Ranch Hands

Getting to Know The Ranch Hands
By Heather Barnes, Freelance Writer

July 2007

She had short reddish hair, blue denim jeans and a long white T-shirt. Out of the four returning to the stables, it was she that captivated my attention. I marveled at the way her shapely rump spilled over the saddle as she led her rented horse up to the hitching post. I swatted a mosquito and felt a sense of awe over the strength of horses, when the rotund lady eased herself down off one side of the massive creature who was busy swinging at something invisible with his tail. Upon grounding one foot, she struggled to detach her remaining foot from the stirrup. My eyebrows raised as her shirt lifted up over a couple of belly rolls exposing her white, fleshy skin. If that weren't enough, the shirt continued to rise higher up her torso now exposing a white size triple D extra support brassiere. I chuckled privately in my head as I pondered the entire concept of breast support and made a promise to myself to be much more graceful when it became MY turn to dismount.

I'd made summer reservations for the kids and me to mount four horses for a scenic adventure as an added vacation activity. This Southern Oregon find, where tourists mingled with hill-dwelling locals, was filled with tree houses. Gawking, we eyed our curious surroundings. I figured, as I looked about, that the mountainous backdrop in these parts were enough to entice any nature lover to sleep in a tree. The air was crisp and smelled of earth and wild scrub. The clever dwellings were perched high up in the air, some with second stories and swinging foot bridges. One, in particular, conjured up memories of Swiss Family Robinson, and another reminded me of a blown up bird house. To the stables we headed as our gaze leaped from tree to tree. My three teenagers and I were ready to experience a leisurely horse ride, like cowboys in saddles, and our turn had arrived. Within minutes. I proudly scooted my horse past the unfortunate woman whose massive bra I now knew intimately, and I smirked to myself.

Our new four-legged friends knew the route well as they gingerly plodded over embankments, trotted through open spaces and sauntered through knee-deep streams where they leisurely took drink. From four horses ahead, I could hear Kathryn, our guide, bellowing back words of praise for our equestrian skills.

For myself, I would later refer to these "skills" as a miserable exercise in kegel muscle contractions. My bladder had filled to capacity during the ride leaving me in excruciating discomfort. The agony increased every time Leonard progressed from a stroll to a cantor. Mental misery matched the physical as I realized the private groves of brush had turned to wide open fields. My chance for a humbling jaunt into the wooded brush to relieve myself had passed. Now, as I observed my daughter's stallion unabashedly relieve himself, I longed to be a horse.

Alas, two hours later we returned to the stables, and with the welcome smell of horse manure seeping into my nostrils, I could think of nothing more than getting off of Leonard to find a bathroom. He heaved as I surmised my predicament. He was big, and I had to get down quickly. There was no question about it. Looking around, I noted that Kathryn had picked up a stepping stool and headed to one of my kids. I lingered miserably in my saddle, bladder expanded to capacity, and watched my daughter dismount nearby. Cleverly, she took one foot out of her stirrup, swung the other foot and leg over her saddle and slid with ease right down the side of her horse! I was so impressed. Now THAT made sense! I am short. The last thing I wanted was a foot stuck in the stirrup while Leonard walked away with it. Casually, I slipped my left foot out of its stirrup. That was easy enough. Now for the leg swing. I took my right leg and clumsily heaved it over Leonard's back, but something went terribly wrong.

As I hung precariously from Leonard's side, horror gripped me. My brassiere and T-shirt had hitched a ride on the saddle horn during my descent . As gravity slowly pulled me downward, my bra and shirt remained upward. My white knuckles clenched Leonard's saddle, and I envisioned the massive triple D brassiere of the red-headed woman. Flashbacks of her white tummy rolls and ample bra visited my mind like a nightmare. Suddenly, I heard the pathetic "riiiiip" of my garments. I was now suspended, noose-style, by my brassiere completely exposed from waist to neck. My bare breasts were squished against the side of Leonard's course fur. I remained suspended off the ground unable to rise up or fall down. My legs swung in desperation, my fingers clutched the saddle. My entire torso and chest were miserably naked for every ranch hand to witness. If only I could have appreciated hanging bare-breasted from a hot and sweaty stud, but instead I uttered a small, desperate cry. "Help!"

Within seconds a strong, invisible, arm lifted me at the knees as another arm appeared at my nose to release my bra and shirt from the saddle horn. Before I had the chance to see who rescued me, I fell to my feet with a hard thud, bared from the waist of my black denim jeans to the ripped black bra that hung slack now around my forehead.

Minutes dragged on while I dawdled in the privacy of the nearest bathroom, too humiliated to exit. I felt a mixture of embarrassing things but, mostly, I was awash with humbled envy. The red-headed woman, whose rump filled the saddle ever so generously and whose large white bra gave me pause -- the woman I mocked shamelessly in the privacy of my brain -- was probably watching me from afar . . . grateful she wasn't me.