The secrets in the horse lot labored to show me their stories.
But time muffled their voices and hid the clues behind too many years. Harnesses, bits, bridles and Grandpa’s saddle remained in the same places since the day he died in 1954. By the time my curiosity peeked their dry rot caused them to disintegrate in my hands. The harnesses that had once been used to plow cot- ton and corn fields could not be put together. There were pieces that I didn’t know missing. The days of following behind a mule, hitching up wagons, and living simply with an axe and a wood stove were gone. The only thing left was the Texas heat, quiet pastures, and rusting iron shoes in the gravel and sandy pens. It seems there were always pieces to secret puzzles either missing or just beyond grasp.
One of the more pointed and disappointing telltale signs was seeing Grandpa’s saddle abandoned on a stall fence. I took it down hoping to oil it and salvage memories. It had a 14-inch seat, narrow bars, a high cantle with wide swells, and the horn was wobbling loose and broken. But, when taken off the fence it crumbled. Even the tree was broken and relegated to mud dauber dust. My question was, “How badly must you hate someone to let that happen to their saddle?”
After high school, the horses accumulated fast. The closest location to learn was at the local quarter horse track. The secrets from Shaw’s Bend were not much use here. Fear was not an option. The adults in the room were hard characters. My complete ignorance of human drug use saved my grace. At other times it just made me appear dumb. No matter, the backside of the track environment propagated a total of every manner of excessive behavior. It was an atmosphere filled with adrenalin, blood, and sweat. Children raised in this county tended to die young or grow up knowing how to fight.
The notion crossed my mind that horses bred to race weren’t necessarily the smartest critters in the barn. A rider is often akin to a kamikaze juggernaut trying to steer one of these cayuses in a straight line. However, it does enhance the phone lines/ reins that connect the pilot to the ol’ pony’s think tank. Over the course of time, an astute horseman discerns whether they’re battling an errant teenager, doing lesson plans with a Special Ed student, discussing blueprints with a partner, or on the greatest occasion – astride an animal smarter than the driver. Whatever the case, a person learns to be friends with the jackass to which they’re harnessed.
Riding broncs at the rodeo was one of the next avenues for education. It didn’t provide much training information, but it was another way to eliminate fear. By using the bucking chutes and being in a controlled arena, a person learned to ride the buckers. It was also too much fun and was another macho way of separating the men from the boys from the wannabes. But remember humility. Getting dumped on one’s noggin is always a possibility. Sometimes pain is a good reminder that we’re alive, and then there are the learned muscle memory responses to riding broncs that define me.
The most intriguing horse tales came from the cowboys in the mountain regions. My favorite was about the young men who went alone trailing 500 head of yearlings into the high country valleys for the summer.
They also drove a squad of five or more unbroke ponies. During the spring and summer nurse- maiding the steers was the first priority. Number two on the list was breaking their string of colts. The most controlling feature towards their horse breaking would be a snubbing post and maybe a makeshift corral.
They lived in a small cabin or tent, may have had a dog for company, but spent the rest of their time surviving cutting firewood, hauling water, and cooking their own meals. It was a bachelor camp many miles and several day’s ride from the next person or town. When the elk bugled and the leaves turned they’d bring their fat cattle down from the mountains; and they’d be riding a remuda of well-started horses.
Those days are also gone. The closest that I could re-embark such exploits was to ride the criminals nobody else wanted while guiding flatland hunters in the wilderness. Thirty years of wilderness guiding, thirty years of rodeo, sixty-six years a cowboy… You’d think I could remember more bronc-riding tales.
Another aspect that presented itself was writing about horse training. But, I decided that was a losing proposition. Pretending to be a horse whisperer never intrigued me. Approaching Western Horseman, or any such rag, disguised as a trainer seemed dishonest.
I couldn’t relate to the guys selling horse training seminars any better than they could throw a mule down to shoe it; or pack it when it got back up. One of our “whispering” buddies in Austin even put a disclaimer against his cowboy buddies bringing “problem” horses to his seminars.
My interests did not include arena events beyond rodeo. Nevertheless, there was always an appreciation for good reining and cutting horses.
There was also the need to know about such practices that could further enhance the phone line/reins, and to know that my spurs are meant for turning breaks rather than gas pedals.
But to me, there was always the question whether we were schooling horses for practical use, or, whether spinning a hole in the ground was a circus act.
Just like life – is it real or a trained circus act performed in the name of civilized society? The secrets in the horse lot tried to tell me.
Historical perspectives are revealed to folks straining to listen. The secrets come into focus as we get older.
Now, we must own them and teach.
