#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.