If I may make a confession, I’d like to say that I have purposely neglected everything but the ranch and the horses and the dogs all summer long. I haven’t checked my email since sometime in May.
I have been daily training pups, helping them learn the ‘dry commands’ like ‘come’ and ‘down’ and ‘heel’ while helping my parents keep things up. And I have been doing things like halter breaking my filly, riding my own and my sisters’ horses since she has been gone most of the time, and helping my grandfather with his cattle. I saw it hot and dry here until the very tail end of June. Then it started raining. About 3 weeks ago, we got four inches in one day, and the house flooded. We had to sweep the water out the door with brooms.
I went with a small documentary film crew last week to Colorado and Wyoming. We rode up in the Rockies on mules and filmed the Oliver Ranch crew driving their cattle to summer country. That was Colorado. Further down the road we met and interviewed Miss Rodeo Wyoming and spent a whole day observing three different bands of wild Mustangs in the Great Divide Basin. The week finished out with getting some footage and photographs of the Cheyenne Frontier Days in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
This week, I found out that my sister Karah is engaged (yippee!) and that my brother, Kile, is finally coming home. My other sister, Callie, turned 17 yesterday. I was given a Border Collie-Cattahoula cross pup as an early Birthday present around the 4th of July. Her name is Beque (pronounced ‘Bek’). She’s a tiny thing, but she’s been a welcome source of joy and amusement as I contemplate returning to Virginia.
I must be honest. The prospect of heading east is truly depressing. I wonder-again-if this is what God really wants me to do. When I hear nothing from Him, by way of signs and wonders, I ask, “Father, is that your final answer?” Silence from God is ok when the question belongs on the shelf. ‘God, will I live to be 80?’ No answer. ‘Ah. No big deal.’ But the urgent questions, like, “Should I transfer to a different school?”-inquiries of this type make me anxious when I don’t hear from God. I find myself thinking about how I can get an answer out of Him. While I’m at it, I may as well get the answer I want. But herein is another difficulty. I want a PHC education. I want the diploma, too. I know that may be solely because so many people told me I couldn’t do it. But is it right to shut the windows of my soul, coil up my dreams and my natural gifts and live in a stuffy back east town? Am I going the wrong way?
I do not even know my own mind. How can I manipulate God, the Universe Maker? Confession again: I’m wrong to try. I’m selfish. I’m…scared. The bottom line is that I need to draw a deep breath and trust Him one more time. Whatever He says, I need to be ready to hear it.
To those of you who will, please pray for me to be ready for the answer that I know is coming. Thank you all for your patience with me.
25.7.08
Hank the Cowhorse
The horses we use on a ranch are not all special. Some of them are just horses. Some of them are outlaws. But some of them have a way of warming your heart with a good character and an honest willingness to please. Believe it or not, character counts for horses, too.
On a dry spring about 14 years ago, I met Hank for the first time. The one broodmare we had, a buckskin named Jenny, had been turned out on the Robinson ranch all winter. I remember rattling out in the feed truck to the Buzzard Well, searching the brushy hillside for a glimpse of Jenny. It was about time for her to foal, and we needed to find her.
Mom was driving, and although I now know it’s not a good idea, I was using the binoculars out the truck window. (Looking through binoculars from a moving truck makes you sick…trust me.) Mom honked the horn and sure enough, Jenny topped out over a ridge. Clinging tightly beside her was a flickering red flame. As they came closer, I realized that it wasn’t fire-it was a coppery sorrel colt. Solid red from nose to tail, he only had a little white marking on his left hind leg. I was impressed with him at the time, thinking he would someday become a famous halter horse or race horse or something like that. When you’re little you don’t realize that there are limits to things. No ranch raised Quarter Horse has ever won the Triple Crown. But I was happy with my dreaming and christened the little fella ‘Hank’.
I got to help halter break him, and he made me proud. He wasn’t the gentlest, but he didn’t throw many fits. When he was a weanling, it became clear he wouldn’t be a world champion halter horse-his big head and Roman nose made him look like a little red pumpjack. So much for pretty. And he wasn’t very big yet-he kinda had short legs. So much for the Triple Crown. I figured he would prove to be the smartest horse anyone had ever seen, so I had my hopes up for him to become a famous cutting horse. Dreams are resilient things when you’re young.
But life interrupted my dreaming, and Hank was sold so we could have enough money to move to my dad’s new job. I was so busy growing up and learning how to be myself in a new place that I let go of Hank completely. It wasn’t until years later that I caught up with him again. I’d had a rough few years but I was still dreaming. By then I was a teenager and had finally gotten the chance to rodeo in the New Mexico High School Rodeo Association. I went looking for a roping horse and lo and behold, I wound up buying back my very own Hank.
Now a full-grown horse, he was stout and muscular with a thin wiry tail and not much of a mane (which made his oversized ears look even more oversized). He had been ridden on ranches and sent to a roping horse trainer. If horses had GPA’s, I reckon his would have been below a 2.0. Luckily, I graded on a curve and took him home.
I hauled Hank for two years to rodeos all around New Mexico. I soon learned his quirks, not the least of which was his claustrophobia, his love of Dr. Pepper, and his uncanny knack for getting hurt. But there was nothing he loved more than roping calves, and nothing he hated more than speed events. Calf roping was his niche. We were often outrun, so both of us finally learned to break quicker and swing quicker-before that calf left us in the dust.
Hank wasn’t just a rodeo horse. That was as much his weekend hobby as it was mine. Dad, Mom, and my sister and I used him for ranch work. He was ridden hard some weeks during spring and fall works and still got dragged to rodeos on weekends. He was also the horse we gave dudes to ride, because he was gentle and tolerant. That’s not to say he was patient-he would take advantage of their ignorance in any way he could. But we knew we could always count on Hank for whatever job we had to do.
There was a time in high school when both my mom and I were day working on some of the bigger outfits around where I live. Between the two of us we had one pickup and trailer and three horses. And Hank picked up the slack, sometimes working two days back-to-back during gathering time. He may have been really tired, but it didn’t keep him from trying.
Last spring, Mom was checking heifers and rode down the canyon. I guess there was a boggy spot at the crossing, and Hank sunk to his belly in black mud. He didn’t panic, he just got out as fast as he could. I was surprised, as accident-prone as he is, that he didn’t really hurt himself. That makes the first time he’s gotten into a jam that didn’t require 10 days of doctoring and a vet bill in the aftermath.
Last summer we jumped a coyote down in the Big Pasture. Mom was riding Hank again, and all I heard was “Get out of the way,” just as Hank thundered by. Mom had her rope down and they caught up to that ol’ coyote; Mom threw but that sly dog just ran right through. We chased him for the better part of 20 minutes until he disappeared into a hole. On the way home, Hank was strutting like a peacock. He had tracked that coyote at a blistering pace and rated it perfect. He knew it, too.
This January, I left Hank behind for college and dreams of a different kind. Hank never won a single halter class; never won a race. In fact, I don’t think Hank can be credited for a single trophy buckle. He never did become a great cutting horse, either.
Today, Hank stands in the corral with the younger generation of cowhorses here on the ranch. He still does the same things he always did-at the same steady pace. He hasn’t gotten any prettier, either. Now, my little sister hauls him to rodeos on the weekends, and my Dad still drags calves off of him in the spring. We still put dudes on him, too. And he is the same horse he has always been. I think in a way Hank the cowhorse not only lived up to my dreams, he exceeded them. Looking back on Hank’s life, it seems to me there is greater value in being dependable than in being a champion. I hope we can all take that lesson to heart.
On a dry spring about 14 years ago, I met Hank for the first time. The one broodmare we had, a buckskin named Jenny, had been turned out on the Robinson ranch all winter. I remember rattling out in the feed truck to the Buzzard Well, searching the brushy hillside for a glimpse of Jenny. It was about time for her to foal, and we needed to find her.
Mom was driving, and although I now know it’s not a good idea, I was using the binoculars out the truck window. (Looking through binoculars from a moving truck makes you sick…trust me.) Mom honked the horn and sure enough, Jenny topped out over a ridge. Clinging tightly beside her was a flickering red flame. As they came closer, I realized that it wasn’t fire-it was a coppery sorrel colt. Solid red from nose to tail, he only had a little white marking on his left hind leg. I was impressed with him at the time, thinking he would someday become a famous halter horse or race horse or something like that. When you’re little you don’t realize that there are limits to things. No ranch raised Quarter Horse has ever won the Triple Crown. But I was happy with my dreaming and christened the little fella ‘Hank’.
I got to help halter break him, and he made me proud. He wasn’t the gentlest, but he didn’t throw many fits. When he was a weanling, it became clear he wouldn’t be a world champion halter horse-his big head and Roman nose made him look like a little red pumpjack. So much for pretty. And he wasn’t very big yet-he kinda had short legs. So much for the Triple Crown. I figured he would prove to be the smartest horse anyone had ever seen, so I had my hopes up for him to become a famous cutting horse. Dreams are resilient things when you’re young.
But life interrupted my dreaming, and Hank was sold so we could have enough money to move to my dad’s new job. I was so busy growing up and learning how to be myself in a new place that I let go of Hank completely. It wasn’t until years later that I caught up with him again. I’d had a rough few years but I was still dreaming. By then I was a teenager and had finally gotten the chance to rodeo in the New Mexico High School Rodeo Association. I went looking for a roping horse and lo and behold, I wound up buying back my very own Hank.
Now a full-grown horse, he was stout and muscular with a thin wiry tail and not much of a mane (which made his oversized ears look even more oversized). He had been ridden on ranches and sent to a roping horse trainer. If horses had GPA’s, I reckon his would have been below a 2.0. Luckily, I graded on a curve and took him home.
I hauled Hank for two years to rodeos all around New Mexico. I soon learned his quirks, not the least of which was his claustrophobia, his love of Dr. Pepper, and his uncanny knack for getting hurt. But there was nothing he loved more than roping calves, and nothing he hated more than speed events. Calf roping was his niche. We were often outrun, so both of us finally learned to break quicker and swing quicker-before that calf left us in the dust.
Hank wasn’t just a rodeo horse. That was as much his weekend hobby as it was mine. Dad, Mom, and my sister and I used him for ranch work. He was ridden hard some weeks during spring and fall works and still got dragged to rodeos on weekends. He was also the horse we gave dudes to ride, because he was gentle and tolerant. That’s not to say he was patient-he would take advantage of their ignorance in any way he could. But we knew we could always count on Hank for whatever job we had to do.
There was a time in high school when both my mom and I were day working on some of the bigger outfits around where I live. Between the two of us we had one pickup and trailer and three horses. And Hank picked up the slack, sometimes working two days back-to-back during gathering time. He may have been really tired, but it didn’t keep him from trying.
Last spring, Mom was checking heifers and rode down the canyon. I guess there was a boggy spot at the crossing, and Hank sunk to his belly in black mud. He didn’t panic, he just got out as fast as he could. I was surprised, as accident-prone as he is, that he didn’t really hurt himself. That makes the first time he’s gotten into a jam that didn’t require 10 days of doctoring and a vet bill in the aftermath.
Last summer we jumped a coyote down in the Big Pasture. Mom was riding Hank again, and all I heard was “Get out of the way,” just as Hank thundered by. Mom had her rope down and they caught up to that ol’ coyote; Mom threw but that sly dog just ran right through. We chased him for the better part of 20 minutes until he disappeared into a hole. On the way home, Hank was strutting like a peacock. He had tracked that coyote at a blistering pace and rated it perfect. He knew it, too.
This January, I left Hank behind for college and dreams of a different kind. Hank never won a single halter class; never won a race. In fact, I don’t think Hank can be credited for a single trophy buckle. He never did become a great cutting horse, either.
Today, Hank stands in the corral with the younger generation of cowhorses here on the ranch. He still does the same things he always did-at the same steady pace. He hasn’t gotten any prettier, either. Now, my little sister hauls him to rodeos on the weekends, and my Dad still drags calves off of him in the spring. We still put dudes on him, too. And he is the same horse he has always been. I think in a way Hank the cowhorse not only lived up to my dreams, he exceeded them. Looking back on Hank’s life, it seems to me there is greater value in being dependable than in being a champion. I hope we can all take that lesson to heart.
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Windsome Belle
Filly, born April 30, 2008
