Some Horse Stories from my Dad

Not too long ago, I spent some time with my parents at their home in Arizona. While I was there, Dad and I had a chance to sit and reminisce about some of our rides, pack trips, and other experiences together. I got him talking about his boyhood in southern Utah and he told me about his first three horses. As soon as I got back to my room that night, I spent a few minutes writing down in my journal what he told me. I thought it might be enjoyable reading for my followers.

Dad was born and raised in Panguitch, Utah, which is the setting for the stories I am about to relate. This is taken directly from my journal entry for December 2, 2021:

This evening Dad and I sat up late talking about family history and some of his youth experiences. He told me about three horses he had as a young boy: Nick, Brownie, and Flicka. Dad has always loved horses. So have I.

When Dad was about 6 years old, or thereabouts, he and his buddy, Doug Davis, were playing in the hay loft of his Aunt Pearl’s barn (Panguitch, UT, circa 1940). They noticed an old gray horse had walked into the yard and was snatching hay from the cracks between the siding boards of the barn. He and Doug decided to catch the horse, so they went down to give it a try, thinking the horse would run away. The old horse just wanted to be fed, so they fed it. Eventually, Dad got a rope around the horse’s neck and tied it to a post. He ran across the road, to his grandpa’s house (Norm Sargent), where Dad and his family were living at the time. He told Gramp he had caught a horse and asked if he could keep it.

Gramp said, “Well, let’s go see it,” so the two of them returned to the barn yard where the horse was tied. Gramp took a long look at the horse, checking its teeth, hooves, and walking all around it. Then he told Dad, “Yes, you can keep him. I used to own this horse and he’s come home. His name is Nick.”

Dad kept Nick at Gramp and Granny’s place. He has an old photo somewhere (I’ve asked him to try to find it) of him and five other kids sitting on Nick’s back. Dad and his friends often took turns riding Nick around their block. Once, Dad and a friend were riding Nick down Main Street in Panguitch, when an older boy, who was always somewhat of a bully, stepped out of his doorway and shot a rifle at them. At the time, Dad thought it was a B-B gun, but in retrospect, he now believes it was a .22 rifle, probably loaded with .22 short ammunition, which was commonly used for killing rats. Nick jumped and tried to run away with them, but Dad was able to get him back under control and got home safely. Dad doesn’t remember seeing a wound on the horse, but he walked with a limp on a hind leg ever after.

After that incident, with Nick going lame, Gramp told Dad he had better just let the horse go and return to whoever owned it. So, that’s what they did. Years later, Dad remembers, he saw old Nick working on a local farm, pulling logs and brush for a man. He was still limping on that hind leg.

Dad’s second horse was Brownie.

One day Gramp was in another town working, when a rancher drove his cattle into town to market. He was riding a mare with a colt. He didn’t want to keep the colt, so he asked Gramp if he wanted it. Gramp, thinking about Dad, accepted the colt. He loaded it into the back seat of his 1937 Dodge and drove home to Panguitch. When he arrived, Gramp pulled Dad aside and told him, “Come see what I have for you!”

Dad raised Brownie by himself, with a little help from Gramps. He eventually broke her to ride – again, by himself at about seven or eight years of age. Being a mustang, Brownie was always ornery and hard to handle (of course, that’s from the perspective of a seven or eight year old boy), but Dad loved her.

One winter (winters in Panguitch are long and cold) his dad (my grandfather, Torild Henrie), approached Dad and explained that they just couldn’t afford to feed Brownie through the winter. She was sold to a local rancher.

During June the following year, his dad was killed in a construction accident. Dad had just turned 9 years old at the time.

Not too long after, the rancher to whom Brownie had been sold, approached Gramps and said, “Remember that mare you sold me? Well, she had a foal.” He offered the foal to Gramp, which he accepted on Dad’s behalf.

Dad went out to the fellow’s ranch, on foot I suppose, where he easily caught Brownie, who knew Dad well. He mounted Brownie and rode her back to Gramp and Granny’s place, with the young foal following. When he got there, he rode into the barn, then locked the foal inside. He then returned Brownie to her owner.

The foal was around six months old, so easily weaned. Dad said he had a tough time getting her to become friendly with him, but eventually succeeded. The 1943 movie “My Friend Flicka” had recently been released, so that is where this little filly got her name.

Dad, now at about nine or ten years old, broke and trained Flicka himself. Not knowing any better, however, he started her very young, riding her probably by the time she was a yearling. Dad believes that his riding her so early, even though he was such a small boy, may have stunted her growth a little. He remembers that she was a small horse and that her front legs seemed a bit short proportionate to her hind legs. He remembers that while she was a good horse, she was never particularly athletic.

Eventually, Flicka was sold to a local rancher, who used her to help him make the rounds on his irrigation ditches.

Dad said he had horses all through his youth and even dated on horses during his high school years. Nick, Brownie, and Flicka were his first three and they kindled in him a life-long love for horses, which I am pleased to report he passed on to me in full force.

Thanks, Dad.