The Travelphile

Tijuana: Impressions Confirmed and Shattered

When people ask me what I do, I often find myself wincing on the inside before responding. It can be a loaded question, depending on who is asking the question and what the circumstances are. For nearly fifteen years, my answer was simple: I’m a Spanish and Dance teacher at Carlsbad High School. My standard answer nowadays has become a bit lengthier, and I find that I often have to do a bit of explaining.

Just to be a provocateuse, I like to say I’m a retired teacher. That’s usually met with a squinty-eyed, furrowed brow look, so then I have to explain the truth in that statement. Despite not being 65 (yet), I have retired (definition: to leave one’s job, to withdraw from one’s occupation). Initially, it started as a Leave of Absence so that I could earn a degree in French language with the hopes of eventually teaching French in addition to Spanish. Eventually, I found an opportunity to pursue other passions, like traveling. Now I work as an assistant tour guide in Europe, help with guidebook research, substitute teach, and write this blog. But a wonderful woman recently said to me, “You haven’t stopped teaching. You’ve just got a much bigger classroom now.”

I hope that’s true. I want that to be true. But there’s still a part of me that feels like I should be doing more. Something that not only fulfills me, but something that allows me to contribute to society and help people. I miss that about being a high school teacher.

Our merry band of volunteers, ready to help Esperanza in its mission to help build homes and communities.

Recently, I found an opportunity to do just that. A group at my church has been making annual trips to Mexico through a secular organization called Esperanza International (esperanza is Spanish for “hope”) to help build homes with families in various colonias, or neighborhoods, in greater Tijuana. As a relatively new member to this congregation (I’ve been attending since autumn of 2010), I thought this would also a perfect opportunity to meet and get to know more people from my church. And despite my lack of handyman skills, I felt that I could provide what skills I do have (speaking Spanish, a strong body, a good work ethic, a good dose of compassion) to help people in need. But perhaps most importantly as a long-term benefit, I would see Tijuana from a perspective that would enable me to connect with a people and a culture on an intimate and personal level, to begin to understand their needs and circumstances and to close the gap between my perception of that culture and the reality that they experience.

Doing a volunteer project like this will almost always change you, or at the very least, expose you to things you never knew or never realized. You’d have to be a piece of lint to not be emotionally affected in some way, so I went into this expecting to learn a lot about the people of Tijuana and even about myself.

What I wasn’t expecting was the shock of finding out that I had had negative preconceived ideas about what I would see. What I mean is that my mental picture of Tijuana did not match the reality I encountered. I thought I knew what it would be like, but I had such a near-sighted vision based on Friday night trips in high school to the bars on Avenida Revolución (sorry, Mom, it’s true), day trips for cheap goods and cheap meals as an adult, and years of watching horror stories of violence on San Diego and national news. The image I had of Tijuana was one of littered streets, people living in poverty, and children selling packets of Chiclets gum as you tried to cross the border back to the U.S.

That’s not to say that I didn’t see those things on this trip, because I did, but I can’t believe how easily I had duped myself over the years into believing a sweeping generalization about an entire city when I knew better that. I was completely embarrassed to realize that I had been so narrow-minded. For heaven’s sake, I was a Spanish teacher, yet I somehow had permitted myself to perpetuate a false perception and an oversimplification about what life is like for our neighbors south of the border.

This all hit me on the first day. There were twelve people in our group, and we packed a long white van with our luggage and ourselves and drove from San Diego Airport to Tijuana. Bypassing the downtown area, we took the highway to head south of the city proper to a town called La Gloria, where we would make our home for the next seven days at La Posada Esperanza (Esperanza’s multi-use and dorming facility). Along the drive, which brought us near the coast and then back inland, I noted to myself that the topography was so similar to many areas in San Diego: dry, rugged cliffs speckled with chaparral, winding canyons, and vast mesas. There were clusters of modern factories, residential areas, commercial areas, and stretches of natural space, like most any other area in its north of the border sister city. If not for the dense stacking of multicolored and mismatched dwellings, rubbish piling up and then cascading down the hills upon which those homes were built, and the graffiti that was exclusively in Spanish, I could have imagined this being a part of San Diego. And if not for a political border that now separated this land and its people from its neighbor to the north, this could be a very different picture.

Across from a desolate dirt road hill, a comfortable neighborhood is in bloom.

After settling into our residence, several of us agreed to go on an errand to buy our groceries for the group for the week. From the posada, we took a bumpy, roller coaster of a dirt road to a nearby colonia. Had I known how topsy-turvy this drive would be, I would have taken some Dramamine…and sat on a pillow. As we crested a hill lined with empty plastic bags and tire remnants, I looked to the right and saw an immaculate and thriving community filled with cookie cutter houses of the pastel tangerine variety, with a couple of blue and red ones thrown in just for show. I was taken aback. This well-paved and expertly organized neighborhood could be mistaken for a suburb near where I grew up. My brain started to grind. I could almost hear the cogs jamming and struggling to turn because I was having difficulty reconciling the image of Tijuana that had long-lived in my mind and what I was now seeing with my very own eyes.

The megamarket Comercial Mexicana (a.k.a. La Comer) sits on prime property next to a Little Caesars, across from a gated neighborhood.

Before I had time to process that, we arrived at the supermarket. And when I say super, I mean mega. Think Safeway meets Walmart meets Costco–gigantic, with everything under the sun, but a with smidge more coziness and personality. This Comercial Mexicana chain store (fondly known locally as La Comer) was situated in a strip mall with co-tenants that included Little Caesar’s, Blockbuster, and a Chinese restaurant. In the parking lot were several while-you-shop car detailers with red plastic carry-all carts equipped with everything they needed to make your car look all shiny and new again. Across the street was a gated community, but just beyond this neighborhood were vast open spaces that were dotted with shanty structures that seemed to long for attention and affection.

If you can't find Hostess Cup Cakes in the U.S. anymore, you always have the option of getting Mi Pinguino (My Penguin) in Mexico. — If you can’t find Hostess Cup Cakes in the U.S. anymore, you always have the option of getting Mi Pingüino (My Penguin) in Mexico.

Tasked with buying a week’s worth of groceries for twelve people, we paired up, divided the list and tried to conquer this megamarket. The immensity of the store was daunting, but it was equally intriguing. My friend Lori (also a Spanish-speaker) and I couldn’t help but go down every single aisle, amazed by the quantity and variety of products, lusting for products you couldn’t find in the States and pointing out all the multi-national products we had in common.

Zucaritas: They're greeaaat! — Zucaritas: They’re Gr-r-reat!

When you come to this megamarket, be prepared to do some serious shopping. — When you come to this 50,000 square-foot megamarket, be prepared to do some serious shopping.

The place was packed with happy families and serious consumers who were looking for the best deals on everything from fresh chicken to the ripest tomatoes, from the best facial cleanser to the best-looking jeans, from the most versatile blender to the biggest flat-screen TV. Globalization was here and everything you could possibly want could be found in this 50,000 square-foot box.

In addition to groceries, you can buy, beauty products (Belleza), electronics (Electrónicas), appliances (Línea Blanca), furniture (Muebles), or take advantage of their credit and layaway service (Crédito y Apartado).

I just didn’t know what to make of all of this–of any of this. Not just the relative affluence that I had not realized existed in Tijuana, but the existence of that relative affluence juxtaposed with the desperate poverty that permeated throughout this region. I had so many questions and ideas floating in my brain that I couldn’t manage to articulate–not to myself, not to anyone else…not yet.

All I knew was that walls of misperception were beginning to crumble all around me, and it was my opportunity to seize–to demolish them for good during this week of service. I would have the chance to construct new perspectives based on engaging with the people I would meet through Esperanza, to learn about their personal experiences, and to reshape my own ways of thinking. I may have come down here to help those in need, but I had a feeling that in the long run, they would really be helping me.

I hope you’ll follow along in the next few posts as I share some more of my experiences on my volunteer trip to Tijuana. Stay tuned!

Thankful for Being Scarred for Life…In the Best Possible Way

About two weeks after Rick and I decided to go on a whitewater river rafting adventure, I started to notice a few new wrinkles on my forehead. Not deep and permanent ones, but tiny stress-induced worry lines that had surely materialized because of a singular, gnawing fear: hitting my head on a rock while being thrown from our raft into a treacherous river rapid. I tried massaging them away and moisturizing day and night, but I knew that it was the countless stories from friends and family about getting dumped into the water on their own rafting trips (thanks, everyone) that were stoking my subconscious mind’s knee-jerk reaction to frown and furrow my brow.

DSCN9266 — Being an expert river guide and being certified in emergency rescue response, Paul taught us important strategies for potential “out of raft” experiences.

The morning that we put in on the Snake River, our river guide, Paul (a Wilderness First Responder and Outdoor Emergency Care Technician certified in CPR and Swift Water Rescue), gave an expert lesson on what to do in case we got thrown from the raft. We would need to remember to aim our flexed feet downriver so that we could hit any potential rocks feet first and hopefully not get our ankles lodged in them. Since our life vests were so buoyant, we should hold onto and pull down on them near our necks so that our mouths would stay above the vest itself and out of the water. If we found ourselves in strong rapids with cresting and dropping waves, we must remember–counterintuitively–to breath at the bottom, not on the top. Since one generally passes through a wave and not over it, if we tried to breathe at the top, we’d simply take in water, not air. And lastly, we should look ahead for a surviving boat’s river guide and follow his/her instructions to swim to that boat or to the shore or whatever.

Normally, knowing safety procedures eases my worries, but somehow, visions of my head split open by a rock still managed to nag at my wild imagination.

DSCN9136 — Rick lounges and watches the world go by as we tranquilly float down the river.

Throughout the trip, the river provided myriad opportunities for rip-roaring rides through class III (Difficult: rapids with high, irregular waves; narrow passages that often require precise maneuvering) and class IV rapids (Very Difficult: long, difficult rapids with constricted passages that often require complex, expert maneuvering in turbulent water; scouting is generally necessary). But we also had long periods of tranquil and leisurely pathways that were ideal for admiring the scenery as it slowly went by or for napping on the edge of the raft.

When we knew that the rapids would be no more than class I (Easy: waves small; passages clear; no serious obstacles) or class II (Medium: rapids of moderate difficulty with passages clear; requires experience plus suitable outfit and boat), we took advantage of floating or swimming in the currents. Even though the rapids weren’t very vigorous, we felt so invigorated and liberated, being carried along at the whim of the waters.

DSCN9441 — Stan (near) and Rick (far) expertly navigate the choppy waters of the Snake River in their rubber ducky kayaks.

These courses were perfect for kayaking, too. Half of our group hopped into baby blue rubber ducky kayaks to feel what it was like to be the captains of our own vessels. Rick, was a natural, and the joy on his face at maneuvering deftly through the waterways made my heart melt with pride and happiness.

I, on the other hand…not so much an expert. Kayaking on smooth Lake Union in Seattle or on the glassy waters of the Inner Passage of southeast Alaska is one thing. Kayaking with currents pushing you towards the shore is quite another thing for me. I think that I just need to develop better technique in order to build my confidence, and I’m eager for another chance to do just that. But when something out of your control happens, it’s simply not a pleasurable experience.

My concentration levels were virtually at their peak and my muscles were in fully engaged-mode. My ducky would be pushed to the left by the currents when I wanted to go to the right. I would spin and face upriver when clearly I needed to be facing the opposite way.

When I was about fifty meters away from a sharp bend in the river, I read the water and knew that I needed to aim for the middle so that I wouldn’t be swept to the right and into the large, rocky cliff face that jutted into the river from the bank. As I paddled towards the center, I heard a buzzing, rumbling noise grow louder and louder. I sighed in frustration because I knew that a twenty-foot jet boat was coming upstream at high speed and heading my way. Now normally, when they see kayakers or rafters, the pilots are supposed to stop, or at the very least, slow down, so that their wakes don’t rock the other smaller vessels in the river. But this guy was showing no signs of slowing down. Although he kept to his right, I knew his wake was going to rock me and possibly throw me into the rushing river. But if I paddled too close to my right side of the river, my head was going to make fast enemies with the rocky cliff.

DSCN9263 — A jet boat just like this pushed me into a coastal rock formation and nearly capsized my kayak.

I struggled and struggled to stay on course, to fight the natural movements of the water and the unnatural wakes of the evil jet boat. I simultaneously cursed that pilot in my head and prayed to God to help me. Every part of my body worked to keep me afloat as the waves tussled and jostled me like a cowboy on bucking bronco. I got so close to the rocks that I actually pushed away from them with my hand to avoid scraping my face.

When I finally regained control of my kayak and steered into calmer waters, my nerves were frayed and I wanted out of that ducky…quick.

Paul signaled to us that we’d be coming upon a restful part of the river where we would dock at a massive boulder in the middle of the water. Here we could transfer out of the kayaks if we wanted (yes, please) and into the rafts. We could also, if we so chose, climb the boulder and jump fifteen feet into the water below. Despite my still-frayed nerves, I so chose.

As I stood on the edge of the rock, I looked down below at the woman who had already jumped in and was swimming back to the rock to do it again, I saw Rick in his kayak beaming and shouting out words of encouragement, and I repeated to myself the chant of a coward trying to summon up some bravery: “You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.” I’ve gone paragliding in Switzerland, skydiving in California, have flown through the air with the greatest of ease on a flying trapeze in Seattle, and have jumped off boulders higher than this in Hawaii, but here in this moment, I was paralyzed. One minute passed. Two minutes passed. I was too embarrassed to just climb down and too wigged out to just jump. I looked at Rick again. His eyes connected with mine. And I jumped.

I was back in business. The thrill of the jump and the briskness of the water fired me up, and I was ready for anything. Or so I thought.

After scouting our last class IV rapids of the trip, we eagerly climbed back into our raft. Our river guide and resident cowboy, Craig, talked us through the route we would take through the currents, and reminded us six passengers that we would need to dig hard and fast to help us clear the rapids.

Paul’s raft went ahead of us. We watched his pathway and were pleased to see the raft clear the rapids without any problems. Our turn. We were woot-wooing even before we got to any choppy water, eager to make the most of our last big hurrah on the river. Rick and I were both on the right side of the raft, he in the first row, I in the second. When Craig told us to start digging, I kept my head down to follow Rick’s strong and rapid tempo. By the fifth stroke, I felt gravity pulling me forward. The nose of our raft was starting to point downward, and when I looked up, all I saw was a massive wall of water that was now suddenly and swiftly pushing the nose up. This was bad. This was really bad. And we all knew it. Craig did his absolute best to keep us upright, but he was no match for this monster–and no one could have been. The raft inclined as the oncoming roller (a reversal wave or wave that rolls back on itself) swept underneath us, and one by one, with the speed of a machine gun, everyone and everything were all launched from the raft.

Blackness. I remember nothing but blackness.

Then all of a sudden, I realized I was under the upside-down raft. I gasped for air and swatted my hands above me to get out from underneath the vessel. When I cleared the raft, Paul’s training kicked in. I straightened my legs and flexed my feet as the waters carried me through the torrents. I saw Rick about ten yards in front of me, holding onto the upside-down raft and looking for me. His look of concern and worry for me were painful to see. I tried to let him know I was okay, but I gulped water every time I tried to shout to him, and when I waved my arms, I would sink deep into my life vest and below the water.

I grabbed the neck of my vest to stay better afloat. The waves were still overwhelming, and I had to consciously tell myself, “Breathe at the bottom!” What seemed like an eternity went by before the waters started to subside. Paul’s boat was now forty yards ahead of me. I saw him signal for us to swim to his boat. I saw a paddle go by, so I swam for that first–foolishly thinking this would somehow help me. Eventually, I made it to Paul’s boat, and I was pulled up firmly out of the water and into the safety of the raft.

We were able to pull in a couple more rafters, but still needed to help Rick and a woman named Lisa. The waters were getting rough again, and I couldn’t help but worry. But soon after, we had Rick, and my heart felt like it could beat again.

Lisa was still thirty yards back from us. Paul told her to swim to shore, so she started to veer towards her right. I saw Paul look downstream and then whip his head back towards Lisa. He yelled calmly yet authoritatively, “Don’t swim to shore! Follow us!” and I faintly heard Lisa say, “Yeah, right.” We all understood why. We were about to go through a class III rapids.

We watched helplessly as Lisa braved her way through the currents. But she did it and finally made it to our raft. We were all so relieved that she was safe. And then we all laughed when we realized that she had salvaged some precious cargo from our overturned raft: one can of Canada Dry.

When we made it to shore, we all animatedly shared our perceptions of the raft toss. The excitement was palpable, fresh, and contagious. It had been a thrilling experience not soon to be forgotten. While we were still a little trepidatious, we were nonetheless grateful that no one was seriously hurt and that we had had an adrenaline-surging adventure that we would speak of often, long into the future.

DSCN9244 — A visible reminder of my whitewater rafting adventures.

As we recounted our tales, I kept feeling a stinging sensation on my forehead. I touched it and felt no blood, so I wasn’t too worried. When I had Rick and some others look at it, the looks on their faces caused me a little bit of concern. I had Rick take a picture so I could see what it looked like. Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but apparently, a nice chunk of skin was now gone from my face and floating down the Snake River. I don’t know if my head hit a rock or a paddle or scraped the rope on the side of the raft, but I would definitely have a permanent and physical memory from this trip.

DSCN9401 — Riding the bull and loving it!

I was determined to not be psychologically scarred by this. When we got back into the rafts, I asked if I could “ride the bull” or straddle the very front of the raft with my legs dangling above and in the water. I needed to face my fears head on. While we only went through class I and class II rapids, it was enough to regain my confidence and realize once and for all that I could do this and not fear it.

Now, a couple of months after that experience, I’m still scarred physically for life. It’s healed over, but I can still see the mark and can actually feel a divot where precious skin used to be. But it is now my one of my favorite souvenirs of all of my travels and of all my adventures, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Many thanks to everyone at Winding Waters, Plate & Pitchfork, and Noble Rot for this thrilling experience. I’ll never forget it!

DSCN9507 — Thank you, Craig!

Thank you, Erika!

DSCN9469 — Thank you, Craig!

Thank you, Erika!

Before coming anywhere near a raging river, we got to see some raging bulls. Well…docile, happy, and well-fed bulls and their lady cow friends. The Plate & Pitchfork part of the experience incorporated a visit to two different cattle ranches. Since steak would be on several of our gourmet menus during the trip, we got the opportunity to learn about where our protein would be coming from.

DSCN8932 — In addition to cattle, you’ll find plenty of happy little chickens, plump pigs and other farm animals roaming the lot.

First stop: Carman Ranch. Run by Cory and her husband Dave, this Hereford Cattle ranch has been family-run for four generations and spans about 8,000 acres. Along with raising grass-fed cattle, this young couple, their three little ones, and Cory’s uncle raise pigs, chickens, and ducks, and have two really playful dogs.

It seems like an ideal pastoral setting for living a rancher’s life, but this way of life requires the right combination of ingenuity and integrity. Driven by a commitment to preserve the natural environment and raise a quality product, CR focuses on organic practices: no pesticides in the grass, no hormones, and no antibiotics for the animals. They also use a “pasture-based production system” that prevents erosion and groundwater contamination, encourages native plant growth, and provides a better food source for their cows. And if their cows are eating healthier, you get to eat healthier-for-you beef.

DSCN8954 — A thin electrified rope keeps these cows grazing where they should be.

They are also systematic about how the cows graze. Normally, grass-fed cows graze freely, where they want when they want. Here, they’re kept to a certain strip of grass for a period of time (with the help of a thin, electrified rope) until the ranchers want them to move to the next patch. The rope is turned off and dropped, the cows cross over to the next area, and the rope goes back up. This way, the ranchers can manage how much the cows eat and the rate of grass regrowth. The cows are so strangely well behaved. Not only do they know not to touch the electric rope and when it’s OK to move to the next area, they even respond to Dave’s cow calls.

DSCN8960 — Leather explains the preparation and origins of our locally-sourced dishes.

For lunch, our chef Leather Storrs (I swear, that is his real name) and his sous-chef Joseph—both of the Portland restaurant Noble Rot—prepared us a splendid meal: gourmet mac ‘n’ cheese, grill-seared beef on a bed of arugula, and smoky onions paired with plump tomatoes. Everything but the mac ‘n’ cheese was from the farm, and I wanted seconds of the whole meal. To be truthful, I couldn’t have told you based on taste whether or not the beef we ate was grass-fed or organic or whatever, but I can say that it was scrumptious.

DSCN8963 — Coming back for seconds of the seared Carman Ranch steak and arugula.

DSCN8991 — 6 Ranch is a “Century Farm” that’s been in the family for over 125 years.

Soon, and with bellies still bulging from our first of numerous impeccable meals on this trip, we headed to 6 Ranch—a “Century Farm (in the family for more than 100 years) where Corriente Cattle is king. Like their Hereford cousins, these cattle are also grass-fed, but these descendants of cows brought to the Americas by Spanish conquistadors are born to run (corriente can mean “running” and “common” in Spanish). So, that’s what these common cattle do at 6 Ranch—run and run and run, resulting in an athletic and healthy bovine.

DSCN8972 — Corriente Cattle are the slender athletes of the bovine world.

RSCN8984 — Liza Jane of 6 Ranch is a real-deal cowgirl.

Liza Jane, her husband Craig (a former rodeo clown and lifelong cowboy), her daughter Adele, some horses, and a handful of border collies move the cattle around and give them quite the workout. Craig gave us a vivid demonstration of how he and his canine companions herd the cattle. As we gathered in a shady corner of a dusty corral, Craig, mounted on his trusty steed, waited as Liza Jane unlocked the gate that held back the cattle. One by one, they sauntered out like they owned the place. Once all of them had cleared the gate, it was on.

At first the chase was playful. With energetic dogs on three sides of the herd, the cattle made their way along the perimeter of the corral, went behind and around a small barn, passed by us, and continued toward the far end of the enclosure. They were jogging more than they were running, and it was kind of cute how they seemed to humor Craig and the dogs. But then Craig had the dogs change direction and the cattle had to reverse their course. Slight confusion ensued as they made their way around the barn again. Not everyone was following the leader, and they seemed surprised to come face-to-face with their friends who were rounding the corner. Eventually, the cattle were herded into the smaller corral, and the process was started all over again.

This time, Craig made the dogs make the cows cross a small stream and decided that he would show us his roping skills. I don’t know what happened or how they knew what Craig’s intentions were, but panic was definitely in the air. These black bovines got wild-eyed and started scrambling to get away from whatever was freaking them out. Around the barn they went, Craig circled the rope above his head, and whooshhhh! Swing and a miss. The cattle knew what was up. They wanted no part of this, so they ran even faster.

The dogs chased them this way and that. Craig prepped his lasso once more to snag a bull by the legs, but to no avail. The bull narrowly escaped capture, and the cattle’s anxiety grew. They rounded the barn once more and came running right at us. For a second, none of us moved. I think we were in disbelief that these massive animals were really coming our way. But as the ground started to rumble and the dust clouds swirled higher, larger, and closer to us, we did our own swirling and started to scurry for an escape route or a fence to hop onto. In my mind I could see the headlines: City Slickers Trampled By Cows.

Just then, one of the border collies cut off their path and diverted the stampede away from us. Sighs of relief, hearty chuckles, and even clapping filled the open air. There’s nothing like not being crushed by large animals to make people happy and thankful.

DSCN9005 — The horse hold the line taut to prevent the bull from getting loose.

But the show wasn’t over. Craig was still determined to rope himself a bull. Around the barn he went, with more than two dozen Corrientes to choose from. He spotted the one he wanted, swung his lasso high in the air, and BAM! Down went the bull! Caught by the hind leg, the beast tried to get up. Craig guided his horse to walk away from the bull, not only for safety, but to hold tension in the rope to prevent the bull from escaping. The horse held its position. Craig dismounted and approached the animal. He bound the back legs together and then bound the front legs together. The bull still struggled. He was pissed.

All but one of the other cattle gathered at the far end of the corral, purposefully not looking at what was going on. The lone cow stood staring at her captured friend, eyes wide, tail still. You could almost hear the others mooing to her, “Don’t look. You can’t help him. Pay no attention and everything will be fine.”

DSCN9009 — Craig rock-a-bye-babies this bull until he’s nice and calm.

Like a wise, country shaman, Craig told us, in a cowboy drawl, that he could make this ornery bull calm enough to just lie there and then calmly walk away. I didn’t quite believe him, but I had to see him try. He took the rope from the hind legs in one hand and grabbed the rope from the front ones with the other. Carefully, skillfully, as though he had done this hundreds of times before, Craig rock-a-bye-babied that bull into Happy Cow Land. The tension left its body. Its breath became steady and deep. Craig undid both of the ropes and the bull just lied there. For a full minute, that brawny beast stayed right where he was and you could hear nothing but a gentle breeze blow through that corral. None of us spoke. None of us moved. We just stood there in amazement.

Then the bull quietly got up and walked over to his friends by the fence like nothing had happened. Like it was all a dream.

“I want to do that,” I thought to myself. I want to rope a cow. Craig had elevated himself to legend status in my mind, and I wanted to learn from the master.

DSCN9092 — Beef. It’s what’s for dinner. And so are potatoes, string beans with bacon, and mushrooms.

Later, back at the stables, as we waited for Leather and Joe to artfully prepare our dinner of Caesar salad, Corriente beef, roasted potatoes, string beans with thick-cut bacon, mushrooms, and a peach cobbler (my mouth is watering as I type), we got the chance to learn to use a lasso and rope a calf. Not a real calf, of course, but a metal and plastic stand-in for a calf.

DSCN9080 — For me, learning to be a cowgirl and mastering lasso skills takes a lot of concentration and effort.

I was determined to be successful. I hung onto every word Craig said. I watch how he held the coiled end of the rope, or lariat, in his left hand. His right hand grasped the honda, or loop, that would be aimed and thrown at the helpless fake calf. Big, equal-sized circles around his head he made with the lasso, arm raised to shoulder level, but never circling from the shoulder joint. Rather, the gesture originated from his elbow, and that gave him better control.

I copied him move for move, step for step, circle for circle, but I couldn’t do it. I’d get close but it would somehow slip off the dummy and onto the ground. Not wanting to be a lasso hog, I let someone else try and waited for another turn. Even without a rope in my hand, I watched the teacher and the student intently and imitated their movements. Ugh, when was it going to be my turn again? I really wanted to get this.

DSCN9096 — Rick and Leather get into the calf-roping spirit.

My opportunity came again, and I listened once more to my cowboy professor. This time, I followed through with the release of the honda, extending my arm in direct aim at the sawhorse calf’s neck, and BAM! I got ‘em! I wanted to hoot and holler, but I kept my ladylike cowgirl composure, felt a deep-from-within smile glide across my face, and stood tall with unanticipated pride. I walked to my captured calf like I had on spurs that jingle jangle jingle and benevolently set him free.

I kept practicing, with varying degrees of success, until I built up my confidence to catch a live animal, a real hunk of beef. Thankfully, we got one of my practice shots and this actual capture on video.

DSCN9087 — In a simple stable setting, we enjoyed great food, wonderful company, lively reflections of our day on the ranches, and anticipation for tomorrow’s adventures.

Throughout the evening, we all discussed how thoroughly we enjoyed the day’s events and were eagerly anticipating the next day’s adventures. With our happiness still palpable and with stars burning bright under a wide Oregon sky, we captured the moment on film before we headed back to our B&B to get a good night’s rest.