To Be a Regular Cowhand

It is midday. We have been in the saddle since 6 A.M. The relentless sun assaults my face like a hot branding iron, bringing my bloodshot eyes to a boil and turning my neck into leather. I am beyond the point of sunburn. My left hand is rubbed raw from holding the stiff braided reins. I remove my right glove to discover an appendage that resembles a lobster's claw. An achy tiredness creeps down my slumping shoulders to the base of my spine. I wonder how much longer I can go on. Then we spot them: four maverick bulls, two cows, and a calf. My horse raises his head, ears pricked forward and nostrils flaring. My heart begins to race. I grope for my rope. We have spent four long days waiting for this moment. Suddenly, it is here. "Everything you are going to do over the next few days is dangerous," I remember Lloyd telling us during our first roping lesson, "but this is the one thing that could kill you." This is neither the time nor place for daredevil antics. We are eyeball-to-eyeball with the real thing: mavericks. Unbranded and untamed, they range in weight from 600 to 1,500 pounds. They stand motionless as statues, staring cautiously at us. "See that big bull?" Lloyd asks. "He's four or five years old and never been brought in. We'll need to be careful with him."

Lloyd divides us into pairs. Damian and Alisha will flank the herd on the left. Kevin will help him drive them from the rear. Nicole and I are dispatched to the right flank. "Ride wide around those boulders, and keep your distance," Lloyd instructs us. "These cattle are wild. You don't want to start a panic." As Nicole and I move behind the massive rock formations, we lose sight of the cattle. We also lose contact with Lloyd and the others. Uncertain as to how close they are, we stop and wait. Then the cow and calf come bolting from behind a boulder. Nicole takes off behind them at a gallop, trying to chase them back toward the herd. I stay behind to divert any other cattle that might slip down through the rocks. What follows is mayhem. I hear cattle stampeding and people yelling. Dust is flying and hooves are pounding across the rocky desert floor. I ride to the top of a ridge, hoping to catch a glimpse of what is happening. Below me cattle are bellowing and scattering in every direction. Two dive into a dense thicket. Another scales a steep, rocky cliff and disappears from sight. Damian is chasing one of the little bulls, but he is headed in the wrong direction. Try as he might, he can't gain enough ground to head off the bull and turn him around. Alisha stands stationary on what once was the left flank. Nicole is still chasing the cow and calf, but they have veered sharply to the right and are headed toward a deep ravine. I hope she is able to stop before she plunges to the bottom. As the dust settles, we begin to ride toward Lloyd. He sits astride Rocky, his powerful racing-bred quarter horse, grinning and shaking his head. When we draw nearer, we can make out his words. "That sure was a wreck in a hurry," he says, laughing. We nod our heads in agreement, our heroic visions gone with the vanishing herd. Even our horses seem to lower their heads in embarrassment. "When cattle start moving, it's best to just stay walking," Lloyd says. "The last thing you want to do is make them run — especially in this kind of country. Then you might as well kiss them good-bye." We look sheepishly at each other. "I guess we got a little trigger-happy," Kevin says. On the solemn ride back to camp, we discuss how we can do it better next time. We still have one more day in the rugged Boulder country, and, perhaps, we will come across the mavericks again. At least we have a good notion of their whereabouts. We decide to swing past the deep ravine, hoping to spot them. Sure enough, in a clearing just off the trail, the majestic Hereford bull stands with one of his sons. They seem to be teasing us, challenging us to catch them. "Okay, Kevin. Now's your chance," Lloyd whispers. "Let's see if you can rope that little bull." Forming a loop with his rope and swinging it high above his head, Kevin spurs his horse into action. "Whatever you do, don't rope the big bull!" Lloyd calls out behind him. "If he charges you, get out of his way!" Kevin splits the young bull away from his sire and chases him down the rockstrewn hillside. Then something happens. Kevin's horse suddenly jumps across a wash. But Kevin doesn't. He flies into the air and lands breathless on the ground. The young bull disappears while Kevin's horse trots back to stand beside him, probably wondering what's going on. Brushing the dirt off his face and arms and adjusting his hat, Kevin stands and remounts. He gallops back toward us, trailing his rope behind him. "I was looking at my lariat, trying to unkink it," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "I was so busy doing that I didn't even see the wash — or expect the jump." Lloyd just smiles. "At least, you gave it your best shot," he says. So this is what it is all about, I say to myself. For the past three days, we have honed the skills necessary to survive and drive cattle out of this rugged, unforgiving land. From sunup to beyond sundown, we have practiced roping, cutting, horseshoeing, branding, dehorning, doctoring, and

IT IS DEMANDING, DIRTY PHYSICAL LABOR. A COWBOY'S MUSCLES ACHE, HIS SKIN CHAFES, AND HIS VERY SOUL IS AT THE MERCY OF THE ELEMENTS.

Vaccinating cattle. As students at Lloyd Bridwell's Arizona Cowboy College, we have come for a firsthand experience as working ranch hands. So far, what I have learned is that a cowboy's life is not exactly what it's cracked up to be in the movies. It is demanding, dirty physical labor, often for 12 to 14 hours a day, seven days a week. A cowboy's muscles ache, his skin chafes, and his very soul is at the mercy of the elements. He risks his life on a daily basis. If he isn't rounding up cattle, he's vaccinating, dehorning, branding, breaking broncos, or mending fence. The going wage is somewhat less than attractive, about $5 an hour for an experienced hand. For those enrolled in Bridwell's crash course, the rate is somewhat lower. We are free help for Arizona ranchers in need of extra hands. If we are successful in bringing in a few cattle, that's money in their pockets. If we aren't, they haven't lost a dime. The first two days are spent at Lorill Equestrian Center, a Scottsdale horse facility that serves as home base for the college and Lloyd's other equine pursuits. Here students hunker beneath patient 1,000pound animals to learn basic blacksmithing skills: pulling shoes, leveling feet with a rasp, and driving nails into the thick hoof walls without hitting the sensitive quick. They saddle, bridle, ride, and care for horses. Finally they attempt to master the art of roping, first using dummies and then chasing tame steers on foot in a small corral. When I began the roping segment of the course, I recalled stories of cowboys losing fingers while "dallying" and resolved to handle my rope carefully. I practiced swinging and dropping it hundreds of times, remembering to keep my thumb and forefinger extended in the shape of a V when I pulled the rope taut.

After our class became more adept, we were allowed to test our roping abilities on horseback. For the first time, I experienced the surge of a seasoned rope horse bursting out of the box in pursuit of a steer. It felt like going from zero to 100 miles an hour in a flash of a second.

Lloyd laughed at me as I gripped the saddle horn. "It's a rush, isn't it?" he asked. "Sure is," I answered. Riding until well after midnight, we headed and heeled - and, a few times, we actually roped a steer. There was cheering, clapping, and much camaraderie before we retired to our bunks to collapse into a deep, sore-armed sleep.

A wiry, dark-haired cowboy with plenty of patience and an uncanny ability to think and react quickly, Lloyd was adept at turning greenhorns into usable ranch hands. Under his tutelage, the students began to exhibit special affinities and talents.

Damian, a brawny young construction worker who had moved to Arizona from New York, was already well on his way to becoming an accomplished roper. He rode his own horse, Durango, a handsome blaze-faced sorrel, and was eager to test both their skills outside the arena in a real ranch setting.

Nicole, a slender Dartmouth graduate now working toward her master's degree at Arizona State University, had a penchant for hot-blooded horses. She chose a feisty palomino named Straw for the roundup, knowing he was green and would be a true test of her horsemanship.

Kevin, a fair-skinned graphic artist, who had ridden only a few times and never roped before, learned more in those first two days than most people learn in years. Perhaps it was his Welsh heritage that drew him so strongly and instinctively to horses. He quickly became the most adept at horseshoeing, driving the nails and clenching them like an accomplished farrier. Kevin's mount was Pete, a striking liver chestnut. Together they looked like they belonged on the range.

Alisha, Lloyd's daughter, was raised in (PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 10 AND 11) Arizona Cowboy College student Damian Wachman chases a longhorn steer into the sunset on Angel's Ranch near the ghost towns of Stanton and Octave and the old gold mining town of Wickenburg.

(OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE) Lloyd Bridwell, who runs Arizona Cowboy College, instructs author Gail Dudley and other students at a Scottsdale equestrian center in the basics of throwing a loop.

(OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW) On the Circle Bar Ranch near Sunflower, Dartmouth graduate Nicole Drake concentrates on dehorning a cow as Bridwell looks on.

(ABOVE) Wachman ropes a calf to cut it from the herd on Angel's Ranch. (LEFT) The lariats used by the Mexican vaqueros on this roundup are made of twisted hemp, and they are softer and longer than the nylon ones used by the Anglo wranglers.

The saddle and stuck to a horse's back like glue. She also was a good hand with a rope and could cut cattle like a working cowboy. She rode Scooter, her aptly named liver chestnut barrel horse.

As I watched the others progress, I wondered what my talent might be. I rode well enough, having also grown up in the saddlebut that was in Virginia, and I was unfamiliar with cowboy ways. I felt uncomfortable in a Western saddle, and I still wanted to twirl my rope like a baton. Lloyd must have realized this because he selected a little sorrel gelding, Crescent, To literally show me the ropes. Surefooted as a mountain goat and levelheaded, Crescent - so named because of the peculiar white half-moon marking on his forehead earned my respect and trust. I began to understand a cowboy's love for his horse, but it wasn't until we faced real maverick cattle in the treacherous Boulder terrain that I realized I couldn't have made it without him. On the third day, we loaded our horses and gear and headed up the Beeline Highway to the Circle Bar Ranch. A sprawling 188,000acre spread, the ranch is owned by John Whitney, a cattleman and a gentleman. The original property had been deeded down from his greatgrandfather with subsequent generations acquiring 17 more ranches to build the Circle Bar empire. Now its 300 sections span both sides of the road and stretch all the way to Strawberry. At one time, the ranch supported 10,000 cows. Today there are about 1,700.

The ranch house, built in 1928, sits in the lee of a steep red-rock wall along the banks of Sycamore Creek. We parked our trucks and trailers beside it, unloaded our horses and turned them out into a shady corral. Nearby, we could hear cattle bawling and the muffled sound of men's voices. There was the pungent smell of burning hair and flesh, and I knew we were about to receive a lesson in branding and dehorning.

Inside the maze of corrals and chutes behind the ranch house, three Mexicanvaqueros and a young boy herded steers one-by-one into a squeeze, where each was vaccinated, doctored, dehorned, and branded. The boy, I learned, was Whitney's son, Dogie. At age 14, he had already participated in numerous roundups.

vaqueros and a young boy herded steers one-by-one into a squeeze, where each was vaccinated, doctored, dehorned, and branded. The boy, I learned, was Whitney's son, Dogie. At age 14, he had already participated in numerous roundups.

"Hey, there!" Dogie yelled to Lloyd. "Why don't you give us a hand?"

By late afternoon, we had all learned to doctor, brand, and dehorn cattle, working on some the modern way in the squeeze and on others the old-fashioned way by roping and laying them down. The Mexicans seemed to appreciate our help andwere entertained by our clumsy first-time efforts. From them, I learned that Crescent was raised at the Circle Bar and that the ranch foreman, Ernesto, broke him to ride. He had been a working horse here for several years. That night I went to bed with a smile on my face. My horse already knew this coun-try. I would count on him to be my guide.

Shortly after sunrise, we saddled up the two pack horses and filled the panniers with food and gear. Then we mounted and set out for Boul-der. We crossed the creek and rode through a broad expanse of desert dotted with wild daisies and purple-blooming sage. The prickly pear and staghorn cactus flowers were ready to open, and the ocotillos were already shooting their fire-red blossoms into the air. The world was alive with color and excitement. Well rested and riding fresh horses, we were ready for adventure. Damian swung his rope eagerly as he rode along, while Kevin practiced reining be-tween the bushes.

As we began the steep ascent to the Boulder camp, my heart soared. Crescent picked his way along the narrow trail with the agility of a dancer. I watched as Nicole coached Straw through the rocks, teaching him to lower his head and watch where he placed his feet. Behind me, Alisha sang a tune I didn't recognize, and way ahead, in front of Kevin and Damian, Lloyd led the way on Rocky.

By the time we reached the line shack, it was late after-noon. We tended to our horses, arranged our cots and bedrolls outdoors, and prepared to eat dinner.

As I sat on a bench at the long plank table laden with skillets of beans and fresh tortillas, I spotted what, at first, appeared to be a strange whorl in one of the shack's rough-hewn pine beams. In the dim glow of the kerosene lantern, it also could have been an oddly shaped shadow, the pencilthin outline of a cobweb, or one of the many utensils hanging from the ceiling.

I studied it, and the dark lines began to form words. My eyes strained to read them.

I SAW IN MY IMAGINATION THE COURAGEOUS ROAN PLUNGE TO THE GROUND BENEATH HIM, HIS GREAT HEART BURSTING.

It was a poem, etched deeply into the wood with the sharp point of a knife: He was a dirty gray With flea bitten hocks, And despite all the dirty remarks And mocks, There was none any better. He could fly over rocks And crash through brush. And as all were amazed In a frightening hush, Me and that gray Would catch the wild rush. One day a steer broke away While on the way home, And he never did stop Until under the foam. There did quit the heart of "The Wickenburg Roan." And now my thoughts Ride over the tide, And I often wonder if I might ride That flea bitten gray When I cross the Great Divide. -Dennis Kilbane, age 13 A chill raced up my spine as I realized the young cowboy probably sat at this same table decades ago. I surveyed the faces of the eager crew gathered around me: Damian, Alisha, Kevin, Nicole, and Lloyd. We had ridden hard all day, climbing upward through treacherous cactus and rock, to reach this remote place. The shack was hidden deep in the massive granite outcroppings that had earned the place the name of Boulder.

"This is some of the roughest range country in the entire state," I remembered Lloyd telling us. "It's hard on horses, and it's hard on men."

Traveling over the untamed, rock-strewn ground would literally wear the nailheads off the horses' shoes. A rider without the proper tools and knowledge to tack a shoe back on would be left with the equivalent of a flat tire in the middle of the Mohave Desert thirsty, tired, and traveling on foot beneath the relentless, deadly sun. A barefoot horse would soon be too lame to walk, and it was an eight-hour hike back to the ranch house. Remembering the poem, I pictured the reckless young cowboy named Dennis galloping over the rocks in pursuit of a wild steer. I saw in my imagination the courageous roan plunge to the ground beneath him, his great heart bursting. I saw his legs flail in a cloud of dust and sweat, and I heard the last gasp of the iron-willed horse still trying to forge ahead. I felt the heartbreak of that moment, followed by the startling realization that, having just lost his favorite mount, the cowboy faced a grueling 25-mile walk home.

This was no place for the faint-hearted. The fresh new faces at the table bore the expression of greenhorns eager to be tried. Like the centuries of cowboys and horses before us, we had come to challenge this inhospitable land, searching for maverick cattle and attempting to drive them out of steep canyons filled with thorny brush.

That night we made our beds under a broad blanket of stars. I stared up at the sky, and, for a moment, I could make out the shape of a steer's head with long horns extending from each side.

The next morning, the camp buzzed with excitement. Lloyd had spotted two mavericks near the creek behind the line shack. He thought there could be more downstream.

I choked down a mug of instant oatmeal and re-filled the container with strong coffee. Then I went to find Crescent, who was eating his breakfast out of a burlap sack that had been cut out and tied behind his ears. For energy, Lloyd fed the horses on roundup a grain mix he called jet fuel. Crescent would be prepared for a hard day's ride.

I groomed my horse and checked his shoes carefully before saddling up. There were no loose shoes, and the nails looked like they would hold up in any terrain. "Hey there, hurry up!" Damian called. "Let's get going!" I swung my leg over the saddle, and we were off.

The rest is now Arizona Cowboy College history. For years to come, Lloyd will tell future classes stories of the stampede and of Kevin's aborted roping attempt. In case he doesn't, our comic efforts have been immortalized by another poem on the line shack wall. It goes like this: Three brave women And three fearless men Headed up to Boulder, Some mavericks to pen. They rode tall in the saddle, Each one with a rope, Their bellies full of beans And their hearts full of hope. There was so much good graze, They didn't need hay, And they spotted the cattle On the second day Four young bulls, two cows, And a calf. The goal was to bunch them, Not split them in half. But they got excited And made a big flurry. In short, they created A wreck in a hurry. They were pretty long-faced On the homeward ride, But there is one thing in which They take pride: Arizona Cowboy College Class of '95 Still have their fingers And still are alive.