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My friends from high school Married their high school boyfriends Moved into houses in the same ZIP codes Where their parents live But I, I could never follow No I, I could never follow I hit the highway in a pink RV with stars on the ceiling Lived like a gypsy Six strong hands on the steering wheel I've been a long time gone now Maybe someday, someday I'm gonna settle down But I've always found my way somehow By taking the long way Taking the long way around Taking the long way Taking the long way around I met the queen of whatever Drank with the Irish and smoked with the hippies Moved with the shakers Wouldn't kiss all the asses that they told me to No I, I could never follow No I, I could never follow It's been two long years now Since the top of the world came crashing down And I'm getting' it back on the road now But I'm taking the long way Taking the long way around I'm taking the long way Taking the long way around The long The long way around Well, I fought with a stranger and I met myself I opened my mouth and I heard myself It can get pretty lonely when you show yourself Guess I could have made it easier on myself But I, I could never follow No I, I could never follow Well, I never seem to do it like anybody else Maybe someday, someday I'm gonna settle down If you ever want to find me I can still be found Taking the long way Taking the long way around Taking the long way Taking the long way around KickStart. Even on the big black bike everything smelled hot with pine. I had taken the long, long way. San Felipe del Rio was twenty miles north of Taos and down the one and only dirt road when you got to San Christobal. San Felipe del Rio was a ranch. Not like any ranch you would know. We had cows, horses, a big garden, cougars in the wild, alphalpha, hogs, sheep, eagles, a view for three hundred miles west toward the Jicarilla mountains and the Apache reservation there. North, we could see Colorado and the Sangre de Christos really did appear to be the color of blood whenever the sun set. Valdez and Arroyo Seco were in the valley. We rarely went to Taos. It was too far away. Then summers would end and the kids got shipped out to the Taos Public Schools which they hated with reason and a vengeance. We were not welcome much in Taos. They didn't like us. There is a myth about Taos that it's this liberal haven of diversity and tolerance. It is a lie. Taos is ripe with ethnic tension, infighting over turf, and racism. The people of Taos had two names for San Felipe del Rio. The informed crowd just called it the ranch. It was a big ranch, and if someone in Taos said "the ranch" everyone knew the ranch you were referring to. The misinformed called it the Orphanage Up There. They meant just north of the DH Lawrence property managed by the University of New Mexico. Remote is an understatement. We had kids. In fact, we had one hundred Mescalero Apache children. I was personally responsible for the well-being and safety of twenty-five. The Mescalero Apache are a proud people. Remote is an understatement. In 1863, both the Navajo and the Mescalero Apache people were rounded up and put in a concentration camp called the Bosque Redondo which today is the arroyo and cattle country -- high desert mesa -- of Lincoln County and the Pecos river. A fundamentally nomadic people were told by the whites to make gardens in a place that could not and did not support gardens. Evan as a concentration camp, the Bosque Redondo was a failure. Many Navajo and Mescalero Apache people died of starvation and disease. The word famine would be appropriate. It was a matter of life, death, and genocide. In the middle of the night, the Mescalero Apaches disappeared. All of them. It came as something of a surprise even to the Navajo who never did escape. To this day, the only people who really know how the Mescalero Apaches pulled off the overnight disappearance of an entire tribe are the Mescalero Apache people and they're not talking. To white people anyway. The Apache traveled light. And he was fast. He still is. I had one sixteen-year-old boy -- Joseph -- who could run and run and run and run. That is essentially what he did. When he wasn't tending to his horses. James Thomas Gilroy ran the barn. Joseph worshipped this man. I think Jim still lives in San Christobal and he's been a teacher for many years. The ranch attracted a lot of teacher-types. And a few types such as myself who didn't know what the fuck they were. To this day, I have never met a cowboy who knew as much about horses as Joseph. Being responsible for twenty-five Mescalero Apache children was the most difficult thing I have ever done. Ever. And I have done a lot of things. As a writer, I dislike going here. Because most people can't bring themselves to believe that a place like San Felipe could even exist, and I do not really know where to start. There is a photograph of us on the Internet. We are at the barn which really was the spiritual heart of the place. We are spilling out the window. Spilling out the windows was what we did. Robert del Conte ran this place. He was simply the most extraordinary man I have ever met. Bob Conte scared me half to death. Because he meant everything he said and he always, always put his money where his mouth was. San Felipe Humanitarian Alliance was created. This from their PR materials: For nearly 30 years, Robert Del Conte was the driving force behind San Felipe Humanitarian Alliance. Under his guidance, San Felipe evolved from a small group home for abused and neglected children into a respected humanitarian organization serving people in crisis around the world. No need was too small or too large for Bob. Whether he was helping a mother find a runaway teen or helping a community rebuild their lives in the aftermath of human conflict or natural disaster, he approached everything he did with the same tenacious energy and commitment. All of which happens to be true. You got to the ranch and life just took over and there it was. The first day I arrived, Joseph took me up the mountain on a horse. The two of us totally escaped. You are in the wilds of New Mexico now. Where the wind comes up. I grew close to this Mescalero Apache boy. He took me to his house in Mescalero and I was able to meet his family. It broke my stupid heart. I don't care about the poverty. Poverty only is. These are a PROUD people despite the poverty. The alcoholism was profound. The adults were passed out on the floor when we walked in the door. There were babies crawling around among the beer cans. "They like to drink," Joseph said, and he laughed nervously. He meant his parents. We changed diapers that morning. It was at least something. The alcohol has crushed this boy like a beer can crumbles. I do not know anymore if it is politically correct to write these things. I don't care. They are only things. It's how it was. Joseph came over with his homework a lot. "They want me to cut my hair," he told me. He meant the Taos school district. Apache men have long, beautiful hair. But Joseph would either conform or else. I met with his principal to plead his case but there was only a snide arrogance there. They were Apaches. As the school year went on, the pressure built. Joseph became very quiet and I thought he might explode. Late one Saturday night, the adolescent girls in my house came home. I greeted them at the door. Mainly to tell them that it was late but they had other business to attend to. One of the girls had been attacked and she was badly, badly beaten up. Joseph had attacked her without provocation. He had beaten her to a pulp in the dark on the path to the barn. Frankly, I didn't know what the fuck to do. We patched her up and she wept all night. Joseph was her cousin. I cared about this kid and he worried me deeply. Joseph had been drunk that night. I had him arrested. He was put in jail. It was not a good time at San Felipe del Rio. There was a part of me that felt this boy had to understand there were consequences for violence. This boy was going to take the long, long way around. There was a part of me that felt strongly that unless Joseph began to fathom that outside the context of the Ranch where he was relatively protected, the white world would eventually come down on him like a ton of bricks. He would be released. "Let's go for a ride to the top of the mountain," he said. It was almost like nothing had happened. The top of the mountain was just this safe place we could communicate. We would sit there and watch the horses graze. "Why," I asked. "Why, Joseph." "I don't know why. I wish I did." This boy was facing some abyss he did not in any way understand. Jail did nothing. It was only mean. I was failing this boy. I was failing all of them. "I'm leaving," I told him. "I can't watch you destroy yourself. It just hurts too much." Would I do it again. Have him thrown in jail. No. Just no. What would I do. I have no idea. How do I deal with Joseph and then be responsible for the adolescent girl whose face he had rearranged. I don't know. It's still bigger than I am. "I don't want you to go." There are moments in a narrative that unfolds between two people where you either grab the narrative and you own it or you don't. I didn't know that then. It could have been an opportunity to cut a deal. I stay. But he cleans up his act. But this was real live and not a fantasy and that is not how it unfolded. He did not say goodbye. I went out looking for him and found him on the path up to the top of the mountain. He was on his horse. He was leading a riderless horse. Mine. He looked over his shoulder at me. Joseph could run and run and run and run. If any human being has ever seen right through me with those dark and turbulent eyes it was this boy then. And there. I left. I went to live in Mexico. KickStart. Even on the big black bike everything smelled hot with pine. I had taken the long, long way. -- Tim Barrus As an educational entity, Cinematheque students are allowed access to fair use art materials and mixed media in the teaching of iconic manipulation and video and film production.