Yes, that bastion of urban colloquialism. Dude. It's a word that is so reliably present in the American lexicon that most people have forgotten its meaning. My high-school Industrial Technology teacher, Mr. Sater, had a rule against its use, unless it was done properly. Since I respected him so, being the only teacher (or person in general) that I ever consistently called "Sir", and being the next-door neighbor to his daughter, I followed his express wishes without ever complaining.
I figured out, as a high-school freshmen, what that word meant. Though I haven't always used it correctly since, I've made a mental note every time I've misused it. A dude, besides being a slacker pot-aficionado with a penchant for White Russians, is a person who is unfamiliar with horsemanship. More specifically, it's a person who vacations on a ranch, but is otherwise a resident of an urban area. This is also where we get the term "Dude Ranch".
I like to think of myself as a capable man. I can swing a hammer, wire a light switch, split wood, hunt, fish, and all kinds of manly shit. But horses... Well, I just haven't ridden a whole lot of them.
Back when I was a 20-something, I went a few times with my young wife to A&A Ranch, which is completely misleading. It was a stable next to an I-170 overpass. Calling it a ranch of any kind is just a damn lie. It's since been renamed Ace Stables, but for $20 and a tip to the trail guide, you could go on a half-hour ride. The guide was typically a teenage girl, and this had absolutely nothing to do with why I enjoyed going.
Time and unforeseen occurrence being what they are, the universe conspired to make sure that I had very little opportunity to ride for the last thirteen years or so. I like horses just fine. I'm not afraid of them, and I even have what I feel is a natural rapport. I do with most animals.
This past weekend, I set up a ride at Koli Equestrian Center for me and my family. I don't recommend an hour-and-a-half in a saddle if you haven't done it frequently enough. My ass is sore. Very sore.
The office was neatly decorated, but utilitarian. It was clearly inhabited by people who work for a living. There were two shelters out in the pasture with an adjacent exercise ring. Two dozen horses were tied off under the shelters, well shaded and seemingly quite content. We met with our guide, a very nice Native girl who was maybe twenty-five, named Silvia. She took us out to meet our horses and we were asked to stand outside the corral until called for. The boss, a very impressive looking Native with a proper cowboy hat, called us over one at at time to mount up.
My darling daughter got an older horse named Alice. Silvia told us that it used to be Crazy Alice, but she'd had calmed down a lot in her later years, so it had been shortened. Alice had a history of having thrown every employee who had tried to ride her while she was being broken.
Mrs. got a beautiful Paint named Butch. He seemed a little shorter than my mount, but he was calm and loving. Butch was of certain age at around 16, and had a companion that he liked to spend time with. Of course his name would be Cassidy. Had it been me, I'd have gone with Sundance.
My horse was also a beautiful Paint named Slider. She was only slightly older that Butch, and otherwise well mannered. She didn't seem to care for her bit and tossed her head frequently during the ride. We managed to get along well enough despite the perceived discomfort.
Unlike most trail rides, we weren't relegated to the straight line business of following he leader. The loosely defined trail gave us the option to follow several different paths, with each of us being in the lead at any given time. Slider had a natural tendency to want to be in front, and as a result, walked a little faster than everyone else. So, I practiced with her a little. We'd trot from time to time. I'd lead her back and forth on the path, and she was quite willing to comply. Besides feeling a need to hurry, she was very pleasant and well-mannered. Sometimes, I'd hold her up to wait for the others and turn circles with her among the sage brush. From a distance, I imagined that she looked like she was dancing.
The Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona is a vast place. Life is hard, but not impossible. Though the guide groused about the lack of wildlife during our ride, I didn't think it was that bad. The tough and hardy vegetation is beautiful in its harsh way. Lizards scampered about in abundance and colonies of ants toiled on a graciously cool day. We spotted a few red-tail hawks, one grey hawk, and a lonely old coyote.
A friend of mine, who understands my love of nature, said that I should spend some time in the woods. Well, this was far from it, but it was still a beautiful way to spend an afternoon. Time spent in nature isn't a labor of any kind. It's calming. Every sound is soft. Every creature, noble. For ninety minutes, I got to abide with the world according to natural law, and with a sweet Painted mare to bear me along on a serene stroll.
There is a pleasantness in being an observer in the natural world. There's very little commitment except to appreciate it and protect it. The sights and sounds of creatures great and small always give me a measure of peace that I couldn't find anywhere else. With the soundtrack being little more than the wind in the mesquites, and the soft clop clop of hooves on the gritty Sonoran soil, I'll admit to being no cowboy. But neither am I a dude.
