The DCG Rides: Corralling Shoeless Pete

Many outlaws range across the foothills, climb the high mountains, and penetrate the deep canyons of the Inland Empire, but Shoeless Pete may be the most renegade of them all. From his talk of Cuban-ladies-of-the-night to his outlandish choice of saddle-wear, few can match the color of the wily trail veteran. Fed up with being terrorized by el diablo on wheels, the little communities beneath Old Baldy sent out a call of distress:

Help! [stop]. Shoeless Pete spotted [stop]. Outlaw in Bonelli Park [stop]. $50,000 [stop]. $25 reward for capture [stop].

Ever willing to lend a helping hand, or at least to spend a couple hours in the saddle, the Dirty Chain Gang sprang into action. Some rode in from near, while others rode in from far. United in common cause, they pledged to end Shoeless Pete's reign of garish kit or, failing that, to settle for a good ride, some raucous laughs, and breakfast around a roaring fire.

The trail was a cold one this winter morning, but the DCG thinking ahead set off in the dirt at a more leisurely 8:30am, time enough for the sun to begin to warm the air. It didn't take long for the posse to pick up Pete's trail; it would have been impossible not to, quite frankly, he could have been picked out of a crowd a mile away. Fording rivers deep and wide, bounding over trees, bouncing over rocks, sliding down slippery slopes then grinding up their other sides the DCG rode in pursuit. Chains were slapping leathered calves as tires bit into the gravel; sweat and dirt would have mingled and caked in furrowed brows except it was too cold to sweat, and the ground too damp to raise a dust.

Ol' Shoeless tried to give the boys and girls on their bikes the slip by covering up with a plain slicker. Canny ol' coot. The gang rode up one hill, rolled down another without a gettin' any closer to their prey. Vittles and that warm fire were beginning to sound mighty fine to the gang, and they were startin' to grow weary of the chase. After riding roughshod down one washboard hill, they were tempted to pack it in; that is when Pete slipped up and slipped off that slick slicker of his. "Holy mother of all that is good, what is that?" someone exclaimed, stabbing an accusatory finger at a distant multi-colored mirage, a prism in human form, scaling the far canyon wall.

"Curses, breakfast is on hold boys", yelled the leader of the posse. "The chase is on again!" With that, they set off, riding over ridges, around lakes, skittering down slopes and, yet again, bouncing over rocks. Cheered on by cheerful townsfolk out for a stroll, the pursuers pressed on, up and up, down and down, then up again, around the ol' Tunnel Ranch an' one last dirty climb to grind. After a final teeth-rattlin' bone-breakin' cabon-splittin' ride [walk] through "rock garden," ol' Cap'n Mellow come upon a cluster of the Gang standin' around chewin' the fat; the Cap'n figured, "hmm, they must be a waitin' for everyone else," so he pulled up rein and set to waitin' too. After a little while o' that a couple more o' the gang rode up, but where was everyone else? Some of those bunch standin' around says they're going to hit up some more trails, and the Cap'n thinks, "hmm, guess everyone else has gone ahead" and he says "so long boys, "i'm done today, I'm headed to breakfast and that roarin' fire." By the time the Cap'n rides down the hill and into camp the rest o' the gang is there drinkin' coffee 'round a big ol' fire and sittin' there with 'em is ol' Shoeless Pete himself. Turns out the renegade is as much a part of the DCG as any one of the other rough riders, and those townsfolk, well, they can keep their $25, and wear color-muting sunglasses whenever Pete's around.

I may have got a shot of the "shoeless part" but failed to get a shot of the jersey part of Shoeless Pete's attire. It is SOMETHING to write about - you'll know it when you see it, and once you do it can't be forgotten.