My Most Difficult Ride

I've been going to write about this ride since October, when it occurred, but I had a hard time (and still am) gathering my thoughts about it.  It was perhaps the most frustrating ride I've ever been on, though Estes came through like the Queen she is.

Compass wanted to make a commercial for her livery and get some promotional pictures, so she hired a photographer/videographer and invited people to come participate in exchange for a free ride.  Deejo, Mrs Deejo, Mrs Junior, Mr Nebalee, and Autobot went along for the ride.  I actually started out my ride NOT with the group, but met up with them at about the halfway point when I went to talk to College Boy.

Let me tell you about College Boy.  Her Highness loves him very much.  When she likes someone, she makes up her mind and that's all there is to it.  I don't know what it is about him that she likes so much, but she immediately bonded to him.  Whenever I had her out and College Boy was around, she would bury her head in his chest and just sigh.  For a very stand-offish horse, that's saying a lot.  Granted, he's a great guy, good looking, and has a naturally easy way with horses, so I guess it's not really surprising that Estes developed such a crush on him.  He's never even ridden her, though I wouldn't hesitate for him to do so.

Last summer it was very hard for me to deal with the livery.  If it wasn't for College Boy, I wouldn't have ever set foot on the property.  Really, it was a lot of little things that made me insane and created a lot of resentment and anger on my part.  Mom and Bill are so much better at taking the high road than I am and are much better people. Once I'm done, I'm d-o-n-e.  And last summer, I was d-o-n-e.

So it was probably my frustration with the entire summer that made the final livery ride so difficult; take this post with a grain of salt, for it probably wasn't *as bad* as I thought it was.

I've worked on Julie Goodnight's TV crew for a few years now, so I had a fair idea of what it was going to take to get the pictures and videos needed.  I knew there would be a lot of "hurry up and wait", which is fine.  It was a beautiful day and I had no place I needed to be except on the back of my mare.  When we ran into the livery ride, I headed over to talk to College Boy and no surprise, Estes buried her head in his chest and decided we'd go along and help out, which really meant ponying and holding the photographer's horse.  Not a big deal, Estes is experienced at ponying and the photographer's horse, RC, was one that I'd known forever, so I didn't think twice about the fact that we were bareback.

RC, Estes and I stood around and talked to College Boy while the photog did his thing.  He wanted some shots of College Boy galloping along a trail.  He got some excellent pictures, but I was unhappy that these pictures were going to be used for advertising.  Guests are absolutely NOT allowed to gallop along those trails, it's a safety issue.

I do actually love the pictures, though.  This one is my favorite.  Not many people have a professional photographer clicking away the very first time they gallop.  College Boy had a blast.

Photo cred: Allenspark Livery

After the running like their tails are on fire shots, we moved on to the trench trail, where I got twitchy all over again.  They wanted more pictures of horses and guests running.  Off trail.  In the direction of home.  Who else thinks this might not be a good idea?

It turned out okay, they did it a couple of times and got some good footage to use, but I really, really was unhinged by the fact that they were videotaping a business breaking the rules they were bound to by their permits.  All commercial rides must stay on the trail and must stay in control.  Oh, and the dog off-leash?  In direct violation of Boulder County's leash laws. (And I'm the one who went to jail for a loose cat!)

As we moved on, College Boy forever earned a place in my heart when he told the photographer that my mare would do anything I asked.  And he's right, Estes is pretty much the bomb (and bomb-proof).  So Estes and I ponied RC back and forth across Fox Creek for some really pretty footage of a water crossing.  By that time, I'd resigned myself to just getting through the ride.

We got everyone across the creek and headed back to the picnic area, which is rarely used, but there are some hidden waterfalls back there that would have made for beautiful pictures.  The trail isn't used very often and can get kind of narrow.  In fact, there are pictures around here somewhere of that trail - it can get pretty gnarly in areas.  Nothing high or scary, just tight quarters.  We had along with us, the livery's two new mules, Mike and Ike.  They were bought for packing, but didn't have much training on them.  We got to a particularly tight section of trail and realized that we couldn't get them through with their packs on, so the decision was made to reverse course.  The photographer, College Boy, and I were kind of in the middle of the line, so when we had to turn around, they ended up ahead of me.  This is important in just a few minutes.

Since we had to reverse course, the decision was made to send College Boy and the photographer up the Goat Trail, which we would have to pass anyway.  The views from the Goat Trail are stunning, there's no doubt about it, so of course, there had to be pictures taken up there.  However, the Goat Trail even from the "good" side is not for beginners (or intermediates), so the plan was for the rest of the riders to wait at the bottom of the trail while College Boy and the photographer went up for some quick shots.  Again, they were astounding.

Photo cred: Allenspark Livery

Yeah, the plan was to wait at the bottom of the trail.  But remember that crush that Estes has on College Boy?  I let my guard down as he and the photographer headed up the trail and Estes decided she was going too.  I can't even tell you what happened; I was ponying the mules (oh God, a whole OTHER story), waiting on the trail and then suddenly Estes and I had hopped up on a boulder and she started scrambling after them.  I got her stopped, but we were on shale and there wasn't any way to turn her without falling to our deaths.  I wish I was exaggerating.  The mules had not followed her up the boulder, so I dropped the lead rope and veeeerrrrryyyyy slowly slid myself off her her back, feeling with my toes for the ground.  College Boy and the photographer had stopped on the Goat Trail ahead of us, mostly, I think, because the photographer dropped his tripod.  Since I was on the ground, I could easily get the tripod.  That was the only easy thing.  They went on to the top while I figured out how to get us out of our little predicament.

I finally told Estes to stand, picked up the tripod and squeezed by her with it.  I didn't have a good angle to put the tripod in one of the mule's packs, but I leaned off of the boulder, out over the open space and just jammed the damn thing in, figuring I could fix it once I got my horse back down.  Standing behind her on the trail, I looked at our options, which were very few.  I had to take her up the trail ten yards or so before there was any space wide enough for me to turn her around.  The old girl can turn on a dime, so I didn't need a hugely wide spot on the trail, but I did need something more than I had.

I squeezed by her again, aware of the shale slipping out from under my boots, picked up her reins and lead her up to the wide spot to spin her around.  In order to turn her and stay out from under her hooves, I had to scale some loose rock, but we managed to get her turned around and headed back in the right direction.  We descended the trail very carefully.  My boots were slipping on the rocks and I was afraid that if I fell, she'd step on me or slip and fall herself.  We weren't very far up the trail, but it seemed to take forever to get back down.  Of course, while I was getting us situated, the rest of the line had bunched up and there wasn't any room for us to get back in line.  I had the front of the line move up, I think by that time Compass had the mules, to make room for us.  I perched on the boulder above the trail, extended my hand with the reins in it and told Estes to step down into the trail.  And then I held my breath just in case she jostled me on the way by.  I have a severe allergy to falling under a horse's hooves.  I should have never doubted her.  She stepped down into the trail and looked at me like I was an idiot for doubting her.  There wasn't any room to mount, so I slipped down into the trail ahead of her and led her for a few yards until I could find some place to mount up again.

Hell, after all of that, the rest of the ride went smooth-ish.  We had no sooner lined up and started out and College Boy showed back up.  Either they were very fast moving up and down the Goat Trail or it took longer than I thought to get Her Highness back on the trail.

For some reason, I had to move up and take the mules from Compass, though I don't remember what the reason was, but I ended up leading the ride with two pack mules who didn't have much training on them and were not very good at being ponied.  It took a bit to get them lined out properly and they'd stay in position for ten or fifteen yards and then get all jacked up again.  It was very frustrating, but Estes was amazing.  She didn't even bat an eye when I grabbed the "string" (two still counts as a string, right?) of mules, though she did get annoyed when they didn't stay lined out like they were supposed to.

Eventually, the mule string went back to Compass and we headed home.  I was never so glad to be headed back home as I was that day.  Nor was I prouder of my mare.  It wasn't an easy ride, I asked a whole lot of her and she did it all (and then some, if you count the Goat Trail debacle).

We did end up with a beautiful picture of us with College Boy and Fancy.

Photo cred: Allenspark Livery

The videos turned out beautifully, even if my nerves were shot by the end of the day.

Grrr...Get Your Facts Straight!

Shoddy reporting at its best. Why am I not surprised this is on Fox News?




Let's talk about what's wrong with this.

The Allenspark Livery and the Wild Basin Livery are two totally different entities, owned and operated by two totally different entities. The original broadcast of this piece tied the two liveries together. At least at the end of this clip the reporter is clear to say that the livery he was reporting from was not the one where the horse was injured. My question - why wasn't he at Wild Basin?

Am I the only one who thinks that the horse's wound looks a lot older than two weeks old, especially for a supposed high-powered rifle? It's healed up miraculously well for only being two weeks old.

The manager of the Allenspark Livery, who broke up during her interview, has done an amazing job with the livery in the short time she's been there. She's hauled away almost twenty dump trucks worth of filth that was in the pen; she's re-painted the pen and fixed broken feeders that had been neglected over the past few years. The horses are calm and well-mannered, as you can see from the clip.

This wonderful woman, the savior of the Allenspark Livery, was accused by the owner of the injured horse of shooting his horse. Three guesses who the old manager of the Allenspark Livery is. At least the news didn't clamp on to that little bit of trivia. The police obviously did not take the accusation seriously and have cleared her as a possible suspect.

Here's a little background about her accuser - I wasn't going to do this, but he's pushed one time too many - every time his horses get loose, he accuses some disgruntled employee or former employee of sneaking over in the middle of the night and letting his horses out.  This happened at least once a summer for every year he was at Allenspark.  More than once Bill and Juanita have been the ones to hear the horses and go to the livery to wake the old manager and help re-capture the loose herd.

During the new Barn Boss' first week at Allenspark, she was called to Wild Basin by a neighbor to put Wild Basin's loose horses back in the pen.  The horses were loose on the highway and she was the one who dropped everything to make sure the horses were safely put back in the pen.  Horses she's not responsible for.  Yet the thought of horses in danger spurred her to action.  I can guaran-damn-tee you that her accuser (who by the way is in charge of the horses that got loose) would not have done such a thing.

I started this post angry that the news got their facts wrong, but I realized that I'm angry at the old manager for creating such a big deal about his horse getting shot.  My gut feeling is that it was a ricochet that hit the horse and was nothing intentional.  My biggest beef with the old manager is that he sees conspiracies where there aren't any as his history indicates.

Either way, I'm sad that the horse was injured.  It doesn't matter that if it was an accident or intentional; the horse is the one who's suffering right now.  I hope the mare's well cared for and enjoys her summer off as she heals.

Adventures in Moving Horses

I've posted the details of the horses' homecoming over at my main blog, Just another perfect day, but I've got to share some pictures of Ida's horses, Peanut and Doc.

Doc is a young 'un, only four or so, and really feeling his teenage testosterone despite being cut.  Estes just happens to be in season and Doc had decided that Estee was his mare.  Doc and I went a couple of rounds about me taking his mare away from him.  Not so many years ago, I would have been nervous about putting him in his place, but not now.  The first time he challenged me, I had just put the lead on Estes and I worked him in circles with the end of the lead rope.  I love that mare of mine, she just pivoted behind me like she was the one working him in circles.

The second time, he tried to come up for a sneak attack from behind as I was leading her out of the pasture.  I heard him start his charge and turned to look at him, planting myself firmly and making the "bad" noise - you know the AAAAARRRRRGGGG noise you yell at dogs and bad horses.  He backed off.

The third and last time happened when he realized I was going to put Estes in the trailer and take her away from him.  He again tried to charge me from behind, but I turned and put him in his place.  He was so focused on me that he didn't realize that Bill was behind him, so when he got the "bad" noise in stereo, he wasn't sure what hit him.

We got Estes loaded up in the trailer with Mom's horses and Doc realized that we'd taken the herd he'd been hanging out with.  The other geldings in the adjoining pastures were hollering for Doc to come and join them.  He raced off toward them, but made a wrong turn and ended up in a pen, not the pasture with the other geldings.  I went into one of the pens, trying to get his attention and shoo him out of the pen.  As panicked as he was, there was no way on earth I was going into the smaller pen.

Finally, he made it out of the pen and began racing up and down the yard...

Finally, Peanut got frustrated with hollering at Doc and raced down the mountain and into the yard to fetch him...

It was absolutely terrifying and exhilarating to be watching these horses racing up and down the yard.  It's amazing to think that we actually ride these crazy critters.  Peanut was a kids' horse when we had him at the livery, for Pete's sake!  Of course, Peanut was also the one who tried to buck Digger off when we were introducing him to the mounting block - forgot about that tidbit.

I didn't give standing up to Doc a second thought when he was trying to get Estes away from me, but then I saw this display of raw power and maybe I should have thought twice about standing up to him.  It only worked because I *knew* I could take him and because I believed it, he believed it.  It wasn't until I saw the pictures that I'd taken that I realized how badly he could have hurt me if he so desired.

Delivery Day

My parents and I send our horses to winter pasture from mid-November until mid-April or early May. My step-dad’s horse, Ranger, is an adopted BLM mustang, that was wild for the first nine years of his life, and my mom’s horses, Jesse and Washoe, are mustang mixes. My horse, Estes, is a quarter horse/morgan mix, but was raised on a mountain ranch and is used to having the winter “off” to be a horse. We’ve found that the few months that they are turned out on hundreds of acres to roam in the foothills are essential to their mental health. As much as we miss them, they are much healthier all the way around if they get their “horse” time.


The livery horses work hard, six- to ten-hour days, six days a week from May until mid-September and then the majority of them are also turned out to winter pasture on the plains. The seven months that the livery horses are turned out are also essential to their general health. They’ve got time to heal up, socialize, and foal. Each spring round-up finds multiple foals sired the previous winter by one of the free-roaming mustangs. In the past these foals were immediately written off as worthless, but in the last few years the mustang mix has gained more respect as a hardy mountain trail horse.

One of the best parts of each season is the beginning. The anticipation, the itch, for the season to start begins in March for me. As there are more and more sunny days and the snow begins to melt, the horse fever begins.

By April, I’m like a horse-crazy teenage girl. I need the season to start. I need to be on horseback in my favorite place in the world; the mountains I grew up in. I start pulling out all of my gear and getting it ready. My saddle gets cleaned and oiled, the head gear un-packed, worn equipment mended or replaced.

Mid-April finds me counting down the days until the horses are delivered. I start moving my cold-weather gear back up the mountain, water-proof my boots and treat my oilskin duster. And I count down the days…

Delivery day, for me, is one of the most exciting days of the year. Opening the back of the trailer and unloading the first load of horses is like opening a long-anticipated Christmas present. You know what you put on your Christmas list and now you get to see if your wish came true. One of the liveries I’ve worked for bills itself as being the oldest continuously run livery in the area. As such, the Barn Boss gets to request certain horses at the close of the previous season – it is like writing out a Christmas wish list, but we never know exactly which horses we’re going to get until they are delivered. Delivery day is a day of renewing old friendships with the horses and getting them settled in. It’s usually a pretty laid-back day; nothing is a chore, not even feeding.

Roman

Roman was a tall red horse, 16 hands if he was an inch, not a discernable ounce of draft in him, with a big Roman nose, hence the name. I had the chance to work with Roman for two seasons running, though at two different liveries. The first season Roman was around, I had my own wrangler horse, Meeker, that I was leading rides from, so one of the other wranglers snagged Roman as his lead horse.


Now this kid was a ranch kid, but not much of a horseman, though he liked to tout himself as such. He and Roman had some amazing go-rounds, which Roman most always won. The poor kid spent a lot of time sailing through the air and landing hard on the ground. Guess it’s a good thing that he was only in his early twenties. On occasion, a different wrangler would take Roman out without any problems. He’d be a perfect gentleman. Twice that season, I lead out on Roman for one reason or another and didn’t have any problems with him. He was sweet and even-tempered, though you’d never know it from the stories.

My problem with Roman wasn’t so much a problem as a preference. I loved, loved, riding tall horses. Must be because I’m so short, so I always chose the tallest horse in the herd to lead from. I loved them. Until I met Miss Estes and realized that, really, a lot comes in a small package. Miss Meeker, Estes’ daughter, wasn’t so tall either, but they were both agile. They could spin on a dime and leave you floating in the air like the coyote in the cartoons. They were quick. If you weren’t with them when they took off, you’d again be floating in the air like the coyote. After a couple of seasons of riding small horses, I’d kind of forgotten what lugs big horses could be. Roman reminded me of that rather quickly. He really was a big lug.

The last time I rode Roman that first season, he colicked on me when we got back from the ride. Lord knows he must have been in pain during the ride, but never showed any indication. It wasn’t until we got back into the yard and I went to dismount that he indicated something was wrong. He and I spent a lot of time walking around that day, waiting for the vet to arrive, and hoping for the best. Unfortunately, the reality is that when livery horses colic, they usually don’t make it. Liveries lose a fair amount of horses to colic and I was afraid for Roman. The vet came, did his thing, and Roman pulled through, for which I was very thankful. He was a good horse with a big heart.

The next season, at a different livery, I again got to work with Roman, as his wrangler had requested him when he switched liveries. Roman threw his notorious fits with his wrangler and the kid again spent a lot of time sailing through the air and landing hard on the ground. By the end of the first month, no one else would go near Roman and shortly thereafter the wrangler was dismissed. Now, the livery had a problem. We had a horse with a monumental temper, who we couldn’t put dudes on, and who the other wranglers were afraid to ride. In a livery string, every horse has to earn his/her way. Since I’d ridden Roman successfully – twice – the year before, the Barn Boss must have figured that qualified me for riding him again.

It took me all of about thirty seconds to realize what Roman’s problem was. Being an auction horse, we didn’t know too much about him, so we didn’t know about his training at all. The buyers just assumed that because he was sold as a western horse that he knew all about neck reining. The buyers were wrong. So was the kid. It was painfully obvious to me, once I mounted up, that poor Roman had no idea whatsoever what was being asked of him with the reins. I switched to direct reining and got an immediate response. I hadn’t noticed it the season before because it was late in the season when I rode him and by then he’d learned the trails the hard way, with the kid on his back and spurs in his sides. Well, hell, no wonder he’d developed such a temper. His wrangler was speaking to him in a foreign language and then punishing him with the sharp, jabby things in his sides when he didn’t understand.

The problem showed itself at a new livery, with new trails, that Roman didn’t know. The trails at the second livery weren’t the nice one-way-out-one-way-back trails that the first livery had. These trails were tough, there were always choices to be made, and rarely was a trail ever ridden the same way twice. Poor Roman was lost, didn’t understand the language, and was damn sick of being stuck in the ribs with the spurs.

As soon as I realized what his issue was, I adjusted my riding. I turned back his training and took him back to where he should have been taught neck reining. In addition to giving him a direct rein signal, I laid the opposite rein across his neck. In the span of one one-hour ride, he’d gotten it – without a single temper tantrum. I think he was just so grateful that someone finally figured out that he didn’t speak the language that he tried extra hard that day. I took him out a few more times and found him to be absolutely unflappable. Nothing bothered that horse, and I mean nothing. Hikers, plastic bags, traffic. He turned out to be the most bomb-proof horse I’ve ever ridden. Within just a couple of weeks, I pronounced him dude-worthy, and my Barn Boss took my word for it. I secretly think that the Barn Boss was afraid to get up on him, having witnessed some of Roman’s more colossal blow ups.

Roman turned into the best, hardest working, biggest hearted horse in the string. He was strong, even tempered and sweet. We could put small children or oversized adults on him and he never blinked. We never saw another temper tantrum out of him. He quickly became the livery’s biggest asset; he gave and gave and gave.

Toward the end of the season, though, tragedy struck. Roman got kicked one night while out in the pen with the other horses and developed a bone abscess. We doctored and doctored him, but couldn’t get him well. We finally had to make the decision to put him down. It was absolutely heart-wrenching, as he’d become one of my favorites. I am thankful, that they took him down to the farm first, I don’t think I could have handled him being put down at the livery.

Creative Nonfiction Entry - Introducing the Herd

Thank you all for helping me choose which of my stories to submit to Creative Nonfiction.  I've polished up "Introducing the Herd" a little bit and thought I'd share the finalized, hopefully contest-ready, version with you.

Late in the spring of 2004, my parents were approached by a local lodge to run its livery. My parents and I had been working as part-time wranglers for a nearby livery for a few years and my parents had always harbored a hope that they’d get to run their own, so they jumped at the opportunity. The problem was that they only had three personal horses, one of which was far too young to be used, so they contacted the supply ranch that the other liveries lease their horses from, looking to rent just a handful of horses for the summer. The ranch couldn’t accommodate us, as they didn’t have enough horses of their own to fulfill their existing contracts. Well, now what? We had a shiny, new-to-us livery and only two horses. That wouldn’t do at all.


Hall Ranch, where we bought our hay, became our saviors. When they heard about our predicament, they offered to lease us some of their ranch horses for the summer. It was perfect! In May, nine shiny, new-to-us horses were delivered to our shiny, new-to-us livery and our herd count rose to eleven. Bill, my step-father, also contacted an old friend and former Barn Boss of ours to see about leasing a couple more horses. Bucky obliged, shipping us four horses from southern Arizona.

The herd had settled into their hierarchy – for the most part – by the time the Arizona horses were delivered, bringing our current herd total to fifteen. The perfect amount to run a small livery. The trailer arrived just after feeding time and Bill and I unloaded the newcomers into the pen, and then climbed up atop the cross-buck for our favorite pastime – watching the horses.


It was beautiful; the sun was just beginning to set, casting a soft light across the backs of the horses who had their heads down in the feeders. It was quiet and peaceful; we sat on the fence just drinking it all in and feeling all was right with the world. What could be better than sitting on the fence at our shiny, new-to-us livery on a perfect late spring evening watching our shiny, new-to-us herd? Sigh. Life was perfect.

Bill’s mustang, Ranger, suddenly realized that there were four new mouths he had to share his food with. Without warning, Ranger’s head popped up out of the feeder, his neck arched and nostrils flared as he took in the new arrivals. In his little mustang brain, he took stock of the food supply and the new horses and decided that there wasn’t enough to share with the interlopers. Born and raised a wild mustang, he had a firm grasp on the concept of limited resources. My breath caught in my throat as Bill’s mild-mannered mustang transformed into a snorting, nasal-flaring, four-legged monster. He pinned his ears back, lowered his head and charged. I had never seen anything so horrifying in my life, then or since.

Our perfect, peaceful evening quickly turned into a nightmare as Ranger attacked the new horses, trying to run them from the herd. The new horses scattered, trying to get away from raging mustang. Their terror was impossible to miss in the whites of their eyes and they were in full panic flight mode. The problem was that there was no place for the new horses to run away to; all of the horses were in the same pen.

At first we thought we’d just let them work it out themselves, but the attack continued to escalate to the point that it was getting out of control and dangerous. The main herd had congregated in the center of the pen, trying to stay out of the way of the monster mustang and the four interlopers as they raced around the perimeter of the pen. It seemed that when Ranger realized he couldn’t run them off because they were all trapped, he changed his tactic. Rather than just getting them away from his herd, he became determined to eliminate the threats.

Ranger was snorting and attacking, snaking, as it’s called when a stallion lowers his head and moves it side-to-side; a very aggressive and terrifying posture. I was appalled and frightened for the new horses. He’d take on one, then another, of the new horses, driving them as far away from the main herd as possible. He was so determined to kill the new horses that one of them tried to escape by climbing the cross-buck fence. The horse got one foreleg on the lower rail of the fence and stepped up, but missed the second rail with its other foreleg, slipping his leg between the poles and essentially trapping himself. As he thrashed in a panic, trying to get away from Ranger and break free of the fence, Bill decided to intervene. I was frozen on the fence, horrified, watching the whole thing unravel in front of my eyes.

And then the whole situation got a whole lot more dangerous. Bill and Ranger have a very good, trusting relationship, but Ranger was beyond reason and Bill’s attempts to get his attention were completely ignored. During one of Ranger’s rushing attacks, Bill actually stepped in front of Ranger and started yelling and waving his hat. Ranger swerved around Bill, but continued his attack on the horse. I was absolutely more terrified than I ever had been in my life; I just knew I was going to watch Bill’s own horse kill him. In my mind, I could already see Bill’s broken and bloody body being trampled by his own loving horse and the panicked newcomers. The new horses were running and screaming, knowing that they needed to get away from the mustang monster, but they literally had no escape. Bill repeatedly put himself between Ranger and whichever horse he was currently attacking; each time, Ranger would swerve to avoid Bill, but continue his attack. I have no idea how long it went on, but eventually Bill was able to turn Ranger away from his attacks. He turned Ranger away over and over again, allowing the new horses to huddle together as far away from the monster as possible.

In time, Ranger calmed down enough that we were able to move the new horses into the enclosed staging area, where they stayed for the next few days until the herd got acquainted with them and Ranger was satisfied that there would be enough food to go around.

I am not easily traumatized, nor am I overly emotional, but I learned a very big lesson that day – a lesson I have no desire to repeat. My family wasn’t new to the trail riding business; we’d merged herds before without any problems. But the big difference was that in all of the other herds we had merged, the horses were domestic and they were just vying for pecking order. What we did to poor Ranger, who had lived wild on the Nevada lava flats for the first nine years of his life, was threaten his existence, at least in his mind. He trusted that the humans would provide food – to an extent – but his instinct and experience told him that there were too many horses for the precious food that was available.

Black Rufus

I had a Barn Boss who had a thing for paint horses. It got so that I began to have a hard time telling them apart. My daughter easily solved the problem for me; she began to call them all “Rufus”. We had a “Black Rufus”, a couple of “Brown Rufuses” (or would that be “Rufi”?), and “Black and Brown Rufus”. Irritated my Barn Boss a bit, but I didn’t have such a hard time remembering their names after that – all of the paints were some form of Rufus.

Black Rufus was a prime example of a backyard pet turned livery horse. His first few days at the livery were pretty darn scary for him, but he got settled into the herd without too much of a problem. One of Black Rufus’ problems was that he was kind of a bugger to mount. He danced around and tried to spin away every time Boss tried to mount up. Since I had a little bit of experience with that – thanks to little Miss Estes – I was asked to work with Black Rufus. Time to “work” horses is limited at a livery, so I went to the quickest solution I could think of…I began to mount up from the off-side. There’s really no such thing as the correct side to mount a horse; by convention we typically mount from the left, but the horses don’t know there’s a “right” or “wrong” side to mount up on. He had no bad memories or experiences from the off-side, so he was a perfect gentleman when I mounted from the right. He never even twitched an ear when I began mounting from the right, though he still threw a fit when I tried to mount from the left. I just flat-out didn’t have the time to work him through it, so from the right it was.

He had a lot more issues than just being a bugger to mount; the poor guy had never been on a trail. Every little thing terrified him and we had rodeos pretty much each time we lead out a trail ride. We got paired up over and over again, partly, I think, because he was a big, intimidating horse and the newer wranglers were afraid of him. Over time, he began to trust me and calm down. It took weeks of trail time before we started to build a relationship, but I never completely relaxed on or around him.

For one ride, we took out a big muckity-muck from the Wyoming government and her nephew. She felt that her nephew from the East was too pampered and wanted to give him the full “Wild West” experience. They had been white water rafting, shooting, and hiking. Horseback riding in the mountains was just a part of the experience, so she signed up for a four hour ride. Black Rufus had settled down a lot and was a brave horse leading out the ride; a hundred eighty degrees from the ‘fraidy cat he’d been when I first started working with him.

We spent the first two hours just exploring the trails – I had a route in mind, but there are a lot of ways to complete the route, so I was letting them choose right or left. By this time, I’d been a wrangler on those trails for many years and wasn’t afraid of getting lost like I did my first couple of years. Black Rufus was still being a big, brave horse and behaving himself, so I began to relax a little bit.

As we came down out of an aspen grove, something spooked Black Rufus and we had a little rodeo, but it didn’t take much more than a calm word and a pat on the neck to calm him down. I was feeling pretty good that he was so easy to get back under control – just two weeks earlier I would have been riding for the buzzer and hoping for a good score. By that time, most of the horses in the string were used to his antics and no longer reacted to his little fits, they just stood by and waited for him to be done.

We continued along the lower side of the meadow, enjoying the perfect riding weather and talking about the rest of their plans. There was another ride heading back to the livery on the far west end of the meadow that we exchanged hollered hellos and waves with. I turned in my saddle to tell my guests about the other ride and where they had come from; we were going to be heading out the way the other ride had been.

I had just settled back into the saddle when Black Rufus reared straight up in the air. This was no little I-don’t-want-to-do-this temper tantrum. He was truly terrified and knew he couldn’t take off, so he went the only direction he could – straight up. His front hooves barely hit the ground before he went straight up again. All I could think of was to throw my weight forward to keep him from toppling over backward and crushing me. I went from neck reining, with both reins in one hand, to direct reining, one rein in each hand, and pulled the reins straight down toward the ground, hoping to literally pull him back down. He came down from his rear, but I kept my weight forward and downward pressure on the reins, so his next rear was only about half the height of his first two.

Once I was able to keep all four hooves on the ground, he calmed down as though nothing had happened. As he calmed down, I became aware of the fact that I’d kicked both feet out of the stirrups and had ridden through his little rear fest as though I was bareback. Because of all of our recent rodeos, I’d gotten pretty good at reading him and knowing when to get ready for the ride. In both instances I had been completely blindsided. To say I was perplexed would be an understatement.

I realized that the ride on the west end of the meadow had come to a complete standstill and they were watching our little rodeo. I got the thumbs-up from the other wrangler and assured him that we were fine. His ride continued toward the livery and I started our ride along again. For another half mile, Black Rufus was a perfect gentleman; no one would have ever believed that he’d been a wild-eyed, rearing monster just a few minutes before. I mulled it over again and again, trying to figure out what the heck had happened. While each ride on him was always an adventure, I’d always had warning that he was going to act up. Twice during that ride he’d caught me unaware. It was like there was something in the wind that was freaking him out.

Wait…there was something in the wind that was freaking him out. There had to be. It was the only reason that I could think of for his on-again, off-again behavior. I tried to remember if I’d noticed the wind shift before his rodeos, but I for the life of me, I couldn’t remember. As I was contemplating my new hypothesis, I did feel the wind shift and the rodeo commenced again. I managed to come back to myself just in time to dodge a rapidly approaching tree branch. Well, I would consider that hypothesis proven. There was some scent that reduced my big, brave Black Rufus back to the ‘fraidy cat he’d been when I started working with him. Black Rufus would completely calm down as soon as the wind shifted away from us; it was like riding a horse with a split personality.

The muckity-muck from Wyoming suggested we head back, but I was pretty determined to try to cross the hill using one of the many trails there were. When I protested about going back and shortening her nephew’s “Wild West” experience, she laughed and told me that he got a whole lot more “real” cowboy experience than she had planned on. I felt bad about heading back, but I was really getting beat up with the rodeos which were increasing in violence.

Of course, Boss wasn’t happy about us showing up at the livery an hour early, but the generous tip more than made up for being a little bit in trouble. Within twenty minutes of our return, another ride returned early with news of why we were unable to cross the hill. They had found fresh mountain lion tracks, which had significantly scared the guests, who insisted on an immediate return to the livery. Boss shut down the livery for the day, hopped on one of his horses and took off with his son to see what they could see.

The Return

The next morning, bright and early, we were up and had the few horses left saddled up. We had a big ride scheduled for ten a.m., so we had no choice but to find and return the whole herd. The hope was that they had stayed herded up and were hanging out in the meadow, grazing. Four of us headed out toward the meadow. Just before the trail headed down, we split up. Two of the wranglers circled to the east of the meadow and the Barn Boss and I stayed up top in hopes of being able to keep the herd from splitting up. The plan was that the wranglers moving toward the herd would quietly work their way in, catch one or two, halter them up and lead them out. It would have worked like a dream if one particular wrangler hadn’t taken it upon herself to change it.

Barn Boss and I tied up our horses on a side trail and had intended to creep through the trees to a better vantage point when we heard a whoop followed closely by the sound of stampeding horses. We hurried back to our horses, mounted up, and headed in the direction of the herd. Obviously, someone had gotten too excited about playing cowboy to actually follow the plan. Instead, we had another disaster in the works. Rather than leading the horses back in a calm manner, we now had thirty head stampeding toward the highway. Crossing the highway the night before in the middle of the night was worrisome enough, but at eight-thirty on a summer morning during the height of tourist season was downright dangerous.

Boss and I moved out as quickly as we could without spurring on the horses too much. The last thing we wanted to do was run up behind a stampeding herd and ignite even more panic. Boss’s son, one of the wranglers that had gone into the meadow, met up with us on the trail, cussing up a storm. We were too far behind to head them off – they didn’t follow the trail back up, they just crashed through the trees straight up the mountain, the same way they headed down the night before. We followed as quickly as we dared, but couldn’t get them in sight. The best I hoped for was that they’d head for home, and from the sounds of it, that’s exactly where they were headed.

As they headed down the switchback, still out of our sight, I cringed inwardly, already hearing the sounds of squealing tires and screaming horses. Okay, so maybe I have an over-active imagination, but I could also see in my mind’s eye the car, horse, and people carnage just waiting to happen when the horses stampeded across the highway. What I actually heard was a whole lot of shod horses skittering across the asphalt. The skittering sound brought a whole new batch of images to my mind of one horse losing his traction and taking out the rest of the herd, and then there would be squealing tires and screaming horses and carnage.

Luckily, my imagination was just that – imagination – and the herd got across the highway without anything bad happening. Boss and I arrived in the yard just as the one most useless wrangler I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with was shutting the gate to the pen. While I was glad that the horses had all been returned, I was livid with her. She’s actually very lucky that the Boss’s son got to her before I did. She really, truly had no idea that what she had done was endanger not only herself, but the whole herd and anyone on the highway by racing them back in stampede fashion. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded if she’d been trampled in the stampede, but I really was worried about the horses and the general public. In her mind, she had single-handedly brought the horses back and proven that my plan to do it in a calm manner wasn’t the way to do it.

Yes, we got the horses back, and yes, she single-handedly whipped them into a panicked frenzy to do so. As a consequence, we had hot, sweaty horses that we had to calm down before we could even consider pulling them and getting them ready for our big ride. We had them in the pen, but they were so full of adrenaline that they were picking fights with each other and staying whipped up. We had less than an hour to get them calm, pulled, and ready for the big ride at ten.

They slowly calmed down once they realized they were back home and that no one was chasing them, yelling. Eventually, we were able to enter the pen – minus the useless wrangler – and start pulling the horses we needed to the day’s ride, which went off without a hitch.

The useless wrangler? She got to stay behind and scoop poop while the Boss’s son and I took out the ride. To this day, she has no idea what she did or why she was punished.

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The Great Escape

My bed at the bunkhouse – seriously – was the most comfortable bed I’d ever laid my weary body on. It could have been just because of the extreme exhaustion that plagued my body from day after day of fourteen-hour workdays. Or it could have been because the pen was located just twenty yards from my window and I could hear the soft shuffling of the horses at night – they were every bit as tired as the wranglers, so there were very few scuffles in the pen at night.


One night, though, I woke up to a different type of shuffling and snuffling. I immediately chalked the new sound up to VW Bear, who had been checking in on our dumpster ever since his first successful break-in. I lay in bed, thanking my lucky stars that he was on the backside of the bunkhouse and didn’t seem at all interested in the dumpster, which was located far on the other side of the building. I had a tense moment when I swore VW snuffled right at my window, a mere eighteen inches away from my head on the pillow, and cracked open just enough to let a breeze in.

I breathed a sigh of relief when VW moved away from the window, toward the pen, but I knew that he wouldn’t bother to attack the horses – bears are lazy by nature and a pen full of forty horses would be just too much darn trouble, especially with all of the full dumpsters in the neighborhood.

Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell one of the horses that VW wouldn’t bother with them. Whichever horse got stuck with sentry duty sounded the alarm when VW got too close to the pen and it was instant chaos. The pen went from quiet shuffling to stampede in about half a second flat. Normally, the horses would have just made a few panicked laps around the pen and settled down once they realized that VW was outside the pen, uninterested, just passing by, and they were safe inside the pen. Normally.

I don’t know what caused the horses to try the gate, but they did. Or at least one did and the gate gave way. Suddenly, the night got a whole lot more interesting. By that time, I was up and in my boots. I had intended to just go out to the pen fence to try to calm them down, but – damn – now they were loose in the yard. If I acted quickly enough, I might be able to keep them in the yard and off the mountain.

I stepped out of the bunkhouse and into the yard, right in front of the leading horses. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I called, trying to keep my voice calm. “Just chill out, you’re okay. Sshhh.” I’d gotten the lead horses to pause in their escape. They looked at me, like I know you, you’re the boss. I had every intention of just blocking their way to the road until I could get some reinforcements to help herd them back into the pen. Things were going according to my plan right up until somebody came slamming out of the other end of the bunkhouse, yelling. I have no idea what they were yelling, but it was enough to startle the horses and start up the panic again. Since I was blocking the way to the road, the smart ones in the back whirled and took off out of the yard and up the mountain. Four or five managed to squeeze by me and head down the road. The night, at that point, officially became a disaster.

I heard my parent’s van start up and realized that they were coming to help, despite the fact that they didn’t work for the livery and had been sound asleep in their own bed at the B&B when the manure hit the fan. My mom appeared at my side with a couple of halters and Bill was in the van, swinging around the block, hoping to head off the horses on the road and herd them back to the yard. The Barn Boss hopped in the truck and tried blocking the other exit from the yard, but it was far, far too late. I could already hear the horses scrambling up the switchback on the mountain.

Bill managed to herd the escapees from the road back into the yard, but they heard their buddies up on the mountain and skirted the truck to go join the rest of them. Damn. Well past the witching hour and we had horses loose on the mountain. Not much to do but go get them.

Mom and I started hiking up the switchback, each with a couple of halters. We knew that if we could get our hands on just one or two and lead them back, the rest would follow. Bill took off in the van to make sure that there weren’t any horses running up and down the highway. In all honesty, I was so focused on getting up the mountain I don’t remember what the Barn Boss was doing. Mom, Bill and I worked so well together, that we kind of shut out the “real” boss.

The moon wasn’t too terribly bright, but bright enough that we could see the trail without the use of a flashlight. We had decided against taking a flashlight because the horses hadn’t been desensitized to them and we didn’t want to drive them deeper into the forest. Once we got into the trees, we stepped off the trail and just listened for them in the darkness.

We could hear them headed toward the meadow, so we split up to circle around behind them. Mom moved out ahead of me to go toward the east end of the meadow and I headed straight down into it. After a few minutes of travel in the trees, I could hardly see my hand in front of my face and knew that I was flirting with disaster so I just stopped. I could hear the horses shuffling around, very close to my position, and hoped that they would get curious and come up to me. They knew my smell and I knew that they would be able to scent me out if they were interested. There were moments when I would have sworn that they were within just a couple of feet of me – I could feel them circling up around, but I didn’t want to move because I didn’t want to set them off again. I decided to let them make the first move. I kept murmuring that it was okay, that I’d take them home if they’d come see me.

I heard the Barn Boss’ and one of the wrangler’s voices on the trail and saw the bobbing flashlights as they rode up on two of the Boss’ personal horses. Unfortunately, the horses also heard and saw them coming and took off in a frenzy again.

Mom came back up from the trail to the meadow muttering under her breath about the horses being scared off a second time. She, too, had a small herd surrounding her in the trees and we both felt that if we’d had just another ten minutes before being interrupted, we’d’ve been able to bring them back home.

We met up with the Boss and another wrangler on the main trail and gave them an approximate location of the horses. Boss decided to push on to see if they could round them up and herd them back to the livery. Mom and I headed back; she and Bill went back to the B&B to see if they could salvage a little bit of the night before they had to get up and cook for thirty guests. I stayed up until Boss returned an hour later empty handed, at which point he decided to leave the horses on the mountain until the next morning.

Breyer Horses

The one thing that I’ve learned is to always trust my horse. There are some horses that can’t be trusted, just like there are some humans who can’t be trusted, and I’ve been on a few of those. They are very uncomfortable to ride; I really don’t enjoy riding a horse I don’t trust. I’m sure that horses don’t enjoy riders they don’t trust as well. Estes and I bonded pretty darn well. Let’s be realistic – I fell head over heels in love with that little mare – and she more than tolerated me. It was a good foundation.


During one of the brief dry spells during the Summer of Rain, Estes and I took a fairly large ride of eight out. The sky was overcast and it was cold, but it looked like the rain would hold off long enough for us to get our one-hour ride in. There’s only so much hanging out around the barn I can do before I start getting cranky and she was feeling the same way. We loaded up and headed out. Estes was her usual, jiggy self, but by that time, I had quit stressing out about it and started enjoying it. She was feeling good about having a job to do, and so was I.

We were moving along at a pretty good clip, all of the horses had been cooped up for too long and it felt good for them to stretch their legs. We had safely run the gauntlet, crossed the street and parking lot (always an adventure), and were making good time along the trail toward our next road crossing. I had turned back to the guests to tell them about the upcoming stairs and explain how we would go down them (don’t stop, keep your horse moving) when I felt Estes stop cold. One moment we were cruising along, making good time and the next, we just…stopped. I did a lousy job of concealing my surprise. Estes never just stops. Ever. It’s just not in her.

I turned back from the guests and gave her a little kick in the side. I never had to put my heels to her to get her to move – in order to mount up, I had to master the running mount – so the sudden stop was completely out of character. She had magically transformed into a life-sized Breyer horse, as had all of the horses in line behind us. My ride looked like live people had been arranged on a whole herd of beautiful life-sized Breyer horses - they were all absolutely frozen in place. 

I gave her another kick and nothing happened. She was obviously focused on something other than me and no amount of kicking was going to get her to move. I was initially irritated, then frustrated, and then concerned. Estes wouldn’t even flick an ear no matter how hard I kicked her.  I had ceased to exist in Estes' world.

I was speechless and just helplessly shrugged at my guests. This was a whole new situation for me and I was at a loss as how to handle it. I made the decision to dismount, take a hold Estes’ bridle and lead her down the trail. Just as I shifted my weight to dismount, Estes gave a sigh and un-froze.  Before we began moving down the trail, she flicked her ear at me and gave me a look that very clearly said, "you wanna try and put your heels to me again lady?" The horses in line behind me also came out of their mannequin state and followed along as if nothing had happened. It was crazy and I had no idea what the heck had just happened.

We made it down the stairs, negotiated the second road crossing without any problems and left the weird Breyer horse moment behind us. The guests and I picked up our conversation and we were chatting as we rode along, mostly about what could have caused the all of the horses to behave the way they did.

The rain didn’t quite hold off as long as I wanted it to and it started spitting. We were already wearing our rain gear (better to be safe than sorry!), so I wasn’t worried about having to stop and get them geared up. I checked on them, then glanced down at the trail ahead of me and my heart jumped into my throat.

Right there, running up the middle of the trail, were mountain lion tracks. The spitting rain had turned into raining in earnest, but there was no rain in the tracks, that’s how fresh they were. They were freaking HUGE and deep. The mountain lion that had just used the trail was no little kitty, it was a large, well-fed adult and it had to be nearby.

Crap, now what? I didn’t want to tip my hand to the guests that there was a lion in the immediate vicinity, but I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’m sure I looked pretty funny, leaning down as far as I could from the saddle to get as close a look as I could at the tracks. Nope, they hadn’t changed. They were still from a mountain lion. They were still not full of water. They were still HUGE and deep. Which meant that there was still a lion close to us.

I did the first thing I could think of, I guided Estes right down the middle of the trail and prayed that her hoof prints would obliterate the lion tracks and that the guests wouldn’t notice. I kept up the chatter as much as I could and kept an eye on the trees that seemed a whole heck of a lot closer than they should have been.

Initially, I wanted to turn the ride back to the livery, but then I had an epiphany about what had happened during the Breyer horse moment…Estes had sensed the lion and stopped until it was safe for us to continue. Since she was not at all concerned once we reached the lion tracks, I felt comfortable continuing the ride, if she wasn’t worried about the mountain lion, then I guess I didn’t need to be either.

I never said a word to my guests about the tracks or why the ride had come to an abrupt halt and I’m pretty sure that they don’t know about it (or didn’t until now).

***Don't forget to vote - right now it's a 3-way tie, which is no help at all!***

Racing The Storm

Afternoon storms and rapidly changing weather are just facts of life in the mountains of Colorado. My bunkhouse roommate only made fun of me one time when she saw me putting my silk long-johns on under my Wranglers for an all day ride. The very next day she was sent out on an all day and did not head my warning to “layer up”. She and her ride got snowed on. In July. She never laughed about it again.

One of the most spectacular rides in all of the Wild Basin area is the ride to Ouzel Lake and is not for the faint of heart. The ride takes hours and covers 9.9 miles from the trailhead, gaining over 1,500 feet in elevation. I took a family of four to Ouzel Lake one day and we were having a fabulous time. Despite the fact that they’d been in the saddle almost three hours, they were still in good spirits and absolutely enthralled with the view. Most guests relax quite a bit after we leave the human herds behind at Ouzel Falls, and these were no exception.

The weather was perfect. We had blue sky as far as we could see, which on a mountain ridge above 9,000 feet, is pretty far. We rode through the burn area, an area that was completely scorched by a lightning-strike fire in 1978, commenting on the amount of recovery that had occurred in almost thirty years. From a distance, the burn area looks barren, completely void of life. Within the burn area, though, it’s a totally different story. It has taken decades for the forest to recover, but there are now saplings that run six to seven feet tall and it’s teeming with life.

Coming up out of the burn area is my favorite part of the ride to Ouzel Lake – the ridge that runs above Ouzel Creek. For the better part of a mile, the trail makes you feel like you’re on top of the world; the mountain falls sharply away on both sides of the trail. My guests and I came up out of the burn area and started along the ridge. Out of habit, I looked up at the sky to gauge the weather. Yes, it was perfectly clear and sunny, but it was also nearing the mountain’s witching hour – two p.m.

I was only slightly surprised to see clouds building behind us, far to the east. I paid them no attention, as they appeared to be well out over the plains and in my part of Colorado storms move east, not west. They were already well east of us, so that storm wasn’t worth my attention.

I swung my attention to Long’s Peak, not at all surprised to see the clouds building, gathering for the upcoming onslaught. I sent up a quick prayer that anyone who had summitted Long’s was well on their way back to camp. Many people die each year on Long’s Peak after getting caught in an afternoon storm and the storm building that day looked like it could pack a wallop. In no time at all the gentle, fluffy white clouds had coalesced into heavy, gray storm clouds. Now this was the storm I had to keep my eye on. The last place we wanted to be was on a bunch of four-legged lightning rods while riding a trail at the top of the world. It was not a good time to be the tallest object around.

The sun was still shining and the birds chirping, we could hear the little critters rustling in the underbrush. All was still right in our little area of the world, but I worried that it wouldn’t last long. I knew it wouldn’t last long. In fact, I stepped up the pace along the ridge a little bit, praying that we would hit the tree cover before the storm caught us. I mentioned to my guests that we needed to hurry along, but they didn’t quite understand the severity of the situation developing around us. How could they? It was still sunny and warm and they were not from Colorado.

It was a fine line to walk; trying to get them to understand we needed to get to shelter now without panicking them. In their minds, the storm building behind Long’s was hours away. From experience, I knew we had ten – fifteen – minutes, tops before we were in a very bad situation and we were more than fifteen minutes away from the tree cover at the pace we were going.

I looked back – again – to hurry them along and my breath caught in my throat. There was no way I was seeing what I was seeing, but the storm to the east was moving toward us. Rapidly. It still looked like it was a ways off, but knowing that storms move east, not west, hadn’t done us any good, so I couldn’t count on my time estimate on that storm, it wasn’t acting at all the way it was supposed to.

I told the guests that I knew how much they appreciated the beauty surrounding them and that I knew they and their horses were getting tired, but we really, really needed to step up the pace. By that time, the storm had broken over Long’s and had zeroed in on us. Though the sun was still shining brightly, the horses caught their first whiff of the coming storm and stepped it up on their own. I desperately tried to keep an eye on both storms bearing down on us, and in short order, it was much easier to do. With a theatrical crash, the two storms collided.

Now the trick became keeping the horses from bolting. Eerily, the sun was still shining brightly, but the forest around us had gone dead silent. The birds and little critters had disappeared. We were all now in a controlled trot, pivoted backwards in our saddles, watching the two storms battle it out. Halfway to the trees now, and we began to see lightning arcing between the two storms and hear the rumbling thunder as one storm grumbled at the other.

Three-quarters of the way to the trees and we lost the sun. The force of the storm moving from the east had pushed back against the storm from Long’s and it scurried along behind us. Not wanting to allow the horses to bolt out of control, but needing to get off the ridge, I allowed the ride to speed up to a slow lope, keeping a close eye on my riders to make sure they didn’t fall off. Either they had suddenly morphed into excellent riders, or the pucker-factor the storm induced kept them glued to their saddles. Didn’t matter as long as they stayed on their horses as we raced the storm.

The few drops of rain that splashed down just as we made the trees were a welcome relief from the tension of waiting for the storm to catch us. I slowed the pace back to a brisk walk as soon as we were all in the trees, but kept the ride moving until we got to the hitching rail. I hastily tied up the horses, helped the guests dismount, untied their rain slickers from behind their saddles and passed them out so that we had some measure of protection from the impending rain. I led the guests away from the horses into some better shelter. We were all pretty quiet, still waiting for the storms to decide who was going to win.

Though we couldn’t see the battle ensuing between the two storms because of the heavy tree cover, we could certainly hear it and it sounded bad. Then suddenly, it was over. The Long’s Peak storm succeeded in pushing the storm from the east back toward the east. We were lucky to be on the periphery of the storm, as it never really broke over us, and in ten minutes the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the birds were back out.

It’s sobering to think that if we’d left the livery just ten minutes later, or had run into trouble crossing the bridges at the falls, we could have been caught in a tremendous storm. As it was, that ride went down in my books as one of the scariest I’d ever led out.

Hoss Rustlin'

“Mom? There’s someone out with the horses,” my daughter told me, peeking out behind the curtain covering the window above her mattress in the bunkhouse.

I immediately jumped out of my bed and peeked out the door. Sure enough, there were two people in the pen moving around with the horses. It was six-thirty in the morning and I was the only one scheduled – who on earth would be out in the pen with the horses? One of the reasons we always had someone stay in the bunkhouse was to keep people out of the pen. The horses didn’t seem alarmed, but without my contacts I couldn’t see who was out mingling with them.

I peeked out the door again to look at the parking area and sure enough, there was a strange car parked there. How on earth had I not heard them drive up and get in the pen? Since they seemed to be moving with purpose, like they knew what they were doing, I picked up the phone and called the main house to see if we were expecting a vet or farrier, though I was pretty sure that either would have checked in at the bunkhouse and it was early – certainly too early for even a vet or farrier.

By the time I got off the phone with the main house, they had moved two horses from the pen through the barn and tied them to the rail. All I could see, sans contacts, was a brown hat moving between the two horses and I could hear the second person rummaging in the barn. Since the answer from the main house had been negative, we were not expecting a vet or farrier, the only answer we could come up with was that someone thought that they could help themselves to our horses. Hoss rustlers!

My daughter was giving me a running commentary of the happenings in the yard as I pulled on my socks and boots and grabbed the Glock .40 cal I slept with. I decided that I could shoot well enough without my contacts that I didn’t bother with them – all I had to do was aim at the big moving things that weren’t the horses and even as blind as I am, I could tell the difference.

Knowing that making a big, loud exit from the bunkhouse could startle them and give me the advantage, I told my daughter to stay put and slammed the door open, jumped out of the doorway to the ground and started yelling, “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing with my horses?!?” I must have been a sight; hair piled up on top of my head in a mushroom, gray long-sleeved t-shirt, shiny, blue pajama bottoms and brown cowboy boots. I continued bellowing as I stalked toward the pen, trying to get a look at the people with my horses. I kept my gun down by my side in my left hand, keeping my dominant hand free to grab a lead rope if I needed. I could see one person between the horses and the other stepped out of the barn as I was yelling.

“It’s me,” came the reply from the person between the horses. By this time I’d built up a good head of steam – “it’s me” meant absolutely nothing to me.

“Who?” I bellowed back, knowing full well that I did not know the person exiting the barn.

“Ken” he answered. Ken. My brother-in-law, and a part-time wrangler. “Juanita said I could take a couple of the horses out today.”

About that time, my daughter poked her head out the door of the bunkhouse and hollered, “Mom! Grandpa says not to shoot Ken! Grandma said he could take a friend out today.”

Well, hell, here I was, wide awake now and lookin’ to shoot me some hoss rustlers and it was just my brother-in-law. Couldn’t shoot him. Crap. That’s okay, I s’pose, ‘cause it just wouldn’t have been right to shoot hoss rustlers with a handgun that wasn’t even a six-shooter. For that I’d’ve needed a pump-action 12 gauge.

Falling In Love

After our first ride together, Estes and I got partnered up, she became “my” wrangler horse. None of the other wranglers would have anything to do with her, except for my parents, but they had their own personal horses to ride. Riding Estes was a lot of fun once I mastered the running mount and learned to relax. I realized that when she was “acting up”, she wasn’t about to hurt me, she just felt good and wanted to go. At fifteen years old, you would think that she would have learned to stand quietly, but that just wasn’t in her. If she couldn’t go, she’d dance in place. Standing still just wasn’t her thing. The first few times I rode her, I’d get stressed out by her jigging, but then I’d set her to a job and she was rock solid. I could tighten cinches from her back, adjust guests, pass things back and forth between guests and nothing would disturb her, she’d just stand quiet as a lamb.

The more we worked together, the more in tune to each other we became. I was slowly falling in love with Estes, but she just tolerated me. Her daughter, Meeker, was also one of our ranch-horses-turned-livery-horses and looked just like Estes. When they would get muddy, we’d have to scrape the mud from their hocks, just above their hooves, to tell them apart. Estes has two socks, Meeker has three. Meeker may have inherited Estes’ looks, but certainly not her temperament. Estes was very stand-offish, she tolerated people, but never showed any affection. Meeker, on the other hand, loved everybody. I don’t know that Meeker’s ever met a stranger. If I ever needed equine therapy, a horse just to cuddle with, it was Meeker, not Estes that I spent time with. Estes could take me or leave me, it seemed.

There was one ride that I was working with my mom. I was riding drag and knew that there was a wedding scheduled. Whenever we had a wedding scheduled, we knew we’d have to be on poop patrol. Brides don’t like having to avoid horse droppings, no matter how quaint it was to have horses riding by outside the tent. We normally did poop patrol in the evenings after the livery closed, but on days with weddings scheduled, we cleaned up almost before the poop hit the ground. Of course, on the return ride, less than a half an hour before the wedding was to begin, one of the horses had to go. Right in the middle of the “Bridal Path”. Knowing that I had to get it cleaned up, Estes and I peeled away from the ride and trotted ahead to the livery. I tied her to the fence, grabbed a manure fork and headed out through the yard to the scene of the crime. I ran past the returning ride, cleaned up the mess, raked the wood chips back into place and ran back to the livery. I pitched the manure fork through the fence toward the barn and went around to the staging area to help unload the ride.

Imagine my surprise when I turned the corner, looked over at Estes and saw that she was standing at attention, ears forward, watching for me. As soon as she saw me, her eyes softened, her body posture relaxed and she nickered at me. That was the most affection she’d ever shown anyone and it about brought me to tears. My heart filled with joy, the Heavens opened up and the Angels sang. At that instant I knew I was head-over-heels in love with that little bay mare…and that she might have a place in her heart for me, too.

The Headless Horsewoman

Very early in my career as a wrangler – long before I realized that despite all of my hours in a saddle I knew nothing about horses – I had an experience that will stick with me the rest of my life…

I had just returned from a ride and was riding my horse toward the wrangler rail, intending to tie up there. Magic, the little black mare I was on, had other ideas. It was late. She was tired. And cranky. And hungry. And she was going to go to the pen to eat and sleep with or without me.

I tried turning her away from the barn toward the rail, but she was having none of it. I had made the potentially fatal mistake of thinking I was home and I “quit” riding, meaning that my focus was already elsewhere, not on the horse. Magic, who was much smarter than me, took advantage of my lapse and took control. She bolted toward the breezeway through the barn and was well underway by the time I gathered up the reins to try to get her back under control, or at least turned away from the barn. I snatched at the reins and pulled with all the strength my hundred and thirty pound body had; it was like trying to stop a freight train.

Each stride took me closer to certain decapitation. All I could see was the corrugated tin roof of the barn at throat level getting closer and closer. It dawned on me that I’d need to lean forward over her neck to avoid becoming the headless horsewoman. I’d just given up on trying to stop her and leaned over the saddle horn, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

The barn boss stepped out of the office doorway with a 2x4 and took a mighty swing just as we entered the breezeway. He caught Magic right across the chest, shattering the 2x4 in the process. Magic immediately reared up, spun around and dove toward the rail. It didn’t matter to her that the dude rail, where the entire string of guest horses were tied, was full. She just needed to get away from the crazy, 2x4-wielding man. She pushed her way between two horses tied to the rail and reared up again when she realized that she was trapped – there was literally no where for her to go with the chest-high metal rail blocking her escape. She was so close to the rail when she reared up that she didn’t have room to come back down, so she improvised and balanced on her back legs with one foreleg on the rail. Miraculously, I was still on her back; not really a good place to be. If one of the horses to either side decided to kick out at her, I would end up on the ground, under all of those hooves and I did not want that. I sat, frozen, in the saddle afraid to move a muscle, afraid to unbalance her.

From behind me, I heard a completely calm voice, “just stay there, she’ll come down on her own.” Yeah, right, like I was going to move; I couldn’t even bring myself to nod my head.

It seemed like an eternity that Magic and I stayed there, until her breathing calmed down and her panic abated. And then the shaking started. The adrenaline that had given her the strength to stay rock steady on the rail subsided with her panic and she started shaking with the effort of maintaining such an awkward pose. I knew at that point that she was going to collapse and I’d be under all those shuffling hooves.

She managed to pull herself together and with a powerful heave, pushed herself up off the rail. We landed with a thump, all four legs in their proper place on the ground and me still in my proper place in the saddle.

The very next day, the barn boss installed a gate across the breezeway to avoid any similar situations from happening. The gate was a pain in the rear end to deal with, especially at the end of the day when we were all tired and cranky, but I never once complained about it. Unfortunately, a few years ago, another barn boss took over the livery and soon thereafter removed the gate. Within a short period of time, there was another incident in which a horse was tired, cranky, hungry and headed for the pen. The wrangler on that horse got lucky in that she only spent one night in the hospital after being knocked unconscious and dragged through the barn.

A Dead Fly and a Long Hair

I got back from my first ride with the writer and her friend much more relaxed than when I'd left and was immediately sent out on a 2-hour with a father-son team. They rode pretty well, so I took them along a trail that takes a bit more riding skill than most of our guests have. We had a great time crossing beaver ponds, exploring meadows and circling the top of the mountain.

On the last leg of the trip home – within a half a mile of the livery – the son's horse, Rocky, set to bucking. He'd been kicking at a fly on his belly, and we all thought he got it. Ha! That damn fly just moved under the rear cinch and bit the hell out of the poor horse. So, I pulled up Sundance and blocked Rocky's way. The wrangler horse that I usually ride, RC, would have just bumped Rocky to brace him and been done with it, but not Sundance. She wanted nothing to do with a bigger horse bucking into her. Thank God the kid could ride. He just sucked himself down into the saddle and went with it. I dismounted and reached for his lead rope, hoping that Sundance would stay in a blocking position, but NO, she's a chicken and hid behind me, so that when Rocky bucked into me, he knocked me back into Sundance, who then decided to move and I fell on my arse. 'Twas wonderful! There’s nothing quite like laying on your back with an eleven hundred pound draft cross bucking over you.

I let go of Sundance’s reins, hoping that she wouldn’t realize that home was so close and choose to leave without me, and scooted back out of the way. Once I scrambled back to my feet, I managed to calm Rocky down enough to reach under him and kill the damn fly. By that time the adrenaline was really pumping, so I may have obliterated the fly, rather than just kill it, with the big wind up and slap I gave that poor horse’s belly. The rider had a grin that like to split his face and appeared to have had a great time riding out the bucks. Deep sigh! I retrieved Sundance, who had wandered off to graze, mounted back up and traveled the 100 yards to the top of the hill. We got to the switch-back and, lo and behold, the guys had done some trail maintenance and re-routed the path down the switch-back. Guess who loved that? You got it – the chicken, Sundance! She was already worked up about Rocky bucking and being pulled away from her grazing, and now I was asking her to take a new way down the switch-back. Right. Like that was going to happen. So I dismounted and lead her down, which suited her just fine. I guess she thought she could hide behind me again if there was anything scary on the “new” switch-back. The other horses followed me without a problem and I was beginning to think life is good again. Ha!

I mounted back up (again) and start down to the road. Seriously, not 10 feet and Sundance started choking. I can't figure out what's wrong, but hop down anyway to see if she's got grass stuck on her bit and can't find anything. By this time, she's good and worked up and wouldn't let me re-mount, so I lead her down to the road, where it's nice and flat and I figured I had a better chance of mounting up. Double ha! When we got to the road, she was in serious panic mode and there was no way on God's green earth that she was going to let me back up. She was going to the livery with or without me. I'm just thankful I managed to keep her from backing into all of the cars that were passing (because why would they slow down and stop if they saw a horse acting up?). I finally said forget it and lead her back to the yard (with lots of circling because she kept trying to run me over). My riders were still with me and full of patience (bless them). Of course, the first person I ran into in the yard is the one wrangler I believe to be a waste of perfectly good oxygen, who demands to know what happened, and did I see those dogs who were off-leash? Implying that I'd been dumped off of Sundance rather than dismounting on my own to try to fix the problem. Boss must have seen the look on my face, because he appeared out of nowhere. I told him that Sundance was choking on something and I needed to deal with her, so he unloaded my ride for me.

I unbridled Sundance, and sure enough, there was a glob of mane or tail hair that had been in the grass she'd been grazing that had gotten wrapped around her bit, with a piece about 8 inches long that was trying to go down her throat each time she swallowed. I would have panicked too. I hate loose hair, and wet hair will immediately set me to puking. I'm pretty proud of the fact that I got that green, slimy, nasty hair unwound from the bit without throwing up! Of course, I had the dry heaves for a long time after I made sure she was okay.

Raja

Sometimes, a horse just works their way into my heart. I didn’t mean it to happen, but there was one, in particular, that wormed her way into my heart, though I fought it kicking and screaming.

Raja was a bad tempered, ill-mannered mare. As with most livery horses, she was bought at auction so her lineage was questionable - she looked like a Belgian - but I wouldn’t have bet my paycheck on it. What I did know was that she had absolutely no respect for human space and was a bully. She was caught in the pen easily enough, but would run you over as soon as walk beside you. She’d charge the gate when we’d open it to drive the feed truck in and God help you if you didn’t get out of the way. Once she learned the end-of-day routine, she would practically drag any wrangler who had the misfortune of being the one to break her down. Good luck getting her to stop at the tack room to remove her tack. It took two wranglers to break her down; one to stand in her way and hold her back as much as possible, and another to strip off her tack. More than once she attempted to run down the wrangler manning the gate into the pen. Because she was so unpleasant to handle and be around, she got very little positive personal attention. The grooming she did get was cursory at best and it was sometimes a draw as to whether or not she’d get her belly brushed. On days when she felt like it, it was all good. On other days, the wrangler risked getting his or her hand broken by a flying hoof.

Raja was the bane of my existence for her first few weeks at the livery. Then one day I had enough. I was the wrangler unfortunate enough to have to lead her to the tack room to be broken down and she pushed me around and stepped on me one too many times. I had absolutely had it with her and decided we needed a Come-to-Jesus meeting right then and there. The other wrangler who was helping break down just laughed when I said that Raja and I needed to have a little talk. I’m sure that the other wrangler’s money was on the horse, not me. Heck, if I’d been him, I’d’ve bet on the horse too, but I was done with being bullied by this ill-mannered mare.

I pulled Raja to a stop in the breezeway and reached up to grab hold of her halter; I practically had to hang on it to get her to lower her head. Once she did, I got in her face to make sure that she saw me. Then I not-so-calmly told her that I would not tolerate any more of her crap and that, by God, from now on she was going to behave herself. Period. No ifs, ands, or buts. I was finished with her antics and I would make her life a living hell if she didn’t straighten out.

Now, I didn’t think my rant through very well, because, honestly, I’m not sure how I would have made her life any more hellacious than it already was. As I made sure she knew I was there and told her what the rules were, it dawned on me that we had made life as unpleasant for her as she had for us. Not a single one of us wranglers had given her the time of day; we’d written her off as a total loss. We needed her to haul our guests around, but that’s about all of the consideration we gave her because of her temperament. What was wrong with us? What was wrong with me that I could treat a horse so indifferently? I’d certainly not abused or neglected Raja, but I was guilty of doing the bare minimum for her and nothing more.

Raja and I came to an understanding that evening. She was a horse who needed – craved - strong leadership, needed to know exactly what the rules were and needed them enforced consistently. I promised to lay out the rules and enforce them and she promised to try to behave. She and I never became best buddies, but we did develop a mutual respect and gradually my heart warmed up to her. The other wranglers continued to have problems with her; she continued to run them over and step on them and in general, ignore their existence.

A couple of weeks after Raja and I came to our understanding, she had to be taken over to the main livery to have her shoes replaced. I was there when she was unloaded from the trailer upon her return and couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew that it was standard policy to “box” all Drafts, but hadn’t thought much about it until I saw Raja’s eye.

Because there are so many horses who need shoes, the horse shoers (not ferriers) had a policy of putting every Draft horse in the “box”, a large squeeze-chute contraption that the horses were loaded into, the walls closed down tight (squeezed), then the whole contraption is rotated onto its side, horse and all. It’s a quick and efficient way to control a horse and get shoes on all four hooves.

But not all horses like being boxed. Raja was one of them and fought the shoers with everything she had. Even once she was squeezed she continued to fight the only way she could, which was to swing her head side to side and move it up and down. The result was that she came out of the chute looking like Rocky Balboa. Her right eye was swollen almost completely shut and most of the skin was rubbed off.

I could have cried when I saw Raja’s eye. She and I had come so far; we weren’t friends by a long shot, but I felt so guilty about her treatment by the shoers. I wasn’t the one doling out the treatment, but would it have killed those guys to take even just thirty seconds to calm her down before putting her in the box? I know the answer – they had too many horses to do and not enough time to do them. And, honestly, she wasn’t an easy horse to get along with.

The worst thing was that Raja lost a little bit of her spunk and fight after being boxed. The other wranglers didn’t see it; she still ran them over and stepped on them, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore, she just didn’t care. She wasn’t exerting her independence anymore; she just didn’t give a damn.

That, not the eye, was the worst thing that ever happened to Raja. It broke my heart the rest of the season to watch her go about her work and not care. I still took extra care with her and she still responded to me well, but she was well and truly broken. Just thinking about it still breaks my heart and brings tears to my eyes.

Ranch Horses as Livery Horses

My parents were asked to run a nearby livery a few years ago. The offer was made at the last minute, literally days before the opening of the season, and there were no lease horses to be found. The local horse distributer, who runs over 1,800 head of horses nationwide, didn’t have any to spare. We had a livery, but no livestock, and the clock was ticking. In passing, my parents mentioned to the ranch owners where they buy hay the dilemma they were in. The ranchers had a solution – we could lease their ranch horses. The ranch owner told us we’d be doing him a favor of sorts by keeping his animals in shape over the summer. It was perfect! We only needed ten or so, as my parents had been able to secure a handful from friends of theirs in Arizona who ran a dude ranch. It was the perfect solution! Mountain ranch horses; they were healthy, they were in shape, and they were ready to rock and roll. They also had only been ridden by a few different people – members of the family – all of whom grew up on horseback, and they’d just come off of winter pasture and spring round-up.

Our shiny, new-to-us livery set up was about as perfect as any livery I’ve ever seen. We had a small outdoor area where we could have our safety briefing with some benches and a picnic table; the staging area where the horses were tied to the hitching posts, which were arranged in a U-shape; and a barn that connected the front staging area with the pen. The pen had a tall cross-buck fence and was more than large enough for our small herd. The livery was beautiful! Whoever designed the layout was a genius.

With the layout, we could hold our safety briefings and have every guest sign the waiver without them ever coming near a horse. The U-shaped hitch posts were perfect for matching up horse and rider; the riders safely ensconced within the “U” and the horses tied on the outside. The barn that connected the pen to staging area was the perfect place to saddle the horses; we pulled them from the pen, tied them in the walk-through, saddled them from the open tack room and lead them out directly to the hitching post.

Delivery day was unbelievable! There wasn’t much time for the anticipation to build, as it does at other liveries, since getting up and running at the last minute was such a whirlwind of activity. Opening the back of the trailer was unlike any Delivery day. I’m sure we all looked like kids on Christmas morning - we got shiny, new-to-us horses for our own shiny, new-to-us livery. Each horse prompted a round of “oohs” and “aahs” as they were unloaded from the trailer. They were all shapes, sizes, and colors, but they all were sturdy, well put-together and had intelligent, soft eyes. After all of the horses were delivered, we spent hours – well into the evening – just sitting on the fence watching the horses get used to their new home and us.

Then the work began, as it does at every livery. The Delivery Day honeymoon is very short-lived, about twenty-four hours. The newness wears off quickly as the work begins.

With our shiny new-to-us ranch horses, in our shiny, new-to-us livery, we just felt eager anticipation to get started. We had no clue what we were getting ourselves in to. In all fairness, my parents bore the brunt of the work, while I helped out after work and on weekends to get the horses acclimated and re-trained to be trail horses. The ranch horses were amazing horses, every last one of them. They were a joy to ride. They had impeccable ground manners, soft mouths, were responsive to leg cues, and could think for themselves.

They had also never seen a trail.

The concept of “stay on the trail” was absolutely foreign to them. Their faces reflected their initial confusion and you could almost hear them thinking, “Jeez, what if there is something interesting behind that bush? Or maybe that bush? What about that bush waaaaayyy over there?”

The concept of “single file” was also a bit disconcerting to them. On the ranch they worked as a team, each within sight of the other. They read each other’s body language so well it was like they communicated telepathically. Once they figured out the concept of single file, they adapted unbelievably well and continued to work as a team. The wrangler leading the ride really didn’t have to do much work as far as pacing the ride went; the horses would speed up or slow down to keep even spacing between them and would look back at the horses behind them frequently to make sure they were all still together. Of course, the wrangler still needed to check to make sure all of the saddles were still occupied – the horses didn’t care if the guests fell off as long as they were all accounted for.

As smart as the horses were it didn’t take us long to begin to feel comfortable with the thought of putting other, less experience people on them. We had the basics, after all. They knew to “stay on the trail” in a “single file” line and knew each of us well enough that they would respond to our vocal commands if they “forgot” the rules just long enough to check out the bush over there. So we invited our friends up to ride and began hiring and training new wranglers. The pre-season progressed without a hitch. The wranglers were ready. The horses were ready. Nothing could go wrong, we would be the best run livery in the area and people would come from all over the world just to ride our amazing new-to-us ranch horses at our amazing new-to-us livery!