In the depths of Take it Easy lies an adventure, in and of itself. My bucket list is small. Sure, there are many things I'd like to do, but few make the list. "Ride a horse" was right at the top. No trail ride, I mean full tilt. The catch was, I'd never ridden before. Luckily, I found a place that would let a newbie rip through the desert.
"Is that a real a gun"?
"Yep". Clay was a man of few words. "Single-action" he added, resting his hand on the Colt 45 hanging from his belt. For those unfamiliar with firearms, of which I am clearly one, the Colt 45 single-action is the staple ingredient of every Hollywood Western; the weapon of choice for lawman and outlaw alike. Before his current gig, he'd been working on a cattle ranch in northern Nevada. If the Old West still lived, it did so through Clay. Drinking coffee from a blue tin mug freckled with white, he was clad in a checked flannel, tucked into his black Wranglers, which, just above the pale red dirt, gave way to cowboy boots. Doubtless at one point they had been dark brown, but the sun had leached away their crisp shine and hue. Later, when I learned he panned for gold as a hobby, I couldn't have been less surprised.
"Racing. A dead run... Kentucky derby! Take your blood pressure medicine first, or two shots of Jack Daniels will suffice". No prior experience needed, the website proclaimed. Sold. I told Clay as much when he asked why I picked Jacob's Ranch. "Alright, we'll make it happen" he said with a straight face. His word was his bond. The day's group was small, just two others, a mother and son from California, both with previous riding experience. Good, the fewer the better. I didn't think most riders shared my ambitions. Up at the stables, after listing off eighteen horse names and their accompanying personality, Clay turned, asking which one I wanted. I needed guidance. He paired me with Rebel. Why Rebel, I asked, and in his matter of fact tone Clay responded "Well, you wanted to run. The trick is getting him to stop". They insisted he got his name from his gray coat, but later, I'd beg to differ.
He seemed docile enough. The painted gelding was lean with a long neck, and if not for Hodor, a massive Clydesdale, he would have been the tallest in the stables. While the other horses whinnied and neighed, fighting brief skirmishes amongst themselves, Rebel stood still and silent and he was the only horse still wearing his fly mask—the others had long since removed their own. Working with him in the pen, and after, while using a pen to sign my life away, there was no bad behavior. Perhaps his name did come from his hide. It was time for me to know for sure. I saddled my gallant steed. Reaching to the very edge of my range of motion, I placed my left foot into the leather stirrup, hoisting myself atop his back—man and beast, standing tall.
I received a brief introductory course—trotting, looping, walking—brief being the operative word. Not thirty minutes in, we came to a clearing and the trail opened up. On our flanks, sandstone mesas, hundreds of feet high. Underfoot, the red earth was soft and loose; the straightaway had been well used. Clay pulled off as lead. In less than five words he told me to go for it. I nodded. It bears mentioning that not until I got back to New York did I fully comprehend the gravity of the situation. After several conversations with experienced horse riders, it was clear, this was not your typical first, or even fifth time in the saddle. Well, ignorance is bliss. I let up on the reigns . . .
. . . there was no need to coax. With an open trail ahead, Rebel showed his true colors. For twenty five yards he built up speed, when suddenly, he made a hard left. Bounding off the straightaway, we flew into brush. I was too scared for my life to flash before my eyes. And by the way, that phrase is total bullshit. Time slows to a crawl, your brain speeds up, thoughts that normally occur over the course of minute happen in a second, all true. But what you're not thinking about is your past; you're thinking, how the hell do I get myself out of this one? Somewhere between dodging tree branches, I brought Rebel to a halt. Let's be fair, he decided to stop. It wasn't as if I delayed the command, he just chose not to obey. I wheeled him around and started back towards the group. My legs felt like Jello, jiggling like that infamous green stuff that always appears at family events, and believe or not, I was laughing. Nervous like. That was the adrenaline, and far from the last of it.
I started out again, building my confidence with each run. Finally, it was time to collect evidence. My attendance at Cowboy Camp was well known amongst my friends, and the collective anticipation now exceeded my own. I was also certain none would believe me, chalking it up as a "Big Fish" tale. Clay, wrangler and amateur photographer extraordinaire, assisted me in this most crucial task.
You can hear me tell him to slow a few times; he wasn't a great listener. We broke for lunch, and soon after, headed out to the main part of the ride. I learned to run up and down hills, negotiating Rebel across varied terrain. Clay let me lead, hanging back with the others while the Lone Ranger and his painted mount rode forth. I was far more aggressive with Rebel. Pulling hard when he disobeyed, giving him the reigns when he followed orders. Gray coat, huh? Likely story. I'll bend him to my will.
This sequence was something else. Clay really nailed it. Any one of these is a great shot, but together, they give a real sense of motion as the dynamic duo charged uphill, mounted the desert ridge, and surveyed the great expanse beyond.
I could think of no better place to ride than Utah. It screamed Old West. The cliché is wind in your hair, horse gliding across the landscape, and you feel freer than you've ever felt before. That one is true. Both in a heated gallup and a meandering walk. The short trees and dense foliage of our morning ride were gone. Now there were sandstone monuments, flats covered in craggy bushes, and big sky. We navigated the belly of a dry river bed, so tight, single file even tested its width, walls extending just over our heads. Us and it, hidden in plain sight.
Photo bombed!
"How do I know where to go"? I was staring at open desert. Clay gave me instructions—turn right before the barbed wire fence, stop at the hill with the white stuff. . . something else. Dirt and shrubs; each square yard looked exactly the same. Before, there was a clear track, worn and obvious, but here, open desert. You couldn't stop him before, and you had a clear trail. I was thinking about that slot canyon. I didn't even know it was there until we were in it, and no wider than three feet, and I wouldn't see the next one again until we fell in it. Rebel would get up and start running again, I didn't need Clay to tell me that, but I doubted I'd be so lucky.
As the day progressed so did my riding skills. I was a natural, mostly because I wanted to be. I was scared, but I knew what riding should look like, and I treated Rebel like my dancing partner, exchanging cues back and forth. And now that we had mastered the waltz, it was time to tango. I wanted to fly. According to Clay, I hadn't gotten him up to top speed. For that, I would have to coax. "There's a good path near the end" he said. "I've seen him let go in that spot, he'll run alright". This was that "good path", barely different than the desert on either side.
"You go ahead, that way I can see where to go". Hold him, Clay told me, he's not going like us out there. Again, he took my phone.
Why are they going so slow? Pulling back on the reigns with serious force didn't keep Rebel still. A command that should have sent him into reverse instead produced a hesitant forward gait. I'm in control, not you. I grabbed the left side of his bridal, yanking his head hard toward me. My intention was that he'd spin himself out. That didn't work. We spun forward, together, winding down the path.
"Fuck it." After twenty-five yards and no end in sight, I let up on the reigns. I came to run, not twirl. Ride like the wind. There was a brief pause, maybe a second, then he lurched forward with a powerful jolt. In five quick steps, we were in a full gallup. Here goes nothing. I dug my heels into his sides. "HEAH"!
You know when the Millennium Falcon jumps into light-speed? That was the feeling. My hat flew off, its drawstring clung to my neck as it wriggled violently in the wind. No more dancing. Smooth as pond on a windless day; he was gliding across the land. I nearly forgot we were in a dead run . . . the barbed wire. Straight ahead! Oh shit. I pulled hard right, he responded. We were barreling down on our unsuspecting party with a full head of steam. At first, I tried to slow him. No response. Up and over a tiny hills we flew, now, practically on top of them. I yanked hard to slow him; he twisting his head, not wanted to seed an inch of ground. Realizing he wasn't stopping, in the final seconds, I gave him the reigns. I might as well go for it, because he sure is. And I came to run.
Without hesitation, he took the slack and lowered his head into a full charge. We rocketed by, a dust storm in our wake. Slender and tall, Rebel was born to run. Flying passed them, I kicked him again. Firing on all cylinders, we flew by like a bat of hell . . . "white stuff"! The next hill just in front had bone white dirt on top. I pulled up, and for the first time all day, Rebel stopped when ordered. Not expecting this sudden response, I almost didn't. Bracing myself on the horn of the saddle, we came out of hyperspace, and once again I was smiling from ear to ear. Alright, time for that drink.
Moments earlier, hearing the hounds of hell descending upon him, Clay whipped around in his saddle and was able to snap a few action shots as it all unfolded.
I was told I could come back anytime and take Rebel out for the day, just needed to bring a gun—a local ordinance requires all residents to keep and maintain a firearm. I rejoined Pete, and had that much needed gin, with a dash of tonic. Hitting the pool and then the hot tub, drinks in hand, I watched the sun set on my Western. Dying light crept slowly up Zion's walls, tinting them blood red, and the clouds above lavender.