Nate’s Ashes

Nate was Canadian. He was 24 years old. He was also an athlete. Got a full ride scholarship to university for Lacrosse. I guess thats some pansy, yankee, game thats kinda like soccer… Except you have a stick and you beat people up. Whenever anyone would ask him what a young guy like him was doing working on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, when he could actually be putting his life together back home he would always reply-

“Its just so damn beautiful out here…”

Ok. Thats rather cryptic. What was obvious though, was the grey tinge to his skin and the bags under his eyes. Anyone with half a brain (or a nose) knew that Nate was smoking the reefer on the job. I can’t really blame him. When you’re out in the fields, or up on the hilltops, or in the middle of an endless forest, theres not really much to stop you from lighting up. Ive had many a good puff on the clock. In any case, he got the job done alright. Its ranch work, not brain surgery.

Nate had been a hand for about six months when haying season rolled around. Grand-dad started him out on the mower. The problem wasn’t the mowing machine though. It was the tractor it was attached to.

At least it takes sharp turns…

My uncle trained him up on the basin and he cut it down just fine. The concentric circles really lull you into a meditative state. Its a good time to think about things. The next day we sent Nate off on his own to cut down the field in lower section 8. Ive opened this mediocre hay meadow about a dozen times now. Every time I have to have my wits about me because the crick runs along the south side. It twists and turns and oxbows.

Grandma had put lunch on. Enchilada casserole. Its one of my favorites with corn tortillas, beef, cheese, red sauce and olives. Nate never came in. After half an hour of waiting, Grand-dad went to check up on him. There he was, one round in, halfway down the length of the stream, upside down, in the drink, and pinned under the steering wheel. Dead. His marijuana cigarettes were still in his breast pocket.

After fishing out the tractor and Nate’s dead ass, we called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Calgary to inform them we had the corpse of one of their citizens. It was a rather embarrassing phone call because my grandfather had to admit that he had no idea where this kid was from. He recounted a brief story Nate had told about logging. His family would saw down the timber, then roll it onto the beach where oxen would then drag it to the mill. I guess they called this technique log rolling. With that limited information the lady Mountie was able to track down his folks all the way over in Nova Scotia to inform them their son was dead.

Two tottering lifetime college professors showed up on the doorstep. They were carrying an urn. It was filled with… Nate. We asked why they decided to cremate him. They answered that it wasn’t their decision.  It was Nate’s. In his will it specified that he was to be cremated and his ashes spread from the top of a mountain in Montana. All the sudden it was clear why Nate was so gaunt. Why he moved out here. Why he was so detached from the world. The reason they were on the doorstep was because they needed a mountain. They had asked all around, and everyone they spoke to was very clear that their mountains were not available. So that left us. My Grandpa is a pushover, and it kind of made sense for Nate to be scattered on the ranch that he died on.

So we lead them to one of the highest hills we had on the property. They struggled for about two hours, juggling their canes and the urn, but finally made it to the summit. The wind was really going that day. Probably 50 mph at least. Once the lid of that urn was opened Nate was immediately at his final earthly resting place. Underneath the puffball mushrooms on the tops of the grassy hills. Between the needles of the juniper and pine trees. Slowly sinking down to the homestead cabin thats somewhere at the bottom of the reservoir…

Carried on the wind…


Thats the hill on the far left.

Two months later the professors were back. They were looking for Nate. Grand-dad told them that they were free to go out and gather him up. Needless to say we have a new policy on burials around this ranch.


Traed Schkool

Almost heaven… West Virginia.

Well, Ive been here long enough to get a basic lay of the land and tell ya’ll my general experience with a no-kidding trade school.

It started with a brain worm.

Horses need shoes if they are going to work. We needed our horses shod. We needed a Farrier. But he usually takes two fuckin weeks to get back to us. Then when he does come out to our place he’s a broken old man who’s cranky as fuck. After he leaves we have to deal with his bitchy ass wife over the phone who threatens to never work with us again as she changes prices. I asked the folks why we didn’t just use another farrier.

Turns out… He’s the only one in the valley.

Huh… Ain’t that special. This guy can act like a total ass, and you’ll still smile and hand him hundreds of dollars for one afternoon of work. He picks when he works. He picks who he works with. Nobody gives him any lip because they need him. All because he does something that nobody else knows how to/is willing to do. A dirty, stinky, annoying job that hurts your back…

Thats sounds like something I could do!

The brain worm had been planted. I started doing some digging. Turns out there are 9 million horses in the united states and only 25 thousand certified Farriers. Thats a lot of demand and very little supply. The rusty cogs started turning in my brain and it occurred to me that I live in a place thats exactly 1.5 hours from three major towns. Those towns all have hillbillies with a few acres and a shitload of horses. I know. Ive seen em.

I started saving my summer hay stacking money. Looked online for farrier courses. I went for the first thing that popped up. But not only because it was the first search result. I also looked at the other courses they offered. Basically a bunch of artsy fartsy horsey shit that has no practical use to anyone. A complete waste of time and money. They sounded like courses that little rich daddies girls would take. I signed up. So far I haven’t been disappointed.

My posts have been down because I’m busy every fucking day. My grades are awesome. I basically haven’t gone one night without getting laid. There are 120 girls and ten guys. I passed my trimming practical and have my own huge ass dorm room. When Im not going on vacation I’m partying with fellow college dropouts. Seriously its like retard college. I can handle this.

Don’t think for a second that its not an art form though. Im learning so much its incredible. Horse handling. Fixing confirmation. Forging. Diet and nutrition. Anatomy. I know most folks have no idea what I’m talking about so Ill just leave a couple of badass videos down below so you can see that it really is a serious craft with a nobel history.

First video is more informative. Second video is more entertaining.

$illy Beta Millionaire, Female Affection Is For Broke Internet Misogynists

No man. She doesn’t want to take the helicopter to vegas for the weekend. We have a date at the rope swing. You know, right downriver from the nuclear plant. Once the sun goes down you can see the algae glowing…

Sorry dude. She doesn’t want to drive to Vermont in your new Mercedes to go new Audi shopping. She already left to go to Assateague island with me. We saw a bunch of dead horseshoe crabs. They smelled like shit. She even had one of the wild ponies take a selfie with her… Right before it started scratching its ass on the outdoor shower frame for like ten minutes.

Absolutely not homie. She doesn’t want a free 1,000 dollars from you. She’s too busy thanking me profusely for the peanut butter twix I bought her at the gas station.

She doesn’t want your “”no-strings-attached”” box of cannabis oil. She’s riding shotgun with me to pick up plain ole ganja outside the pizza place. Thats right, 50 bucks at a time. Sketchy black guy comes standard.

Honestly bro, I saw your tailspin coming the moment she said you sent her a winky face. You fucking chump. What the hell does she need your money for? Her daddy is a federal judge. I suppose I can’t be too mad at you though. I used to be you. (Except for the millions of dollars in disposable income) I even shook your hand. You could be a decent looking fellow if you didn’t spend all day getting fat as hell. But just keep doing what you’re doing man. Im sure you’ll find some game at the bottom of a nitrous oxide canister.

And… When you think of her, which I know you will. Just imagine me, the handsome stranger, running his hand up the back of her neck to grab a luscious handful of that thick, fiery red, Irish hair; then shoving my fat cock into her tight, little, horse rider, pussy… Imagine her squeals while the whole length of me pushes her guts till she shakes.

Thats a little too cruel. Lets end this story with a little moral.

Money can’t buy game.

Not her. But the hair is spot on.