The Vilisar Times

AN INDEPENDENCE-DAY PATROL
Saturday, 17 September 2005

Yesterday, on Mexican Independence Day, Bob on Gus, Simon on his “mula” and I on Alazan leave on a mounted patrol through “El Magre”, a particular corner of the ranch. We are checking on livestock, on general conditions and are making sure that no one is growing “weed” on the spread. This is harvest time and the Mexican Army is out in strength to search and destroy. Bob and Simon have heard here and there that someone might be using remote acreage for a private grow operation. Whenever these exist, even the livestock is threatened since cattle are butchered to feed the harvest workers. It is just good business-operating procedure: keep expenses down by stealing a cow or two to feed the workers.

Bob thinks that most levels of the judicial system are corrupted in Mexico: drugs mean big money and therefore even more corruption. The only element that everyone is really afraid of is the Mexican Army, which Bob thinks is tough but straight. Bob is not about to have the Army find a secret marijuana plantation on his ranch, confiscate his property and throw him in the calaboose. He runs a clean ship and wants it kept that way. I looked up “marijuana” and found that it the word originated in Mexico in the thirties and is just a slang term, though why it should be called “Marie & John” is still a puzzle to me.

Simon has re-shod all the horses. After two days on patrol like this or even only one if they are scouring the hills to round up cattle, the horses need to be re-shod. It is a skill that all the cowboys seem to have. They have a big supply of horseshoe nails on the ranch. Once he is sporting new “zapatos” (shoes), I bridle and saddle Alazan.

To get the patrol started I provide a little rural amusement for the crowd. Once all the riders are ready, I put my foot in the stirrup and swing up just as Alazan starts to walk forward. For some reason I do not land squarely in the saddle and, in one smooth and impressive motion, I keep right on rolling over the saddle and fall off onto the ground on my back on the other side. Gasps all round. Never one to ignore collecting kudos, I dust myself off and try mounting again. This time Alazan decides not to walk so I am unable to prove to the bystanders that falling off had been my intention the whole time. Darn that horse anyway!

The ride turns out to be a rather exhausting 8.5 hours. The sun is hot for most of the day; horses, especially, but riders too are sweating and thirsty until late in the day when, for the first time in a week, dark clouds start building.

At the beginning, though, it is not too bad since most of the route is downhill into the valley of the Tutuaca River. It is the same river that is so wonderfully visible from the ranchhouse window (and on the opening page of www.tutuaca.org, the ranch’s website. Just for the record, it looks a hundredfold more beautiful in real life).

Rancho el Nogal is 17,000 acres (7,000 hectares), a mountain ranch situated high (2,000 – 2,500 metres*) in the Sierra Madre Tarahumara range and therefore most of it steeply sloping. This means that for any given horizontal mile there is a lot of sloping land. Bob tells me that the ranch has many, many, many gulches, arroyos, canyons, draws - call them what you may. But there are at least 29 streams and rivers carrying year-round water. The rivers are the Tutuaca itself and the Pescado. The ranch lies relatively close to the Continental Divide and the rivers here all run to the Pacific; first to a big dam near Hermosillo, thence to another dam near Obregon where the water is used to irrigate the grain-basket farms near that latter city. (In the U.S.A. the border between New Mexico and Arizona is a surveyor’s straight line. But it runs generally along the Continental Divide too. The region was once all part of “New Mexico” but after the Gadsden Purchase, which came shortly after the US-Mexican War in the mid-to-late 1840’s, Arizona was hived off into a separate state.)

The 17,000-acre ranch will sustain about 700-800 head of cattle (each cow therefore need over 20 acres to graze on). Since there has been a BSE scare in the U.S.A., Mexico recently banned the import of beef, the price of beef shot up in Mexico and this has presented Bob with a good opportunity to sell beef cows. At present, therefore, there are only about 350 head on the ranch. There are also about 30 horses and mules.

At first we ride over hillcrests to meet the river on it next twist through the gorge. The meadows are full of bright yellow flowers, Yerbanis, Eli tells me later. Eventually we follow the river more closely, weaving and wading back and forth across it, the occasional deeper waters forcing us to pull our feet up to avoid getting them wet, the horses stopping occasionally to drink. Simon leads us and Bob brings up the rear mainly because Alazan likes to walk slowly and Bob likes to give him a smack on his hindquarters with the end of his lasso from time to time if the horse dawdles too much.

The river gorges are beautiful and waters are musical as they gurgle and bubble over the loose rocks and smoothly polished rocks. The horses’ hooves as they pick their way over the underwater stones take on a deeper, faintly echoing sound. The light coming into the valley has an Umbrian purity to it. Bob tells me that one can often spot javelina (wild pigs) in family groups on the heights above. Occasionally, to avoid a deep and narrow portion of water, we urge the mounts straight up from the river, climbing nearly vertically to some 100 feet and then later coming back down to the water.

Eventually, after two or three hours, we leave the river and work our way “inland” to look at a narrow, tree-filled arroyo that Bob had never visited before. Leaving the horses in some shade on high rocks, we clamber down into the gorge, sliding on the seats of our trousers at times. My legs seem rubbery from the hours in the saddle so far. We hit the valley floor about mid-way up the stream. The high waters of late have scoured the gorge of debris; the water-course is basically over bare, smoothly polished rock. We hop back and forth over the water, working our way first upstream and then down. The walls of the draw are steep and the gorge narrow; the water is clear enough to drink straight and for us to fill up our water bottle.

At one spot we find a large horizontal cave, perhaps 150 feet across that has been used over the many years by the Indians for shelter. At the higher end the roof is black from many campfires. A small clearing in front would have provided a shady garden and the Indians would hunt and gather from the surrounding countryside.

On the climb back out to the horses, I feel very weak and dizzy. Am I suffering from the mile-high altitude? Or am I just sorely (sic) out of shape? I make it, puffing and steaming. It is early afternoon and the heat is definitely noticeable.

In addition to my leather hiking boots and my straw “Borsalino” hat, I am wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and long “cargo” trousers. The trousers now have a huge rip from the waist vertically down the side where the horse got too close to a tree, a branch hooked a fold in the cloth, and tore it for 6-8 inches. Underneath the skin begins to darken in black and blue. In the course of the day, in addition to rolling right over the saddle in trying to get on back at the ranch and thereby sustaining a bruise (to my pride and) my elbow, which is beginning to ache, I am also brushed hard by an overhead branch that gives me a skin abrasion even through my straw hat and am scrubbed hard across the left shoulder by another branch on the way up the side of a mountain. The trees are not closely spaced for the most part and there is plenty of room to get through the many live oaks, occasional mountain ash and scotch pines, and the flat plate-type cacti, which at present often have a peach-sized fruit growing on them (at one stop I pick one; it is very tender and a beautiful dark blue or purple inside though without a strong flavour; lemon juice and sugar would no doubt help. The Apaches, I know, used to make a sticky fruity candy out of these. There are a lot of very fine needles on the outside so one needs to be careful how one handles them.)

Bob and Simon have decided to pay a visit to a ranch on the other side of the mountain. Rather than ride all the way back and then up a parallel arroyo, it is decided simply to climb over this mountain. Simply! We start up, no real trail visible. Simon, more or less born on this ranch, knows nearly every crevice. We keep climbing, doubling back on occasion to find a way through a copse or to overcome a ridge or fence. It is frequently so steep that even Simon dismounts from his mula and we all lead our mounts, all of us struggling to climb. My weak feeling is intensifying and I occasionally have to ban the thought of sitting down with a cold beer from my mind in order to keep going. Slipping and sliding we go ever higher.

Eventually, exhausted and sore, we stop for a break. Bob and Simon decide that, since both Bob and I are nearly played out, Simon should go on to the other ranch alone while Bob and I start back. Simon, still fresh it seems, climbs aboard and continues over the lip of the hill. After a few more minutes of rest, Bob and I tighten the saddle girths and strike off in the opposite direction to find the faint path that will lead us past the high mesa and back to the ranch. Do the horses realise this? Are they walking more quickly and climbing more energetically?

We pick up the path after a couple of false starts and head up a long arroyo. We have first to cross the stream and then to find our way up it. Farther along, two trees have been blown down across the narrow water. We can’t get over them. The sides of the stream are muddy and slippery and the horses cannot seem to get over. We get off and find ourselves slipping and sliding as we pull the horses behind us. Once, just as the horse is leaping up to clear the log, I slip down the bank, find my boots in the water and the horse about to step on me as he comes over the log. I scramble out of the way and see that Bob is struggling as well. Gus, his horse, is balking at the second log and I smack him hard on his hindquarters with the reins of my horse. Gus leaps forward and they are over. I follow after a little persuasion to Alazan. Played out, I can hardly get myself back into the saddle.

On we go, up, down, across, the horses picking their way across the bad footing. My pelvic girdle is beginning to hurt badly despite the aspirin I have taken prophylactically. Eventually I begin to recognise spots on the trail from last Sunday: a dead tree picked over by woodpeckers; an Orange-Crush bottle; a turn in the trail; some oddly-shaped rocks. There are no manmade markings whatsoever: you just have to ride the trails and remember how to get home. Local knowledge.

At one point before we start the last very steep trail, Bob dismounts and decides to walk. At first I think it is because it is so steep and he is favouring the horse. But in reality his back and bum hurt so badly he needs a break from the saddle. He is anyway no slower on foot than I am on Alazan who is careful picking his way down the narrow trail.

Bob asks if we want to take a swim in a swimming hole on the Pescado River, at the bottom of a very steep canyon a half hour short of the ranchhouse. Definitely! As we proceed, the sky to the north begins to boil up with dark towering clouds. We hear rolling thunder and, from the high ground, see bolts of lightning slashing from on high down into distant valleys. We hesitate about the swim but decide to have a quick one anyway.

At dusk we drop the horses’ reins next to the swimming hole, strip off and walk into the six-foot-deep flowing stream waters just before they go over a little waterfall. Pretty. The water is cold at first but, after adjusting to it, it is the perfect refresher.

After five minutes, with large drops of rain beginning to fall and the light nearly gone, we scramble into our clothing and boots, climb into the saddles again and start up the far side of the arroyo on the way home. The horses know the way now. Good, because, although it is not totally black and I can see the path if it is primarily of rock, I cannot make out the footing. Alazan goes carefully as usual, sticking now rigidly to the beaten path, twisting back and forth and dropping down stepped rocks or small rocky gullies. Sometimes he has to turn within his own length. I am sore but even in the light rain and darkness I do not feel afraid. I was far more apprehensive on my first ride out last Sunday.

As we come over the last hill we see a faint light in the distance that must be the ranchhouse. On the flat, the horses break into a trot. They are ready for anything but we are careful to ride faster only in open areas since the horses make no allowances for low branches or high wires. Down into the gulch and into the stream that runs behind the ranchhouse, up the steep incline and through the open gate into the corral yard. We’re back.

With an effort, our bodies stiff and our legs rubbery, we step down, loosen the saddle girths, and put the heavy saddles into the walkway between the house and the corral yard where they live on a railing when not in use. Bob leads Alazan and Gus through the outside gates, slips their bridles off and turns them out into the pasture. There are no stables at Rancho el Nogal: animals live outside. It’s 2030.

Inside, where they are wondering why a three hour cakewalk should take eight hours, we find Kathleen reading a bedtime story to Eli, the six-year-old, and Sebastiaan, the new cowboy from the Netherlands. I get a beer from the storeroom. I am too tired to eat. Bob swallows a mouthful of aspirin for his low-back pain. I drink my beer. An hour later I am in bed.

posted by rjb,
8:42 pm

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		News From Ron and Kathy Bird__
For more pictures of Ron and Kathy Bird and the Vilisar, see these beautiful photos by Albert Pang Click here to e-mail Ron Click here to e-mail Kathy Archives January 2004 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 February 2007 March 2007 Vilisar Translation Expert German-English translation available; business and finance our specialty. SachverstÃ¤ndige Deutsch-Englische Ãbersetzung; GeschÃ¤ft und Finanz unser Spezialgebiet.	Saturday, September 17, 2005 AN INDEPENDENCE-DAY PATROL Saturday, 17 September 2005 Yesterday, on Mexican Independence Day, Bob on Gus, Simon on his “mula” and I on Alazan leave on a mounted patrol through “El Magre”, a particular corner of the ranch. We are checking on livestock, on general conditions and are making sure that no one is growing “weed” on the spread. This is harvest time and the Mexican Army is out in strength to search and destroy. Bob and Simon have heard here and there that someone might be using remote acreage for a private grow operation. Whenever these exist, even the livestock is threatened since cattle are butchered to feed the harvest workers. It is just good business-operating procedure: keep expenses down by stealing a cow or two to feed the workers. Bob thinks that most levels of the judicial system are corrupted in Mexico: drugs mean big money and therefore even more corruption. The only element that everyone is really afraid of is the Mexican Army, which Bob thinks is tough but straight. Bob is not about to have the Army find a secret marijuana plantation on his ranch, confiscate his property and throw him in the calaboose. He runs a clean ship and wants it kept that way. I looked up “marijuana” and found that it the word originated in Mexico in the thirties and is just a slang term, though why it should be called “Marie & John” is still a puzzle to me. Simon has re-shod all the horses. After two days on patrol like this or even only one if they are scouring the hills to round up cattle, the horses need to be re-shod. It is a skill that all the cowboys seem to have. They have a big supply of horseshoe nails on the ranch. Once he is sporting new “zapatos” (shoes), I bridle and saddle Alazan. To get the patrol started I provide a little rural amusement for the crowd. Once all the riders are ready, I put my foot in the stirrup and swing up just as Alazan starts to walk forward. For some reason I do not land squarely in the saddle and, in one smooth and impressive motion, I keep right on rolling over the saddle and fall off onto the ground on my back on the other side. Gasps all round. Never one to ignore collecting kudos, I dust myself off and try mounting again. This time Alazan decides not to walk so I am unable to prove to the bystanders that falling off had been my intention the whole time. Darn that horse anyway! The ride turns out to be a rather exhausting 8.5 hours. The sun is hot for most of the day; horses, especially, but riders too are sweating and thirsty until late in the day when, for the first time in a week, dark clouds start building. At the beginning, though, it is not too bad since most of the route is downhill into the valley of the Tutuaca River. It is the same river that is so wonderfully visible from the ranchhouse window (and on the opening page of www.tutuaca.org, the ranch’s website. Just for the record, it looks a hundredfold more beautiful in real life). Rancho el Nogal is 17,000 acres (7,000 hectares), a mountain ranch situated high (2,000 – 2,500 metres) in the Sierra Madre Tarahumara range and therefore most of it steeply sloping. This means that for any given horizontal mile there is a lot of sloping land. Bob tells me that the ranch has many, many, many gulches, arroyos, canyons, draws - call them what you may. But there are at least 29 streams and rivers carrying year-round water. The rivers are the Tutuaca itself and the Pescado. The ranch lies relatively close to the Continental Divide and the rivers here all run to the Pacific; first to a big dam near Hermosillo, thence to another dam near Obregon where the water is used to irrigate the grain-basket farms near that latter city. (In the U.S.A. the border between New Mexico and Arizona is a surveyor’s straight line. But it runs generally along the Continental Divide too. The region was once all part of “New Mexico” but after the Gadsden Purchase, which came shortly after the US-Mexican War in the mid-to-late 1840’s, Arizona was hived off into a separate state.) The 17,000-acre ranch will sustain about 700-800 head of cattle (each cow therefore need over 20 acres to graze on). Since there has been a BSE scare in the U.S.A., Mexico recently banned the import of beef, the price of beef shot up in Mexico and this has presented Bob with a good opportunity to sell beef cows. At present, therefore, there are only about 350 head on the ranch. There are also about 30 horses and mules. At first we ride over hillcrests to meet the river on it next twist through the gorge. The meadows are full of bright yellow flowers, Yerbanis, Eli tells me later. Eventually we follow the river more closely, weaving and wading back and forth across it, the occasional deeper waters forcing us to pull our feet up to avoid getting them wet, the horses stopping occasionally to drink. Simon leads us and Bob brings up the rear mainly because Alazan likes to walk slowly and Bob likes to give him a smack on his hindquarters with the end of his lasso from time to time if the horse dawdles too much. The river gorges are beautiful and waters are musical as they gurgle and bubble over the loose rocks and smoothly polished rocks. The horses’ hooves as they pick their way over the underwater stones take on a deeper, faintly echoing sound. The light coming into the valley has an Umbrian purity to it. Bob tells me that one can often spot javelina (wild pigs) in family groups on the heights above. Occasionally, to avoid a deep and narrow portion of water, we urge the mounts straight up from the river, climbing nearly vertically to some 100 feet and then later coming back down to the water. Eventually, after two or three hours, we leave the river and work our way “inland” to look at a narrow, tree-filled arroyo that Bob had never visited before. Leaving the horses in some shade on high rocks, we clamber down into the gorge, sliding on the seats of our trousers at times. My legs seem rubbery from the hours in the saddle so far. We hit the valley floor about mid-way up the stream. The high waters of late have scoured the gorge of debris; the water-course is basically over bare, smoothly polished rock. We hop back and forth over the water, working our way first upstream and then down. The walls of the draw are steep and the gorge narrow; the water is clear enough to drink straight and for us to fill up our water bottle. At one spot we find a large horizontal cave, perhaps 150 feet across that has been used over the many years by the Indians for shelter. At the higher end the roof is black from many campfires. A small clearing in front would have provided a shady garden and the Indians would hunt and gather from the surrounding countryside. On the climb back out to the horses, I feel very weak and dizzy. Am I suffering from the mile-high altitude? Or am I just sorely (sic) out of shape? I make it, puffing and steaming. It is early afternoon and the heat is definitely noticeable. In addition to my leather hiking boots and my straw “Borsalino” hat, I am wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and long “cargo” trousers. The trousers now have a huge rip from the waist vertically down the side where the horse got too close to a tree, a branch hooked a fold in the cloth, and tore it for 6-8 inches. Underneath the skin begins to darken in black and blue. In the course of the day, in addition to rolling right over the saddle in trying to get on back at the ranch and thereby sustaining a bruise (to my pride and) my elbow, which is beginning to ache, I am also brushed hard by an overhead branch that gives me a skin abrasion even through my straw hat and am scrubbed hard across the left shoulder by another branch on the way up the side of a mountain. The trees are not closely spaced for the most part and there is plenty of room to get through the many live oaks, occasional mountain ash and scotch pines, and the flat plate-type cacti, which at present often have a peach-sized fruit growing on them (at one stop I pick one; it is very tender and a beautiful dark blue or purple inside though without a strong flavour; lemon juice and sugar would no doubt help. The Apaches, I know, used to make a sticky fruity candy out of these. There are a lot of very fine needles on the outside so one needs to be careful how one handles them.) Bob and Simon have decided to pay a visit to a ranch on the other side of the mountain. Rather than ride all the way back and then up a parallel arroyo, it is decided simply to climb over this mountain. Simply! We start up, no real trail visible. Simon, more or less born on this ranch, knows nearly every crevice. We keep climbing, doubling back on occasion to find a way through a copse or to overcome a ridge or fence. It is frequently so steep that even Simon dismounts from his mula and we all lead our mounts, all of us struggling to climb. My weak feeling is intensifying and I occasionally have to ban the thought of sitting down with a cold beer from my mind in order to keep going. Slipping and sliding we go ever higher. Eventually, exhausted and sore, we stop for a break. Bob and Simon decide that, since both Bob and I are nearly played out, Simon should go on to the other ranch alone while Bob and I start back. Simon, still fresh it seems, climbs aboard and continues over the lip of the hill. After a few more minutes of rest, Bob and I tighten the saddle girths and strike off in the opposite direction to find the faint path that will lead us past the high mesa and back to the ranch. Do the horses realise this? Are they walking more quickly and climbing more energetically? We pick up the path after a couple of false starts and head up a long arroyo. We have first to cross the stream and then to find our way up it. Farther along, two trees have been blown down across the narrow water. We can’t get over them. The sides of the stream are muddy and slippery and the horses cannot seem to get over. We get off and find ourselves slipping and sliding as we pull the horses behind us. Once, just as the horse is leaping up to clear the log, I slip down the bank, find my boots in the water and the horse about to step on me as he comes over the log. I scramble out of the way and see that Bob is struggling as well. Gus, his horse, is balking at the second log and I smack him hard on his hindquarters with the reins of my horse. Gus leaps forward and they are over. I follow after a little persuasion to Alazan. Played out, I can hardly get myself back into the saddle. On we go, up, down, across, the horses picking their way across the bad footing. My pelvic girdle is beginning to hurt badly despite the aspirin I have taken prophylactically. Eventually I begin to recognise spots on the trail from last Sunday: a dead tree picked over by woodpeckers; an Orange-Crush bottle; a turn in the trail; some oddly-shaped rocks. There are no manmade markings whatsoever: you just have to ride the trails and remember how to get home. Local knowledge. At one point before we start the last very steep trail, Bob dismounts and decides to walk. At first I think it is because it is so steep and he is favouring the horse. But in reality his back and bum hurt so badly he needs a break from the saddle. He is anyway no slower on foot than I am on Alazan who is careful picking his way down the narrow trail. Bob asks if we want to take a swim in a swimming hole on the Pescado River, at the bottom of a very steep canyon a half hour short of the ranchhouse. Definitely! As we proceed, the sky to the north begins to boil up with dark towering clouds. We hear rolling thunder and, from the high ground, see bolts of lightning slashing from on high down into distant valleys. We hesitate about the swim but decide to have a quick one anyway. At dusk we drop the horses’ reins next to the swimming hole, strip off and walk into the six-foot-deep flowing stream waters just before they go over a little waterfall. Pretty. The water is cold at first but, after adjusting to it, it is the perfect refresher. After five minutes, with large drops of rain beginning to fall and the light nearly gone, we scramble into our clothing and boots, climb into the saddles again and start up the far side of the arroyo on the way home. The horses know the way now. Good, because, although it is not totally black and I can see the path if it is primarily of rock, I cannot make out the footing. Alazan goes carefully as usual, sticking now rigidly to the beaten path, twisting back and forth and dropping down stepped rocks or small rocky gullies. Sometimes he has to turn within his own length. I am sore but even in the light rain and darkness I do not feel afraid. I was far more apprehensive on my first ride out last Sunday. As we come over the last hill we see a faint light in the distance that must be the ranchhouse. On the flat, the horses break into a trot. They are ready for anything but we are careful to ride faster only in open areas since the horses make no allowances for low branches or high wires. Down into the gulch and into the stream that runs behind the ranchhouse, up the steep incline and through the open gate into the corral yard. We’re back. With an effort, our bodies stiff and our legs rubbery, we step down, loosen the saddle girths, and put the heavy saddles into the walkway between the house and the corral yard where they live on a railing when not in use. Bob leads Alazan and Gus through the outside gates, slips their bridles off and turns them out into the pasture. There are no stables at Rancho el Nogal: animals live outside. It’s 2030. Inside, where they are wondering why a three hour cakewalk should take eight hours, we find Kathleen reading a bedtime story to Eli, the six-year-old, and Sebastiaan, the new cowboy from the Netherlands. I get a beer from the storeroom. I am too tired to eat. Bob swallows a mouthful of aspirin for his low-back pain. I drink my beer. An hour later I am in bed. posted by rjb,* *8:42 pm* Comments: Post a Comment
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Saturday, September 17, 2005