Mine is a horse-poor outfit. I’m aware that the term “horse-poor” is subject to interpretation, and I’ve seen it thrown around and used in a variety of ways in the ranching world. I hesitate to use it, lest I give the wrong impression. In my case, the wrong impression may very well be the correct one, but that also may be an image of me that I’d rather not perpetuate to a large extended audience. Nevertheless, if I must perpetuate, I most surely will, but only for the sake of a good story.
We bought Louie a few years back at one of those weekend consignment horse sales at the fairgrounds in Tremonton, Utah. As a rule, it’s wise to be wary at such sales. I tell myself I won’t bid on anything I haven’t seriously vetted ahead of time, but if I’m at an auction, and I have a bidder’s number, you can never be too sure of what might happen. I’d scoped out a couple of decent candidates before the sale, but as is usually the case, I wasn’t the only interested party, and as quickly as they entered the ring, they entered the bidding stratosphere that was way out of my league.
Enter Louie. A ranchy-looking 20-something Wyoming kid rode him into the ring. The horse seemed to have a pretty good handle, and the picture and description in the catalog depicted him working pasture yearlings in the Bighorn Basin. He wasn’t a real looker, but he was passable – almost 16 hands, kind of fine-boned, but stout in his muscle makeup. And … I was at an auction with an empty trailer. After I settled up with the clerk, I made my way out to check on my purchase. The young buck who rode Louie through the ring was nowhere to be found (not a good sign), so I loaded up my purchase and headed north.
The big sorrel has proven to be a pretty handy horse, but only on the days he isn’t lame. He’s leery of anyone with a halter, and it’s taken some time and patience (not always plentiful in my realm) to gain his trust. Regardless of the deficiencies, old Louie has found a place on my place. He’s not much good on consecutive days, but he can usually manage a good day now and then, if it’s not required more than once a week.
My siblings are not unfamiliar with the occasional late-night call from me with an earnest plea for some cheap labor the following day. It’s usually not for a huge project. Most often, it’s for some little cowboying project where I need an extra body on a horse to plug a hole or help sort out that odd bull or open cow that needs to go to the Thursday sale. My sister and her daughters, who live just a couple of miles down the road, are the most frequent recipients of my calls for cheap day help. And by cheap, I mean they take their pay in ranchy Instagram “photo ops.” I used to have plenty of good, sound, broke horses for my nieces to ride, but the last couple of years have seen that portion of the horse herd depleted by the effects of time and bad luck. We still make do, but these events remind me more and more of how I need to get some rides on the young horses.
One day this summer, I needed to gather some cows out of a pivot in preparation to send them on the mountain the following day. Once again, I’d enlisted the help of my relatives. I was expecting my sister and one of my nieces. They showed up at the tack shed at the appointed time, but instead of one daughter, my sister showed up with two. They weren’t all necessarily expecting a horse, but since they were there, I figured I’d supply them each with a pony. All of the trusty old mounts they were used to weren’t in service that day, but I figured Louie would work fine for one of them for the day.
We trailered out to the pivot and unloaded the horses. Sadie, my 18-year-old niece, had a year of college under her belt so I figured she was worldly enough to handle Louie for the morning. I didn’t expect any trouble. He’d never done anything real goofy, though his nature was to never be too trusting of any two-legged creature. By the same token, Sadie had never done anything too goofy herself, so I figured the two would get along just fine for the morning.
As we trotted out to gather the cows, I barely gave a second thought to the possibilities of a ranch rodeo, but barely five minutes into the project, I glanced to my left and caught a little action going on. Old Louie had bogged his head and was snorting his way across the field. I hollered at Sadie to pull his head around, but by that time, she’d blown both stirrups, and I could tell she was in that space where everything seems to be spinning at a speed that’s a gear or two above your pay grade.
At a pace somewhere between a genuine buck and a crow hop, the big red horse started to make a lap around the field, somehow managing to leap over each pivot track with a grace I’d never seen from him. Sadie was all over the place, from in front of the swells to behind the cantle, and with every snort and hop, I expected her to topple off. But to my, and I’m sure her own amazement, after a good 12 seconds that seemed more like a minute, Sadie somehow managed to get Louie’s head up and bring him to a stop.
Now, Sadie’s always been willing to help, but she’s no bronc rider. I fully expected her to step off of the horse, hand me the reins and walk back to the pickup, but to her everlasting credit, she simply stuck both feet in the stirrups that hung just a little too long for her and trotted off to gather some wayward calves in the far corner of the field.
I know this story may be just a little too cliché, but it gives me a little more resolve to just shut up, suck it up and get back to life, regardless of how hard it is and how scared I may be. I owe you one, Sadie.
