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.