#32 The Naked Truth...

Sometimes the trails held unexpected surprises.

Summer in the desert is hot and daytime temperatures can reach 110 degrees or more. Life here adjusts, everything trying to escape the searing daytime heat.

Desert air is wrung dry of moisture with humidity hovering around 7%, giving rise to the tourism board's "but it's a dry heat!" slogan. To dodge the worst of the heat animals become nocturnal and people shift outdoor activities to early morning or late afternoons.

Riding was no different. Trail rides now left at the crack of dawn or late afternoon to catch the sunset.

On one such morning I escorted a special ride. A group of retired lady school teachers wanted to really see the desert from a different perspective. They got more than they bargained for.

We mounted up and headed out with the morning sun just cresting the Catalina mountains to the east. It was cool and the air filled with bird song and the happy chatter of a dozen ladies. The trail wound through native vegetation and each unique cactus was pointed out to the eagerly attentive riders. Weaving between two-story Saguaro cacti, the trail began to climb.

Soon we were riding along foothill ridges heading for loftier mountain heights above. I was going to a special overview, a place that was higher in the Tucson Mountains, which offered a spectacular view of the Santa Cruz valley far below. This overview was really the remains of an old mine site. An area cleared and leveled in pioneer times in a search for gold. Although a brown scar on the green mountainside, it offered a breathtaking view, but it wasn't the only view. 

I led the group off the narrow twisting trail and onto an old roadway which led upwards to the mine. It was a steep road which curved as it climbed. Rounding a blind bend, we met an unusual surprise.

The isolated mine was deep into the mountains. The only road traffic was from nature. Sometimes I saw a rattlesnake, sometimes a coyote or two but today we encountered a once in a lifetime meeting.

Nakedus jogus was before us.

As we rounded the bend we encountered a jogger. A lone man who was lost in the joy of running, who thought himself completely alone. A man with head phones and unable to hear our approach. A man wearing running shoes and... nothing more.

Horses are very suspicious of anything new or unusual. It is a survival strategy to keep from being eaten. The jogger was suspicious, new and unusual. As herd animals they acted as of one mind. They all spooked.

A dozen horses found a dozen ways to bolt.

I never knew what became of the jogger. He just disappeared from my view. My attention was focused on the horses with their precious novices aboard. By the time I collected my group again, he was gone.

We continued once more to the overview amidst a twitter of excited talk. The unusual wildlife had the ladies all agog. The view was incredible as expected with nary a jogger in sight. He was gone from view but forever etched into the mind.

Our return was uneventful. No cactus or coyote could now compare to the natural vistas we had just seen. 

The ladies created a memory that day, to savor in the years to come, and the ride was the highlight of their trip.This glimpse of our desert wonders was one to never forget.

#31 Communication....

Women will never understand.

The bond between a man and a machine. My Cowboy was one of those men who loved machines, or more particularly two machines, his old pickup truck and his tractor. The were the great loves of his life and sadly... not me.

He fussed over both with a love and attention seldom shown anywhere else. Both were taken apart and those parts carefully cleaned and then replaced. Sometimes he cursed both machines, as if the words he used would change them. Sometimes he cooed to them using soft and loving words.  It was in essence a marriage, that of a man and a machine. A relationship which I envied.

One summer afternoon, My Cowboy's love was tested.

It was early July and 107 degrees in the shade. The rains had yet to come and the very air was heavy with dust. My Cowboy, oblivious to the heat, decided to drag corrals. Horses were removed and he attached a dragging device behind the tractor. A three foot metal triangle made of bars with five inch spikes beneath was to be dragged behind the tractor to churn up the corral earth. 

The churned earth exposed wet spots to dry and broke apart clumps of manure exposing any fly larvae for hungry birds to eat. My Cowboy had on his baseball cap, so old that the team it represented was undecipherable, working only in jean cut-offs and boots. Sweat poured from My Cowboy's exposed shirtless back, the sun deepening his already darkly tanned skin.

Dust hung suspended, the air too hot to let it rise.

Back and forth he went, surrounded by dust, never seeming to escape it. Back and forth he went for almost an hour.

Finally he stopped the tractor in the middle of the corral and turned it's engine off to cool. He walked to a nearby tree where a cool jug of water waited. He gulped a long mouthful and then poured some over his head. Leaning against the tree, he rested for a moment.

Even on the still air he smelled it. The heavy acrid scent of something burning.

He turned to look back at the corral and discovered a fire. The ground beneath the super heated tractor caught fire and was smoking furiously.

Shouting as he ran, he called for help but the only help available was from a new hire. From Mexico, the man was with us to learn English and we in turn would learn Spanish from him.

My Cowboy shouted orders in his best Spanish and ran to move his beloved tractor from danger.

The hired hand hesitated and My Cowboy shouted angrily at him.

The fire was capable of great damage. The corral earth was a mix of compressed hay bits and manure creating a peat, and... was combustible. The fire could easily go underground. Once there it could travel hundreds of feet or even miles, burning the roots of trees and then popping above ground again. It was a dangerous beast that needed stopping.

Still the hired man hesitated and again he was reprimanded sharply. Finally he threw the two buckets of water he was carrying.

He threw them on the tractor.

My Cowboys limited Spanish had told him to pour water only on the tractor.

A few minutes later the fire was put out correctly and no real harm was done. The tractor was wet but fine. All was well. The only casualty of the day it seemed, was the art... of communication.

#30 An Apple A Day...

It is said that apples are good for your health.

During those early days with the stable, I had many horses in my life. Each had very individual and sometimes comical characters. One such was Apple.

She was the first horse I purchased. A  modest sized, around 15 hands, aged grey mare. White from head to toe with big brown eyes.

Apple had a thick, thick neck and stocky legs. She had mane enough for two horses and an unruly one at that. She made the expression "bad hair day" come to life. To deal with this disorderly tangle, I roached her mane, giving it a buzz cut shave because of its un-manageability. Apple was the only horse in my many years of being with horses, where I cut her mane. I like horses to be as they were meant to be but made the exception in this case.

Her best feature was her trot. This jarring two-step gait can make a rider bounce but Apple's trot, was smooth and comfortable. She was a perfect lesson horse because of this and combined with a sweet gentle nature she was fun to ride.

But Apple was a little different on the trails.

She always knew if the one mounted on her, could or couldn't ride. If you were a could... there was never a problem. If you were a couldn't... she had your number.

Apple liked to eat and was fond of tender grasses in spring or the green bark of a Palo Verde tree the rest of the time. In ways only an equine would understand, she knew instantly when a rider would allow her these treats. Once a trail ride commenced, she'd test the water so to speak and when that rider didn't stop her, she'd begin to nibble from the smorgasbord of tasty trail treats available.

Often the best snacking was off the trail and under a tree. Only here could she find the tastiest treats. She'd make a beeline for these treats, most times beneath tree limbs. Branches which allowed her and sadly, not her rider. It was not that the horse didn't know how much room there was. Apple knew exactly what SHE needed... the rider... had to fend for themselves.

One afternoon I escorted a private ride, myself and one other, a lone college student and Apple was to be her mount. I was told the lady was a novice and this would be a challenging ride. When the lady arrived, it proved more challenging than I imagined.

The young woman was blind.

She was a woman who loved horses passionately and who'd lost her sight a few years ago. A woman who loved the desert and out of doors and who wanted to ride, and ride we did.

We started down the trail and headed for the mountain foothills. The lady wanted to go deep into the desert, to experience nature once more. I'd slipped a lead rope on Apple prepared for her tricks, but discovered I didn't need one. Apple took her special responsibility very seriously.

The grey mare followed along without any problem. She kept walking forward, forgoing her favorite nibbles. I watched her closely and discovered something special. Every low hanging branch was known to Apple and today, she avoided them all. She walked sideways away from any that hung over the trail. The horse placed each foot carefully, never stumbling and eased herself up and down hills.

Apple knew that this rider was precious cargo.

The ride was a great success. My blind trail companion had the time of her life and came back over and over again. Apple always was the mount of choice and always protected this vulnerable girl. The young woman finished school and went on to become an assistant district attorney. A woman for whom an Apple truly did bring good health.

 Apple at the rodeo parade.

#29 When Green Is Gold...

I lived with horses in the East and in Europe but living with them in the desert took adjusting. Here I learned about a new kind of gold. It is green.

Horses are grass eating animals. In my former world, lush, green pastures were everywhere. In this new world this wasn't so.

Native desert plants evolved ways to keep from being eaten. Here they have sharp spines and needles or a bitter taste to keep grazers at bay. Only in the rainy season did grass appear and then only for a brief time. Never enough for livestock.

Early pioneers began seeding the desert with imported grasses. Species which once established, wrecked havoc on the environment. One such is Buffel grass which has become a major environmental problem. Another import... Tumbleweed, (Russian Thistle) the iconic symbol of the American west is a transplant from Europe.

To feed livestock, people began to grow hay.

In other areas, seasons dictate summer hay only but in Arizona it is a year round cash crop. Huge hay fields  were put into production. Large tracts of desert around Yuma and Phoenix were converted to hay fields. Farmers elsewhere were lucky to get two to three cuttings (harvests) a year, in Arizona they often had twelve. The difference... climate.

Once cut, the hay is left to cure by using natures solar dehydrator the sun, a commodity Arizona is blessed with. So sunny and so dry is the air cut hay is baled the same day. In the East, humidity and clouds can slow the same process to a week or more and a sudden summer rain can ruin an entire cut crop. Rushing the process results in hay which doesn't cure properly allowing the green grasses to ferment and making it combustible.

With a summer humidity as low as 7% the problem in Arizona is not under curing but over curing. Hay is baled within a few hours of cutting. Left to cure too long, the hay becomes too brittle and will disintegrate. Timing is an art.

The traditional hay grasses don't do well in the Arizona dryness and intense summer heat. Grasses which grow well in cooler states, do poorly here. Hay growers resorted to growing a plant which took the hay market by storm. That plant, Alfalfa.

Alfalfa is a fast growing plant rich in nutrients and protein, and... like candy, something livestock love. It quickly became the plant of choice adapting to a desert lifestyle. With irrigation, chemical fertilizers and abundant sunshine, hay farmers were in their glory.

Grass fields are rare and usually Bermuda grass. A heat tolerant but less nutritious and much slower growing grass.

Traditional grass hays, Timothy or Clover are not grown here at all. Unable to adjust to the climate they must be shipped into the state. There is also a hefty state tax on imported hay if not for personal use.

So state grown Alfalfa took control of the marketplace. Ease of production, a fast growth cycle with multiple harvests and a sweet taste made Alfalfa the equivalent of an equine's fast food feast. 

Our little ranch used about a semi truckload of hay every month, roughly 25 tons a load. In those days the cost was about $4 to $5 per bale. The hay was stacked on the trailer bed of the semi and a funny little tractor-like machine, which always came along, scooped it up and lifted each stack off. The machine, nick named "the Squeeze", had two arms similar to a forklift which both caught the sides and bottom of the five ton stacks.

Another difference from my previous horse days was evident here. In my past, bales were woman friendly, now they were not. Bales, which previously were fifty pounds, now weighed 125 pounds.

I always hated the new hay days. Someone had to climb to the top of the stack to toss down the first bales. Usually it was me

Climbing a haystack was an art. Using hay hooks, it was similar to rock wall climbing. Using the hooks to lift your body up and then finding spaces between bales in which to tuck your feet.

Each haystack was about 15 feet high and once on top, bales needed to be dropped down to the ground. 

I always loved the vistas from this high point but hated the height. Going up was one thing, but you always had to come down. I was always concerned with falling. To knock down hay, I usually braced my legs against the first bale and while holding on to another, pushed it off. Hanging on tightly to not fall off.

Breaking open a haystack, released an incredible fragrance. To a cowgirl, the scent of fresh hay is intoxicating. It is a horse woman's most delightful fragrance. I kicked down the first bale and then a second. Inhaling as I did, it was then I uncovered a surprise.

Beneath the second bale of hay was another bale and sticking out from it was a snake.

A harmless Black Racer had been caught up by the baler and was half in the bale and half out. How it survived the trip through the baling machine and then the stacking was a miracle. But here is was, very much alive and trying desperately to release itself.

I grabbed wire cutters and snipped the bales bindings. Each hay bale is a collection of smaller sections often called "flakes" or "leaves". These sprung apart releasing the snake. It fell to the ground and sped away. 

A high protein, high energy feed, Alfalfa hay has some drawbacks. It is grown intensively with the use of fertilizers, some of which are absorbed by the Alfalfa. Combined with the mineral content of Arizona water it can create "stones" in a horses gut. Stones which can, and often do, kill the horse.

Times change and with it Arizona. Thousands have moved over the years, to start a life in the sun belt. Thousands of homes have sprung up and with that growth there is a cost.

Hay fields are now housing developments.

Those that still exist now charge a premium for their product. Now bales of hay are from $15 per bale. For a cowgirl, all that hay isn't just hay anymore. Now those green bales are truly gold.

#28 It's All In A Name...

I started a riding school.

The arena now finished, I was excited about expanding our business and I wanted to teach riding. It was late spring and the beginning of the slow season for us. After some negotiation I contracted with a prominent private school to provide riding lessons for students. The school would provide the students and I the teaching service. It was a win win.

Summer was approaching and the school shifted to their summer mode. I would have approximately fifty students twice a week and they would arrive early each morning. Their ages would be between 8 and 10 years and would be both boys and girls.

The arrangement couldn't be more perfect.

I had many suitable horses to use but felt that size might be intimidating to smaller novice children. I decided to find ponies.

As luck would have it a "pony ring" was up for sale. These are basically a modified version of a hot walker in which the ponies were tethered and walked around a ring. The old gentleman who owned it had passed away and his family were disposing of the ponies.

We quickly made an offer, only to discover it was a total package. It was all or nothing. Ponies were scare and we needed them so we purchased the entire thing. We never used the "ring" as such more than a few times but it was another mechanical toy for My Cowboy.

The ring came with five Welsh Ponies, 13 to 14 hands and two Shetlands. Perfect sizes and with perfect temperaments.

I rode each of the ponies... testing each for suitability. All passed muster and became part of the riding school. None of the ponies came with names and I decided to let my students correct that problem. The kids had fun coming up with the perfect name for each of the small equines.

Thus began what was to be a summer of fun with both riding lessons and lectures, classroom style, too. I discovered a mix of students from shy little girls to class clowns and not a few bullies and sought to create a program for each.

One such young man was both clown and a bit of a bully. He did not have a bad heart but he was bigger and more aggressive than the others and sometimes pushed his weight around. It took our tiniest pony to set him straight.

One morning, he was more rambunctious than usual, pushing, shoving and teasing the others mercilessly. On a whim I assigned him a Shetland pony to ride.

The ponies all bore names supplied by the kids and this pony was called Spot. She was a sweet little mare, all white with several brown spots. My young man was a little over-sized for her and with his legs dangling, he rode around the arena.

He was set to perform a series of tasks under my direction. Walk, trot, turn, stop, etc. Simple basic things that he'd done many times before. He struggled a bit with this pint sized mount and when she didn't immediately respond, he struck her.

Spot promptly bucked him off.

"You little FART!!!!" he screamed at her fleeing form as he picked himself up from the dirt.

The others all laughed and cheered. Their bully had been put in his place. I rushed to check him out but the soft sand kept him from injury. I discovered a big grin on his face. He knew he'd been bested too!

Spot had become a star in my little school but branded as well. For her name changed that day... sweet little Spot became "Lil Fart" forever, none of the children would call her by any other name.

Summer's end came quickly and with it the end of the school. The children wanted to put on a display for their families and we planned a morning of fun. The day arrived and we began with a series of games for the kids. It all ended with a musical ride in which every child participated. Some were mounted, some walked leading the smallest children who were mounted. We had practiced the maneuver many times and today we were perfect. 

As I watched the kids perform I spied Lil Fart with my young man riding. He'd finally found his place in the group and pony to fill his heart. The day ended in a sea of smiling faces. Happy students and happier parents all left to go home.

For the equines and me, it was back to our old routines. For Lil Fart... she once more had a pretty name. 

#27 Life's Comedies...

Life can be a comedy.

As our business grew and more and more people kept horses with us, we needed a more controlled environment for them to ride. Most were novices and an arena seemed the way to go. It gave everyone the opportunity to master the basics before riding into the desert wilds.

It would also allow me to start a riding school.

It should have been a simple affair. Clearing brush, grading and then putting up fencing. It should have been simple but as it turned out, it was not.

We had at that time a wrangler who dressed the part beautifully but who was not known for his smarts. He and My Cowboy began the task of creating our arena. The clearing and grading were easily done with a tractor but the fencing became an exercise in both patience and the comedic arts.

A mechanical post hole digger was rented which was fastened to the back of a tractor. My Cowboy had a childish delight in all things mechanical and was delighted with this toy. Tape measure in hand, the two men began the task of setting posts. 

The first hole was dug and an upright post placed in it. They set the post, filling around it, tampering the ground firmly and then they moved on. The wrangler measured the distance needed between the first pole and the second. My Cowboy did the digging. Operating the tractor placed a childlike look of glee upon his face. Once a hole was dug, a pole was placed in it and then the whole process was repeated.

The twosome worked all afternoon and most of the next day. Carefully digging and placing the poles which would hold the arena fencing. Finished they began the task of adding the side and top rails.

Our little ranch was a rustic place, a place which showcased our western heritage. The arena was designed to match and was to be completely made from wood. All the needed pieces had been pre-ordered and the round wooden poles had been cut to our specifications and were stacked awaiting installation.

My Cowboy and the wrangler took the first capping log and tried to attach it to the poles. It didn't fit... it was almost a foot too short. They scratched their heads and went on to the second. Same thing. It was almost a foot short.

Checking the rest of the poles they discovered that each was off by the same amount. Since it was impossible to lengthen the capping poles, it was necessary to reset the upright posts. Blaming each other for the failure, they spent the rest of the day ripping out the just placed, upright posts.

Next morning they began again. Measuring, digging and placing new upright poles. It took another day and a half to complete.Then capping began once more and once more... it didn't fit. This time it was off by about 6 inches.

Furious and frustrated, curse words filled the air. Again the upright posts were ripped out.

Once more they started over. But the job became considerably harder.

Now the job of digging was by done by hand. The leased tractor with the post hole digger's rental time had expired and couldn't be renewed. Now each hole was painstakingly dug by hand.

I don't know if they doubled checked their work but each assured the other that this time everything was right. A few days later they finally finished up and the job of capping began once again.

It was off once more.

The upright posts were now much too close. The capping logs which had been designed to fit from the middle of each upright post to the middle of the next, were now extending well beyond.

My Cowboy lost all patience. Actually it amazed me that he lasted so long.

He took out his chain saw and proceed to cut each capping log to fit creating a mound of foot to foot  long pieces. He and the wrangler finally finished the capping of the arena fence but refused to go one pole further.

Embarrassment, frustration or exhaustion, the exact reason why he quit I'll never know. This comedy of errors was a testament to something but I was smart enough not to point that out. 

As it was, the arena was not usable and in fact, it was dangerous. The open space beneath the capping logs could allow a horse underneath but not the rider. It became a disaster waiting to happen.

My Cowboy did finally finish the project but not the way it was planned. The side panels changed from wood to thick wire cable, something which didn't need precise measuring to install. The uneven cutoff pieces eventually became a garden planter and a sometimes bed for the dogs.

The arena, in all it's misshapen glory, became the lifeblood of our ranch and the foundation of many fondly told stories as well. Depending upon who told them, the stories were often dark dramas or... comedic plays.

 

The Arena on a stormy day

#26 Stormy Days...

He came into my life in the usual ranch way, My Cowboy made a deal. 

Making deals were the spice of life for My Cowboy, he didn't really care what they were... just that he made them. It was the art of the "haggle", the art of negotiating, of besting his opponents in this mind game. It was a mock battle to be won and to the victor went the spoils.

The object of this deal stood tied to an old horse trailer. He was actually only part of the deal and had been thrown in at the last minute to sweeten the pot. Now he stood head hung low, with the joy of living sadly gone, quietly awaiting his fate.

"Hello there old man," I softly said to him.

His head jerked up and he turned liquid brown eyes upon me.

I felt the vibrant energy of him and that energy flew across the corral to me. I felt the electric jolt of it and in that instant I fell in love. I fell in love with a horse and he with me.

He was an older fellow, once a proud breeding stallion who, past his prime, was gelded and sold. He was an Appaloosa, the proud bred of the Nez Pierce Indians of the northwest. His registered name was Navajo Storm.

He stood about 15 hands and was the color of fresh brewed espresso. A splattering of white foamed his rump and a splash ran along his shoulder. Strong striped hooves supported a confirmationally well structured body but it was his ears that endeared me. Tiny by horse standards, these perfectly formed ears now focused on me.

When I first walked over to the despondent animal, he seemed an old warrior. Sway backed and slack jawed, I thought him at the end of his days. After our eyes met he changed as if by magic. His chest filled, his back straightened and a proud head was held aloft. It is amazing what love can do.

He became mine to ride and it took all my skills to do so. Beneath my body he was a powerhouse of strength and raw masculinity. I had to sit deep in the saddle and ride with all the finesse I could muster. He would never hurt me but he always challenged me to be my best. Stormer, as I called him, was both friend, lover and master instructor.

But as much as he loved me... he hated My Cowboy.

In small ways he showed his contempt and everyone knew that this horse couldn't stand... that cowboy.

My Cowboy would sometimes take care of the shoeing needs of our horses. Shoeing Stormer was always a struggle for My Cowboy as Stormer made it as difficult as possible. Smart enough to create no overt shows of aggression and draw punishment, he none the less made his feelings clear.

When My Cowboy lifted one of Stormers feet, Stormer would shift all his weight onto that foot and thus putting his full body weight onto the back of My Cowboy. It was a difficult and unpleasant experience for the one shoeing and painful too. Adding insult to injury, Stormer had another trick in store. He waited until My Cowboy was bent double, working on a hind foot, then he passed manure. Directly onto My Cowboy's head.

Stormer had a bagful of tricks which he saved only for My Cowboy but these tricks were his undoing.

My Cowboy had evolved a new ritual. When he discovered a horse had become my favorite, that I had developed a love for the animal, he sold it. One afternoon, I returned from a trail ride to discover my precious Stormer gone forever.

I never knew where he went or what happened to him and maybe it was better not to know.

Over the years I found other horses to love but once it was known, they all left too. Slow to hide my emotions but hide them I eventually did, learning to treat all the horses indifferently. I never knew if it was a form of jealousy or a way of control but my complex relationship with My Cowboy was constantly tested.

To be truthful I loved every horse that came my way, but some... well some were extra special. The most special of all was my old Appaloosa, my Stormer. With him it was a love affair.

#25 Two Legs To Four...

I learned to live with four legs.

The spring had been rainy, one of those El Nino years which brought intensive winter rains. The last rain had been a week ago and the world of mud in which we lived was slowly turning back to the dry, dusty landscape of norm. It was late spring and our busy season was over, it was time to rest.

A few of our older horses were sent to stay on a few acres we owned. Here they could rest until needed again. Twice a day someone checked on them, feeding as well as watering. Today was my turn.

It was the evening check and I drove our ancient pickup to feed them. Ten old horses stood at the fence waiting. The welcoming nickers greeted me as I stepped from the truck.

The "boys" as I called them were all aged geldings and used mostly for small children. Gentle, sweet natured animals who were safe for beginners and kids alike. They were lined up now and waiting for me. Twice a day we gave them extra feed and there is nothing more satisfying to a horse person than the sound of horses contentedly munching on feed.

I had finished feeding and turned to filling water tanks. I'd cleaned each tank and hose in hand I went from tank to tank filling each to the brim.

I turned to fill the last tank when it happened.

I fell.

Stepping into a dried tire rut, I fell.

I heard it first. A loud pop as I fell sideways, my foot in the rut and my body to the left. A loud pop that I will never forget.

For a moment in time I seemed suspended. I thought about what happened and the significance of the sound. For a moment I felt nothing and then... 

The pain was overwhelming. I lay gasping on the ground, running hose in hand. The pain was so intense it made me want to gasp, to vomit... to scream.

Yet I did none of these things. 

I could barely move but so ingrained in my spirit was taking care of the horses that I crawled on my stomach to finish my chores. Then I crawled to the water spigot and shut it off. To me the water and the act of caring for livestock was greater than my own well being.

Spent, I laid on the dried mud for some time. I could do no more. I waited.

Eventually help arrived in the form of a cowboy staff member who came to look for me. He lifted me up and took me home. There My Cowboy took control.

I was helped to the couch, hopping on one leg... I really did think my leg was broken but never having broken a major bone before, I didn't know for sure. (I had broken a toe when a horse reared and landed on it but pain is relative.) My Cowboy grabbed my injured foot and proceeded to yank off my boot.

I almost fainted with the pain.

Boot off he looked at my leg and shrugged. 

"Suck it up," he said as he handed me a beer ...and then some Tylenol.

So suck it up I did. But I couldn't walk on that foot, my ankle would not support me. I used a cane but could not perform many of my stable duties. In desperation I began to use horses for my legs.

I switched from actively working in the stable to actively riding for the stable. I used a mounting block to get on and the same block to get off but I began to put many hours in the saddle. I changed horses throughout the day but I began to ride for ten to twelve hours in marathon riding days.

The months past but my leg didn't heal quickly. I could not wear boots or footwear that went over my ankle and began riding in sneakers. Not knowing that I would never again be able to wear boots or even heels. I fell often and often hard. Our doctor friend, the one who had advised me in the past, said he couldn't stand to watch me hobble about anymore and took me to the hospital. After xrays I discovered that I'd torn all the ligaments and a tendon in my ankle, injuries which never completely healed.

There was really nothing that could be done but I followed their advice and eventually I did walk correctly again. Yet... I missed those extra hours on horseback. It was not a punishment to be riding but a joyous blessing and something deep within my heart was filled with peace and happiness. I was meant to be here and for a cowgirl in training, there was no better place to be.

#24 A little bean started it all...

Our good fortune was linked to a bean.

The year following the big storm was devoted to rebuilding our business and we found the motherlode in one organization. The Worldwide Church of God was based in Tucson where the leader at that time lived. This group inspired us to reach for the heavens.

Every autumn the group held a convention in Tucson. Thousands of followers would come to the desert to worship and have fellowship with others in their religion. The church members would bring family and while here, they sought out family oriented activities. We fit the bill.

We were swamped. All day, every horse for every hour was booked and at night we offered food. Called "Cookouts" this outdoor food service became one of our most profitable ventures.

The convention lasted ten days... and for each of them we had approximately 20 to100 people a night for dinner. Some of these folks enjoyed horse drawn hayrides and some rode horseback for sunset rides but all ended up at our cookout site for dinner.

The experience of the breakfast ride led us into food service. We purchased a trailer and My Cowboy converted it into a wonderful, transportable commercial kitchen. It contained a refrigerator, commercial stove, dish washing sinks, storage and lots of shelving. It was ideal.

Trial and error had honed my food presentation, teaching me to keep it simple but good. We served the best steak, pre ordered and delivered the day of the cookout, 8 ounce rib eyes marinated on site with special herb blends and olive oil. Crusty garlic bread warm from the fire, crispy salad greens and beans completed the menu. Thick chocolate slabs of brownies were the finishing touch.

We created a site to provide the ambiance of a western adventure. It was a place with a spectacular view of the mountains at sunset and where our guests would be entertained as the mountains changed from pink to deep purple. It was a desert setting with tall saguaro's all around. We had a bonfire pit surrounded by hay bales to sit upon, tables covered in red checkered table clothes with red lanterns. The cooking grills were to one side with a serving table fronting it. It was the perfect western setting for visitors to finish a wonderful day in Tucson. The only missing ingredient was the singing cowboy and we had those too.

Food couldn't be reused after a cookout and it seemed a shame to throw good food out so we, and our staff, ate the left overs.  The most often remaining food were beans... the traditional ranch style beans served were a local tradition but I really hated them. I decided that if I had to eat all those left over beans then I wanted a bean that I liked.

Cookout Campfire Beans were born.

I took the traditional pinto bean and made it my own. I added a tomato sauce, cumin, garlic, corriander, onion, mustard and more. Then I added dark molasses and green chillies. Slow cooked on the grill the beans were a savory delight, a blend of east and west.

The first night I served the beans I served twenty people but made enough for 40. I was a little nervous and made more than I needed looking forward to the left overs.

That night there weren't any.

My beans were a hit. From that night forward they became the star of our cookout show. Word of our beans spread and from then on we planned for extra at each serving and our guests literally ate it all up. I began to receive requests in the mail for my recipe.

That first week with the Church of God grew to a many year commitment. Reservations were made a year and even two years in advance. This groups contentment with our services was shared and we expanded to more and more convention groups.

A little bean started it all, creating a wonderful western experience for our guests and by so doing, giving our little business one too!

#23 Movies and Reality...

We expanded.

Our stable thrived and we began to board (care for) other people's horses. We built covered stalls and added an arena and I began learning lessons in diplomacy.

Caring for horses was never a problem but caring for their owners was a different story. As we added more and more stalls and more and more boarders, we also added more and more problems.

The people involved were all friendly and charming in their own ways but each had unique needs. Some were demanding of attention and some were novices who needed attentive watching to protect them. Some had egos to be placated and some were charming idiots.

One such boarder was a young man of 30 something. A postal employee who wanted time away from the rat trap of life (and the pressures of the postal service) and used his horse for that purpose. He'd ridden a few times without falling off and therefore was an expert.

He rode his sorrel colored horse out into the mountains a few miles away from our little ranch. In a narrow canyon he dismounted. Leaving his horse, untethered in the middle of the wash, as he climbed the steep canyons' sides. He took with him a hunting rifle and at the top he stopped. Then he began firing.

The sound echoed off the canyon walls, terrifying the horse and as horses do when frightened, it ran away.

His reasons for firing the gun were his own as there was no hunting in a national park. His reasons for expecting the horse to remain were also known only to him. This man learned that in the real world, horses behave as horses always do and not the way of their movie counterparts.

Another of our boarders was a retired military man. He purchased a sweet buckskin colored Appaloosa mare from us. A gentle and patient horse and a good beginner horse for this man. They rode together often, sometimes on trails in the mountains or the desert flat lands and sometimes in the encroaching city areas as well. He was a splendid figure in his black cowboy outfit and matching saddle decked with silver.

One afternoon he was riding in one such city area when he developed a leg cramp. Dismounting he tried walking but could not.

He decided to sent the horse for help.

He untacked the mare and turned her loose, slapping her rump.

"Get help," he admonished as she sped away, remembering those same words as Roy sent Trigger to save the day.

But help... did not return. He waited for hours but his rescuers never appeared. By then his cramp had gone away and he began the long walk home.

Unable to carry his heavy saddle he left it by the roadway, planning to return with his car. The walk home took time and it grew dark before he finally returned. Here he found his little mare in her stall happily eating, none the worse for wear. It appears no one knew he'd gone out, and since the mare was wearing no saddle or bridle everyone thought she'd somehow gotten loose on her own.

In the movies everyone knew what the horse was trying to tell them and rescue always came quickly. The disappointed rider fetched his car and went for his equipment.

But it was not to be found.

Someone had discovered this treasure and made this wonderful bounty their own. Our colonel learned the hard way that movies and reality are not one and the same.

#22 Never The Same...

He was never the same.

After his heart operation My Cowboy was never the same again. The changes were subtle at first but over they years they became stronger and more powerful. It was as if there was a second, alter ego emerging and this ego was an evil one.

At first it was almost comical. 

My Cowboy left the hospital to convalesce at home. Almost immediately he began telling everyone that I was trying to "kill" him. Everyone laughed, but me. He developed an infection and I took him back and forth to the hospital a number of times. He said it was me... that I was doing it, causing the infection to kill him. He told everyone... so the whole world would know that I was killing him.

I remembered my doctor friend's warning, the warning about personality changes and wondered.

As the weeks past he became less vocal about my threat to him but underneath he was in a paranoid frenzy. One afternoon he asked me to sign papers. Papers which deeded everything we owned together... to him alone. This way he would "know" I wasn't trying to steal everything for myself and kill him.

I loved him, I could NOT sign the papers. In my mind, as silly as this seems, I was proving my worth to him and trying to reassure him of my love... forgetting as I did that it was the dark side of the man with whom I was dealing.

He recovered from his heart surgery but the dark part was only just emerging. The darkness showed itself in strange ways. In little things meant to punish me for wanting to kill him.

In the years which past he punished me often.

Once I went to the hair salon, cowgirl's in my line of work seldom have time for beauty other than natural. Since nature had given me limited amounts of that, I went to have my hair cut and styled. It was a wonderful afternoon for me, the time away deeply appreciated. When I returned home eager to show my new "do" I was met with a furious anger I couldn't explain.

In front of friends and employees (who snickered quietly) he ranted. There was no logic and I stood in silence. Then he kicked me out.

I had no legal rights as I had signed all that over to him although I'm sure a lawyer might have found otherwise. At that moment I didn't know what to do. Shocked and hurt I went to our home.

He followed and his rage continued.

A long and painful evening followed but the results were, as he had cunningly planned, to hurt and render me emotionally at his mercy. I did not disappoint. This would be the first of many times in which he pulled the rug from beneath me and always ending up with me crying and literally begging "his" forgiveness for transgressions of which only he knew.

It is funny what love with do.

It makes us stay when we should go, it makes us tolerate when we should not, it makes us slaves when we were meant to be free.

So changes began, so slowly as to be almost unnoticeable to any but me. Changes which grew and grew over the years and revealed a dark side that destroyed my love, our relationship and ultimately the man. But these changes created the spirit and forged the soul of a cowgirl in training.

#21 A Big Boozer...

He came to us by chance.

One hot summer day, a neighbor rode into our stable yard. She was an older woman who lived on property a few miles down the road. Her horse was a big and incredibly beautiful dun Quarter Horse gelding that she bred and raised but who was now dancing around with great agitation.

The reason why was apparent.

Strung over the saddle was a puppy, a very large puppy, who was twisting and squirming. I could see her dilemma clearly... a young unhappy horse and a young unhappy horse sized dog.

She said she found the pup alone and lost in the desert and couldn't leave him to die. If lack of food or water did not kill him, coyotes would. She asked if we wanted the pup. Her ranch already had five dogs and another was unwelcome. We agreed, much to her relief, and thus began our life with this giant dog.

Over the next few days, we found three more pups, if there were more they were lost to the desert. Living as we did in the country but still close to a large city, people would often dump unwanted pets here. Thinking that the animal in question would run free and thus, on their parts, avoiding the inevitability of killing them. Death was a fact and the animals in question were doomed, but death in the desert was often long and painful and filled with terror.

Homes were easily found for the three additional pups but the first puppy, the one who rode into our stable yard and into our hearts stayed with us.

He was an unusual color, a brindle. His body was tan but he had black stripes running from his spine down his rib cage. His face, ears and legs, all had black points. He also had the biggest feet I've ever seen. Little did we know at that time, that those dinner plate-sized feet would belong to a giant of a dog.

That first day the cowboy's all fussed over the big gangly puppy. He almost stumbled over his feet and he lept around joyously. He was fearless and tumbled over himself in his play. The day was almost over, the horses were fed and everyone was enjoying those last moments before leaving for the day. Everyone had a cold beer in hand and were rehashing the day's events.

Someone set down a beer and was busy talking when they discovered that the new pup was now downing that same beer. He lapped up the golden brew with an enjoyment I've only seen on cowboy's faces when doing the same thing. Thus the big pup found his new name... Boozer.

Boozer, we discovered, grew to be a Great Dane. A giant of a dog but with a heart so filled with love and a soul filled with play. He loved to romp and his great joy in life was to chase something. He didn't really care what... a rabbit, a cow, a horse or even his own shadow.

We almost lost him in such a chase.

A rabbit led him away from the stable yard and into the midst of a group of coyotes. To them he was an easy dinner but the big dog fought hard and somehow, by the grace of God, escaped. We heard the fight and went to his rescue and had we been a few moments later, the result may not have been the same. He survived with a bloody throat, bites and a torn ear. In the melee, a coyote had grabbed his floppy ear and torn a large chunk from it forever marking the event.

Boozer survived but in his dog's memory, he developed a hatred for coyotes vowing payback until his dying day.

We allowed the ranch dogs to accompany trail rides. The dogs would run alongside, occasionally and fruitlessly chasing rabbits but always returning to the ride. Unknowingly by doing this we gave the dogs much longer lives. The exercise and the running developed strong lungs and strong hearts. Great Danes as it turns out lack both. Their great size produced a weakness in their hearts and a much shorter life span, usually 8 years or so. Boozer was a healthy active dog until his passing... 14 1/2 years later.

Dogs came and went in our lives. Found castoffs lived with us until placed in new and more loving homes. Some like Boozer... stayed forever.

Boozer as a puppy.

#20 Pioneer Potatoes

Late one spring we received an unusual request.

We received a call from a tour company with which we'd often worked. They had representatives from a European company in town checking out the city for a tour they were booking. We were asked to provide a "breakfast" trail ride for these folks and to provide it next day.

I scrambled and not just eggs. The potential of this group was huge, for the tour company we worked with, and... for us.

"Sure, no problem." I said completely unsure and overwhelmed by the problem.

The breakfast was hastily planned and executed. I was organizer but more dauntingly, I was chef. My cooking experience was limited and it was always for a captive audience. But no one else in our organization could cook any better, in fact they ran for the hills, so I became the "cook".

I drove to town and purchased fresh ingredients and stayed up late into the night preparing. Collecting all the items to eat with, to serve with, to cook with and to clean up with and then the food itself.

The last thing I worked on, at 1 AM in the morning, was potatoes. I peeled what seemed like several tons of tubers to provide the basis for "country hashbrowns" that the tour requested. I was exhausted by the time I tumbled into bed.

The group arrived early and set out on their trail ride. I packed up the pickup truck and was driven to a site, accessible by road and deep in the desert. At the site, everything was unloaded including firewood. Then the truck drove away, leaving me completely alone. We had decided that a pickup truck would destroy the image of an old fashioned cookout that we were trying to portray.

I stood for a moment, looking around. There was a hushed silence, with a quiet only found when away from civilization. It was very early but the sun was rising slowly over the mountains, birds were beginning to tweet with a sweet celebration of a new day. I took a deep breath and savored the moment... for only a moment.

I was scared to death...

My first task was setting up a fire. At least I'd been a girl scout as a child... where I'd succeeded in learning fire skills but discovered I was a total failure at knots. I was knot challenged and still am today, having no ability whatsoever in putting knots in a piece of rope or even shoelaces. BUT fires, that was a piece of cake.

Soon my fire burned away, creating coals over which I would cook.

I set up a place for everyone to eat. I set up a place to serve and I created a western ambiance for that important first impression. I had given great thought to that first impression and decided that the "impression" needed to be expanded beyond the actual campsite. I wanted that impression to be carried on the wind.

I filled a blue enamel coffee pot with water to boil and when it did so, I added coffee. Soon the fragrance of brewing coffee drifted down the arroyo. Next I put bacon on to grill and that fragrance also joined the mix. Then I put biscuits on to bake.

The air was filled with the mouth watering scents of a country breakfast and that fragrance drifted upon the early morning breezes.

Next I heated a large cast iron skillet and added oil. I opened the container of shredded potatoes from the evening before and... gasped.

"Oh no-o-o-o," I moaned.

In my exhaustion of the evening before, I'd forgotten something very important. I'd forgotten to rinse the potatoes before I packed them. The potatoes before me, exposed to air and un-rinsed, had turned color. They were not the ivory beauties I expected but were instead were grey.

Alone in the desert I had no options. I couldn't go back and get more, I had to work with what was there before me in all it's grey-colored splendor.

I prayed to the cooking gods as I dropped the now seasoned potatoes into the oil but the gods were out that day. As fate would have it, the potatoes crisped beautifully and were seasoned to perfection. But they remained as they began... grey!

Soon I heard the clink of  horseshoes from the riverbed and I started the scrambled eggs, adding diced green chilies and a dash of garlic to the mix. I put out orange juice in ice filled tubs and straightened my cowgirl hat.

This was it.

This was the big moment.

My wind enhanced ambiance paid off. The fragrances had carried a long distance and by the time my group arrived, they all were famished. Score one for me but I would need all the help I could get.

The jovial group dismounted and crowed around the cookout fire. Eagerly everyone held out plates.

"Aaaaaaah" everyone said as I served fluffy eggs.

"Aaaaaaah" everyone said as I served crispy bacon and biscuits covered in melting butter.

"Uuuuuuuh" everyone said as they reached the grey potatoes.

"What are these," they collectively uttered.

My days of living with cowboys had taught me something important. Years of listening to cowboy BS now paid off. I had learned the art of tall tales and now used it.

"Why these are Pioneer Potatoes" I said with a completely straight face. 

"Just the way pioneer women of the old west made them" I lied shamefully.

"OOOOOh" my group responded.

Later everyone commented on how good the meal was. My Cowboy said the potatoes were wonderful but looked weird. I never told him the real story, my mistake would die with me I vowed.

The meal was a great success and the tour company received the booking they sought. We too shared in that booking, providing a large trail ride with a cookout site. But the group insisted on their own catering company... one which didn't serve grey colored potatoes.

This was the beginning of a long career in cookouts which became our most popular event. Eventually leading to a fully functioning mobile commercial kitchen and catering to groups of 200 or more. In later years, this grew to an independent catering company and a business all it's own.

I eventually passed the mantel of chef on to staff, but only once did I serve Pioneer Potatoes. Once was, in this case... enough.

A rope was strung across the wash to tie the horses. Here they are patiently waiting for us to finish breakfast.