DC Ride - Monday

The DC Ride begins Monday morning at 7 am when the Greenies come wake everyone up with margaritas and mariachi music. They come around with two buckets: one of ice and one of margarita mix and tequila, and give you breakfast margaritas. This is where the drinking begins.

Take time to think about that and let it sink in.

Back in the day (this is like 6-7 years ago and before), the people in charge of the ranch camp used to hire an actual mariachi band to come play during this time and during the El Presidente Party. It was really cool, because the Mariachis would would start playing around 6 am, and wander around the whole area of the ranch where the guest rooms are. It's a really cool thing to wake up to, if you get the chance. Otherwise, you get woken up to them at your door while you're in PJ's with people handing you booze, playing and singing as loud as they can. It is my personal goal to bring them back in the coming years, even if I have to pay for them myself. I miss them.

You wander down to the dining room and patio for breakfast after this. There are more margaritas for you there (should you desire...I recommend not). You eat breakfast, then get your gear ready to be loaded in the U-Haul (another Greenie job. You should be getting the trend by now that they are in charge of most of the bitch work). After that, you take your saddle bags down to the corral, along with you in all your riding gear, and get ready to mount up. Now, if you have a girl or some other friend of sorts to ride your horse into town, they mount up instead of you. Me being friendless and lacking in a girlfriend in proximity (she had some fucking "FE Exam." Load of horseshit, in my opinion), I had to ride for an hour and a half into town. This is time to get adjusted to the idea of what you're about to do, let the last minute fears sink in, and think about all the things you forgot to do before you left wash over you in a tsunami of panic. Also, it's a chance to ride by some houses on the outskirts of town that have very loud, barking dogs that scare horses and send them careening into the brush. These things happen. Especially with girls on them who are expecting an easy ride. I was already on my toes at this point, so I didn't go anywhere. All the other horses around me did though. Not a fun way to start the riding day.

In short order, we get into town. We dismount for a bit, eat lunch, which consist of prepared, bagged sandwiches for us, and hurry up and wait. Then, we mount back up and ride across the railroad tracks. Horses do one of two things in the presence of tracks: nothing or panic. Thankfully, the camp was devoid of the panic option this trip. Last time I was on the ride, some joke thought it would be fun to trip the sensors and make the crossing think a train was coming. Loud noises and falling railroad guards are NOT FUN around animals that do not know what the fuck they are. Once we ride past that, we get to the library. More time to hurry up and wait. We must wait for "high noon" for the ceremonies to start. People make boring as speeches. Horses get restless. Riders get restless. My brother goes to hold a flag (I was expecting disaster at this point). The national anthem is sung. In a moment of sheer stupidity, I decided to take off my hat. My horse decided it was then a good time to leave NOW right the way we came. I put a stop to that, but not before I had ridden about 100 feet and had to ride back. Last time I ever took off my hat. Sam noticed. I would not get to live this down later.

Let me expound a bit on horses and riding them. Riding a horse is not like driving a car. True, they have the same functionality as a car: acceleration (kicking them), brakes (pulling back on the reins), and full power steering. However, a horse is an animal, which means it has personality. They have things they like and dislike (also other horses they like and dislike), and they do take care of their riders so long as their riders take care of them. My horse (Topito is his name) and I didn't hit it off to a great start. It took a couple days before he realized I was trying to take care of him to. After that, we came to an understanding. Once you learn the personality of the horse you are riding, you can have an amazing time bonding with the animal on the trail. However, if any horse wants you off, there is not a power in this universe that can keep you on. Imagine if you will being in a very packed crowd, people brushing up against you on all side. This is very uncomfortable. Horses like it just about as much as people do. They have a more direct way of dealing with it, in the form of kicking and biting. That is what makes this next part pretty insane.

We leave all at once. We cross the Wickenburg bridge in a huge group (about 10 horses wide), and then we must narrow down in a few minutes to ONE HORSE AT A TIME to cross a cattle guard (I would suggest googling this). This is not a good idea. This is where people get kicked or thrown. Luckily, neither happened. The Flag Bearers get to lead everyone out, and my brother did a fantastic job. We met up with him afterwards, and unfortunately got stuck in front of a group of Californios. Pushy bastards. Later, we would end up falling behind by about 50 yards. We could still see hats, which meant we could find the trail. These guys were having none of that, and kept telling my brother to spur his horse and catch up. They earned a nice, Andrew style glare. I didn't even need to tell them to shut the fuck up.

We ride out pretty much in single file for most of the ride. The trail is denoted by markers, which take the form of pink ribbons tied around trees to let you know which way to go if there is a fork in the trail. The weather was beautiful, and it had just rained, so there was absolutely no dust. You couldn't ask for ideal conditions. The trail for the day passed mostly uneventfully, save one minor hiccup. Once we got farther into the desert, we came across a point in the trail where there was an obstacle in the form of a four-foot high rock. The horse had to climb this rock. The procession went Greenie - my dad - my brother - me. The Greenies' horse had a little trouble and stumbled on the way up. My dad's horse, Gonzo, isn't exactly sure footed. He took his time and got up without issue. My brother's horse went up without issue. My horse decided this would be a good place to practice his high jump career and decided to take it in one leap. I don't weigh much, so I came off the saddle a good six inches and slammed my nuts down right into the saddle horn. Ouch.

Monday's ride lasts about 4 and a half hours. The ride was into Sayer's Station. Sayer's station is the ruins of an old post office stop and general store that used to feed the surrounding countryside. It was abandoned long ago, and now servers as our first campsite. The Los Cab camp is on a slight hill, which means putting up your cots gets interesting in the geometry. All heads point uphill. Getting off the trail, the wranglers take our horses to feed and water them, then we go get settled. Once settled, we do more Greenie events (such as have their sponsors embarrass the shit out of them with funny stories), and they do the next Greenie task of getting us all drinks. Once dinner rolls around, we all go eat steak, salad, and potatoes (the ride hires a catering service that moves with us and sets this all up), and retire to the campfire for more drinking and merriment.

If you've never heard me talk about nightfall in Arizona, you will need to know this: as soon as the sun is gone, so is the warmth. There is a good 20-30 degree different between night and day. This week was no exception. Soon, it is very cold, which means people are either huddled up in their bunks or huddled up around the fire. I chose the fire for a while. This gave Sam ample opportunity to admonish me for not taking my hat off for the national anthem. Joy. Monday night is usually a pretty early night, as we have the longest day on Tuesday: 9 hours in the saddle. This is the day when you DON'T want to be hurting. I did my hurting on Monday.

Next update:
High climbs, rivers, rolling horses, and a long ass day. Plenty of fun stuff.

The DC Ride

                Let’s start off with the what: The Desert Caballeros Ride is 100 miles on horseback spread over 5 days in the middle of the mountains in Arizona. This ride is all men. No girls allowed. Me and 160 other guys sat our asses on horses and rode around. For five days (well, technically four. We’ll get to that). A lot of you easterners may sit there and think nothing else but “WTF.” However, it’s a lot of fun. Specifically, a lot of DRUNKEN fun. This ride leaves from Wickenburg, the town where my family’s guest ranch sits. My grandfather, Dallas Gant, started this ride along with a few other guys 65 years ago, shortly after he started his guest ranch. Since then, it has become a tradition both for the town of Wickenburg and my family. My Uncle Rusty went on 44 rides. My dad has been on 14, my brother 5. This was my second. One stipulation for the ride is that you have to be 21 years old (because of the booze part). The ride always goes out on a Monday and arrives back in town on a Friday. I leave the Friday before so I can spent a couple days riding beforehand (more on that later too).

                As I write this, more details about the ride will emerge. For this update, I’ll focus on the two days before, preparations, gear, and some of the odds and ends associated with this whole escapade.

                My first year on the ride, my dad signed himself, my brother and me up for riding the two days before the ride went out. They aren’t long rides, just around an hour or an hour and a half. I was extremely perplexed. I asked him why on earth you would want to do MORE riding than we already had to. His response was one of the funniest things I had ever heard: “To get your ass in shape.” The rationalization is that if you ride the two days before, your ass and knees hurt on Monday instead of on Tuesday. This is pretty crucial, as Tuesday is the really long day in the string of riding with anywhere from 7 to 9 hours in the saddle.

So, Saturday morning, my brother and I get up, eat breakfast, head to the corral, and get ready to mount up. We were riding with a group of other guys from our camp, including Eddie and Sam. You’re going to read their names a lot over the string of updates. They are the practical jokers of the camp, and are responsible for most of the pranks that get played on the new guys. My first year, they ducked taped me in bed, ducked taped a blow-up doll to me in bed, and had me arrested by the deputies that come along the ride with us. For that morning’s ride, they had put a pair of little girl’s panties around my saddle horn. Recognizing the use for this, I kept them for later (revenge is always funny). We ride around, and I realize that I got put on a horse that spooks. I would eventually learn over the next hour that I cannot do the following things around this horse:

1.       Take off my hat

2.       Have anything brush against my hat

3.       Make sudden noises

4.       Put on my saddle bags fast

5.       Have something strange enter his peripheral vision

My brother was put on a horse that kicks. I guess the wranglers didn’t want to make it easy on either of us this year. I get my horse calmed down after a string of spooking right when we left the corral, and I realized that it was going to be a long week of constant vigil to make sure I didn’t go careening off into the sunset on top of a horse that ran away from my hat like it had just see C’thulhu.

                The next part of Saturday and Sunday that the sentiment of “getting your ass in shape” for the ride applies to the drinking. A LOT of drinking happens on the ride and before, and getting your tolerance up for liquor is a must. If you don’t do this, you’re liable to have bad things happen to you , such as dehydration or being duct taped in bed. There are two main parties before the ride goes out: the Camp Party and the El Presidente Party.

                Let me elaborate on the camps a bit. The ride is divided up into various camps of guys, which are just groups of us. Some of us have batboys (people who drive the u-haul truck with most of our gear to each campsite...we’re not barbarians), some don’t, but there are differences between the camps. I’ll list them and some of their traits now:

Los Cab:

                Our camp. We are named for the Rancho de Los Caballeros (my family’s ranch). We have one batboy, Tommy. Tommy could sleep through a nuclear apocalypse standing up. He snores like a freight train (quite literally), and can be pretty useless at times. There are about 40 of us, and most of us are good natured. We do have our assholes though.

Californios:

                These guys mostly hail from California, and they’re all a bunch of pushy bastards. These guys, along with the Honkers, need to be RIGHT UP FRONT in the line of riders, and if you’re not going fast enough, they pass you (which can be really dangerous), or they start being pricks and tell you to spur your horse or make snide comments about how slow the ride is this year.

Honkers:

                Named because they have duck calls, and like to use them. Don’t ask why. Also pushy bastards. These guys are famous for their coffin. They have a real coffin, painted red, that has an inside lined with porn. They keep their booze in it (you really can’t make this shit up).

Remuda Ranch:

                Another guest ranch. These guys have a fleet of five batboys who wait on them hand and foot. They don’t even have to set up their own bunks. Because our guest ranch is a four-star resort, these guys like to claim that we’re the rich guys. Like hell. Batboys are expensive, and they pay lots for them. My brother put his response to them quite succinctly: “It’s not our fault we have a FUNCTIONING guest ranch.” (he doesn’t realize he’s not helping)

Poor Boys and the Cheapskates:

                I lump these guys together because they used to be one camp. Back in the day, there was a big camp argument with these guys about whether or not to get a batboy. It was pretty much split down the middle evenly. The argument was so heated, and the sides so unwilling to compromise, they agreed to split the camp in two. The Poor Boys were so named because they shilled out the money for a batboy. The Cheapskates are so named because they were too cheap to get one.

                So there’s your little bit of DC history regarding camps. Saturday night, one person in camp hosts the Camp Party, where we all gather, eat, drink cocktails, and get introduced to the Greenies. The Greenies are so named because it’s they’re first year on the ride, and this is noted by a strip of green tape on their badge. This is not supposed to come off until the ride ends on Friday. We had two Greenies this year, and one of them took off his stripe before the Camp Party. This pretty much means he was marked for every prank ever. This was noted by Eddie and Sam, and they were pissed. Retribution for these kinds of things is terrifying, righteous, and merciless. I am so glad the shit they did to me was tame in comparison. You’ll have to wait for the Tuesday update for that though.

                Before we get to Sunday, my brother and I found out something hilarious and scary at the same time: my brother had been chosen (without anyone informing him) that he would be carrying the American Flag out of town. Horses don’t usually like flags. Nathan’s kicked. This was going to need training. We all enjoy the rest of the cocktail hour, head back to the ranch for dinner, eat, go to the ranch’s bar, and drink until we pass out. Before passing out in our room, my brother and I got into a yelling fight about computer security (because apparently we’re all pompous pricks for telling people that what they do is wrong and able to be compromised. I was having NONE of that shit).

                Sunday, we ride to a breakfast cookout, ride back, and Nathan and his horse get some flag training. The rest of the day is pretty much dedicated to gear prep. Things we need include: bedroll with sleeping bag, chaps, saddlebags, bag packed with clothes and other things we need in camp, shotgun, cots (I don’t have one, my brother and dad do), hats, gloves, bandannas, tarp (we call it the wall-to-wall), nice water bottles, boots and spurs. You also pack lots of button up (western style) long sleeve shirts. Thorns are nasty.

                Then comes the El Presidente Party, where we get all doled up in our western finest, and go eat and drink more. There is also a silent auction that benefits the ride, where a whole bunch of stuff is sold. It can range from western jewelry and art to saddle blankets and new spurs. It’s all fun stuff. Once we have dinner, drink at the bar more, we then retire and get ready for Monday.

                Monday morning, all hell breaks loose. Organized hell, anyway.

Strolls Down Memory Lane

I have a very good memory. That is not to say that it is photographic. Far from it. I just have a very strong ability to recall things in my past. This is especially strong for movie quotes, videogames, things I have read, and music. It is even more potent for conversations.

This ability comes in handy quite often. However, there are certain times where this ability really is not all that it is cracked up to be. When my brain takes me back to certain conversations, I tend to feel the emotions of the situation over again. It’s probably not as strong as it was at the time, but damn if it doesn’t feel shitty. I wish I could forget a lot of these memories. The bad ones stick with me the worst. Some of the good ones stick with me too. There get to be some weird ones splashed in there too.

I remember leaning on a car in my high school parking lot, talking to my ex (before we were dating, this is while we still did the fuck buddies thing). She was confessing to me that she had sex with another guy, and wanted to keep doing it, but also wanted to keep what we had. I told her that I wasn’t mad, and that I had no reason to be. She had fulfilled my one request for the whole situation: be honest. I asked that of her when we had started. In truth, I wasn’t mad. The part of it that makes me think is that I really wasn’t upset or angry at all. I drove home afterwards wondering the whole time why I didn’t really care.

I dated her for a long time during my first years of college. It’s funny when I look back and think about trying to build a loving relationship and a foundation of trust on a situation that started off so incredibly screwy.

I remember getting drunk with a coworker two years ago. He was convincing me to transfer to a different section of the IT department at my college. I was relaying all the things that I was unhappy with, with some embellishments. I was pretty drunk. When I was done, he explained to me how things had become worse since he had started working at IT, but his apathy had kept him from quitting. He relayed exactly how things would go if I stayed. I watched another of my coworkers lose his drive and cease caring about the job. I didn’t. I went to another job where my work was more valued. The coworker I was having the discussion with spent two hours convincing me that I needed to transfer or I would burn out. So I did.

Today, I was present for another conversation. One of the managers was lamenting how the management should have done more to keep another person from doing exactly what I did: transfer to the networking section. I laughed today when he was done, and told him that I’m glad nothing changes around the department. It’s good to see that students recognize a horrible thing when they see it, even if there are so few of us.

Those two hours of listening still haunt me. I cannot describe how refreshing it was to have that much of a breath of fresh air. I had a way out. All I had to do was take it. So I did.

Coming up with a specific bad memory is really hard. Choosing between all the good examples isn’t exactly fun. I think I have a good one though.

My girlfriend and I were getting ready to go to bed. She was in bed, I had just finished brushing my teeth. Normal night. My phone starts to ring. The number belongs to a friend of mine. He used to be my best friend. I couldn’t believe it. I smiled as I answered the phone. He hadn’t called me in months. I really didn’t know what to say. I let him talk. His phone got passed around between him and his girlfriend, relating her new job. How it was good to have a job and look for apartments. Then, it came down to the real business. He got back on to inform me that she was having computer problems, and this was the real reason he called me. Not to share good news, not to bullshit, he calls me late at night because his girlfriend has a computer problem that he cannot solve.

A few of my fellow computer science buddies and I have a certain philosophy when dealing with friends. We have our friends, and then we have the people who have been knocked down to the level of people who only call us for computer problems.

I strangely don’t remember the problem. I very vividly remember telling them the computer needed to go back to the IT department to get a piece of hardware replaced. I remember most vividly the conversation afterwards with my girlfriend, where she finally understood why I looked so upset. I’ve never had to put someone who was my best friend on the list of people who only call when they have a computer problem. I wish I had words to describe the feeling. I really don’t think I could ever put words to that in a million years. Emptiness, despair, and sorrow just don’t seem to do it justice.

I didn’t drink that night, thank god. I didn’t really sleep though. Lying awake with that emotion is horrible, and I hope that I never have to do it again. I wish I had just hung up the phone or not answered it entirely. Then I could have stayed a little more ignorant of the problem for a while.

The bad memories fill my thoughts a lot, along with the “what ifs” that go with them. What if I had said something different? What if I hadn’t gone with that person? What if I had decided to believe one person over another? Honestly, I’ll never know, and it is probably useless to spend my time wondering.

But I remember them all so readily. So I wonder. I try not to let it drive me insane. Fortunately, holding my girlfriend when I go to bed takes care of most of that. It’s the little stuff. This turned out a lot more depressing than I wanted it to, but I’m going to post it anyway. I apologize if this entry was too "live journal-y." Hopefully the next one will be less personal and more funny. Just the way the ball bounced tonight.

Challenges

One of my biggest challenges I face in writing is motivation. It's not that I don't want to write...I do. I have a hard time writing about anything that I don't care about. If the subject doesn't grip me enough, it's like taking a really hard math test. I can't possible get through the whole thing unless I'm being graded. I have found the same deal applies when I care about a subject too much. For example, last night I had a long post all written up about my crazy-ass nightmares and how they stick with me (I really should figure out how to finish that), but I deleted it and didn't post it. The whole post seemed to personal to me, and a sour taste was left in my mouth after I was done. So much for a freaking catharsis in that one.

One of the easiest times for me to write is when I can't sleep. You would be surprised how often I have bouts of insomnia. Usually, I put up with it for a week or so until I go mad and work myself at the gym super hard. Recently, when the gym is out of my reach (and it's 2:00 am), I have found that writing something often helps calm me down and get me to sleep. Maybe it's just beneficial for me since it slows my brain down enough that I can sleep. Either way, it's been helping. I haven't really been posting those much, so I'll try and be better about that.

Either way, readers are going to see a myriad of things here. Most of it will be my ranting, humorous takes on things that I actually care about. Then there will be the personal stuff, probably things that I write very late at night. The others will be my various experiments in writing, and they will be pretty rare. Practice makes perfect, really. I hope that I can start updating this once a week, then more as time progresses and I get back into the habit of writing things for an audience. Right now, it's just really for my friends and those who find this (hello forum, I do love you all so). Feel free to leave comments. I love and hate feedback at the same time.

I promise I'll try and post the piece about my nightmares. I did have a lot of fun starting it. Remembering that stuff gets a little weird though.

On flying

This is kind of backdated, from my plane flight last week:

                The process of air travel used to leave me nothing more than cramped legs and boredom. However, as I’ve my age has progressed, I find myself more and more annoyed with people on airplanes than ever before. This flight that I am on (writing this on my laptop at present, posting it later) has given me a rather unique example of why flying is annoying to me now.

 I arrived at the airport about an hour and twenty minutes before my flight. This would give me ample time to get through security and buy my book for the flight. I usually spend my entire flight reading, which I have been unable to do much of this flight…more on that later. I arrived in the security lines behind a family: father, mother, two daughters. They had more bags between them to carry on in flight than I have ever seen at an airport. I was sitting there pondering what on earth they could be carrying when another man travelling alone arrived at the area to start disrobing and taking out laptops just before me. It took this family no less than ten minutes to get through the security checkpoint after they exited the queue. Bag after bag after bag went on the conveyor. The mother was bringing up the rear, and to make light of the situation, the man in front of me said to her “I see you guys like to travel light.” In my mind, my first thought was “you shall regret this immensely.” She laughed, and the first words out of her mouth were “Some bags are just food, others are medication…well, if the airlines went peanut-free, we wouldn’t HAVE to carry all this.” Then she starts bitching incessantly about peanuts on airlines and how much she has to clean the seats and all the surfaces to make sure her one daughter doesn’t die. Wat.

Whatever.  I’m through security. I don’t care. I still have an hour to spare. I buy my book: The Lost Gate by Orson Scott Card. It’s been a good read so far, and I would be enjoying it more if not for the SECOND family I encountered. Right before I got on the plane, I encountered a family of six: loud, obnoxious spoiled bratty kid, younger kid, baby, mother, loud boisterous father, and a louder, stubborn, asshole grandfather. They were up about 10 people in front of me on the jetway. As I was listening to them, my only thought was “I hope to God I am not sitting anywhere near these people.” As I get on the plane, and they continue towards the back, the probability quickly approached 1. I also passed the other family, where the mom was busy cleaning every surface she could with wet wipes, and the girl was complaining about how wet everything is. I laughed a little on the inside, than sat in the row right before this family. They took up both sides of the aisle on one row, and they have proceeded to shout across the aisle at each other all flight. The kid behind me (the oldest) has kicked my seat pretty much all flight, making sleep impossible. The noise has made reading now impossible, as the kid has been complaining about one thing or another for the last hour. My controls for the in-flight entertainment (woo direct tv) have now ceased functioning (I’m sure this kid is to blame somehow), and I am stuck watching Sherlock Holmes on loop.

Now that’s just me bitching about the people. The process of boarding a plane these days is kind of annoying, although Continental-United now do it a slightly more efficient way. First class boards first (because they need to feel important), special needs and infants second, then “elite access” members (Continental’s way of making the rest of us scrubs feel special), then they board the plane back to front. If they took the time to look at this (and if the rich people in first class weren’t so damned bitchy and entitled), there could be the easiest god damned improvement to make this more streamlined: just board back to front. That way, it wouldn’t take a half hour to get everyone on the plane.

Next problem: everyone carries all they can onto a plane now. You have to pay for bags. This I have no easy solution for. However, this has resulted in a ridiculous amount of carry-ons and a constant mad rush and free-for-all to get as much overhead space as you can.

Third problem:  Continental now makes you pay for food. The only place I really fly to from Jersey is Phoenix, which is a five and a half hour non-stop flight. Food is kind of necessary here. Now this just smacks of opportunistic extortion.

All of this is greatly improved in first class…if you can afford it, and if there are seats available by the time you book your flight. Of course, I am not paying for this flight (the last one I will probably not pay for myself), so I don’t fly first class. I fly the cheap seats in the back of the god damn bus. However, seeing as how I have a nice job now, I will probably fork over the money for it. It’s worth it simply to get away from these…people. If you can call them that. I swear, if my kid bitches nearly this much, I will slap the shit out of him until he shuts up.