I’m sitting, waiting for the library to open, down at the magistrate office. The library doesn’t open until 10, and I misjudged and got here at 9:15. People are here begging to see judges about speeding tickets, about anything they might need a judge for. Turns out this is more interesting anyways, than sitting in that tiny “library.” So I’m eavesdropping on their lives. (The library is in the town hall type building. Apparently they don't value their libraries enough to give them full buildings, just a small amount of floor space in order to say it exists. The magistrate's office is 2 floors down, on the first floor. It's the only place with a lot of chairs, so I can sit almost unnoticed here.)
There’s a woman here begging to get a charge dismissed. She is middle aged, slim, with combed back blond, dyed-looking hair, but in a classy way. Glasses. Jeans and a neat black tshirt. A polished, well-spoken voice.
She says, politely, after being denied on something once—“Let me tell you why I’m here. I’ve spent the last two years of my life in college, trying to improve my life. I lost my job because of a downturn in business, and now I can’t even get a job at Home Depot. I don’t want to end up in Walmart. But I’m having a hard time because of this. I can’t get a job because of this and I just want to go on with my life.”
The woman at the counter says, here’s what you can do—she explains something, and then says that the charge, if compartmentalized a certain way, will come up as “judgment set aside”
So the woman says, she has another charge dismissed because of her completion of a program. And conversation goes back and forth, it’s a little bit lost in the other chatter.
The woman asks what she can put on the job application, until it says, “charges set aside.” She’s told she can’t put “no criminal record” yet, in case they do a check, because as of now it’s still there, until the proceedings go through. She nods her head, says, “okay.” Wishes she had her reading glasses to see the form they pushed through the window for her to sign.
When she walks away, towards me, her hair looks gray, so maybe it was only the light from upstairs hitting it that made it look so blonde. She has more wrinkles than the smooth skin of her arms would have predicted.
Now there’s a woman with a traffic ticket. She’s a little heavier, with baggy light blue pants, and a darker blue shirt. The outfit of lots of past-middle-aged people, cotton and comfortable, but decent looking. Camouflaging in its sameness, and the idea that its age-appropriate, since she’s past wearing form-flattering clothes. She has short, dark gray hair, and dark eyebrows and glasses, and right now her features are all making upside-down triangles on her face, her lips folded in and all her wrinkles pointed down.
—she wants to pay the 190 dollars now and get it over with and not go to court. She’s told she can pay 26 now and get it lowered by going to traffic school. “How much is traffic school?” 103 dollars, apparently. “So ya’ll going to get it one way or the other.” The woman at the counter gives her a form as the lady bangs her wallet down onto the counter. “I haven’t had a ticket in 30 years, and ya’ll—190 dollars.”
As a side note, Prescott Valley is very attentive about their speeding tickets. They park vans all along the roads and hang up cameras, and take pictures of you and send you your tickets. Everyone I’ve met warns me not to speed.
Customers and the lines wander off, and then an older man who’s been hanging around steps forward as a younger man steps out from a door by the window, shaking his head. He grabs the younger man’s arm, and they exchange cautious hello’s. Then they go to sit about five chairs down and talk.
Turns out the younger one is an EMT. He was responding to a call that a woman had died of a heart attack, and crossed an intersection. The conversation isn’t clear at first, why there was an accident, who was at fault, and what happened. From what they say, there’s a video of it (of course) from the intersection, and then they talk in circles until they reconstruct it all in a roundabout, careful way. Emotion is there but it’s held back, and the only way to know they know something, together, is from how familiar they’re being, ready to confess details but each still shaking their heads in some sort of disbelief.
So the EMT is saying, he was driving an ambulance. He went through the intersection and had slowed down, but sped up. And then the truck hit him.
The driver was placed on “unpaid administrative leave” because of the accident and he says it’s not his fault that he was hit when he was crossing the intersection. Turns out he was going 21 when he crossed, then sped up to 35 and so he was faulted for not slowing down enough. But the intersection was apparently hard to see through—with the mountains and other vehicles in the way.
The conversation continues, and it seems that what must have happened was that he took the ambulance through a red light—mentions they don’t have light changing devices here. He went through what looked like an empty intersection, says the video shows him looking “about four times,” but the other guy was coming down through, somehow, and hit the ambulance as he crossed the intersection at the speed limit of 50. The driver of the man in the truck wasn’t charged at all. All that, and the man driving the truck finally says something, referencing the fact that it was him who hit the ambulance, although he never says it directly.
Other guy—“I heard you lost your job and I just wanted to come down and see how you were doing. Worst day of my life too.” Then he goes through the logistics on his side, that he saw the ambulance, but only had a second, and says he thought he tried to avoid it, says he turned the wheel. But his truck wheels were straight when he looked at them afterwards, so he didn’t turn to the left at all. The other guy in the ambulance, the non-driving EMT, was injured. The EMT here says—“I’ll probably never be able to drive any official vehicle again.”
He was young, a little pudgy, wearing a green and brown checked shirt and with blondish hair that was gelled. He told the man, when asked, that he was single, but he hated to borrow money from his parents because that made him “feel like a jerk,” because he couldn’t keep his job and now he had to rely on them.
No one else was in the lobby area. It’s just a row of fairly cushy but basic chairs, dirty, dark red and purple alternating. Some of them were out of sight of the window so I didn’t feel awkward sitting there at first. But then the people who came with their claims were gone, and the noisy background was only intermittent with the starting up and stopping of a generator. Even the pretty girl with a little kid wasn’t there anymore, her daughter having tugged her back upstairs. The mother had a smooth, almost-beautiful face, with darker skin and dark eyes and long dark hair. She was wearing tight navy jeans and a black tanktop, and had a few tattoos on her shoulders. She was waiting for her husband, or at least “Daddy,” as she referenced him to the little girl, Tenisha, who had dusky skin and ringlets of light brown hair. The little girl ran around cutely, screaming occasionally, until she finally got candy, at which point she settled down to clearly be good for the minute, so she could have her peanut m&m’s. I don’t know how old the mom was. Probably early twenties. But she was wearing these black skater sneakers that looked like the kind skater wannabes wear in high school, so maybe she dropped out of high school, never moved on in the fashion department, I don’t know. I didn’t see whether or not she was wearing a ring.
The men’s conversation was continuing but the generator stopped completely. When they started glancing over at me, sitting only a few chairs away, I felt creepy and packed up my computer and left. As I walked away, I heard the man saying to the other, “My wife said it wouldn’t do any good, but I just wanted to see if I could talk to you, and just see how you were doing…”
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sedona daytrip
Today I journeyed to Sedona. The weather being perfect, the truck being friendly, and the radio station playing good songs, I considered making the 100 more mile trek to the Grand Canyon, since I want to see it so badly. Of course, the truck had none of this. The thing needs a name, cause it definitely has a personality. I get maybe a mile past the Sedona exit, and all of a sudden it downshifts and slows down to about 40 miles an hour. So I pump the gas, which sometimes works, and the vehicle bucked a little, and then I smelled burning rubber. Shit. I got to the shoulder, which fortunately is a heck of a lot wider on 17 than it is on 89A, and puttered there around 35mph, which is all it would go before revving and growling and pissing at me. So I stopped for a moment and let it breathe. Figuring anger wasn’t the best route, I patted it nicely and started it back up again. Gently accelerating, I worked it up to 50—the speed limit was 75, the truck’s given max speed 85—and got to the next exit. Having gotten its way, the truck proceeded to take me very nicely into Sedona.
I guess I can’t fault the truck too much, because Sedona was one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen. Dust by the side of the road turns red, and then all of a sudden the tan, green-scrub covered trees show red streaks, and then the trees get sparser, and all of a sudden red rock formations start popping up into the blue sky everywhere. It was amazing. So beautiful, I didn’t even mind that the map didn’t mark the difference between 89S and 89N, so I headed for about 10 miles in the “wrong” direction, thus traversing more of the forested area and seeing gorgeous red rolling mountains spread out from the rather gently (compared to last week) winding road.
But finally I got on path, and drove some down Dry Creek Rd, which takes you back into the barer mountains, where trail heads dot the sides of the road (unmarked, slyly enough) and mountains stand there to be climbed. Perusing the newspaper listing climbs, I found one that was not only recommended, a good distance, and the “strenuous” level, but also on a road I recognized from being on. Bear Mountain. I don’t know how, but somehow I pulled right into the correct trailhead. Score for navigation skills…luck…whatever…
Bear Mountain was a sort of rectangular-looking tower of rock, rising like a rhombus out of a hilly incline. The trails aren’t blazed, you just go where the apparently obvious trail leads. Of course, obvious is relative, given that the mountain is rocky, so it’s not like you’re winding through trees and when the undergrowth gets thicker, you know you may be heading off in the wrong direction. Instead, you avoid the prickly pear and the yucca plants, and hope you’re following the correct bare path of rock. My only major sidetrack was up a wash, where I went straight instead of turning right. After doing some all-four-appendages climbing, ducking under a giant cactus, and turning to find myself clutching a sloping side of the mountain that, while not exactly a prepicice over drop off or anything, looked like it would hurt to slide down, I deduced that I was not on the correct part of the trail. Since “strenuous” hadn’t actually been modified to also mean “dangerous,” I decided there was probably another way to the summit. I crabwalked back down the wash, got back onto the path, and proceeded to the summit, where buzzards cawed and circled, riding the updrafts over the mountains and the valley.
To the right were more tall rock formations, rising past a rock ledge that jutted out like a cliff around some lower winding mountains. To the left were other rock formations, before the whole canyon opened up and it was green valley floor—green being the hardy cactuses, small shrubs, and wiry grass that grew. The floor was traversed by red cracks where the dry earth had opened up, like a giant piece of clay fired too long in the kiln, glazed first with crackly green porcelain color. The sky couldn’t have been more blue. Too bad I’m not a painter, I just wanted to draw and paint as I sat up there and watched the few white clouds move behind the rock towers, darkening the rocks over which they passed from red to maroon and gray.
Then it was time for the descent, less exciting than the climb, but with even more beautiful views. Of course my camera died about ¾ of the way up, but it was enough to just watch the sights change with the descent. An easy, pretty drive home, and then a yummy Arby’s dinner to finish off the day (couldn’t resist their curly fries) and then to find that crazy Chris, co manager of the dog side of things here, was fired and so I should be on the watch for an angry rampage, although that was unlikely and people would be there to prevent it just in case.
Best day off yet
I guess I can’t fault the truck too much, because Sedona was one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen. Dust by the side of the road turns red, and then all of a sudden the tan, green-scrub covered trees show red streaks, and then the trees get sparser, and all of a sudden red rock formations start popping up into the blue sky everywhere. It was amazing. So beautiful, I didn’t even mind that the map didn’t mark the difference between 89S and 89N, so I headed for about 10 miles in the “wrong” direction, thus traversing more of the forested area and seeing gorgeous red rolling mountains spread out from the rather gently (compared to last week) winding road.
But finally I got on path, and drove some down Dry Creek Rd, which takes you back into the barer mountains, where trail heads dot the sides of the road (unmarked, slyly enough) and mountains stand there to be climbed. Perusing the newspaper listing climbs, I found one that was not only recommended, a good distance, and the “strenuous” level, but also on a road I recognized from being on. Bear Mountain. I don’t know how, but somehow I pulled right into the correct trailhead. Score for navigation skills…luck…whatever…
Bear Mountain was a sort of rectangular-looking tower of rock, rising like a rhombus out of a hilly incline. The trails aren’t blazed, you just go where the apparently obvious trail leads. Of course, obvious is relative, given that the mountain is rocky, so it’s not like you’re winding through trees and when the undergrowth gets thicker, you know you may be heading off in the wrong direction. Instead, you avoid the prickly pear and the yucca plants, and hope you’re following the correct bare path of rock. My only major sidetrack was up a wash, where I went straight instead of turning right. After doing some all-four-appendages climbing, ducking under a giant cactus, and turning to find myself clutching a sloping side of the mountain that, while not exactly a prepicice over drop off or anything, looked like it would hurt to slide down, I deduced that I was not on the correct part of the trail. Since “strenuous” hadn’t actually been modified to also mean “dangerous,” I decided there was probably another way to the summit. I crabwalked back down the wash, got back onto the path, and proceeded to the summit, where buzzards cawed and circled, riding the updrafts over the mountains and the valley.
To the right were more tall rock formations, rising past a rock ledge that jutted out like a cliff around some lower winding mountains. To the left were other rock formations, before the whole canyon opened up and it was green valley floor—green being the hardy cactuses, small shrubs, and wiry grass that grew. The floor was traversed by red cracks where the dry earth had opened up, like a giant piece of clay fired too long in the kiln, glazed first with crackly green porcelain color. The sky couldn’t have been more blue. Too bad I’m not a painter, I just wanted to draw and paint as I sat up there and watched the few white clouds move behind the rock towers, darkening the rocks over which they passed from red to maroon and gray.
Then it was time for the descent, less exciting than the climb, but with even more beautiful views. Of course my camera died about ¾ of the way up, but it was enough to just watch the sights change with the descent. An easy, pretty drive home, and then a yummy Arby’s dinner to finish off the day (couldn’t resist their curly fries) and then to find that crazy Chris, co manager of the dog side of things here, was fired and so I should be on the watch for an angry rampage, although that was unlikely and people would be there to prevent it just in case.
Best day off yet
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
First Day Off
So, yesterday being my first day off in seven days at the ranch, I thought it would be nice to sleep in. Funny that the dogs don't agree to cooperate on that one. I dragged out my 5ish wake up time to 6 or 630 before their barking drove me nuts and I got up anyways. I had a relaxing breakfast--read: I had tea and read the news while the dogs went nuts around me--and then decided it was time to head to Jerome.
Jerome is this tiny town a mile above sea level, or, about 2000 feet above Prescott Valley’s 5026 feet. It was once a big mining town, both gold and copper, before they stripped the mines in their response to World War II needs, and everything else before that. In 1957, it was declared a “ghost town,” and, instead of dying off entirely, the remaining residents decided to take advantage of their label, and turn it into a tourist destination. Consequently, Jerome became an “artsy” town, full of pretty art galleries and gift shops, and restaurants. Thinking this a great destination to celebrate my day of freedom from the dogs, I naively set off in the 1983 Chevy Silverado, the ranch vehicle I was also informed I could use for personal use.
The road to Jerome, I89 N, is flat for about 10 miles. And then, it hits the Mingus Mountains, the start of the Prescott State and National forest. Immediately, the road begins to climb. In a mile or so, it becomes a narrow 2 lane road that winds around the mountains. It is literally chiseled into the rock, so that there are at least 8 miles of drop offs on the way—the guard rail the only barrier between you and the rocky fall-offs, so you can look ahead and see parts of the road winding around in front of you, and how much more terrifying terrain you have to cover before it goes around another crazy switchback. It probably wouldn’t have been that bad, had I not been in that stupid truck. Cars lined up behind me as I guided it, shaking (and by shaking, I’m referring to both me AND the truck, the truck probably a little more violently) around those turns.
The cars behind me kept speeding over the double lines to pass me with ease, so, I’m sure the road gets easier with use, although I couldn’t help thinking I’d much rather be driving it in a Mario Kart game, instead of in real life.
Anyways, I get there and proceed to the first tourist trap, the actual “ghost town.” It’s up where the mine used to be, where people would live so they could just start their day right up in the rocky hills, without the extra mile from Jerome. Would have been cool, if the town had provided any direct information about itself. Instead, it was just a bunch of falling down buildings, as well as gutted old cars. The thin old lady at the desk lisped to me, “there’s a lot of history there, and we have a donkey named Pedro, and some chickens you can feed.” Not bothering to tell her it was my day off from feeding animals, I went and walked around, and saw more car parts than I’d ever seen in my life, some chintzy old signs, and came back. “What are those cars from?” I asked her. “Oh, the current owner just dragged them up here. He’s been collecting for a while.”
Minus the strangeness of all the cars perched up there with no one to see them, obscuring the “ghost town” itself (the cars are in no way advertized as part of it) I couldn’t help but think of getting those cars there. “Oh yes,” the lady assured me, patting back her hair. “He drives some of those up.”
Okay. People here are weird. Insane, probably.
After the ‘ghost town,’ I wandered through some of main Jerome, going to the Mining Museum, where finally I learned a little more about the town. It had its sheriffs and its prostitutes and its miners, and apparently at one time was named by the New York Sun as being the “wickedest town in the west.” The biggest thing of note was that, in 1958, when the town decided to make its living off of tourists, it also instituted a stock car race up I89. I’m not sure why there was no more information about this, given that, according to my drive up there, racing cars on that road would make rodeos look tame. But since there wasn’t, I ventured to the gift shops.
After making my obligatory tourist purchases, I got caught in a sudden hail storm. So I took shelter in the Haunted Hamburger (a restaurant located in an old asylum, which is now a hotel) After weathering a power outage, they finally served me up my meat, I mean, lunch. Yay, a hamburger! Don’t tell Dr. Deb, but I’ve decided digestive juices will very nicely keep the meat from actually rotting in my colon. Mmmm, tasty.
I walked around a little more, but when it cleared up I decided to take the road when it was dry, and to check out the local library in Prescott Valley. Apparently, the valley isn’t huge on their books. The library is located on one floor of their small “civic center,” which clearly they spent more money to make it into some wacky glass structure than on its contents, and since I can’t get a card, it doesn’t help me much that they have one full shelf devoted to “westerns” and about 6 shelves of books total, so I can’t even ‘order’ books from nearby libraries. At least there were no dogs there…
I went outside, it being around 5:30, to go home, and turned the key to find no response. Like an idiot I’d left the lights on and the battery had died. I called Rory, who said he’d rescue me, a minute after which the looming storm hit the valley, and so we jumped the truck in a lightning storm.
So, basically, that was enough of an adventure for the week. I figure, I’ll hang out here til the dogs drive me crazy. Considering they’ve been barking all night and morning, cause of the thunder in the night, and feeding a few hours ago, I’m impressed I’ve been here so long…then again, they’ve quieted down, and I’m a bit wiped from my first run at 5000 feet elevation here, so who knows, maybe I’ll last the day.
Oh, and see my pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/zephyr0513/20080910RanchAndRodeoAndJerome?authkey=XgvyUEtfpXM#
They'll keep updating too, as I add them
Jerome is this tiny town a mile above sea level, or, about 2000 feet above Prescott Valley’s 5026 feet. It was once a big mining town, both gold and copper, before they stripped the mines in their response to World War II needs, and everything else before that. In 1957, it was declared a “ghost town,” and, instead of dying off entirely, the remaining residents decided to take advantage of their label, and turn it into a tourist destination. Consequently, Jerome became an “artsy” town, full of pretty art galleries and gift shops, and restaurants. Thinking this a great destination to celebrate my day of freedom from the dogs, I naively set off in the 1983 Chevy Silverado, the ranch vehicle I was also informed I could use for personal use.
The road to Jerome, I89 N, is flat for about 10 miles. And then, it hits the Mingus Mountains, the start of the Prescott State and National forest. Immediately, the road begins to climb. In a mile or so, it becomes a narrow 2 lane road that winds around the mountains. It is literally chiseled into the rock, so that there are at least 8 miles of drop offs on the way—the guard rail the only barrier between you and the rocky fall-offs, so you can look ahead and see parts of the road winding around in front of you, and how much more terrifying terrain you have to cover before it goes around another crazy switchback. It probably wouldn’t have been that bad, had I not been in that stupid truck. Cars lined up behind me as I guided it, shaking (and by shaking, I’m referring to both me AND the truck, the truck probably a little more violently) around those turns.
The cars behind me kept speeding over the double lines to pass me with ease, so, I’m sure the road gets easier with use, although I couldn’t help thinking I’d much rather be driving it in a Mario Kart game, instead of in real life.
Anyways, I get there and proceed to the first tourist trap, the actual “ghost town.” It’s up where the mine used to be, where people would live so they could just start their day right up in the rocky hills, without the extra mile from Jerome. Would have been cool, if the town had provided any direct information about itself. Instead, it was just a bunch of falling down buildings, as well as gutted old cars. The thin old lady at the desk lisped to me, “there’s a lot of history there, and we have a donkey named Pedro, and some chickens you can feed.” Not bothering to tell her it was my day off from feeding animals, I went and walked around, and saw more car parts than I’d ever seen in my life, some chintzy old signs, and came back. “What are those cars from?” I asked her. “Oh, the current owner just dragged them up here. He’s been collecting for a while.”
Minus the strangeness of all the cars perched up there with no one to see them, obscuring the “ghost town” itself (the cars are in no way advertized as part of it) I couldn’t help but think of getting those cars there. “Oh yes,” the lady assured me, patting back her hair. “He drives some of those up.”
Okay. People here are weird. Insane, probably.
After the ‘ghost town,’ I wandered through some of main Jerome, going to the Mining Museum, where finally I learned a little more about the town. It had its sheriffs and its prostitutes and its miners, and apparently at one time was named by the New York Sun as being the “wickedest town in the west.” The biggest thing of note was that, in 1958, when the town decided to make its living off of tourists, it also instituted a stock car race up I89. I’m not sure why there was no more information about this, given that, according to my drive up there, racing cars on that road would make rodeos look tame. But since there wasn’t, I ventured to the gift shops.
After making my obligatory tourist purchases, I got caught in a sudden hail storm. So I took shelter in the Haunted Hamburger (a restaurant located in an old asylum, which is now a hotel) After weathering a power outage, they finally served me up my meat, I mean, lunch. Yay, a hamburger! Don’t tell Dr. Deb, but I’ve decided digestive juices will very nicely keep the meat from actually rotting in my colon. Mmmm, tasty.
I walked around a little more, but when it cleared up I decided to take the road when it was dry, and to check out the local library in Prescott Valley. Apparently, the valley isn’t huge on their books. The library is located on one floor of their small “civic center,” which clearly they spent more money to make it into some wacky glass structure than on its contents, and since I can’t get a card, it doesn’t help me much that they have one full shelf devoted to “westerns” and about 6 shelves of books total, so I can’t even ‘order’ books from nearby libraries. At least there were no dogs there…
I went outside, it being around 5:30, to go home, and turned the key to find no response. Like an idiot I’d left the lights on and the battery had died. I called Rory, who said he’d rescue me, a minute after which the looming storm hit the valley, and so we jumped the truck in a lightning storm.
So, basically, that was enough of an adventure for the week. I figure, I’ll hang out here til the dogs drive me crazy. Considering they’ve been barking all night and morning, cause of the thunder in the night, and feeding a few hours ago, I’m impressed I’ve been here so long…then again, they’ve quieted down, and I’m a bit wiped from my first run at 5000 feet elevation here, so who knows, maybe I’ll last the day.
Oh, and see my pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/zephyr0513/20080910RanchAndRodeoAndJerome?authkey=XgvyUEtfpXM#
They'll keep updating too, as I add them
Monday, September 8, 2008
Arizona Politics
Two nights ago, I went to a rodeo. (Shh, don’t tell Dr. Deb, she’d probably fire me for supporting cruelty to animals and all that leather.) There were two major things I learned: 1) Never become a real cowboy/girl so as to hope to live past 30, and 2) do not say anything too loudly about being liberal.
First lesson number one: being a cowboy is practically the most dangerous thing ever. These guys, for a living, get on a horse or giant bull that has never been trained and pretty much hates people, piss it off with their spurs just a little more, and then try and spend 8 seconds on a thing that is bucking it’s legs and back about six feet high in the air atleast. Oh yeah, and then get out of the way if they are thrown, or get off, if they make it for the full 8 seconds.
Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard of cowboys before. But after spending days with fairly tame horses in pens, and having been simply stepped on by a flighty one who we were trying to treat and getting a big black toe, umm, the whole thing becomes a little more real; horses are huge...
One guy stayed on this insane horse for 8 seconds, and then when the guys on horses trained to rescue them came for him, the bucking horse just took off. Three seconds later, he’d bucked up against a fence, throwing the guy into and over it. He got up…it took a while. Then there was the bronco who threw his guy over his head and then jumped over and around him. Somehow the guy’s head wasn’t squashed in, either, but hey, half an inch closer and the guy would have been dead. Good thing the horses don’t want to trip themselves up on the bundle of idiot flailing around beneath them, or those guys wouldn’t have had a chance. The meaner bulls, on the other hand, took off after their riders, apparently holding it against them for trying to get on their back, hold onto a strap that’s squeezing the animal’s testicles, and stay there for a while. There were 18 year olds who looked like they’d probably walk hunched over by the time they were 30. Keep in mind not everyone was so concerned. As I gasped and groaned and covered my eyes, the three little girls in front of me turned around and laughed at me every time. Okay, so, fine. I also can't watch scary movies. But like, people legit die during these things! I mean, I'm assuming they do, I guess cause my thinking is, umm, how could they not? And then my co-worker Rory was like, “Oh, so sweet, I’m totally gonna try riding one of those bareback sometime.”
Okay Rory. Have fun with that…
Lesson number two:
This was given when, to create a diversion, the announcer started making idle chitchat.
“Who’s a Hillary Clinton fan in here?” he asked. There was silence. Not that the crowd was interacting much in general, so we from the ranch just looked at each other and snickered. Then it got serious.
“Who likes Osama’s cousin, Obama?”
Now the crowd started to boo. Umm, what? Did that actually just happen?
And then: “Who likes McCain?”
Crowd goes wild cheering.
“Yeah! Because who loves freedom?”
More cheers.
We stood our ground with a few half-hearted boos…but then we sort skipped to raising our eyebrows…because, umm, yikes. Way too many large strong rednecked people that it is really NOT a good idea to piss off…
So I learned--Liberalism off of Circle L Ranch is apparently not something you should promote?
First lesson number one: being a cowboy is practically the most dangerous thing ever. These guys, for a living, get on a horse or giant bull that has never been trained and pretty much hates people, piss it off with their spurs just a little more, and then try and spend 8 seconds on a thing that is bucking it’s legs and back about six feet high in the air atleast. Oh yeah, and then get out of the way if they are thrown, or get off, if they make it for the full 8 seconds.
Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard of cowboys before. But after spending days with fairly tame horses in pens, and having been simply stepped on by a flighty one who we were trying to treat and getting a big black toe, umm, the whole thing becomes a little more real; horses are huge...
One guy stayed on this insane horse for 8 seconds, and then when the guys on horses trained to rescue them came for him, the bucking horse just took off. Three seconds later, he’d bucked up against a fence, throwing the guy into and over it. He got up…it took a while. Then there was the bronco who threw his guy over his head and then jumped over and around him. Somehow the guy’s head wasn’t squashed in, either, but hey, half an inch closer and the guy would have been dead. Good thing the horses don’t want to trip themselves up on the bundle of idiot flailing around beneath them, or those guys wouldn’t have had a chance. The meaner bulls, on the other hand, took off after their riders, apparently holding it against them for trying to get on their back, hold onto a strap that’s squeezing the animal’s testicles, and stay there for a while. There were 18 year olds who looked like they’d probably walk hunched over by the time they were 30. Keep in mind not everyone was so concerned. As I gasped and groaned and covered my eyes, the three little girls in front of me turned around and laughed at me every time. Okay, so, fine. I also can't watch scary movies. But like, people legit die during these things! I mean, I'm assuming they do, I guess cause my thinking is, umm, how could they not? And then my co-worker Rory was like, “Oh, so sweet, I’m totally gonna try riding one of those bareback sometime.”
Okay Rory. Have fun with that…
Lesson number two:
This was given when, to create a diversion, the announcer started making idle chitchat.
“Who’s a Hillary Clinton fan in here?” he asked. There was silence. Not that the crowd was interacting much in general, so we from the ranch just looked at each other and snickered. Then it got serious.
“Who likes Osama’s cousin, Obama?”
Now the crowd started to boo. Umm, what? Did that actually just happen?
And then: “Who likes McCain?”
Crowd goes wild cheering.
“Yeah! Because who loves freedom?”
More cheers.
We stood our ground with a few half-hearted boos…but then we sort skipped to raising our eyebrows…because, umm, yikes. Way too many large strong rednecked people that it is really NOT a good idea to piss off…
So I learned--Liberalism off of Circle L Ranch is apparently not something you should promote?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Second Day of Work
Soo, today isn’t quite as bad. I’m just starting to crash, and it’s 7:30 already. I think this probably has less to do with my endurance (although long sleeves + more water = so much happier and less red..) and more to do with the fact a volunteer came and she got put to work mucking the stalls and cleaning water buckets…haha sucker.
No poisonous spiders today, but I did get to learn how to work the tractor…yeehaw, first thing I’ve ridden since I got here. There’s definitely no time for riding during the daily chores—apparently this happens more on the weekends when it’s relaxed, but I’m assured I’ll get to do it. (score!)
Anyways, the other main event was the vet coming. He worked on some horses’ teeth—floated them. Thank goodness I read James Herriot. I know so many terms because of him..colic, floating teeth, foundering—aka laminitis, or infection of the hoof. That happens to horses when they get too fat. Learned that one here. This guy could basically be James Herriot, but updated. He’s a big/really fat guy—when he was down on his knees sawing off a goat’s horn, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. But he’s also the nicest guy ever, and really good with the animals…so I really hope he doesn’t have a heart attack.
We had to cut off a goat’s horn, the tip cause it kept getting stuck, and then Bellatrix’s—aka Dr. Jekyll—because she’s a bitch, afraid of other goats, and has to be kept in a pen with another horse and she goes for humans as soon as they come into her stall. Anyways, it was a big deal because Cheryl came back early. She’s the ranch manager. Also, as I mentioned, obsessed with goats. So she was terribly concerned about the whole operation.
Cheryl spent the last week riding her Harley up to Albuquerque. She was heading for South Dakota but didn’t make it. She said, when she started “dreaming about Piper”—one of the goats she adopted—“she knew she had to come back.” That and it was cold up there. She’s short, maybe 5’4”, and squat, with tattoos up her arms. She had on a pink Harley baseball cap, a Pike’s Peak Harley shirt she’d gotten on her trip (didn’t climb Pike’s Peak, she’s terrified of heights) and a big chain keeping her wallet in place. And she was so much nicer than I thought she’d be, considering the stories. Really nice. And also crazy. Went around and greeted each of the 112 goats individually. Her “babies” she called them. She’s keeping the horn pieces taken from the goats.
Aggh, there goes the dog again. There’s one who barks all day, starting at 4:45am. At least I don’t need a real alarm. Last night I fell asleep to them all, wonder if I can tonight?
No poisonous spiders today, but I did get to learn how to work the tractor…yeehaw, first thing I’ve ridden since I got here. There’s definitely no time for riding during the daily chores—apparently this happens more on the weekends when it’s relaxed, but I’m assured I’ll get to do it. (score!)
Anyways, the other main event was the vet coming. He worked on some horses’ teeth—floated them. Thank goodness I read James Herriot. I know so many terms because of him..colic, floating teeth, foundering—aka laminitis, or infection of the hoof. That happens to horses when they get too fat. Learned that one here. This guy could basically be James Herriot, but updated. He’s a big/really fat guy—when he was down on his knees sawing off a goat’s horn, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. But he’s also the nicest guy ever, and really good with the animals…so I really hope he doesn’t have a heart attack.
We had to cut off a goat’s horn, the tip cause it kept getting stuck, and then Bellatrix’s—aka Dr. Jekyll—because she’s a bitch, afraid of other goats, and has to be kept in a pen with another horse and she goes for humans as soon as they come into her stall. Anyways, it was a big deal because Cheryl came back early. She’s the ranch manager. Also, as I mentioned, obsessed with goats. So she was terribly concerned about the whole operation.
Cheryl spent the last week riding her Harley up to Albuquerque. She was heading for South Dakota but didn’t make it. She said, when she started “dreaming about Piper”—one of the goats she adopted—“she knew she had to come back.” That and it was cold up there. She’s short, maybe 5’4”, and squat, with tattoos up her arms. She had on a pink Harley baseball cap, a Pike’s Peak Harley shirt she’d gotten on her trip (didn’t climb Pike’s Peak, she’s terrified of heights) and a big chain keeping her wallet in place. And she was so much nicer than I thought she’d be, considering the stories. Really nice. And also crazy. Went around and greeted each of the 112 goats individually. Her “babies” she called them. She’s keeping the horn pieces taken from the goats.
Aggh, there goes the dog again. There’s one who barks all day, starting at 4:45am. At least I don’t need a real alarm. Last night I fell asleep to them all, wonder if I can tonight?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Whew
Second Day—Exhaustion…
Okay, so, nothing today was that hard. I mean, driving in a tractor and throwing out flakes of hay to horses isn’t that hard—especially when the friendly although slightly condescending ranch hands pull the 105lb bales onto the tractor bed that you proceed to sit on, to travel to the stalls.
Walking a colic-y horse around in a circle so she doesn’t go down and roll and die isn’t that hard. Except, apparently it sort of was because I let Donna go down and Rory had to come rescue us and help me get her back on her feet. But at least I didn’t let her roll.
Mucking out the pens that hold 112 goats (there are more than one per pen)and then cleaning some horse stalls as well isn’t that hard.
Scrubbing the green algae slime of hay, horse spit, and manure out of giant metal water pails isn’t that hard.
Filling up water pails for 90 horses (again, they share these too) isn’t that hard, either. Although, finding the valves is a little more tricky, since they’re in a sunken pit and often covered with hay that you dig through with a “wand” and use that to turn the valve on. The wands are essential, because brown recluse spiders and black widows like to hang out in there. (and yes, it only took about 2 tries til I saw the brown recluse spider skitter away over a water valve. Check ‘em out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_recluse_spider)
Feeding a second time for lunch, and then a third time for dinner—still not that hard.
So why, despite my long bath, am I still aching all over?
Could be the 12 hr day, with a half hour lunch break, in the 90’s + degree sun…and yikes, I totally forgot sunscreen. Hello, farmer’s tan/lobster markings…
Psh, so enough complaining. Here’s a few fun facts—
The ranch is owned by Dr. Deborah Wilson, a gynecologist surgeon with a huge private practice in Phoenix and a husband who’s the press secretary and communications director for the governor of Arizona. Basically, all their money (as directed by Dr. Wilson) goes to keeping the 100’s of animals at the ranch. Besides the 93 horses, 112 goats, there are 3 roosters (who knew roosters crowed ALL day? Not just through the early hours of sunup, which I also watched today. As a side note, that was absolutely beautiful. The sky grew gradually lighter, changing from gray to dusky orange to peach, and finally streaking with blue, while the mountains played their roles as romantic silhouettes all around)
Anyways—also one goose, and then around 80 dogs. 30 of which live in my/their house. I’m hiding in my bedroom because every time I open the door, a dog looks at me with pleading eyes, perked ears, and the most heartbreaking whines for attention. Sorry guys, I’m pooped out. And clean for the first time in 12 hours. I’ll grab you tomorrow.
I work with Deb (yup, another Deb) and Rory, a couple in their twenties, nice, down to earth, and accepting of me, the interloper, for which I’m really grateful. I figure I’ll save the people descriptions for later, since I don’t meet the infamous Cheryl til tomorrow. I have heard so much of her, and mostly she’s described as a “character.” She is apparently obsessed with the goats, the reason there are 112, and has adopted like, 7 of them for her “own.”
More about goats later. Cause for anyone else like me, have you ever seen a goat climb? How about one standing on his tipeetoes on a Dog-Igloo, just hanging out. And the fact they don’t ever get adopted back out because “Mexcians eat goats.”
Oh yeah, remember the ranch was founded because Deborah loves her animals. She’s a strict vegan. Has a bumper sticker that says “Meat: It’s what’s Rotting In Your Colon.” Oh yeah.
Thanks, Deborah, for putting off my occasional carnivorous indulgence…
Anyways, I’m about ready to go to bed. It’s like, a little past 7…
The dogs are not ready to go to bed. They are howling and barking and yipping. Good thing I’m such a good sleeper.
Heh this could be a challenge
Okay, so, nothing today was that hard. I mean, driving in a tractor and throwing out flakes of hay to horses isn’t that hard—especially when the friendly although slightly condescending ranch hands pull the 105lb bales onto the tractor bed that you proceed to sit on, to travel to the stalls.
Walking a colic-y horse around in a circle so she doesn’t go down and roll and die isn’t that hard. Except, apparently it sort of was because I let Donna go down and Rory had to come rescue us and help me get her back on her feet. But at least I didn’t let her roll.
Mucking out the pens that hold 112 goats (there are more than one per pen)and then cleaning some horse stalls as well isn’t that hard.
Scrubbing the green algae slime of hay, horse spit, and manure out of giant metal water pails isn’t that hard.
Filling up water pails for 90 horses (again, they share these too) isn’t that hard, either. Although, finding the valves is a little more tricky, since they’re in a sunken pit and often covered with hay that you dig through with a “wand” and use that to turn the valve on. The wands are essential, because brown recluse spiders and black widows like to hang out in there. (and yes, it only took about 2 tries til I saw the brown recluse spider skitter away over a water valve. Check ‘em out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_recluse_spider)
Feeding a second time for lunch, and then a third time for dinner—still not that hard.
So why, despite my long bath, am I still aching all over?
Could be the 12 hr day, with a half hour lunch break, in the 90’s + degree sun…and yikes, I totally forgot sunscreen. Hello, farmer’s tan/lobster markings…
Psh, so enough complaining. Here’s a few fun facts—
The ranch is owned by Dr. Deborah Wilson, a gynecologist surgeon with a huge private practice in Phoenix and a husband who’s the press secretary and communications director for the governor of Arizona. Basically, all their money (as directed by Dr. Wilson) goes to keeping the 100’s of animals at the ranch. Besides the 93 horses, 112 goats, there are 3 roosters (who knew roosters crowed ALL day? Not just through the early hours of sunup, which I also watched today. As a side note, that was absolutely beautiful. The sky grew gradually lighter, changing from gray to dusky orange to peach, and finally streaking with blue, while the mountains played their roles as romantic silhouettes all around)
Anyways—also one goose, and then around 80 dogs. 30 of which live in my/their house. I’m hiding in my bedroom because every time I open the door, a dog looks at me with pleading eyes, perked ears, and the most heartbreaking whines for attention. Sorry guys, I’m pooped out. And clean for the first time in 12 hours. I’ll grab you tomorrow.
I work with Deb (yup, another Deb) and Rory, a couple in their twenties, nice, down to earth, and accepting of me, the interloper, for which I’m really grateful. I figure I’ll save the people descriptions for later, since I don’t meet the infamous Cheryl til tomorrow. I have heard so much of her, and mostly she’s described as a “character.” She is apparently obsessed with the goats, the reason there are 112, and has adopted like, 7 of them for her “own.”
More about goats later. Cause for anyone else like me, have you ever seen a goat climb? How about one standing on his tipeetoes on a Dog-Igloo, just hanging out. And the fact they don’t ever get adopted back out because “Mexcians eat goats.”
Oh yeah, remember the ranch was founded because Deborah loves her animals. She’s a strict vegan. Has a bumper sticker that says “Meat: It’s what’s Rotting In Your Colon.” Oh yeah.
Thanks, Deborah, for putting off my occasional carnivorous indulgence…
Anyways, I’m about ready to go to bed. It’s like, a little past 7…
The dogs are not ready to go to bed. They are howling and barking and yipping. Good thing I’m such a good sleeper.
Heh this could be a challenge
So I'm here
Today is my first day at the ranch. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous coming out here. The idea of being all *alone* on a rancyh for three months is sort of terrifying. And I was worried I’d be wasting my time. But then I got here.
Debbie, Dr. Deborah Wilson, picked me up and put my fears to rest because of her quiet, confident manner, and her absolute conviction. She’s a slim, white haired woman with distinguished cheekbones and chin. From her strict vegan diet to her bumper sticker that says “Beef: It’s what rots in your colon” to her refusal to turn any animal away and oh yeah—the fact that she single-handedly funds this place, under the umbrella of a charity network in Arizona—it’s enough to make you think that working here is worth it.
That said, it was interesting to hear about the animals, and quite another thing to tour the ranch. 120 goats in pens, and horses in big pens, and a mule, Ben, who’s been in some movie, and cows…and then the dogs of course. The yards are fenced in but the house I’m staying in is totally open. There are currently three dogs sleeping right outside my door, and at least 15 more in the living room down the hall. Then there are more in the backyard and some in the garage. On “this side of the road”—it’s a dirt road, and the other dog facilities are over on the other side—there are thirty-five dogs. The ones here are old, unadoptable for the most part. There’s Poncho, who’s a beautiful collie and is nine, whose owner died and the owner’s sister’s husband wouldn’t let her keep him. He came here with his bowls in a mahogany chest, and a portrait painted by some famous animal portrait artist—that’s hanging in the living room. There’s Ella, a 2 year old pitbull who was taken from her drug-addict, homeless owner when he was convicted of something and sent to jail. And then there are dozens of other dogs, in various states of health, living here as well.
Horse feeding time is at 5:30 so I’m off to bed so I can wake up with some energy.
Debbie, Dr. Deborah Wilson, picked me up and put my fears to rest because of her quiet, confident manner, and her absolute conviction. She’s a slim, white haired woman with distinguished cheekbones and chin. From her strict vegan diet to her bumper sticker that says “Beef: It’s what rots in your colon” to her refusal to turn any animal away and oh yeah—the fact that she single-handedly funds this place, under the umbrella of a charity network in Arizona—it’s enough to make you think that working here is worth it.
That said, it was interesting to hear about the animals, and quite another thing to tour the ranch. 120 goats in pens, and horses in big pens, and a mule, Ben, who’s been in some movie, and cows…and then the dogs of course. The yards are fenced in but the house I’m staying in is totally open. There are currently three dogs sleeping right outside my door, and at least 15 more in the living room down the hall. Then there are more in the backyard and some in the garage. On “this side of the road”—it’s a dirt road, and the other dog facilities are over on the other side—there are thirty-five dogs. The ones here are old, unadoptable for the most part. There’s Poncho, who’s a beautiful collie and is nine, whose owner died and the owner’s sister’s husband wouldn’t let her keep him. He came here with his bowls in a mahogany chest, and a portrait painted by some famous animal portrait artist—that’s hanging in the living room. There’s Ella, a 2 year old pitbull who was taken from her drug-addict, homeless owner when he was convicted of something and sent to jail. And then there are dozens of other dogs, in various states of health, living here as well.
Horse feeding time is at 5:30 so I’m off to bed so I can wake up with some energy.
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