Why Does My Horse Bloat When I Saddle Her?

I just read a short blurb on an article published by Equus Magazine about horses bloating (or not) when the saddle is cinched up. It made the point to say that horses do not “bloat” by holding their breath, but distend their abdomen by tightening their abdominal muscles as a reaction to expected discomfort when being cinched up. Regardless of the way they do it, many horses have learned that if they will distend their abdomen when they are initially cinched up, they can then relax and the cinch will be loose and more comfortable. The article inspired several comments on facebook regarding the process of cinching up a saddle, some of which touched off thoughts in my little noggin about not only the process of cinching up a saddle, but also the effects of over-tightening a cinch and why that occurs so frequently.

Several of the facebook comments indicated disgust at the way some people will kick or knee the horse in the stomach to punish them for bloating. Many of these same people indicated that they cinch up extra tight, because when they get into the saddle their weight will compress the saddle pad and make the cinch loose. Both methods, in my mind, are equally abusive to the horse, and both just as unreasonable at treating the problem of bloating (no matter how the horse does it).

I thought I might share a little of my experience as a trail rider and pack tripper, who rides long days, sometimes for days on end.

As humans, we tend to ascribe human feelings and emotions to our animals, often falsely thinking we are helping them, when in fact we are doing the opposite. In this vein, I often see inexperienced horse people buying saddle pads they think would make a good, comfortable pillow if they were to lay on it. These same people often purchase expensive gear, such as neoprene cinches and pads, which they believe help the horse to be more comfortable under saddle.

Cushy, fluffy saddle pad
Cushy, fluffy saddle pad

Soft and fluffy saddle pads, regardless of their color, shape, or cost, are the poorest of saddle pads you can buy. They cause one to have to cinch a horse extra tight in order for the rider to mount without turning the saddle. Once the rider is in the saddle, these pads will “squish” down and, in fact, cause the cinch to be loose, which can become unsafe for the rider. The only way to compensate for this “squish” is to over-tighten the cinch while on the ground, because you can’t do anything about it after you are mounted. Many of these pads are made of materials that can bunch up and cause hard spots under the pad as they press down. They also tend to soak up and hold mosture against the horse, causing the horse to become hot as it sweats.

Wool felt saddle pad from nrsworld.com
Wool felt saddle pad from nrsworld.com

Most of us who ride for long hours will confirm that the best saddle pads are made of wool felt. Mohair is also an excellent material. Neither of these materials will “squish” down, so when you tighten the cinch before mounting, it doesn’t get loose after you’re in the saddle. Both wool felt and mohair will absorb moisture from the horse and pass it through, allowing the horse’s back to remain cooler on hot days. These materials don’t just soak up moisture, but they remain bulky when damp, allowing some air flow and heat transfer away from the horse. They do not pack down and deform, which protects your horse’s back from pressure points that can form from softer saddle pads. Back in the “old days” the U.S. Cavalry used a simple wool “saddle blanket”, which was folded in half for a double thickness, quite satisfactorily. I am aware of one pair of “Longriders” who are currently making their way across South America using simple wool blankets for saddle pads. Bulky, cushy, pillow-like saddle pads are simply, in my opinion, our effort to do for our horses what we think would make our backs feel better, if it were ourselves under saddle. You can read a short “test report” on the Five Star wool felt saddle pads Ben Masters and his crew from Unbranded used on their 3000 mile Mexico to Canada trip during 2013 here.

Mohair Cinches from Buckaroo Trading Company
Mohair Cinches from Buckaroo Trading Company

Mohair string cinches are preferred by most people who do a lot of riding and hard work from a horse’s back. A distant second are cotton string cinches, however they are more commonly used than mohair because of costs. Good mohair cinches are not cheap, whereas a good cotton string cinch can be had for under $50. Both materials are practically indestructible, can be washed, and will last for a very long time. I have seen mohair cinches that appeared to be contemporary with the century-old saddles they were attached to. Many people are now opting for neoprene cinches or neoprene wraps for their cotton cinches. I have tried them and found that on the trail neoprene will rub a sore on a horse or mule faster than any other material. In fact, the only cinch material I have ever used that caused serious cinch sores on a pack trip is neoprene. Due to my personal experience with it, I will not use neoprene in contact with my horses for any purpose. Neoprene makes great wet suits for scuba diving, and comfortable waders for fishing, but lousy cinches and saddle pads.

Now, I know there are endurance riders, show riders, and others, who will argue with me about neoprene and cushy pads. That’s fine. I’m just stating what I have learned from my own experience. They may work just fine for what you do, but I wouldn’t recommend them for any of the trails I ride.

Mohair cinches from Buckaroo Trading Company
Mohair cinches from Buckaroo Trading Company

Most of the facebook commenters to the above-mentioned article said something about how they cinch up in stages. First, they cinch up tight, then they do something else for a few minutes to let the horse relax, then they cinch up tight again before mounting. Many even said they cinch up a third time before they step into the saddle.

While cinching in stages is pretty much the standard method, I often see people over-tightening the cinch. I see them getting the cinch as tight as they can on the first try, because they are expecting the horse to bloat and know it will get loose when the horse relaxes. This is precisely why the horse bloats: It knows the rider is going to cinch it up tight and so he tightens his abdominal muscles (or holds his breath, whichever the case may be) in anticipation of the discomfort. So the rider who over-tightens the cinch right off the bat is unwittingly causing, or at least reinforcing, the bloating problem in the first place.

Here’s what I do, and it doesn’t matter at all whether the horse bloats or not. After brushing the horse and properly placing the saddle pad and saddle in place, I will check the cinch to make sure there are no burrs, knots, or stiff places that might make the horse uncomfortable. I then pull the latigo down through the cinch ring, then back through the saddle rigging, then pull it down again through the cinch ring, such that I have one complete loop through both rings. While doing this, I let the cinch remain loose, not touching the underbelly until I am ready to cinch up. Once I’m at this point, I will cinch the saddle snugly, but not tight. I just let the latigo hang at this point. In this way, I ensure that if the horse were to react violently to the cinch, as some horses will do occasionally, the saddle will likely stay in place and once the horse settles down, I simply continue with the process, whereas if one pulls the cinch up snug before having the latigo a full loop through the rigging and the horse reacts, the saddle will come off, possibly be damaged, and the horse learns a bad habit to get rid of a saddle.

Next, with the cinch snug and the end of the latigo hanging loose, I will bridle the horse, check hooves, apply fly wipe, and anything else that needs to be done before I mount. The, the last thing before I mount, I will go back to the cinch, and pull the latigo up snug again, then tie it off (or buckle it, depending on the rigging). I pull the remaining latigo up and through a keeper, to keep it safely out of the way. Resist the urge to thread the latigo back through the rigging multiple times to use up the remaining latigo. Thread the remaining strap through a keeper, or even through the rear cinch rigging ring, to keep it out of the way. Running it three or four times through the cinch rigging will make a lump against the horse’s side, right under your knee, and will be uncomfortable for the both of you. Ok, now I am ready to mount.

Notice I said I pull the latigo “snug”. Because I have a saddle that fits the horse well, and a saddle pad that doesn’t “squish”, I don’t need a tight cinch. In fact, there have been times on long trails where the cinch was hardly even snug on my horse. It simply isn’t necessary.  I use a 3/4″ wool felt saddle pad and a medium width cotton string cinch for most of my riding. There is no “squish” in the pad and when I snug the cinch up, it stays snug even after I mount. That is not to say that there isn’t some settling between the saddle, pad, and horse, just that I don’t have to over-tighten the cinch to compensate for a squishy, comfy, pillow-like saddle pad. Therefore, my horse is comfortable throughout the process.

One last comment I will make here, regarding cinch tightening, is about the “block and tackle” effect the rigging has on multiplying one’s strength. Many people over-tighten cinches for two reasons: Firstly, some people tend to be more of the worrying sort than others, just a natural thing, so they prefer a very tight cinch; Secondly, people sometimes over-compensate, because of their perception of their own physical weakness, when applying their strength to cinching a saddle. The configuration of the latigo being looped multiple times (usually twice) through the rigging and cinch rings, acts just like a block-and-tackle for multiplying strength.

Block and Tackle
Block and Tackle

Back before power lifts and winches, a block-and-tackle, was the normal rig for lifting loads weighing more than a man can lift. It consists of a line fed through a pulley block, hanging from a beam, and back through a tackle pulley attached to the load. The more times the rope is fed through, the more times the strength of the one pulling the end of the line is multiplied. Some block and tackle rigs are made up of pulleys with multiple sheaves, so that the rope can be fed through several times. With such a rig, one man can lift many times the weight he could lift with his strength alone. The same concept applies to the latigo fed twice through the saddle rigging. The multiplying effect, along with the holding power of the latigo working against itself, can allow even a small person to exert sufficient pressure on the horse to make the horse very uncomfortable, and far in excess of what is necessary to safely hold the saddle in place.

In short, if you use a good saddle pad and your saddle fits your horse correctly, you really don’t need to “screw that saddle down tight,” as the old cowboys used to say. It will stay where it should be and will keep you on top of the horse, where you should be. For trail and pleasure riding, prior to mounting you should be able to slide your hand under the cinch, just below the cinch ring, and easily pull it away from the horse’s side about an inch. Of course, for performance work, you may need it a bit more snug.

Here’s a link to a short video I made a while back about saddling a horse. Please forgive the less-than-professional script; it was an impromptu video, but I think it includes the essential information that a beginner should know to safely saddle a horse.

 

And now the Non-fiction Version…

So many people enjoyed the fictional story my son wrote about a horse pack trip he, my father, and I took back in 2001, that I thought I’d write up the non-fictional story of what really happened on that ill-fated trip. Sadly, I don’t have any photos of that trip.

What got the whole thing started was a trip I took with the youth from my church way back when I was 16 years old. We were hosted by the Wit’s End Ranch at Vallecito Reservoir, near Durango, Colorado. Their wranglers packed us in to Emerald Lake, in the Weminuche Wilderness Area, on horses, left us for five days, then packed us out. It was a great memory and one I simply could not shake. Many years later I found myself living within an hour’s drive of the trail head. Naturally, I began making plans to head back to Emerald Lake on horseback, and I wanted my father to go with me. Dad, then age 67, and I, age 42, had spent some of our best memories on horses, and I wanted him to take this ride with me. Knowing my oldest son’s love for fly fishing, I invited him along as well. Despite his healthy dislike for horses, and their apparent reciprocation of those feelings, Nate couldn’t resist the chance at casting a line into the crystal clear waters of Emerald Lake.

Me on Max, 2002
Me on Max, 2002

At the time, I owned one  horse, a mustang named Max. Max was about 14 hands tall, stocky and uncommonly strong. He could carry me and all the gear I could pack on him all day long for days on end. I borrowed another mustang from a friend for my son. This one, named Roany, was around 20 years old, from what I was told, but he was tough and solid as a rock. Nothing in the world could rattle this little gelding. He stood about 13.2 hands and was only about 600 pounds or so, but he was a tough little horse to whom I could trust the well-being of my son.

Now for Dad’s horse. Dad brought his horse up from Eagar, AZ in a stock trailer, about a four-hour drive. Dad’s horse was a registered Quarter Horse, out of a mare we used to have. That mare had carried me through some of the roughest country I’ve ever traveled, and her son, Royal, had proved to be a good trail horse as well. The problem was that Dad hadn’t used Royal for a trip in several years. He was now 17 years old and had spent the past several years at pasture. He was fat and sassy and out of condition. That proved to be the undoing of our trip.

The pack horse I had been trying to borrow fell through at the last minute, so rather than scrap the trip, we decided to cut down our supplies and pack everything behind the saddle and in saddle bags. We figured we could cut down on our food supply, counting on fishing to supplement our dehydrated meals. We bought a pump filter for water and carried simple aluminum mess kits for cooking utensils. With our sleeping bags and ground sheets tightly wrapped we were able to make room for our pack fishing rods, waders, and minimal tackle. We were optimistic and looking forward to fly fishing and dining on fresh trout.

I tried right up to the last minute to borrow a pack horse, but was unsuccessful. We ended up packing up and leaving Farmington late, and arriving at the trailhead near Vallecito Reservoir around 3:00 pm. We unloaded and packed up the horses. It was past 4:00 by the time we headed out.

Grandpa Henrie, 2012, age 78
Grandpa Henrie, 2012, age 78

Our first hint of a problem was when Dad’s gelding balked when Dad mounted. He really didn’t like all that stuff loaded on his backside. After a bit of correctional instruction, Royal headed out in the right direction. About 200 yards down the trial, however, Royal simply exploded! Round and round he went, finally falling over backwards, pinning my dad’s leg against the ground and getting his own back legs tangled in the lower strands of a loose barbed-wire fence. While Dad tried to get his leg out from under the floundering horse, I leaped off my horse and dove on Royal’s neck and head to keep him from getting up before Dad could get loose, and to keep him from getting more tangled in the barbed-wire.

Royal continued struggling for a few seconds, during which my forehead came into sharp contact with a conveniently located rock several times. So here we are, Dad stuck under a struggling horse, who is stuck in a barbed-wire fence, with me on top of his head, banging my head against a rock, and blood streaming down my face. I can only imagine what Nathan must have been thinking about his choice to come on this trip in the first place, as he sat there on good old Roany, just watching the show.

We eventually got both Dad and Royal back on their feet. Dad had a badly bruised leg, but nothing was broken. He must have been hurting more than he let on, but he insisted he was ok. Royal had a couple minor wire cuts on his hind legs, but nothing that required attention under the circumstances, so we mounted up again and headed on up the trail. A few short yards down the trail, Royal again began to act up, so Dad dismounted and walked for a while, which kept his leg loosened up. We finally decided to mount Dad on Max while I walked and lead Royal.

By now it was getting on to evening, so we started looking for a camp site. A little before dark we found a nice little camp area down about 30 feet or so lower than the trail, right next to Pine River. It was a beautiful spot. There was a steep trail down from the main trail to the camp, but it was no problem for the horses. Having carried little feed with us, planning to let the horses graze, we turned them out on what grass there was in the small area, which wasn’t much. Three tired horses and three sore and tired men settled down for a dry camp. We spread the ground sheets and sleeping bags, then sat down and had cold pork and beans right from the can for dinner. After dinner we gazed at the stars, talked a little, and finally slept.

I remember that one of my last thoughts before I fell asleep that night, was a feeling of foreboding, sort of a warning from the Lord that this trip was not going to be an easy one. I often wonder how things might have been different if I had just called the whole trip off at that point and headed home the next morning. Maybe it was just a warning that we needed to be careful. Regardless, it was a powerful feeling and one to which I have since learned to give more heed.

We arose the next morning to a glorious day. It was simply beautiful. There we were, in the mountains with our horses, waking up to the sound of Pine River chuckling along next to our beds. What could be better? We ate a quick breakfast of instant oat meal or something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very memorable. Shortly thereafter we were packed and ready to head out.

We sent Nate up the trail on Roany first. Like I said, it was a steep trail 30 feet or so up to the main trail. After Nate, I went on up. No problems so far. Then Dad mounted Royal and started up the trail. Just before reaching the main trail, Royal stopped and froze in place. We knew what was coming next. Just like before, he simply exploded! Over backward he went, tumbling head over heels down the hillside strewn with granite boulders and fallen trees. The last I saw of my father were his eyes, wide open, looking at me, as he disappeared beneath the horse. I watched in horror as Royal tumbled, rolled, and tumbled some more, down and down, until he came to rest at the bottom where we had camped the night before.

I jumped out of the saddle and threw the lead rope to Nathan, who was off his horse and looking down in disbelief at where Dad had disappeared. I told Nate to hold my horse because I figured if Dad was alive, he would be hurt badly and would need help. I figured I would have Nate go for help. I stumbled and ran down the slope and found Dad unconscious on the downhill side of a huge log. It was apparent the log had saved him from being crushed by the horse. As Royal had gone over backwards, Dad had landed next to the log, which had taken most of the weight of the horse. The horse had passed on over Dad and tumbled on down the hill.

Dad started coming to his senses as I got to him. I told him to just lie still until I could determine whether he had any broken bones. To my indescribable relief, as incredible as it seemed, Dad appeared to be uninjured, other than being shaken up and bruised a bit. Royal, as well, had escaped serious injury, and was standing, shaking, at the bottom of the hill. I was able to get Dad up to the main trail with some help from Nate, after which I went down and led Royal up the trail to where Nate, Dad, and the other two horses were waiting.

I tied Royal to a tree next to the trail and began to get his packs re-secured to the saddle. As I did so, Royal again blew up, jumping forward against the lead rope, which pulled him back toward the tree, he spun around, knocking Dad to the ground with his rump, then leaped forward again, off the trail, down the hillside on top of a jumble of granite boulders, where he came to rest with his neck outstretched against the lead rope. After quickly checking Dad, I jerked loose the lead rope from the tree, releasing the pressure on Royal. Royal, afraid to move, laid there in an awkward position on a pile of boulders below the lip of the trail. I descended to him and began stripping the gear off him. As soon as I released the cinch, Royal bolted up the hillside, clambering through the granite rocks. He reached the lip of the trail, terrified out of his mind, just as Dad stood up at the edge of the trail to see if he could help. Royal hit Dad full tilt with his chest, as he scrambled up onto the trail, knocking Dad off his feet and into the bank on the opposite side of the trail, as Royal tromped all around him.

Again, unbelievably, neither Royal nor Dad was seriously injured, although I could see with one eye that both were hurting. I got to the trail, left Royal to stand where he was, and helped Dad to a sitting position on the side of the trail. We just sat there for a few minutes while we considered our bad fortune at the wrecks and equally good fortune that both man and horse were still in one piece. I remember looking at the place where Royal had fallen and wondering how it was that he escaped without a broken leg among all those huge boulders.

At this point, I decided the feeling I had experienced the night before was a warning to turn back before someone got killed. I told Dad I was ready to turn back if he wanted to. Nate was more than willing to head home. Dad, however, worried that he might ruin a great experience for Nathan and me, said he would rather continue on. He promised that if anything else happened, or if he began to feel he was more injured than he thought, that we would turn around and head for the trailer.

Rather than be absolutely stupid and try to ride Royal again, I put Dad on Max and moved my pack to Royal’s saddle along with Dad’s packs, and I walked, leading Royal. Good old Roany never batted an eye at all that happened, for which I was grateful. At least I didn’t have to worry about Nate.

I walked the next seven miles or so from about 6,000 feet elevation, to Emerald Lake at about 11,000 feet. It was quite a hike, but at least I wasn’t carrying a back pack. We took several breaks en route, where we let the horses graze and fill their bellies. Dad was getting sore, but the movement of the horse seemed to keep his bruised muscles from stiffening up and was a relief to him.

At one point we came to a narrow wooden bridge, that was quite elevated above a roaring tributary of the Pine River. Being early summer, the spring runoff was still in full swing and the water was running high and loud. Neither Max nor Royal wanted anything to do with crossing that bridge. Luckily, we had Roany along. Roany hardly even noticed the roaring torrent of water, as he calmly walked across the river.  Upon seeing Roany cross the bridge, Max decided he could do it as well. Royal, however, having been left ground-tied while I got the other horses across, decided the trailer was where he wanted to be, so he turned around and headed back down the trail with me in hot pursuit.

One thing I have learned, that has saved my bacon several times on pack trips, is to ride with a halter under the bridle, with a loooong lead attached. I keep the lead coiled over the horn while riding. I had been leading Royal by the lead rope and had his bridle hanging over the horn. When he walked off, the long lead trailed behind, causing him to step on it several times, thus slowing his progress. After about 50 yards of chase, I was able to get close enough to grab the end of the lead. With the other two horses waiting on the other side of the bridge, I was able to coax Royal across,

We arrived at Emerald Lake late in the afternoon. We were tired. We picked out a camp site were we could dump our packs and relieve the horses a little, while we looked around for a place to graze the horses and maybe find a better campsite. After unloading the horses we mounted and rode down to the lake. There were signs indicating no camping within 1/4 mile of the lake and that grazing horses was prohibited, except at a place at the other end of the lake. We decided that under the circumstances, if we could find a patch of grass, we would graze the horses regardless, and set up camp were we had dumped the gear, outside the 1/4 mile radius from the lake. Dad decided he would try Royal one more time, since he had carried a light load and been walked all day long.

Dad mounted and Royal was the perfect gentleman as we made our way down to the shores of the lake. The trails had been changed since I had been there many years earlier, so we could not get to the place I remembered, where there was grass and a very nice campsite. We dismounted and tried to find a way through, but the Forest Service had very effectively blocked all the old trails and there was no way for us to pass through. We headed back to the horses and I mounted. I looked over as Dad mounted Royal and saw that Royal had tossed his head and had flipped his bit upside down in his mouth.  As dad mounted and gathered the reins, Royal began to back and act up, due to the bit problem. Dad, however, was not waiting around for Royal to explode again, and he left the saddle in a long dive as Royal spun around. Dad landed flat on his back on a rock about the size of a football. I don’t know how he did it, but he sat up, hung his head for a minute, and simply said, “Tony, I don’t think I can take another fall like that.”

“Dad”, I said, “We’ll head back up the hill, make a dry camp, and head down the mountain tomorrow morning. I put Dad back on Max and I walked Royal back to camp.

Once back where we had dumped our gear, we simply laid out our sleeping bags and laid Dad down to rest. I gave him a handful of Ibuprofen from my first-aid kit for the pain and to keep swelling down. Nate got a fire going while I went to the lake for water. We cooked a dehydrated meal and settled in for the evening. I can remember how surprisingly good that dehydrated meal tasted. The horses were restless at not having feed for the night, but they were tired as well and eventually settled down. We spent the evening talking and enjoying each other’s company, as we talked about our disappointment at the problems of the trip and not being able to spend our three days fishing, as we had planned.

Nate on Rufus, 2009
Nate on Rufus, 2009

The next morning we packed up and headed down the mountain, Dad on Max, Nate on Roany, and me on foot, leading Royal. About half way down the mountain, we came upon a lush green pasture, where we unpacked the horses, loosened the cinchas, and let them graze until they were filled. We napped and rested while they grazed.

We made our way down the mountain by early afternoon and were back home by nightfall.

Back at home, Dad went to clean up. Shortly thereafter he called me into the room. What he showed me scared me to death. He was bruised literally from above his waist to just above his knees. His lower back, rump, and back of his legs were solid black where he had bled internally and the blood had gathered under the skin. No doubt he had suffered some sort of internal injury, as this was not normal bruising. There was no talking him into going to the hospital. He figured that he had survived this long, so what was done was done and wouldn’t get any worse. Had I known he was hurt that bad, or had I seen the bruising while we were on the mountain, I would have cut the trip short long before and gone for help.

Yes, my dad is one tough old cowboy.

The Three Amigos
The Three Amigos

P.S.

Just for information, I later did some research to figure out just what happened on that trip to Royal. I learned about a malady which is becoming more and more common among Quarter Horses and is also showing up in other breeds. It is called Equine Hyperkalaemic Periodic Paralysis. It is a genetic malady which causes a horse to “bind-up” and become momentarily paralyzed. According to some studies, the disease is currently manifesting in as many as one-in-twenty five Quarter Horses, particularly those descended from a stallion named Impressive. Once a rare disorder, it is becoming more common in recent years. I have concluded this is what happened to Royal. His dam experienced this same problem later on in her life, after having been the best trail horse I have ever ridden. In my experience, I believe it is similar to when an athlete suffers a charley horse. Muscles knot up, causing the horse to “bind-up” or freeze, and the pain increases until the horse simply explodes to try to escape it. After this experience, I tried to “fix” Royal through exercise and training, but was unsuccessful. Eventually it simply became too dangerous to ride him. After a bit of riding, he would suddenly, without any warning, freeze up, then explode, rearing over onto his back every time. He got worse as time went on and I had several narrow escapes. After a friend of mine was killed by a horse rearing over backwards on him, I decided to have Royal put down. There was no sense in continuing to cause him pain and putting peoples’ lives at risk. We had a lot of good trips with Royal. It was sad that our last ride with him turned out to be such a disaster.

Sadly enough, as well, we failed to take even one photograph on this trip. The photos you see with this post are from subsequent trips we have taken.

TH

A Real Cowboy

I was browsing through some old files, just cleaning up my computer a bit, when I came across a story my oldest son, Nathan, wrote for a school assignment in high school. The story was based on a true experience, or better said, ordeal, Nate passed through on a horse pack trip with his grandpa and me in the Weminuche Wilderness Area in southern Colorado in 2001, I think it was.

No, no horses were shot, but I have to admit there were thoughts about it. I’ll have to tell the true story on another post. It was quite the trip.

By the way, Nate’s a doctor now.

Enjoy.

Student # 8
Eng. 111
21 October 2002
A Real Cowboy

Cowboys have been much publicized characters throughout American history.  Generally, they are portrayed as rough, tough, down-and-dirty guys on the silver screen.  Usually they’re ill-mannered yet still chivalrous, slow of wit albeit quick to the revolver, and always scrambling onto their horse once more than it has thrown them off.  John Wayne is the perfect example.  Cowboys are rugged, worn-down, ready for a fight, and anything that comes their way can be handled by either their fist or their pistol.

My grandpa is a cowboy.  His father was killed when he was young, so he grew up as the man of the house.  He’s farmed, he’s roped, he’s rode, he’s hunted… he’s done it all.  If there ever was a real cowboy, it’d be him.  He grew up teaching manners to rank, unbroken horses, and the smile never left his face.  I’ve heard stories of him going out on the town looking for fist-fights just to pass the time.  Grandpa is tough.

Dad is a cowboy.  As a career, he’s FBI.  Given a choice though, he’d be baling hay in an instant.  Growing up, he did the work on my grandpa’s farm.  He loved every minute of it.  He has a special whistle he does that is like the call of mother nature herself… he can call horses, dogs, cats, and even children with this whistle.  Familiar or not, they all come running.  He’s been camping alone outdoors more times than I’ll ever sleep outside at all.  He owns three horses and rides them every chance he gets.  I’d bet that if he woke up in the wilderness one day with nothing but a Swiss army knife and five hundred miles to civilization, he would make it back  without mishap.  If someone gave him a horse as well, he’d probably choose to never return!  And talk about being a tough-guy… just last year he fought two guys at once because of a traffic violation.  Every day he’s got a new smashed thumb, twisted ankle, or half-severed finger, and he never once complains.  Dad is tough.

Now me, I’m on the opposite end of the spectrum with this whole cowboy deal.  I’d much rather discuss than “duke it out.”  I enjoy firearms, but my idea of a shoot-out is watching “The Matrix” on DVD, and I’d take a fully-automatic H&K MP-5 submachine-gun over any revolver or bolt action rifle.  Camping is a lot of fun and all, but the best part is always coming home and showering to get rid of that putrid smell.  Hay makes me itch and alfalfa gives me asthma attacks.  But the worst part of the whole ordeal is the horses.  Horses are big, dumb animals that make good glue.  Sure, they’re faster than walking and are more versatile than a covered wagon, but they can never compare to my Jeep that will do 60 miles per hour and carry a hundred times the equipment.

I suppose the true reason for my extremist opinion is that I’ve been bit, stepped on, kicked, clothes-lined off, and bucked off of horses.  In fact, the last time I’d been around a horse, I had mounted up to ride while my dad led the horse around with a lead rope, so  he could “keep control.”  As fate would have it, the horse soon tried to run off with me, slipped in a puddle of mud, and fell on its left side.  All four hoofs were  still in the air, and my left foot was under the horse’s left side.  (My dad of course bought the horse the next day).  I, on the other hand, had six weeks to relive the encounter while five decimated bones healed.  The darn things just don’t seem to like me a bit.  This is why I was so surprised with my dad’s question.

“So, son… your grandpa and I were thinking it might be neat for the three of us to go on a horse trip up in Colorado.  It’d be kinda a three generation thing…”  I couldn’t believe that my dad would have the nerve, the gall, the audacity to ask such a ridiculous question!  Do I want to go on a horse trip?  Of course I don’t!  What a terrible idea!  Is he trying to get me killed?  I’d rather go skydiving without a parachute!

“…and we’ll arrive at Emerald Lake.  I’ve heard it has great fishing.”

There it was.  There was the catch.  My father, being the cunning man he is, had introduced a new element into the equation.  One he knew I couldn’t resist.  Fly-fishing was the greatest thing in the world to me.  I loved it, and my dad knew it.  That’s how I came to agree to go on the stupid horse trip at all.  At the time, I knew it’d all be worth it once I reeled in my first rainbow trout of the day.

So there I was, sitting on a nice, small, 25 five year old horse (which I suppose is ancient in horse years) with no mischief to give me.  My father had saddled my horse, named Ronie, up for me and was now saddling his up, the intimidating foot-breaker of my past.  His name was Max.  My grandfather was on Royal, a bad-tempered, ornery steed.  After getting suited up and used to my new elevation atop the animal, we embarked on our journey and left behind the world of comfort I was used to.

Sure enough, not 100 yards from mounting the horses, Royal started to give Grandpa a bit of trouble.  The horse froze up, twirled in a circle a few times, then fell toward a barbed wire fence, taking my grandpa down with him.  Somehow, my grandpa rolled away before being pummeled by the thrashing feet of the crazed horse.  My dad then decides to be a hero, so he “tackles” the horse to prevent it from becoming further entangled in barbed wire.  The killer horse proceeded to pound my dad’s head into a rock in all of the commotion.  Eventually, everything got settled down.  As usual, Dad was optimistic about the rest of the trip.  Grandpa, however, was mumbling something like, “That’s one.”  I didn’t know what he meant, so I didn’t concern myself with it.  Within a few minutes, though, the horse and both my father and grandfather were up on their feet and ready to go.  I was raring to go, too… to go home, that is.  Alas, we pushed onward.  Then came the rain.  The huge drops weren’t much of a problem as we rode, the rain slickers took care of it rather well.  However, when it got too dark to ride, it did present a problem.  Everything was wet, so a fire was out of the question.  All in all, we ended up spending the night underneath a tree (to block the rain) in a sleeping bag surrounded by two tarps.  For dinner I ate cold beans, straight from the can, (and they were absolutely the best beans I’ve ever eaten.)

Arising the next day, sore and hungry, we set out to make good time.  The first obstacle we faced was a steep hill we had to climb to get out of the camping spot.  It was about 15 yards long and seemed almost straight up.  Strangely, to this day I still don’t recall going down that hill the previous night.  Regardless, I went up first and made it just fine.  I had the good old horse.  Following close behind me was my dad, who did fine as well.  Bringing up the rear was poor old Grandpa.  The tough old guy didn’t even see it coming… three quarters of the way up the hill, the horse went straight over backwards on top of him.  Seeing his father apparently crushed, my dad leapt from his saddle and flew to my grandpa’s aid.  Miraculously, Grandpa had landed immediately on the downhill side of a log, and the horse rolled over the log and left him merely shaken and bruised from the fall.  Then came the arduous task of getting Royal to come up the hill at all.  Grandpa pulled and tugged at the lead rope (from terra firma this time) until stubborn Royal finally crested the hill… and practically jumped on top of him.  I watched in horror as my grandpa, on hands and knees, dodged the pounding hoofs from above like a bad spoof from The Matrix.  With a mighty shove, my dad moved the stupid animal and I’m sure saved my grandpa’s skull.  Under his breath, I heard, “That’s two…” from Grandpa.

When the commotion had subsided, I again presented my idea to return from whence we came.  Again, my proposition was shot down by a grandfather who persisted that “the show must go on.”  I was then beginning to suspect a conspiracy between my father and grandfather… for some reason, I felt that they were pushing to stay just a little too hard to be for their own sakes; there could be no other reason, I could find, though… anyway, on with the story.

We once again headed up the trail, this time with Dad walking, leading royal by the halter, and Grandpa riding Max.  We had only a little longer.  We were almost to the lake…  I could taste the trout already.

Then came the switchbacks.  The two foot wide switchbacks made possible a nearly vertical ascent by crossing a steep hillside horizontally, several times, at a low grade angle.  I was absolutely positive that my horse would *snap* anytime and slip, tumbling off the edge and breaking me in half.  I just knew it… I even had my foot halfway out of the stirrups at times… but the fall never happened.  The horse never even twitched.  My horse was steady as a rock, and as long as the “rock” didn’t become a rolling stone, I was fine with it.

Then, we crested the ominous mountain, and there sat our destination, our goal… Emerald Lake.

That evening, after finding a place to camp, we decided to ride down to the waterfront and check out the view while we used our pump to purify some water.  Grandpa decided to take his chances with Royal one more time.  We were all fine until we arrived at the waterfront, when Royal decided to act up again.  This time, Grandpa wasn’t going to wait around to see what happens.  As soon as Royal started to fall, Grandpa leapt from Royal’s back in a stupendously acrobatic maneuver (for a 65 year old) and gracefully landed flat on his back, on a rock.  Ouch!

Grandpa got back up as quickly as he could, but it took him a minute.  He didn’t complain a bit.  Instead, he took a .38 Special revolver from his saddle-pack, put it to the horse’s head, and told it “That was three.”  Then, he pulled the trigger.

I couldn’t believe it!  I sat aghast for a moment, then I awkwardly dismounted as quickly as I

could.  I screamed, “Grandpa, I can’t believe you!  How could you?  The poor animal… I know I don’t like horses, but…”

Then my Grandpa gave me a look that I have never forgotten and said, “Nate, that’s one.”

Grandpa rode my horse for the trip back, and I walked.  Nevertheless, I didn’t complain once.

The Three Amigos
The Three Amigos