COWBOYS AND THE ROUNDUP

COWBOYS AND THE ROUNDUP

…the greatest beauty is Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty of the universe. Love that, not man Apart from that,... Robinson Jeffers, Selected Poems

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The ranch hands and the cowboys

lived in a cluster of houses separate from most of the houses that the family utilized. There was the usual, implicit,

boundary that lay between the employers and the employed, and there were some

cultural differences in that the majority of ranch hands were mostly Hispanic. From the child’s perspective, there was the

known world of the family (perhaps, bet-

ter described as, the more known world of family) and the unknown world of the

workers. For me, the world of the ranch

workers became a world of mystery and

intrigue mainly because there were cow-

boys over there. From about eight to ten, I was particularly obsessed with the world of the cowboy. Reflecting back with

Long road to barn, tack room

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Beach roundup, canyon roundup, Doyle with grandfather Jim

fondness, I have a clear image of waking up at five in the

morning by myself, walking out of the house into the cool air of the early morning darkness, and directing myself up the long hill to the horse saddling barn.

The hill to the barn really was not that steep or

lengthy, but, again, at my young age, going by myself,

anticipating what might transpire once I entered directly

into this unknown world of the cowboy, this made that hill

seem eternal. The road was made of dirt and shale and had very tall, old eucalyptus trees lining both sides, as they often did, protecting the domestic domain from winds. Often the morning breeze rustled the leaves making a noise like sheets of rain hitting pavement in a storm. These tall, straight trees were perfect perches for 38

Working the Corral Doyle on Tico, grandfather Jim

the barn own, screech owl, or great horned owl, and on those quiet mornings, the canyon would usually echo with their screeches or hoots. The hooting was not disturbing at all. There was, in fact, some degree of companionship in them, and it was fun to try to establish communication with the owls by returning hoots from

my end. But, the screech owls were different. They would swoop down out of the trees in front of my passing line of vision, big white feathered entities zooming through the early morning night, releasing the sound it is

named for, a true screech, in every sense of the word. It was a sound that would send my heart rate rocketing to the dark, star-riddled sky above, a true wake up call. The positive consequence of this though was the

immediate warming up of my body, and the inner comfort that, having been initiated into the realm of fear to 39

this degree, I was ready for just about anything, even the unknown world of those cowboys.

I always seemed to arrive at the horse barn,

despite those experiences from the other world,

encountered on my way up the hill. Once at the barn

another mysterious process began. I never knew who was going to be there. I did not know the cowboys

well enough to make it an emotionally secure place.

The most dominating trait of cowboys in the morning

before sunrise is that they do not talk. They do not talk much anyway, but they are, emphatically, silent in the morning. They quietly enter the ritual of haltering the

horses, leading the horses into the saddle barn, extracting saddles, blankets and bridles from the tack room,

and saddling the horses, men moving methodically in the dimmest of lighting. There is, of course, an occa-

Tony Romero, ranch worker

Ranch hands, relatives and their horses. Manuel Uribe, Luis Ochoa, Tony Romero, and Hal Hollister 40

sional grunt or, more often, some emanation of profanity or gas, but other than this, it is a silent process.

Being age nine and of uncertain mind, I usually needed

some help somewhere in this saddling ritual, and not every-

body was available. Some of the cowboys were quite unavailable in that they were withdrawn, disgruntled in their some-

times hung-over state, or, merely, struggling with the tough life

Hollister Ranch Brand

they were living. The ones that were lower down in the hierarchy were not making much money and were there because

they did not have much else, and, in some very real way, they needed to hide from mainstream life. Though these cowboys would occasionally nod or wink, they did not feel safe to engage.

There were other cowboys whose nature was significantly different. Even as a young boy, it was clear

that some of these men were unique men. There was an air of confidence about them, a firmness, in the way

they lived out the ritual of the horse saddling, precisely carving their way through the silence. Their body posturing was uniquely natural, and the directness of their motion was something that stood out. Instinctively,

these were the men that I looked to for help and, in fact, they were the ones that were more available to help. They were the ones that loved doing what they were doing and welcomed the fact that the ranch owner’s son

was interested in their world. They wanted to show me their way and had a pride in doing so. They were the true ranch hand elders, the ones closest to the earth; they were the real cowboys, the real horsemen, at least, to me.

The head of all these men of the

early morning round up, at the time, was a man named Frank Pacheco. He was at the

top of the hierarchy; he was the head horseman. It was Frank Pacheco who mostly assisted me with the saddling. I still

remember a particular lesson he gave to me about the nature of horses. Horses, he said, are much like some people, in that, some horses really do not want to go to work.

Grandfather’s horse

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He told me this as he grabbed the cinch, kneed the horse’s underside causing the animal to exhale, then quickly tightened and hooked the cinch in place. The horse looked around at us both with a glance of irritation. I

felt immediately sorry for the horse. Frank Pacheco, noticing my concern, smiling just slightly, asked me, "Do you want to fall off this horse at a full gallop?" The answer was obvious as he then explained that some horses, like some men, have various ways of protesting work. One way for a horse to protest was to fill himself

with air while being saddled, then, after saddled, relaxing, thus, loosening the cinch, making the saddle more

comfortable, and even, if lucky, dispensing with the rider all together. It always struck me how Frank seemed to know the inside world of horses and men. He seemed to me to be an insightful man, insightful, in a different way. I listened to him.

Once the horses were saddled, we all mounted and began the slow ride out of the barnyard, out into the

remaining morning’s darkness, heading toward the canyon that was the focus of the day’s drive. There was

essentially no talking at this point, merely the sound of the horses breathing and snorting their excitement

mixed with displeasure, the jingling of bridles, the squeaking of the saddles, all harmonically grounded by the horse hooves resounding off the dirt shale rock road. Once I was astride my horse, adjusting my saddle, reins, and body, as I settled in to the one thousand plus pounds of pure animal energy moving between my legs, I was a cowboy; I was there, being a "man among men," and the experience was ecstatic. It was such an

empowering feeling. It was as if there was this tree trunk that entered the top of my head, went straight

through the center of my body, branched out down my legs, through the horse, and proceeded straight down into the earth. It was a fortifying experience. I felt great atop that horse.

Yet, there was more to come. Though there were many interesting occurrences on these round-ups, the

most poignant was the interaction of cowboy, horse, cow, and landscape. The interaction of these four entities, in the wilderness, can result in an interplay that manifests anything from complete chaos and breakdown to

something more like a symphony of harmonic exchange. All entities are intricately related, as always, in the wilderness. What made the difference between chaos and harmony was, usually, the role of the riders, mankind.

As the young member of mankind on these roundups, I was, usually, literally the problem. How and

why I was the problem was really quite revealing. It was on these roundups that I first confronted the true

meaning of the metaphor and reality, "There is nothing worse than a scared rider on a scared horse." A horse is like any animal. If, out of one’s own discomfort, one tries to impress one’s will on the horse, in other words,

control the situation by force, the result is an escalation of agitation. Horse becomes more nervous, riders 42

become more aggressive, and cattle pick up on this and become more unmanageable. They proceed to act out, dispersing up draws or trails, straying out of harmony with the canyon’s natural progression downward. The

whole process of interplay dissipates into chaos. And why… I was not relating to the instincts of the animal.

Good cow ponies have good instincts. If the rider can let go of managing the horse and relate to the instinctual movement of the horse, quite often, the horse will herd the cows, and the cows will accept being herded by

them, all cooperating with the natural progression of the canyon and its particular contours. The symphony of man, horse, cow and canyon works beautifully. But, it all starts with man, in this case me, relaxing into an

instinctual relationship with the horse, as horse responds to my relaxed confidence, which allows horse to follow his instincts, reading the instincts of the cows, relating to the canyon.

When all of these entities are working (more like non-working) harmoniously together, there is another

world available to experience. When I finally understood to let go of the need to control my roundup experi-

ence, the world became a different place. The roundup became an altered state. While on the ride, everything seemed to merge into a kind of euphoric blur. Time seemed to disappear, or, at least, time as I experienced

time most of the time. There was a dream-like quality to these experiences. I can remember moments when the combination of early rising, hunger, sun and heat, added to that drifting easy interplay of all the vital entities involved, literally put me into a dreamy semi-sleep. No, not asleep at the wheel, but, yes, to a degree, asleep

on the ride and relatively safe in the process, excluding the occasional faltering of the horse’s stride. The mesmerizing trance of the wilderness, in this case, the roundup’s interplay of living things, was fully alive, and I

was a part of it, a central part of a much larger interplay of things. These were such special moments. Then, of course, there were those cowboys. Put all this together and there was a unique experience occurring here for a young boy. I always remember walking back down that hill from the barnyard in the hot noon hour sun, stiff,

sleepy, and seemingly more bow legged, feeling inside that something quite different had just happened to me, and this was true.

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Santa Anita Branding

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Coming home against the wind

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