THE ARTIST Though the moon was full, the city seemed darker and quieter than usual that night. The man stood by the curb in the faint light of a flickering street lamp. It was hard to see his eyes through the shadow cast by his fedora hat but every once in a while it was possible to make out the one or two lines beginning to appear on his face. He pulled his hat down upon his brow, turned his collar up to ward off the night chill and then reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lit one with a wooden match. He liked wooden matches because of the way they felt between his fingers and the sound and smell of them when struck. The aroma of the freshly lit match was still in the air as he took his first drag from the cigarette. Though he knew he should quit, he was not overly worried because he rarely smoked in the daylight hours. This was his city, he thought, and a man should take every step he walks as though he owns it. His thoughts went to the woman sleeping in his bed on the fourth floor of the old apartment building behind him. He never tried to own her and he wondered what she saw in him that attracted her to him. Knowing his own shortcomings, he felt a little foolish at times for allowing her to come into his life. So many times he had wanted to tell her his feelings but words had always failed him. He wasn't sure that she truly understood him and he knew that he was to blame. He had kept secrets from her, about himself, his past and even his work. About his work, he knew, that he could never tell her. She thought that he was just an artist. The words from an obscure song that he had once heard came to him. "If he reveals his hopes, will she unveil her fears?
Or will the dreams they share go undeclared, and just dry up and blow away?" It was then that the idea hit him. He threw his cigarette into the gutter, walked up the steps to the front door of the apartment building and took the old freight elevator to the fourth floor. There was no fumbling for the key because it was ready in his hand to go into the lock by the time he reached the door of his flat. That was another one of his quirks. He didn't like to be caught in the hallways while occupied looking for a key. You never know what someone will try in a dark corridor, and he didn't like to give too much warning to whoever may be waiting for him inside. The door showed the signs of previous forced entry around the lock, which had been repaired but that wasn't unusual in his neighborhood. He entered and closed the door leaving the lights off. Inside, it was moderately spacious. It was an artists loft with high ceilings and there were canvases and paintings in various places around the room. The woman was sleeping peacefully on a bed by a large curtainless window bathed in the light from the moon. He knew that she would not wake. She was lying there naked but covered almost to the waist with the sheets and his favorite parts of her were still in view. The small of her waist and the two dimples above her buttocks. She looked beautiful he thought. She looked content. Usually at times like this he would sit by her with a cigarette and watch her sleep before slipping into bed beside her, but this night would be different. He took off his hat and coat and hung them on the coat rack by the door and then disrobed to the waist. His muscles were long and sinewy and without any identifying tattoos or markings. Another requirement of his work. After lighting several large candles he placed them around her and stood back to watch the light from them dance with the light from the moon, across her motionless body. It was perfect! He donned a worn and loose fitting white shirt with dried paint on it and set a large empty canvas on an easel and prepared it for paint. Tonight, he would paint the words he could not say to her. And then, as though his soul had so sweetly returned to him from a long absence, he began to paint, quickly and quietly. He felt a soothing vibration throughout his body from the top of his head down to his toes and out to his finger tips. He was in tune and one with his brush and his canvas and nothing could break his concentration. Soon, tears welled up in his eyes and he began to weep as he worked. His tears fell down into the paint on his pallet as he mixed the hues and shades of colour that even he had not seen before. His canvas became a work of tears and paint, from his soul. And with every sable brush stroke and hue, he breathed life into his canvas monolog. She awoke late, to an empty room. The candles had burned out and only the wax stumps were left. He had already been and gone but she sensed his presence still somewhere in the room. She lay there with the sun shining on her pillow, missing the times when she awoke next to him and wondered why it was that he didn't seem to see the little things about himself that endeared him to her. When she arose she went to discover why she still felt his presence and found the painting that he had left for her. It was the most beautiful expression of art that she had ever seen, and she knew exactly what it meant. It was so much more than words could say. She knew why she loved him
By David Thoresen
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Artist
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Spanish Ranch Buckaroo
It is late May, time to go to the outside country
for a few months with the wagon. We will doctor the sick, take care of the country and brand calves in the high desert.
SPANISH RANCH
BUCKAROO
Words by Dave Thoresen. Photos by C. J. Hadley.
buckaroos dragging calves
Buckaroos take turns dragging calves to the fire or working on the ground.
It’s late spring on the huge Spanish Ranch but I still remember those below-zero winter mornings of not too long ago. As we rode out across snow-covered meadows we saw billions of tiny ice particles suspended in the frigid air, each reflecting silver or gold or rainbow colors in the morning sunlight.
Now these same meadows are lush and green, teeming with flocks of birds of many different species. These meadows would not be here now if not for enterprising men who cleared, leveled and irrigated thousands of acres of land to pasture cattle over 100 years ago.
The best time at the Spanish Ranch is when the wagon pulls out in the middle of May, headed for the “outside” country. Loaded with bedrolls, teepees and groceries to begin the spring branding, the wagon we use is an old army truck set up inside with a small kitchen and “dining” area. This meals-on-wheels is operated by a vanishing breed of man who has an affinity for living with and cooking for a bunch of wayward buckaroos.
Our six-man crew has our hands full. We spend the next few months out with the wagon, branding calves daily in the rugged Tuscarora Mountains close to the Idaho line. It is on the western edge of the Owyhee Desert and along the south fork of the Owyhee River in northeast Nevada.
A part of the Great Basin, which covers southeastern Oregon, southern Idaho and northern Nevada, cowboys here are called “buckaroos,” derived from the Spanish word vaquero, which means “horseman.” Longer ropes are used by buckaroos–usually between 50 and 70 feet in
Before supper, buckaroos spend time reading, writing letters, or practicing roping on a makeshift steer. Sometimes they work with green colts, shoe a horse, or fix their tack.
length.We don’t tie “hard and fast” like Texas cowboys but dally on saddle horns wrapped with mule hide instead of rubber. We call it mule hide but it’s actually just a strip of chrome-tanned cowhide. The idea is to let your rope slide on that horn wrap, making it a little easier on your horse and the animal you are trying to catch.
There’s plenty of roping to be done at branding time and buckaroos like to rope, a lot. If a guy is good at it he gains respect from the rest of the crew.
The wagon is moved to the first camp at Four Mile Creek, while the cavvy of 50 horses is trailed due west about 30 miles along the Owyhee River and up a steep draw to meet it there.
Buckaroo days start early and by 3:30 a.m., each man has left the “comfort” of his teepee for breakfast, and is soon ready to saddle up and ride. In this outfit, a “lucky” buckaroo or two might have to go for a bronc ride first because many of the horses are green. The rest of us whoop and holler to give the rider some moral support. If he stays in the saddle, fine, but if he gets bucked off unhurt, he’ll get ribbed. Either way, we’re off at a trot to make our circle for the morning’s branding.
A circle might cover 10 or 15 square miles but we may have to trot for an hour or two just to get to where our circle will start. We take a chunk of country and divide it like a cake, each man taking a piece and pushing cattle to a branding trap in the middle. A couple of punchers carry the irons tied behind their saddles so if something unexpected happens, the irons won’t all get lost together.
No pickups, no propane tanks here. We put the irons in a sagebrush fire. It’s quiet, it burns hot and there is plenty of fuel. As the calves are heeled and dragged to the fire, cowboys attack them like sharks at feeding time at the aquarium. At this time they are branded, ear marked, waddled, castrated, dehorned and vaccinated.
After the wagon had been out for several weeks, I remember camping at Winters. My circle was in the grassy high country. It was a blue-sky morning, the air thick with the scent of yellow
There’s not much to do on the desert when the day’s work is over. The author has shod his next day’s horse, cleaned up in the creek, and now picks out a tune before supper.
flowers that carpeted the top of the mountain. Small birds were skittering in the brush. Raptors rode the thermals. I could see for miles, out across the Owyhee Desert where our neighbors at the IL Ranch run their cattle.
There are plenty of deer and antelope in this country and I’ve even seen a mountain lion or two. And there is no shortage of mustang on this outfit either. I once watched two stallions in combat, standing on hind legs, pawing and biting each other in a battle for control of the mares. It was an awesome sight.
Wild horses do some strange things, too. One time I was pushing a few dozen wild steers that were quite a way ahead of me. I trotted up closer to keep an eye on them and found some running back toward me. Others were going in circles and figure eights, kicking up a pile of dust. It turned out that there was a black mustang stud in that dust cloud that wanted to have a little fun by chasing my steers to every point on the compass. After a while he quit his game and wandered off, so I gathered my steers and continued on to our gathering place.
There is plenty of wildlife on the Owyhee Desert now but when the first explorers came through this country long ago, they found little game and almost starved to death. When cattlemen came here they increased the amount of life that the land could sustain by improving the waters, selecting sites that would collect precipitation and digging natural holes out deeper to last into the dry months.
One day we had a fair amount of cattle gathered, for this country–maybe 50 or 80 calves to brand. I’m not sure, really, because we didn’t get to finish due to an accident. This time it was Gonzalo, the buckaroo boss. Because of a violent kick from a big calf, he got himself a serious knife wound to the chest at the branding fire. It didn’t keep him down for long though. A week-and-a-half later I saw him make one pretty tough bronc ride with that hole still in him.
Late in the afternoon when branding is done for that day and we’re back at camp, someone will wrangle horses–bring them in from the temporary pasture to a holding pen–and we’ll select our mounts for the next day. The horses line up on a staked-out rope in a semicircle, tails pointed to the center, and they wait. The cowboss comes in behind them and catches a horse for each man, throwing a backhand loop called a hoolihan. When each of us has our pick for the next day, the cavvy is let loose again. After that a horse or two might get shod because every cowboy is responsible for taking care of his own string. A buckaroo’s string is usually six or seven horses, sometimes more if he’s training a few colts.
When we’ve branded everything we can find on one area, we break camp and move the wagon and the cavvy. And on it goes until every square mile of the Spanish Ranch has been trotted upon.
Well, it has been some time since the spring wagon finished up and came back home. Right now the buckaroos are sitting around the bunkhouse with the knowledge that tomorrow they’re going to get to experience those little tiny ice crystals floating all around them again. Not only is it cold but most of the old crew have moved on.
We have a new buckaroo boss now. Jake Brown is a competent and well-known fellow in these parts and though not very old, he kind of reminds me of those old-time buckaroo bosses that you dared not do anything to get them tweaked at you. I’d like to come back in 30 years just to see how cranky he gets. I’m just kidding, Jake! I don’t need any bad horses added to my string.
for a few months with the wagon. We will doctor the sick, take care of the country and brand calves in the high desert.
SPANISH RANCH
BUCKAROO
Words by Dave Thoresen. Photos by C. J. Hadley.
buckaroos dragging calves
Buckaroos take turns dragging calves to the fire or working on the ground.
It’s late spring on the huge Spanish Ranch but I still remember those below-zero winter mornings of not too long ago. As we rode out across snow-covered meadows we saw billions of tiny ice particles suspended in the frigid air, each reflecting silver or gold or rainbow colors in the morning sunlight.
Now these same meadows are lush and green, teeming with flocks of birds of many different species. These meadows would not be here now if not for enterprising men who cleared, leveled and irrigated thousands of acres of land to pasture cattle over 100 years ago.
The best time at the Spanish Ranch is when the wagon pulls out in the middle of May, headed for the “outside” country. Loaded with bedrolls, teepees and groceries to begin the spring branding, the wagon we use is an old army truck set up inside with a small kitchen and “dining” area. This meals-on-wheels is operated by a vanishing breed of man who has an affinity for living with and cooking for a bunch of wayward buckaroos.
Our six-man crew has our hands full. We spend the next few months out with the wagon, branding calves daily in the rugged Tuscarora Mountains close to the Idaho line. It is on the western edge of the Owyhee Desert and along the south fork of the Owyhee River in northeast Nevada.
A part of the Great Basin, which covers southeastern Oregon, southern Idaho and northern Nevada, cowboys here are called “buckaroos,” derived from the Spanish word vaquero, which means “horseman.” Longer ropes are used by buckaroos–usually between 50 and 70 feet in
Before supper, buckaroos spend time reading, writing letters, or practicing roping on a makeshift steer. Sometimes they work with green colts, shoe a horse, or fix their tack.
length.We don’t tie “hard and fast” like Texas cowboys but dally on saddle horns wrapped with mule hide instead of rubber. We call it mule hide but it’s actually just a strip of chrome-tanned cowhide. The idea is to let your rope slide on that horn wrap, making it a little easier on your horse and the animal you are trying to catch.
There’s plenty of roping to be done at branding time and buckaroos like to rope, a lot. If a guy is good at it he gains respect from the rest of the crew.
The wagon is moved to the first camp at Four Mile Creek, while the cavvy of 50 horses is trailed due west about 30 miles along the Owyhee River and up a steep draw to meet it there.
Buckaroo days start early and by 3:30 a.m., each man has left the “comfort” of his teepee for breakfast, and is soon ready to saddle up and ride. In this outfit, a “lucky” buckaroo or two might have to go for a bronc ride first because many of the horses are green. The rest of us whoop and holler to give the rider some moral support. If he stays in the saddle, fine, but if he gets bucked off unhurt, he’ll get ribbed. Either way, we’re off at a trot to make our circle for the morning’s branding.
A circle might cover 10 or 15 square miles but we may have to trot for an hour or two just to get to where our circle will start. We take a chunk of country and divide it like a cake, each man taking a piece and pushing cattle to a branding trap in the middle. A couple of punchers carry the irons tied behind their saddles so if something unexpected happens, the irons won’t all get lost together.
No pickups, no propane tanks here. We put the irons in a sagebrush fire. It’s quiet, it burns hot and there is plenty of fuel. As the calves are heeled and dragged to the fire, cowboys attack them like sharks at feeding time at the aquarium. At this time they are branded, ear marked, waddled, castrated, dehorned and vaccinated.
After the wagon had been out for several weeks, I remember camping at Winters. My circle was in the grassy high country. It was a blue-sky morning, the air thick with the scent of yellow
There’s not much to do on the desert when the day’s work is over. The author has shod his next day’s horse, cleaned up in the creek, and now picks out a tune before supper.
flowers that carpeted the top of the mountain. Small birds were skittering in the brush. Raptors rode the thermals. I could see for miles, out across the Owyhee Desert where our neighbors at the IL Ranch run their cattle.
There are plenty of deer and antelope in this country and I’ve even seen a mountain lion or two. And there is no shortage of mustang on this outfit either. I once watched two stallions in combat, standing on hind legs, pawing and biting each other in a battle for control of the mares. It was an awesome sight.
Wild horses do some strange things, too. One time I was pushing a few dozen wild steers that were quite a way ahead of me. I trotted up closer to keep an eye on them and found some running back toward me. Others were going in circles and figure eights, kicking up a pile of dust. It turned out that there was a black mustang stud in that dust cloud that wanted to have a little fun by chasing my steers to every point on the compass. After a while he quit his game and wandered off, so I gathered my steers and continued on to our gathering place.
There is plenty of wildlife on the Owyhee Desert now but when the first explorers came through this country long ago, they found little game and almost starved to death. When cattlemen came here they increased the amount of life that the land could sustain by improving the waters, selecting sites that would collect precipitation and digging natural holes out deeper to last into the dry months.
One day we had a fair amount of cattle gathered, for this country–maybe 50 or 80 calves to brand. I’m not sure, really, because we didn’t get to finish due to an accident. This time it was Gonzalo, the buckaroo boss. Because of a violent kick from a big calf, he got himself a serious knife wound to the chest at the branding fire. It didn’t keep him down for long though. A week-and-a-half later I saw him make one pretty tough bronc ride with that hole still in him.
Late in the afternoon when branding is done for that day and we’re back at camp, someone will wrangle horses–bring them in from the temporary pasture to a holding pen–and we’ll select our mounts for the next day. The horses line up on a staked-out rope in a semicircle, tails pointed to the center, and they wait. The cowboss comes in behind them and catches a horse for each man, throwing a backhand loop called a hoolihan. When each of us has our pick for the next day, the cavvy is let loose again. After that a horse or two might get shod because every cowboy is responsible for taking care of his own string. A buckaroo’s string is usually six or seven horses, sometimes more if he’s training a few colts.
When we’ve branded everything we can find on one area, we break camp and move the wagon and the cavvy. And on it goes until every square mile of the Spanish Ranch has been trotted upon.
Well, it has been some time since the spring wagon finished up and came back home. Right now the buckaroos are sitting around the bunkhouse with the knowledge that tomorrow they’re going to get to experience those little tiny ice crystals floating all around them again. Not only is it cold but most of the old crew have moved on.
We have a new buckaroo boss now. Jake Brown is a competent and well-known fellow in these parts and though not very old, he kind of reminds me of those old-time buckaroo bosses that you dared not do anything to get them tweaked at you. I’d like to come back in 30 years just to see how cranky he gets. I’m just kidding, Jake! I don’t need any bad horses added to my string.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Friday, January 14, 2005
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