Category Archives: Good Stories

Good stories about horses, dogs, and horse packing trips.

Good Stories, Great Western Trail, Tack and Gear, Western Trails

Day Four

To review a bit from my last entry about the first leg of our Mexico-to-Canada horse pack trip last year, we left off with the end of Day Three and Dad and I camped in Half Moon Valley, just outside the Chiricahua National Monument.

The XPG Ultralight measures 20"X72"
The XPG Ultralight measures 20″X72″

After a good night’s rest, the cloudy weather having cleared up, we arose early. That was the first night we had a chance to try out our Cabela’s XPG Ultralight Extreme Performance Gear air mattresses under actual pack trip conditions. I have to say, they performed quite well and gave us a decent night’s sleep throughout the trip.  Still, they aren’t “Grandma’s Feather Bed”.  As we were sleeping out under the stars most nights, the daylight would wake us pretty early and there just wasn’t much sense or enticement for laying in bed any longer.

As became our habit, we fed the horses first-thing, then Dad started breakfast. Our cooking was done on a propane single-burner Coleman pack stove. This proved to be perfect for our needs and will be what we take for the remainder of our adventure. It is a very simple device, compact, and almost indestructible. We would heat water, in an aluminum pot, dump in the ingredients, let simmer until fully hydrated, then put on water for drinks while we began to eat. Didn’t take long to have a meal ready, eaten, and done with.

We had quite the menu. We had purchased a box of dehydrated home food storage meals from Walmart. The food was all self-contained in #10 cans, purported to be about 75 meals, which we broke up into separate freezer bags, so as to be able to pack it more easily.  We added some instant oatmeal and a couple dehydrated meals we had left over from previous trips, and the meal package included a couple luxury items, such as freeze-dried beef and strawberries.  So, our meal choices appeared, at first blush, to be quite varied and ample. However, we went through the varied part pretty quickly and ended up with three main meals: dehydrated vegetable stew, creamed corn, and hash browns and powdered eggs…or any mixture of these items to try to break up the monotony a bit. Our lunches were generally a bit of beef jerky and a Cliff bar. By the time we finished the trip, we had each lost about 20 pounds and were starved for some real food.

Breakfast on this day consisted of powdered eggs and hash browns, with a little freeze-dried beef pieces tossed in, with some hot chocolate and/or hot apple cider to drink. It wasn’t bad for a camp breakfast.

Breaking camp on Day Four
Breaking camp on Day Four

While Dad did the cooking, I set out my solar panels to charge batteries, started gathering up our gear, and packing manties. As I detailed in another post, this was a tedious and work-intensive operation. Every morning we had to sort our gear into about eight different piles, four for the manties, and four for the paniers. The paniers proved to be much easier, because we could actually store most of the gear in the paniers, so stuff we used during camp time was generally placed back in the same panier after we were done with it, so packing the paniers was a matter of putting the last several items in them. However, with the manties, we used the tarps for ground sheets and bed covers, so every evening the manties were completely undone, had to be reconfigured for balance, and repacked every morning.

Once they were packed, we used a pack scale to make sure they were within a couple pounds of each other. If they weren’t, we would have to unpack two of them to reconfigure them to proper weight, then do it again. Even though I became pretty good at it during the trip, and got faster at it, it was never something I looked forward to. Besides being time and effort consuming, I found tying up the manties really wore on my bare hands. The first few days my hands ached at night to the point I had a hard time going to sleep. After a week I began to develop calluses and tougher skin and it didn’t bother me so bad.

Ranger, my 16-hand Missouri Fox Trotter
Ranger, my 16-hand Missouri Fox Trotter
JImbo, my "free" mustang.
JImbo, my “free” mustang.

At some point during the packing, I stopped for breakfast, then continued packing. By the time I got the manties ready, Dad had the paniers packed and we got the pack animals loaded, the packs tied on and covered, and got started saddling the saddle horses. On this day I rode my big Fox Trotter paint, Ranger. Dad rode our mustang, Jimbo. We got out of camp and on our way about 9:15am, which was about average for us.

Several miles up the trail, we came to a point at which the map showed that Half Moon Valley trail turned almost directly westerly for a couple miles, then back northeast to join with another trail that then ran northeast for a ways to join Texas Canyon Road. We could see by the GPS and USGS maps that we could also turn north up High Lonesome canyon and go cross-country for about 1.5-2 miles and join another trail that would take us to Texas Canyon road, saving us about 4-5 miles. At four miles per hour average speed, you can see the shorter route made sense. Turned out to be a rough couple of miles. At the end of this post are links to three videos I shot during that short bushwhacking session. They are long and unedited, but shows the country we went through.

During this trip there were several things that happened that I firmly believe were providential. Dad and I both got the feeling, starting right with our planning and preparations, that we had help from the “other side” on a number of occasions. We seemed to have at least one such occurrence everyday of the trip. Being religious ourselves, it was easy to believe that we had a few of our forefathers riding along with us, cheering and helping us along the way. It was almost as if the Good Lord was rooting for us, two of the least of his children, trying to connect to our pioneer past. On this particular day, two of those things happened.

Filling canteens in the creek at High Lonesome Canyon
Filling canteens in the creek at High Lonesome Canyon
Filling canteens with a pump filter
Filling canteens with a pump filter

As we arrived at the cutoff we had decided to take up High Lonesome canyon, we found a clear, running stream there and took the opportunity to fill our canteens. We used Dad’s pump filter, which is a pretty slow operation for four two-quart canteens. While we were pumping water, I allowed Ranger, my 16-hand paint Fox Trotter, who was my saddle horse for the day, to wander and graze, along with Honey the mule. The rest of the stock we tied. Ranger, being the wanderer he is, tried to cross under the neck and leadrope of Dad’s little gelding, who was a pack horse for the day. They got tangled up and began to struggle. The branch Little Black was tied to broke, spooking both horses, and off they went, galloping over the hills in the distance. I could see all sorts of stuff trailing along behind Ranger and I was already thinking of all my expensive gear in his saddle bags and on his saddle, including my new binocs, my GoPro camera, my solar panels, an axe, camp saw… I just shook my head. Luckily, our spooky mustang, Jimbo, was Dad’s saddle horse for the day, and was tied (we had learned at least that much). I grabbed him up, jumped into the saddle and headed off to see if I could find the horses, which were long out of sight.

I hadn’t gone more than 50 yards, when I heard Ranger whinnie. I watched for a minute and located both Black and Honey, standing together several hundred yards up a hillside, in a little hollow. About the time I located them, I saw Ranger coming out of the trees heading back toward me. He approached at a hard trot, with my axe dragging behind, banging between his rear legs. I could only cringe as I envisioned the damage to his legs.

Ranger trotted up to me with a half-panicked expression (if horses really have those) on his mug that said, “Help me! I’m hung up!” I dismounted from Jimbo and caught Ranger’s lead rope and prepared for what I would find. I was astonished to find that when Ranger and Black got tangled up and started struggling, my axe, which had been hung on the saddle through a two-inch brass ring tied into the front saddle string, had gotten snagged in Black’s pack rigging. When Ranger tore loose, the saddle string broke, dropping the axe, which then became tangled in the bridle, which was hanging on the saddle horn. The bridle came loose, but remained suspended from the horn by the reins. The reins were long enough that the axe, tangled in the bridle, dragged the ground right between his hind legs. With all Ranger’s galloping around in sheer panic, the axe remained hung up in the bridle, banging around between Ranger’s hind legs, and the reins remained intact. The heavy leather axe cover had remained in place all that time and the rubber handle prevented any bruises or cuts to Ranger’s legs. My saddle bags were still in place, as was my camera and solar panels, which were tied behind the saddle.  In the end, the only item I lost from Ranger’s panicked breakaway was half of a saddle string. Even the brass ring was still on the axe. What a relief. After leading him back to where Dad was finishing up with the canteens, I went after Black and Honey. They waited patiently for me and came without a problem. I checked them over and it appeared we had lost nothing from their packs.

Thank you, Lord.

It wasn’t until that night that I discovered my heavy Carhart coat, that was stashed in a panier on Honey, was missing. Oh well. I’m sure it will be well received and used by whoever finds it. Interestingly, or maybe providentially, at camp that evening, we found an insulated vest someone had left, which got me through some pretty cold mornings and evenings as we crossed through the Chiricahuas.

The second thing for which I credit providential intervention happened while we were traversing from Half Moon Valley trail up through High Lonesome canyon. I’ll let the videos speak for themselves, as far as describing the country. Although one cannot get the true perspective of the angles and steepness of the hillsides we were traversing, at least you can see the country. I decided to try my chest mount for the GoPro camera for the first time. I had no opportunity to try it previous to that point, so I had no idea how it would turn out. Turned out I mounted the camera improperly and it was nearly disastrous for me.

After passing through some extremely difficult and steep terrain for over a mile, we stopped to rest the animals. I looked down to turn off my camera and it wasn’t there. Here we were in the first week of our Mexico-to-Canada horse pack trip and I had lost our video camera, in which I had invested over $1,000. I can’t express how upset I was with myself. As I thought back over the trail, I quickly realized that my chance of going back over our trail and finding it was about one-in-a-million. I couldn’t figure out, for the life of me, how the camera had come off the mount. I was pretty down-in-the-mouth, as they say.

Heading toward Texas Canyon Road after passing through High Lonesome
Heading toward Texas Canyon Road after passing through High Lonesome

I looked all around myself, the saddle, and the surrounding area, then dismounted. I was standing by my horse, telling Dad I had lost the camera, when I heard a “plop”. I looked down and there was the camera at my feet. How it got there I did not know, but I sent up a prayer of gratitude right then. After we finished the ride and I had a chance to actually view the video recording, I discovered what had happened. I had improperly installed the camera on the chest mount, missing the hole with the mounting bolt, so that the camera was only held in the mount by friction. Just before we stopped for rest, the camera hit the saddle horn, as I leaned under a branch while going uphill. The camera fell off the mount and ended up falling between my canteen and the horse, where it became lodged, and hidden, until I dismounted and moved the canteen. You will see all that happen in the videos.

Thank you, Lord.

We only made 9.4 miles that day, having passed through some very tough terrain and steep elevation changes, as we made our way toward Texas Canyon Road.  The sun was setting when we picked out a decent campsite on a small knoll, about two or three miles west of Texas Canyon Road. We passed a pond about a quarter-mile before stopping, so the horses were well-watered. The fourth video below is one I made at that campsite as we cared for the horses and made camp (it was posted on a previous blog post as well). It was a very long and tough day for us, despite the low mileage recorded for the day.

We enjoyed a restful evening under the stars on a clear, cold night on a small knoll in the middle of nowhere. Ahhh! That’s what it’s all about!

Stay tuned for Day 5 and next week.

Book Reviews, Good Stories

Book Review: Dakota Cowboy, My Life in the Old Days, by Ike Blasingame

 Dakota Cowboy bookcoverI just finished reading for the second time one of the most enjoyable books I have ever found about the life of a cowboy back in “the good ol’ days”. Dakota Cowboy, My Life in the Old Days, by Ike blasingame, is a non-fiction documentary of Ike’s own life as a bronc buster and rough-string rider for the Matador Land and Cattle Company from 1904 to around 1912. The setting is in South Dakota, where Matador and several other major cattle concerns had set up huge ranching operations on lands leased from the Standing Rock and Cheyenne River Indian Reservations, through cooperation between the Indian Tribes and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Ike takes us through all aspects of ranch operations, the lives of cowboys, their bosses, their horses, the land, and the cattle that gave them their livelihood.

I found myself completely engrossed in Blasingame’s way of describing and explaining things from a cowboy’s perspective, providing a window to the past, framed in cowboy common sense and frankness, that is largely closed nowadays, in our time of extreme opinions and political correctness. I learned the origins of some of the idiomatic expressions we use today, but think little of.

For instance, we’ve all heard the expression, “That really chaps my hide!” Take a minute and read Ike’s delivery of how a cowboy’s hide got “chapped”.

“Cowboys made a worthy attempt to be manly, to act in accordance with what was right, no matter their surroundings – mud, wind, rain, heat, or fine summer sunshine. There was little rough talk, other than simple swearing which seemed more a part of that way of life than disrespect and offensiveness. Obscenity was frowned upon. Any indecent act was met with stern disapproval. Improper talk about women or lewd jokes had little part in the regular everyday busy life these men lived. And the man who persisted in overstepping these rules was punished, not by arrest or by going to jail, but by the cowboys’ law which governed such breaches of decency and order.

If a man didn’t believe his ideas and deportment could be changed, it took but one or two trips to a good-sized bedroll over which he found himself stretched so that the seat of his britches were good and tight. A pair of heavy leather chaps held by the belt and wielded by a big-fisted cowpuncher in a way which brought the bottom of the leggings smartly down across the offender’s posterior a dozen times usually corrected any such false ideas. To be offensive enough to be “chapped” was a painful experience that no one relished.”

Reading about the sheer size of many of the old ranches was fascinating to me. For instance, according to Blasingame, Matador’s range lease on the Standing Rock and Cheyenne River reservations comprised about forty-eight square miles. In addition, outside the reservation Matador and several other large operations shared, by gentleman’s agreement, the free range to the west of the reservation boundaries.  Matador also held a sizable range lease north of the Canadian border. In its heyday, the Matador ran nearly sixty thousand head of cattle.

Despite the size of the Matador cattle operation, Blasingame keeps things simple by taking us with him through his daily tasks of breaking broncs, hunting wolves, managing and rounding up cattle, and moving them across the Missouri river to Evarts, South Dakota for shipment to market by train. He describes operations of the range wagons (the true home of the cowboy), the various levels of management and the divisions of their respective duties, as well as the daily chores expected of each cowboy.

I particularly enjoyed Blasingame’s chapter on horses. He talked about the “rough string” and why these horses were under his particular care. He spoke affectionately about those horses that worked as hard as he did, and somewhat critically of those that had to be “watched” all the time, so as to head them off when they got ornery. It was interesting to me how Blasingame would give each horse its due credit and praise for the work it could perform well, despite its ill temper or how difficult it was to ride. Take this excerpt from the chapter on The Rough Broncs:

“Spokane had a reputation as a hard-bucking horse. He was a slim blood-bay, weighing 1050 pounds. He had good shoulders, high hips, and was probably a good deal thoroughbred. He had been handled some and didn’t fight saddling; in fact, if a man could ride him until he had his buck over with, he worked willingly. But there was the pinch! Spokane saved himself for furious, hell-to-set pitching after a rider mounted. It was sport for him, and he had thrown more cowboys than had ever ridden him farther than three jumps. Spokane’s reputation followed him when Dode shipped him to South Dakota and came north himself as manager. Dode liked the horse.

“I want to see what our South Dakota bronc rider can make of him,” he said, preparing to leave Texas, and from the time that Spokane snorted down the chute, filled his belly and ran free a few weeks on rich grass, he was primed to jar the gutfat off the best of riders. He was one of the really snaky ones to come to the Dakota outfit.

Brown knew that Dode had brought Spokane along for me to ride, and he was present the day Dode pointed to the horse and said, “If a man can stay on him, that bronc has the makings of a top cow horse.”

Since I could ride my horses wherever I wanted to while training them, Brown saddled up, too, and went around with me considerable, looking at the new range and getting acquainted with it. He got quite friendly, and jogging along he continually preached “hell-roaring Spokane” to me. He declared the horse was one of the worst buckers ever when he cut loose with all he had, and hinted that even Dode was skeptical about my being able to rode him. The more Brown talked about Spokane, the more I wanted to get a rope on the salty cuss and see for myself how tough he really was. I had found few horses that were hard for me to handle – still, I also knew that “for every man, there’s a horse he cannot ride.”

In Dakota Cowboy ,Ike Blasingame paints a truly vivid picture in words of the life of the cowboy in the Dakotas during the era of the great cattle empires. But not only that, he provides a much greater backdrop against which the picture is viewed than most stories of the “old west.” Blasingame expands his treatise to include a broad range of ranching topics, from cattle management, to horses,  the weather and seasons, to the interaction among the various ranching empires, and even their inter-relationships between the federal government and the Native American peoples from whom these ranching empires leased their range. As informative and factual as these details were, however, they never overcame his descriptions of the cowboys he knew and the stories from their daily lives on the range. More than once I found myself chuckling out loud as I read Blasingame’s relation of one story or another of some cowboy prank or his way of describing some noteworthy occurrence he recalled.

As a reader and student of old west literature,  Blasingame gave me a clearer  and broader understanding of the life of a cowboy than any other source I have found. It was a fascinating read for me, both times. One of the best and most enjoyable books about “the good ol’ days” I have ever encountered.

I highly recommend it.

Click on the image and it will link to the book on Amazon.com

Good Stories, Western Horsemanship

Good Memories on Father’s Day

I have one of my married daughters and a grandson visiting for Father’s Day (2014). Got me remembering a horse I once had.

I picked up Max from a horse trader, who informed me Max was a 5-year old mustang (not a branded BLM mustang, but a mustang nonetheless) who was taken off the range and gelded a few months before I came across him. He was stout, not too tall (about 13.3 hands), good hooves, and looked like a tough little gelding. Just what I wanted.  When I bought him he had obviously been “cowboy broke” and really didn’t know much of anything. He was submissive, but not trusting and not completely gentled. He has a handful on the ground because of that.

Soon after I bought him, my young daughters (ages about 11 and 9) wanted to come see him. Of course they also wanted to bring some of their friends. I agreed and gave them all a dress code of long pants and shoes (no sandals or flip-flops). I stopped by the feed store on the way and bought several brushes. I had an idea.

I haltered Max and walked him out to the round pen and tied him pretty short to a solid post.  I messed with him until he settled down a bit. I then gave each girl a brush and warned them about getting stepped on. I then gave each one instructions as to what I wanted them to do. I started working on getting Max to let me lift his hooves while each girl picked a different spot on him to brush.

At first Max didn’t know what to think, but since there were so many people working with him at one time, on so many different parts of him, he couldn’t focus on any one thing to worry about, and since it all felt pretty good, I suppose, he quickly settled down an spent the better part of an hour just letting the girls mess and brush while I worked on getting him to let me lift and clean each hoof. He was truly relaxed and seemed to be enjoying the experience completely. I have read that the Nez Perce indians, who were known for their horsemanship and gentling methods, used a similar technique after capturing a wild horse. By the time we were done, he was a different horse. I think we became his “herd” that day.

Max in training, when I first got him
Max in training, when I first got him

It was amazing what that short little gentling session did for Max. He and I still had our go-rounds as we figured each other out (he was the second horse ever to put me in the dirt more than once), but he turned out to be a very good trail horse and a good friend to me. He was always hard to handle for other riders, but for me he was just what I needed at that time of my life. I had a lot of good rides on him.

When he was about 10, I was transferred out of country. Had to leave him. I gave him to the daughter of the people who owned the pasture I kept him in. She loved him, but was afraid to ride him. He lived in a 40-acre pasture with about 4-8 other horses, depending on the year, and I don’t think he was ever ridden again. I visited him about three years later, with two of my daughters. We drove out into the pasture and parked. I whistled for Max, the way I used to, and was pleased to see his head come up and his ears perk. He immediately started our way, leaving the small herd of horses without hesitation.

There we were, with no halter, no lead rope, no brushes, but we all got around him and just rubbed and petted him. It was obvious he missed that. The older daughter (age 16 then), asked if she could get on him. I told her I didn’t think that was a good idea, since we had no halter or lead, and I didn’t know how he would react, since I was sure he hadn’t been ridden, or even handled, since the last time I rode him years before. She insisted, so I told her that if he reacted, she was to simply slide off his side and into the grass, and not try to stay on.

I gave her a leg up and she slid easily onto his back. Max simply stood there and seemed to be pleased. My youngest daughter (age 9), seeing that, wouldn’t be left out and insisted she be allowed to get on behind the first. So I gave her a leg up and she slid up behind. Old Max didn’t seem to mind at all.

Back when Max was my horse, when I couldn’t ride I would often take my kids out to see him, put them on his back, and lead him around the pasture at a walk – of course, with a halter and lead rope. With him standing there so calmly, I wondered if he would remember. I started walking away from him, with my two daughters on his back, bareback, with no halter or lead rope. Max simply turned and followed. I walked all over that pasture, through the trees, over the irrigation ditch, around the pond, with Max contentedly following at my shoulder, and my girls smiling all the while.

That was the last time I saw my old mustang Max, and it was a good day.

Max and Ed, taken during a horse camping expedition with one of my daughters
Max and Ed, taken during a horse camping expedition with one of my daughters

An excellent memory for a nice Father’s Day.

Good Stories

A Real Cowboy

2 Comments

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

 

 

 

Good Stories

I was thinking about Penny this morning…

I woke up about 4am this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Got a little maintenance work done on the website. My thoughts were on Penny. Putting her down yesterday was a hard thing.

After the vet verified death, we stood and talked a minute. I was grateful for a listening ear in those difficult moments right after her passing. I told her about the day I first saw Penny.

I had decided to buy a horse for my teenage daughter, to see whether she would take to horses like I did as a child. I started looking on Craigslist for candidates and came up with a list of horses, ranging in price from $800 to $1,500. Most of them indicated “greenbroke” in the ad, or “needs an experienced rider”, or something along those lines, which is why they were selling cheap. I wasn’t concerned about that, because I prefer to train my own horses anyway. Neither was I concerned about buying a registered horse, since my enjoyment comes from trail riding and packing. Having a horse with papers serves no purpose for me. I simply look for a horse with a good character, good conformation, and good hooves.

6 YO QH $800
6 YO QH $800

The first horse I looked at was Penny. She was located in Spotsylvania County, VA on a small acreage with no pasture, just a large fenced corral where trees had been cleared away, in which no grass grew. She had a small pony as a companion. The owner advertised her as a 6 year-old unregistered, greenbroke Quarter Horse for $800. She said they had owned her several years and used to rider her often, but hadn’t ridden her in about two years. They had decided to sell her, since they weren’t using her any more.

 

Penny and Gina
Penny and Gina

When we approached the corral gate, the owner called to her and Penny approached willingly. She wore an old halter that looked like it hadn’t been removed since they had owned her. It had worn the hair away and left a mark on her nose from the nose band. She appeared to be in good shape, weight-wise, and looked healthy. Right away, I could see she had a unique personality. She was very personable and gentle and seemed to genuinely like people.

I looked her over and found she had a scar on the coronet band of her right rear hoof, but it was healed and did not seem to affect the growth or soundness of the hoof. All her heels seemed to be a little “pinched”, but I guessed this was from a lack of regular hoof care. She seemed sound and showed no tenderness on any hoof or joint. I liked what I saw.

I put my heavy-duty lead rope on her halter, walked her out of the corral, and tied her to a tree. I brushed her down and tossed my saddle pad and saddle on her back while the owner stood back and watched. Penny fidgeted a little, which was my warning. As I began to cinch her up, all hell broke loose! She buck-jumped, pulled back, then lunged forward, hitting the tree. She pulled again and bucked and jumped until she finally came to rest on her back, legs in the air, neck outstretched against the lead rope still snubbed to the tree. I just stepped back and watched the rodeo until she stopped struggling.

Once Penny came to rest, I reached up and pulled loose the safety knot on the lead rope with a jerk. She immediately rolled upright and stood up.  I looked her over to make sure she wasn’t hurt, then brushed her off a little. The saddle had stayed in place, so I finished cinching it up, which she permitted this time, although she hunched a little at it. I then walked her around for a few minutes to see how she moved and to make sure she would actually move with a saddle in place. She calmed down quickly and all went well.

I took Penny back to the tree and tied her again, then walked over to the owner, who was still watching. I smiled at the lady and said, “I like her. She seems like a horse that might work for me, however, there are several more horses I plan to look at. I may come back to this one, but if I do, I’ll be talking $300, not $800.”

The lady looked over at Penny for a long second, then back to me and said, “I can do that.”

Once that was settled, I spent a few more minutes talking to the owner and got the full story. They had owned Penny about 3 years, having bought her from a person they know. They started out riding her, but found she was lazy and slow. She seemed to be reluctant to do anything. The owner’s husband chimed in then and said, “We like horses that GO! So, I decided to get on her and make her GO!” Penny had promptly bucked him off and they never rode her again. It was pretty obvious to me that neither of them were experienced with horses, other than simply getting on and riding a dead-broke animal.

As it turned out, Penny was the best of a bunch of horses I looked at. Not the best conformation, not the best conditioned, not the best bred, but I could not get over her personality. I was taken with her the first time I saw her.

I went back for her. This time, just to make sure, I saddled her up (this time with no issues) and rode her around the place or a few minutes. I determined that she was simply untrained. She just didn’t know anything, yet she was willing. The last test was whether she would load in the trailer. I told the owner I would not give her the check (for $300) until I had her loaded in the trailer.

Though frightened of the trailer, after a little bit of coaxing, Penny hopped in, showing again her willing temperament.

Penny
Penny

I handed over the check and became the new owner of a $300, six year-old, unregistered, greenbroke, peach of a mare. Penny.

Good Stories

My first real pack trip…

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I recently read a blog post by West Taylor, Extreme Outlaw Rides| Wild West Mustang Ranch, about his first pack trip. It recalled to my mind the first real horse pack trip I ever took.

It was 1977, and I was 18 and just about to graduate from high school in Tucson, Arizona. My dad was a Boy Scout leader over a group of boys, age 14-16 years, who were wanting to do a “super-activity” for the year. Early in the year they had decided (with a little input from their illustrious adult leader) to make a 100-mile horse pack trip through the White Mountains of Arizona that summer, after school let out. The idea was to give the boys an appreciation of what pioneers of the mid-19th century might have experienced. They weren’t very excited about it at first, but it grew on them. At the time, I think there were about seven or eight boys in the scout patrol.

The plan was for the boys to participate in a series of horsemanship and riding lessons, so they would be competent to handle their own mounts and gear throughout the pack trip. Dad asked me to help teach them. At first they all showed up and all went well, then the enthusiasm started to “peter out”, as they say. For a while there we had a hard time getting anybody to show up at all at the training sessions. Once Dad started them on food preparation, such as making jerky and dried fruits, the boys started getting into the spirit of things.

Somehow, Dad learned about a man in Mesa, Arizona, by the name of Jess Shumway, who had a whole string of horses he would “lend-out” to church groups for activities. Dad got in touch with Mr. Shumway and explained our situation. We ended up going to his place in Mesa and meeting with him. As advertised, Mr. Shumway had over 200 head of horses, all in various stages of breaking and training.

Dad talked to Mr. Shumway about the possibility of getting horses for the trip, having no idea what his terms would be. As it turned out, Mr. Shumway was willing to lend the horses to my dad for the trip, amounting to 30 horses, under one solitary condition: “I get to go too!” So, the deal was made. Jess would lend the horses, assist with the transportation of the livestock, with his stock trailers, and come with us on the trip. What a deal! Jess, I believe, was 65 years old.

A funny thing happened then. The patrol started to grow. By the time school let out and the date for the trip was fast approaching, we had twenty-two boys, all in various stages of their training, anxious to go on the trip. Now the problem was finding several adult leaders who could also ride horses for 100 miles. In the end, we found a couple who could trade off and ride portions of the trip. Dad asked me to come along as another “adult” leader. In truth, I think he needed to have another body along whom he knew he could depend on to help with the horses. I accepted the invitation, of course.

Dad and I busily put our gear together for the trip. Dad bought a couple crossbuck pack saddles and paniers. He bought himself a pair of Batwing chaps, then used it as a pattern to make chaps out of naugahyde for me and each of the boys. They were water proof, I’ll say that for them. We already had our saddles and horses. We planned on taking our two Quarter Horses and my sister’s appaloosa.

The day finally arrived and everyone was excited. We started early in the morning, headed for Mesa, where we loaded the stock into the several trailers, and started our caravan for the mountains. I recall that driving through the Salt River Canyon was a fairly slow and painstaking process, but we made it through without mishap. We arrived at the starting point of our pack trip, about 15 miles east of Show Low, Arizona, just off of highway 260, late in the afternoon. We set up camp and turned our livestock into a corral there at the campsite. Most of us were pretty bushed.

The following morning was when the fun really started. The plan was to be on the trail by about 9:00 am. The camp was stirring and abuzz with life and excitement. The boys worked over breakfast fires and cooking, and exploring, and about everything one can think of, except getting their horses and gear ready to ride.

We finally got them all herded up and going in the right direction – catching up the horses, picking out a mount for each, haltering, brushing, taking them to water, saddling…all the things we had taught them. I was in charge of riding herd on them and making sure everything was done safely and correctly. Boy, was that a chore. I figured out pretty quickly that very few of them had absorbed any of the information we had tried so long to teach them.

I remember watching Dad tie his bedroll on the back of his saddle, but then he got interrupted by a scout who needed a hand. He let go of it for a second and the bedroll unrolled off the back of the horse, spilling his bedding and clothing into the dirt. The horse didn’t like the unrolled sleeping back hanging off over his hindquarters and headed off bucking through the camp, tearing up Dad’s saddle bags and scattering his personal gear around camp. We got him settled down before anybody got hurt, got the clothing and gear gathered up, and the bedroll tied in place.

By this time, the boys were starting to doubt the sanity of all this. I spent all my time rolling, tying, and retying bedrolls, and unpacking and repacking the scouts’ packs, then tying their gear on the saddles, while Dad worked with getting the pack animals rigged up and loaded.

As I was diligently covering my task, suddenly a real ruccus broke loose right in the middle of camp. I looked up to see a pack horse in a full-tilt rodeo-quality buck, heading right through the middle of the camp, with ol’ Jess holding his lead rope and leading the way! Actually, Jess was trying his best to just get out of the way, but as he ran around in circles, the horse just happened to buck in his direction and followed him around. It was quite a sight. Boys, equipment, supplies, and gear were scattering in all directions! Eventually, the paniers went separate ways and the horse ran off and bucked himself out. So much for our eggs! We had gear and food and horse feed spread from one end of camp to the other.

As it turned out, to the best of my recall, here’s what brought on the rodeo. One boy came to my dad and told him something was wrong with his horse. It was trying to kick him. Dad guffawed and told him to just get him saddled up and quit messing around. Well, the kid came back a minute later and said he tried to take the horse to water, but it kept trying to kick him. Well, Dad got impatient, because there was a lot to be done and he couldn’t saddle all the horses for the boys, but he went to help this one boy (I was fully occupied helping others). Dad grabbed the lead and started to lead the horse off to the water hole, and by golly, it tried to cow-kick him. He quickly realized this horse wasn’t yet broke. He called Jess over and asked him about the horse. Jess looked the horse over and exclaimed, “Now, how did this horse get mixed into the stock? He’s not even broke!”  So, the decision was made to turn him into a pack horse.

They decided to blindfold him and see if they could get a packsaddle on him. That actually went ok. Then the paniers.  Surprisingly, that went ok, as well. Then Dad asked a couple of the adult leaders for a hand putting the cover tarp on the packs. That was his mistake. The two inexperienced men grabbed a canvas tarp and walked up behind this unbroke bronc and simply tossed it up on his back without a second thought. That’s what started the rodeo I described above.

Well, after the rodeo, we caught him back up, recovered and re-packed the gear and supplies in the paniers, and I went over to help Dad try him again. We blindfolded the young horse and had Jess hold his lead. We made sure the pack saddle was cinched up good, then, with me on one side, and Dad on the other, we simultaneously lifted the paniers onto the saddle. He stood for it. He didn’t like having the tarp pulled over the packs, nor did he like it when we cinched up the diamond hitch, but he stood for it. Once we got his pack tied on well, we let loose the blindfold. He went round and round a bit, but didn’t buck and with the weight of the packs he soon settled down.

By this time it was long after lunch. Most of the pack horses had been loaded and waiting for hours. They laid down where they were and waited. We finally got all the boys loaded up and mounted. By the time we rolled out of camp, it was about 4:00 pm. We had 22 Boy Scouts, five adult leaders (including Dad and myself), Jess, 34 horses, and one little donkey to carry Jess’ packs.

What an undertaking!

So that was the first day of my first real pack trip. Sort of baptism by fire. Sad thing is that we have lost all the pictures we took of the trip. Not a one to show for it. Good memories, though, and sometimes pictures can hinder the telling of a good story.

I’ll write up the rest of the trip in another post.

 

Good Stories, Western Trails

A great memory from a trail ride a long time ago…

A post on the facebook page for Horse Trails and Camping Across America, just sparked a memory for me from my youth. It is one of my most cherished memories and has had a strong impact on my life.

When I was sixteen years old, my father took my younger brother and me on a deer hunting trip into the Blue Wilderness Area of eastern Arizona. Since we were living in Tucson, Arizona at the time, it was quite an expedition for us. We packed up our cabover camper and our 6-horse stock trailer and three horses and headed out.

The drive took nearly all day long, and we arrived at Alpine, Arizona late in the afternoon. We took Red Hills Trail down into the Blue, toward the Blue River, stopping about 3/4 mile above the river at a level spot large enough for our rig to park. We set up camp there and spent the next couple days riding out from there.

My dad took my brother with him and I spent most of my time hunting alone. I would ride the horse to a likely looking spot, tie her to a tree, and hunt on foot. My dad had taught me how to “Navajo” to sneak up on unsuspecting deer, so I spent a lot of time sneaking around trying to be quiet. Didn’t see a thing, of course. On the second evening, Dad killed a deer, but it was too late in the day to get it out. He hung it in a tree and left it overnight. The following morning, he and I rode back in to get it.

We rode our Quarter Horses, and led a Half-Arab greenbroke fillie to pack the deer out. We had no idea how she would react to the smell of blood. When we arrived at the deer, we blindfolded the fillie. I held her while Dad worked on getting the deer up on the saddle and button-holed to the horn (we had no pack saddles or paniers at that time). The fillie stood still and caused no problems. Then my dad started tying the front and hind legs of the deer forward, near the front quarters of the fillie. She turned her head around and started sniffing the deer’s bloody hooves. We stood on-guard, not knowing what to expect. She sniffed a few seconds, then took a big old bite out of one of the deer’s feet! The next thing we know, she’s sniffing my dad’s bloody hands (bloody from getting the deer tied onto the saddle), and she takes a bite out of his hand! Well, we stopped worrying about things and removed the blindfold. We figure we had a carnivorous horse on our hands.

We started back toward the camp with dad leading the fillie and me bringing up the rear. Since we had no trail to follow, we just picked our way back. We eventually found ourselves facing a bluff, with no way around without having to go a long way around. You really couldn’t see much farther than a few feet anyway, because it was so thick with trees and brush, so picking a trail was essentially picking the best way through what was right in front of you. So, we started picking our way up this sandstone bluff. At one point the horses had to jump up a step about eighteen inches or so, then immediately jump up another one about the same height. Dad’s 16+ hand Quarter Horse handled it without problems, but when the fillie made her try, that’s when trouble started.

The fillie made the first step, but when she made her try for the second one, the deer on her back settled to the rear and pulled her over backwards. Over back she went, off the first step, and continued rolling head-over-heels down the steep bank for another thirty feet or so, ending up on her back with her feet uphill and her head against a tree. She was scared and shaking and wouldn’t move to try to get herself up.

We parked our horses where they were, tying them off to whatever we could find, and jumped down to help the poor fillie. We cut the deer off her, then got her saddle cinch loosened. We got the saddle off and checked her all over. Luckily, there were no serious injuries. In fact, she wasn’t all that beat-up, but she was so scared she wouldn’t try to get up. We ended up tying a rope around her neck and snubbing it off to a tree to give her something to brace against. We got her legs turned downhill, and she finally got up. After letting her rest and calm down for a few minutes, we saddled her up, tied the deer back on, and made our way on up the bluff and back to camp without further incident.

The last day of our hunt, Dad had a treat for us. He left my brother and me with the horses, while he drove the truck and trailer up to the top of the Blue. Then he hitch-hiked back down to us, so we could ride the horses up out of the Blue on a primitive trail. We were excited. Then Dad got back and we started saddling up. Turned out we had forgotten our bridles. They were still in the trailer.  Oh well, we just made-do with halters.

The trail was, I believe, called Red Hills Trail, like the road. I doubt you can find it anymore. It was not maintained even then. You could see the trail for the most part, but often you had to look for the old blazes on trees every 50-100 feet. We ascended from about 4,500 feet to around 9,000 feet in about seven or eight miles. It was a tough trail, and pretty scary in a few places, for kids like my brother and me, but we trusted Dad and the horses seemed to take it all in stride.

We arrived at a place that leveled out for a bit at around lunchtime. I remember it because there were juniper trees there that must have been several hundred years old. Some were as much as six feet in diameter. There was grass for the horses and a beautiful vista that spread out before us. Dad pulled out a large can of Van Camp’s Pork and Beans for lunch. Then we noticed we had forgotten to bring spoons as well. Not to worry! Dad pulled out his trusty Buck pocket knife and whittled out a wooden spoon for us. We sat there in the sunshine, eating pork and beans with a wooden spoon, listening to the horses quietly munching grass in the background, and the world was right, just for a while.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the ride, except that we were a couple of tired, but proud boys when we arrived at the trailer that evening. None of us have ever forgotten that meal with the wooden spoon. It has become a tradition in my family to eat pork and beans (and other canned foods) with a hand-carved wooden spoon on campouts and pack trips, in honor of that lunch meal on the side of a mountain in the fall of 1975.

That trail ride was the beginning of my love of horse packing.

Thanks, Dad.