“Aye culeros, one of these days I am going to escape from this fucking prison, climb up that mountain, whip out my cock, and PISS on all you fucking beaner assholes!” I pointed to the smoggy outline of Mount Popocatepetl far in the eastern horizon while I barked at them in gutter Mexico City street Spanish. Then I flipped them the bird to show them my abiding friendship and solidarity with them.

“Oh go fuck your momma, gringo — fuckin’ pinche gringo! TU MADRE – QUE CULERO — Mierde de toro! Tu vas a salir de esta pinche carcel unicamente en una caja de madero – QUE PENDEJO!”

We traded insults for a while more. Every day the Mexican prisoners insulted me, and I insulted them back. For years the guards and prisoners here had attacked me with gang beatings, extortion, cattle prods, and forced slave labor. I was no longer the ‘nice’ person that I thought I had been when they arrested me in Mexico.

But now, they no longer attacked me, at least not individually. I had beaten up enough of them badly in violent one-on-one fights so that they finally left me alone. To me, I had beaten them up goodly. Torn ears, smashed faces, dripping blood. It was like that in a Mexican prison. Read More…

“Take a look at this Winchester 38-40 carbine, son.”  I handed my boy this beautiful 100+ year old heavy lever action rifle. He studied it, maybe like a woman might look at jewels. The rifle had a hexagon barrel, rear adjustable sites, and a black-stained stock from gun powder, dirty hands, and a century on the trail. The 38-40 shell was a rare bullet, once used both in both pistols are rifles. “You will inherit this rifle from me when I die. Here is how I got this gun.”

I had bought a small ranch for a low price high in the Sangre du Cristo Mountains in northern New Mexico, near the little town of Mora. The locals called the place ‘La Sierra’. Spanish was the first language here, and it sure helped me that I spoke it. The place was up at 8800 feet with a year around flowing stream and a well that never went dry. It was at the end of a five mile long dirt road and was without any utilities at all. On my 24th birthday, on September 17th, 1970, I camped outside. When I awoke, I had over a foot of snow on the tarp covering my sleeping bag. I had just discovered that this place had only a 75 day growing season. This was going to be a tough place to survive.

When we had a three foot snow drift over my only access road in November, I learned I had better get my firewood in early. I would now be using Pharaoh, my Spanish Mustang stud horse, to get in and out, for snow plows were unheard of around here. But if someone wanted to get snowed in and lost, this was the perfect place. My only contact with the outside world was the post office, and that was seven miles away. Read More…