A post on the facebook group Talking Horse got me to thinking about my first mustang.

I had just moved to Farmington, New Mexico and was in a position, for the first time since high school, to be able to keep a horse, so I went shopping. I have always preferred to buy a horse that was in need of some training…mostly because they come cheaper…so I came across this five year-old mustang gelding owned by an old cowboy horse-trader. Beware of those types. I was told he was broke and trained, but it was obvious he was pretty green. I mounted him and rode him around a few minutes and found he was pretty jumpy and more than anxious to go anywhere and do anything I wanted, including jumping into a trailer. I wanted to take a look at how he moved from the ground, so I put my son, about 14 years old, on his back while I led him around a bit. The horse got to fidgeting, hit a bit of mud, slipped and landed on his side…on my son’s foot. Broke his foot in five places.

So I bought the horse.

Once I started working with him, I figured out pretty quick that the horse had been taken off the range at five years of age, castrated, cowboy broke, then sold to the first sucker who came along…me. This was the first and only horse I’ve ever been bucked off of more than once. He was about as green and rank as they come. It took a while for him and me to come to an understanding.

The first good thing that happened was that my young daughters immediately wanted to go out and see my new horse. Of course they had to invite their friends. I went by a tack shop before hand and purchased several brushes and curry combs, hoof pick, and other miscellaneous items I was going to need, in preparation for beginning my training with this horse. The first time I took all the girls out, I had them stand back while I haltered and tied him to a post. I messed with him a little until he calmed down, then I invited each of the girls to take a brush or curry comb and start brushing a different part of the horse. You have never seen a horse settle down so quickly. This became sort of a ritual whenever the girls came out to see him.

I named the horse Max. No reason behind it, the name just seemed to fit. He and I did a lot of training together. He wasn’t the first horse I had trained, but I was a little older and took it a little more seriously with this one.

I expected to keep this one and put a lot of miles on him over the years. I started studying various techniques and trying to implement various things I understood and liked from a number of trainers. Eventually, we came to an “understanding” and we began to enjoy some very nice rides. He became a horse I trusted to get me “there” and back again.

Max wasn’t big, being only about 14 hands tall, maybe a mite shorter, but he was quite stout and strong. He was mustang strong, had very sound hooves, and absolutely never, and I mean never, got hurt. Additionally, he was a very easy keeper. There was a year when the area was suffering from a heavy drought and there were too many horses on the pasture for the feed available. While the other horse owners were supplementing feed to keep weight on their horses, Old Max remained fat as a butter ball. Seemed he could eat about anything.

There were times when I didn’t have time to ride for months at a time, but I would go out to the pasture and check on him often. My three daughters loved to go out with me and he always came to us and stood to let them brush him. I would often put a halter on him and sit the girls on his back and walk him around the pasture. The girls loved him.

It was funny to me how the girls could get on Max and ride him around the pasture, but when my oldest son got on his back, it was another story. My son, the one with the broken foot, honestly tried to learn to ride and to like that horse, mostly to please me, I think, but it just wasn’t to be. He didn’t like that horse and Max didn’t like him. It was amazing to me how they clashed, but my younger daughters could ride him around with no problems.

Then came my transfer. I was transferred outside the country for several years. There was no way for me to keep him. I was about to start advertising to sell him, when I learned that the pasture owner’s daughter had been feeding him apples in the pasture and had become attached to him. They pleaded with me not to sell the horse. I gave him to  them and ended up selling them a saddle, bridle and all the tack they needed for $100. They gave the horse to their daughter for Christmas.

Several years later while taking my oldest daughter to college, we passed through Farmington on a visit. We took the opportunity to go out and visit Max. I told the girls that he hadn’t been ridden, or even messed with, since we left and that, in all likelihood, he wouldn’t even come up to us. They wanted to see him, nonetheless.

We drove out to the pasture and spotted the horses. We got out of the car and I let out a loud whistle. We saw Max’s head immediately come up and he left the herd and headed our way out of a 40-acre pasture. We had nothing to feed him, no halter, no brushes, but he came to us all the same. It was gratifying to know he remembered us. My two girls and I gathered around him and began to rub him with our hands while he sniffed and nuzzled.

Amy, then 16 years old, asked if she could sit on his back. I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea, because we didn’t have him haltered and I didn’t know what he would do. She insisted, so I relented, instructing her to jump off if he decided to take off or act up. He didn’t. He just stood there, seemingly enjoying our company. My younger daughter, Gina, then 9 years old, asked if she could get up behind Amy. I lifted her into place. Still no reaction from Max. He just looked at me expectantly. I started off walking out into the pasture and he followed at my elbow, just as if I were leading him, like we had done so many times years before. We walked around the pasture for more than half an hour like that, while I relived many good memories of the past.

That was the last time we saw Old Max. I expect he’s still there in that pasture, but he’d be around 25 years old now. I miss that old mustang. He holds a big place in the fabric of my life that tells the story of who I am.

Good memories.