The Fragile Circle

Stormy: March 11, 1983 – February 7, 2011.

It was the seventh sunrise of the Moon of the Dark Red Calves (Lakota Sioux Calendar). He had awoken at his customary four-thirty AM from a restless and troubled sleep. After making coffee and getting a fire started, he had settled into his chair and read scenes III – VI of Christopher Marlowe’s Edward the Second. The forensic issues of the death of Edward II aroused his curiosity. Two hours passed and “rosy fingered dawn” caressed the snow covered expanse of Tejana Mesa and the sugarloaf summit of Mesa Tinaja.



Rosy Fingered Dawn



Far Rider shrugged into his chore coat and pulled on lined gloves. The thermometer showed eleven degrees – a big improvement over the minus thirty–nine degrees of the previous week that had caused so much grief for the scattered inhabitants of Catron County located in the rugged expanses of the far western reaches of New Mexico.



 Calling Caesar, he stepped out into the cold, clear air of a beautiful winter day crowned with an azure sky. Weather reports were calling for snow over the next two days beginning sometime after midnight, but the frozen ground assured there would be no benefit from the moisture. Since Christmas, the surrounding mesas and mountains had been covered with a solid blanket of white. There was some clearing on the flats and in the meadows but it was a respite that would soon be broken.

His four saddle horses were standing quietly in their corral and watching him as he picked up his apple picker and sledge hammer to start the first chore of winter days – breaking ice in the drinkers. Looking south towards the alley that separated the arena from the southern corrals and shelters, he could not see any of the three old, geriatric horses in their corral. His heart gave a small erratic thud as the shadow that had dogged him through the night quietly rustled its dark wings.


Stormy leading them home



Stormy, Handy, Stormy's nephew Stryker and his niece, Cimarron in the background



Far Rider leaned the sledge against the side of the frozen drinker and walked into the southeastern corral that provided shelter for the three oldest and crippled horses. Flaxie, the thirty-one year old sorrel mare stood looking absently at him with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. A more pronounced case of horseheimers he had never seen. But, the old girl was healthy, had a great appetite and loved to run with the younger horses out in the remote pastures during the day. We should be so happy. He seemed to recall that Virgil had noted something about the happiness of not knowing how blessed we might be. Handy, the aged appaloosa, stood just under the shelter roof soaking up the early rays of sunshine beginning to creep into the shadows of the covered shelter. Only the tips of the ears of his grand old horse Stormy showed above one of the Malibu walls dividing the shelter into individual stalls. Odd. He stepped into the corral and observed Stormy leaning against an eastern wall supporting himself and taking the weight off of his deformed and crippled left foreleg. As soon as the old horse saw him, his head came up and the huge, liquid eyes lighted and glistened in the early morning light. A fleeting darkness passed through Far Rider’s mind as the reality of what the day held flashed before him.



Pals



“Sonofabitch” he quietly swore as he turned away. Lisa would soon be down with the morning feed and would gently care for the old horse as she got him up to the feeder for his breakfast. Telling her it would be his final meal was going to be heartbreaking for them both. Far Rider returned to the drinker and attacked the ice savagely with the sledge as he steeled himself for the darkness of the day ahead.

Morning chores completed, knowing the day would be bitter and long, he ate a spare breakfast though he wasn’t hungry. From the small refrigerator in the saddle shed he retrieved vials of Acepromazine and Dermosedan and brought them into the house to warm them.

Returning to the saddle shed, he pulled his Marlin Model 1895 .357 caliber rifle from the saddle scabbard and made his way up to the Close Quarter Battle Range situated some 200 yards east of the horse facilities. Using a three inch by five inch index card from his pocket, he drew a one inch “X” on it and clamped it to a target frame about eight inches above the ground. Backing up three paces he dry fired on the card several times before levering a round into the chamber. Taking precise aim, he squeezed off the shot. The bullet impacted three quarters of an inch low using the fifty yard zero he had sighted the rifle in for. Using a hold over of three quarters of an inch, he fired three more rounds for effect. All three cut one small hole at the vector of the arms of the “X”.

He returned his rifle to the saddle shed and with a heavy heart walked down to Stormy’s corral. Handy, Stormy’s rangemate for over fifteen years, had already been turned out into the Stormy Pasture while the other horses had filed out to the Shiloh Pasture where Stormy’s sister was buried. Handy, waiting just outside the corral for his buddy nickered a greeting when he saw Far Rider approach.

Stormy: January 2011

Entering the corral, Far Rider retrieved the lead rope from the gate post and found Stormy again leaning against the eastern wall attempting to stay on his feet. Slipping the rope over his horse’s head, he gently and slowly coaxed the once powerful bay horse across the corral and into the pasture that had been named for him. After slipping the loop off Stormys head, Far Rider stroked and spoke softly to the horse that had been his faithful companion for a quarter century. Stormy nuzzled his face and hands with his strong upper lip and breathed deeply drinking in the scent of the man he had carried for so many miles and so many years across the plains, deserts and mountains of their beloved West. Far Riders eyes burned as tears of grief spilled unbidden and he hugged the shaggy neck for what he knew would soon be the last time.

The preceding day, Far Rider had made arrangements with his neighbor to bring a backhoe and dig a grave alongside Shiloh as the weather was soon going to turn and trying to dig a grave suitable for a horse in a snowstorm would make a difficult job maybe impossible. His neighbor had promised to drive his machine over sometime around one o’clock or so. It was strange how the premonition of the bitter duty that lay before him had strengthened over the past week or so. Walking the crippled horse across the corral and into the pasture he had known it would be Stormy’s last walk.


Far Rider brought fresh, rich alfalfa hay and laid it at Stormy’s feet. Handy and Stormy both began munching the hay in the relaxed companionship of old friends. Far Rider turned away, checked his watch and, saw that two hours were all that were left of a full and vibrant life.

He fought the ragged convulsions that made his chest heave as he walked back through the corrals towards the house. With his mind far away and the mantle of grief making him confused, he attended to minor chores as the hands of the clock crept past eleven-thirty. Just as he had known when he saw Stormy leaning against the wall early that morning, too soon he knew that it was time. He picked up the sedatives, syringes and needles nodding to Lisa as he left the house. She turned away sobbing. His last stop was the saddle shed where he retrieved his rifle.





When he returned to the pasture, Stormy was standing alone down in the arroyo sleepily taking the sun as his body teetered and swayed slightly as he struggled to stay on his feet. The left foreleg and the right rear leg were simply no longer up to the task of supporting him any longer. In the space of a day, he had gone from pain that was relieved by the administration of Dexamthazone injections and powdered Phenylbutazone in his feed to a condition of suffering. The price of the joy he had shared with the wonderful horse for twenty four years was now due and the final act of mercy for his faithful friend now fell to Far Rider.

He laid his rifle on a towel along with some baling twine and went up to his horse who greeted him with nuzzles and a desperate plea for relief that was reflected in the great brown eyes. Eyes, always so bright, now looked with sadness and a pleading to “help me now.” Placing his arms one last time around the winter-shaggy neck, Far Rider called upon the God of Abraham to take this, His wondrous creation to where he would find green pastures besides clear water. With the warm breath of his horse on his cheek, he also asked that if it was in His plan, that He would make it possible that they would once again someday be together in a place without such pain and terrible sadness.


Far Rider blew in Stormy’s nose and rubbed his upper gums with his fingertips – something that always gave the horse pleasure and commended his companion into the Hand’s of God.


The lessons hard learned as a Special Operations soldier in places where pain and death were so often dealt with and the similar lessons learned on the ugly streets of south Los Angeles while wearing LAPD blue took over. Grief was put aside, and the mechanics of efficiency and doing what had to be done guided his hands. Filling a syringe with five milliliters of Acepromazine, he quickly found the large vein running down the groove of the neck under the jaw and inserted the twenty gauge needle. Drawing back the syringe, it quickly flooded with bright blood and he pushed the plunger home. Within a few minutes, Stormy was completely relaxed with his head down nibbling at the snow. Far Rider administered another five milliliters of Ace and Storm turned towards him and after Far Rider had caressed his face one final time, the great horse lay down on the side of the arroyo. His breathing was deep and regular and he drifted to a place away from pain as the sky dimmed in the once lustrous eyes. Pulling two pre-loaded syringes of Dermosedan from his coat pocket, Far Rider pushed the chemicals into the blood stream of the now sleeping horse. He loaded the entire five millileter bottle of the same drug and pushed it home hoping it would be sufficient to stop the beating of Stormy’s great heart.


Sitting on the wet, snowy ground in sunshine that was surprisingly warm, Far Rider stroked his horse’s face and watched for his breathing to stop. Stormy began to snore quietly and Far Rider realized the drugs were not going to be enough to stop the mighty heart that continued to push life through the crippled body.


Wrapping the towel around his beloved horse’s head, he tied it in place with the hay baling twine. He placed a small mark on the towel over the center of the horse’s forehead and teetering somewhere between grief and rage, he picked up his rifle.


Within the hour, his neighbor made the grave alongside of Shiloh and put Stormy to rest there beside her. The frozen and muddy ground made for a difficult job and Far Rider thanked God for a neighbor such as Norm.


Authors Note:

During October of last year, I had come to the conclusion that it was time to put Stormy down. I was alone at the ranch and decided that it would be a good time so that the grief of such duty was not shared. I agonized over it for three days as Stormy got progressively worse with his leg seeming to bend further out each day. Mid-morning on the day I had decided I would need to kill my horse, I stepped onto the deck of the saddle shed and knelt down by one of the camp fire ring benches, removed my hat, and asked my God and Creator to please spare my horse for awhile longer.   




Stormy: October 2010



I am not one for asking God for anything for myself. My feeling is that most folks whine to God about every little thing that they ought to step up and take care of themselves. After all, He is God and He sure as hell knows what we need without our telling Him, nor does He need a lecture from the likes of us. I will ask Him for help for other folks and for guidance to save my country from those that would destroy it, and for the protection of our uniformed young men and women in harm’s way on distant shores.

I am hardly a “good” Christian, and asking God for personal favors seems hypocritical and dishonorable. But, I was all out of options and so was Stormy. Even in Viet Nam when facing what I thought were my final moments, I steadfastly refused to pray and ask for God’s assistance because I knew that if I survived, being of an imperfect nature and a son of Adam, that I would return to ignoring God until I needed Him again. Just didn’t seem right to be asking for help when I was not doing my share of following His commandments.


Later that morning, I decided to call my former veterinarian that had recently returned to this country from a move back east and was reestablishing his practice. Two years previously, the veterinarian I had called when Stormy’s sister Shiloh was dying in such agony had given me the sum total of help by saying “Good luck with your horse.” I am not a forgiving man and that is a debt as yet unresolved so I was not about to call that particular practitioner again.


I really did not think there was any hope for such a desperate orthopedic condition, but out of the blue, as I rose from my knees the thought came to me to call Dr. Jack D. Though he is 115 miles away, that is considered nearby in a county that is larger than some eastern states. He had always helped me out years earlier when he was still in this part of the country. He would take the time to talk me through things on the phone and I like his way of handling horses. We spoke about Stormy and he suggested I start him on injections of Dexamthazone. Within 3 days, Stormy was limping around the pasture albeit on a badly deformed leg but with a returned appetite. He would lie in the sun and manage to get back on his feet and his eyes were bright. It was the first time in my life that I felt God had answered a direct request for help. There was no flash of light or thunderclap, no burning bush. The answer arrived in the advice of an educated and trained veterinarian whom also has a profound faith in God as Creator of the magnificent creatures with whom we share this world.


God gave Stormy and I four more months together. Just knowing Stormy was in the corral or pasture made my life better and I thanked God every day for his mercy to Stormy and to me.


Stormy is in a better place now where he can run as he did when we first began our time together. Though a deep and utter sadness grips my heart this night, my life for 24 years was better and will always be better for having shared it with such a magnificent creature and faithful companion.

Upon hearing of the loss of Stormy, a dear friend that raises Rocky Mountain Horses nearby sent me the following beautiful words of comfort penned by poet Irving Townsend and from which the title of this essay is borrowed:

We who choose to surround ourselves with lives
even more temporary than our own
live within a fragile circle, easily
and often breached.
Unable to accept its awful gaps,
we would live no other way.
We cherish memory as the only certain immortality,
never fully understanding the necessary plan.

"The Once Again Prince"
Irving Townsend

See to your weapons and stand to your horses,

Far Rider



Queens of the High Chapparal

Well folks, it has been seven months to the day since I last posted to this blog. Sort of went on strike and just didn't have the motivation.



UPDATE ON SIERRA: She is a permanent resident here on the ranch She and Caesar, the dragon dog, are best buddies and the wrestling begins sometime around 6:00AM when the little princess crawls out from under her blanket and continues throughout the day until well after dark. All eight of her puppies were placed in good homes. One little girl went to Paul and his wife in Tucson and that puppy won the lottery going to them.


The current story:

Murray Springs Trailhead

I had business down in southern Arizona this past week and during my stay, I decided to go and visit a prehistoric archaeological site dating from the last ice age. The site is administered by the BLM and you can go to the link http://www.blm.gov/az/st/en/prog/recreation/cultural/murray.html to view photos and read about it.


The archeology of ancient primitive people's sites normally does not interest me, but the Clanton ranch of OK Corral fame can be accessed by a trail that starts from the Murray Springs parking area and that does interest me.



A bit of background:  Years ago, while a young LAPD rookie, I was assigned briefly to a divisional vice unit and onto what was internally called "the fruit detail." In 1969, we were a country still firmly grounded in traditional moral codes and mores. Our standards of behavior were defined by clear boundaries and sexual deviancy was criminally sanctioned. Homosexuality was considered deviant as opposed to the celebrated status it now enjoys. You could not join the military or any government agency that required a security clearance - the proclivities of J. Edgar Hoover notwithstanding - and you certainly could not join a police force.

Things have changed dramatically.  Homosexuals, transgenders and who knows what else are wearing the uniforms of law enforcement.  In the military, the recent removal of the ban on gays is still being sorted out by those within and without the US military. Most of us raised with an older set of values are convinced that the end of the world is probably just around the corner. When we old special operations types get together and the subject comes up, there is unanimous agreement that we are glad we served when homosexuality was not allowed. We had collective fits about the military going to the switch hitters with "don't ask, don't tell", and with the new policy, our conclusion about the matter is that we are damn glad we all got out before the military makes it mandatory.


Homos have been with us since before history. In 1969 there was a very active homosexual community in Los Angeles and certainly Hollywood. But, public displays or solicitations were grounds for criminal prosecution. Lewd and lascivious conduct was the general catch all legal basis for arrest. Homosexuality was worked the same way prostitutes were worked. Undercover officers and stings that frequently amounted to entrapment were common. Because of my very youthful appearance, I was detailed as a "pigeon" for a short time and it was my job to hang around men's restrooms, parks and other known locations of homosexual activity. I waited until I was propositioned, elicited an articulated account as to what was to happen, how much money was to be exchanged, if any, and waited for a legally approved overt action towards the commission of the crime. Then, on signal, the backup, overwatch officer would come in and an arrest would be effected. It was a sordid business, and to a ranch raised kid out of east central Idaho and northern Nevada, it was an eye opening experience. It also provided the most hilarious incidents of my tenure with the LAPD. Stuff for another time.


My background has thus provided me with an observational skill set that is alerted by the subtle and the not so subtle behaviors and markers that indicate homosexual presence or activity.




The Scene



As I pulled into the trail head parking area, a real JDLR (just doesn't look right) set of circumstances was evident. The trail head restroom is a small block building approximately twelve feet square containing a single unit. On either side of the restroom, parked in such a manner as to be able to observe the narrow dirt road coming in and the trail head itself, but blocked from each other's view were two vehicles. Each vehicle was parked backed in so that no plates were visible. Each vehicle was occupied by a single, white, adult male. Something isn't right here. Dope or human smugglers would have been perfectly understandable in that part of the country. But, damn. Homos in the cat claw? What is the desert coming to?

Now, my personal feelings about homosexuality are that it is deviant and disgusting behavior, particularly in the raw physical mechanics of the relationships. My visual exposure to their antics over 40 years ago as a young vice officer are images not easily erased. However, what consenting folks want to do in privacy is of no concern to me. I could care less. Weirdos. And, it beats the ragheads doing donkeys and goats, but not by much.


I exited my vehicle, made sure my Glock .40 S&W was in place under my vest and that my backup weapon was also available. Locking my rig, I wandered towards the trail head. I had proceeded down the trail 30 yards or so and was screened by the chaparral and mesquite when I heard vehicle doors opening about ten seconds apart. I must be looking better than I thought. I turned down a fork in the trail to where an interpretive plaque was placed alongside a bench. It allowed me to turn and face back up the trail in a neutral position but where I had the advantage of using the bench and the plaque as a blocking mechanism if need be. I assumed a benign position of apparently reading the interpretive information, placed my left hand on the backup in my pocket and, using the advantage of my sunglasses and slouch hat, watched my back trail.


Sure enough, here comes suspect number one. He was a sort of Baby Huey type. He stood well over six feet, in his early 40s, fat and soft. No doubt a favorite on the local scene. These folks have to have some degree of sensitivity to their environment and the people in it as it can be hazardous. This is still mostly cattle and mining country. A demographic that will take a very intolerant and unenlightened direct action approach to homosexual activity. I made eye contact with Baby Huey when he was about fifteen feet away and he immediately recognized that I am definitely a pitcher not a catcher. He sidled over to the far side of the rather narrow trail and continued on. I'm sure he was thinking how inconvenient it was to have to continue the charade and go look at a bunch of rocks where cavemen hung out 13,000 years ago rather than immediately returning to his vehicle. Who knew what opportunities he might miss? As he passed, I know a bemused look crossed my face which added to his consternation, disappointment or both. I also noted that the left ear piece to his sunglasses was missing.


Two minutes later, along comes suspect number two. He is a nice looking man, about my age, with beautiful silver hair, and an obviously very expensive haircut. He was trim and dressed in layered clothing as it was a mere sixty degrees down there and the folks in that part of the country thought another ice age was approaching. I noted his long underwear shirt had little roses or some such thing on it and he wore a fine gold chain around his neck. And a brave one was he, or really steamed up. He approached to within normal American social distance and attempts to engage me in conversation. He was an educated and successful fellow based upon his syntax. Because of his outer clothing, I'll call him Red Shirt.


I was dressed in field clothes: camouflaged bdu trousers, black bdu top, black cotton vest, hiking boots, dark glasses and my old, battered and stained canvas "go to hell" Indiana Jones type hat. I was travel worn with a weeks growth of beard. I looked a bit rough and was certainly not going to win a GQ award or turn the heads of the ladies. Just my luck. Some nice old queen decides I am just the ticket.


Red Shirt begins to query me about where I was from, etc. I don't answer many questions even from folks that I like so I immediately claimed that I had a hot date that was getting off work in the mid-afternoon. Not to be dissuaded, and apparently thinking I had not noticed, he removes his sun glasses and shows me that the left ear piece is missing. Well, what do you know. The local "recognition" signal for the Murray Springs homos. I have seen the colored handkerchiefs strategically placed in different pockets to advertise various acrobatic specialties, particular types and placement of ear rings, denim on denim dress, pant leg rolled up shorter than the other, certain types of bracelets, a system of coughs and toe taps, etc. over the years as a means for these perverts to recognize one another. But taking a perfectly good pair of sun glasses apart was a new one for me.

 I suspect that by now, if they have gotten this far, most of my Progressive acquaintances, and probably my one Progressive friend, have their nickers in a bunch due to my descriptive language. Allow me to point out that most of the gay folks I have known and become friends with would make better neighbors than a good many of the church going folks I know. So, give it a rest, calm down and eat some fruit or something.


I made my excuses to Red Shirt and departed with the cheeks to my bottom squeezed very tightly together - just in case.


After my patrol, I returned to the parking lot and only Red Shirt remained. As I was unlocking my rig, he came up and asked if I "would give him a jump." WHAT? Good grief.


"My battery is dead" he explained .


Whew. I thought I was going to have to defend my honor, not to mention my bottom.


I dragged out cables, got him started and he politely offered to pay me. I countered with my common response of "you do somebody else a favor some day and it all works out."


He went into great detail as I was hooking up the cables about how his "girlfriend" was "at the doctor's for an hour long appointment", etc., etc. I must have "stupid" written on my forehead. We are at least half an hour from Sierra Vista, and he had been there 2 hours since I had arrived. I think he got nervous when I took my vest off and my Glock and spare magazine was visible along with my ID, which I wear around my neck and has my driver's license and Concealed Weapon Permit showing in the window (hopefully, it will keep some idiot cop from shooting me if I am in the middle of an event where guns are present). Some folks think anybody with ID around their neck is some sort of cop.


It was apparent that Red Shirt was a nice fellow. A queer. But, a nice queer. The behavior of homosexuals is still stigmatized in western culture (unless you are in the arts or living in California). Their social behavior is often a product of self-loathing and guilt. Has to be a hell of a way to go through life.


I am familiar with all of the biological and medical model explanations for homosexuality, but the jury is still out in that regard. My problem is that alcoholism, drug abuse, pedophilia, wife beating, beastiality are or have been advanced as being cause for the abandonment of criminal or social sanctions. The restrictions on free speech, the nonsense of hate crimes where folks are punished for what they think rather than what they do has had a deleterious affect upon the very basis of our individual liberty. That, in and of itself, is sufficient for me to be opposed to any mitigation of moral, criminal, or social sanctions for any of the behaviors described above. I don't have the answer and I am not going to join the Pink Pistols anytime soon, but I do feel a twinge of sympathy for anyone that has to carry a burden of unhappiness.


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

Dynamite R.I.P.

It seems that of late there have been many mishaps resulting in the loss of good horses. For me, the passing of a noble steed is truly a cause for grief. The following piece was written by my close friend and arch intellectual adversary, Lisa Blessing, a local Rocky Mountain Horse breeder. Check out their website by clicking on the link for Rocky Mountain Horses on the left side of this page under Horse Links. Our sympathies go to Lisa and Ken on the loss of this wonderful horse.

Dynamite

When Dynamite stepped out of Leroy Reed’s Ohio trailer in Chelan, he was a leggy, wide eyed 4 year old away from home for the first time. He had his pregnant dam for company and they were our first Rockies, far from their familiar flatlands of the Midwest. In short order, Dynamite was drafted into our pack string and discovered steep peaks and life in the backcountry. Bewildered but willing, he learned to tote loads, spend his nights on highlines and cross streams swollen with early snow melt off. Over time, he graduated to my riding horse.

Doing what he was born to do
Dynamite was stout hearted, more than able to pirouette on steep switchbacks, hug the uphill on tiny trails with deep dropoffs and hang around the camp on his days off usually wandering over to stick his head under the tarp to see what was cooking on the roll top table. In all his backcountry travel, only once did he experience something he had difficulty handling. We were almost at the end of a long wooden causeway built over deep mud when rotten planks collapsed and we fell thru them into the deep mud. Terrified and caught by the bridge sinking into chest deep mud, he fought his way up and out, but forever after distrusted any footing made of wood. Rather sensible, under the circumstances.

Despite having a mostly affable disposition, he rose thru the ranks to become our herd leader ruling with the flick of an ear, cock of a hoof, swish of a tail. He never found it necessary to use more aggressive measures no matter the unruly youngsters passing thru his pasture. Everyone just accepted his position.

Whenever one of our mares foaled—always spurning their plush foaling stalls preferring the earth in their paddocks—he was a sentinel standing motionless on his side of the fence as close as he could get until the foal was out on the ground and then he would quietly wander away.

He was our go-to guy to ease just started young horses out and about in the great beyond. His mellow presence calmed the myriad fears of the youngsters so they could start to concentrate on becoming a trail horse. And he was our hospitality horse, carrying many a guest and family member over hill and dale as these camping pictures attest.

Last year he was diagnosed with high ringbone and has been gimpy on and off despite shots and laser therapy. Still, he seemed happy enough wandering around until yesterday afternoon. His behavior was odd, not eating much, standing around. When we pulled him out to see what was going on, we found his pupils widely dilated and realized he was blind. He also was unable to smell and we had to hold his feed to his lips for him to be able to find it. Our vets said that he must have suffered either a stroke or an aneurysm, either occurrence incredibly rare in the equine world.

Today, with a prick of the needle, he slipped his halter and left this harsh high desert country. I see him happy in meadows of belly deep sweet grass alongside crystalline streams, shaded by heavily laden apple trees. It is where he belongs, but more than his paddock is horribly empty.

RIP
Dynamite
4-9-1992
6-2-2010

In Green Pastures

Sierra: A Crime of Abandonment

I returned to the ranch from several trips down to the border over the past three weeks where I witnessed the destruction of my country at the hands of illegal aliens that ignore our borders, murder our citizens and shoot our police. Bad as this may be, it is aided and abetted by the very government that is supposed to protect its citizens and defend its borders. This state of affairs is overseen by a bull dyke with the grace and femininity of a rogue buffalo, who looks into the camera and declares to the American public that the border has never been more secure.

I was furious as I struggled home through a heavy snowstorm. Crossing the passes at 8000 feet of elevation, I would not have made it without the four wheel drive so necessary in this rough country. Exhausted, I slept twelve hours through and woke to nearly six inches of new snow. The corrals were a muddy, slushy mess, so I decided to accompany Lisa, the mistress of the ranch, to Show Low to get supplies. Another 250 mile drive was not what I wanted but there was nothing to do in the snow and mud so we started out.

The cut on US 60 east of Springerville, AZ

Just east of Springerville, Arizona on US 60 at mile marker 394.6, the highway passes through a deep, rocky cut. Hunched against the rocks on the north side was an emaciated female Doberman.

Continuing on, I topped out on the broad mesa and found a place to safely turn around. Returning to where the dog was last seen, she had moved to the south side of the highway between the steep rock wall and the roadway. I pulled over and Lisa bailed out while I retrieved a leash and opened the rear of the vehicle. The dog moved cautiously out onto the highway towards her. Several vehicles roared over the hill not bothering to slow down for the dog and woman in the roadway as they tore on past. They were obviously very important people but we rubes just didn’t know who they were. Shame on us.

The little female was actively lactating and obviously had puppies nearby but we had no way of knowing where they might be. She readily climbed into the back of the Ford Excursion and curled up on the deep pile dog blanket kept in the cargo area. Lisa also keeps dog food and water along with cut down milk cartons for bowels as dog rescue is one of her passions and in this country it happens a lot. People from Albuquerque and other urban centers routinely dump their canine companions along the road when they become inconvenient. The dog was starving and wolfed down the food, drank a bowel of water and curled up in the warmth of the blanket.

Sierra

With Lisa in the back with the dog and Caesar sitting in the co-pilot seat, I headed the rig for Grants, New Mexico and the office of veterinarians Drs. Frank and Becky Anderson nearly 200 miles away. Late in the afternoon we departed Grants with the dog we were now calling Sierra. Dr. Frank thought it a classy name for a very classy dog even in her tragic condition. Inoculations, worming and a thorough exam had been accomplished. Once back in the vehicle she collapsed and slept for the 80 mile run to the ranch.

Sierra spent the night in Caesar’s crate and dog run enjoying Lisa’s fussing over her. She is sweet, smart and obviously has had some training as she knows come and sit and, in spite of her treatment by some of them, she loves people. She is quiet but protectively ferocious as she tied into Caesar who just rather took her assault with perplexed forbearance.

She must have nearly frozen in the cold and snow of the previous several days. I examined her paws and she has carpet feet, very soft to the touch, no redness or tenderness on the pads, the hair and nails not worn down all of which told me that she had not traveled to that remote location on foot. Either she had run off from a vehicle or been dumped on the side of the road. Experience in this country strongly suggests support for the latter. She weighs 42 pounds on an 80 pound frame and the collar that was crimped shut and sagging on her neck had a four inch gap in it.

Up early this morning stock was fed and chores done before we loaded Sierra and Caesar into the rig again and headed back to where we had found her. We first went to the police station in Springerville and asked if there was a report of a lost dog matching her description. The dispatcher called the animal control officer who was a very kind and gentle fellow and of quite a great size. He took down the information and told us about a local rescue organization that might be able to help find her a home as the local shelter only keeps dogs for five days and then puts them down.

While standing in the parking lot while the animal control officer photographed her for possible prosecution if those responsible might ever be found, two police units pulled in. The local sergeant and another officer exited their vehicles. The sergeant looks at the emaciated dog and makes some sort of joke to his subordinate about how skinny she was. I bristled and bit my tongue not to get in this jerks face about how he might feel if he were in the condition of the dog, but I needed the help of the animal control guy and did not want to put him in a bad position getting between the cops he works with and a citizen that had the temerity to confront inappropriate police behavior.

Travelling next to the local vet, Lisa took the dog inside and asked the staff if they recognized her. The receptionist said that lots of dogs were being abandoned or “surrendered” because folks cannot afford to feed them. I did not like the veterinarian who did not bother to walk around the counter to look at the dog when Lisa asked if he could tell how long it had been since Sierra had nursed her puppies.

I drove back to near where we had found her and Lisa put Sierra on a long line and started walking eastbound along US 60. I proceeded about a mile east to the base of the long hill, pulled off and began casting for tracks as I worked my way back westbound.

Trail to the top of the cut

Lisa was on the north side of the highway about 200 yards away when I saw Sierra go to full point looking south towards the top of the cut. They crossed the highway with the dog eagerly pulling Lisa along and scrambled up the soft cut bank on the south side of the road. When they reached the top, the dog started back west with the body language of being on a mission.

I intersected a faint trail below them that led up the hill where there were several sets of her tracks and some smudged human footprints that had been blurred out by the snow and wind. As I proceeded up the hill, I heard the faint cries of puppies and Lisa’s voice ring out “I found them.”

Abandoned in the rocks

Eight Doberman – Rottweiler mix puppies were in a pile in a small basin of rock. Five males and three females, all full black with the classic brown points and squared heads and muzzles of the Rottweiler breed. Sierra immediately lay down on the packed earth and eight hungry puppies sought a much needed dinner.

Two good friends passed beneath us when they saw our rig and, as folks do in this remote country, turned around and pulled in to see what was going on. Michael carried a box up the hill while I retrieved my camera and photographed what was, in my mind, a crime scene. With Michael's help, mamma and puppies were safely brought down and hill and placed securely in the back of Lisa’s vehicle. Reactions or those present varied according to sex. Mike was disgusted. Lisa was tearful. I was angry. Each of us, Lisa and I, had in our own way asked for God’s help and were thankful to Him for helping us to find and rescue His small creations.

Sierra and her family

Arriving back at the ranch, Sierra is getting plenty to eat and is comfortably ensconced with her family in Caesar’s dog run for the time being.

Times are tough in America right now and for all the trillions that have been stolen and wasted, nothing seems to be getting better for the people of America. The hidden cost is to the pets – dogs, cats, horses – that folks can no longer afford to feed and there are not enough homes for all the critters that need one. They are truly the most innocent of victims. Next time somebody asks for money to rebuild a disaster like Haiti or a variety of other toxic waste dumps around the world, think about the plight of the four legged creatures that share our lives and bring us comfort and joy but are abandoned and have no hope and no voice right here at home.

Folks are appalled at such reasoning, but it comes down to this. My life is better for the presence of God’s four legged critters that share our world and our lives. Our lives are in no way improved by the existence of savages and the toxic waste of people too stupid not to produce a progeny they can not feed, educate or care for.

As for the person or persons that abandoned Sierra along with the fat ass cop that saw something funny in her plight, I could, without remorse, cuff them hand and foot and leave them in the bitter cold without food or water and see how they fared. Kneeling down beside them after a day or so in sub-freezing temperatures without food, water or hope, and seeing the desperate pleading in their eyes, my response would be somewhere in the vicinity of “how does it feel?”

Sierra

As I watch Sierra minister to her puppies with gentleness and determination and when I look into her soft and gentle eyes, I see only gratitude and the quiet resignation of those God made mute. They simply deal with whatever life throws their way with a dignity mankind can only hope to emulate.

God is both Creator and Judge. But in cases such as this, I would be more than happy to act as His Emissary of Justice.

PS: The first thing I do each morning when I am at the ranch is to go to the computer and go to the following link: http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=3

The simple click required sends food to animals in need. Animals just like Sierra.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

A Break in the Fence

Life on a ranch is seldom smooth. No matter what plans might be laid by man, livestock and weather ultimately determine what must be done and when. Adaptability is a fundamental trait for living in harmony in the rough and rugged country where cattle roam. The regularities of urban life and nine to five are unheard of in the land where cowboys still ride for short pay. It is the stuff of romance and myth that attracts so many, but where so few last unless they were born and bred to the life.

New Mexico’s big game hunting season lasts from September through the end of January. It is a time of economic infusion for the small rural communities scattered across the seven thousand square miles that encompass Catron County. With a permanent population of only some thirty-five hundred souls, it is still classified as a frontier county.

The hunting season is also a time of tension as conflicting and competing interests often give rise to confrontations in remote country where everybody is armed. The hunters from the large urban areas descend upon this usually quiet land to commit mayhem and murder upon the elk herds known for their trophy bulls. Many local inhabitants serve as outfitters and guides to the hunters. Some ranchers and landowners, along with the animal rights activists, do not welcome the camouflage clad interlopers albeit for differing reasons.

Winter elk on Ghost Rose range

The quiet ill will between the opposing groups is primarily the result of conflicting standards of respect for private property and the provincial and suspicious nature of a long and isolated rural tradition. Roadside trash, open gates, cut fences, wounded wildlife, the occasional wounded or killed domestic livestock, bullet ridden water tanks, windmills and road signs, two-tracks torn up and rutted, campsites trashed and fire rings littered with beer cans are the visible physical legacies left by the hunters. The trespass on private land and the territorial disputes between outfitters and guides that sometimes finds expression in violence further aggravates the situation.

The policies of state and federal game and land management agencies, often at odds with one another and with private land owners, also contributes to the unease that is present during hunting season. Vigilance and patrols by landowners are required to protect livestock and private infrastructure from trespass and criminal damage during the season of slaughter.

The early October afternoon sun probed the mesas and canyons of the crumpled and remote western New Mexico country that sits at the southern end of the brutal and inhospitable Malpais lava flows that roared off of Mount Taylor ninety miles north in a time long before man left his footprints in this place.
. The meadow grasses had turned a flaxen brown after the first hard freezes of mid-September and the dark green of the cedars stood in sharp relief under an achingly blue sky spattered with bits of torn clouds.

Stryker and Far Rider

Far Rider was conducting a security patrol heading up towards Hatfire Canyon when his big red horse, Stryker, suddenly threw up his head and stopped dead in his tracks. With ears pricked forward he stared with his full attention at a line of cedars two hundred yards past Crossman Well. Stryker’s pre-flight instinct was aroused and Far Rider could feel the muscles bunch and tense as the animal prepared to explode into defensive action. He spoke softly to the beast and gently squeezed the huge barrel of the horse’s ribs with his legs to assure and calm him. The six-foot fan atop the well creaked as it turned lazily in the intermittent southwest breeze. The cedars were downwind of the rider and it was doubtful Stryker had smelled anything. The visual acuity of horses is exceptional and is excited by the slightest motion even at considerable distance. Some old-timers say a horse can recognize another horse at a distance of a full mile. Stryker had seen something that the aging eyes of the rider had missed.

Crossman Well and Franklin Mesa

Men that ride wild country learn early on to implicitly trust and rely on the superior sensory faculties of their horses. In country where mountain lions, gray wolves and the occasional bear make their home, it is prudent to pay attention to the warnings given by animal companions. Horse and rider sat quietly, watching and waiting. After a few moments Far Rider’s brown eyes detected what had attracted Stryker’s attention. The fuzzy ears and wet snouts of a Black Angus cow and her calf peeked out of the trees. At the subtle shift of the rider’s weight, Stryker moved forward and they soon found seventeen head of the neighbor’s stock feeding amongst the trees at the northern end of Franklin Mesa.

Franklin Mesa anchors the southeast corner of the Ghost Rose Ranch. Its steep and rocky face begins just east of the fence separating the Ghost Rose from the Low Chamisa Ranch. Between the western foot of the mesa and the fence is a natural alley some one hundred yards wide leading to a Texas wire gate that opened into one of the Low Chamisa Ranch pastures.

Recon, Caesar and Far Rider

Putting the dogs, Recon and Caesar, on a “get behind” command Far Rider slowly eased up on the cattle. The eight pairs of mother cows and calves and one dry cow needed little urging to head back south towards their home grass. The presence of the dogs and the horseman made them nervous. They were more familiar with the modern methods of gather used by the neighbor that relied on ATVs. The calves were rambunctious and creating additional concerns for the nervous mothers making it important not to push them too fast.

Two problems confronted the rider as he trailed along fifty yards or so behind the jittery cattle. First, he had to get around the cattle, open the gate and then get back behind them in the narrow defile filled with closely spaced cedars, pinon pine and downed timber. He knew full well that if the cattle spooked and sold out for the north, he would be chasing them all the way to Sonoreno Draw.

Reminding the dogs to stay behind, Far Rider legged Stryker up into a ground eating extended trot that had him standing in the stirrups to avoid the jackhammer pounding of the loose-gaited motion of the big sorrel. Working their way around the cattle using the cedars as a blind, he pulled up, dismounted and threw back the wire gate. The cattle had halted and were milling about in the trees suspiciously eyeing the rider, horse and dogs. Remounting, the rider and his four footed crew moved quickly back behind the small herd and they trotted through the gate with the mamas bawling anxiously for their calves. The dust of their passing reflected the slanting rays of the sun now low in the west and the pungent odor of cattle hung in the clean, clear air.

After closing the gate Far Rider began to consider the second problem created by the presence of the cattle on Ghost Rose range. The break in the fence where the cattle were slipping through needed to be located and repaired or the scenario would be repeated. The fence went straight up the slope to the east of the gate. It was too steep to take a horse up and there were no cattle tracks in the hard packed soil. The fence looked like it could stand a bit of tightening but did not appear broken. He rode back north along the fence and checked for trampled or broken wire where the brutes might have come through. The fence was intact. An obvious break would have been a relief to find. The absence of a break meant that the fence up on top of Franklin Mesa would have to be checked.

The afternoon was getting on making it too late to make the thirty-minute ride around the mesa and up Franklin Canyon to reach the fence. Far Rider turned Stryker’s nose for home and released the dogs. They promptly tore off exploring and marking every bush, tree and rock in sight.

Far Rider placed a phone call that evening and informed his neighbor of the afternoon’s events. The neighbor was appreciative of the help saying he was getting ready to ship and had noted that he was short on his head count and was wondering where the missing cattle had gotten off to. The neighbor asked if Far Rider would take a ride up on top and look around for broken fence. One of the attributes of ranch country all over the west is that there is not a lot of socializing, but whenever a neighbor needs help, whether it is equipment or labor, no questions are asked or payment expected. Help is immediately given. Far Rider replied that he would head up there the next day.

Gunsmoke Mesa on the left, Franklin Mesa on the right.

After he hung up the phone, he reflected upon how fortunate he was to have Norm as his neighbor. Norm was, as Far Rider would often say, “a neighbor to die for.” Not everyone was nearly as lucky in whom they shared their fence lines with.

The following afternoon Far Rider saddled up Lancer, buckled on his chaps and forty-four, called up the dogs and headed east up Crossman Draw to the fork in the canyon near the ruins of an old settler’s cabin. Turning south along an elk trail they began the climb up Franklin Canyon to a bench near the top of the mesa where the air was turning chilly at the eight thousand feet of elevation. Reaching the fence line on the bench he reined up letting Lancer catch his breath after the hard climb. While the horse recovered, he surveyed the fence and the ground looking for tracks that might help point him in the right direction. He wanted to locate and repair the break before the onset of winter snows that could come at any time. No tracks pointed east toward Franklin gate and the dim trail down into Dewey Canyon. Turning west up the lava strewn slope towards the top of the mesa where the ground was covered with volcanic rock and no place to set a foot or a hoof down on even ground, he rode carefully mindful of how tough it was on his horse.

After travelling some distance he turned around and looked back the way they had come. It looked awful and he knew the ground ahead was going to get worse. “Smart thing to do would be to just turn around and head home” he muttered to his trail companions who were all patiently watching him with an “I hope to hell we are not going up there” look. But, it had to be done. It was time to tighten cinches and press on.

He stepped off Lancer and for the next hour and a half, leading his horse, they struggled and stumbled up and over the mesa looking for a break in the fence. In several places broken wires were present on the old rusted fence that had been built by Dineh laborers in the 1930s but there were no holes big enough for seventeen head of cattle to get through. Finally, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen foretelling that sundown was not far off they came across a majestic old silver snag that had finally succumbed to the trials of wind and weather. The huge trunk and broken limbs lay across the fence crushing the four strands of wire beneath its final act of defiance. Broken posts on either side of the fatally wounded giant defined the avenues through which passed the tracks of elk, cows and calves, and a myriad of the lesser critters of the high desert. That cattle would clamber all the way up there, bypassing perfectly good graze in the process was a testament to the curiosity and lure of travel to see new country that humans and animals seem to share.

The damaged fence would require chain saws and serious work to repair. There was nothing to be done about it just then and it was unlikely there would be any further cattle incursions until the following spring. He noted the location and then continued on following the elk and cattle tracks as they meandered northwards. Somewhere in the rocks he lost the tracks but it no longer mattered as he needed to think about getting down off the mesa.

The man and animals emerged from the trees on the western edge of the mesa. Unfolded before them was nearly a hundred miles of valleys and mountain ranges spreading into the setting sun. The only structures visible in the broad panorama were the Ghost Rose headquarters two miles as an eagle flies to the northwest and the Low Chamisa Ranch a mile or more down on the valley floor to the southwest.

With no safe way down the west side of the mesa where the steep slope and uneven footing would spell disaster for horse and rider if there were a fall, Far Rider turned north paralleling the rim of the mesa. The arduous hike leading his horse through the rocks over the mesa had blistered his feet and he could feel the bloody dampness of raw skin chafing against the leather inside his boots. He knew he was going to have sore feet for a few days.

The party continued its traverse of the rocky western slope for a mile until they arrived at a spot where it was now or never if they were going to get off the plateau before dark. Grasping the mecate in a gloved hand, Far Rider carefully began angling down the slope ever mindful that a misstep could result in a blown knee, twisted ankle or broken bones. The china-like clink unique to flagstone and the crunch of lava rock beneath boots and steel shod hooves marked their erratic, slip-slide passage. Small plumes of dust arose as the horse and man skidded down the slope. After many switchbacks and turn backs due to fallen trees and impassable piles of rock and lava that included several bone jarring falls as rocks rolled out from under him on the rough slope they finally arrived on the valley floor.

Meadow at the western foot of Franklin Mesa

He was thankful for the well-trained and gentle horse that had not stepped on or run over him when he had fallen in the rocks. His shirt was sweat soaked and the cooling evening air made him shiver as he snapped his oilskin vest closed, checked his horse for welfare, tightened his cinch, and gratefully swung back into the saddle. His damaged knees protested, a bruised hip throbbed, and his feet felt like they were on fire but there was no place else he would have rather been.

Two miles at an easy jog quickly brought then back to headquarters. In the windows of the old historic ranch house, lamplight glowed a soft welcome in the deepening twilight and smoke drifted from the chimney as they rode in. The rest of the horses were at the corral gates waiting to come in for the night and nickered a greeting to Lancer.

Far Rider unsaddled and curried Lancer’s damp back and chest. Giving Lancer a handful of sweet feed as reward for his loyal service, he enjoyed the feel of the velvet lips as they gently scooped the grain out of his hand. He turned all the horses into the corrals where their evening grain and sweet smelling alfalfa hay waited for them in their feed bunks. As he watched the horses contentedly eating, he thought that it had been a great ride even with the hike over stony ground to save his horse’s feet.

After feeding the dogs, he pulled off his boots and fixed himself a good stiff drink before settling into his favorite battered old chair. He sipped his drink enjoying the warmth of the blended Canadian whiskey. Soaking his bloodied feet in Epsom salts and listening to the fire as it crackled on the grate, sleep quietly stole upon him. The dogs tiredly ate their supper and were already unconscious on their beds as he roused himself and headed for his own bedroll.

A chill autumn wind crept softly through the eaves beneath the old tin roof of the ranch house. Memories of other winds, the brilliant reflection of sun on high country grass, the serenity of wild, open places, the smell of horses and leather, and the soft sound of hoof beats on dim trails passing beneath heaven in the beauty of God’s creation filled the canopy of sleep in the twilight of dreams.

Far Rider

See to your weapons and stand to your horses

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