by Baxter Black
John, the owner of the club, assured me I had nothing to fear. He was raised in Iran, where polo originated, and was masterful and patient. I was mounted, a mallet strapped onto my right hand, and fed to the lions. The other players swallowed me up and kept me in play much like hockey players would treat a puck.
Although John shouted instructions and amended the by-laws continuously, I learned the most important rule: Keep moving! The crucial concept to understand in polo is the line of the ball. If you are driving the ball down the field, no one can cross that imaginary line between your mallet and the ball. They can, however, bump you off the line, or hook your mallet with theirs. Hooking is akin to swinging a bat at a baseball and hitting a brick wall instead.
My right-hand dexterity showed itself over and over as my setup shots careened at ninety-degree angles between my pony’s legs. Defenders merely waited behind me to steal the ball. I would ride into the fracas tilting drunkenly and circling like a man with one oar. I sustained one good blow to the cheek and managed to bloody the ear of one of my teammates.
But I didn’t quit. I was spurred on by the rule that read, “If a rider gets thrown, the play continues if he is not in the way.” Same for a broken mallet. In the case of a broken ball, the largest piece shall be played.
“. . . And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die was the last surviving player so the game was called a tie.”
But let me tell ya, it’s a cowboy game! It’s fast, it’s a’horseback, and it’s thrilling. And I’m gonna try again when my shoulder joint heals and I can borrow some jodhpurs. Wonder what size Prince Charles wears? He’s bound to be in the phone book.
Kelly is one of my veterinary colleagues. A grand story-teller in his own right, and I’ve done my best to recount his bizarre and harrowing tale. It has to be true; nobody could make this up.
KELLY’S HALLOWEEN
It was a bad day at Black Rock that fateful Halloween.
It all began the week before. The call had seemed routine.
“I’ve got a mare needs checkin’, Doc.
I b’lieve the sweetheart’s bred.”
“I’ll swing by there this afternoon,” Good Doctor Kelly said.
The mare was mincing round the stall as Kelly donned the sleeve. “This should only take a second.” His assessment was naive. “She’s just a little nervous, Doc, but . . . I guess I would be, too. If you were pointin’ that at me, I’d kick you to Timbuktu!”
Which is precisely what she did. So fast it was a blur. The next day poor ol’ Kelly wore a cast from hip to spur. With two days off the heal up, his left leg plasterized, He volunteered to take a call. I know it wasn’t wise.
But you know men . . . like him I mean, a grad of Colorado Whose head, if not for gristle wouldn’t even cast a shadow. Another horse. A small wire cut there just below the hock. “He’s gentle as a newborn lamb. He’d never hurt you, Doc.”
And sure enough he blocked the site, though awkwardly, I’d think. He had to spread his legs the way giraffes bend down to drink. Relieved, he got his suture out, assumed the bent position About the time a fly appeared in search of fly nutrition.
And lit upon the horse’s foot. Just fate I would suppose.
The pony kicked to flick the fly
but caught the doctor’s nose. Sideways.
Which left a thumb-sized piece of schnozz now dangling from the tip
Like half a jalapeño flapping down upon his lip.
Thirty stitches . . . on the outside. Then they taped that sucker tight. But them M.D.’s must’ve chuckled ’cause that bandage was a sight. It stuck out like a gearshift, like the fruit on prickly pear, Like a big white avocado on a chain saw grizzly bear.
He stayed at home the next two days, hibernating in his cave Until his wife had asked his help. The instructions that she gave Were “Pick the kids up right at nine at Johnson’s, Second Street. They’re at a party, Halloween. Maybe you could trick-or-treat.”
“Very funny,” Kelly fumed. But when nine o’clock came around,
He wedged his cast into the truck and drove himself to town.
When they let him in the Johnsons’ house
he matched the decorations.
The kids all froze. Then screamed in fear and heebie-jeebie-ations!
“The mummy! No, it’s Frankenstein! It looks so realistic!”
With crutch and cast and nose and scowl it dang sure was sadistic.
But the scream that topped the evening off was,
in Mr. Johnson’s view,
When he grabbed and jerked the bandage off and said,
“Hey, I know you!”
When this commentary ran on National Public Radio, there were several listeners who objected to my “blatant endorsement” of the Lands’ End jacket. In my defense, no money changed hands. It’s just a good jacket, and I said so. Oddly enough, if it had been a bad jacket, I’d have told the story and never mentioned their name. For those who are concerned about how horses do in our part of the country, southeast Arizona, aka God’s own brierpatch, it is surprising to me how seldom they get injured beyond the occasional sticker. They slide through the thickets like dolphins. The only thing sticking out on the horse is you!
BRUSH JACKET TESTIMONIAL
A year ago, I was approached to do a testimonial by an upscale environmentally conscious maker of urban clothing named Lands’ End. Since neither Wrangler, Resistol, Bailey, Copenhagen, or Coors had ever called, I figgered it was better than Uncle Billy’s Baldness Salve or Depends.
I told them I would consider it as long as the product was biodegradable, herbivore friendly, and barbecue proof. They sent me a catalog, with instructions to pick anything I wanted.
I chose a brush jacket. They didn’t call it that, but that’s what it is. Brush jackets are insulated and made out of canvas like wagon tarps, tents, or Carhartts. These jackets are the standard uniform in cow country, where mesquite thickets and other equally thorny, prickly, spiny, daggery menaces await the dedicated cowboy. To maintain my own credibility and give it a fair endorsement, I put it to the test.
At the next roundup, I donned my new jacket to gather cows with the crew in the dreaded Parson’s Pasture. I started in the lower arroyos, riding through two miles of mesquite, dagger yucca, ocotillo trunks, and crucifix thorn tall as a low windmill. It got so thick, my horse was on his hands and knees trying to find the trail.
Malicious thorns the size of pitchfork tines pierced my boot tops, my rhinoceros hide chaps, and my galvanized wrist cuffs. Catclaw big as the talons on an eagle hooked and pulled at every piece of leather, flesh, or cloth that was exposed, leaving thousands of horizontal slashes and scrapes, shredding my tapaderas into ribbons, and spinning my rowels till they got so hot they set my boots on fire.
Then we chased some cows out of a cholla forest—wicked cactus over the horse’s head that breaks off, clings to you, and works its pins and needles through your clothing and into your skin. When you clear the forest, rider, horse, and cow are festooned with bratwurst-sized cholla chunks like Christmas ornaments on a hirsute manatee.
Then, just for the sake of product integrity, I rolled through a pineapple field of barrel cactus, lay on the cattle guard, and let two loaded twenty-foot stock trailers back over me slowly, was drug through a wet field of corn stubble by two three-year-old colts, and lay underneath a ’69 Ford pickup while they changed the oil.
The results of my test? Lost one button. A remarkable testament to the durability and toughness of their great brush jacket, which I guess allows me to keep it. That should help compensate for the burnt boots, melted spurs, shredded chaps, and thirty-five stitches. I only wish we could have found my other ear.
I was accosted by a politically correct e-mail vigilante after this NPR commentary ran. She accused me of picking on a black athlete. I asked why she thought he was black. She said that “yo,” “bro,” and “gorilla” were racial stereotypes. I asked her what was wrong with him being a black athlet
e if the story was true. I asked if she was black. She said yes. I asked if she thought I was black. She said no, she didn’t think so. But she just assumed. I asked if she had assumed the cowboy was black. No, she just assumed he wasn’t because she didn’t know any black cowboys. I offered to introduce her to some. We parted amiably.
THE COWBOY AND THE ATHLETE
Robby eases by, tradin’ and trainin’ a few horses—doin’ day work and helpin’ out. He lives in a cow-college town with a pretty good rodeo team.
An Adopt-a-Horse carnival came through town, and Robby wound up being asked to “train” a mustang bought at auction by a local dentist. The purchase was a six-year-old stallion, fourteen hands, woolly as a grizzly and wild as the last Bramer steer to be gathered in the fall.
Robby castrated the stud and went to work. In six weeks, he could actually ride the snake around in the pen.
For his first public outing, Robby decided to saddle two horses and lead Root (as in “root canal”). It was a weekend, so he chose a path across the college campus to introduce Root to some new sights and sounds.
Bebopping across the grass came what appeared to be an athlete. Broad shoulders, bald head, sweatpants, and tennis shoes the size of bass boats.
“Yo, bro,” saluted the full-ride scholarship recipient, “I shore feel like a horseback ride!”
Robby looked him over. He was a finely tuned specimen of years of grooming, coaching, bodybuilding, brainwashing, and confidence building. He had YEA, THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, I WILL FEAR NO EVIL FOR I AM THE MEANEST GORILLA IN THE VALLEY! on his T-shirt.
“Sure,” said Robby. “Lemme help you up.”
Root was skittish but the “Meanest Gorilla” crawled up in the saddle. The stirrups were just right. He took the reins.
“Try to stay on the grass,” suggested Robby, “in case you fall.”
“Fall! Humph!” was the reply.
Well, to his credit, he didn’t fall. . . . Instead he flew, possibly even glided, soared . . . maybe catapulted would capture it best. Root made two good leaps, then drove his front feet in the ground and fired the Gorilla over his head like a navy jet being launched from a carrier, nose first directly into the sea.
He scraped a streak of dead grass off the hard lawn three yards long with his forehead when he skidded to a stop.
Robby caught Root and rode back to the scene of the accident.
“I believe you can ride him, bro,” said Robby. “Climb up and try again.”
The athlete pondered the possibility, fingering the two pieces of his eighty-five-dollar wraparound sunglasses.
“Maybe later,” he said. “I think I heard the bell.”
“OK,” said Robby. “Anytime.”
“Yo,” said the Gorilla.
“Yo,” said Robby, who hadn’t heard the bell. Mostly because it was Saturday.
The cattle business is one of the riskiest businesses one can be in. Worse than professional gambling or having a peach orchard. Many of the examples could be extrapolated to fit “Twenty-five Things Akin to Robbing a Bank with a Putty Knife” or “Twenty-five Things Better Than Smallpox.”
TWENTY-FIVE THINGS LIKE BEING IN THE CATTLE BUSINESS
Knowing the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat
Being handcuffed and forced to watch someone butcher hogs on your living room carpet
Parking your new pickup at the end of your driveway, knowing it will be stolen by morning
Playing poker with Donald Trump, Al Capone, and Bruce Babbitt
Being the public relations manager for Ted Turner, Ted Kaczynski, or Ted Kennedy
Being Bill Clinton
Watching a train go into a tunnel that you know is blocked at the other end
Going to Del Rio for Cinco De Mayo and taking your cross-country skis
Going to Las Vegas with a twenty-dollar bill and no return ticket
Two-man bungee jumping with your banker, while the cattle buyer holds the other end of the line
Getting teargassed and enjoying it
Losing the $6 million lottery by one number
Buying stock in Chernobyl the day before the fire
Discovering you’re related to Saddam Hussein
Walking a tightrope across the Grand Canyon
Seeing your face on a dartboard at the regional IRS office
Finding out that the FBI and Earth First! have you under surveillance
Receiving news that your rich old bachelor uncle died and left his entire estate to the Newfoundland Dog Foundation
Discovering that the only way your assets and liabilities could balance is if you married Bill Gates
Going to a barber and saying, “Be creative!”
Playing pool on the kitchen table
Losing your brakes at the top of Wolf Creek Pass
Getting your prostate checked six days a week
Having a drought break with a seven-inch downpour that washes away your home
Being bitten by your own dog
Harold paid his debt to nature and left it like he found it. How many of us will be able to say that? It’s easy to be green when it’s not personal.
BACK TO NATURE
Harold has been dismantling his feedlot. He built it in 1951 and eventually achieved a 30,000-head capacity. You can imagine the accumulation of steel, rubber, railroad ties, nails, car bodies, pipe, chains, wire, horseshoes, and baler twine. He has completed most of the hauling off and is ripping the ground that has been packed like roadbed. He’s planted it to millet. He is returning the land to its natural state.
Harold’s reason for razing the feedlot is, of course, urban encroachment. The land is too “valuable” to raise livestock on it.
In the next few years, Harold’s feedlot will become part of the city. Crisscrossed with tile, cable, wire, iron, and asphalt. It will be drilled, scraped, paved, disemboweled, pounded, and polluted. Millions of tons of concrete, brick, timber, glass, and iron will rest in or on old feed alleys and sick pens. Oceans of sewage, mountains of refuse, and purgatories of poison will work their way into the soil upon which the city is built. It will become the receptacle for the waste of human herds.
Ancient civilizations as mighty as ours have disappeared. All that remains of them are the ruins of the cities: the Aztec and Egyptian pyramids, the great walls, the foundations of majestic coliseums and castles. But it is hard to find the ugly footprints of olden agriculture, a hog wallow, a horse corral, the trail to water, the milking shed, an irrigation canal, an overgrazed pasture, the chopped-down woods. They seem to have vanished.
I think the reason for this is that, though agricultural production changes wide expanses of land, the changes are not deep.
If you want to look at long-lasting destruction of the environment, you need go no further than any major city. If people were to abandon Washington, D.C., Atlanta, Chicago, Denver, or San Francisco, how long would it take the earth to heal the scars left by man? How many years after abandonment would we still see pieces of the Golden Gate Bridge, Denver International Airport, or the Empire State Building? Hundreds? Thousands? Compare that to the time it would take a cleared pasture, a clear-cut forest, or a highly fertilized irrigated desert to return to its natural state.
It has always bothered me that a self-proclaimed environmental lobbyist can point from his high-rise and accuse ag producers of destroying the environment. It’s truly the pot calling the kettle “non-green.”
Whether we live in town or in the country, we all play a part in the degradation of our environment. We eat the bounty of modern agriculture. We drive to and fro and we buy two-by-fours.
By dismantling his feedyard, Harold is doing more than most of us to allow the land to return to its natural state. However, the next squatters on the property may leave a more long-lasting legacy of destruction.
The earth is constantly trying to heal the scars on its skin. But we humans just keep pickin’ at the scab.
A little run-o
f-the-mill drama.
THE MOVE
She stood in the kitchen of the manager’s home. She and I and the manager’s wife. She fidgeted, seeming unsettled, uncomfortable, unsure, and a little scared, perhaps. Through the kitchen window, I could see the U-Haul van with a ten-year-old pickup in tow. She and her husband had just driven eight hundred miles so that he could start a new job. She was worried about where to put her dog.
As I looked out the window, I remembered the times in my life when that was my U-Haul parked out front. New job, new town, new boss. It was exciting! I had been anxious to get started!
Her husband felt the same way, I guess. No sooner had he landed than he jumped in the new boss’s pickup, and they drove down the feed alley toward the mill. He looked as exhilarated as a kid at Christmas! Three weeks ago, this feedlot owner had sought him out and offered him the job as mill manager at a healthy raise in pay. There is nothing better for a man’s ego except possibly an old sweetheart who jilted you getting fat.
As an afterthought, he shouted back to his wife, “See ya in a minute!”
Back in the kitchen, I stood watching this woman . . . a stranger in a new land. You could hear the page turning in her life. She would remember this day forever.
It occurred to me that how she was treated in the next few days would determine how good an employee her husband would become.
She had not given one moment’s thought to the size of the broiler, the number of front-end loaders, the condition of the elevator pits, or the grain on hand. She was worried about their nest. She needed to define her territory.
She would mentally note if the furnished company house was clean. If the carpet was in good shape, if there were water spots on the wall, if the appliances were old or new. If there were places for the kids, the dog, and her plants.
In the first week, she’d find out what kind of people her husband worked for. Would they fix the broken showerhead? Would they replace the torn curtain in the kids’ room?