violence and aggression were the prominent behaviors that I had to deal with on the streets of Los Angeles. Britain, France and Germany are experiencing similar problems today with their large immigrant populations from north Africa and the Middle East. The same anti-social behaviors were present but at minuscule levels by comparison in the Asian and Caucasian areas of the city. The incidence of violence, robbery, homicide, theft, rape, and general disorder that were present in the inner city demographics I was exposed to could not be laid at the feet of white oppression or poverty. There had to be something more fundamental in the very natures of those perpetrating such misery upon others.


Caveat: Before I go any further, allow me to clarify my position regarding minorities. This medium does not provide sufficient space to provide in depth stratification and differentiation of various minority populations. Among the intellectually impoverished, the immediate knee jerk reaction is to claim that my observations are based upon a racist interpretation founded upon color. The questions and hypothetical offerings contained herein are directed towards the statistically supported data definitively demonstrating a correlation between identifiable demographic populations and their disproportionate representation in prison populations, homicide rates and involvement either individually or collectively in extreme violence. It is recognized that within any minority population, there are individual and group differences in IQ, competency in the skills necessary to be successful in the post-industrial world, and involvement in violence and criminal activity.

I was raised in the Western United States in what is referred to as cow country by those that live there, and fly over country by the urban elites that view such country as a source for resource pillage. As an Anglo, I was a distinct minority in a largely Mexican community. My classmates, best friends, and girl friends were of Spanish heritage. During the summers the only thing that differentiated me was my hair was a bit lighter, with the exception of my Spanish friends with Castillian backgrounds. During the winter months, I was a bit paler. Nobody thought anything of it. Mexican was not a pejorative term, neither was Anglo. They were wonderful people with strong family values, overwhelmingly devout Catholics, the concepts of loyalty, honesty, and honor were not mere terms like the tatted up gang banging thugs of today. I have watched in dismay as these communities have disintegrated into social chaos. The pathetic academics and social entrepreneurs that have ascended into leadership positions in our society have destroyed entire generations by poisoning them with terms like oppression, diversity, inclusiveness, affirmative action, exploitation, victim hood, and so forth.

As a simplified example of the differences between the 1950s and now, watch the old Western movies where the Spanish culture is celebrated in clothing, culture, music, language and relationships.

All of our social control mechanisms are predicated upon a firm denial that violence is in the very nature of man. My intellectual curiosity was aroused by the questions of what accounts for the extreme differences in the various American sub-cultures in which violence is so prevalent in some but considered unacceptable in others? Why is it that in the Jewish and Asian sub-cultures education and hard work are expected and in the street cultures of black and Hispanic youth, violence is celebrated and rewarded?


Eventually, my research interests turned to the relationships of IQ, intellectual competency and behavior patterns. However, in the politically correct atmosphere of a large University, these questions were prohibited from being investigated. During my doctoral studies, I wanted to do a major research paper on these questions and my dissertation chair advised me that such an undertaking would be academic suicide. No matter how unbiased the research, how elegant the scholarly presentation of the findings, the topic and the research question were not to be addressed. It infuriated me. What happened to autonomy of inquiry? What happened to an unfettered right to pursue the scientifically tested search for truth?


IF such research were, hypothetically, to show that there is a connection between genetic groupings and IQ, and, if the connection between IQ and criminal or anti-social behavior were found to be at the very least correlative, what effect would that have upon all human relations and institutions within any given political or sociological environment? It seemed to me that attempts to identify the causal nature of a problem is the basic prerequisite to finding a solution. The attempt to fix a problem without recognizing its source is an exercise not just in futility, but stupidity.



In particular, the notion that IQ might be an element in behavior patterns was not to even be considered. The examination of the potential unequal distribution of IQ among various populations was viewed as the very worst sort of intellectual heresy.


The moral development theories of Kohlberg and to a lesser extent Piaget,were particularly relevant. Kohlberg's observation that moral development proceeds apace intellectual development was particularly intriguing. It seemed reasonable to make the hypothetical argument that if IQ were found to be genetically determined and possibly lower in some groups, at least within the first standard deviation, and if there existed a correlative higher incidence of crime in that same grouping, could it not be argued that the capability for moral development might actually be genetically impaired? The social and political implications of such a finding would be profound indeed. A falsification of the same hypothesis would also be beneficial in addressing racism and bigotry.


During my years of University teaching I had occasion to correspond with Dr. Richard Lynn at the University of Ulster, Dublin, regarding his studies on IQ, race and the differences in national incomes.

http://www.rlynn.co.uk/


His research and findings are fascinating and extraordinarily controversial. Hence, his work is viewed as anathema by the liberal Progressive left no matter the excellence of the methodology or the accuracy of the conclusions. "The Bell Curve" by Murray and Hernstein also caused discomfiture to the same crowds of intellectual elites that manage policy recommendations by denial. Much of the data is troubling, but a sound intellectual approach requires the analysis of data so that it can either be gathered into the existing knowledge base or discarded.



The homicide rates in this country when cross tabulated by race of offender, race of victim using minority populations as the database and a similar comparison done of Anglo and Asian rates of homicide and violent crime, produce staggeringly disproportionate results. For one thing, the data supports the over representation of black and Hispanic inmates in our overcrowded prison system. The question remains, why are these primary groups of violent offenders concentrated in demographic groupings clearly identified by race, and why do these same demographic groupings perform well below average on IQ tests?


Our collective political and social policy response, spearheaded by the academic community for the past forty plus years has been to deny that there is a connection between intelligence and criminal behavior. If the question is never researched in an unbiased manner, we will never know the truth about the connection or lack thereof between IQ, race and crime. We may be certain of continued failure in our crime management policies, and, by default, for the sake of feel good politics, we are quite literally condemning many of our innocent citizens to death and suffering.

Explain to me how this is beneficial to or an intelligent response on the part of our society.

The Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Long Riders Rocky and Larry

"Packing the Hoback" Dave Paulley Editions

06 July 2008 2:30 PM, north of Tres Lagunas, New Mexico:

I have been following the travels of Colonel Rocky Woolman (United States Army, Retired) and his saddle pal, Larry on their Long Rider quest to navigate the Continental Divide Trail from the Mexican border to Canada - an endeavor tougher than most folks can imagine. To give you an idea of the rigors involved, the distance a modern automobile traveller covers in an hour will take a horseman three days to cover if conditions are good. It requires finding water for man and stock, graze for the horses, locating campsites in all manner of weather that are safe for man and beast, and often travelling alongside the highway hoping to avoid being run down by some idiot in a machine.

Rocky's blog noted they would be leaving Pie Town, New Mexico today and travelling north towards Grants where they are to meet their support team to rest and refit horses and riders for a couple of days. I did a quick map study and figured where their location would be by mid-afternnon travelling at horse speed . I drove the fifty miles towards where I knew I might intersect them and within about one half mile of my estimate I heard the jingle of a horse bell and coming over a small rise were Rocky and Larry and their four horses.

Rocky recently retired and saw service in Iraq. I thanked him for his service and I was very surprised to learn that he had also served in Viet Nam as a Huey pilot and had been in I Corps stationed in Danang. I had spent my time in I Corps as a Recon Team Leader with Project Delta, 5th Special Forces Group, so we both knew many of the same places and certainly were familiar with the horrors of the Ashau Valley and other interesting and exciting places in that beautiful but tragic land. It was great to meet a fellow veteran and a Long Rider to boot.

We stood in the middle of the dirt road and talked about horses, equipment, the country and trail conditions for almost two hours. They still had a few miles to go for water and a campsite so we bid each other God's speed. It was great to see two men mounted on horseback, each trailing a pack horse heading north towards the Malpais under a monsoon New Mexico sky. They are keeping alive a tradition and a way of life that has almost disappeared. It is such a pleasure to see real men on real horses travelling through this magnificent land just as those that have passed this way before did for at least five hundred years. Beats holy hell out of the "Green" backpackers with their walking staffs, peace symbols and vaguely unfocused eyes or the weenies on bicycles in spandex that scare the daylights out of my horses.

To follow their progress, go to: http://woolman.us/

Like a dummy, I neglected to take my camera. Understandable though because I was not an officer, but a mere enlisted swine and bear considerable watching. But, there are a lot of photos on Rocky's website. I sure hope to see them again someday.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Horse Time

Saturday last I was scheduled for an out of town trip. I currently have five horses under saddle and thought I would get three of them worked in the cool of the morning before I left for a couple of days.

Trooper is the biggest horse on the outfit weighing in at 1375 pounds. The horse is nine years old and got a late start. He is intelligent, loves people, strong as an ox but twitchy. If anything flaps near him he reacts violently either with a kick of devastating power or he just blows up. I have worked him with the usual assortment of plastic bags, tarps, and slickers, but he just will not yield to anything that flaps around him. He is a chore to throw a saddle pack on though he is getting a bit better about it. Panniers on a Saw Buck are still considered very threatening so it is a slow process and the panniers have to be packed while they are on him.

I saddled up Lancer with the saddle pack, saddled Trooper to pony as the number three horse in the string led by Stryker. Everything was fine until, not paying attention, I shook out my saddle coat to roll and tie behind my cantle. Trooper blew up and came down with his chin on the tie rail. I could tell he was hurt as he was working his jaw and was in obvious pain. My first concern was that he had broken his jaw - a serious, possibly fatal injury in a horse if he was not able to eat. There was plenty of blood pouring out of his mouth but his teeth appeared to be OK. His lower lip was split clear through right down the center for about three quarters of an inch. Jeeez.

It was 10:00 AM on a Saturday morning. Usually not a good time for access to veterinary care. Fortunately, Drs. Frank and Becky Anderson in Grants keep their clinic open for half a day on Saturdays. I phoned and explained to Becky the nature of the injury and she said I better bring him in. It is an eighty mile one way trip and the clinic closed at noon so the scramble began. Unsaddle and turn out the horses, hook up the horse trailer. check tires, and load the injured horse. So much for my trip out of town. Trooper had not been in a trailer in three years, but he was a grand lad and just walked in and started eating the can of oats I put in his manger. Bribery works on politicians and horses. We headed for Grants up across the North Plains and through the Narrows of the Malpais.

I arrived just at noon and Doctor Frank went right to work on the big horse. He did a superb job of suturing the lip and by 1:30 PM I was putting a groggy and mellow horse back in the trailer. When I first started hauling horses at fifteen years of age, my adopted granddad told me something I have never forgotten. "There is no such thing as taking a corner too slow when hauling horses." In keeping with that advice given nearly fifty years past we eased out of town and headed home.

I always thank the Good Lord for the professionalism, skill and care of veterinarians. Having spent too much of my life as a patient in emergency rooms and hospitals, it has been my experience that veterinarians are far more caring than human doctors and combine the technical skills of a physician with the caring attributes of nurses. We have three wonderful veterinarians between eighty and one hundred fifteen miles away. Just around the corner out here in this remote country.

Dr. Becky Anderson is a dedicated wagon team driver and teaches courses on the skill sets needed. I mentioned I was thinking of getting a wagon and a team with the cost of fuel being so high. Holy cow. I have never seen Becky so animated. She gave me a fascinating introduction on horse and wagon types and told me about an auction in Colorado during the month of July where there will be upwards of 5000 wagons and horses to look at.

It is sixty miles to a real grocery store from the ranch so a trip for groceries would take about seven days. Three days to get there, a day to shop, and three days home. Not very practical but maybe necessary if the damn Iranians shut down the Strait of Hormuz. Driving a wagon is something I have always enjoyed. I drove a stage in Tombstone, Arizona for a few days over 30 years ago to help out a friend who was the regular driver. My passengers had no idea of my inexperience, but the gentle giants, in a four-up knew what to do. It took me about two hours to get them hitched and it's a wonder I didn't hang myself in all the complicated straps and buckles but the stage managed to stay behind the horses. That was before the horses had to wear diapers so the horse poop would not offend the yuppie tourists, phoney cowboys, witness protection program participants, and bikers that run over the place now. For crying out loud,

I suppose I should explain the reference to the Witness Protection Program. Wandering around the tourist trap of Tombstone and appearing in the bars as locals are a bunch of pasty faced, shifty eyed, blue-shadow jawed guys with names like Buckshot, Desert Bob, Muleskinner, and so forth. When they get to talking, out come these annoying New Jersey, New York and Chicago accents. They wear Old West clothing like I do, but there are no spur or saddle marks on their boots, their sidearms are cheap, holstered in Mexican-made leather and they don't know which end of a horse gets up first.

A few years back, I was wrapped around a bit of tequila in Big Nose Kate's Saloon listening to a bunch of these dolts talk about their skills with weapons, when I made the comment loud enough for most in the bar to hear that the place looked like a dumping ground for the Federal Witness Protection Program. You could have heard a pin drop and everybody started glaring at me and then eyeing one another.

City fathers, politicians and cops are not known for their good sense. They are adept at limiting freedom and picking the pockets of citizens. Not too long ago, some idiot with a badge issued a citation to a cowboy riding his horse out of town after dark because his horse did not have a tail light. The cowboy beat the ticket.

I kept Trooper up for a day in an isolation corral and put him on the antibiotics the doc had provided. By the second day he was back out with his rangemates with no idea he had blue sutures the size of Marlin fishing line sticking out of his lower lip.

It is a maxim around horses that if they cannot find a way to hurt themselves, they will invent one. If you live with horses, you get used to living on horse time because they will determine what you will do no matter what plans you have made. It is a good life, but it requires sacrifices that those used to the conveniences of urban life usually do not find to their liking. That is not a bad thing, because most of them when they do move out here from whatever urban cesspool they made their money in, the majority of them go about trying to change this beautiful country into the mess they left. They put up fences and locked gates, turn the grass upside down and pollute and waste what little water there is out here.

I was brought up out in cow country and small towns and I have lived in large cities. I couldn't wait to get back "home." Since I moved here into west-central New Mexico, I have tried my level best to adapt to the mores and ways of the local community out of respect for the folks that have lived here for generations. It can be eye-crossing frustrating at times but it seems like the right thing to do. Charlie Russell, the great western artist, had it right when he said that if he had his way, "none of you sonsabitches would be out here anyway."

Far Rider

See to your weapons and stand to your horses