Follow Up on the Mule King

 The Fall 2009 issue Range magazine featured an article by Arlene Gaba entitled “Five Years with the Mule King”. It was about the time Mrs. Gaba spent living on a dusty ranch that belonged to her husband’s grandfather, John Prather. The story describes life on one of the last open ranges in the US and features the highlights of “Grandpa” Prather’s fight to keep his ranch from being confiscated by the Department of Defense. The army was attempting to make Otero Mesa part of the McGregor Range artillery training facility. The struggle between the military and the people they were supposed to be protecting inspired a novel by Edward Abbey named Fire on the Mountain, and a television movie of the same name that starred Buddy Epson.

 I grew up in El Paso which is less the 60 miles from where the controversy took place. I followed the story in the El Paso newspapers during the mid nineteen sixties and after reading the article by Mrs. Gaba in 2009 I decided to locate her, and any other members of Prather’s family I could, so I could learn more about what happened after Prather died and the army knocked his house down with a bulldozer.

In the summer of 2010 I was fortunate enough to meet with Arlene and her son Mike Gaba at a party at Bill Key's home in La MEsa,NM. During the few hours we visited the Gabas and we became friends. They were excited to share their stories about the confrontation on the range and Prather’s eventual victory over the army brass. I also learned from Mike and Arlene that John Prather had nephew named “Irv” Porter (see “Larger Than Life” posted 06/30/2010) who was still living near Piñon, NM. Before the party was over I had attained Irv’s phone number and directions to his home.

 During my next trip to New Mexico I located Porter’s home near Piñon and found him in poor health. None-the-less he was eager to have company and talk while he reclined on a sofa and breathed from an oxygen bottle.

 Porter’s wife Lessie and daughter Toni joined in the conversation and once again I found myself among new friends. Before I headed back to my home in Arlington, TX, I had taken copious notes including directions to the remains of John Prather’s home place.

 Finally, in April of 2012 I took all my notes and set out to locate the ruins of the Prather ranch and the place where the army allowed Prather’s family to bury him.

 What I found turned to be an ironic sate of affairs; a classic example of how government controlled land is poorly managed and natural resources allowed to be wasted.

 I turned east off US 54 and passed through a set of gates which were open, but fitted with all the hardware needed to lock them so the road could be closed on short notice. On, and to the sides of the gate, were “WARNING” signs to alert motorists to the fact they were entering McGregor Range, a US Army artillery test area. Along the, alternately paved and gravel road, there cattle guards that designated blocks of grazing land leased to individuals by the BLM for the purpose grazing livestock. The “washboard” surface of the road indicated stress applied by heavily loaded trucks.

 When my truck’s odometer reached the mileage I had calculated to be the point where I should turn off the main road, I began to see a few trees about two miles two south. Then a well maintained dirt road appeared and I turned right heading for the trees and some storage buildings. Upon approaching the structures various pieces of road maintenance machinery, marked “Otero County Road Maintenance” came into view.

 The dirt road ended at a complex of, what I estimated to be, around a hundred acres of stock pens, well constructed from steel pipe.  A large ramp used for loading cattle on to trucks explained the washboard effect on the main road.

 All this in the middle of the desert was quite a surprise, but then I saw a round water tank, about five feet tall and twenty five feet in diameter. An open spigot was pouring water which was overflowing out on to the desert sand and evaporating. I could have been any more surprised if I had seen a flying saucer land.

 The Coalition for Otero Mesa says, “Preliminary findings suggest that there are at least 57 million acre feet of groundwater…” in the aquifer below Otero Mesa. Even so, the southwest is going through one of the worst droughts in its history and is seems criminal to allow water to be pumped out into the sand and wasted.

 In light of the fact that this area is co-managed by two Federal and one state government agency, I couldn’t help wondering how many other crazy things were happening on the 1.2 million acre mesa.

 The only effort being proposed to change the status of the range is being orchestrated by a handful of environmental groups including; New Mexico Wilderness Alliance, and Kevin Bixby’s Southwest Environmental Center. These groups’, comprised chiefly of peacenik tree huggers and  frustrated occupiers, want to prevent drilling exploration by turning “Grandpa” Prather’s prairie into national grasslands. Then the National Park Service can step in and create some camp grounds with plenty of water, so illegal immigrants and drug smugglers will have a comfortable stop over on their way from Juarez to Albuquerque.

It is amazing to consider the fact that just a few decades ago the US Army wrestled this resourceful area away from food producing ranchers and condemned it for the use of target practice. Now livestock is, again, thriving on the Otero Mesa. If the federal government and the environmentalists seize the land then the whole process starts over.

A Rare Sight These Days

 I spotted this little critter on the Otero Mesa last week. It's the first one I have seen in years.

What's so Hot About the 6.5 Creedmoor?

L to R:   .308, 260 Remington, 6.5 Creedmoor, 6.5X47

 When I ponder the advent of a new cartridge I do so with skepticism. The first thing that comes to mind is the fact that a new cartridge calls for the production and sales of new guns that will fire these new ballistic marvels. A current example of this process is the rage over the “6.5 Creedmoor”. The very name of the round caught my attention. Creedmoor is a name I associate with antique weapons that were used on long range targets. However, when I compared the performance of the new-comer to the .260 Remington and 7mm-08, I found little difference.

Then I came across an article in Real Guns magazine that kind of lends credence to my Creedmoor theory. Here’s an excerpt:

                                                The Creedmoor Reference

 Product names often are established to trigger transference; the emotions associated with something in past memory, hopefully positive, carried over to something new, prior to acquiring any actual direct experience. A common example of this is when you meet someone for the first time and feel as though you've known them for a long time. Frequently this happens because the new acquaintance shares traits in common with a person you know, or had known, well.      Creedmoor was a great name to Hornady, the designer of the cartridge, to reference. It was the name of the rifle range opened by the National Rifle Association in 1873 on New York's Long Island. Creedmoor was host to the famous American - Irish long range rifle competition held in 1874. Of course, there is also the term "Creedmoor" applied to a rifle, which is shorthand for parameters defining rifles used for Creedmoor long range competition. I was surprised to learn that there was no "Creedmoor", only the family name "Creed", the people who once owned the range's site and the site's similarity to the moorland of Great Britain. The name "6.5 Creedmoor" instantly evokes a sense of tradition, imagery of long range shooting and expectations for a high degree of accuracy. Ruger chambered and defined a rifle fitting for those expectations.

 

 Some research revealed the acreage purchased from a farmer named Creed was in an area that could be described as a “moor”; thus, the name Creedmoor was give to the rifle club

 I always thought a Creedmoor was a specific make of rifle like a Sharps, but it turns out that that it is a class of long range, single shot rifles. Hornady Manufacturing’s marketing team apparently cashed in on this misnomer when they named their, not so unique, cartridge design. 

 

Sp why the big push for the 6.5 Creedmoor? I the “Slamfire” said it well on the Firing line Forum: …”gun writers are shills for the industry, paid to write promotional articles, all of which are geared to raise revenue in one way or another. They get fully paid “writer symposiums”, plant tours, and fully paid hunting trips. These hunting trips cost between $5000-$10000 dollars when you cost in time, food, hotel, guns, gear, and guides. So if in the articles you read, if you see some poor animal killed by a grinning gun writer you know the article was financed by an entity with big pockets.”

 We may be reaching a point where there are just too many cartridges available, but we need to be careful that the anti-gun folks don’t manipulate this statement to suggest there are too many guns. There ain’t no such thing as too many guns.

Charged up Fishing Hole

 Most folks who spend a lot time outdoors have had at least one uncomfortable experience with electrical storms and lightning. I’ve personally had my wits frazzled a few times by sudden flashes of ultra bright light and the ensuing “crack”, “rumble” and “roar”. However, one time while fishing, an electrical storm actually  formed above my buddy and me causing some pretty weird things to happen.

I think we're gonna need a bigger motor.

 One overcast afternoon in June, 1980, James Johnson and I ventured out on to Lake Whitney which is located about a hundred miles south of   Fort Worth. We had hopes of catching a view big stripers (not "strippers"; as Spell-check insists). At that time Lake Whitney was known for producing some of these feisty boogers that weighed over 35 pounds.

After launching my little 16 ft boat, we headed for the Brazos River channel where the water depth drops, from the lake’s average depth of 25 feet, to over 80 feet. The fish had a habit of staying down in the river channel and, from time to time, came up to feed at edge of the drop-off.

 When we got close to the area  we wanted to fish I turned off the 115 hp. outboard and. James  took control of the boat using the electric trolling motor. When the first group of fish appeared on the depth finder James turned the electric motor off and the boat slowly drifted while we baited our hooks with pumpkin seed perch. We were using two identical rigs— they were both seven foot fiberglass rods fitted with steel Garcia reels  with 17 pound test mono line. We then let the one ounce weights carry the baited hooks to the bottom.

 The air grew heavy and still. Thick black clouds dropped to within a hundred feet of the surface of the lake and churned above us. The atmospheric pressure fell  causing the lake to seem stagnant and fetid.

 As we drifted slowly in the direction of our lines, I reached into the ice chest for a beer. That’s when James said, “Dennis, look at your line”.

 I quickly looked up and saw that, instead of the slack line floating on the top of the water, it was rising up into the air. James stopped reeling in the slack and the line from his reel also began to rise up toward suspicious looking,  low clouds. We looked at each other and laughed.

 I asked James, “What in the world is going on, man?”

 Before he could answer my reel started making a slow clicking sound about as loud as chop sticks being broken in half. The volume and rapidity of the clicks increased and then, James’ reel started to do the same thing. We exchanged puzzled looks as our lines appeared to be nearly touching the dark ceiling that hung above us and the noise from the reels continued to get louder.

 I hollered above the noise to James “Reel in and let’s get out of here before we get struck by lightning”.

 I started the big motor and headed away from the spot as quickly as possible. Less than 20 seconds later there was a bright flash of light and loud explosion behind us. We turned around and saw a juniper tree smoldering from a lightning strike. The tree was on the side of a cliff on the opposite side of the channel;  about 100 feet from spot we had just vacated.

 We headed for the boat ramp and got the boat loaded on the trailer during a downpour. When we made it to higher ground we stopped to talk about what had just happened. We decided that an electrical charge was building in the dark clouds above us and the static electricity was drawing the line upward. The clicking sound must have been produced by a charge that traveled down the fiberglass rods and into the reels where it began arching between the ball bearings inside.

 That was enough excitement for one day , so we headed to the lake house to drink beer and celebrate being delivered from near disaster. In those days it seemed we could always find some reason to celebrate as long as we had plenty of beer on hand.

Occupy the Bastille

"Tell me again. Why are we walking around with these signs?"

The basic desire of the Occupy movement is to establish a Participatory democracy which is a process that emphasizes the broad participation of constituents in the actions and operation of the political system. The protestors feel the current system is an Oligarchy which is the name given to a system which is led by the elite and the rich.

 The origin of the current Occupy movement in the U.S. can be traced back to the Arab Spring which began with demonstrators in Tunisia and spread across the Arab world. The demonstrations in Cairo’s Tahrir Square seemed to have been given the most coverage by the news media and probably encouraged the actions of Spanish Indignants movement. The Canadian anti-consumerist publication know as Adbusters suggested that numerous simultaneous protests throughout North America could and should be organized with the use of the internet social networks such as Facebook, which are accessible through cell phones.

 Advances in communication technology has placed  powerful tools in the hands of the people and, as with any other tool or weapon, the merits or faults of modern information access on the  New World Order have yet to be determined.

 I would venture to say that most folks, who are defined as Conservatives by the current sociopolitical system of political pigeon holing, think that an overhaul of our system of government and financial system will require a violent rebellion. Many of these people began stock piling weapons and provisions during the Y2K frenzy. After the 21^st century began without disaster, many Americans became motivated to prepare for survival through because of fears generated by economic instability brought about by the Government’s mismanagement of the nation’s monetary resources.

 The folks who have come to be known as Liberals or Progressives have subscribed to the belief that change can be brought about through public demonstrations which will encourage a shift control of government closer to those being governed. This assumption is reminiscent of concepts such as “States Right” and other means of making the rules closer to home.

 If any major changes come about it may be through a combination of stratagem and unity of the above named camps and will need to include more emphasis on election by popular vote rather than the abstract notions like the Electoral College.

 Some people feel that history repeats itself and that the US has just about ran its course as far as longevity of a nation goes. Hopefully, however, the people won’t have to resort to revolution and can just “storm the Bastille” in order to get the country back on track.

Desert Frogs

 One of my favorite delicacies is frog legs. Most folks assume that these tasty morsels are harvested only from swampy place like Louisiana or East Texas, but the best frog legs I have ever had came from the dry Chihuahuan desert.

The Rio Grande has an irrigation system that floods millions of acres of arid land for agricultural purposes. It also provides habitat for fish and other aquatic life. You just have to know how to find and catch them. My step father trained me in the art of “frog grabbing” when I was a teenager. I utilized my skills well into adulthood and also trained some of my friends in the basics of this art. I’ll tell you a little story about what happened one night when a frog hunt ended up being an international adventure.

 First of all, please note that the proper way to take frogs does not involve the use of those dangerous tools known as gigs. Gigs tend to wound the frogs and if there aren’t enough caught to make a meal; the injured ones usual die when released. Therefore, I consider the most humane way to harvest bull frogs is to grab them and put them in a burlap bag (tow sack) that is kept wet so the frogs remain healthy. That’s the way I was taught and I never went frog hunting with anyone that had a problem with that technique except one friend named Jimmie Hutchison. Jimmie had a problem with anything that wasn’t his idea, so in dealing with him I learned to the art leading a body to my desired conclusion and making them think it was their own idea. On this particular issue, something I said lead Jimmie to agree not to use gigs in order that the frogs not die, and go bad before we were ready to eat them. What a great idea!

 Jimmie Hutchison was, and still is my main hunting and fishing buddy. He is a unique person who has never really given a shit what other people think about him. Due to the fact that few people can stand to listen to Jimmie long enough to appreciate his superior wisdom, not many people like him. No matter how crass and vulgar Jimmie is, he will always be my friend. I think it may have something to do with the fact that he is four years older that I and bought booze for me when I was a minor. I was in kind of a captive apprenticeship with a world class know-it-all. Fortunately, for me, I used this as an opportunity to learn from the mistakes of others.

  One morning in September of 1971, I got to Jimmie’s house before daylight and we loaded our shotguns and beer into his red 1969 Ford pickup. After a series of instructions, coughing, spitting, and scratching, Jimmie finally got behind the wheel and we headed east of El Paso to San Elizario and then on to the tamarisk bosque by the Rio Grande. Jimmie had taken his usual cologne shower – I guess he wanted to be prepared in case we ran into some women in the bosque – so I rode with the window down and listened to country music on KHEY until we reached a place Jimmie approved of.

 We hunted for about an hour in Jimmie’s designated hot spot, but it seemed that there were more birds flying on the Mexican side of the river so we waded across, shot a few dove and then waded back to the U.S. side. While hunting on the south side of the river we heard quite a few bull frogs and also heard some of them when we crossed back over to the U.S. side. I wanted to tell Jimmie that we should come back at night and catch frogs, but that would have been an inappropriate protocol. Instead I said,” There aren’t enough birds flying. Let’s just try to catch some frogs.”  JJ was silent, but then it started to get hot and he proceeded to let me know what a dumb ass I was and told me to get in the truck. “You can’t catch frogs in the day time. We’ll have to come back tonight.” So, we drove down the levee road for a while then started back to town.

 When we got back to the bosque that night there was a full moon and we were encouraged by all the low pitched, but loud mournful wailing of big frogs. We each grabbed a tow sack and a flashlight. The way we caught the frogs was to wade in the water and shine our lights into the weeds on the bank. Once a frog was spotted all you had to do was keep the light shining in its eyes and keep your hand behind the light so the frog saw nothing but the bright, hypnotizing light. When you got close enough to know you could grab the frog quickly enough that it wouldn’t jump before you got him, that’s exactly what you did. Some of the frogs were so big that the light had to be laid down for a moment so both hands could be used to get the critters into the tow sack.

 We weren’t catching as many frogs as we had hoped to so the decision was made to cross the river and try the Mexican ditches where we had hunted dove during the day. It was worth the effort because we had nearly filled our bags when we heard music and talking. I crawled up the side of the ditch and yelled at Jimmie to come on and let’s have a beer.

“Where”? He asked.

“There’s a cantina up here. The sign says Loma Blanca.”

 When we got to the door we kicked off our muddy boots and walked in. There were three Mexican guys at the bar who had been working in the fields that were as dirty as we were. They were wearing  huarache sandals.  I spoke loudly enough to be heard above the ranchera music, “Nos zapatos son sucios pero tenemos sed. Dos Cartas por favor.”

 “Si muchachos. Sientan. ¿Que hacen en la noche?

 Before the bartender could finish his invitation, Jimmie had already taken a seat and had his bare toes curled around the bottom rail of the bar stool.

“Casamos por ranas. ¿Le gustan ancas de ranas?”

“Seguro que si.”

 “Hey Jimmie. Are you hungry?”

 “Hell yes, I could eat a folded tarp, but it looks like all they have here is beer and tequila.”

 “We got two bags of frogs out there by the door.”

 “See if any of these guys know how to cook ‘em.”

 “Si tienen cocina, tenemos bastante ranas.”

 ”Tenemos cocina y tenemos hambre tambien.”

 We had two bottles of Carta Blanca and Jimmie had a shoot of tequila. Jimmie finally looked at me and said, “If they’ll cook ‘em we will clean ‘em. Again, JJ had a great idea.

‘¿Listo muchachos?”

“Si”

“Yeah, they’ll cook ‘em.”

 “Well, let’s get off our asses and start cleaning some frogs.”

 “Good idea Jimmie, let’s get after it.”

 When we got a handful of frogs ready, I walked behind the bar and followed my nose back to the kitchen where two big cast iron skillets, half full of manteca, sat bubbling hot on a propane stove. The bartender, Carlos, had prepared a bowl full of masa and red chili powder. Another bowl had some eggs in it. We had cut the frogs so the backs remained attached to the legs and when Carlos saw how we had prepared them he voiced his approval, “Muy bien.” He took one at a time, rolled it in the eggs then covered each with the corn meal mixture then dropped them into a skillet. The batter must have had beer or something in it because it puffed up to a light fragile texture with a good chili taste to it.

 Jimmie and I were content to drink free beer and tend to the frogs while our new friends ate. When we finished and sat back down at the bar for another cold beer, I heard a loud sizzling noise that meant our supper was hitting the hot lard.

 I’ve never tasted a finer meal than those frogs, beans, and fresh jalapenos. I ate a little too much and killed my buzz. I knew, however that it was time to start back but Jimmie looked like he was about to fall asleep. It was time for a little of that reverse psychology. Jimmie was married and I just wanted say something that would help him decide what we needed to do next.

 “Why don’t we just spend the night Jimmie? Your truck should be OK.”

 “What time is it? Shit! Quit fartin’ around let’s get home.”

 I said goodbye to our hosts then jogged to catch up with Jimmie. He was moving quickly toward the Rio Grande.

 The moon was almost directly overhead when we got to the south bank of the river and as were taking our boots off, I saw a green pickup on the north levee road. It was obvious that we were being watched by the Border Patrol. I nudged Jimmie and pointed at the truck.

 “It’s too late now. They’ve seen us. Let’s go.”

  After wading across the river and we stopped to put our boots back on. The Border Patrol vehicle pulled up behind us and two officers got out. When I stood up and turned around, I saw that one of them was a nice looking Mexican lady. Other than the inspection nurse at the Lago Blanco, Jimmie had never seen a woman in a uniform before. Maybe this is why he wore all that cologne.

 The lady asked to see our IDs and wanted to know what we were doing. Jimmie told her that we were just swimming, but I laughed and told the whole story including the location of Jimmie’s truck.

 “Is it that red Ford parked about a mile west of here by a big gate valve?”

 We told her it was and she told us to crawl into the back of her truck and she would take us down there.

 We were a little worried about where we were really being taken, but as soon as we got to Jimmies truck and the officers saw that the key worked, the male said, “Be careful going home. By the way, why didn’t you walk down here by the truck before crossing?”

 Jimmie smiled and said, “Too deep.”

 They looked at each and laughed then took off west bound.

 When we got to Jimmie’s house we turned on the faucet and started hosing each other off. In a minute Jimmie’s wife, Vivian, came out to see what was going on.

 “Oh, did y’all go fishing or something? It’s so late I was afraid you went to Juarez.”

 “Yeah”, Said Jimmie. “We went to Mexico and had frog legs. Ha!”

 As Vivian started back inside she said, “Jimmie, you smart ass, if you wake the baby up I’m going to kill you.”

 We didn’t say another word.

  I would like to suggest that the next time you get hungry for frog legs just wade on over to the Loma Blanca and have Carlos fix you up. But, don’t forget its BYOFrogs. Just to be on the safe side, bring enough frogs for four extra guys

Another Photo

I just wanted to show off this photo taken with my phone. It's a double rainbow. I took it Tuesday on the Mescalero Apache Reservation.