Doyle Williams was a real cowboy. He owned the Skyline Ranch in south Phoenix, AZ. where he had a riding stable. He also staged weekly bull riding competitions for young riders who were brave enough to try to ride a Brahma Bull for eight seconds or however long they could stay on.
Doyle's son, Eddie, was well on his way to becoming a champion bull rider when I began hanging out at the ranch. He always had a horse available for me to ride and we spent many happy hours on trail rides into South Mountain.
I liked Doyle's laid-back ways and easy sense of humor. He and his older brother Red were both poker players and they sometimes played in the games at the American Legion where I was a member.
One day Doyle called me at the Phoenix Gazette where I worked as a reporter and asked me if I wanted to go on a trail ride to Casa Grande, 60 miles south of Phoenix.
'It will be a two day trip,' Doyle said. 'We'll leave here on a Saturday and when we get to Casa Grande, we'll ride in the rodeo parade. Care to join us?'
I had never ridden a horse 60 miles before, but I didn't hesitate. 'Count me in," I said.
I wrote a feature article about the upcoming trail ride and showed up at 6 a.m. at the Skyline Ranch. The place was filled with riders, horses and television reporters with their cameras.
While Doyle was saddling the horses, a rider got dumped into a cactus plant when his horse reared and started bucking. Red Williams just shook his head.
'Tourists,' he muttered beneath his breath.
There were 35 riders in our caravan. Doyle, his wife and son rode at the head of it and at a signal, we started riding. I was on a brown gelding that I had ridden several times before and Doyle was riding his buckskin.
We made our way south on a dirt road, skirted a canal bank, and worked out a way around a ridge of cactus-studded hills. One of the riders even strummed a guitar and sang.
The first 10 miles went easy. Then it began getting painful. I kept adjusting myself on the back of my horse, but no matter which way I turned, it hurt. Doyle rode back to me.
'How ya doing, writer?' he inquired. 'Think you're gonna make it?'
I tried to smile. 'I think so,' I said.
We rode and we rode as the afternoon wore on. The sun fell behind the mountains in the west and we kept riding.
Finally, mercifully, it was time for our dinner break. I tried to get off my horse -- and couldn't. I was too sore. Finally, I managed to get my leg over the saddle horn and fell to the ground.
Eddie Williams loped up to me, grinning.
'Nice dismount,' he said.
We dined on steak and apple pie. The meal helped me get some of my strength back, but all I could think of was sleep. I climbed into a sleeping bag next to a pickup truck and closed my eyes.
It began raining. Not only rain, it turned into a cloudburst with lightning zigzagging through the sky. And it didn't let up.
It was near midnight. Doyle, wearing a yellow raincoat, circled through the now awakened riders and said, 'If we're gonna get drowned, we may as well do it on horseback. Everybody up. Let's start riding.'
There were audible groans Some of the riders remounted. I couldn't do it. I had ridden over 30 miles and I was finished.
Doyle understood my decision. He arranged for me to get a ride back to Phoenix. More than 20 of the riders opted for me to end the ride. Only six riders out of the 35 finished it and rode in the rodeo parade.
I was in bed for two days. And if anybody tries to invite me on another two-day trail ride, my response will be unprintable in a family publication.
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