Bruno is the longtime trail boss for the historically Black Northeastern Trail Riders Association, which for over 40 years has ridden on horse and wagon 108 miles from Cheek, Texas, to the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. It’s one of 10 such treks starting from all over southeast Texas that will play out over the course of next week, a tradition that dates back to 1952 with the Salt Grass trail ride.

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I’ve called Bruno out of the blue on a Tuesday afternoon because he’s graciously allowed me to tag along on the trail ride, which starts Sunday morning and ends with a parade through downtown Houston the following Saturday. Our conversation is brief, about five minutes long. I’m sure he’s busy preparing for the journey and I don’t want to take too much of his time. I ask him what I’ll need to bring with me.

“Fifty dollars (for indemnity), camping gear and Western wear (cowboy hat, boots, long-sleeved shirts),” he says. 

Easy enough. I’ll expense the 50 bucks and borrow camping gear from my editor (thanks in advance, Gaby). As for Western wear, well you’re looking at the proud owner of:

1.  One new cowboy hat (I’d brought an old straw hat to Cavender’s to be stretched out, but the kind sales associate, Jason, politely informed me that it’s bad form to wear anything but felt before Easter, saving me from at least one faux pas. I ponied up for a Master Hatters silverbelly); 
2. A pair of cheap (probably fake) leather cowboy boots that I bought at the Mexican flea market on Airline last weekend;
3. Two black Western shirts — one gifted by a Yankee ex-girlfriend and the other poached from my current, Texan girlfriend’s bag of Goodwill donations; and
4. Two bolo ties — also gifts, and the subject of many a compliment on the single time I wore one of them.

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I was born and raised on the northwest side of Chicago and am vastly more familiar with a crowded, smelly subway car than I am with the open expanses of the frontier. But I fancy myself a quick learner and a fairly capable sportsman, plus horseback riding is in my blood. My father, Jay Kelly, rode horses as a ranch hand in Missouri and family lore has it that my grandfather, Martin González, was known as “El Diablo en Caballo” for the way he tore through his rural Mexican hometown on bareback (I hope that’s the only reason why). 

Bruno seems skeptical, though, and tells me I’ll likely be riding in a wagon (he doesn’t know I’m determined to get in the saddle at some point). Regardless, I’m thrilled and grateful to be partaking of this piece of Texas history and looking forward to learning it firsthand from the experts; not to mention the dances and beers that I’m sure will come with it.

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Bruno’s first question to me was whether I was ready to “rough it,” and I’d said “yes,” maybe a little too quickly. By the end of our conversation, he was reassuring me that I was in good hands. 

“Don’t worry,” he said with another laugh. “We’ll take care of you.”

As if I’ll need “taking care of”… right?