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."