so. she can ride.
Our next date spanned a four-day break we found in our schedules. We went camping in the mountains of Northern California with an old cowboy friend of Ty’s named Pat Russell. I met Ty in Reno, where he was up that night in all three events again. I went to find Pat’s truck after being given some vague directions via text like, gray flatbed diesel with ball hitch and dent on left fender, back right of parking lot. I found the truck and with it Pat, whom I had never met until that moment. He was in his sixties with gray stubble on his unshaved face and a grimace that must have been the original Clint Eastwood aspired to. We stood beneath the hum of fluorescent bulbs in the parking lot taking each other in. Other than removing his hat briefly when I arrived, he kept busy packing the truck and asked me nothing about myself, choosing instead to bark orders at me. “Grab that rope, would ya? Throw it over here. You need a bedroll, I suppose. I don’t see that you have one on you. Here, roll this one up.”
I had flown in on a private plane right after my show and had not taken the time to change. I wore black leather pants, biker boots, a white T-shirt, and a jean jacket, and I was beginning to feel a chill as night closed in, leaving visible only the pinprick formation of stars.
The silence was unceremoniously broken as Pat was attacked from behind. A figure leapt through the air and put him in a choke hold, knocking off both their hats. Pat stood his ground and without so much as moving swatted Ty off as if he were no more bothersome than a gnat. “’Bout time you showed up, Pud.” Cowboys have a habit of nicknaming each other with handles that summarize their worst fear or trait. There was a cowboy named Jim Sharp, who, while a world-champ bull rider, was not known to be the sharpest of guys, so they called him Razor. Another had teeth with such wide gaps between them that they called him Rake. To Ty, the worst insult was to call him a Puss. In cowboy terms, if you pussed out on a ride, that meant you hunted for the ground instead of hanging tough and gutting it out to the whistle. Ty despised cowboys who did this. He’d heard that Walt Garrison would call other players Pudding when in front of the press, since he could not use the other word in public. Ty decided to try it out on a cowboy the next day, and told everyone that when he was calling them “pudding,” he really was calling them a puss. It backfired on him and he was stuck with the nickname for life.
At the truck, Ty said, “Pat, you old bastard, how the hell are you? Did you meet Jewel?” At this, Pat looked over and considered me directly for the first time. He looked back at his bag and said, “Yeah. A bit lean in the flank and poorly dressed for the task at hand. I guess there is no accounting for taste.” Pat had a rare talent for saying something mean and making you feel liked. He threw a thick coat at me as we got in the truck, saying, “She didn’t even have the good sense to bring a proper coat.”
We drove without talking for a ways, watching the road open up beneath our headlights and fly by into darkness again. Pat broke the silence to keep himself awake as much as anything, I suppose: “Ty tells me you got a book of poems out. Recite us something.”
A Night Without Armor had recently come out and was exceeding everyone’s expectations—poetry was finding a mass audience in spite of an industry’s skepticism. I was unprepared to recite some, though, and had none committed to memory except one called “Wild Horse.” Pat would accept no excuses, and suddenly I found myself reciting for a crowd of two. It was a love poem I had written years earlier.
I’d like to call you my wild horse
and feed you silver sage
I’d like to paint my poems
With desert tongued clay
across
your back
and ride you savagely
as the sweet and southern wind
through a green and wild Kentucky.
Pat interrupted. “Goddamn. This isn’t poetry. This is horny prose!” he exclaimed, and we all fell into laughter. It turned out Pat was fluent in Latin and he spent the rest of the ride reciting to me his favorite rhymes, limericks, and sonnets while Ty slept.
We arrived at Pat’s ranch in the middle of the night. He showed us to a single room. I was mortified. Ty could tell I was uncomfortable and we both went to bed fully clothed and he promised not to touch me. And true to his word, he slept. Instantly. I lay awake, unable to relax. It was strange to be sleeping next to a strange man, in a strange house. Around 3 a.m. I finally had to pee. I stumbled to the bathroom only to realize there was no bathroom door. In bare feet I felt my way downstairs and outside with tissue in hand. It was about that time the dogs began barking. All of them. A chorus of bird dogs let loose a mournful wail and the whole place had to wake up. I cursed under my breath and headed back upstairs to see Ty was undisturbed. I would lie awake, thankful to finally see daylight slowly blush on the horizon.
I hadn’t told Ty much about how I was raised, other than mentioning I’d lived on a homestead as a child. He knew I had ridden horses, but I was not eager to overshare, because as a kid giving tourists rides, I had learned that when dealing with novice riders, they always seemed to brag about what great riders they were. The next morning I could see they had set aside the oldest, slowest gelding for me. That did not stop Pat from telling Ty to grab an ear on the old horse, while he mugged down his neck like one would to keep a bronc still enough for a good hand to climb on. “Very funny,” I said, and waited for the games to be over before I put a foot in the stirrup and swung a leg over.
“So. She can ride,” Pat said, unimpressed. Enjoying razzing me still. Those men razzed me the entire trip. “We need a fire. This is how you build one. It will be hot.” They “taught” me how to catch a fish, clean it, and cook it. They showed me how to find water and warned me I would have to use the facilities outdoors at night. I kept wondering what kind of person they thought I was, and more important, what kind of girls they had been hanging around with. I resigned myself to nod along, knowing that if Ty ever came to Alaska, the last laugh would be on him. (This eventually did happen, and my patience was rewarded. After seeing the place where I was raised, he said, “Do you remember when we first met? And how I assumed you knew nothing about camping? Your childhood was camping!”)
Ty showed off some fancy roping for me—he had competed in a phenomenal six events in college rodeo before he decided to focus on rough stock events as a professional. He did ocean waves and hoolihans and figure eights and other fancy tricks. He had a makeshift roping dummy and when he set the rope down I picked it up and daubed it on the dummy, clean around the horns. I wasn’t sure I would nail it, but once I had, I was pretty cool about it. He sat up and said, “Well, where did you learn that?” “On a movie set, actually,” I confessed. “Here,” he offered, “Let me show you how to turn your wrist over so the loop won’t change planes when you release.” He came behind me and stood close. His body fitting the form of mine as he bent down and helped twirl my arm, both of us standing under the spinning canopy of the lariat loop. I was sure it was a tactic he’d used before but I didn’t mind. The closeness of his body felt electric. And my roping improved significantly. He taught me about heeling calves, walking in front of me so I could practice roping his feet. Eventually we sat in the shade of a tall pine and sipped fresh spring water. “So, you shot a film? Is it out yet? Was it a western, I guess, if you learned to rope for it?”
It was not out yet nor a western per se. It was a Civil War–era drama called Ride with the Devil, directed by Ang Lee. Acting had been a goal for me since the beginning of my career, though I rarely had time to go out on auditions. I happened to be in L.A. when Ang Lee’s office asked to meet with me. Thankfully there was no script yet or sides, so I did not have to read lines (a practice I was not particularly good at). Instead Ang asked me about how I was raised. To my surprise he asked me to walk for him. I walked across the room. “Again,” he said, in his quiet but assertive way. I walked back across the room. “Okay,” he said, “This time be heavier. You are too light on your feet. Don’t be graceful. Be determined.” I was caught off guard but obliged, and put more weight in my heels and let my arms feel the gravity of the room. He stood watching with his arms crossed, his hand holding up his chin, his head tilted slightly to the side. He stared at my feet and my fingers. Abruptly he looked up at my face and said, “Thanks for coming.” That was it. I called my agent and recounted the odd experience. I expected I would never hear from him again. Every great actress in Hollywood was trying out for the part.
I was shocked to be offered the female lead a few weeks later. I had less than zero experience other than theater classes in high school, and was very intimidated by the cast of talented young male costars. Ang assured me that we would get together for weekly acting lessons. He began our next meeting by handing me his watch. “Pretend you are not from this planet. Pretend you don’t know what this is. Go.” I felt utterly ridiculous, but when he handed me the watch I dropped it immediately. It fell to the floor with a thud. I hoped I hadn’t broken it but didn’t pick it up. I felt if I had no idea what something was, I wouldn’t want to touch it before I’d figured out whether it was safe or not. I studied it there on the floor. Once assured it did not have legs or teeth, I touched it cautiously with my toe. When nothing bad happened I reached down to touch it quickly. I studied it like a child would. Was it soft? Edible? After I went as far as touching my tongue to the man’s watch he stopped me and I handed it back to him a bit sheepishly. He put it on his wrist. “Let’s do some tai chi.” After that the lesson was over.
For weeks I had lessons that consisted of nothing more than tai chi and walking. Ang gave me glimpses into my character. She was a Civil War bride, widowed. She would have a baby at a young age and need someone to protect her. She would learn to be tough and survive. As the filming date neared I began to panic. I needed to learn to act, not walk!
On the day of our last lesson, Ang and I shared a car back to a hotel in New York. It dawned on me that this was it—time was up! I felt utterly unprepared and massively underqualified. In tears, I looked at him and whimpered, “Why did you hire me? You could have any actress you want. Why me?” He looked at me, his face as calm and smooth as the moon, and said, “You have period teeth.” And that was it. No pep talk. I turned back to the window. I was the only actress who had not fixed her teeth. That’s what had gotten me the role. Awesome. He got out and left me with my low feelings of self-worth and doubt. Looking back I think he was counting on these feelings, and also on my willingness to look inside myself and dig deep for solutions. It mirrored the journey of my character, I would find out. If I hadn’t been blinded by sheer terror, I would have laughed at the irony.
I showed up on set in Missouri to find a cast who, for the most part, were less than pleased that a pop star had been hired on their credible film. Many felt I was going to ruin it. I silently feared the same. I didn’t want to disappoint Ang, much less make a fool of myself in front of millions who were going to buy tickets just to see if I could pull it off. One actor in particular was quite mean to me, which was just the kick in the butt I needed. The more he hated, the harder I dug in.
I got into character using the tools I already had—writing. I was able to connect with her fear, her longing, and her strength when I wrote from her perspective. I wrote a song about her loss and her isolation and sang it before I filmed my scenes, to get into the emotional framework. By the time we finished rehearsing and began filming I felt mildly courageous, and for better or for worse was as ready as I would ever be.
I don’t think even Ang was prepared for how little I actually knew about filmmaking. In one scene early on, I was to walk into a cave where some soldiers were and deliver a line. Action was called. At the end of the shot, Ang came up to me and said, “Jewel, you’re not hitting your mark.” I thought he meant metaphorically—an emotional point I was not getting to. I vowed to act harder, to bring more emotion. Action was again called, again I walked into the cave, and again I said my line, and again Ang came up to me afterward and said, “Jewel, you need to hit your mark.” He was perturbed, I assumed, by my lack of ability. I had a talk with myself and I went big the next time action was called. But still I fell short of the mark. Ang came out from behind the camera and said, “Jewel, you have got to hit your mark!” This time he pointed downward and I followed his gesture with my eyes to see a beanbag on the floor. The actors saw the light go on for me and some snickered. I never missed a mark after that.
I had no idea there were close-ups to save emotional intensity for, or long shots in which I could be less dramatic. I was spent every day before we got to my close-ups. Ang took me aside and pointed out that I was approaching acting like a theater artist. This was not in real time. I had to conserve my energy over a twelve-hour day, not blow it in the first two hours as if it were a live concert. This was most helpful. I began to get the hang of the technical aspects, and with time I gave myself permission to just assume I knew what I needed to know about acting emotionally. I remembered what Sean had told me. He said I was a natural, and to stay out of my own way.
Voices in my head would say things like, You don’t know what you are doing. You are going to make a fool of yourself. You are alone. You are afraid. I stayed up nights worrying about the next day’s scenes. Fear was once again ruling my life. To which I told myself, I am capable. I can figure anything out. Half measures dictated by fear are the only thing that can make me look foolish. I will show my heart and try my hardest. I am joyful.
I bought a tape recorder and taped my antidote sayings, listening to them on a loop all night. It sounds silly, but it really helped. I would wake less exhausted, less anxious, and able to access my courage and some joy for the day rather than doubt and fear. Even if my costar still hated me, I didn’t. I might not be the best, but I would try my best. That’s all I could do.
The best part of filming was the head wrangler named Rusty Hendricks. He was older, kind, familiar, more like the people I had come from—rural, in a word. On days off he would let me ride the horses to unwind. He taught me to rope, and I practiced on a roping dummy every day waiting for my scenes.
Halfway through filming I got the news that Jacque was losing her battle with cancer. She had been sick for some time, but we always thought God would spare her. We thought she could raise her frequency to the point cancer could not exist in her. We thought she could pray and meditate it away. She was in hospice and her family was told to come say their goodbyes. I was devastated. She had become my rock, my source of unconditional love.
Ang was kind enough to film around me and let me go back to San Diego to see her. I had paid her hospice and her medical bills, and gathered with her family and my mom, and we stayed with her until she passed. It was the Fourth of July. To this day conjuring the memory of her emaciated frame brings such a sadness to my heart and tears to my eyes. I loved that woman, and as odd as it sounds, I loved Zarathustra. I would never get to speak to either of them again. I would no longer be able to call Jacque when I lost faith in myself and hear her sweet pep talks or have her there to encourage me when I felt small. Dusk settled in as we stood around her bed, and she drew her last breath just as fireworks began to explode outside. We cried and we laughed, sure that she was orchestrating such a grand and dramatic departure. We held hands around her body and watched the beautiful display of color explode across the sky through the window.
I returned to filming but felt utterly alone. My friend and guru was gone. I was so convinced I was not strong or capable of knowing answers for myself. I still could not see my own strengths, and felt I needed my mom or someone else to tell me what to do.
Making the film and writing the book of poetry helped me deal with the grief, and my saving grace was that my dear friend Lee was there with me every step of the way. He had worked with me for several years, and he was my only friend and connection to Alaska. He cooked for me on busy days, went on tour, and came with me to the set. We lived in the same house together in Missouri where we filmed. When I was exhausted he rubbed my back and soothed me to sleep. He was aware of my mom’s influence over me, though for the most part I kept my spirituality, and my mom’s, to myself. And I kept it from Ty as I told stories of my life. I felt no one would understand other than those of us who were followers of Z.
• • •
BENEATH THAT PINE TREE, Ty listened as I carried on about the movie and myself. When I finally paused, he asked if I wanted to go fishing. We walked with a clear fishing line, no pole, to the spring. I watched his thick hands deftly puncture a bright orange fish egg on a small silver hook. He dropped it in and guided the line to a quiet eddy, where the water calmed. He spoke quietly, letting go of the cocky bravado he had led with. A fish bit and he lifted it out of the water. It had a silver and pink belly and brown spots, a brookie. Ty strung the line through its gills and tethered the stringer in the water to keep it cool while he caught others. At the end of an hour five small fish hung from a clear line, glittering in the sun. We would fry them later and eat them. I watched him handle the tiny fish, cleaning each one. The air took on a magical quality as the light turned golden and specks of dust were illuminated in the sun’s final rays. I was falling in love. I walked behind him as he took the fish to the camp and began to wonder what was beneath his shirt.
That night beneath a full moon we kissed for the first time, the water sang and babbled and the dry fingers of the pines rubbing together in the wind serenaded us. I could see his muscles working beneath the translucent sheath of his skin. We glowed. I felt as if the brightness of the moon was illuminating our hearts and lighting us both from the inside. The passion and our connection were so visceral it was hard to move. “If I pass out,” he whispered, “don’t leave.” I smiled and lifted the white sheet over me like wings.