Trail Colic

Stryker and Lancer at the top of Mariano Mesa

June 15th . Clear skies and the mercury was hovering at 80 degrees where less than a week earlier a fire in the fireplace was necessary due to the cold, wind and rain. Riding Stryker and packing Lancer once again, I rode south along NM 36 for several miles heading for a gate at the top of Mariano Mesa where the highway crosses over on its way towards Quemado and the intersection with US 60. We had gotten off to a late start, departing after 3:00 PM, but, if necessary, we were prepared to spend the night.

After an hour of saddle time, I stopped under a big cedar tree along the highway to let the horses rest while I checked equipment. As I was standing there in the shade, one of the New Mexico State Police vehicles went by. I waved at them and the two surly youngsters dressed like Nazis gave me their version of a mad dog glare as they went by. These are the same brats that write citations to folks for driving across the two lane, 25 mile per hour speed limit highway from the café to the gas station without their seatbelts on. Small wonder nobody likes cops anymore. They used to be the friends of the public and the communities they served, but now they are from the government and they are definitely NOT here to help you.

What a difference between these black shirts and my retired cop buddies that could eat these scowling children alive in any sort of weapons or hands on engagement. Thirty minutes later they went by again travelling way over the speed limit and I just ignored them. These punks wouldn’t make a pimple on a real cop’s ass. Contempt is the word that best seems to fit.

Swinging up, we proceeded up the steep grade for another half mile and turned west through the gate at the top of the mesa, glad to leave the highway behind, only to be joined by an obnoxious mule and his burro sidekick. Lancer got himself all worked into a lather about these horse wannabes. The ornery beasts stayed with us all the way across the mesa annoying and irritating both Stryker and Lancer. Passing through a gate near the northern edge of the mesa, we finally left the nuisances behind. Good riddance.

Dozer cut trail at the top of Mariano Mesa

Locating the dozer cut we had struggled up several days earlier, we started down. As physically hard as it was going up that trail, it was far more dangerous trying to go down with the constant danger of a horse slipping and falling on top of you. After years of hauling a rucksack across rough country, I always try to make the trail home uphill. Far fewer injuries are sustained to knees and ankles when the body is tired going uphill than down.

Lancer

We reached the meadow at the bottom all in one piece and had not gone fifty yards when Lancer colicked. The event was precipitated by his getting all stressed and worked up over the mule and burro. Sweating profusely he tried to lie down and roll -saddle pack and all. Fortunately, he did not go down onto his left side as my rifle was on the left and I did not want a broken stock.

I got him up and started south keeping Stryker to a slower than normal walk. Lancer’s respiration was elevated and he was a very ill horse and in obvious pain but I had to keep him going. Banamine injections were in the saddlepack but I don’t like to use them unless it is absolutely necessary. Nobody likes a tummy ache but they can be especially dangerous to horses. Walking keeps the bowels moving and prevents the horse from rolling and twisting a gut which is fatal and they will die in excruciating agony. Pain alone can kill a horse. I did not want to have to shoot my horse but I had lost my mare Shiloh to such an agonizing death and never again will I watch my horse helplessly as they suffer so and die.

The Almighty and I had a real unpleasant chat that included a good deal of swearing about such unnecessary suffering for an innocent and faithful animal. The writing of the great theologian, CS Lewis, eventually brought me through the event spiritually whole but emotionally wounded.

If worse had come to worse, I would have made a high line out of my lariat, cached my gear and tied Lancer off where he could walk in circles. An IV administration of 20ccs of Banamine and then a wait and see for 20-30 minutes would have been the sequence of events. If he had gotten much worse I would have had to decide whether to leave him and ride hell for leather for the ranch, hook up a horse trailer and bring it back as close as I could get to him or just camp with him and hope for the best. I suppose that is why I am so contemptuous of people that ride ATVs, dirt bikes and four wheelers. They act like it is such a crisis when one breaks down when they are away from home. At least they don’t have to shoot it.

An hour later, we passed the first well with actual water in it for the day. Lancer was doing a bit better though still uncomfortable. He is a very affectionate horse and he put his head down against my chest clearly asking me to make him feel better. Very little upsets me more than to see an animal in pain, especially one that relies upon me for their care and protection. I feel like a failure when I cannot make things better for them and failure is something I do not do well.

Ranch gate at sundown

Two more hours of slow but steady walking and we came down the gravel drive to the ranch headquarters as the late spring sun was dropping in the west and the clock was reading nearly 8:00 PM Mountain Daylight Time.

After stripping Lancer's gear and turning him out into the arena, Lisa came out and put together a warm bran mash for him and stood holding the bucket while he ate it all with enthusiasm. That was a good sign. I checked him throughout the night and he was doing OK though looking a bit the worse for wear by first light.

Homesteaders fence gate on the original wagon tracks (circa 1930)

It took the better part of three months to put together the route from the ranch across Mariano Mesa to Baca Spring and points south. Nearly a dozen rides with most ending in dead ends due to impassable country or fences were required to puzzle out a way through this grand land and avoid being stuck between the ditches riding the highways. During all of these scouts, we have never seen a soul except when on the highway.

Most city folks cannot imagine such an environment. I read somewhere that the average person born and raised in a city spends their entire life within a maximum of twenty feet of another person. They might be separated by walls or windshields, but they are jammed up right on top of each other. Of greater surprise is that in these days of uncertain events and the threat of pandemics and disruption of infrastructure, more people are actually leaving rural areas and moving into the mega cities. The need to be near conveniences is no doubt the driving force.

The close confines of city living appeals to folks. Wal-Mart, Starbucks, gyms (disease transmissions sites), movie theatres, social circles, and fast food seem to be a poor substitute for clean air, sweet water and the freedom from listening to the racket of the neighborhood.

Of late, even men I have known for many years and that I considered to be stand up independent guys have displayed a need for comfort and convenience that I do not understand. Doesn’t work for me, but I view sparsely populated country as I do heaven – the fewer there are in it, the more room there is for me.

It does make it easier however to see why the more densely packed people are, the more they depend upon government to take care of them. The policies of the current administration demonstrate that Homeland gestapo czar Napolitano and the rest of the control minions understand this and are working to make it easier to control larger numbers of people. With the demographic shifts in America in both ethnicity and geographic location, both groupings which tend towards more government and the nanny state, it is therefore small wonder that the progressive elites and the brain dead public that buys into their collective nonsense do not understand individual freedom or the environment they bleat about saving. They have never experienced either one.

Far Rider

See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Mariano Mesa

Mariano Mesa, north slope

March and April both came in like lions and left no better than hyenas. The snow and wind, combined with a chaotic schedule, interfered with scout rides searching looking for a passage over the northern end of Mariano Mesa.

May stumbled in with temperatures rising into the mid to upper 80s where snow had been blowing two weeks prior. The horses began to shed hair and slick out. Large herds of mother elk and their calves moved through the country in search of the new coming grass. Rides aboard Stryker packing Trooper or Lancer had found us repeatedly wired out as we probed the northern base of the mesa, but we kept pushing further west each time looking for a way up and over the mesa.


Why pack a horse for day rides?

It serves a number of purposes. First, it allows me to exercise 2 horses at the same time. Secondly, it is good for the pack horse to learn to follow correctly and carry a static load. The packing and unpacking take some horses longer to get used to. If you don't believe me, you are more than welcome to come along and try to get panniers up on Trooper. I'll visit you in intensive care. Third, I need all the practice I can get balancing loads, tying knots and all the other small details that are a definite skill set. I have wonderful friends that live just a couple of hours away by horseback that raise Rocky Mountain Horses. You can go to their link that is on the first page of this blog. They are both very experienced packers in the high country, and I mean the really high country of the Cascades in Washington. They are always so helpful to me and manage not to laugh when I rattle through their outfit because they know it takes practice. Fourth, I pack a horse for the same reason that I have roll out bags in all of the ranch and personal vehicles with food, water, clothing and gear. Things happen out here in the Big Open, and being unprepared is likely to hurry your meeting with the Almighty. Cell phones don't work and there are not many folks around in a part of the west still classified as a Frontier County. So, I pack along an extra horse and enough stuff to feed us all for a day or two as well as provide shelter if we get caught out "many miles from home."

Back to the scout:

The country is tough enough without all of the fences put up by the damn sod busters and sheep herders of the 1930s. Worst country, apart from Texas, I have seen for no gates or locks on gates if you can find one.


Road trips out of state, friends visiting and winter damage repairs here at the ranch have required my attention and interferred with getting the horses as fit as they need to be, though the rides have been getting progressively longer and harder in hours and miles under saddle.


On a late May afternoon, Stryker, Lancer and I again found ourselves moving along a fence line at the bottom of the northern edge of Mariano Mesa only to find that it went straight up the side of the slope to terminate at a sandstone outcrop. Another dead end. Tying Stryker to a stunted pinyon tree I sat down on the shale covered slope and carefully glassed the mesa’s northern edge. It was far too steep to climb and was cleft by boulder cluttered arroyos.



Mariano Mesa across Lopez Draw



I searched for a possible elk or cattle trail. Half a mile across the jumbled, cedar covered base of the slope, I noted a small finger that extended down to a long, dry meadow. If there was any hope for a trail to the top, it would have to be along the spine of that finger.


A two-track leading up the mesa crosses a neighbor’s place less than a mile to the east but it might as well have been in New York because there are no gates along the miles of western perimeter fence I had ridden along all afternoon.


Untying Stryker and making sure Lancer’s lead was wrapped around the saddle horn, I led the lads off down the slope wending through the storm battered cedars and pinyon pine. We came to the lip of a very steep arroyo and as we started down the winter-softened slope gave way and I tumbled several yards down into the soft, sandy bottom rolling quickly to avoid having a horse or two land on top of me. Not to worry. They did just fine with four-legged drive and as they slid to a stop in a choking cloud of dust, both looked at me with bemused contempt for my clumsiness. I was covered with the flour-fine silty soil and it filled my holster leaving the Ruger Blackhawk a mess. I drew the weapon and blew it out until I thought I would pass out from hyper-ventilation. It is one of the reasons why I have open bottoms on my holsters. I checked the action, reholstered the blue steel and we scrambled up the other side soon coming to the long meadow that followed northwest towards Lopez Draw.

Bull dozer trail up the north slope of Mariano

Another quarter mile and through the trees I could see the clawed scar of an abandoned bulldozer trail that had probably been cut sometime at least 50 years ago. Covered with volcanic debris and angling upwards at an angle that precluded riding the horses, I stared upwards and my heart wavered at the thought of the necessary climb to reach the top. It looked like a heart attack in the making, but, what the hell? I knew the horses would do fine on the grass and there was a working well about three miles back in the direction of the ranch which was exactly where they would head if I went down. Somebody would eventually find them and the buzzards would help locate me.

Highway Well on Syrup Tank Road

We started up. Holy cow. I fell several times as melon sized boulders slipped out from underneath me and went crashing down the slope. The horses worked to the side of me and each time I slipped they would carefully stop to avoid stepping on me and stand leaning at a 45 degree angle upslope. Shameful opportunists that they are, the situation did not keep them from grabbing bites of the tall grasses growing between the rocks while I tried to stand up and keep moving upwards. All of us were winded when we broke over the crest twenty minutes later. I could hear the rush of blood coursing through my body as my lungs burned and heaved and could feel my heart slamming aganst my ribs. I love this stuff.

Looking north from top of Mariano Mesa

Looking north, the country goes on seemingly forever broken by mesas and long volcanic ridges separating valleys that wind around to meet each other in an endless pattern of desert high plains grasses, red rim rock, blackened volcanic cones and purpled mountains whose flanks and peaks were smudged and softened by the distance. Several miles to the northeast I could see Sonoreno Mesa that shelters the ranch from the occasional severe winter northers that bring freezing winds and driving snow. We were a long way from home.

After checking equipment and stepping back into the saddle, we worked our way across the mesa glad for level ground and soft footing. Cole’s Well windmill standing like a lonely sentinel could be seen far to the southwest. From there, a due south heading across the broken spine of the mesa would lead to Baca Spring.

Cole's Well & homesteader cabin ruin

West of Cole's Well, a lonely canyon cuts deeply into the western face of the Mariano Escarpment. The canyon is called Nuances Canyon. Local folklore has it that early in the 1900s a Mexican fellow by the name of Nuances and his wife lived in the canyon. The faint remains of their cabin and corrals are still visible. He would pack water barrels on a burro or two and draw water from Cole's Well or the spring that was there before the well was put in. How he ever got burros up the canyon and onto the mesa is a mystery to me. I have attempted to do it by horseback and it is not to be done - not if you value the welfare of your horse.

Mariano Escarpment & Chimney Butte

Allegedly, Nuances killed his wife and fled the country. I spoke with a member of one of the original settler families from the 1870s and he disputes the story. He owns the canyon now so he ought to know but it does make for a great tale. "When truth and legend become one, print the legend."

Nuances Canyon

Lengthening shadows silently warned we had travelled far enough for this day. A slight pressure with my left leg and Stryker swung his head towards the northeast and stepped out with renewed enthusiasm. Half a mile later and the twin rails of a two track raised dust

from the horse’s hooves. We passed around the shoulder of a low hill and came upon another chained off well on the western edge of a dry lake bed. The horses moved purposely towards the drinker and looked with disappointment at the dry, dusty bottom.


A large herd of elk suddenly went banging away through the cedars and the horses took the opportunity to act silly. During the ruckus, my micro-cassette went flying ending its days in silt covered pieces. It is always something with those boys.


After things settled down a bit we continued north until we struck my neighbor’s two-track leading down the northern edge of Mariano. We leveled out on the valley floor and tracked northeast only to find ourselves wired out by an east-west fence that proved to have no gate at either end or anywhere along its length.


Sheepherders settled much of this country and I swear they did not even know how to build a gate. Who the hell does not put gates in fences? It is a maxim of handling livestock that critters escape whenever they can. How does anyone expect to get them back onto their home range again without gates?

Homeward bound, we passed through my neighbor’s headquarters area. No one answered my calls and we continued on. I have wonderful neighbors that kindly allow me the privilege of crossing their private land horseback, but it always makes me uncomfortable to have to pass through their headquarters. I am jealous of my privacy and I hate to trespass on the privacy of others.

I unwired an old gate along the highway and nearly an hour later, a saddle stiff rider and leg-weary horses came down the ranch drive just as the sun was setting behind darkening clouds.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Baca Spring

Lancer and Stryker

Baca Spring

click for larger view

Baca Spring

Type: Scout

Date: Monday, 02 February 2009

Time: 1300 – 1600 hours

Location: Launch site is approximately 1.5 miles north of the junction of US 60 and NM 36 in Quemado, New Mexico.

USGS Coordinate:

34 Deg 21’ 29”N
108 Deg 28’37”W
Elev 7012’

There is room for several rigs, vehicles and horse trailers, just inside the gate on the north side of the highway. Land Status: BLM

Target: Baca Spring.

GNIS coordinate:

34 Deg 22’ 46”N
108 Deg 28’ 48” W
Elev. 7296’

USGS Map Ref: Mariano Springs 7.5’ Quadrangle
Coordinate:

34 Deg 24’ 46.1”N
108 Deg 28’ 46.1”W
Elev 7300’

BLM 1:100,000 Land Status Map: Quemado, New Mexico 1983

Land Status: BLM* The area is a mix of BLM and private. I contacted the private land owner and asked permission to cross private ground horseback. Land owner does not want quads or any other mechanized travel crossing his ground. If you are planning a private ride in this area, contact Far Rider for information. Email: far_rider@live.com

GPS: Recommend settings at NAD27 for use with USGS quadrangle maps. Check the map datum information in the lower left of the map sheet. Virtually all USGS maps are set at the NAD27 datum.

http://rockyweb.cr.usgs.gov/outreach/gps/gps_questions_and_answers.html

http://www.maptools.com/UsingUTM/mapdatum.html

Note: The westering coordinates can be over 200 yards off and northing can be several hundred yards off if the map datum on your GPS is set to the wrong standard.

Weather: Upper 50s. Slight breeze SW (note: wind directions always indicate what direction the wind is blowing FROM). Clear.

Posse: Far Rider, Stryker, Lancer, Caesar

Narrative:

We arrived at the launch site at 1300 hours. Stryker was saddled and Lancer was saddle packed. It was a perfect day for the ride and though the location is close to the ranch, it is a piece of country I have never seen. Can’t have that. The spring, summer and autumn hard riding season is approaching and the horses, Caesar’s paws and I need to get hard and fit for the long hours in the saddle.

Lancer gets nervous in a trailer and short hauls are a good way to acclimate him to the scary business of traveling in a side by side. Rides like this are great because everything that is done on a longer ride, with the exception of night picketing is done. The horses are loaded into the trailer, transported to a strange area, unloaded, saddled, ridden, and returned to the trailer for the trip home. Doesn’t seem like much, but horses need to know how to do this. It is part of the required skill set that horses must have, at least for hanging out with me.

A word about “Scouts.” I use the term “Scout” when I am working out a new piece of country by horseback as opposed to VR, recon, or patrol all of which terms have specified and bounded meanings. Maps tell but a small part of the tale. Here in New Mexico, as in most of the modern American West, land is fenced with lots of locked gates – if you can even find a gate. This country was settled by sheep herders and bean farmers and they just did not believe in gates. Growing up in the land the Spanish once called the Northern Mystery, fences were few as it was open range, and locks were considered rude. On what fences there were, a gate was mandated every mile and gates were in all the corners. It was the only way a cowboy could find his way home in a blizzard. Two of my many prejudices are sheep – next to turkeys, the dumbest critters on God’s green earth - and bean farmers. Sheepmen put up boxwire fencing with no gates and bean farmers turn the grass upside down. This is cow country. Leave it the hell alone.

A Scout is not a fun ride for social or urban raised riders. Often, I find myself wired out, rim rocked, locked out, or dealing with man made hazards like downed barbed wire, trash, toxic ground (southern New Mexico and Arizona especially due to illegal alien traffic), and even clandestine drug operations. It requires back tracking, walking or climbing and leading horses over ground you would not ride because of a fence or a locked gate. But, my worst day riding is better than my best day doing anything else.

Some days, the simplest things go south when horses are involved. It took me three tries to get my saddle with the britching on Lancer. Every time I threw the saddle across him, it moved the saddle blanket. I worry about soring my horses, so I had to pull the saddle off and try again. Jeeeez.

I managed to finally get the horses saddled, my chaps and gun belt on and was about to put the hackamore on Stryker when Caesar lit up. It was his “Come quick Dad, somebody’s comin’” bark. I peeked over Stryker’s hip and saw Bub driving through the highway gate. Bub has the cow permit for this BLM land. I walked up and said “Howdy.” He said he didn’t recognize the rig and wondered who was back in here. It is public ground, but it was wise for him to check as it is his money that is climbing around the country getting ready to drop their spring calves.

He explained a bit of the lay of the land to me and said that back in 1958, a T-38 Trainer had crashed on top of the escarpment that drops off to the west. He noted that they had recovered thirty-three pounds of the pilot to tag, bag and haul out. I’ll just bet. I have responded to several plane crashes as a law enforcement ranger and plane wrecks sure do make folks just fly apart. He also said there were still bits and pieces of the wreckage scattered about.

Bub departed and I slipped the hackamore on Stryker. Gathering up Lancer’s lead we lined out up the draw to find Baca Spring. Born and raised in the wild country of the American West, I am obsessed with water sources, especially for my animals, so looking for springs, wells and water points are good excuses for wandering around new country.

Baca Arroyo is a pretty canyon, unless you are from Tennessee or other places that have lots of green and the bugs to go with it. The canyon walls are compacted mud stone, sandstone and conglomerate rock. Natural desert grasses cover the red dirt meadows cut by arroyos and separated by small hills dotted with cedar. In the sandy wash bottoms of the canyon floor, there are tall, dense thickets of annual brush that is dry and ugly at this time of year.

We located a two track leading up a small ridge that would take us up and around towards Baca Spring and get us up out of the soft sand fetlock deep on the canyon floor. I rested the horses at the crest of the gentle ridge as they are fat from three months of little riding and good eating to keep them warm during the bad weather and snows of December and early January. We continued on and the two track quit in a washout and the horses snorted and skidded down the rutted path. Looking to the west, the oblong concrete drinker that marked Baca Spring was right where it was supposed to be according to the USGS map. Moss was growing in the cold, clear water and the nightly formed ice was all melted for the day. Stepping off, I dropped Stryker’s mecate and gave Lancer enough lead line to put their noses to the water. It is a pretty spot, boggy and muddy from the spring overflow on the south side that Caesar immediately made it his business to tromp through. Unless you are a horseman travelling in empty country, you cannot imagine how much it means to come to such a source of life giving water, especially here in the desert Southwest. A hand dug well covered with tin lies a few yards west and there is an abandoned barbed wire fence around the original dirt tank that was dug to hold the spring water. Bad place for horses because of all the downed wire.

The horses were sweating a bit due to their heavy winter coats and the climb up the canyon. It was enough for their first real ride of the year and we began the return trip to the launch site.

The eastern wall of the main canyon is a long series of broken ridges. As we ambled eastward I could see the faintest sign of a trail heading up the side of the ridge. An unmarked trail is more than I can stand to pass up. We crossed the sandy bottom of the canyon and began working up the side of the ridge until I found a cattle and game trail. It was ten inches wide, steep and rocky. I see no reason for my horse to pack me up such a trail and if one of them tips over, I don’t want to be on the downhill side if we fall off the mountain. Taking two loose wraps around the horn with Lancer’s lead rope and leading Stryker we set off. By the time we reached the top, we were all breathing hard. My brand new titanium knee put in last October performed flawlessly.

The view was great. 50 miles eastward stretched the long jagged line of the Saw Tooth Mountains. To the southeast snow covered Allegre Mountain reared over 11,000 feet, and Escondido Mountain, a thousand feet or so less stood sentry to the south. Lots of country. Very few people. A good place to live but not for the faint of heart or those that need urban conveniences.

Time to head for the home corrals. The top of the ridge is typical of this country. Covered with volcanic brecia, it is hell to walk on for men and horses. There is no place a horse or man can step without being on a fist sized or larger stone. I don’t want to cripple my horses so I continued to lead them and we turned back to the northwest and worked our way down the steep slope to the canyon floor. Blisters burned on both feet when I stepped back into the saddle and the horses were grateful for the soft sand as we proceeded south to the horse trailer and the trip home.

By 1600 hours, the horses were unsaddled, damp backs curried, trailer loaded and we were heading home. The sun was still an hour an a half above the western horizon but the temperature quickly dropped into the forties promising another cold night in the low teens.

It would require several more rides to work out ways to get down or around the Mariano Escarpment so that I can ride over to Ken and Lisa’s place where they raise Rocky Mountain Horses and there is always a cold beer available.

Pavorotti’s incomparable voice and the brisk afternoon breeze filled the cab as we made our way north. My urban friends tell me the wonders of the new malls, restaurants, cinemas, and so forth. They have no idea just how deprived they are.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Hot Iron - Part III of III

Far Rider and Sensei Robert Koga. Forty years after meeting at the Los Angeles Police Academy and thiry years after the incident relayed in this story. Robert Koga is known worldwide for his teachings and development of the Koga System of Weaponless Control, Police Defensive Tactics and the Koga Method of the Police Baton. During Far Rider's assignment as a counter-terrorist undercover operative, Sensei Koga often provided over watch and protection for his young student.

http://www.kogainst.com/

Ten years as a Green Beret and Special Operations soldier, and two years working the mean streets of Los Angeles as a police officer after returning from the bloody killing grounds of Southeast Asia had taught Far Rider much about brutality and men like Clete. He had arrested many of them. They were the kind of men that beat up women and bullied smaller and more timid souls. He had done his share of killing Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army soldiers that practiced cruelty and butchery for the sake of cruelty and butchery. For as long as he could remember, and particularly after seeing so much cruelty in the blood soaked jungles of South East Asia, he could not abide suffering. To witness the unnecessary infliction of pain on any helpless creature aroused a murderous rage in him. Trouble was coming. He could feel it as one feels and senses an impending lightning strike. The problem was that he could not initiate a deserved preemptive assault without ending up in irons himself. Clete and men like him only understood physical force as a means of restraining behavior.

Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on his breathing to slow his respiration and the wicked increase in his heart rate as anger pushed the adrenal chemical cocktail through his system. He could hear Bob Koga, his Sensei, echoing in his head “You must be in control of yourself in order to control others.” Well, right now, he felt more like going into Spec Ops mode and applying sudden and terminal violence against a brute that took pleasure from inflicting needless suffering.

By nature, training and experience he was not prepared to be a street fighter. The training he had rigorously undergone and used for so many years was confined to two distinct modes. The application of lethal or crippling force against an enemy or the restrained application of control techniques designed to place a suspect in custody without injury. Being witness to countless incidents of violence and violent death, he knew that in the absence of weapons, size, speed and strength were enormous advantages. The risk of losing an eye, teeth or sustaining a crippling injury in a brawl never appealed to him. However, he also adhered to the idea that there are times when an honorable man needs to step up, regardless of the risk.

The afternoon wore on until the last calf of the day stood glaring warily from a corner of the large holding corral. He was a handsome, strapping red brangus bull yearling and easily pushing 600 pounds from the look of him. Eight inch horns topped a magnificent and belligerent face. It was obvious he was a remnant missed in the preceding fall gather. One of the ropers shook out a loop and laughingly hollered “Any of you boys have the huevos to flank this bad boy or do we need to head and heel him?”

Everybody moved back along the fence to watch the show as another rider eased up with his loop down to heel the big beast.

The accumulated affects of the afternoon’s conflict and pent up anger had Far Rider thoroughly wound up. He eyed the juvenile red bull and thought, What the hell? He was either going to set an example or make a complete fool of himself and possibly get hurt in the process.

“Un macho hombre” the header said and nodded to him as he quietly moved his horse towards the wary animal standing now with his head up looking defiantly at the approaching horse and rider. A soft whir and the loop gently settled around the animal’s horns. The rider spun his horse and dragged the bucking, bawling red bull yearling out into the middle of the corral.

Far Rider sprinted towards the 600 pounds of twisting red hide, flying snot and horns. Grabbing the lariat just above the hondo and waiting until all four of the animals feet were in the air, he grabbed the right flank of the animal with his right hand and heaved backwards with every ounce of his hundred and seventy five pounds. The red brangus crashed neatly onto his left side emitting an audible “whoosh” as the air was partially knocked out of him. Far Rider quickly trapped the right foreleg and sat on the enraged animal’s neck. Other cowboys rushed forward to help restrain the animal and the branding procedure began. A few congratulatory remarks were directed towards his accomplishment as work proceeded.

Far Rider thought they might let the big yearling keep his horns but somebody brought out a set of horn shears that looked like large bolt cutters. Better than a saw but not much. The horn crunched sickeningly and the red bull bellowed in pain and rage as the blood squirted into the air staining Far Rider’s chaps and quickly soaking his shirt front. After the second horn was cut, the castrated bull lay with the whites of its eyes showing and groaning with deep panting moans. Clete approached with the cauterizing iron glowing an ugly dull red with heat smoking in wavy lines from the tip. At the application of the searing heat, the bull jerked violently and a sound that Far Rider had heard from men having their throats slit burst forth from the animal. The red bull’s tongue hung out coated in dirt and cow shit as the hissing iron smoked and burned into the raw horn.

“Ease up. It’s done” Far Rider said and twisted the suffering animals head up so the other bloody horn was exposed. The young bull was panting quietly and long swaths of silvery snot ran down the side of his jaw and across Far Rider’s chaps.

Clete brought another iron from the fire and applied it to the animals remaining bleeding horn stub. The bull reacted only slightly as if the stress and pain had succeeded in sending him to some other place.

It’s a wonder this shit doesn’t kill him Far Rider thought as he turned his face away from the stinking sizzle of seared horn. Clete continued applying the iron for several seconds longer than was needed and Far Rider, having had enough, angrily slapped the iron away with his gloved hand. “That’s enough you sonofabitch.”

Clete gaped momentarily at Far Rider as if he could not believe what had just happened. As his thought processes sorted out the event, his face took on a look of rage and he squared up in pre-attack posture. Far Rider released the bull’s head and stood up backing away out of range of the iron in Clete’s right hand. The other hands working on the animal also stood and stepped back watching the two men. Soon the entire crew, including the boss, was forming a rough circle around them.

Far Rider found himself facing a bigger, stronger opponent with a three foot piece of red hot iron in his hand. He looked towards his gun belt hanging on his saddle horn, judged the distance and realized there was no chance of getting to it. Quickly glancing around for another iron or something he could use as a baton or staff proved fruitless. He considered the ball point pen in his shirt pocket as he watched the center of Clete’s chest but decided to keep both of his hands clear. A stab to the eye or throat of his adversary would be the end of the fight for sure, but would see him arrested. Glad that he had removed his spurs, he thought, I’ll be lucky if I get out of this without a broken arm or burns. He checked the ground out of the corner of his eye for obstacles that could cause him to trip. He surely did not want to be on the ground with Clete coming at him with the iron.

Clete had obviously been in his share of barroom brawls but did not appear to be a trained fighter. Not that that meant much as Far Rider had seen street fighters that could whip most of the dojo black belts he had worked out with. There were a few martial practitioners like Ed Parker, Joe Lewis, Bob Koga, Bobby Haynes, Brad Steiner, Richard Ryan, Troy Coe, Dennis Laycock and several other world class fighters he had known and trained with that could take this guy down without any problem, but he did not possess their level of skill for this sort of brawl. Everything he knew would be lethal or result in serious physical injury if he was able to apply it and that could mean jail time or worse.

“Nobody slaps my iron away.” Clete spat.

Far Rider remained silent and hoped none of the rest of the crew would get involved. Clete dropped the iron and moved forward raising large knuckled, scarred fists. Clete stepped in and threw a couple of feints with his left and Far Rider circled counter clockwise to stay away from Clete’s right hand. He had no doubt that one solid blow from Clete’s huge fists and it would be over.

Clete suddenly lunged forward with a straight right. Far Rider leaned back and stepped to the outside as he had practiced for so many hours in the dojo. He deflected the right slightly downward with his left hand and, launching himself over the top of Clete’s arm, struck him in the trachea with the inside of his right wrist and applied a bar arm choke. The blow staggered the bigger man and Far Rider folded at the knees taking them both to the ground with his knees on either side of Clete’s hips. Violently slamming his right bicep into the side of the cowboy’s neck and the point of his shoulder into the back of his head further stunned the man and Far Rider transitioned to a carotid compression hold locking down with a classic chancery. He applied pressure to both sides of Clete’s neck restricting the flow of blood to his brain.

Clete clawed frantically at the arm locked like a steel vice around his neck but weakened quickly as he began to lose consciousness. Easing the pressure slightly to allow blood back into his brain Far Rider said “Put your hands behind your back or I’ll put you out.”

Through the fog of partial hypoxia, pride prompted Clete to hesitate. Far Rider reapplied the pressure on his neck and the big man immediately placed his hands behind his neck with a gagging noise as he attempted to get more oxygen into his lungs. Far Rider rolled him none too gently onto his face and applied a twist lock to his right arm behind his back. As oxygen filled blood rejuvenated his brain Clete made a reflexive effort to get up but a quick twist and upward pull on the arm trapped behind his back brought a groan of pain and a cessation of struggle.

Far Rider wasn’t quite sure what to do next. He did not have handcuffs to finish the job of controlling Clete as he had so many times on the streets and in the alleys of Los Angeles and even if he did, what would he do then? He wasn’t going to arrest the man. He just wanted the fight to be over. Keeping an eye on the other cowboys standing around with looks of incredulity on their faces, he quietly said to Clete “If I release you, do I have your word that this is over?” He was putting his faith in a code of conduct that some in the American West still respected.

“OK. OK” came the muffled response as small clouds of dust puffed away from where Clete’s face was pressed into the dirt. Far Rider was struck by how similar those puffs of dust were to those made by the calves as they endured their misery.

Carefully releasing his grip on the big man’s hand Far Rider stood and backed towards where his horse was tied with his gun belt hanging from the saddle horn. Clete did not look at him as he got up and picked up his hat rubbing his shoulder. The boss inclined his head slightly in puzzlement and said “Let’s make sure these critters are separated and kick them out. Weanlings go east to the next cross fence. Just open the gate and let the mothers find their own way out.”

Work continued for the next three days but the other crew members conspicuously avoided him as much as possible. Clete and Far Rider worked together in a quiet but tense truce and nothing was ever said about the incident. Far Rider never removed his gun belt and was glad to draw his wages at the end of the gather. He did not bother to ask if there might be more work in the future.

As he headed his pickup north towards Phoenix, the desert rolled away in its timeless desolate beauty and the hot evening breeze blew in the window. He idly stroked Chance’s head resting on his thigh and thought that the whole incident was probably pointless. It was doubtful it had changed anything or reduced the suffering to any of God’s critters. But, he also knew he would do it again. Sometimes, doing the right thing is not always the safest or smartest thing. Bob Koga would shake his head disapprovingly if he was there, but he also knew that his old friend, mentor and teacher would understand.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Hot Iron - Part II of III

Note the stress on the calf's face

Two and a half weeks into the cycle and the crew was working a large bunch at a remote set of corrals far from the headquarters. At midday, the owner’s wife had showed up with sandwiches and several gallons of ice tea. A welcome treat as the cowboys normally skipped lunch and worked through until dark. After lunch was over the men headed back to work. It was approaching ninety degrees and everyone was tired, hot and banged up. The previous seventeen days of eighteen hours a day on two meals and little rest was making tempers short. After herding the sixty pair of mother cows, calves and remnants into the large holding corral from the trap where they had been gathered during the morning, they tied their horses to the branding corral fence and received assignments from the boss.

Two crews were working using one branding fire. Far Rider drew out as flanker for his crew. It is the most physically demanding of the ground work assignments and is usually given to hands with low seniority or the younger guys. The flanker was required to run down the rope and drop a bucking and bawling one to two hundred pound calf onto their side quickly trapping the nearest foreleg and putting a knee on their necks to hold them down. Flankers are always grateful to see a calf that has been heeled dragged to the fire rather than one that had been headed and is turning inside out at the end of the rope.

Spring branded calves are usually much smaller than fall branded calves, but for whatever reason, the calves on this outfit had some size on them. The cattle were Brangus; Angus mommas and Brahma bulls. The calves were long eared and bred for the toughness required to do well in the harsh environment of the Sonoran Desert.

Dust roiled and blew through the sweating mix of men, horses and cattle. The stink of burning hair, hide and horn was pungent accompanied by the deafening bawling of the calves and the stressful cries of the momma cows. The calves were roped, wrestled to the ground and for the next couple of minutes hurt all over their body. As painful as castration and hot iron branding is, dehorning is the most painful procedure done to them. It is akin to having a finger cut off or a knuckle dug out with a sharp spoon. The poor critters bawl piteously with the terrible pain and their eyes roll up in their head. After the horns are sheared off or the nubbins are dug out of their skulls, the raw horn is bleeding and must be cauterized with a red hot iron. The rule on every outfit that dehorned their cattle that Far Rider had worked was to apply the iron just long enough to stop the bleeding and seal the end of the severed bone enough to prevent infection. The iron was to be kept on just long enough to turn the bone "Mexican brown" then removed as quickly as possible to end the suffering of the animal.

The raw, exposed horn sizzles and squeaks as the heat is applied and the calf's bawling changes tone into one of pure agony. Far Rider hated it. He figured that the Good Lord hung horns on them for a reason. They needed them for protection out on the range where they would spend their short lives before being gathered up to be shipped off and butchered in another ordeal of terror before turning up wrapped in cellophane at the super market or pushed across the counter at Mickey D's. He really did not like cowboy work. Looks romantic as hell in the movies but it is just hot, hard, brutal and cruel work.

Far Rider enjoyed beef but was dismayed by all of the suffering that got it to the table. As he watched the antics of the calves as they played and frolicked out on the open range he thought that they ought to be allowed to grow up on good grass and that their end should be humane. He had made the mistake of expressing such sentiments a time or two and had been held in thorough contempt by other wage earning cowboys. Nonetheless, privately he refused to accept suffering as a necessity to put money in the bank.

Clete was one of the day work hands that had been hired for the roundup. He was known to most of the other members of the crew that had been drawn from the local area. He was in his mid-thirties, six feet tall and carrying over two hundred pounds with the broad fleshy face of a serious beer drinker and his eyes were hard. He was a good cowboy, tough and strong. Far Rider had not had any conversation with the man but had listened to him at meals and during breaks. He wasn’t exactly a braggart but he was crude and had the shadow of meanness about him. Far Rider pegged him as someone that would be a mean, ugly drunk and prone to physical violence.

Clete was the hot iron man responsible for cauterizing the horn stubs on the calves. Far Rider would flank and hold the animal down while other hands branded, castrated, ear marked, inoculated and dehorned the animal. The last operation was the application of the hot iron to the raw horn.

The calf let out a guttural bawl and struggled when Clete put the glowing steel rod down on the horn and wiggled it around. He left it on longer than Far Rider knew was necessary but he held his tongue. After several repeats of the same procedure Far Rider quietly said “Don’t hold the iron on so long. It hurts these guys.”

Clete looked down at him as he was turning away with the smoking iron in his hand with a contemptuous look that said “You must be kidding.”

“College boy” he muttered as he returned the iron to the fire.

Far Rider released the calf and it staggered to its feet wobbling off towards its mother and shaking its head. The terrible pain in the critters skull could only be imagined, not to mention the smoking burn from the brand and the bloody sack where his nuts had been less than three minutes past.

Spring calves usually run about Two to three hundred pounds, but most of the calves being worked on this outfit were over four hundred. He began to suspect that calves had not been gathered or branded since the previous spring. Not knowing the management or conditions at the ranch he could not make a judgment and it was none of his business. Just get the job done and move on was his attitude.

One of the ropers on a big gray horse rode by dragging the smallest calf Far Rider had seen yet. The calf had been heeled and was sliding along through the dirt and dry cow shit on his belly with his head up calmly looking around at all of the action. Far Rider rolled him onto his side and patted him sympathetically as one of the other cowboys undid the loop on the calf’s rear heels.

“I’m sure sorry son” he said under his breath while trying to believe the old cow country saw that it was the calf’s tough luck for being born a cow.

The branding procedure started again and because the calf was smaller, the dehorn man had to use a dehorning spoon to dig the nubs out of the little critters skull. The agonized bawling from the calf began to infuriate Far Rider and he swore he would never again work for any outfit that cut the damn horns off of their cattle.

Clete approached and put the red iron down on the bloody depressions in calf’s skull from which a tiny stream of blood was squirting six inches into the air and dissipating in the breeze as a fine red mist. The calf was panting in agony and stress as the smoke rose from the burned hair, bone and flesh in the bloody socket.

“How do you like that you little shit?” Clete said as he bore down on the iron.

Far Rider looked up into Clete’s face with its crooked, yellow toothed grin and said “I’m not telling you again. Get the goddamned iron off his head.”

Looking at him with good old boy contempt, Clete cursed and walked away. Far Rider massaged the calf’s neck and had to prod him to get up. He appeared stunned nearly into unconsciousness. Standing, Far Rider peeled off his gloves and angrily slapped the dust from his chaps. Nobody appeared to pay any attention to the brewing storm as the work continued.

Hot Iron - Part I of III

Baboquiveri Mountains

Note to the reader: The stories posted to this blog are true. It is hard for many folks in contmporary America to realize that even in 1978 this was a much different country. It was a better place. Pockets of the Old West with its codes and values remained. There were far fewer cops and lawyers meddling in people's lives. Out in cow country, problems were settled among the participants without the interference of government bureaucrats and social engineers. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

My thanks to my close friend LB for her editorial assistance.






If Creation is God's handiwork, cruelty is the province of Satan. The unspeakable barbarity committed by mankind, individually and collectively, has left history awash in death, blood, misery and suffering. It is one of the great mysteries that the magnificence of the human mind granted by the Creator is so often used to devise ways to inflict suffering, pain, and agony upon fellow humans. Usually unnoticed and ignored by everyday folks is the gratuitous and ceremonial cruelty inflicted upon the beasts of the field, the fowl of the air, and the denizens of the deep and watery places. The butchery inflicted upon sentient beings is justified in the name of economic efficiency, superstition, and sport.

Cowboying is tedious, hard and often hazardous work. Most things in cow country are bigger, stronger, and faster than the cowboy. The horse he rides and the cattle he works can be explosively dangerous. When a one to two thousand pound animal collides with a human, the winner is unanimously predictable. Some of the cruelty exacted against cattle and horses by cowboys is pure revenge for the bumps, bruises, broken bones and peeled hide that is the inevitable result of working with livestock. The infliction of cruelty for the sake of cruelty upon an animal makes an unequivocal statement about the brutish and brutal character of the perpetrator.

1978 found Far Rider attending Phoenix College and struggling to make ends meet. In early April, Alfred Haught, owner of the Triangle K Ranch in Pleasant Valley, Arizona site of the Pleasant Valley War in the late 1880s, and for whom he had worked, called him and told him about an outfit down in southern Arizona that was looking for riders for spring roundup. Spring gather coincided with Spring Break and Far Rider was able to work it out with his professors to take an extra week off so that he could finish roundup. Cowboys that still followed the old Code of the West did not hire on and then quit in the middle of the work. Living below the poverty line, a cowboy had his word and his saddle and precious little else. He could not afford to have either one of them in poor condition. Far Rider contacted the owner of the outfit and hired on.

The ranch was a hard-scrabble cow-calf and steer operation spread out over several hundred square miles of the tough, dry country that was the Sonoran Desert. The only way cattle could be worked and gathered in the desolate country was by men on horseback. Cactus, greasewood, palo verde and desert grasses grew profusely across a rugged landscape cut by deep arroyos, rocky canyons and steep broken hills that struggled westward towards the Baboquiveri Mountains. The country was hotter than the hinges of hell in the summer but spring was merely warm with daytime temperatures hovering near the ninety degree mark in mid-afternoon. A dozen other day-work cowboys had been hired to help out and along with the boss and two permanent hands the crew was filled out. Sleeping quarters were typical which meant they weren't fit for white men with any sense of hygiene. His dog, Chance, was not allowed indoors and over a number of years and outfits he had grown accustomed to taking his comfort curling up with the dog in the back of his pickup for the night

A cowboy was something Far Rider had never really wanted to be. He wanted to work horses in rough country and work as a cowhand provided the saddle time and experience not available in a show barn. The 1970s saw irreversible changes affecting the traditional role of the American cowboy. More work was done in a pickup and a cowboy was expected to do maintenance chores more like a common field hand. The handwriting was on the wall for a way of life that had captured the imagination of the world for over a century. No other icon in the young Republic’s history had so defined the American character of independence, self-reliance, freedom and rectitude.

The skill set of the working cowboy began to deteriorate as the competent and prescient ones adapted to the changing world and moved on to other occupations. The caliber and character of the cowboys he met and worked with were not the same as the men he had known growing up in northern Nevada and the mountains of east central Idaho. Wannabes and riff raff began to infiltrate the ranks of a once proud and honorable trade.

Never a top hand but considered competent and a good hand, was the best he could manage and as far as his aspirations took him. Roping was part of the trade, but unlike most cowboys, he didn’t care to know more about it than was necessary to get the job done efficiently. Ranch roping is unlike calf or steer roping competitions. Range cattle require a gentler approach to avoid injuring them. Turning the stock upside down or crippling horses in the process will get a cowboy sent down the road in short order. Heading steers was easier for him by far than neck-roping calves. When it came to roping calves he threw enough loops that eventually something would run into it. If he didn't rim fire his horse and get bucked off the job was a success. He could, however, throw a hoolihan loop for catching remuda horses. This rare skill got him noticed along with his ability to start young horses. If the place had colts to start, he usually got the job. It suited him just fine as it beat hell out of looking at the messy southern end of northbound cattle and it often paid a bit more.

During brandings, the job of roping and dragging calves to the fire was reserved for the older and most experienced cowboys. Day workers and younger cowboys made up the ground crews. Ground crew work is hot, physically demanding and beats the daylights out of a cowboy's body. Tasks include handling sorting gates, flanking and throwing calves, branding, administering inoculations, ear marking, dehorning, castrating and dressing the wounds inflicted during the process. It is hard on cattle and it is hard on cowboys.

Every crew has its own personality. Some run like clockwork while others are staffed by sullen, unpleasant and crude fellows. Like a police or a military unit, the crews reflected the caliber of the leadership or lack thereof. Poor crews are often marked by cliquish behavior where new hands are belittled and not helped to understand the particulars of working a new outfit, sometimes to the point where new guys would get hurt. This was viewed as a source of amusement by the rest of the hands. Far Rider despised such attitudes. Similarly, he detested those cowboys that liked to “rope and choke” cattle for pleasure and that treated their horses like tools to be used and tossed aside when they were no longer able to meet the rigors of range work.

That spring, roundup proceeded with grueling and monotonous regularity. The horses were grained and saddled by four a.m. and by five the riders were mounted and moving out a full two hours before the sun was up. The crew was one of those where there was not much personal interaction except among those that had worked together before. Far Rider didn't know any of the other hands and, as was his nature, kept to himself. He was ignored by the regulars except when work demanded communication. Before the roundup ended, there would be physical violence prompted by what little communication there was.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses