BLOG 4: VAQUEROS OF BAJA’S WINE COUNTRY

Seventeen vaqueros set off from the village, followed by nineteen dogs.  All are experienced at tracking and flushing cattle; all will be pushed to their limits before the day is over.  This is rugged country in the northern reaches of Baja California, Mexico, where I’ve been invited to accompany these Mexican cattlemen.  Steep hillsides pocked with large boulders and clogging brush make great hiding places for the wild cattle that range the area. The dogs’ tenacity will prove invaluable, as well as the athleticism of the well-trained horses and excellent horsemanship of the riders.  All have developed their talents over generations chasing cattle in rough country, in harsh conditions.  The cattle, too, have developed their own wiles, and it shocks me the first time we give chase how athletic they are on these steep slopes.  I find it nearly impossible to keep up, galloping at full speed downhill one moment and uphill the next, dodging and leaping over large rocks, ducking brush, head-high to the horses, with branches thick enough to pull you out of the saddle.

Thankfully this southernmost flank of the Anza-Borrego desert, named after the bighorn sheep of the area, doesn’t have many spiny plants or cactus.  Instead, the topography of the Sierra de Juarez, the southern tip of the Great Basin Divide in northern Baja, is strewn with massive boulders the size of houses, oak, mequite and the giant yucca, which still can poke a hole in you if you get too close. The cows love to dine on the flowering stalks, and I took a liking to them myself. To lessen the chance of getting stabbed in the legs, the vaqueros here have tapaderos for their stirrups, and wear batwing chaps (chaparreras) made out of thick bull hide to protect their legs. They teased me about my short, soft leather chinks (chincaderos), saying they were better suited for an arena or a parade. If you want to hang with cowboys anywhere, you have to take some ribbing.

Soon I’m left in the dust but it is exhilarating watching from an ever-increasing distance as the vaqueros give full chase, whooping and hollering and whistling encouragement to each other and their animals.  The cattle scatter in every direction, pursued by horse and rider.  It feels like a game of Cat and Mouse, where the mice are just as big but have horns.  The cattle make for pockets of dense brush or the massive boulders, tucking in and hoping the cowboys will blow on by.  This is where the dogs show their usefulness: one, because they are small, mostly heeler types with great speed, agility and courage; and two, they have great noses and know the games the cattle play.  The dogs sniff out their quarry, and their barking alerts the cowboys to the cattle’s whereabouts.

 Trying to lasso a sprinting cow among the trees, shrubs and boulders has its challenges but the vaqueros’ roping skills are well-honed, and more often they’re successful.  Then the struggle begins as the large animals do their best to weave through the obstacles and break free, the barking dogs adding to the chaos.  The cattle are also successful and the chase begins anew, generally with another cowboy in hot pursuit. They call this rowdy riding, estilo jinete, or bronco style, and it takes a lot of skill to keep your seat and your horse its footing.

Operating out of the village of San Antonio Necua, in the verdant Valle de Guadalupe, Mexico’s famous wine growing region of northern Baja, the landscape is framed in by the Pacific Ocean at Ensenada to the south and west, and the border wall of the United States 40 miles to the north and east at Tecate, which is more famous for its beer.  The area has grown into the largest wine producing region of all of Mexico, and is becoming known as the Napa Valley of Lower California.  Before the Mexican-American War of 1848, all of California, both Alta (Upper) and Baja (Lower), was once a part of Mexico.  So it is for the people of Necua, who are an indigenous population of an ancient Navajo tribe, the Kumiai (also spelled Kumeyaay), that nomadically ranged into that part of southern Arizona and California – long before current geopolitical names, by several thousand years – following the growing seasons of the region.  My friends, the Dominguez-Sandoval family, have a quasi-dual citizenship due to these circumstances, where historically half of their family are U.S. citizens but their half are Mexican.  They are allowed greater freedom to travel between the two countrys than are their counterparts. They, like many Mexicans, live on an ejido (pronounced “eh-hido”) system of circumscribed land much like the Indian reservations in the United States.  

Jepte Dominguez-Sandoval, known by his nickname TeTe, and his family are part of the small network of ranchers who still run cattle in northern Baja.  Altogether, in this arid environment, his family gathers almost 1,000 head of cattle, a Charolais/Angus cross, over 15,000 hectares, or almost 40,000 acres within their three different ranchos, Rancho Alamo, Necua and Castillo.  It’s a chunk of ground, very little of it is developed, and there is not much water, which is somewhat of an advantage to the vaquero who knows where the cows will be gathering to stay hydrated.  

Historically, before the land dryed out so severely over the last 100 years, cattlemen ran ten times as many cattle in Baja than present day, according to ranchers I talked with.  Market forces and drought play a big part in how many head are raised and sold every year.  This family prefers to sell to buyers who cater to the naturally raised, grass-fed beef consumers in the USA, where they can get almost three times the price than if they sold domestically.  In a country where the legal national minimum wage was set last year at ten dollars a day, every peso counts. The margins are not in favor of the ranchers, and a small monopoly of buyers controls commodity prices on both sides of the border.  Put this way, no one on the back of the horse is getting rich – but they love what they do.  

The Mexicans I rode with take great pride in their skills as cowboys, and roping cattle. However, I learned you never call a vaquero a caballero, which literally translates as horseman but actually equates to being a dandy, a city slicker, or one who rides but has no cow sense: all hat and no cattle, in other words. A vaquero, on the other hand, means one who herds cows or vacas, and where the American word “buckaroo” comes from. They are indeed real cowboys.

Many times the vaqueros would get diverted from looking for cows when they spyed a herd of mustangs from afar; chasing after the wild horse herds scattered about the area provided great entertainment. They would strategically advantage themselfs in a line several hundred yards apart in relay form. One cowboy would sneak up on the herd on horseback and try to drive them to his compadres; they would then swing into staggered formation and give chase, passing the herd off like a baton in succession. Just like cowboys everywhere, it’s in their blood to pit their skills against a wild animal’s.  In all their attempts, even galloping at full speed, I never saw the cowboys get close except once – the mustangs are too strong and agile and suited to their rough environment. And attuned to survival. The wild horses would generally see their pursuer from far off, even when the cowboys would approach from a hiding place. I asked TeTe if they were trying to improve their herd by catching mustangos, and he told me they don’t work with animals that were once wild: only ones they had raised and bred, because he knew their temperament and lineage. This was purely recreation and sport for the vaqueros, a diversion from their months of herding cows.

One day, TeTe gave chase alone for several miles just to see if he could catch the herd, after the other cowboys had given up. He did, and it took me half an hour of galloping the cañadas (ravines) and crestas (ridgelines), following their tracks and the unsettled dust, to catch up with him. You could see the boyish glint of joy in his eyes and smile. He claimed the whole time, racing in the wind, he was looking for stray cattle. The true vaquero, always paying attention to every detail.

TeTe and his six siblings are third generation ranchers in Necua, and have done this their entire lifes. They own the cattle herd together as a family, although it is the four brothers who tend to the animals. Some of the villagers work in the nearby vineyards to support their familys, where employment is scarce but a growing tourism industry is spurring job opportunitys.  Fancy boutique lodging and restaurants are popping up everywhere in this 30-mile long, five-mile wide Valle de Guadalupe, what is called La Ruta de Vino: the wine route.  There are now over 150 winerys in Baja, with over 100 just in this area, with a fancy new wine museum, open to the public, dedicated to explaining this phenomenal growth, especially of the last ten years.  The valley and its growing amenitys have been written up in culinary, wine, and travel periodicals the world over, and international tourism is catching on.  How that will change the lifes of the vaquero, time will tell.

I stayed over two months altogether living with the vaqueros.  TeTe and his family welcomed me as one of their own immediately and I attempted to prove myself useful where my cowboying skills were lacking, by doing construction projects and helping out where I could. As a cabinet maker, word got out and soon I was building and repairing all manner of household furniture in the village when I wasn’t on horseback. In my free time, they worked on my roping skills and taught me the basics of horse shoeing. We even castrated a stallion, which they do only during the full moon cycle, to preserve its spirit and vitality, according to their lore.

Here, the family doctors their own animals with both modern and old medicine, including using snake oil from the many cascabeles (rattlesnakes) they regularly catch, and native plants their ancestors used from the area. (I even tryed the same smelly, viscous oil on a sore elbow, that they rub on saddle sores and whatnot, and admittedly felt relief – snake oil’s debunked reputation, notwithstanding.) Several times I watched them treat horses with bad coughs by lighting a pair of denim jeans on fire (Levis 501s preferred, they tell me), and holding the smoking pants in the horse’s face, after running him hard to get him to breathe deeply. Several of the horses had developed coughs, I think from the mold in the hay they feed; but at $10/bale USD (a day’s wages), it’s too expensive to waste. Almost all of the hay is trucked in from Mexicali, Mexico, is coarse and lacking leafy protein, and costs more per dollar than better hay we get in the United States. Doctoring their own animals is based on need and saving money, as well as knowing what works. They must be doing it right, as their horses improved, were strong and work hard every day, as I found out from the miles of strenuous riding we did.

The whole reason I lucked into this experience is because I had embarked on a three-year around-the-world motorcycle trip fall of 2018, although worldwide closures due to this pandemic have curtailed my plans for now. When I do resume my trip, I will be traveling south from the USA, through the Latin countrys, ending up in Patagonia, where I have connections with estancias and gauchos there. Again, I will be looking for more opportunitys to gain greater horsemanship knowledge, and improve my skills, in varyous parts of the world.  That I found the chance in Baja at the outset of my trip was a surprise, and my good fortune.  I had expected to get further south in my travels before locating a ranching community.  I knew Baja California, had a cowboy culture having purchased the dvd “Corazon Vaquero” by Garry McClintock years ago and reading several books about this area of Mexico; and that the vaquero lived close to the land and followed timeless practices since the first conquistadors and Jesuit priests had brought horses to the region, over 300 years ago. Back then, Baja was an unpopulated peninsula, except by very small groups of native tribes like the Kumiai, who subsisted on very little.

One hundred and fifty years ago, the Mexican government wanted to populate the area, hoping it held mineral riches of gold and silver, and to prevent the United States of America from taking it over in another war, so they gave out large land grants to friends and influential people.  They also advertised free land to anyone who wanted to become citizens and prove up and settle farms and ranches, which many Americans and Europeans took up the opportunity.  One of the more famous familys to settle in northern Baja actually originated from Norway, where they started the Meling Ranch, and later Rancho Coyote Meling, or Ranchos Meling as is they are known today. Seven generations later, they still run cattle, although not in the same large numbers. Both have been popular hunting and dude ranches the last half-century, as they transition from traditional ranch activitys. David Lang, an American who is marryed to one of the great-grandaughters, and helps manage the ranch, told me they historically had 10,000 cattle that ranged the high mountains east of their two ranches, with over 40 jinete riders to take care of a herd of a several hundred horses, in the Sierra San Pedro Martir. This mountain range rises from sea level in the west, to over 10,000 feet in just 30 miles, as the crow flys.  From that vantage, people claim you can see both the Pacific Ocean and the Gulfo de California (also known as the Sea of Cortez) – which separates Baja from mainland Mexico – the peninsula is actually that narrow east to west. The Melings have scaled back to a tenth of that herd and are now taking advantage of the interest in eco-tourism that is growing in popularity in Mexico, by operating a restaurant and lodge at each ranch, where I stayed one night as a guest several years ago on a different motorcycle trip.  David laments it is hard to find good cowboys these days, with the skills of the old vaqueros.

 With a growing middle-class, most of their clients now are Mexican nationals, and their rancho is also part of the ejido system that governs the shared use of all Baja California.  This system came about from the class struggles of the Mexican Revolution of 1910-1920, when Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata, and their ilk raided the countryside in the attempt to make things more equitable for the poor, taking back feudal land grants and distributing them to working familys who lived there.  The Melings often had to defend their homes and cattle from the roving bands of marauders during that time period, as well, which has been documented in several books.  Once in power, the Zapatistas began to reward their friends in the same manner as the old ruling class. Corruption has a long history in Mexico.  

TeTe and his family are also the beneficiarys of that land “reallocation”, in addition to being part of the Kumiai Tribe, raising cattle on the reservation ejido. Their connection to the land and their cultural heritage runs deep in their community and several family members operate the indigenous museum in Necua, showcasing the ancient ways of living off the land. Several times a month, cruise ship passengers from Ensenada are bussed to the wine country for tastings and cultural tours. San Antonio Necua is one of the stops.  Anselmo Dominguez-Sandoval, TeTe’s younger brother, known as the “Professor” because of his background and education, is the local historian and gives talks about the traditional skills and values of Kumiai culture.  He works collaboratively with university programs in the United States and in Mexico, to give anthropology students the opportunity to study that region’s history and the Kumiai language, which he teaches.  He is also one of the coordinators of the Indigenous Games, where athletes compete at different historical native sports, held at a different town every year in Baja, as well as the rodeo competitions in Necua.

Two of TeTe’s nephews are champion ropers within the greater northern Mexico region, spanning from Tijuana east to Chihuahua, and they have the winning trophy saddles to prove it.  Always a humble family, they acknowledge their skills but say their uncle TeTe is much better than they are, and I feel lucky to be learning from such talented cowboys.  

From the time he was little boy, his mother Guadalupe tells me, TeTe lived to be in the saddle.  Every year since he was 12 he would spend months at a time alone, watching over and caring for the cattle.  Some years, he would load his sawbuck aparejo pack saddles with leather panniers called alforjas, made from actual cowhide with the hair left on to shed rain, onto his mules and lead the packstring into the high country, not to be seen for a month or more at a time, sleeping out in the open under a light blanket or plastic sheet if it was raining, cooking his food over an open fire.  Now approaching his fiftys, he is marryed and has a son who is the same age as when he became a full-fledged vaquero.  Young Abraham wants to emulate his father and has little interest in school work but his parents use the privilege of herding cattle as the incentive for him to finish high school.  Education is revered in their family, and TeTe’s younger brother, also called Abraham, has worked hard ranching to afford his three children a college education.  Two of them are large animal veterinarians and the other runs the growing schedule at one of the larger winerys, as an agricultural engineer.  They, and their many cousins, understand education will help them make a living in ways not afforded their parents.  They also grew up as cowboys and help when they can during cattle drives and brandings, when they are not competing in rodeos.

Despite the emphasis of a formal education, animal husbandry is still a big part of their livelihood.  The Dominguez-Sandoval family make up about a quarter of the village’s 175 people.  Each household raises chickens, sheep, pigs and horses, vegetable gardens and citrus orchards, as well as being part owners in the cattle herd.  Some familys have a dairy cow for milking and for making cheese, which is legendary in this area.  (While we were camped with the cattle at Rancho Alamo, we made cheese daily from a Holstein with calf they keep with the herd, getting about two pounds of a firm, sweet ricotta from each milking. It was delicious and complimented the large pot of beans parked daily on the barrel woodstove.) The family members all help each other, sharing what they have and celebrating together.  Every week there is a birthday, holiday or family remembrance it seems, and to feed 30-100 people at a time takes a lot of organization. Tabita, the oldest sister in the family and also part owner of the herd, has started a restaurant from her home under an outside, shaded patio, since she is used to feeding large crowds, to earn a little side money. It is called WA Kumiai Restaurante, and she is an amazing cook – I can attest. At these gatherings, there is so much laughter when they get together I couldn’t track conversations, so I mostly just sat in their midst with a smile on my face. And ate delicious food.

Depending on the occasion, an animal will be selected for slaughter and the whole family chips in to help.  While I was there I learned to butcher all the different kinds of creatures they raise, which was new for me being a principiante (novice), aka caballero (city slicker).  Sparing me my lack of know-how they did not; instead handing me a knife with instructions – or an ax or a handsaw. Good thing I’m a carpenter and know how to handle sharp tools. Everything either gets eaten or has a use – nothing is wasted… from the hoofs to the hide, even the eyeballs, which TeTe assured me are sweet and delicious.  To learn to how to harvest and cook so many different kinds of meat, as well as giant pots of frijoles or refryed beans over an open fire, was a joy, and a real learning experience.  But the best treats were the homemade flour tortillas made fresh for every meal and cooked over a wood fired stove, eventhough I never quite got the knack of rolling them out with a piece of PVC pipe, despite the women’s best efforts at improving my cooking skills.  

The gender roles are pretty delineated, with the women doing most of the food preparation and the men doing the outside chores.  The men are also the ones who get the pleasure of working with the horses, and unlike the mainland Mexican charras and American cowgirl lifestyles, I didn’t see a single woman on horseback in the four months I was in Baja.  It’s not equitable and I had no problem pointing out to both the men and women that’s not how it is in other parts of the world.  Hopefully that will change as traditions change.  Mexico is a macho culture, and for my feminist views they teased me about being a “mandilón” or an apron wearer.  I told them, where I was from I was the president of the Mandilón Society and was here recruiting in Mexico, which always got them to laugh, especially the women who loved the idea of men helping more around the house.

The Catholic faith is important to these Mexican villagers, and the church is parked in the middle of three of the family’s households. They attend regularly and help with the maintenance of the church. A preacher comes from Ensenada to give the Sunday service, and Prof. Anselmo’s children are the musicians who accompany the rousing sermons that are well-attended. Every meal was blessed at the table and they thanked God daily for their health and love of family, putting the hopes of their future in their faith. They are people who do not ask for much in this life. They have what they need, and are happy with their day-to-day living.

The men of the village stay true to their vaquero heritage and make much of their horse tack (tachuela) by hand, using everything from braiding bailing twine into headstalls, to curing leather from their cattle for repairs.  The style of saddle popular in northern Baja has the controversial “bear trap” pommel (pomo) and deep cantle, that locks your seat in, which is good for a bucking bronc and the steep terrain, as long as the animal doesn’t fall over with you stuck in the saddle.  But some Baja cowboys are converting to a Texas or all-around Western style saddle lately, especially the competitive ropers.  They were very curious about my ranching Wade saddle, which has a larger horn wrapped in mule hide, while theirs have thin, bare metal necks for dallying. They were wholly unfamiliar with today’s Californio style of horsemanship as a concept, which originated in Mexico, but were quite adept with their lasso, which they call a chavinda, and were accomplished riders.  My friend TeTe prefers his four-strand leather la riata (lariat) when he’s roping at great distance. Conversely, their saddles are nothing like the large wooden horn and slick fork of their counterparts in mainland Mexico, whose charreada style of competitive roping is popular, but when asked, these Baja cowboys claim isn’t any good for lassoing cattle out on the range, which obviously is not true.  Everyone likes what they like. They were also shocked by the price of my saddle, which comes from a custom saddle maker in Colorado.  Theirs in turn, cost less than $500/USD but despite the myth of poorly made saddles coming from Mexico, lasts them ten plus years of daily use, with hard riding and roping.  I had brought my saddle and blankets down from the USA since it fit me well, was comfortable for the long days we had, and I was familiar with it.  

The first several weeks in April we worked out of the village of Necua, and the local vaqueros joined us, riding into the hills to look for cattle.  We were a sight, and you could tell the group was proud to ride the dusty streets through town, where fewer people these days know the cowboy culture. Folks would come outside to watch us walk by and wave hello, the dogs creating a commotion, picking fights and defending their territory.  The horses were non-plussed from all the action and didn’t mind the dogs weaving underfoot.  In all my time there I never saw a horse act out maliciously toward another animal, even other horses they didn’t know.  They understood they had a job to do and the cowboys weren’t going to tolerate any misbehavior.  Some of the guys had a heavy hand but for the most part, there were very few instances of harsh discipline.  As the foreman of the outfit, TeTe was not afraid to scold any of the cowboys when they were being too aggressive with their mounts, and the vaqueros have a deep respect for his approbation. The horses I was around, were hardworking, well-mannered and well-trained, especially those in TeTe’s remuda.

Jepte Dominguez-Sandoval is a deeply religious man with no formal training in horsemanship, other than what he was taught by his grandfather, father and uncles, and learned on his own and from others, including the horse. He loves to laugh yet doesn’t say much. People from all around come to TeTe’s table to share coffee (called jaa cuñil in Kumiai) and ask his advice. There is always a pot of coffee on the woodstove, the grounds soaking in a cloth funnel they call a calcetín, or sock, and that is their favorite joke to play on the uninitiated, saying it’s one of the cowboy’s, which accounts for the coffee’s color. TeTe’s big grin gets the best of him and he can’t finish telling a funny story without laughing. He likes riddles and many of their hidden meanings were lost in translation between us. He was always patient with this gringo but that is a pejorative no-one used around me. Ever. I never saw him get angry or raise his voice with anyone or anything. Ever the teacher but only if he sees your interest in the topic. He enjoys watching people learn but only offers advice if you ask. I hope he is with us a long time but the skin cancer growing on his hands from years in the sun concerns me. His other brothers have the same issue but count on their faith in God to keep them healthy. The vaqueros here never ride or rope with gloves, even in cold weather.

Some traditions are regional, like wearing their spurs laced opposite most cowboys in the U.S., on the inside of the boot. They’re old school cowboys, yet they all have modern cell phones, which does help keep them in touch with their familys when they’re out herding cattle in the backcountry. I still stay in touch with the entire family through Facebook.

Every day TeTe patiently answered all of my questions, in a dialect of Español that was difficult for me to understand from what I’d learned in high school over three decades prior. Fortunately, I’m conversant in Spanish from traveling in other countrys, and can read it, because I didn’t speak English the entire two months I was with the vaqueros in Necua. TeTe also explained that cowboys have their own use of language that is different from city folk, like using hop instead of jump; or mancito, which means a soft, kind eye, instead of tranquilo or calm/tranquil, to describe an animal’s temperament. Together, at night, we pored over translation books I had brought, and I wrote down many of the new words I was learning, including some in Kumaia. “Auka” means howdy and they say it often, always with a big smile. TeTe was fond of learning American slang and loved telling me to “Take it easy, man” when I was pressuring a cow too much, and “See you later, dude”. The slang I learned from the vaqueros I always checked with the women to make sure I wasn’t using bad words. I gauged this by how hard they laughed, which is hard to do because Mexicans are very jovial by nature and love to tease eachother.

 As a group, we would gather early in the morning and ride straight into the hills, along well-worn paths to ascend over 1,000 feet in elevation.  The horses were well-conditioned and used to the topography.  Spring wildflowers were in full bloom from the heavy rains of winter and the air was pungent with their perfume.  The last few years have been dry and TeTe was grateful for the extra grass in the mountains for his cattle.  It also meant the canyons would hold more water for drinking later.  The hillsides were green and lush this time of year, with huge swaths of colorful flowers, orange and purple.  Mix in large granite boulders and pockets of oak trees, willows and cottonwoods, and I could see why everyone so enjoyed being up in the mountains with the cattle.  

After about an hour, we would reach a central point and break into separate groups to cover more ground.  Instructions were given to meet at a known location some time later, with news of what they had seen, or animals they had gathered. After almost 40 years of riding these hills, TeTe knew every inch of the landscape, and was ever alert for fresh signs of movement along our chosen route for the day.  He would stop and read the tracks in the dust, determining their age and direction.  Often he would pause to scan the hillsides.  Even with binoculars, I had a hard time picking out the cattle, scattered among the rocks and trees, that he could see with the naked eye from far away. The cow’s hides were perfect camouflage in that arid landscape.

 Many days looking for cattle it seemed we moved in random fashion, taking serpentine routes the cows followed, or going in a straight line over a mountain, making our own path, stopping to take in the view and scan the valleys for animals, then plunging down the steep backside, ploughing through brush over our head.  After about a week of riding, I began to see there was a pattern to TeTe’s searching, and that he had actually gridded off the area, trying to discern the cattle’s movements and where they may be hiding.  They proved elusive and some days we didn’t see a single cow, despite riding for hours, which isn’t surprising on 40,000 acres of mostly unfenced landscape.  And the animals roam a good bit daily as they forage and hunt for water. Calfing season was mostly over by this time in April and early May but TeTe knew where the mama cows liked to hole up, safe from predators, like coyote and mountain lion, which we saw tracks of regularly. We covered 15-25 miles in the saddle, which made for long days. At night, as it was getting dark, the cowboys crooned Norteño ballads to entertain us and the cattle, while we worked. Often they would sing out or give a whistle just to let folks know where they were in the herd.

About lunchtime, everyone would meet at the designated site, usually with nearby water, pushing along any cattle they had found.  The cowboys would drink first, filling their canteens or dropping down prone and kissing the water’s surface.  I wouldn’t say the water was safe or clean to drink, filled as it was with moss and algae, and polywogs, and other things I couldn’t identify, swimming about… not to mention, lots of cattle activity.  Everyone but me quenched their thirst, as I drank from the water bottle I had filled back in town.  They smiled, knowing I’d likely get sick from the water they had grown up drinking, and their bodys were accustomed to.  They good naturedly teased me, saying I couldn’t be a true vaquero until I drank from the seeps and pools like they did, but I wasn’t going to risk it.  I was still a caballero, afterall.

We would loosen the saddles and drop the reins to “ground tie” the horses, then pull out fresh burritos from the saddle bags, made that morning.  Someone would gather a few sticks to light a fire and a metal grill would mysteriously appear, which we used to heat up lunch.  After a few days, I realized these were their usual resting areas, where there was shade, water, a fire pit and grill, and level ground for a nap, which dogs, cowboys and steeds took advantage of, in the cool of the trees. Any cattle that had gathered would mill about or wander away but not far.   For an hour nobody moved, not dogs, horses or men. Siesta time.  The cattle would still be where we needed to look for them.

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