story # 2

Stock Tank Party

by bob gottlieb

copyright © 1992-2012 Bob Gottlieb, all rights reserved.

It was a summer day in Arizona and the dry heat raised shimmers in the distance.  The sun was creeping up to 2 p.m., which is getting to the most intense time of heat, and this was the worst time in the midst of the hottest part of a heat wave.  Even the nights had been no relief during this extended run, the temperature not dropping far from the triple digit mark on the thermometer.

I had just finished replacing some boards on the loading chute and I was letting the water from the hose cascade over my head when the boss asked me to drive over and check the stock tank by Cottonwood Springs.  He wasn't going to stand on the easy ground and trust that everything was working on this recently rebuilt windmill.  He wanted to make sure that there was water for the cattle in the holding tank, because there wasn't going to be any other place within miles for them to get water, as we were locked up plumb in the middle of not only the heat wave already mentioned, but also a monsoonless summer, and all the water had been sucked up by the sun, and not fallen back to earth because of the stinginess of any clouds.

I jumped at the chance to do this job, though I normally would try to beg out of it, as it held the possibility of being an absolutely hard, heavy, dirty, and hot working afternoon, particularly if there was no water running from the windmill.  However if the stars smiled upon me, and I did have that feeling lucky mood today, I could get a dip in the stock tank.

Frequent were the times during the riding of circles in summer months as we came across a stock tank, seep spring, or any other handy depression deep enough to hold water that did actually have water in it, a great rarity unless we happen to have had heavy rains, we'd just strip down and take a dip.  By the time you were pulling your clothes back on, you were dry in the moisture-inhaling atmosphere of the desert.  Lots of times as we were set to ride away, we'd dip our shirts and glad rags into the water and put them on sopping wet just for the few extra minutes of relief.  Those little rivulets trickling down your back and sides sure helped to keep you on the cooler side of hell in the desiccated strip of sand, rock, hard baked earth and thorny country we rode in and called home.  In fact I never saw so many cowboys fall off their horses so often as would happen in summer time along the Verde River.  Funny how chaps and boots and hats stayed in the saddle while the riders wound up in the river.  Never saw it happen at any other time or place.

I pulled up to the stock tank and immediately saw there was water, as there was a pretty big mud bog extending for about 20 feet or so around the tank.  I parked the truck at the edge of the mud because the 4-wheel drive was broken and I didn't want to take a chance on getting stuck.  I adjusted the float valve in the tank so it wouldn't overflow and waste any more of our precious water.  Threw my clothes in the back of the truck and gingerly with soft, white, bare feet, crossed the 20 or so feet of mud for my much-anticipated reward.  It was the highlight of the day, the galvanized steel tank being maybe 3 and a 1/2 feet deep, about a foot of which was buried in the ground, and about 25 feet or so in diameter.  Like I said none of us wanted or needed a body of water bigger than we were to be happy. It was the deliciousness of cool and wet on our body that mattered.  I floated idyllically for an extended period of time there being no pressing work anywhere else at the moment, then as I noticed it was getting to the end of the working day I decided to get dressed and head for home.  I stood up with my mind contentedly at rest, and started toward the side of the tank closest to the truck, when I saw something that stopped me dead in the water.  My mind snapped back to the now.  Standing in the mud was a Santa Gertrudis bull, I mean a huge Santa Gertrudis bull.  He looked about the size of a locomotive (particularly note the first four letters of that word, because they do apply to Santa Gertrudis cattle in general and the bulls of that breed in particular) and he was on the prod.  I considered myself pretty safe in the tank as they won't normally attempt to come into a water tank unless provoked, and believe me that was the last thing in my mind.    The air was still hot and it was cool in the water so I wasn't uncomfortable.  However I didn't want to be in the tank, I wanted to be on my way to a cooling end of the day drink, and a bit of food.  This moving mountain of muscle, meanness, and just plain old rankness had me trapped.  He also had the angle on me.  He could get to me before I could reach the truck.  He was moving slowly ripping a bit of feed from the ground every now and then.  In this manner he had now positioned himself between the truck and the stock tank.  Two of the things I had learned about Santa Gertrudis bulls were, they were extremely quick as well as being very fast, and they were about the most ornery things on 4 feet.  Don't let their huge size fool you into thinking they couldn't spin on a dime and come back at you at full speed; and if they were on the prod they were apt to charge anything at all, regardless of it's size.  It didn't take me too long to work this list, and I realized I didn't have any choice but to sit and wait, but then I was relatively comfortable, just not where I wanted to be, given my choice.

Well, after some time he seemed to lose some interest in me, and decided to devote more energy to grazing.  I was in luck and he drifted with the grass towards the other side of the tank.  As he moved towards the far end I let myself drift closer to the edge nearer the truck.  Finally I had most of the tank between him and my route to the truck, I don't bother to question why he drifted as he did, maybe it was less muddy on that side and he was worried that the mud on his hooves might ruin his appeal to the cows he had been breeding?  Maybe the grass was greener.  I just didn't know.  Nor did I really care.  I was just happy he wandered as he did....  I knew the key was in the ignition, and if luck was not against me I had a pretty good chance of escaping unscathed, so be it also unclad, relatively soon.  I wasn't in love with the idea of running through that 20 or so feet of now very slick looking mud, and it looked closer to about 100 yards at this point, in bare feet, but I sure wasn't going to take the time to be careful about foot placement, with the possibility of better than a ton and a half of bull on the prod after me.  I carefully and quietly worked myself to the side of the tank without causing any more than slightly annoyed interest in me.  Don't get me wrong, he still kept at least one of his small mean red eyes on me about as closely as a lion might watch a wounded gazelle.  Maybe he was trying to lull me into a false sense of security, perhaps he had some more diabolical reason for not actively putting me at a greater disadvantage, I wasn't asking.  Who knows, maybe he wanted me to think I had a sporting chance!  I looked the ground over to make sure I had a pretty straight line with no major obstacles to be on the lookout for, such as cactus or sharp rocks.  20 feet (?) is no great distance till you have a Santa Gertrudis bull just wanting to have a dance with you.  I tell you that they are rather pushy; they don't let you say, "I'm terribly sorry, I'd rather sit this one out, but thank you so very much for asking."  They are terribly used to getting their own way.  When they don't get it they tend to throw nasty temper tantrums, and smash and then grind objects into the ground.  Besides my mother taught me it was rather bad form to refuse when someone asks you to dance, and quite frankly as I grew up in New York the idea of dancing with bulls never came up.  This rank Santa Gertrudis wasn't about to go away, that I could see, and this meant that sooner or later I would have to make the break.

As I eased a leg over the side of the tank he started to get a bit more restless, peeved might be the operative word.  He definitely wasn't snorting and throwing his slobbers all over the place, nor was he pawing the ground, yet.  I guess there really is something about being in danger and being stark naked that makes you feel extraordinarily vulnerable.  I remember there had been times when I have walked into their pens and the bulls have started to get pissy that I just have been aggressive towards them and they have been the one to go off in the corner.  But then I always knew I had the fence I could run to, and put between us if need be.  Most did stop at a fence; though if they wanted to, they could, and I have seen them, go right through a fence made of 2 by 8s.  This time I just felt he had all the cards.  I quietly brought the other leg over the edge and started to run before I hit the ground.  It is a very exposed feeling to be running through the desert for your life stark naked with the parts of the body you were born with flapping to and fro.  I felt, rather than knew in any other way that he was after me so I tried for more speed, I knew I didn't have the luxury of a glance over the shoulder.  From this distance in time it really must have looked pretty funny, me white legs and butt flying thru a mud hole, with that Santa Gertrudis bull chasing that skinny white butt of a target.  That would have been one for America's funniest home videos.

I am happy to say the skinny white butt made it to the truck first, and most importantly to me, unmarked.  The rear view mirror showed me I didn't make it by much.  Even better I got the truck started on the first crack, and had the sense (maybe luck would be the operative word) not to either stall it or spin the wheels.  At this juncture I decided to get the greatest amount of desert between this out of control runaway train and me in the shortest period of time possible and even before I got the door shut I was off. I also had a feeling that he might be one to take out his rejection by whacking on the closest object, and I knew the truck would not stand up to him pounding on it.  Even though the mirrors showed me that I was increasing the distance constantly, he didn't let up until we had covered about 200 yard and I was definitely a lost cause. I didn't back off the gas until I got to the pasture gate, at which point I stopped the truck, opened the gate and drove on through, pausing only on the other side to shut the gate again, put on my clothes, take a deep breath, and laugh, as a bit of peace was restored to my heart and soul.  Since that incident I been much more cautious about checking an area thoroughly before I disrobe to swim.  I also have a tendency to try to keep the truck as close as possible while working in an area where there was cover for assorted animals to slip up on a preoccupied hand and give them a little surprise.

 

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