Johnny Ortiz

Yesterday was a day dedicated to organizing and binding the / shed ‘ethos’ book, more on that to come soon, and in pretty full flow I hear the dogs barking outside, usually because someone is here. I go out side and find Sebedeo Chacon waiting to have a word with me. I greet him and he greets me back politely and asks if I have a chain he can borrow. They’ve gotten stuck in the mud down the road in Rancho de los Trujillos - pulling in to round up their bull that has been finding his way through the village and upsetting some neighbors. The bull had been kicked out of our field just a couple days before. I have a chain and I offer bring it and my truck to lend a hand.
 
The stopping of viejos in front of our home to say hello is an unpredictable occasion. Often we find ourselves feeding cows, flooding our fields, cutting hay or some other outdoor activity to be stopped by some viejo who tells us stories, shares gossip, or asks for help. The time line of this generation is on a totally different pace than ours. We are always trying to finish everything as quickly as possible to get to the next thing, and when we can hear the loud truck or four wheeler coming towards us we have a hard time being totally excited for the chance of spending an hour talking about who knows what. Funny enough though I can’t think of a single time I’ve regretted it. The stories these guys have aren’t written or filmed, it is a culture that has evolved with and from the high desert terrain of Northern New Mexico that has been mixed with primarily old mother Spain and old Native customs, both of which make up me and Maida’s blood and generational DNA. I generally leave one of these interactions invigorated. It’s invigorating to actually be part of a community, not one fabricated or designed, but one formed solely by proximity and common practice. One where I don’t hesitate to ask for help, nor give it. 
 
This interaction with Sebedeo was particularly special. 
 
After offering a hand I went back inside, stoked the fire, put on my boots, and jumped in the truck. It’s still winter and though sunny is still cold, but today the sun felt more spring like. I drove down the muddy dirt road, perfect adobe mud, and over the old wooden bridge to see the truck and stock trailer stuck. There were two guys with Sebedeo that I hadn’t formally met yet, but we all recognized each other from driving up and down the same road. I back up to their truck and when going to attach the chain realize I didn’t have my hitch so the two guys scrounged through their trucks to find one. When they found one there was not pin so we found a bolt, put it on as much as we could and hoped it would work. We are at least an hour away from any store so you can generally count on someone up here having what ever could be needed on their person or land. Me with the chain, the guys with the hitch. 
 
I pulled them out easily and when I jumped out of the truck and Sebedeo said “that’s not a truck, that’s a caterpillar”. A compliment from this guys is a big deal. Sebedeo once told me, “nice fence. You’re the only one who knows how to build a fence around here.” And that one is still to this day one of my proudest moments. My job was done, and Sebedeo asked how much he owed me, I said nothing, maybe just a helping hand next time I needed one but he gave me a 20 anyway. I accepted and offered to stick around in case there was another issue. As the younger of the men was trying to back the truck and trailer up I noticed that our bull, we had been missing him for a few days, he was in with Sebedeo’s cows so we rounded him up also and took him back to our place.
 
The younger man tried to drive back onto the bridge on his own accord, he jack knifed, rear tire almost sliding off the bridge. Sebedeo yelled some things in Spanish then asked if I would pull them back up, and I did. We stopped pretty quickly after hoping he could just drive forward again. I released the chain and got out. Right when the younger man started the truck Sebedeo yelled in his vernacular ‘norteno’ accent, “what are you guys thinking, put stuff under the tires!” Both guys didn’t seem fazed or to really listen. I joined and put cottonwood bark underneath. - He got out and then there was a debate, the older of the two men said “we’ll just come back tomorrow”, Sebedeo said “no were already here, we’re going to take the damn bull”. I suggested how about they drive back to the main road and come back in head first and that was what they did. 
 
While the younger of the two men drove it back I stood with Sebedeo by the corral. He asked me if I was selling any hay, and I told him I had just sold his brother a couple hundred and might have some still if he needed any. Then he asked if I wanted to buy a horse. We have been wanting a horse to add to the ranch, especially for when we have to push cows up and down the road. I asked how much, he told me $1,500, and I said maybe we trade for hay and he nodding his head intrigued. I said that I have been wanting a horse but haven’t gotten one because I don’t want to get the wrong one and asked about his and why he was selling her. He said he had too many and he’s getting too old. “I have 5 race horses and 2 mountain horses, this one is a mountain horse.” It’s interesting, I have never heard an older ‘norteno’ call an animal by their name, I don’t think they name them ever. It makes me think of a story in our favorite book ‘River of Traps’ - Jacobo didn’t name his horses because he feels their not his, they are their own being. He responds when asked “I suppose they don’t have a name for me either”. 
 
Sebedeo whistles to the older of the two men and says “get on the horse and show Johnny it’s a good horse.” And the man gets on easily and rides around with ease and starts separating the bulls while the other man backed up the the corrals. 
 
I jumped in to help and our bull came right up to me and in to the trailer, his followed, but because we wanted to unload ours first I pushed ours back out and locked theirs in the back. When I got out of the trailer our bull got spooked and jumped over the 5 foot corral. We all ran to get him back in, me in front, the older man on the horse and the younger man between the other cows. He went back in pretty easily and once we locked him in the younger man said “daddy" in a way that felt like his family has been saying it that way since they came from Spain hundreds of years ago, and I realized they were his sons. 
 
His sons moved trucks around and Sebedeo and I leaned against the corral talking. I said that I have been wanting to catch a wild colt from the mountains and train it and asked if he ever done that. He said “oh yeah, I have done a lot of that when I was younger. Me and my brothers used to get the job from the forest service to do it. Once I caught 18 in one day, I can’t believe I’m still alive. I used to run all over these mountains.” I asked about the horse he wanted to sell me and he told me all the guys who had owned her before him and that she was just a mutt from all the horses around here. I asked about his forest grazing permits and he started recalling to me all of the issues he had with them over the years and said “everyone thinks they are permits, but they aren’t, they are rights, rights given to use before New Mexico was even a state. The forest service likes to think they own them but they don’t they are ours. They are just the care takers” I ask about where his ‘rights’ are and he says “I graze my cows on that side of the mountain ( east ) and my brother Alfonso grazes his on this side ( west ). 
 
His sons had loaded up and was ready to go and Sebedeo said, “you know this place is changing. Everyone here used to be a cowboy. Everyone used to have cows and horses.” We exchange a few more words and he heads to his truck loaded with the two bulls and Jeff the younger son comes over and asks me what kind of beer I like, I say commercially I like Budweiser, he says no what’s your favorite local beer, and I say La Cumbre Elevated and he says “Okay, next time I’ll bring you some of that, I like that one too.” 
 
As we’re talking Sebedeo zooms through the field down the muddy turn and onto the bridge perfectly and Jeff says “they don’t make those 84 year old cowboys any more” and I chuckle and say “they sure don’t. It’s nice that you guys are keeping it going though” and he says “yeah, we’ll see for how long”. We shake hands and he grabs the horse and I get in the truck and head out while he closes gates. 
 
It’s an unbelievable honor to be part of and to witness this culture I come from and to aid in its continuance. It is at the same time sad they don’t make them like Sebedeo anymore, and that his sons are active in the life but don’t love it as he does. I love it though. Maybe that’s because I found it on my own, maybe it's because it's just in my blood.
 
I chose this life and had to build it from scratch. Every day it takes work to maintain and with almost no financial return, but each day feeding everyone, fixing fences, cutting or stacking hay, moving water, random chats with the viejos, and all the other daily chaos with my family Maida and Flora, I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything. 
 
I use the phrase “Create the world you wish existed” and sometimes that means participating in maintaining and evolving the perfect one that already exists.

THEY DON'T MAKE 84 YEAR OLD COWBOYS LIKE THAT ANYMORE

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