The Graduate by Mark Berent

Posted By Mark Berent on Nov 30, 2015

Who, at 74, went back to college, Cowboy College, that is.

By Mark Berent

“Heels down, Mark, heels down,” were the words I heard over and over again until they were indelibly inscribed in my brain but, alas, not in my heels. Those commands came from Elaine, a comely blond instructor from Chicago, who incessantly sang quiet songs to herself on the trail. In a hoof beat she could change her voice from the dulcet and sometimes winsome tones of a country singer to a Marine DI.

I live in Terravita and it all started when I saw “Cowboy U” on TV. The show was honchoed by a big cowboy named Rocco and was a cross between “Survivor” and “The Apprentice” in that one had to survive the training then not be fired.

Mark Berent, THEN

The show took me back to my teen years when I worked on ranches in Montana. On one, near Broadus, I bunked in a sheep wagon and was introduced to a horse named Henry, a beat up saddle, and a fence repair kit. The rancher told me to bridle up, put saddle on horse, take kit and go repair fence. “Oh, yeah,” he added, “kick Henry in the belly before you tighten the cinch.”

But the most appealing memory of that era was when we herded a few cows to an ancient cattle pickup chute out on the plains. Since the truck was due before dawn, we arrived just before sundown, tended our horses, ate sandwiches from our saddle bags, and bedded down on our saddle blankets. The stars at night are big and bright, all right, more so in Montana than Texas, by God.

So, motivated by “Cowboy U” and old memories, I found Lori Bridwell’s Arizona Cowboy College here in Scottsdale. They had a six-day class that included two days at her ranch for training then four days out on the range where, the brochure says, “You will work side by side with real cowboys, not dude wranglers.”

To my surprise, Rocco, THE Rocco, was the head man at the college. Now, everyone knows never, but never, tangle with a guy named Rocco. And here was Rocco, who looked just like his name: a big mustachioed hit-man from “The Sopranos.”

Yup, but Rocco Wachman only looks like that. This highly experienced rancher and rider knows horses and people and trains each to the best of their abilities. Rocco has a degree in Theology, is a member of Mensa, and is a very safety conscious (“Be a witness, not a victim.”). Turns out, Elaine, one third Rocco’s size, is the real hit man out there. (“Heels down, Mark. HEELS DOWN!,” and, “No, no, NO! Don’t use both hands to hang on!”)

Mark Berent, NOW

I was assigned a big paint gelding named Tank. An appellation that immediately conjured pictures in my head of the 1,200lb animal living up to his name by plowing through vast fields of spiky cactus regardless of my, the tank commander, desires.

We spent hours trail riding through the local desert (avoid the jumping Cholla cactus, rattle snakes, and old barbed wire) up and down ever-steeper washes and always, but I was in command—mostly.

A word on that subject: I am a retired fighter pilot. Hell yes, I know what ‘be in command’ means. Think which way I want my vehicle to go, what maneuvers I want it to perform, and it happens.

Not so with horses. Give me a jet-powered steed with hydraulic controls that obeys only Bernoulli’s and Newton’s laws and my commands … rather than some animal that obeys nothing except violent fear from a blowing leaf. Point is; besides keeping my heels down, I had a lot to re-learn.

On day three we loaded up then trucked our way up to the Triangle M ranch in the high country just south of Mayer, AZ. Ed Hanks, the owner, taciturnly watched as we unloaded and set up camp on the dirt between our two horse trailers down by his corrals.

We mounted up. Rocco and Elaine led us toward the Bradshaw Mountains through ever-increasingly rough and rocky terrain; ever steeper descents and ascents into and out of washes, canyons, and arroyos. “This is the only time,” Rocco said, “to let your horse have his head as he picks his way up, down, and around the huge rocks, boulders, and loose shale. But you still control over-all direction and speed.”

Back to the camp at dusk where Rocco proved to be a highly competent cowboy chef. Whereas breakfast would be a granola bar and hi-octane coffee; lunch a snack of tortillas with cheese; dinner would be chops, steak, or Mexican food. Rocco used his cowboy microwave: an bushel basket-sized cast-iron pot in which he’d place the meat, potatoes, and vegetables topped off with a can of beer then set it on a bed of hot coals in a cut down 55-gal drum. On the heavy lid he would shovel more hot coals. Delicious.

About 9:30 each night we would spread a tarp, our sleeping bags, and zonk out under the brilliant stars.

Once up and fortified in the morning, we would saddle up and ride out. We threaded our way through and around clawing Manzanita bushes, impassable thickets, around huge crags and rock formations, along ledges, and up and down such steep and narrow defiles I swear would require rock climbing gear if one were on foot. Our confidence grew, though, as we trusted our instructors, our horses, and, finally, ourselves.

We searched for cattle in the vast mountainous terrain. Is that a cow or a boulder under that acacia tree over there? Near noon on the second day after hours of a fruitless search, we stopped to let the horses blow while we sipped water from our canteens. Suddenly Jessica, a 28-year-old from Tucson, called out “Cows. Behind us.”

We turned to look. And there they were; five cows and four heifers across a wash about 500 feet away.

“How did you know?” Rocco marveled, probably as chagrined as all of us for not being the first to spot them.

“I felt something staring at me,” Jessica the prescient said.

And so it went for the remainder of the four days. No amenities. You want a shower? Use the hose hanging from the corral fence. Bathroom? That one-holer yonder. Just pure cowboying.

Tank and I had come to an understanding wherein he would do his best to get both of us through the grand adventure in one piece.

Mark Berent is the author of the “Wings of War” series of books. “Rolling Thunder” is the first book in the series.

Late Saturday we broke camp, loaded up, and trucked back to Lori’s ranch. We washed our horses, ourselves, and sat down for our last dinner and presentation of the graduation certificates. Surprisingly, thanks to Rocco and Elaine’s expert tutelage, none of us were sore, sick, stiff, or scratched.

Would I do it again? You bet. In a hoof beat. And I did. I joined the Montana High Country Cattle Drive. But that is another story.

Note. This article is sponsored by the author. The Peak thanks him for his support. Berent is the author of a five-book airwar series entitled “Wings of War.” The first book in the series, “Rolling Thunder” is available free from online booksellers.