Fire is probably a bad word to use these days, especially since a lightning strike in September immolated one long, gorgeous stack of premium mountain meadow grass hay in the ranch stack yard.  All 340 tons of it.  We were away when that happened, somewhere in Iran is about as precise as I can be.  I was sitting with my headscarf on, trying to pretend I was comfortable in the autumn heat wearing a head covering more suitable to the winter months, when the news arrived by email.

Bernard in the windrows

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Another cowboy hangs back at the door listening.   As I move toward the door to go back outside and wait, the supervisor says  “Hey, here’s Manuel now.”  I look around, step outside the door, scan about and see nobody prisoner-like to walk toward.  And then it strikes me that the clean cut, good-looking young cowboy next to me is my gang member, my horse trainer, Manuel.  Embarrassed, I dodge back in and offer my hand.  He takes it with a firm dry grasp and, looking me straight in the eyes, says “I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am.   Did you see your horse?”

“Yes, I did.  But he’s not at all what I was expecting.”

“Is something wrong with him?” he asks with concern, his eyebrows wrinkling in consternation.
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Pulling into a dirt lot behind what must have been the penitentiary itself, I feel utterly disoriented.  Men move purposefully about, leading horses, hefting western saddles, cleaning corrals, moving bales of hay.  Horses whinny and the air is filled with dust from the pens where horses are being worked.  I search for a way to distinguish the prisoners from the cowboys around me, figuring I should look for men with shady glances wearing striped prison garb, for guards with rifles. I see neither.  It crosses my mind that, being prisoners outside of their cells, some of the men should have manacles on, but I discard that notion as movie-based. How could anyone work a horse with their hands shackled together.

At a loss for what to do, I head past a few scruffy little horses hitched to a rail, to a shabby wood shack with squinty windows and a narrow door standing open.  I peer inside.
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The Colorado State Penitentiary in Cañon City, Colorado is about what I expected.  A collection of squat stone buildings sprawling over 80 acres at the base of dusky low sagebrush hills.  There’s the full complement of security shacks, guard towers and walls with razor wire that a maximum security facility deserves.

I’m way overdressed for this hot, Indian Summer day, but I’ve put on clothes that follow the letter of the written regulations provided to me before my visit.   Actually, the regulations were more explicit about what NOT to wear:  no shorts,  miniskirts, or tank tops, no see-through clothing, nothing in any way revealing or, heaven forbid, seductive.
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