Ridin', Reinin' and Writin'

Doin' What You Have to Do

2012-01-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

I almost never watch the news. If anything happens I have to know about, someone tells me and I pick up more than I need to know on Facebook. I do, however, watch a talk show once in a while and it was on one of those that I saw a story that touched me deeply. The story was about a teen mom who shot an intruder to protect her baby and herself.

Shootings happen every day, several times a day, I suspect, so what about this one was different? What about this one affected me while others I didn’t want to hear about? The answer is this: Sarah McKinley is a recently-widowed 18-year-old mother living alone with her baby and her dogs on a huge acreage in Oklahoma. Sarah did not want to kill anyone and did everything possible to avoid that but, on December 31, 2011, Sarah did what she had to do. She shot and killed Justin Martin.

The events leading up to this terrifying night read like a script for a movie – Sarah’s husband dies of lung cancer on Christmas Day, two of her dogs are poisoned (she raises German shepherds), her house is entered while she is away, Justin Martin 'visits’ the evening of her husband’s funeral but retreats when he sees she has company (Sarah’s sister and brother-in-law were with her) and, finally, Sarah is alone with her baby on New Year’s eve when she hears someone trying to enter her home.

What did she do? She did what she had to do. She picked up her baby, a shotgun and a pistol and backed into her bedroom. Over the sounds of her door latch breaking she called 911 on her cell phone.

"Is it okay to shoot if he comes in this door?" she asked.

“I can’t tell you to do that,” the dispatcher said, “But you do what you have to do to protect your baby.” So she did.

When Justin Martin entered her home with a knife in his hand, she aimed the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

Was she a hero? Certainly she has the label but I think she was just someone who did what she had to do. There is never glory in taking a life and Sarah knows that. She has had to bear, at her young age, more than most will bear in a life time – losing her husband three months after their son was born, burying her husband and her poisoned dogs in the same week and living a real life crime drama. Understandably, she is numb.

Sarah did what she had to do. (Makes me think of the animal world. Many times I’ve seen examples of how ferocious a mother is when she is protecting her baby.) You go girl!

Could I do what Sarah did? Not sure... I hate guns. But, faced with what Sarah faced on New Year’s Eve I hope I could be as courageous. You go, girl!

Note: Two weeks after this story, a captain of a sinking cruise ship abandoned his ship and passengers to save his own skin. Comparing these two people facing a crisis cannot be done. Makes you realize what people are made of, doesn't it?

Select Memories

2012-01-09T18:04:00.000-08:00

Two of my three children visited over the holidays. Since it is winter, much time was spent indoors and much of that time was spent visiting – and remembering. Shayne and Cindy reminisced a bit about our life in Crooked River, Saskatchewan when it was just the four of us – Shayne, Cindy, Lana and I. How different one person’s memories might be than another’s – even within the same family! Here are some examples:

I remembered my son and daughter doing dishes but didn’t remember that Shayne never washed! (Cindy remembered that…)
I remember them doing dishes but didn’t remember they eventually worked out another arrangement – Shayne did outside chores and Cindy did dishes!
I remember preparing nutritious meals, baking bread and cookies; Cindy remembers me making root beer!
I remember taking all the kids to the forest to get the Christmas tree every year with only an axe and a dull saw. It was always at least -25 and we froze our hands and feet. They remember how much fun it was!
I remember not having any money to send with them when they went to sports events; they remember me keeping them involved in activities.
I remember that I worried I did not spend enough time with them; they remember me taking them on overnight camping trips to the lake.

It’s sometimes the little things that are most important…

On the other hand, we all remember:

When mom decided Shayne and Cindy should start their own colts (both of them got bucked off!)
Building the wagon wheel fence (“It doesn’t have to be perfect!” Shayne said.)

Not all memories of that time are not pleasant ones for me but thank goodness my daughter remembers (now that she is grown up and recognizes it) that I did not use them as “sounding boards” for complaints about their father after we separated. I can’t say it was a conscious decision – I just didn’t see what good would come of it – and I didn’t think they noticed, but how nice that they did and have that memory.

Random memories like this are not just within families. Haven’t you noticed that, once in a while (or oftener if you are lucky!) someone does something for you, or says something to you, that absolutely makes your day? That’s happened to me . . . and it makes a permanent memory, a very good one, of that person. (The reverse is also true, I’m afraid – a negative remark or action leaves a permanent impression.

It’s nice to find out that once in a while I’m on the “giving” end too. I just got an email from a lady who remembers me helping her with her horse at a horse show. I didn’t remember her or the incident – and there lies the beauty of it because if I don’t remember then it means I “helped” not for praise but because it was the right thing to do. I hope I can continue to be that person in 2012.

Re-Aligning the Stars

2011-12-31T08:40:00.000-08:00

Way back in May 2010, my blog post was titled, "The Stars are Aligned". With great confidence, I listed the following upcoming 2011 events in my horse world:

The first of the sixth generation of "The Dynasty"(my name for the descendents of my good mare, Duchess) would arrive in 2011 - Wildwood Legacy Lace (great-great granddaughter of Duchess) was bred to Walking With Wolves
My best mare, Peppy Del Cielo, was carrying a Wimpy's Little Step foal to be born spring 2011.
Peppy Del Cielo's three sons, Running With Wolves, Wildwood Liberty and Walking With Wolves were all eligible to compete in reining Derbies in 2011 (a very rare situation) and it was my goal to make that happen.
Walking With Wolves was in reserve spot in a Saddle Series and could win the saddle in 2011.
Peppy Del Cielo's granddaughter, from the first crop of Running With Wolves' foals, would be three years old and eligbible for reining futurities.

And so, in 2011, Prima's three sons would compete against each other in a Derby (how cool is that!), her granddaughter would enter the reining pen for the first time and she would have a Wimpys Little Step foal at her side. And...Walking With Wolves, sire of the sixth generation of The Dynasty, could win the British Columbia Reining Association Saddle Series. As I stated in The Stars Are Aligned, 2011 was lining up to be a stellar year. Did I really believe ALL of these landmark events would bless my world? No, I didn't . . . but some small part of me believed they might. After all, it was my time . . . What I would not have believed is that none of these hoped-for, planned-for events would come to pass! My stars, instead of aligning, had spiraled off in all directions - Legacy was not in foal; Prima lost her Wimpy foal; I would have had to travel to Alberta to realize my goal of all three of Prima's sons competing in a Derby since I do not own one of the colts, so it never happened; I didn't have Sapphire far enough along to get her to a Futurity and Walking With Wolves completed the Saddle Series in second place. No sixth generation, no Wimpys Little Step foal, no futurity horse, no face-off of the Prima's three sons in a Derby and no saddle!

At the end of this not-so-stellar-year, I am re-grouping.

Running With Wolves

Wildwood Liberty

Walking With Wolves

I hope the stars are re-aligning for 2012. It's too late to see Prima's three boys compete against each other in a Derby since Wolf is over Derby age but they are all sound and healthy. Sapphire has missed her Futurity year but mentally and physically fit for future competitions. The Saddle Series is over and Little Wolf's eligiblity for the series is over as well but Legacy is in foal to him and, God willing, the sixth generation of the Wildwood Dynasty will have arrived. I'm not going to think any farther ahead than that. Maybe my stars will re-align for a fabulous 2012. I know I have lots to be thankful for either way. I'll let you know.

Happy New Year!

Five Years Ago... and Now

2011-12-22T17:16:00.000-08:00

Five years ago today I moved to the Chilcotin. Looking back, I'm not sure how I accomplished that by myself. I moved out of a huge property in Armstrong in November, re-located my horses, lived with my dog in the living quarters of my trailer for six weeks, then loaded the back of my truck with bales, packed the living quarters to the roof, hitched up, loaded my yearling stallion, Wolf, Splendor, and Legacy, jumped Kirby (my Samoyed) into the back seat and started driving. I took possession of my new property at noon on December 22, 2006. At about 12:15 I turned off highway 20, down the lane and through the gate to my new home.

I have yet to find words to describe how I felt (and I've tried...) when I first glimpsed the rustic log house overlooking the river. Relief to have arrived - yes, but so much more than that. The preceding twp years had taken a toll on me - my husband abruptly leaving me, the sale of the property we had owned together and a host of mental and physical challenges with the divorce and the burden of maintaining the property until it sold. I suppose uppermost in my mind as I slowly wound my way through the trees was the thought, "This is mine and no one can take it away from me!" but there was more yet. An incredible peace settled over me, as if the past two years had been washed away. My home was here now - in the Chilcotin.

Before I even had the horses unloaded, the moving truck pulled in behind me. Right behind the moving van came my neighbour, Art, with a welcome, a card, a box of chocolates and an invitation to Christmas dinner! I had met someone already!

For the next four hours the movers carried furniture and boxes in the house. After they got started, I dashed back outside to put Wolf in the old round pen and the mares in the panel pen I had erected on a previous trip. These two pens were the only enclosed areas for horses on the property so the rest of my herd (eight) were boarded in the Okanagan until spring.

Splendor and Legacy in panel round pen - their home for the winter.

Wolf (Running With Wolves) in the old round pen - his home for the winter.

With the movers gone and the house heating up again, I sat down among the boxes. Here it was three days before Christmas and I was all alone in a remote area of B.C. I loved it! I had brought some wine in the house from the trailer living quarters. Now I looked for the box that said, "glassware" and opened it. The first wine glass I pulled out of the paper had a wolf on it - how perfect is that! I opened the bottle, poured and there, among boxes, paper and a total disarray, I toasted myself!

Five years ago today!

Although some elements of my property have stayed much same, there have been many changes. In 2007, I added what I called "The Big Three" - water (trenched to water bowls and hydrants), all perimeter fencing, and a barn.

My new three-stall barn with tack room December 2007

The riding arena was a two year project although I kept riding (started Wolf the first winter in the snow) but by summer of 2008, I had all the rose bushes out, had moved the back fence back 10 feet (all posts put in by hand), took out the rest of the old posts, pulled all the rose bushes and went over it more times than I can count with the ring conditioner, gathering roots every time.

Arena grown up to rose bushes Winter 2006-2007

Me digging post holes

Expanded arena July 2008

The past five years have been busy and productive, I think. Besides fencing, hydrants, water bowls and barn I, with the help of my neighbour, cut rails and erected several pens - five under the trees for boarding horses and one at the back of the barn to turn mares with new foals in to. Every spring I pick up debris from the trees, etc in the pastures and burn the piles. I cut some of my own firewood and have become somewhat efficient with a chainsaw. Also, although I had to have help to put it up, I peeled and stained logs for a new entrance gate.

In all, fourteen foals have been born on the property and numerous horses trained in the arena - winter and summer. Last year I put up a "mare motel", again digging in all the posts by hand and railing it myself.

The Mare Motel April 2011

I have planted strawberries, raspberries and a few new shrubs and every year I grow a garden. Tulips bloom every spring and last fall, I dug out two more flower beds for iris and lilies. I have stained the trim on two sides of the house and the deck and hope to finish next year. Inside, I have replaced the flooring and redone my bedroom. There are many more projects in the house in the planning stages.

Five years ago I moved on to a property not ready for horses in a strange-to-me area. I didn't know a soul living in the area. Now I can say my property is a working horse property. I have a dog and several horses for company and friends I can rely on.

Many wondered why I moved to the Chilcotin and, I think, wondered if I would stay even one year. Five years ago, as I pulled my truck and trailer down the driveway for the first time, I knew why and now, five years later, I still have the same sense of peace here.

With Christmas only a few days away, I am thinking back to my first Christmas in my log house in the Chilcotin five years ago. I built a fire in the fire place on Christmas morning and opened my gifts with Kirby beside me. For what would be one of the first of many, many times, I marvelled at the view from my living room window.

Kirby and I Christmas Day 2006 - 3 days in the Chilcotin

Kirby is no longer with me. Instead, my new puppy Mischa will be opening gifts with my Christmas morning. Other than that, not much has changed. I will probably build a fire in the fireplace on Christmas morning, open the drapes and drink in the view once again and then open gifts.

Merry Christmas everyone! May it be as peaceful as mine.

Super Stars of Rodeo

2011-12-12T07:03:00.000-08:00

Although rodeo was a big part of my life for many years, I don’t attend many any more. My life has gone a different direction. Rodeo is still in my blood, though and, with modern technology, I can see the big ones from the comfort of my living room. I don’t ever miss that chance - I just watched all ten goes of the National Finals Rodeo on wide screen television! What a treat! (I couldn’t help thinking of how Dad would have enjoyed watching this…)

I must confess I watch the horses as much or more than the contestants, although they are one and the same thing – the bucking horses doing the best job they can so riders can score the best, calf roping (I know – it’s tie-down roping now!) and steer wrestling horses carrying their partners to the calf or steer and, of course, my personal favourites – the barrel horses. The intelligence, courage and talent of these dedicated athletes (the horses, I mean) astound me. Most horses would rather be in the pasture doing nothing but eating and sleeping but these horses look like they love their job. For sure, they know their job. And, like the contestants, a few stand out above the rest. Who cannot appreciate Sweetness or Jessie or Martha?

Jessie is a 16 year old black AQHA gelding, Lee Graves’ steer wrestling horse. He is named for Jessie James – because sometimes he is a little hard headed. Seems he “failed’ at several disciplines (racing, calf-roping, barrel racing) because he did it until he didn’t want to! Steer wrestling was a fit.

Sweetness is Clint Cooper’s main mount in tie-down roping. He is 19 years old I believe and still going strong. As I watched him in the NFR, I marveled at his intelligence and “feel”. Ears forward, eyes firmly fastened on calf and then rider when he is tying, he keeps the rope tight but not too tight, moves left or right as needed. Incredible. Sweetness is named for Pro football player, Walter Payton – he even carries Payton’s number – 34 – on his shoulder.

And Martha – what cannot be said about Martha! She has “made” Lindsay Sears in the barrel racing world. (I read somewhere that Lindsay said when Martha cannot compete any more she would quit competing...)With her unique turn, incredible speed and unstoppable courage, she has endeared herself to many. Lindsay and Martha represented Canada at NFR (the only Canadians!) and what a job they did, winning the average and the World title!

So yes – I enjoyed watching cowboy after cowboy compete through ten performances of the finals but it was the horses that stole my heart - not just Martha, Jessie and Sweetness but all of them. They are all deserving of recognition for they are the partners of the contestants that qualified for NFR. Without their horses, the contestants are nothing. I'm pretty sure they know that.

As I watched each go-around of the finals, I became more and more motivated to run barrels again. I started thinking about training one or two of my reining horses to run barrels. As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t winter, I probably would have headed to the barn and got started but since my arena is out of commission now it will have to wait to spring. I’ll keep you posted…

Beautiful horses and cowboys in black shirts caught my eye at NFR! Guess I wasn't looking at horses all the time... nothing better than a good looking cowboy in a black shirt!

Who's It All About?

2011-11-28T16:45:00.000-08:00

“It’s not all about you, Sharon!” the woman bluntly told me.

I didn’t see that coming. One moment I was making what I thought was pleasant conversation about an upcoming reining show and the next I was quite thoroughly put in my place. Hmmm… For a moment I was taken aback. Should I answer that? Let it go? Apologize? Was she saying I was selfish? Egotistical? Did I really make it all about me?

My comment preceding hers was that I wished I had a futurity horse entered at that show, a show she had quite a bit to do with. No, I didn’t deserve that. I had to respond. I defended myself, but probably not in the way she thought I would.

“Actually, when I enter that pen to compete, it is all about me,” I said, “and I think most riders feel the same way. After all, we paid our entry, spent hours training our horse and got to the show. No one does all that just to donate to the show or the other riders. For those few minutes in the pen, it better be all about me - or about me, my horse and my run – or I shouldn’t be doing this.” I left it at that.

The NRHA Futurity is running now, the big one in the reining world and, although the above incident happened some time back, the significance of it stayed with me enough to come to mind now as I watch riders with so much at stake enter and leave the pen in Oklahoma. In the friendly atmosphere of competition I hope no one felt it necessary to remind them that it isn’t “all about” them. I hope their mind is 100 percent focused on themselves and the job at hand.

Interestingly enough, the woman who chastised me for “thinking of myself” reined at the same show at which she felt it necessary to knock me back a peg or two. I think it might have been “all about her” when she entered the pen…

Earning The Right

2011-11-21T08:10:00.000-08:00

When I first start riding my colts, I work them in one corner of the arena in a small circle. I lunge them in that circle, lunge them saddled in that circle and eventually ride them – still in that little circle! We walk, leg yield, jog, trot and lope and they develop confidence in the circle. That makes learning easier. If, when we are walking, the colt wants to jog or, if trotting, he wants to lope, I stay in that gait longer. He has to “earn the right” to move at a faster gait by demonstrating patience at the gait he is in. I can maintain control that way and he learns to wait for me to ask.

Lunging Splendor in the corner of the arena

Gradually, I widen the circle until it covers one end of the arena. Then, at some point in this early training, I ask my colt to leave the circle and use the entire pen, making straight lines down the sides. But, since horses can get stronger and faster in straight lines than in circles, that could be where the trouble starts. If my colt cannot be controlled in a circle, he most certainly will be out of hand in a straight line. So, again, he has to "earn the right” to leave the circle or, as I have said many times to my students, he has to "earn his way out of the circle". If he tries to run off when I direct him in a straight line or will not maintain a steady gait, I take him back to the circle.

Running With Wolves very early in training

I think life is a little like this. I think we have to earn the right to be respected and trusted, earn the right to venture into the world. We do have certain rights from the moment we are born – freedom of speech, freedom of religion, etc – but others are have to be earned.

So here’s the thing. Maybe educating a horse isn't so different than educating our children - or ourselves. We all want to be respected but I see too many times, that respect has not been earned. Maybe if we had stayed "in the circle" and did the work until we had it figured out, we could “earn our way out” without running our life off in to the ditch. Just saying...

Is the light on?

2011-11-14T07:40:00.000-08:00

Having now lived in the Chilcotin for almost five years, I can say that I’m starting to have a handle on how life is lived here. I might even go one step further and say I am Chilcotin-ized! (Note: A fellow at church yesterday remarked that the logs on their cabin were chilcotin-ized so we might assume the word has broad meaning.)

My "chilcotin-ization" was a gradual process, I think, one born of observation and adaptation. Over time I learned to buy bananas every time I shop for groceries (my neighbour says she doesn’t put them on the list anymore...) and I freeze milk because trips to the grocery store can be a month apart. I have collected extra parts for tractor and water bowls and have learned more than I ever wanted to know about machinery, washing machines, lawn mowers and water bowls . . . because when you live in the Chilcotin, professional help is a long way off, expensive and sometimes just not available - which is where neighbours come in. In the Chilcotin, good neighbours are gold!

The beautiful Chilcotin River as seen from my kitchen window.

But the Chilcotin 'way of thinking' is a little harder to pin down. “Chilcotin time” has real meaning (I’m still learning that.) Trust has to be earned. Hard workers are respected; slackers are not. Understated, underwhelmed, underpaid but always optimistic would describe many of the people who live here. And we’re definitely home-bodies. Like almost everyone else living in this beautiful, remote part of British Columbia, I could happily stay home week after week. We all hate the can’t-be-put-it-off-any-longer trip to Williams Lake, which brings me to my story…

A few months back, I held a three-day reining clinic on my property, which meant picking up the clinician, Vern Sapergia, at Williams Lake airport on Thursday evening and bringing him back to the airport on Monday morning, a 200 km return trip each time. I looked at the gauge on my truck on the first trip and decided I did not have to fill with diesel until the return trip. However, because it rained all day the day before the clinic started, all students and clinician moved to an indoor arena 10 km from my property for the first 1 ½ days. This translated into more mileage on my truck than I anticipated and on Saturday, when Mandy, a friend of mine from the Okanagan, returned to the house in my truck with the clinician for lunch, she voiced concern that there was not enough fuel for the trip to the airport on Monday.

“Is the light on?” I asked, meaning the fuel light.

She gave me a look with that clearly said, “What’s that got to do with it?” but replied that it was not. I told her I thought I was all right, but she persisted so I promised to get some diesel before Monday morning.

On Sunday evening, after the clinic was completed, Vern, Mandy and I headed out for an impromptu barbecue at Chilco Ranch, just across the river – in my truck. We had planned to dine out, but there was nothing open after 7:00 AM (the Chicotin way…) so Crystal and Jordan offered to host dinner (also the Chilcotin way…) Of course, the gas station was closed as well.

“I’m sure Jordan will sell me some diesel,” I told Mandy.

“I may be a little low on fuel to get to Williams Lake tomorrow,” I said to Jordan during dinner. “Is it possible that I could get some from you?” Jordan didn’t miss a beat…

“Is the light on?” he asked.

Mandy doubled over with laughter. The rest of the table looked a little confused at her reaction. When she could talk, she explained that I had asked the exact same question when she told me I was low on fuel.

“Must be a Chilcotin thing,” she said.

Kaylynn and Taylor

2011-11-07T11:44:00.000-08:00

It’s been a tough week. Two young lives on the fringe of my circle of friends have been cut short. Two beautiful young women are gone – one at the unforgiving of a brutal disease, the other at the vicious hands of a brutal killer. Although I did not know these girls personally, their passing affected me deeply.

Kaylynn was a reiner, like myself. She loved her horse, loved to compete and loved life. She fought hard against the cancer that invaded her brain. She endured surgeries, treatments and pain, always living with hope and fierce determination, but the disease won. I can’t make sense of that.

Kaylynn Malmberg

Taylor, much like Kaylynn, loved life, animals and friends. Having just graduated from high school, she looked to the future with hope and plans. She, unlike Kaylynn, had no reason to believe she had an evil force to conquer. But, in the time it takes to write this blog, a person or persons bludgeoned Taylor to death. I can’t make sense of that either.

Taylor Van Diest

I phoned two of my friends living in the Taylor's home town, my former home town. Both have teenage children. Both were, not surprisingly, very emotional. I’m sure, like me, they were doing “what if’s”. We talked at some length and, although I phoned to support them, I wept myself.

“If that had been your daughter,” I think I would have just lost it,” I told one. I had already spent a few days imagining how I would feel if it was one of my granddaughters. Sometimes my “picture brain” is not a good thing. I walked the walks with both these girls so many times… and with their mothers. I did not sleep. I couldn’t turn the pictures off.

And so there is nothing more to say. Medical experts fight every day for a cure for cancer and still nothing. And RCMP are still looking for Taylor’s killer. The sad truth is, even if that one is taken off the streets, there are others and that makes me crazy. These two stories will be repeated in other families, other towns.

I can’t say I can imagine what the families of these girls are going through because I can’t. I can only say if she were mine, I don’t think I would be still standing. The human spirit is a wonderful thing and I can only hope it’s doing it’s job. As for Kaylynn and Taylor, peace be with you, sweet girls. We will remember.

The Burden of Hoof

2011-10-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

"Horses have a way of keeping us young… and mostly broke” a friend of mine commented on Facebook last week.

“You’re right about keeping us broke,” I answered, “But I’m not sure about keeping me young!”

Her comment triggered a train of thought though, one I've travelled on many times - why do we, people in the horse business, choose a career that demands much and pays little (notice I didn't say "offer little")? Horse trainers and breeders work long hours seven days a week; they rise early and go to bed late; they administer to sick and injured animals, often in the middle of the night; they freeze their hands thawing out water lines and sunburn their faces picking up bales in the field; they rub liniment on over-worked muscles and sometimes eat dinner at 10:00 PM (or not at all!). We drag ouselves to the barn when we are sick; we drag ourselves to the barn too soon after surgery; we drag ourselves to the barn when it’s blistering hot or bone-chilling cold. Why have we signed up for a lifetime of never-ending work and sometimes unbearable heartbreak? And why have we shouldered so much responsibility? The answer is . . . because most of the time we don’t drag ourselves to the barn – we stride to the barn with anticipation, spirit and joy! And that joy makes the inevitable times of heart-wrenching pain (Beam me up, Scotty!) bearable.

A Time of Joy

There has to be a reason why we do what we do. It’s not the money and the prestige is fleeting at best and almost non-existent at worst. It has to be about the animal - the horse.

A Time of Caution

A Time of Commitment

Last week isn’t the only time I marveled at the tenacity and commitment of people in the horse business. For some reason, it seems obvious to me why I chose horse training for my career but harder to understand with others do. Not sure why that is. Maybe I believe that most people want more - more money, more toys, more holidays . . . and less responsibility. They won't get that if the horse business is their business. So… when someone tells me how lucky I am to do what I do and asks me about becoming a horse trainer, I give it to them straight.

“Yes, I am lucky," I admit, "But I this is my job and some days, when I feel like a day off, it's still my job - rain or shine, summer and winter. If you want to be a horse trainer, you must be willing to work much longer days than an office job for seven days a week for a very small paycheck. Horse shows will be your holidays and there probably won’t be a boat parked in your yard, just a horse trailer. You must accept the responsibility that comes with caring for horses in your care and be willing to attend to their needs ahead of your own. On the other hand, there is not much in this world that can compare to the soft nickers that will greet you when you go out to feed in the morning. If you can live with that, you have what it takes to be a horse trainer.”

A Time of Peace

Maybe my Facebook friend is right after all. Maybe horses do keep us young - at least in our hearts and heads, if not our bodies. As far as keeping us broke, they're worth it.

Just "grade" or just plain great?

2011-10-17T08:11:00.000-07:00

My business is the horse business. For almost 40 years I have raising, training and selling registered Quarter Horses. On Thanksgiving weekend, as I watched my 2011 weanlings leave the yard with their new owners, I thought back to the beginning of my relationship with the Quarter Horse.

Feather, Timber and Whiskey with new owners.

That was a long time ago – 1966 – and since that time have bred, raised and ridden many. But what about the horses I rode (and loved) before? What about the “grade” horses in my life? And… are these purebred, “Cadillac” horses I ride now as tough as the mixed breed models I rode all day on roundups then hauled to horse shows in the back of the truck on the weekend? Or are they better?

Grade horses settled the west long before I came on the scene. They carried riders, pulled wagons, sleighs, mowers, rakes and stone boats, they packed unbelievable loads into areas not accessible to wagons. They endured hardships beside their owners. Most of all they willingly served. They had to be tough to survive . . . and sound! Although the definition of “soundness” remains the same today, the importance of a sound horse in those demanding conditions was much higher. Whether in the unsettled, vastness of Saskatchewan (where I grew up) or the harsh wilderness of the Chilcotin (where I live now), horses often meant the difference between life and death – and those horses were always grade horses, the result of select breeding all right, but of the "toughest and most sound", not the prettiest! One has to admire and respect those horses. Call them what you will – grade, unregistered, mustangs – they contributed to our ancestors’ survival!

The first horse I remember is a plain brown mare with a kind heart. Pronto belonged to my mother but she was the first horse I rode by myself and, of course, she was grade. Mom's favourite was one of Pronto’s daughters, Pride, and that black, grade mare was one of the gutsiest horses I will ever know. To say she had “heart” does not adequately describe her courage in the face of a variety of adverse conditions and expectations. Mom rode her almost every day in the spring, summer and fall. In the years she taught school, she used her to get there; she checked cattle, cut anything out that needed to come home and rounded up huge fields on Pride; and she rode the six miles out of the ranch to pick up the mail on her – summer and winter! Mom often said Pride would never quit – she would keep going until she died trying…

Mo with Pride and Charm (Pride's sister)

Dad rode Tex in those years. I don't remember Tex very well although I have a picture of dad holding me as a baby on him. I think he must have died when I was very young. Besides ranch work, Tex carried Dad in the calf roping event at the Calgary Stampede. Do you think any calf ropers ride horses that are not registered today?

Dad and Tex

When I was about fourteen, Mom and Dad decided I could ride Rocky. Like Pride, he was not a purebred animal: like Pride he was black; like Pride, also, he was high energy with a never-quit attitude. I loved it. Rocky carried me over the Coteau Hills on roundups, fun "free" rides bareback in the paddock, through the snowbanks on not-so-much-fun rides to the farm where I boarded to go to school in the winter and around barrels and poles at rodeos and horse shows. I ran him the last time at a rodeo at Clearwater Lake when he was twenty years old. He won the pole bending and placed in the barrel racing. He had six happy years of retirement on the ranch before I had to say good bye.

Rocky

Eventually, my parents gave me a horse – a grade, but with a Quarter Horse sire. They had invested in a Quarter Horse stallion, Copper Red Boy, and he had sired my Cheetah. Her dam, however, was a grade mare we called Cherry. I was told she had Thoroughbred and Standardbred blood and certainly that made sense since a few good Thoroughbred stallions had come in to the country. Cherry had not been ridden much. A hired man started her one winter and described her as “the roughest horse he had ever ridden” He said the saddle jerked forward and back when she walked. I guess we can credit Red for taking that out of her colts because she had several by him and they were not rough-gaited.

Cheetah

Cheetah was another Pride or Rocky. She was small, only 14.1, and fine-boned but she was tough. She handled the cold, snow-deep trail I rode in winter with just as much guts as Rocky had. I barrel-raced, flat-raced her and anything else I wanted. She remained sound until, retired and raising foals, she was kicked in the knee.

So . . . as I look around at my herd of registered Quarter Horses I have to ask myself if they would have what it took to do the work I did with those grade horses. I can’t be sure, but I think not . . . except for one. Wildwood Soul O Silk would carry me until she dropped. She has many of the same qualities of Pride, Rocky and Cheetah - one tough little horse!

Silk "going down the fence"

"Just a grade," I would say when someone asked me about Cheetah, but I think now I sold her short. I should have left out "just" and said, "She's grade," with the pride she deserved.

Those Handy Hands

2011-10-03T09:51:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought about all the things your hands have done? Or how valuable they are? In the middle of a fall project, I did…

For the past week or so, I’ve been working on two new flower gardens for my yard. The work entails digging out sod and replacing it with topsoil and rotted manure (no shortage of that around here!), spading it and finally, working out the lumps with my hands. Most gardeners wear gloves but I do not. I like the feel of the cool, moist earth running between my fingers. As I crumpled the lumps, I stopped and looked at my hands – really looked!

“These hands have done so many things!” I thought. “How amazing that they still work?” I started thinking back…

I suppose when I was a baby I looked at my hands in wonder (most babies do…), then reached for toys or my mother’s hair, all part of learning to use my hands to do what I wished them to do. As I grew up, I learned to feed and dress myself and a hundred other necessary things. I picked up a pencil, then a pen, learned to write, to throw and catch a ball . . . with my hands. My hands produced music on the violin, guitar and piano. I prepared food; I learned to knit, crochet and embroider; I guided horses with my hands. In the winter my hands sometimes got so cold that my fingers turned white but the circulation returned when they warmed and they continued to work for me.

Hands holding, protecting...

I married and had babies. Now those hands would serve one of the most important jobs of their life – to care for my children – changing diapers, feeding, washing. I grew a huge garden in those days too and my hands were almost never still with hoeing, harvesting, shelling, canning and freezing. Still my hands did not complain – they worked tirelessly all day every day.

The hands that rock the cradle...

These hands have delivered puppies, calves and foals. They've picked up toys and picked berries; they've tied shoelaces and hooked rugs; they've kneaded bread and whipped cream; they've guided trucks, tractors and horses. The list could go on and on...

I remember one time my hands gave me away. It was Halloween and a friend and I dressed up and went to the local bar. Of course everyone tried to guess who were. We did not speak and were completely covered, except for hands. One man looked at mine and said, “Working hands.” He knew it was me.

Working hands to be sure. One thumb has a huge bump from a “bucking-off’ (guess it was broken!) and two fingers are a little dented from an accident loading a horse. A thumb nail is growing out after connecting with a hammer and I have calluses on both palms, but these hands can still do the job! They’ve been bruised, torn and smashed and they’ve ached with chill-blains and injuries but they can still tighten their grip on the halter shank of an unruly weanling foal or caress the silky softness of a horse’s nose and the top of my puppy’s head. As a matter of fact, they can still do every job I ask of them. For that, I am thankful . . . and truly amazed...

My career depends on my hands!

Over the hill or still climbing?

2011-09-26T08:49:00.000-07:00

“Congratulations on your retirement,” were the first words out the man's mouth when I answered the knock on the my door.

Retired? Not that I knew . . . and I didn’t even like the sound of it.

I had not seen Dave in many years and it was by pure chance that he stood at my door now. I was pretty surprised to see him and even more that he should think I was retired. I decided he had heard I had quit competing and, with a weak protest, left it at that. After he left, though, I thought about what he had said and why it was such a shock that he should think I was retired. When I decided to end my reining career (at least in the pen), I never once thought of it as retirement. Although I believed that I was ready to quit hauling to reining shows, I did not believe that I was ready to “retire”, at least not in my sense of the word. I am not “over the hill” yet.

I have been climbing that hill all my life, especially in the horse training world. From the time I was a child, I strived to be better. I knew I could improve all facets of my life and I embraced the challenges. I liked to learn, so learning became part of life. I don’t want that to change. I may not compete again but I will still ride, still train my horses, still reach for that goal that may always be just out of reach – to train the perfect horse to the highest level possible with the least effort. That means I will still study my breeding program and breed for better Quarter Horses every year. I will still ride some of those horses and critique my training methods, study others and always, always strive to do a better job. That being said, I am training my own horses in my riding arena every day. I have a two-year-old in training and I'm fine-tuning maneuvers on my four-year-old stallion. As I said, I like to learn so I am dabbling in something a little different. I heard about a new, mostly-exhibition event called Cowboy/Western Dressage and Walking With Wolves is my guinea pig for that - reining horse turned dressage. I don't pretend to know anything about dressage but I can learn - right? Here is a video of Little Wolf's first efforts (combined with reining maneuvers).

September 2011 - a great stop on Walking With Wolves in my arena.

Besides my horse business, I intend to pursue my “hobby” – creative writing. That’s what this blog is about – to keep the juices flowing. I have lots to learn and, like horse training, will never know it all!

As far as retirement goes, it doesn't feel much like I am retired. Looking after my herd of horses, training them, hauling hay, fixing fence, putting in posts, cleaning pens and generally maintaining my property is more like WORK. Retirement may never happen. Over the hill? No. I may be approaching the top, but I prefer to think I am still climbing...

Phenomenal Family

2011-09-19T09:38:00.000-07:00

"Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one." Jane Howard

This quote really says it all... and it hit me squarely in the heart this past week. Living where I do, far away from family, I don't connect in person very often. Mostly I'm okay with that. I'm used to it, I suppose, and comfortable with my own company. But, last week, my brother and his wife visited me - all the way from Saskatchewan. It had been eight years since we had seen each other. I didn't know how much I had missed them until they were here . . . and gone.

Harold and Linda stayed four full days and we made the best of it, packing in a couple of tours of the Chilcotin, a ride around my property, a barbecue with my friends and plenty of eating and visiting. Since Harold owns the ranch I grew up on, much of the conversation was of the Diamond Dot. I can't remember when I have had such a good time.

The weather cooperated beautifully for copious photos of our many adventures. My favourite memory of their visit is riding together the first day they were here. I rode my two-year-old, Mistral, and Harold and Linda rode Legacy and Whisper (both in foal).

Harold and Linda on Legacy and Whisper above the Chilcotin River

Harold and I on Legacy and Mistral crossing a channel of the Chilcotin

Here, for comparison is a photo of Harold and I on the backs of horses about 60 years ago. Some things don't change!

Harold and I on Trixie and Pronto

"We need to take a road trip somewhere," I announced to Harold on the morning of the second day of their visit. We had already decided to visit Gang Ranch the next day so, after short deliberation, I chose Nemaiah Valley and Chilko Lake for our destination. We packed a lunch and headed out.

Harold and I by the Taseko River

Nemaiah Valley

Harold, Linda and Bandit - lunch at Konni Lake

The next day, we again packed a lunch and headed out for Gang Ranch.

Harold and Linda on the Gang

...and drove home via Farwell Canyon. Love this photo of Harold and I - we look so relaxed!

And so, like most things in life, the visit had to end. I was alone with the reminder of what it means to have a family around. I've always known my life was not perfect (living alone with no family close) but now I wondering if I might someday be able to make it more so... As the quote at the beginning of this blog says about family, ". . . you need one." And, as my title states, "Family is phenomenal!"

My Virtual Trail Ride

2011-08-29T07:25:00.000-07:00

Every year, even with my show schedule, I plan at least one trail ride. I've done that for so many years that, when August comes around, I crave it. This year was no different . . . and I knew where I was going to go. Last year, I could only get away to the Potato Range for one day with a night each end of it at Tatlayoko Lake, the starting point of the ride. Much too short and I couldn't see as much as I wanted to. "This year," I said to myself, " I'll go for three days!

Tatlayoko Lake

But since my two "trail horses" (trained reining horses) were both in foal, I had a problem - what horse to ride . . . or pack. Undaunted, I decided Whisper could make the ride if I conditioned her, which took care of the first problem but not the second. (I didn't want to risk Legacy's foal.) Finally, I asked another woman if she would like to go with me (and supply a pack horse!). She did and we started planning.

First I needed to hone my packing skills, so I dragged out all the tack, caught Wolf, who had never been packed, and went through the process. it seems I didn't forget how and Wolf was a good sport - too bad I can't use him but taking a stallion as a packhorse is out!

On with the plan. I set dates, made lists, dug out maps, and collected items for the pack boxes. Then life got in the way. My hay supplier phoned with a number for another fellow who was going to bale small square bales. I needed those bales and haying weather is not something you take a chance on. I cancelled the ride in favour of picking up bales.

Mischa and I on top of the load.

But now I was ticked. My head was on the Potato Trail, especially since I had been going over maps, photos and Google Earth. As I do when I am disapointed or stressed, I started playing with the capabilities of the internet and my computer. What I came up with was a few "virtual" tours of the area - with the aid of Google Earth and my GPS readings. Check these out:

This tour starts after I reached the top, a three hour ride with an elevation gain of 3500 feet. Ride along with me on the Potato Trail to Echo Lakes. I have ridden here three times - a long day ride with Crystal to find the trails (isn't that half the fun?), then with Alberta friends for 3 1/2 days in 2009, then my one-day ride last year. (Click 'play' to get started)

Another option, more of a route than a trail, is to ride the crest overlooking Tatlayoko Lake. I have been to three points on this route but have not yet ridden it in its entirety. It may be more of a hiking trail than a riding trail. I have seen enough to know it is rough, rocky, windy and there could be patches of snow. Elevation is 6500-7000 feet! Here is a tour of the crest.

From Echo Lakes, (where we camped overnight in 2009), my friends and I found a wonderful trail leading through semi-open terrrain (some without marked trails!) to the southern end of the crest route.

From there, we wandered down a little to Dunlap and Gillian Lakes, two quiet alpine lakes with a view of the mountains behind Chilko Lake to the southeast. We ate our lunch between these lakes in 2009 (This year, I was going to camp between the lakes.), made our way back to the northern most Echo Lake (after trying to take a shortcut through a bog), camped there overnight and continued back to the old corrals at the top and down to Tatlayoko Lake the next day. Here is a tour from Gillian and Dunlap Lakes to the old corrals at the top (before the long descent to the lake).

Well, that was fun . . . and I almost did go along for the ride. I could easily put myself on the Potato Trail as I played these tours. However, they are no substitute for the real thing. Next year nothing is going to get in my way!

Note: If you would like to see these "tours" on a bigger screen, you can view on my website under "Google EArth Tours" I hope to add some more tours of other trails in the future. http://www.wildwoodreining.bc.ca/

Berry, Berry Good

2011-08-15T08:30:00.000-07:00

Two women, black dog scampering at their side and berry pails in hand, walk toward the setting sun along an old trail flanked by brush and trees. Mosquitoes and black flies buzzing around their heads, feet occasionally tangling in the tall grass bent over the seldom-used path, they trudge on with one purpose – to harvest the wild berries growing on both sides of the trail before the bears do. A whimsical glimpse into the past? A scene out of a pioneer movie? Nope - not another century or a movie. Just Crystal and I in search of saskatoon berries.

But that old fashioned scene is what came to mind as we made our way through tall grass, rose bushes and weeds. I chuckled. “A vision just popped into my head,” I said to Crystal, “Of women in long dresses and bonnets with lard pails in their hands walking down this trail a hundred years ago!”

I’m sure we were, literally, following in the footsteps of pioneer women picking saskatoon berries along this same trail. But instead of long calico dresses, we wore blue jeans; instead of bonnets we wore ball caps; instead of lard pails, we carried plastic ice cream buckets. Behind us, though, Chilco Ranch stood as it had for almost a century. Below us the Chilcotin River ran just as swift and just as beautiful. And on either side of this old trail saskatoon bushes still offered fruit to those who came for it.

I have a long-standing love for saskatoons. Since I was born and raised in Saskatchewan, I was introduced to the delicious berry at a young age. Saskatoons were readily available – and free for the taking – so all the women picked and canned as many quarts as they could for winter fruit. How I loved canned saskatoons. One of my most poignant memories (and I don’t know why this is so real to me today) is of my grandmother setting dishes of saskatoons with a dab of fresh cream floating in the middle in front of my brother and I at her table in her kitchen at Elbow! (It's odd how random memories stay with us... I remember almost nothing of grandma and grandpa at their Elbow home.) Of course in those years there were no freezers so my grandmother and my mother canned as many quarts as they could, only using fresh berries for a few pies or dished up with sugar and cream.

At the Diamond Dot Ranch, where I was raised, most of the sasktoons grew in the coulees. One coulee, in particular, was the first place we headed to pick. Grandma’s Coulee (named not for my grandmother but for my mother’s grandmother) had the best and most berries.

My husband, too, had many stories of saskatoons. What he remembers is picking gallons of them and selling them for 25 cents/quart to buy shoes for school. Since he had ten siblings, that was a lot of saskatoons!

I picked saskatoons (and other wild berries as well!) and canned or froze them every year when I lived in Saskatchewan but when I moved to BC, I could not find any in the Okanagan. Here, in the Chilcotin, I am back in saskatoon land – if the year is good for them (which often it is not) and if I can beat the bears to them. This year, with all the rain, they are plentiful and I have picked three times. The last two times I rode Whisper to the bottom land by the river, ice cream pail in hand, picked it full with the reins looped over my arm, and carried the pail home on horseback. I can imagine children doing much the same a century ago – only they probably rode bareback. Maybe things haven'e changed as much as I thought...

Saskatoons that I picked yesterday by the Chilcotin River

I’m pretty sure, though, in this day and age, that only a few pick wild berries anymore, and they are missing something - the peace of the wilderness, the feeling of getting back to nature and the satisfaction of adding to the larder with no cost! Most of all, those berries still taste just as good as they did when I was a child. Berry, berry good…

Saskatoon pie - the biggest reason I pick!

Changes

2011-08-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

“Nothing in the world is permanent and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it. If change is of the essence of existence one would have thought it only sensible to make it the premise of our philosophy.” ~ W. Somerset Maugham

Nope. Nothing is the world is permanent . . . and I am changing one element of my life that had become almost permanent. As of August 1, 2011, I am no longer showing reining horses.

For most of my life, I have competed in the horse world, first barrel racing, then, for the last 31 years, reining.Now it's time – time to slow down, time to do other things with my horses, time to see more of my family, time to quit hauling to reining shows. Not a decision to be made lightly but a decision that had to be made just the same. This is how it all went down…

For the last three years, I have considered stepping down but, with two stallions to promote and (I must admit) a love of the sport, I continued to haul to three or four shows a year. Living alone as I do, with full responsibility of the entire operation – breeding, training, caring for and managing the horses – the actual execution of packing up for a show had become a little overwhelming. Still, because it is what I do, I planned for two reining shows in 2011 and told my friends I did not know if I would compete at any others. I hauled both stallions to Prince George the end of June for the show there. A month later, I loaded the boys again for Armstrong, arriving safely but tired.

Watching the show with Mischa.

On the second day of the show, I knew that show would be my last. I still was one of the last to leave the arena at night and one of the first in the morning, but reduced sleep and unforgiving heat was taking its toll. I was not in my best “show mode”. I lost my appetite and leg cramps hampered me in the first run on Walking With Wolves in the Derby.

Walking With Wolves and I in Armstrong

Working out the cramp, I mounted Running With Wolves for his Derby run and ran reining pattern #9 with all the determination and drive I could muster. After the final stop, I leaned down and stroked Wolf"s neck and whispered "thank you" even though he had incurred a major penalty. Wolf, as he always does, strode to the judges, ears up and eager. As I dismounted for the bit check, I looked at them and said, “I have something to tell you.” They looked a little confused.

“That was my last competitive run,” I explained, “ and you, Morgan (Morgan Lybbert was one of the judges) competed in the same class as I did in my first reining show at Saskatchewan Stakes and Futurities in 1980! This is somehow fitting…”

Running With Wolves and I in the Derby at Armstrong.

Competing has always been a struggle for me, but somehow I kept doing it. Most of this time, I trained and travelled by myself; most of those years, I didn't have an indoor arena so I rode in the wind, rain and snow; I trained reining horses without benefit of sliding ground a large percentage of time! But I brought many three-year-olds to their first futurity and, although I seldom won, they didn't disappoint me either . . . and they were around for many years, sound of mind and body, to pack others around the pen. One rather interesting fact only just occurred to me: In 31 years of reining, I never showed a horse trained by someone else! I think I am rather proud of that!

I know one thing for sure - I must find something to fill the void. I need excitement in my life and I need to do something exciting with my horses! I'm thinking more trail riding (Ididn't have enough time to trail ride when I showed!) but I have a few other ideas too. I'll still be riding, breeding quality reining horses (4 coming next spring) and still training. I've just taken competing out of my schedule.

Saying it makes it real. Yes, I love to rein and I love to show my reining horses (See Somerset Maughn's quote re: "...foolish not to take delight..."). Will I miss the reining pen? Of course. Was it hard to quit? Unbelievably difficult. And scary… But, in the words of Erica Jong,

“I have accepted fear as a part of life - specifically the fear of change... I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back...”

It's not written in stone...

*******

Photo credit for all photos: John Woods

"There's a Love Knot in my Lariat"

2011-07-25T09:14:00.000-07:00

It’s my mom and dad’s anniversary today. Almost every year, I remember – not the wedding of course since I arrived five and a half years later – but the occasion. Living as we did, on a working ranch in Saskatchewan, there were plenty of other things to think about in July but, every year, mom and dad celebrated their special day in some way, even if it was just a family dinner.

Mom and dad were married on the Diamond Dot Ranch in the open air under fledgling poplars that would one day obscure the dugout behind them. Under a gentle breeze, with family around them, they said their vows, loved and laughed, and danced the night away under the stars to the music of the Schroeder family. From that moment on, “There’s a Love Knot in my Lariat” became mom and dad’s song.

Slim and Florence Gates on thier wedding day - July 25, 1938

Twenty-five years later, my parents celebrated their Silver Anniversary in the same place - the Diamond Dot Ranch. The poplars had grown to towering heights and the old ranch house, although it still stood, had been replaced by a new log house. Dad butchered a beef, dug a pit to barbecue it in and constructed a wood dance floor. Mom cooked, baked and planned. When the day came, so did relatives and friends and they all reminisced, laughed and, just as they did twenty-five years before, danced until the wee hours of the morning under a starry prairie sky. Again, the Schroeders provided the music and, of course, sang “There’s a Love Knot in my Lariat”! This time, though, my brother and I celebrated with them. When morning came, no one could find Dad and Mom. After a little searching, they came out of hiding...

"After everyone went to bed," Mom said, "I realized we did not have a place to sleep, so we rolled out sleeping bags on bales of hay stored in the old ranch house." Perfect.

Slim and Florence Gates on their 25th Anniversary

Harold and I would celebrate another landmark anniversary with Mom and Dad - their 40th. This time I baked and decorated the cake and joined a representative of the Schroeder family with my guitar to sing, once again, "There's a Love Knot in my Lariat". They had retired and were living in Beechy then, having passed the Diamond Dot on to Harold. Though much had changed, their commitment to each other had not. With family, including grandchildren around them, they celebrated, once again, July 25th.

Slim and Florence Gates on their 40th Anniversary

I can only hope that, somehow, some way, Dad and Mom are hearing, once again (maybe with the harps of angels?), "There's a Love Knot in my Lariat". Miss you both...

Mischa

2011-07-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

A week ago today, I picked up a female puppy at Crisandi Samoyeds in Keremeos. I had thought long and hard about buying a Samoyed - I could rescue one from SPCA and be many dollars ahead - but I could not imagine having another breed, having had Samoyeds for most of my life. Before this puppy was born, I had a deposit on her.

By the time I returned to Armstrong, where my horse trailer/living quarters was parked at a friend's, she had bonded to me. She adapted to travelling (although she didn't like the crate much and I doubt she will travel that way in the future!), sleeping in the living quarters of the trailer, and even "potty training". I had chosen a few name possiblities but did not settle on one until the next day -Mischa (pronounced "mee'-sha")., a name befitting her heritage (Samoyeds originated in the Ural Mountains of Russia).

Mischa and I in Armstrong the day I brought her home

We spent one day in Armstrong before returning to the Chilcotin. I'm sure Mischa knew only one constant up to this point - me - and must have wondered if we were going to travel forever. That night I fixed a bed for her beside mine (no more crates!) and there she slept, only getting me up at 5:00 to go out. Having just returned from a trip, I didn't feel like staying up so I put her back in her "bed" with her toy, where she played a while then went back to sleep.

Mischa has lots to learn of course - necessary things like coming when she is called, staying where she is asked to stay and how to cope with country life. Slowly I am introducing her to the horses but it will be some time before I am comfortable with her around them - at least until she has grown up a little. I have taken her with me to feed a few times, keeping a watchful eye of course lest she get through the fence. (At least my horses are used to a dog, most of them having grown up with Kirby.) Mischa also must learn to stay in the yard, to lead on a leash (already started that) and how to be alone in the house. Small steps for now, though. I leave her for only very short periods of time. When she is outside on my big lawn, she romps and investigates - flowers, pieces of bark off the trees, bugs, butterflies.

Like all Samoyeds, Mischa loves people. Like all Samoyeds as well she looks like she is "smiling" when she opens her mouth. In this photo, she is "laughing"!

A responsibility? Yes, indeed, but there is no doubt that Mischa will bring an incredible amount of joy to my life. And does Mischa miss her litter mates? Not at all. After all, she has me . . . and all the attention!

A Filly Named Feather

2011-07-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

She entered the world on June 8, 2011, a little, rather scrawny, bony sorrel filly with distinctive markings - a bold white strip down her face missing a chunk (like someone had bit a piece out of it!) that turned up on the left side of her back in the form of an unusual, irregular-shaped spatter of white - like someone flicked a paint brush at her. I had not been looking forward to this foal and now I had a crop-out! I was not thrilled.

It had been a traumatic and sorrowful foaling season. Easter required emergency measures to save her baby and Prima lost the foal I had pinned dreams on. In fact, I had lost a piece of myself when I buried Baby Wimpy. I dreaded the last mare foaling. Whether I liked it or not, though, Silk was going to foal. I monitored her progress more out of duty than joy, and now here the baby was - with her own set of problems - I had to drag her out of the stall when her mother colicked, then rescue her again a couple of hours later when mom had a panic attack! Although she was unfazed, I had had enough.

"When will it end?" I thought. "I'm tired and I don't want any more foals - ever!"

I gave her the name I had picked for Prima's foal had it been a filly (It wasn't.) - Feather. I had already decided not to plan ahead to next year even if I suceeded in getting Prima back in foal to Wimpys Little Step and giving the name away was part of that. Much had been attached to that name...(Read Feathers and Faith.) I let it go...

Feather is a month old now. Until recently I didn't pay much attention to her. I cared for them of course, even took a few photos, but I didn't halter her, pet her or hang out with her. I had nothing left to give and she and the two colts were just reminders of a painful memory that wouldn't go away.

Apparently Feather had other ideas. She always came to greet me, ignoring my indifference. If I sat in a lawn chair while Silk grazed, Feather would come up behind me and nuzzle my hair. She wouldn't leave me alone, wouldn't take "no" for an answer. And she won. Slowly, I emerged from my self-imposed, self-indulgent "funk". I noticed how pretty she was, how personality oozed from every pore, how she tried so hard for me to make me notice her. Feather was accomplishing what nothing else could. She was bringing me back to life. Like the gentle touch of a feather, she drew me to her. She is teaching me to love her. And the white spot on her back? It's growing too... and I'm learning to love it because it is part of her, a part of a very sassy filly who is filling a hole in my heart.

The spot that makes Feather "special"

And so I must consider the possiblity that my choice of the name, "Feather", had a far greater purpose than for a Wimpys Little Step filly. That name was meant to belong to a pretty, little sorrel filly with a big heart and the motivation to stir mine. Am I healed enough to face another loss? I don't know. But the other half of the title of that post last winter was "Faith". Remember - feathers are believed to protect and to carry spiritual messages. And I have my Feather.

How was your day?

2011-06-20T21:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Father's Day and, although my father has been gone for many years now, the day brought many memories back. I reminisced (to myself) about my childhood on the Diamond Dot Ranch with my parents and my brother. Those were happy times.

Brother Harold, Dad, Mom and I (1954)

These days I am trying to be happy. My last two blogs on Reinin', Ridin' and Writin' were not cheerful and this one is going be - even if I have to make a big effort... So, since there is nothing on the planet more joyful than young things, especially foals, I chose that as my focus. I would spend time with the mares and foals to re-kindle my spirit.

First I walked into the pasture with my camera to find Destiny, Whiskey, Easter and Timber. "The boys" are together now and lovin' it. They are very close in age and will grow up together. These are a few of the photos I took when I hung out with them.

Wildwood Destiny and Wildwood N Whiskey

Poco Easter Lena and Wildwood Timber Wolf

Wildwood Timber Wolf

Wildwood N Whiskey - 2 months

Wildwood Feather is in a pen with her mother, Silk. At only 11 days old, she is too young and delicate to play with the boys yet but I led Silk to the picnic area under the trees to munch on grass. It was the first time Feather had had so much freedom and, after tentatively testing the distance between her and her mother, she happily explored - the hitching rail (which she ran into!), the hammock (which fortunately she didn't run into!), the wheelbarrow of flowers, trees, clumps of grass - always spinning away and dashing in a wild circle around Silk and I. Who could not feel joy watching such carefree fun?

Wildwood Soul O Silk and Wildwood Feather

Feather at 11 days

Feather running for the pure joy of it!

And that was my day - quiet but quietly satisfying - a little healthy nostalgia and a little quality time with my mares and foals. How was yours?

Walking Through It

2011-06-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

Those of you who read this blog every week will notice that I have not posted for the last month. Those of you who know me, will understand why if you read the last blog. I have been walking through it.

It is exactly a month today since I lost my Wimpys Little Step foal and since that time I have flat-lined. I feed my horses, I ride, eat, sleep - but with no joy. Although I have always seen things in technicolor, now my world is somewhat colorless. Losing first my dog, then the foal that I had pinned dreams to, darkened my world.

Writing out my pain in "Beam Me Up, Scotty!" may have been therapeutic but I had a long way to go and still do. There is no shortcut to the other side, no way around, no way to avoid it - I have to walk directly through the pain.

Life does go on. I had long ago planned a Vern Sapergia clinic May 27-29. As that time approached, I knew I had to muster energy to do all the things that needed to be done to make that happen. I cleaned the entire house since I had guests, planned meals, even baked the butter tarts that Vern likes so much, but because I had dragged my feet for so long, the grass did not get mowed and the windows did not get done. I rode my young stallion, Walking With Wolves, in the clinic and he was fantastic. Vern rode Running With Wolves and he was fantastic. Still I did not feel the surge of joy I usually feel when my horses do well. I was still walking through it.

Vern Sapergia on Runnning With Wolves

Walking With Wolves and I in Vern Sapergia clinic

The worst part of it was that I now did not look forward to the birth of my last foal. Silk was due May 20... and I was terrified. Not only did the joy go out of it for me, it was replaced by terror. I am not a fearful person and I can't remember the last time I was scared of anything but the thought of another limp, lifeless foal in front of me terrified me. But I knew I would have to face my fears.

Silk did not make it easy on me. She was late - very late! On gestation day 362 at 12:20 AM, she finally delivered a sorrel filly. My relief was short-lived. She jumped up, laid down again and started to roll. Colic??

"Perfect!" I thought. "Now I'm going to lose a mare!"

I dragged the newborn out of the stall so she would not get rolled on and went for Banamine and gave her the shot. After a few minutes, when she seemed to calm a little, I brought the filly back in but I could not go back to bed for some time - until I was sure she would not start thrashing around again. Finally, when she and the baby were laying down, I retired to the tack room... only to be abruptly wakened by a commotion in the foaling stall. Silk was having a full-blown anxiety attack. With a lot of talking from me and the foal sucking she calmed down again. I decided she was upset with the stallion in the barn (or any other horse!) so, at 4:00 AM I moved horses so she could have the barn to herself. Later I wondered if a bear had walked by the barn (if so, I was walking around with the bear!) OR was it the stallion OR had Silk picked up on my fears?

Silk and Feather

At five days old, little Feather is thriving and I am learning to love her and trying to believe she will not be taken. Scotty didn't "beam me up" of course, and he won't. Life is not like that. With my first show of the year only 10 days away, I am trying very hard to believe in all things good again but it's a process. I'm still walking through it.

Beam me up, Scotty...

2011-05-16T14:21:00.000-07:00

This is a difficult post to write. I almost didn't, but since Ridin'. Reinin' and Writin' is supposed to be a bit of a snapshot of my life, I knew I must. Here goes...

There are bumps in the road of life for everyone, I know, and we all hope the bumps are only little ones. I have had some rather large bumps (more like craters...) along the way but, as my brother once told me, "You always pick yourself up and start over." In the past few years, after my husband walked out in 2004, I did that again - I started over. As always, the thread that had connected all phases of my life for all of my life remained - my animal friends. My female Samoyed, Kirby and my horses were my anchors. In the ensuing years, I willingly 'gave' all of me to them and they have returned to me more - a reason to be, deep understanding, loyalty and joy. With their help, I healed.

I knew I would be tested, however. It was just a matter of when and how. As last fall turned to winter and winter to spring, Kirby failed. Although I knew the logical decision was to take her in to the vet, I procrastinated. Although she could barely walk and was almost blind, she was not in pain. I carried her in and out; at times, I hand-fed her. She could still hear and that alone made her life livable for she heard my footsteps, my voice, the tractor, the horses - all the things she had heard all of her 13 years. Eventually, she lost her battle. She died the evening of May 12th.

I had been prepared for Kirby's passing and was grateful she had died at home. Even so, as I threw that first shovel of dirt on her lifeless body, I bawled like a baby. My loyal, loving companion was gone.

That night I slept in the tack room of my barn beside my mare, Peppy Del Cielo (Prima). She carried a foal by Wimpys Little Step and I had allowed myself to dream a big dream for this foal. If the foal arrived that night it would take the sting out of losing Kirby.

At 4:00 AM on May 13th (that's Friday, the 13th!), I knew the mare was going to foal. A few minutes after 5:00, the foal was born - a mahogany bay colt with a snip on his nose and three socks - but he flopped in the straw limp and lifeless. Frantically, I checked his mouth and nose for mucous an, finding none, tried to hold him upside down to drain his airway. I could not get him high enough so I draped him over the water bowl. When nothing drained, I laid him in the straw and started CPR but no amount of air from my lungs was going to bring Baby Wimpy back to life. He did not draw one breathe. He, like Kirby, was gone.

Over twelve hours, I had lost my dog and a foal in which I had packaged my hopes and dreams. At first I did not know how I would be able to cope but of course, there were things to do - feeding the rest of the horses, weaning Prima (still licking the baby in hopes of reviving him) away from her baby, choosing a location to bury the foal, digging another grave...

So, by the fence in my house yard, under two small poplars that would someday shade Baby Wimpy's grave, I dug a resting place for the small innocent body one shovel-full at a time, tears mingling with sweat. I transported his lifeless body in the bucket of my tractor, laid him in the grave and kissed his cold, sweet nose, the same one I had tried to breathe life in to. And when the first bucket of dirt, tumbled over him, I collapsed over the steering wheel of the tractor, great gasping sobs racking my body. So final. Sooo.... over. First Kirby, then a wee foal that had not yet had a chance to live. I hope they are romping together in a green field...

With one more mare left to foal, I feel like I have nothing left to give. Beam me up, Scotty! I want to come back when it's better.

Mint Juleps, Ice Cream and Caramel Sauce

2011-05-09T20:56:00.000-07:00

I've always been a little fascinated with the way very small things link my mind to events. Seemingly insignificant words, items or actions connect my thoughts to a time in my life or an annual event... like ice cream with my homemade caramel sauce and the Kentucky Derby. Forget the wide-brimmed hats, mint juleps and My Kentucky Home. Give me ice cream with caramel sauce. This is how it happened.

Years ago, when we only had one channel on our black and white television (that's after we could get television!), the Kentucky Derby was always aired - and it was a program we would not miss! Even though we were extremely busy at that time of the year, my husband and I planned to take a break for the prestigious event. For some reason, I remember one of those May Saturdays very well - so well, in fact, that it comes back to me at every running of the Kentucky Derby.

It was a warm spring day in Crooked River, Saskatchewan, the perfect day for raking, preparing the garden for planting and other spring work. My three young children played outside as my husband and I worked, checking our watch often. Finally, it was time.

As we walked to the house, I planned a snack for us, something befitting the big event and the advent of warm weather. Yes, I knew what I would do. I would make my mother's famous Caramel Ice Cream Sauce. As I stirred the ingredients together on the stove (now I use the microwave), the pre-race hype blared from the televsion. Just in time, I dished up ice cream for all of us, topped it with the rich, buttery sauce and sat down. On the screen, ladies in floppy-brimmed hats toasted with mint juleps while my family spooned a decadent dessert into our mouths. Ice cream with Caramel Sauce has not tasted any better ever since that day in 1973, the year Secretariat won the Kentucky Derby. Since he went on to win the Triple Crown, that could explain why that day and Ice Cream with Caramel Sauce is forever linked to the Derby in my mind. Or was it because it was a pleasant interlude with my family?

Here is the recipe:

In a glass bowl or large measuring cup, melt 1/4 cup butter (use butter) in the microwave. Add 1 cup brown sugar, stir and microwave for a few seconds. In another bowl, whisk or beat 1 egg with 1/4 cup milk. Add slowly to butter mixture stirring constantly (make sure it's not too hot!). Heat only until sugar is melted and sauce is smooth. Add vanilla to taste and serve warm on vanilla ice cream.

This year Animal Kingdom won the 137th running of the Kentucky Derby... and I watched with a bowl of caramel-sauced ice cream in my lap.

A Week of Wonders

2011-04-25T06:32:00.000-07:00

It's been an eventful week – the weather changed from spring to “winter” to spring in a day or two (sort of "wonder" ful) and new lives entered my world (truly "wonder"ful!).

At this time of the year, my life has revolves around my broodmares. Four mares, heavy in foal, are my life. I bred them and cared for them. Now I ask that they deliver strong, healthy foals and I promise I will be there for them when they do. I was.

Last Tuesday (only six days ago), a spring snow storm swept through the Chilcotin, covering my property with a chilling, icy blanket. I had penned three of my mares across from the house where I could watch them closely, only guessing which would be the first to foal. Now, in swirling snow, they clearly were begging to be taken to the barn. I got the camera out and the montage below is the result.

Destiny, Easter and Prima - broodmares in the snow.

That night, two hours past her 18th birthday, in a warm stall in the barn, Destiny delivered a stunning bay colt, the first for my young stallion, Walking With Wolves. I was sleeping in the tack room only steps away and I was there when Wildwood N Whiskey entered the world into my arms.

“This never gets old and it is always, always a miracle,” I thought.

Whiskey wanted to get up right away. He had no time for me at all. He just wanted to rise and run. Destiny whinnied softly to him a few times, then struggled to her feet, turned and licked him. Soon, though, she lay down again, uncomfortable until she expelled the afterbirth. This was Whiskey’s chance. As his mom rested in the straw, he tried out his new legs – popping up in one move, then trying to run and jump - a little awkwardly, of course. I laughed at him.

Since I wanted to stay up until Destiny had cleaned and Whiskey had sucked, I made a quick trip to the house… and came back with a glass of wine! There, in the stillness of night, I sat on a salt block in the corner of the stall, sipped wine and marveled at the pureness and wonder of what I had, again, witnessed.

“It just doesn’t get any better than this,” I said out loud.

I thought Easter was going to foal the next night. She stopped eating, stood uncomfortably in the corner of her pen and showed all the signs of being in the first stage of labour, but no foal that night nor the next day or the next night. At 7:00 AM on Friday morning, after hour checks all night, when I went to get her from her stall, I could see she was going to foal. As I led her to a grassy area, her water broke. I waited. Nothing. Knowing a little about mares foaling, I knew this was not good. When a half hour had passed, I phoned Louise, another horse person a few minutes away.

“I think I have a problem,” I told her. We discussed the situation and decided I would call back in 15 minutes.

“I know I have a problem,” I told Louise 15 minutes later. “Can you come over?”

We knew what we had to do. We had to see what was going on inside because there was absolutely no sign of a baby nor was she trying to foal on her own. What we found out was not good – the foal was upside down!

I had seen movement so I knew the baby was still alive, but since I am 100 km from a vet, the best approach (if it worked) was for us to try to pull the foal. It was not easy, but after close to an hour, we did. Wildwood Timber Wolf arrived into our laps from the womb of his exhausted mother. I cried – with relief, with raw emotion. I was fully prepared to lose this foal, yet there he was! Not only alive but strong and raring to go. He was up before his mother, touring the round pen with all the courage he had used to enter the world. Easter, Louise and I had a higher power helping because, against all odds, mother and baby are doing well. And Timber was born on Easter’s birthday!

His name should have been Wonder. It's a wonder he's alive, a series of wonder-ful, lucky breaks that helped Louise and I deliver him. It could have turned out very differently but, after all, it was a week of wonders.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2011-04-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

No – not Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year for me is foaling time. And that time is now! Four of my mares are preparing to add to my herd. A year of planning, breeding and waiting is coming to fruition in the next few weeks.

For me, time almost stops as I wait it out for the new babies. I go through the motions of feeding, riding and spring work, but only one thing is on my mind – new foals, new life. Although it’s a waiting game now, things could get pretty busy – downright hectic – really fast. The first three mares – Destiny, Prima and Easter – were bred to foal about ten days apart but it looks like they are going to be very close together. Only time will tell of course, but Destiny (due tomorrow) doesn’t appear to be on time while Prima looks close to “on time” and Easter looks like she will be early.

Wildwood Destiny

Prima (Peppy Del Cielo)

Poco Easter Lena

Wildwood Soul O Silk

There’s a variety of sires this year. Easter and Silk are bred to Running With Wolves, Destiny is bred to Walking With Wolves (first foal for him) and Prima, my Gallo Del Cielo mare, is bred to Wimpys Little Step. There is also a possibility of four different colours – my grey mare, Easter, could have a grey, Destiny has the best chance to produce a bay (since sire and dam are bay), Silk’s almost certainly will be sorrel (she and sire are sorrel) and Prima could produce a palomino (if she does, it will be the first palomino foal I have ever had!). We’ll have to see how this plays out.

Fillies or colts? I always want fillies but in Prima’s case it doesn’t matter because she has produced some fantastic stallions. I do know if it’s a filly, I will have a hard time selling, so business-wise, it should be a colt. I would like Destiny to produce a filly since it’s Little Wolf’s first but, again, I would hate to sell Destiny’s filly by Walking With Wolves. Easter has had three fillies in a row crossed with Running With Wolves. Is it her turn for a colt? And Silk, foaling in May? I’m betting on a colt for her since she has had a filly, Wildwood Sapphire, already. Again, I’ll just have to wait and see. It’s a done deal now and the most important thing is four healthy foals.

Yes, it’s the most wonderful time of the year and I intend to reap all the rewards. I can look forward to sleepless nights and four little miracles arriving soon. It doesn’t get much better.

A Peace in their Presence

2011-03-28T06:08:00.000-07:00

Although late morning, the air holds a chill - after all it is still March - and the rails I lean on are slippery with frost. Not a breathe of breeze stirs the towering tops of the Douglas firs but I can hear the soft twitterings of a few birds in the branches. I look down at the river, frozen yet, so still now, so swift in the summer. I turn my face to the sun to soak up the welcome warmth.

Is the deep sense of tranquillity I am feeling born of these surroundings? I ponder that for a moment ... until I look into the eyes of my favourite mare, Silk, standing in the sun on the other side of those slippery, frosty rails. I know then that the peace settling into my body emanates from her and the other two other mares beside her. One by one, all three come to the fence; one by one, they each gently touch me with their nose. I look around me - all my horses, in pens around the yard, emit off that same quiet energy.

I've often said that I love where I live because it is so peaceful, but in fact, it probably doesn't matter where I call home. Since I have always had and always will have horses living with me, I will always know that serenity if I am aware because it is they who provide that. Of course I have always known that but this morning I felt the shroud of peace - as real and tangible as the horses themselves.

"It's simple enough," I think. "There is peace in their presence."

Getting to Know Me

2011-03-21T12:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve been looking through photo albums lately- the ones with hard copy photos in them, not “albums” on my computer! It all started when I was looking for a one particular photo and it escalated from there to a journey back in time. As I flipped though the pages, I decided I should do a more thorough job. I would scan, not all of them, but ones of particular interest to me or my family so they could be stored forever in digital files. In this process, I came across many of me and, with them, memories. Many involved horses (no surprise there!) but there were also a few documenting a little-known or forgotten side of me– even to me. So many of you know me mostly as a horse breeder or a reiner. Probably there are many that cannot imagine me in non-horsey situations so the focus of this blog post is "Sharon without horses". Here are a few pictures of the parts of me that together with the horse part, make me who I am:

I am a mother and a grandmother.

I am the mother of three children - Shayne, Cindy and Lana. Although my children have told me I am not a typical grandmother (whatever that is!), I love spending time with my grandchildren. I have four - Kendra, Adara, Larissa and Jaden. Little known fact: I worked as a nanny for a few months one winter in Saskatchewan.

Me with my daughter, Cindy

Me with my granddaughter,Kendra.

I love music.

I play violin and once played second violin with an orchestra. I also sang in a large choir. I also play guitar just well enough to accompany myself singing and I play the piano mostly by ear, although I can read music and sometimes try to play that way. I still pick up the violin once in a while but it is one of those instruments that one needs to play often to play well!

Junior Orchestra 1957 Oliver BC (I am third from outside second row left)

Junior Orchestra 1958 Oliver BC (I am outside second row on right)

I played basketball.

Kyle Composte Basketball Team

I absolutely loved basketball and I played center for the high school team. We had an excellent coach - Mr Johnson. I remember one game that was going badly because the opposing girls were getting rough. He took a couple of us off the floor and I asked why. "Because even if they are not acting like ladies you are going to," he replied.

I made the University of Saskatchewan team but quit before I ever played a game because I thought I could not keep my grades up, a decision I regretted...

I took up archery for a few years.

My husband was the one who got me started in archery and I enjoyed practicing and going to archery shoots (where we competed walking a course and shooting at "animals" in different positions and different distances. Although I never won anything (that wasn't the point anyway), I did shoot a "robin hood" at the range - one arrow in the center of the target and another splitting that arrow. My husband was impressed, but I didn't even know it was a good thing. I complained that I wrecked two arrows!

I love to swim.

1994 - Swimming Hawaii

I only put on a bathing suit to hot tub these days, but I used to swim as much as I could. I loved the water and tried diving, water skiing and even surfing! The dive I remember is one off of a very high cliff into Gallager Lake - I know now I should never have been diving into rocks but what convinced me not to do it again was the huge belly flop I did! I only water skiied once (ony because I did not have access to skis or boat) and I couldn't get up - kept pushing myself backwards. (The guy driving the boat wanted me to give up but I kept trying) The surfing happened on my 50th birthday in Hawaii. I wish I had a photo but the only one I could find is this one taken on the same holiday. (I hated this pic at the time - funny how it's all relative - wouldn't allow a photo now!)

I am a fisherwoman!

My first catch!

Well, not really but I did fish a few times. Mostly I liked sitting in the boat in tanning weather, but it was more interesting if I caught a fish. First time was with my boyfriend in Lake of the Woods, Ontario where this photo was taken. That's the first fish I caught - a pickeral. One time there, I thought I snagged a log - turned out to be a huge jackfish. I reeled him in like a pro.

I love to cook.

I've always said I am sorry for a woman who does not like to cook because she has to do so much of it. Fortunately for me, that was not the case. I learned to cook at an early age from my mother, who was an excellent cook. I have always made my own bread, prepare most dishes from scratch and once in a while I experiment with a complicated new recipe.

I am an avid gardener.

I don't believe I have ever not had a garden since the first year I was married in 1964. Sometimes, when I moved it meant digging up a small plot and fighting weeks and quack grass for the first year, but I always had my own garden vegetables. I still do. I also grow stawberries and raspberries - don't know what I would do without my own fruit. Flowers, too, I like, especially roses. I miss the wonderful rose garden I had in Armstrong, but still manage to brighten my home in the Chilcotin with petunias, pansies and various perennials.

I love to dance.

Dancing is a little like swimming - I don't do it anymore - but there was a time when I wouldn't miss a chance to dance. I like all dances (even square danced the first winter I was married) - waltz, polka, two step, schottische and jive. I remember at a horse show dance in Swan River, Manitoba a girlfriend and I just about cleared the floor jiving! We had waited a while for someone to ask us to dance and when no one did (that we wanted to dance with), we chose each other. What fun!

In Saskatchewan, a friend and I drove 100 miles once a week to learn to line dance. Later, in BC, I taught line dancing for a couple of winters.

So there you have it - a little information about me outside my passion for horses. I suppose I am the sum of all these parts.

Happy Birthday, Kirby!

2011-03-14T10:06:00.000-07:00

There can really only be one topic for this day's post on my blog. Today is Kirby's birthday and it is her day. Some of you already know that I am preparing to lose her; some may think I already have. But my old Samoyed, my faithful friend and companion is still with me and we are celebrating her 13th birthday today.

Kirby came to me in 1998 - a busy ball of white fluff...

... that grew into a beautiful adult dog.

Through the ensuing years, she was with me almost 24/7. At home she did chores with me morning and night, laid at the edge of the arena as I rode, slept with me in the barn when I foaled out the mares and "helped" herd the younguns out the door. Although she was never in the stall she knew when a new foal had arrived and waited for her first peek from the door. Oddly enough, my mares did not mind having her around. At night, she slept by my bed and once alerted me to an intruder. Although not really a watch dog, she guarded both my truck and camper with fierce loyalty. She travelled with me to all reining shows and would not leave the outfit if she saw me preparing to load. She even entertained me and others with tricks - sit, stay, down, crawl, play dead, rollover (all with hand signals), dance and jump through a hula hoop.

We've become even closer, Kirby and I, in these last months. I am reluctant to let her go. Six weeks ago, I called the vet with every intention of taking her in. I couldn't get through the call without tears and, even though I made every preparation for the event, I called the next morning to cancel. Since that day, I have been grateful for every day we have had. In an odd way, I enjoy caring for her. Maybe it is because she needs me, but more likely it is because I need her. I so hoped she would pass away in her sleep at home where she would not be afraid but it has not come to pass.

Kirby is blind but she hears. She takes great comfort in my voice and all the familiar sounds of the house - the television, my steps across the floor, my voice on the telephone... She eats anything she wants now but her appetite is not good so I try different things and hold the dish for her to eat. I have to carry her outside to go to the bathroom.

It's incredibly sad to see her lose her independence. I wish she could talk to tell me what she is thinking. One thing I am sure of: she is very glad I did not get a new puppy. She knows she is still the only dog in my life. Happy, happy birthday, old dog!

It's Complicated

2011-03-07T07:45:00.000-08:00

This past week I was contacted by a prospective buyer for one of my horses. I talked with her on the phone, answered her questions, then spent a few hours looking through my videos and posting one for her to view on YouTube. Do I think this could be a good fit for her? Yes. Will she buy? I don’t know. Is she looking at other horses? She would be foolish not to. As a matter of fact, I am looking for her. I emailed a friend about a horse she has for sale because, you see, I want this lady to be really satisfied if she buys my horse.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the whole process of selling horses. It's not as open as I would like it to be. I know many trainers do not refer prospective buyers to other trainers or other horses, but I think it’s good for the business in general. Certainly it speaks well of us all if we can, with good intentions and affable spirit, send a prospective buyer to someone else. The way I look at it is this: if that buyer comes back to me, it's because he really wants my horse!

The longer I’m in this business, the more disenchanted I am with some of the “politics” involved selling horses. As a friend of mine said many years ago, “I don’t see why it’s so hard.” (He was actually talking about relationships and marriages, but that’s a whole other topic...) Maybe why it’s hard is because there’s money involved, but it might be more about power and prestige. It’s a little like “Who has the most toys?” only it’s “Who can sell the most horses?” I have personally experienced a real reluctance to refer buyers to me and jealousy (to the point of “scooping” the sale) when a prospective buyer approaches me. Three things happen to Wildwood Reining Horses because of this: I lose a few prospective buyers when they are snatched by another trainer, I do not get many referrals and someone's missing an opportunity to own a well-bred, raised-and-trained-with-love-and-care horse!

And then there is the question of commission. If someone refers a buyer, is commission payable? I think it is – both ways! I learned this the hard way. Several years ago, I referred a buyer to a friend who I knew had a mare that might be suitable. I did not intend to charge commission since no previous arrangement had been made and she was a friend. Two weeks later my farrier told me she had sold the mare to that the person I referred to her! I had not only not been offered commission (which I would not have accepted), I didn’t even get a phone call and a “thank you” (which was all I expected)! After that experience, I have made it my policy to make it clear to everyone (no exeptions) that I expect a commission if I sell their horse. It’s fair. I have a well-established business that took a life time to build and, most of all, this is my business. Selling horses, whether mine or not, is part of my livelihood.

Another, rather sticky, issue that rears its head is how to deal with a sale that goes wrong - the horse goes unsound, the buyer does not do well with the horse or, for some reason is not satisfied. My first impulse is to buy the horse back. I don't want one of my horses with an owner that does not want him. That's the sentimental side of me talking; the business side knows I need to weigh each case individually. If the buyer has had the horse for some time, has trained, ridden and showed, then it is not my responsiblity or in my best interest, to buy back. I would not be getting the same horse back that I sold. If the horse is lame, how long after the sale did it show up? (This has never happened to me, but I have heard of plenty of cases!) I always recommend a vet check for trained reining horses - it protects both the buyer and me. Not everyone does. A vet check is an option for prospects as well, but I've never known a buyer to request one. The bottom line is this: If the buyer has had every opportunity to look at other horses, ride mine, and get an approval from a veterinarian, then I should not feel a responsibility to buy the horse back - even if I want to.

Maybe I don’t fight hard enough for business - after all, that’s the way the business world works - but, at this stage in my life, it’s highly unlikely I will change. I take great pride in the horses I raise and train and I'm as honest as I know how to be when I advertise them for sale. I feel a tremendous responsibility, especially when I sell a trained reiner and, of course, I love all my horses. It's hard to see them leave in another trailer. I want my customers to be absolutely sure before they buy.

“It’s my dream to own a Wildwood," a lady wrote to me in an email. Comments like that make selling horses a pleasure - my pleasure.

Do They Just Happen?

2011-02-28T07:30:00.000-08:00

I was talking to a friend, a horse trainer, on the phone the other day and he made a statement that I have been pondering ever since.

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” he said, “that futurity horses just happen.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you have to do the work, of course,” he explained, “But regardless of breeding, conformation and training, there are only a select few who will be great futurity horses and it's hard to predict which ones those will be.”

He couldn’t quite put his finger on why the great ones were great but he thought an undefinable “something” made superstar futurity horses. We discussed the subject a little more and I came to the conclusion he might be right but I think that "something" is the six inches between the ears - the horse's, that is (although it's a given that the space between the rider's ears should not be a vacuum either). Training a horse to competive level for his futurity year as a three-year-old is a huge commitment on the part of the rider and horse. Of course, the horse does not really commit to the goal - he is talked into it. The staggering mental demands on a young horse in a futurity program cannot ever be underestimated and only the mentally strong horses will accept and even thrive with the challenges. For me that is the undefinable something that separates the great from the good.

I'm just putting the first few rides on my two-year-old filly, Wildwood Mistral. Is she a futurity prospect? Absolutely. Will she be great? Possibly. With a good training program and three older brothers performing opening numbers for her (Running With Wolves, Wildwood Liberty and Walking With Wolves - all futurity horses), she has every chance of excelling, but I don't know for sure 'cause, as my friend says, "Futurity horses might just happen."

Feb 3, 2011 -Wildwood Mistral trying out the saddle and bride.

The Staff of Life

2011-02-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday I baked bread. Since I have baked my own bread all my life, that was hardly a momentous occasion but, for some reason, I thought beyond the almost-automatic steps (setting the yeast, mixing the sponge, kneading, punching down, kneading again, etc). Maybe it was the bread pan.

If that big old blue enamel pan could talk, what a story it could tell! It's no ordinary bread pan. First of all, it's big - the kind of bread pan every housewife owned and used a generation ago when making your own bread wasn't just the "getting back-to-our-roots" thing to do. It was the only way the family would have bread! My bread pan, you see, is the same bread pan my mother mixed bread in. She gave it to me when I was married (not sure what she used then because she still made bread...) and that pan has travelled with me from Saskatchewan to B.C and moved with me several times in this province. Now it resides on a shelf in my basement in the Chilcotin. I used to bake a batch of 10-12 loaves every week but now, living alone as I do, I bring it out only a few times a year. I am spoiled now - I do not like anything else.

I used to always bake white bread but now I almost never do. Twenty years ago or so, I concocted my own whole grain bread and now I never bake anything else, not because it so healthy, but because I love it! Made with whole wheat flour of course, it also contains a variety of grains, brans and seeds. One slice of my bread can keep me going for the morning. But back to the bread pan...

My bread pan with a batch of rising whole grain bread.

That pan has baked more batches of bread, buns and cinnamon rolls than I can envision. When I do imagine the loaves that emerged from the pan, I imagine them filling every room in the house and overflowing into the yard. From the Diamond Dot Ranch in Saskatchewan to the Chilcotin plateau in British Columbia, that bread pan keeps on giving. The base is slightly dented and there are a few rusty spots on the outside; the lid doesn't quite fit any more from jostling around in moves, I suppose, but it still does the job better than anything else - plus it holds a really big batch!

I still do everything the old fashioned way. I set the yeast in warm water with a little sugar in it even though it's fast-acting yeast. I still mix a "sponge" (works great because it rises to a bubbly mixture while I do morning feeding), and I still let it rise twice before making loaves. I guess I'm a creature of habit but why mess with something that works? Oh yes, I don't use a recipe either. The only thing that is an exact science about making bread is the amount of flour and that is measured by feel and texture, not an amount. I tried to write out a recipe for my daughter once, but she learned more by helping me anyway.

Benefits of homemade bread are many - better tasting, cheaper and healthier but making bread is also a great way to work out frustrations if my day is not going well. The harder I work at kneading, the better the dough and the better the bread.

Sharon's Whole Grain Bread

Bread. Regarded as the staff of life. I'm not sure how that started except, of course, it a very basic food. I do know, that the aroma of fresh-baked bread cannot be equalled - incredibly invigorating, comforting and homey. "Breathing" the staff of life. Yes, I could believe that.

One Red Rose

2011-02-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

Today is Valentine’s Day, a day of chocolate, cinnamon hearts, heart-shaped cookies, candy and cards . . . and roses. Several years ago, on Valentine’s Day, my husband brought me twelve long-stemmed red roses. There had not been many times in my life when I had received flowers. I was flattered, but it didn’t have to be a dozen. One would have meant just as much.

I will never forget a scenario I watched unfold in Seattle airport a number of years ago as my husband and I waited on the benches for our flight. We were a little bored as one gets in airports. Don read a little, then almost fell asleep. I people-watched.

One young man captured my attention and, as I so often do, I began to speculate on the story behind the man. He wore faded jeans with frayed, worn holes at the knees, a sleeveless T-shirt exposing tatooed arms, and a bandana tied around his head. He was nervous. He couldn’t stay in one place long. He fidgeted. He paced. He sat down. He got up again. But that was not what made me notice him. It was the rose. In his hand, he gently held one long-stemmed red rose.

The incongruity of the picture struck me first. From his dress, I would have guessed him to be a cocky, devil-may-care young man, but his demeanor said otherwise. And he was obviously waiting for someone special to get off the next flight. The rose changed positions as he did. Sometimes he carried it close to his heart, sometimes loosely in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it, but the scene that stays with me is when he stopped pacing and stood, back to the wall facing the gate. He brought his left leg up and placed it on the wall behind him as if to steady himself and placed the rose beside his right cheek. He was still for a moment, very much in his own world. And that world included someone very special to him. Now I was waiting for whoever was going to get off that plane too!

As the passengers filed through the arrival gate, the young man shifted his pose and became even more anxious. Finally, a pretty young girl with an older man (her father?), came toward him. Still shy, he gave her the rose but they didn’t hug or kiss. They exchanged a few words and the three walked off, leaving me touched in a way I couldn’t quite explain. I turned to my husband. "Did you see that?" I asked.

"What?" he replied. He had missed the whole thing, but I have a permanent, perfect photograph in my brain . . . of a young man in a bandana leaning on the wall, one foot back, holding a rose to his cheek. My photo, if I had been able to take one, would have been in black and white except for the rose, which would have been the deepest, richest red.

I thought then of a time when a man met me at the bus depot with one red rose. Our relationship was teetering on the edge of a demise and I had agreed to visit him on my birthday in February so we could discuss our future if we had one. I arrived rumpled, tired and very glad to be off the bus, but as I walked into the depot, my heart lifted, for there, galloping across the floor toward me was my boyfriend with one…red…rose! He, unlike the young man in the airport, was not at all anxious or concerned about everyone watching for, at 6’6”, no one could miss his dash across the depot! Charmed? Yes, I was.

A dozen red roses? Very good, but one perfect rose can make an even greater impression. Of course I’m speaking for myself. Happy Valentine’s Day!

PS I once received a dozen red roses for training a rather difficult Appaloosa gelding. I earned every one of those!

A Clean Sheet of Paper

2011-02-07T08:09:00.000-08:00

Last week I brought my two year old filly, Wildwood Mistral, in to begin her training under saddle. She's a quality filly, a reining prospect, with the conformation and pedigree to make a excellent reiner. Still, she won't excel with those attributes alone, as good as they are. Without a solid program of training, she might never enter a reining pen - or be as good as she can be! Although I have handled her since birth (in fact I attended her birth), and I cannot trivalize the importance of any and all experiences she has had up to now, Mistral is entering a new, crucial era of her life - under saddle. There will never be another more important time in her life. Mistral's performance career is a "clean sheet of paper" and what is written on it will be there forever. The responsiblity is mine and, as I do every time I start a colt, I am mindful of writing only good stuff on that paper. It can be difficult to "erase" negative experiences, so I try to keep that from happening. I would go so far as saying the first 3-6 rides (or works) are the most important ones in training. It's kind of like writing a novel - without a good beginning, the story fails.

Since Wildwood Reining Horses is a one-woman operation and everything depends upon me staying healthy, I must also be aware of my safety. Starting colts is, by its nature, risky, but I minimize those risks as much as I can. The first day with Mistral, I put her in a stall (with a buddy in another stall), brushed her, picked up her feet, rubbed her all over with the saddle blanket and eventually saddled her and cinched it down. If she had been at all uncomfortable with the saddle, the training session would have ended after I pulled the cinch up snug around her belly. I would not have cinched up. But, since she did not seem to mind, I cinched tight enough to ensure the saddle would stay should she fuss. She didn't. I left her saddled in the stall for about an hour, unsaddled her and turned her out. I had written something on that sheet of paper and it was all good...

The next day, I bitted Mistral before we left the barn with a snaffle with no reins attached, led her out to the main arena, lunged her in the snow. It didn't take long before she wanted to quit. At that point, I led her to the round pen, which had not been used all winter and had two feet of snow in it. There I saddled her again (with some difficulty on my part in winter clothes, with a hurting shoulder and in the snow). Normally I would have had her on a lunge line at this point to control any bucking if it should occur. Since she could not move much in the stall the day before, I knew she might buck when she broke into a trot or lope. I would prefer to "shut down" any bucking but since I was awkward in the snow, I deviated from my usual program just a little. I did walk her a few steps, then took the shank off of the halter, stepped out of the pen, closed the gate, and picked up my video camera. Through the rails, this is what happened.

After this very short "explosion", Mistral did not buck again. In fact, she followed me everywhere in the pen.

I left her saddled and bitted for a couple of hours, then led her to the barn, still saddled, took the tack off, brushed her and turned her out. Day two. Another entry on that sheet of paper and again, with the exception of the bucking, all good stuff. She had moved around a lot with the saddle, had stayed out of any wrecks (me and her!), carried a bit in her mouth and, most of all, learned that she had nothing to fear.

Since these photos were taken, I have worked Mistral once more. I saddled her in the barn, led her to the round pen, free lunged her a little, stood at both shoulders and brought her head around with the rein a few times, then lunged her again. She did not spook, buck or jump. She's on the program. That clean piece of paper has something written on it now and I like what is there. I'm going to do everything possible to continue to "write" positive chapters.

Their Pain is Our Shame

2011-02-02T09:47:00.000-08:00

I thought I had a bad day yesterday. The thought that I had been pushing to the back of my mind all winter - that I would soon have to make that final trip to the vet with my dog - had hit me full force. For the past few months, I have been carrying Kirby (a Samoyed female) in and out of the house, settling her on a soft bed to soothe her old bones. I prepare special meals for her, rub her ears and give her hugs (which she gives me back). The night before last I bathed her. She fussed at first in the tub, but eventually relaxed. I think she most of all liked the fact that I was spending time with her. She is blind and this once-independent animal now depends on me for life. I am glad to do that for her and, thankfully, she does not know any different. Not every animal is so lucky.

I said I thought I had a bad day yesterday. That's because today was worse. This morning, on Facebook, I learned of the slaughter of 100 sled dogs in Whistler BC. A few graphic details were included - enough for me to visualize a horrific, bloody scene - and even a video (which I have not watched). My stomach churned and I became physically ill. I could not get the picture of the dogs out of my mind - their terror, the owner who had betrayed them. And my mind went back to other stories of animal cruelty. Even in my chosen field - reining - I see and hear of cruel practices, practices that point out to me that the rider does not consider his horse capable of feelings. Imagine how I feel when that horse is one I raised!

I can say with absolute certainty that I cannot even begin to understand the mind that believes that treating an animal with anything other than respect and empathy. Any animal - wild or tame - is a living, breathing, thinking being - with a soul!

I also believe that this kind of mind could also harm another human being. If life means that little, nothing will stop it.

I didn't really have a bad day yesterday after all. I still have Kirby and I will continue to care for her as long as I possibly can and as long as she is not in pain. I wish I had not opened up Facebook this morning and read this story, but I did; I wish I could do something about this but I can't; I wish I was proud to be part of the human race right now, but I'm not. The pain of those beautiful dogs is our shame.

Through Their Eyes...

2011-01-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

One summer a few years back, a friend and I were riding a trail on my property. The trail wandered down a steep sandy bank, through thick brush and across a muddy, trickling stream. I rode a young mare who had not been out of the arena much and she was, predictably, balking or spooking at obstacles - real and imagined - on the trail.

“Always challenging riding a young horse, isn’t it?” I commented to my friend.

“I kind of like it,” he said. “It’s like seeing things for the first time through their eyes.”

I was silent for a moment, pondering the wisdom of that statement as we slid down a very steep, sandy incline. Positive thinking. That's what he chose. Joyful anticipation over frustration. He shared his horse’s keen awareness of surroundings instead of getting annoyed or angry.

Single file now, we continued along the path with the Chilcotin River roaring beside us - down a twisty, rocky trail above the river and into willow and poplar. My mare, still bug-eyed, moved in jerky steps - start, stop, start - as I urged her into the trees with my legs, directing her head with my hands and periodically taking a hand off the reins to brush branches to the side. When we came to a little boggy stream across the trail, she balked.

"Okay, girl," I said. "It's pretty scary. I'll get some help." I asked my friend to take the lead and my little mare followed.

If I really pay attention, riding a youngster really is like seeing the world a little differently - through my horse's eyes. I really look at that rock that I have ridden my so many times. I notice for the first time that , with the light low inn the sky, it could be a cougar crouching in the underbrush. That burnt tree stump might be a black bear. And the way the grass sways in the wind could mean some wild thing is hiding there. I, too, approach each bend in the trail with anticipation of what is around the corner. Maybe I even flinch a little when an eagle flies over. My old familiar world is fresh and new again - through the eyes of a two-year-old filly.

Photos below are taken on that trail at another time.

Fearless

2011-01-17T08:22:00.000-08:00

It is my wish for myself that I could be FEARLESS.

The dictionary would describe FEARLESS as being "unafraid", "without fear" and it does mean that, but it means much more to me - FEARLESS means being afraid and doing it anyway! FEARLESS is living with your fears.

FEARLESS is climbing on a colt for the first time when I know he could throw me and FEARLESS is trail riding alone when I know I could get lost or hurt, but FEARLESS goes far beyond that. For me, FEARLESS also means facing all the scary things in life - leaving home, falling in love, falling in love even if you've been hurt, having a child, saying goodbye, crying into your pillow, crying in front of the world, fighting for what you believe in and, most importantly, admitting guilt and wrong-doing.

I think FEARLESS is also not believing someone who is not sorry no matter how many times he or she has said they are.

FEARLESS can also be standing up for an unpopular opinion if it's your opinion, not backing down to ridicule, guilt trips or anger.

FEARLESS is getting back up every time you are knocked down... even if you expect to be knocked down again.

Have I achieved a FEARLESS state? It's a process. I can think of twice when I was downright terrified - when a grizzly lunged after me in the mountains and when a trusted friend turned on me. I didn't like the feeling.

Once Upon a Time I Skied...

2011-01-10T08:22:00.000-08:00

Many people are talking about skiing now, which made me think about the only time I tried the sport. Born and raised in Saskatchewan, I didn't have the opportunity to learn. When I moved to B.C., next door to fantastic alpine slopes, I kind of wished I had. Commitments at home, a lack of funds and a little lack of motivation kept me from the ski hills though . . . until a friend and his two children invited me to join them on Silver Star.

"It's Lady's Day," he said. "You get a free lesson."

The day dawned bright and reasonably warm for my debut on the slopes. I signed up, shooed my companions off and met my instructor, a young man who looked slightly bored (and probably a little disappointed that his student wasn't young, blond and single!).

I strapped on skis and headed for the ski lift. When I got there, I didn't know how to get on. Who knew there was a trick to that? As I fumbled my way into the seat, I laughed. No one else did. Apparently these impatient skiers had no sense of humor!

The ride to the top of the bunny hill was short but thankfully uneventful. Let the games begin!

I had no problem staying upright on the skis so, with a few words of wisdom from my coach, I was ready to ski to the bottom, which I could easily see. It was not very far. Not so fast. My instructor had a different idea. He wanted to teach me to ski a short distance across the hill, turn, and ski back. That was a problem. Every time I turned, I fell. Every single time. I could stand up, keep my balance sliding down, but I could not keep on top of the skis when I turned.

My instructor was getting frustrated. I was getting determined. I couldn't believe I could make a simple turn on skis.

"Do you want to quit," he asked hopefully.

"No."

I don't know how long we were there, but I never really did learn to turn. I finally figured out that my body was "on a horse" when I turned and I used my weight exactly opposite to what I should have! I finally felt sorry for my instuctor, who couldn't believe I wasn't tired yet, and headed down the little hill. That I could do without falling!

I met my friend and his kids at the bottom.

"You look like a hot horse," he said. Clouds of steam rose from me. My jeans were soaked with snow and the rest of me with my own sweat. No fancy ski outfits for me. I had come in western clothes.

That is the only time I have been on skis, although I would have liked to go again. Two days later I was sick - really sick. Either I caught a flu from my escapade in the snow or one of the stone-faced skiers at the ski lift gave it to me.

Out With the Old, In With the New

2011-01-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

"Out with the old, in with the new" is a pretty common phrase around this time every year, but I won't say that at the beginning of 2011 or any other year. I kind of like "the old". Although I look forward to 2011 and do look ahead, the "old" has been kind to me. I managed my business by myself, I successfully showed my stallions, I stayed out of hospitals and off of medication, I published a book, I spent quality time with friends and most of all, I loved my life. I am grateful.

What does 2011 hold for me? More of the same, I hope. I will welcome each day. It is a gift. I will embace each experience and look for new ones. I will spend time with my family and friends. I will even appreciate my aches and pains because they tell me I'm alive.

Alive. That's what it's really about. Really alive. There is so much life around me - my horses, my garden, birds, trees - the list is endless. And there will be new life in the spring - five new foals! What a gift that is!

One 2010 blog post I titled "The Stars are Aligned" where I talked about 2011 Wildwood Reining Horses landmarks, but the post I try to live by each day is the one called "Alive and in the Present". To see and hear with a newness born of being aware of the present is really being alive. Hard to do when things go wrong, but oh, the rewards!

I finished off my blog for 2010 with a whimsical, somewhat spiritual piece about connections, prayers and faith. I don't make New Year's resolutions but, as I embark on a journey into a new year, I'm going to try to hold on to that..

Feathers and Faith

2010-12-31T09:12:00.000-08:00

This is my last blog entry for 2010. Although the goal all year was to post every Monday, I missed a few weeks and sometimes I was late. This week, again, I am late but there are reasons.

Each week throughout the year I wrote about something that had affected me that week - an event, a persistant thought - but this time, even with Christmas, nothing was uppermost in my mind that was worthy of comment . . . until I received a card from a friend. Inside were two hawk feathers.

Sending feathers to me is true to my friend's character. It's something she would not hesitate to do. She told me she found the feathers by the house and thought of me. Why? I don't know. She probably doesn't know. She would not search for a reason; she would just accept the message.

All week I had been looking for some connection between events of my life. The coinciding of a full moon, a lunar eclipse and winter solstice on December 20th intrigued me (and I stayed up to watch it), but didn't trigger any earth-shattering revelation although I searched for one.

Christmas came and went along with a 12-hour power outage. Still nothing. I was waiting for a sign, a feeling, something I had to get down on paper such as had inspired blog posts all year. Nothing . . . until the feathers arrived in the mail.

Wolves adorned the front of the card my friend sent to me. That was no accident. She knows I admire the wolf and his way of life, most of his loyalty. That's why the wolf is the "mascot" for Wildwood Reining Horses. What my friend did not know is that I had chosen a name for the Wimpys Little Step foal arriving in the spring if it is a filly - Feather. Is this a sign? Will it be a filly? Only time will tell. One thing for sure, though, my friend and I had connected . . . through hawk feathers.

Hawk feathers are believed to protect, which is why native people tied them at the door of their homes. Feathers are also believed to be the carriers of spiritual messages and were filled with prayer and released to waft heavenward. Faith.

So, on the last day of the year, I will spend a quiet day at home with my animals. I will think of my family and friends in other parts of the country. I may contemplate some more on the meaning of the gift of feathers and maybe, just maybe, I will take them outside, whisper a prayer into them and let them go.

Happy New Year!

Dog Days of Winter

2010-12-20T07:17:00.000-08:00

I'm spending a lot of time with my dog lately. Kirby, my almost-thirteen-year-old Samoyed is failing. This will be her last Christmas.

Samoyeds have been my companions for over 40 years. I bought my first one, Tanya, in 1967. At one time I had a kennel and raised puppies but by 1990, I had only one - Mandy. When I lost her a friend gave me a puppy. I picked Kirby up in Calgary in May 1998, at the same time visiting my new granddaughter, Larissa. Here is Kirby with Larissa's sister, Adara.

2010 will be the 12th Christmas Kirby has shared with me. Many of those Christmas mornings, it was just the two of us as it will be this year. The photo below was the first.

...and this one was taken last year.

Every spring Kirby has "helped" me foal out my mares. She sleeps in the barn with me, checks the newest addition from the door of the stall and later, herds the baby outside as I lead the mare. None of my mares mind. And she also plays with the babies in the field, although it annoys her when she's digging out moles and the foal pesters her to play. I don't think Kirby will be with me this spring. She certainly won't be herding or playing with the new foals. She probably won't be with the mares and I when they foal either. It won't be the same without her.

She has spent hours in the arena watching me ride... ...or, given the opportunity, would "lead" my horse...

Kirby lives with me, travels with me, sleeps beside my bed and, most of all, provides unconditional love. I could write pages about her - years of memories, dozens of pictures recorded in my mind along with those of Tanya, Tatum and Mandy, Samoyeds gone before.

If you're wondering why I titled this blog "The Dog Days of Winter", my answer would be, "It just sounded 'catchy'", but there might be more. There is just as much truth to my title as it's more common counterpart, "The Dog Days of Summer". It seems that phrase originated from the fact that Sirius (the dog star, the brightest star of Canus Major) rises and sets at the same time as the sun between July 3 and August 11. Ancient Romans believed earth recieved heat from it. That's not true of course.

In January, in our northern latitudes, Sirius can be seen in the southern sky - like far away. Is that why it's so cold in January?

My "Dog Days of Winter" consist of spending time with my dog - in winter. I used to be Kirby's favourite season, but now she has to stay in where it's warm. She does not walk well and she is blind. This year she couldn't go with me to get the Christmas tree and I know she misses that. Sometimes she tries to patrol the yard in the morning like she has done every morning for all these years. It's sad to see her insecure and dependent on me because she doesn't want to be.

Christmas Letters

2010-12-14T09:12:00.000-08:00

With Christmas only a few days away, I am mailing the last Christmas letters. "The letter" is a new tradition, one that come of age with the age of computers and desktop publishing. Years ago I wrote all letters to friends in long hand and it was with some reluctance that I gave the practice up. Time commitments and the infinite possiblities of computer-generated newsletters finally convinced me - 2010 will be the 13th one I have sent out! Still, I feel the polished letter with colour photos has lost the personal touch of the handwritten one...

As I drafted the 2010 version of the annual saga of my ongoing activities I questioned the content. How many people really wanted to read yet another list of Sharon's activities? I did want to inform people of what was going on in my life but I didn't want the letter to smack of personal accomplishments that was actually boring to others. Yet I wanted everyone to know that I was enthusiastic about my life. How to do that... That's part of what was lost in the individual handwritten letter - writing only what would be interesting to that person in a tone that was appropriate to that person. The nature of the mega-copied letter I mail out now is, by its definition, more like a newpaper than a letter. To "fix" that flaw and to ease my mind, I left a large blank space on the last page for my own handwritten personal notes.

And the letter itself? Well, it took on a new format in my effort to be more interesting. I have tried many themes in the past - the animals reviewing the year, a recipe and, last year, 65 things I was grateful for - but this theme is a first. My Christmas letter this year is written as a play complete with a list of players, settings and dialogue. I know absolutely nothing about writing plays so there was a learning curve but hopefully it is not judged, just enjoyed.

I'm just receiving letters and cards myself. In the last mail I picked up a card from a very good friend of mine. Inside was a three page handwritten letter. I read it three times and I'll read it again in the holidays. Well-written, informative, charming and personal. Although I appreciate every Christmas contact of any kind - gifts, cards, photocopied letters or emailed ones - this letter will probably be the highlight of the season. Penny is an extremely busy wife, mother, homemaker, career woman and all around caregiver to her family and animals and she took the time to write. Not type. She took out a pen and paper and wrote three pages to me in her own handwriting. Thank you, my friend.

Expectations and Reality

2010-12-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

Having just followed the 2010 NRHA Futurity (with Facebook posts by Canadian friends before they left, then en route to Oklahoma City with their horses and live score and web casts on the NRHA web site), one fact I already knew was never more clear - expectations and reality can be a long way apart! Reiners probably already know that. Spectators and fans may not.

Most of the horses shown in the Futurity, I had not seen in person. Most of them I had not even heard of. But there were also some I had competed against and several I had read about before that big event - horses that had already won a big futurity somewhere or a horse the breeder was promoting. And I pre-judged the performance of some just because of who was showing him or her. I'm pretty sure others did the same, maybe even owners and riders. Certainly, Shawn Flarida's stellar record commands attention, so of course, expectations were higher for his mounts. After all, he usually qualified all three of his entries for the finals and, for the past few years, he has won all the major events.

But Mr. Flarida did not bring one of his entries back to the finals. "One of the other two will win," I thought. Quistator had been advertised as a strong contender all fall. Shine Chic Shine's composite score led the field into the finals.

Then there was Duane Latimer, a past Champion, who qualified Whiz N Tag Chex horses, brothers to my own Walking With Wolves. I wanted him to win . . . There was Andrea Fappani, another past Champion, who won the $100,000 Shoot Out and whose wife won the Non Pro Futurity the day before the Open Finals. He was on a roll! Tim McQuay, Craig Schmersal, also fan favourites.

But when the last rider completed pattern #5, it was not any one of these favourites that posted the highest score. It was Spooks Gotta Whiz, ridden by Jordan Larson. Did he expect to win that day? I don't know, but the reality is that he did. It was the prettiest, softest run I have seen for a long time, the horse at all time willing and striving to please.

Tanya Jenkins, who trained Spooks Gotta Whiz, experienced her own reality. She expected to be showing Spooks Gotta Whiz in Oklahoma City at the NRHA Futurity (I found documentation of this on the internet and she had shown him in other futurities) but the reality is - she did not. It reminds me a little of Zenyatta's race at the Breeders Cup Classic - it didn't play out the way it was supposed to. If it had, a woman could have won the NRHA Futurity for the first time!

Expectations and reality - sometimes the same thing, but more often, not. Never more true than in the horse business, especially with three- year-old reining horses.

More About Duchess

2010-11-24T09:07:00.000-08:00

After reading over my last blog, I realized I had not begun to cover Duchess' life. She was in mine for 34 of her 36 years - through raising my family, my children growing up and leaving home, two marriages, a divorce, and several moves. That's a whole lot of time and history.

I bought Duchess (registered name Ma Dear) in Montana and named her immediately. She was a grand lady. She would have a grand name. She lived up to it.

Since Duchess was bred to race, I sent her to the track the spring after I bought her. She performed very well winning 2 firsts, 1 second, 1 third and 1 fourth (didn't like mud!) from five races. The photo below is her win in High River, Alberta.

When we brought her home from the track, I bred her to War Fly and sold the weanling to re-coup some of the expense. Then I started training her on barrels. As noted in the previous blog, she excelled at that event.

Besides her stellar barrel racing career, Duchess performed briefly as a steer wrestling horse for my brother. I think he won one cheque on her from the 3 or 4 times he dogged off of her. She also served time as a ranch horse on the Community Pasture my husband managed. And my daughter, Cindy, rode her until she had her own horse.

Duchess raised seven foals. One, Wildwood Willow, went on to become a top barrel horse. Another, Wildwood Majesty, a superb all-around mare. But it was Wildwood Mahogany who would carry Duchess' genes to the next generation and beyond. It was a sensible, logical and practical approach to my plan to breed such soundness of mind and limb into my future contenders. At thirty plus years, Duchess was more sound than some horses half her age! Video below is Duchess at 33.

In 2001, I held a 35th birthday party for my lady. Here is some video from that day. Bright of eye and quick of step, she was not-at-all an old mare - she was a grand dam.

Then, in 2002, she reigned supreme for she was the head of five generations. Here is another video of Duchess that year - the grand matriarch of a dynasty of fine Quarter Horses. She leaves a legacy - and Widwood Legacy is named for her that year, the year she died. Legacy will be adding to the dynasty in 2011 - the first of the next generation of Duchess.

Though Duchess may be remembered by others for her talent, I remember her most for her personality - her quiet confidence, her intelligence, the way she looked at me like she saw me and understood everything about me. She had a distinct way of looking back at me - she turned her head, neck very low, and kind of looked in and up - hard to explain. And her whinny... deep-throated and resonant, never shrill. I have a recording of that whinny. Once in a while I play it. If I could, I would share with you but I don't think I can attach the file.

When Duchess died, my children could not believe she was gone. She had been part of their lives for all of their lives. I knew how they felt. In could hardly remember a time when Duchess was not in close proximity. I still miss her.

Remembering Duchess...

2010-11-15T08:35:00.000-08:00

The Canadian Finals Rodeo is just over. I tried in vain to find coverage on television but, since I could not, contented myself with whatever news I could find on the computer . . . and memories. I have fond memories of CFR - Duchess and I competed at the first one in 1974. I will never forget that week . . . or that great mare.

I had ran on the circuit all year to make the barrel racing top ten in Canada and go to the finals. Goal achieved, it didn't matter to me if I made any money. I was just happy to be there. Duchess had already secured the Canadian Cowboys Association championship; now she would compete with the top horses in Canada. It was an honour to be part of what still is an annual event.

Duchess was not at her best, though. A sporadic lameness in her right front concerned me. Before I hauled to Edmonton, I had a veterinarian check her out. He did not think competing would make the condition worse (what was I thinking?) so, armed with lots of rubbing linement and bandages, I hauled to Edmonton for six runs. She entered the finals in seventh place and finished in fifth - with her knee bandaged! The photos from all six runs were almost identical to the one below, right ear ahead, left ear back to me and in the pocket!

After the CFR, I took Duchess to Saskatoon to have her knee x-ayed. The x-rays revealed bone chips and calcium deposits. I had to lay her off. I turned her out for a year and she came back sound. Although I barrel raced her lightly for one more season, I feared heavy competition might damage the knee permanently. In 1977, I bred her and she went on to found a dynasty of quality Quarter Horses. The photo below, taken in 1999, shows Duchess with her daughter, Mahogany, granddaughter Tamarac and Tamarac's first six fillies.

After Duchess retired from raising foals, she babysat the broodmares and their babies. She always told us when a mare's time was near. She also taught my grandchildren to ride. Below is a photo of Kendra on Duchess when she was 32.

When she was 35 years old, I threw a birthday party for her. She was still sound. The photo below is taken on that day.

In 2002, four descendent generations of Duchess lived with me - Wildwood Mahogany, Wildwood Tamarac, Wildwood Destiny and Wildwood Magic Miss, all mares I had trained and shown. For her 36th birthday present that year I made her a memory box and stored Duchess memorablia inside. It's covered inside and out with a collage of photos and clippings. She died later that year, but what a dynasty she has founded. The photo below, taken in 1999, shows some of her family. Duchess and Mahogany are at the back.

In the spring of 2011, the next generation will arrive. Her great-great granddaughter, Wildwood Legacy Lace is in foal to Walking With Wolves. God willing, I will ride another descendent of probably the best mare I ever owned. I can't wait.

First in our Hearts

2010-11-08T08:44:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago, I posted a blog named "Born to Be" (September), recognizing people with incredible God-given talent. Born to be great. Born to be the best. Born to achieve what the rest of us only dream about. As humbling as that is, it's even more so when the star is an animal. Never has this been more true than it is for Zenyatta, a six year old Thoroughbred mare with almost unbelievable talent.

Zenyatta, unbeaten for 19 races and entered in the Breeders Cup held last weekend, has inspired a following such as has not been seen since Seabiscuit (check out March blog). The world has latched on to her story with a desperation born of a need to believe and a deep abiding love of this dark bay mare, not only for her record on the track, but also for her personality. At 17.2 hands, she is a bit of a diva, dancing, prancing, and racing her way into almost everyone's life, even those who do not follow horse racing. She loves attention and believes in herself, inspiring such nicknames as "Queen Zee" and "America's Darling".

Last Saturday, Zenyatta challenged the boys in the Breeders Cup Classic in Louisville, Kentucky. Surrounded by fanfare and guards, she soaked it up like the heroine she is. There could be no doubt she knew who she was and what she was going to do. There was also no doubt in my mind that she intended to win the race, that she herself had no doubt about her ability to do just that. After all, she had always led the field to the finish line. But it was not to be. After an extremely slow start, even her signature "kick" to the finish line did not overtake Blame. Slightly boxed in, she desperately searched for a hole and when she found it, leaped into it, grabbing ground and closing the gap to the leader with every stride (with thousands, including me, screaming their encouragement to the telvision), only to fall short by a head. It may have been the best race of her career, the most courageous and most remembered. Best of all, she will retire sound and healthy.

I hope Zenyatta is not too disappointed with her loss. It in no way diminishes who she is or who we know she is. She may not have won the Breeders Cup Classic, but it was hers! Second in the race but first in our hearts.

Trick or Treat

2010-11-01T08:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Halloween. I left all the outside lights on and locked my truck in the shop, but all was quiet. That's good. That's the way I like it now. I must be getting old...

I used to dress up and go out. I loved the idea of being something or someone else for one night. But for the past few years, I have done nothing special. Last night, I spent a quiet evening by myself reminiscing about Halloweens past...

As a child, in the Coteau Hills of Saskatchewan, I did not go "trick or treating". When the family moved to BC, I went door to door in Oliver with a group of kids a few times. It was as an adult that the spirit of Halloween really hit me.

My husband, having grown up in a family that loved the "trick" part of Halloween, involved me in a couple of pranks - saddling a milk cow (I was sure we were going to be caught since the dog never quit barking!), jacking a car up in a garage and putting it on blocks (so it would not go anywhere when the lady tried to drive it out). The most complicated - and stupid! - prank I was part of though, was when a carload of us, in the dead of night, drove to a farm owned by a farmer friend that was well-known to "act first, think later". The plan, to spread out all over the farm, make just enough noise to wake him, hide, then watch the reaction, took an unexpected turn when one of our group came back to the car, got the shotgun he had stashed in the trunk, pointed it to the sky and shot it off! It was double the fun, a trick on the tricksters - the farmer boiled out of the house, into his truck and peeled rubber getting to his machinery; the pranksters, thinking it was the farmer who had shot the gun, panicked. They certainly popped out of the grass so they wouldn't get run over. When shotgun pellets dropped to earth all around my husband, he didn't seek obscurity any longer. He ran to the house and identified himself to the farmer's wife. The farmer, meanwhile, reached the car but the bearer of the shotgun had put it away. Where was I in all this? At the car. I think I made the excuse that I was not dressed for crawling around on the ground, but I may have just been chicken... Since we were all friends, we ended up in the house for coffee. There were plenty of unaswered questions and no one quite believed the other guy since no one knew where the gun shot had come from except the guy who had done it and me, because I had stayed in the car. I think he had the last laugh that night. As I said, this was a really stupid thing to do - someone could have been run over with the madman farmer, gas pedal to the floorboards, made wide circles in the field!

To protect the innocent, I have not identified anyone. For those of you who know me and are wondering, you would be surprised to know who had the shot gun...

As the years went by, I left the pranks behind for costume parties. My boyfriend and I were Shiek and Harem Girl, African Headhunters and 17th Century Lord and Lady.The best ever was the Africans. We visited a couple of bars, then danced our bare feet off at the local dance. At 3:00 AM, I could barely stand in the shower to scrub the "black" off before I went to bed. The next day a client phoned to see if he could watch me ride his mare (like I felt like doing that!). He said he could see traces of black on my neck still.

The last time I dressed up for Halloween, Vern Sapergia, my friend Barb, and I dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, Grandma, and The Big Bad Wolf. Vern Sapergia was Little Red Riding Hood! We visited several friends around Armstrong but never identified ourselves. Sorry - no photo. I tried, but apparently I did not have film in the camera. What a shame!

Never "Just a Dog..."

2010-10-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

I am deviating from the title of this blog . . . or maybe not. I guess it could come under the "writin'" category. Every Monday, I write about what has been most on my mind during the week and this time is no different. Dogs have been uppermost in my thoughts, specifically dogs that have been a part of my life. There's a reason for that. My Samoyed, Kirby, is not getting around well and I know I will have to make that tough decision soon. That fact has brought up memories of some very special canine friends.

1. Chummy. I don't remember Chummy very well - only vague memories of my brother and I playing with her. What made a big impact was her death. My brother and I found her lying on the grass very still and, of course, ran to Mom. There was no explanation for why she died. This is Chummy lying beside Dad holding me on Tex.

2. Duke. This golden cocker spanial male was our childhood buddy. Wherever we were, Duke was not far away. Mom could always find us that way! I remember most him playing hide and seek with us. He would wait until we hid, then come and find us. Oddly enough, I do not know how he died, but he was with us a long time. Photo below (Why am I scowling?) was in Saskatchewan, the next is in BC.

3. Tuffy. This little black terrier cross was a bundle of energy. The story I remember most is how he learned to "Go to the house." Apparently, Mom and Dad had rounded up a bunch of yearlings and were trying to get them through a gate into the barn yard. As yearlings usually are, they were plenty spooky and it was all Mom and Dad could do to hold them together at the gate to start pushing them through. That's when Tuffy appeared . . . and would not "go to the house" as Mom ordered him to do. Of course, they lost the yearlings who scattered. Furious, Mom chased Tuffy on horseback (with Dad telling her to stop or she was going to fall on the slippery, icy ground) until Tuffy didn't know where else to go BUT the house. After that, anyone could tell him to "go to the house" and he tucked his tail between his legs and left.

Mom taught Tuffy mutiple tricks and I taught him one - to "sing" Doggie in the Window with me. I played guitar and sang the lyrics; at the appropriate time, Tuffy barked. Really cute. I thought I had a picture of this somewhere, but I can't find it. We had Tuffy many, many years - until he was old and grey. I believe he was killed by a car after I left home.

4. Hind. I inherited this border collie with the strange name when I married. Hind was my husband's cattle dog, but we very quickly became attached. My very favourite story about Hind is the time he disappeared from my parents' ranch where my husband and I lived for the winter months in 1964-65. When my husband could not find him anywhere, he started thinking about the last time he had seen him.

"I was checking a cow with a new calf on the other side of the lake yesterday," he said, "I told him to lie down and stay..." And that's where Hind was - still lying down in the grass where he had been told to "stay".

At two years old, Hind was already a great cattle dog. He was going to be fantastic, but his life was cut short when he chased a rabbit into the path of a car. When I was told, my mind could not take it in. Another dog lived on the ranch and I think I thought that was the one who was killed. Only when I repeated the news to my husband, did I comprehend. Photo below is Hind with our young son. It is the only photo I could find of this wonderful, kind, intelligent and gentle dog.

Losing Hind devastated me and I did not get another dog for a few years. When I did, I bought a Samoyed puppy. I have had Samoyeds ever since.

To be continued next week - Samoyeds in my life.

Fall Roundups

2010-10-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

October. Clear air, frosty nights and roundups. Especially roundups. Living in the land of massive cattle ranches as I do, with friends and neighbours in the business of ranching, it's pretty hard to miss the fact that weaning, preg testing and fall roundups are in progress. Facebook posts talk of such things; as I drive to Williams Lake, I pass riders behind cows and calves in the bush beside the highway, then a few kilometers of more and more cows strung out along the fence - and heading for home, I suppose. But today it is not the Chilcotin roundups I am thinking about. I am remembering many, many fall roundups in Saskatchewan.

From 1964 to 1971, my husband was manager of the Beechy Community Pasture. In the fall, after the bulls were taken out, the 1500 head (plus calves) that the pasture grassed for the summer must be rounded up and cut into separate herds for each farmer to pick up. Since the breeding and the dry herds ran only in two fields, the first step of the process was to roundup the herds and separate them into four main bunches according to the locale of the owners. We did that in the latter part of September. Then, in October, we rounded up each field of "grouped" cattle, brought them to the main corral and, one by one (or pair by pair), we cut them out and penned them for pickup the next day. It was a big job. The weather for the September roundups usually was warm and we would have enjoyed the rides had we had enough riders, which we usually did not. Five good riders with experience could cover 12 sections of rolling hills and start the cows homeward, but often, when they bunched up at gates, the calves got pushed back and started running back to the last place they had sucked - three or four miles back. Pandimonium reigned as first one, then another, then another rider tried to bring the calves back to the herd and through the gate . . . and our horses were already tired. I remember best the worst case of this, when five of us chased calves back to the herd until our horses had nothing left. I was riding Concho, my son's horse. I knew if she could give no more, no horse could. My husband, on an out-of-shape gelding (we saved our best horses for cutting from the herd) is best remembered for sitting in the prairie wool on the side of a hill beside the dun (who had long ago quit!), flatly stating, "I hate cows." One rider rode to the corrals and returned with fresh horses in the trailer, but we had to ride the field again to pick up cattle scattered all the way to the back of the field.

In 1971, my husband was transferred to Crooked River pasture, and we learned something about a roundup in the bush - that we didn't like it much! Doesn't take long for cattle - especially bulls! - to learn they can "hide" in the bush! Then we had to tie our horse, cut ourselves a club, and go in on foot. Sometimes rounding up a field took several rides, each one bringing back a couple more of the "bushed" cattle, until the last few were either roped and tied to trees to bring in with the trailer or straggled out after winter arrived.

When we left Beechy pasture, my brother, Harold, took over as manager. The first year, I decided I would help him put out the cattle in the fall. I'm sure this was not necessary, but I thought it would help him out. So, with a horse in the back of the truck, two in the trailer and a six-month old baby, I headed out from my new home in Crooked River for Beechy - about 300 miles. What was I thinking? A u-joint in the truck caused a major delay (one end of the drive shaft fell down and jammed stuff back), but eventually, I arrived. Mom looked after Lana in the day; I rode all day, then returned to Mom's house at night. 5:00 A.M. to 10:00 PM. I must have really loved those Beechy Community Pasture roundups!

Harold managed the pasture until retirement - but he retired only from the Community Pasture. For all those years he also ran his own operation - the Diamond Dot Ranch where we were raised - and still does. He, his wife Linda, son Troy and daughter Amber, still know what it is bundle up, slap a saddle on the cold back of their best horse, step in the stirrup and head across the hills to the far corner of a field - the long circle - and round up a bunch of bossy bovines.

"I won't be there to wean the calves," Harold said to me on the phone from his hospital bed last night. He had just been hospitalized in Saskatoon for heart problems. I guess he'll miss one roundup this year, but there'll be others.

Speedy recovery, Harold! You're in the right place at this time. The Diamond Dot - and those roundups - will be waiting for you when you return .

Everything Happens for a Reason

2010-10-11T10:02:00.001-07:00

Since it's Thanksgiving, I would remiss if I did not remember what I have to be thankful for. Having just returned from a less-than-stellar weekend at the Canadian Supreme, where my financial plan went up in flames at the horse sale and Wolf's only run in the Derby did not place, it could be easy to wallow a little in my disappointment. I admit watching everyone pull away on Sunday night while I camped alone by the barn, discovering the next morning that I had driven away from a box containing four wool saddle blankets when I re-parked my outfit for the night (the blankets were gone the next morning) and driving 1100 kilometers home with only my thoughts for company, snuffed out any euphoric thoughts I might have had but I "dug deeper" and started driving . Monday evening I stopped at Jim and Lorene's in Clearwater to break the trip up.

"I gave one filly away and brought the other one back," I told him. We unloaded Wolf and Mistral (the gorgeous filly I didn't sell) and it was then that Jim said something that I have reminded myself of ever since.

"Everything happens for a reason," he said. "There's a reason you still have Mistral."

The next day I, as I drove the last 350 kilometers home, I felt better. I thought how glad I was that I did not have mechanical issues for the entire trip; I re-lived dinner with my children and grandchildren in Red Deer (definitely a high-point!); I day-dreamed about the trail rides I would take in 2011... And I thought about the fall work waiting for me. I tried not to think about the lost saddle blankets.

I am thankful - thankful that I can still see my way to feed my four-legged friends for another year; thankful that, though I can't work the long days I used to and I "sore up", I can still manage the strenuous physical tasks (like cutting firewood, putting in posts, and cleaning pens); thankful for family, friends and neighours; and thankful for the honest Albertan who picked up my box of saddle blankets!

I didn't stuff myself with turkey or even see anyone yesterday, but I ate roast beef and garden fresh veggies in front of the fire and talked to my daughter on the phone. At the end of the day, more posts were in the ground, more potatoes and carrots were out of the ground, more pens were cleaned and Sapphire (my two year old) was back under saddle. Now that is something to be thankful for!

As far as Mistral goes - I'm still waiting for the reason I still own her, but I know there is one!

Autumn Gold

2010-09-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

When summer comes to an end, my good humour goes with it for a time. Summer always seems too short. I am not ready - not ready for cooler weather, not ready for jackets, and definitely not ready for winter! Because, although summer is followed by autumn, it's also one step closer to winter, and that means freezing temperatures, extra chores and no arena to work my horses in. For a week or two, at the end of August, I am a bit cranky.

Inevitably, my bad attitude changes in a week or so to acceptance . . . and that probably has something to do with banquet of visual goodies I feast on every day. How can I be out of sorts with so much beauty around me? The river is its most rich turquoise, the aspens ripen to vibrant gold with orange and reddish highlights. The wild roses, ripe with hips, mature to a deep burnished red. I remind myself - again - to value the moment. How lucky I am to be surrounded by such beauty!

Yes, autumn splendor heralds approaching winter but today, as I watch, from my window, a lone bald eagle soaring above the golden scenery, I am content. When winter arrives (and it will!), I will be ready to see the beauty in that season too because, after all, winter precedes spring...

Just Stay Out of The Way...

2010-09-20T08:23:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, when I was training a three-year-old reining prospect, I asked my husband if he would like to get on and try a sliding stop. After a few coached rundowns to the fence, I told him he was ready to run Cimarron at full speed and "stop short".

"Collect him for a few strides, slowly lower your hand, keep riding all the way to the stop, say "whoa" and stay out of his way," I instructed. It was one of only a few times Don followed my instructions to the letter. . . and Cimarron slid 30 feet!

A lot of horse training technique is exactly that - staying out of the horse's way. I watch my young horses running and playing (my barometer for their talent) and it's pretty obvious that most of the ones I raise now can do what I will be asking of them - if I let them do it! Check out these two photos of week-old foals doing what comes naturally...

Wildwood Sable stopping (and ready for a rollback!)

Wildwood Sapphire going "down the fence" like her mother does...

...and Wildwood Liberty, first photo as a yearling in 2007, then as a three-year-old "trained" reiner in 2009!

Wildwood Liberty running free 2007 - one year old. (Photo by Verna Allinson)

Wildwood Liberty and Terry Lee Sapergia at the Canadian Supreme 2009 (Photo by Sharon Latimer)

Horse training is simply putting a horse in a position where it is easier for him to do the maneuver than not do it - and staying out of his way so he can! Cimarron's stop was like that, but so are circles, a spin or a lead change. I can "fix" or position before or after the maneuver but it generally works better if I stay out of my horse's way when he is actually executing the maneuver. When I start my colts, I don't want to mess up that natural talent they were born with!

Sable and Sapphire are two year olds now. Sable has went on to another home and, from all reports is going to be a fantastic reiner. I am riding Sapphire and she is super athetic and sweet. I'm showing her what I want and trying to stay out of her way so she can show me she can.

Alive and in the Present

2010-09-13T13:25:00.000-07:00

Have you ever woke up one morning and suddenly realized that the world and everything in it seemed brighter, fresher, more alive? Once in a while, like a couple of days ago, that happened to me. I looked out the window at the same view I see every day, but with a difference - the colours popped; bold defining lines edged the clouds; the river shone a more brilliant turquoise than usual; even the yellowed grass jumped out at me. I took a picture.

As I walked out on my deck in the morning silence, I became aware of the sounds of silence (yes - I know that is a song) - a breath of a breeze, the whisper of a bird flying over, the shuffle of a horse in the barn. It wasn't really silent after all! I realized then that I was remarkably in tune with the universe - every colour, sound and smell.

"I must try to capture what my senses have become so acutely aware of," I thought. More pictures...

My next photo was pansies lightly dusted in morning sun.

I looked at the digital photo. Not quite what I envisioned. So I walked to the garden, still inhaling (literally) each and every sensory experience. It was there I saw, really saw, a sunflower. One more photo before I would put the camera away and begin a day's work. This photo says it all - from the vibrant colour to the bee to the board fence behind . . . and maybe just a little imperfect! - this is close to what I felt that morning- alive!

I think this might be what is called "living in the present". If it is, I want it - every day.

Born To Be

2010-09-06T12:44:00.000-07:00

I always watch the television show, "America's Got Talent". There's always a variety of acts and maybe, if I'm lucky, a one-in-a-million talent will be revealed. That's what is happening this year. Jackie Evancho, a ten year old from Pennsylvania, stunned - yes, stunned! - the world when she voiced the first note of her first appearance on the show. She must have deeply impressed the judges before that - when they listened to her audition on YouTube, because it was from the YouTube entries that Jackie Evancho joined others (who had already been through a screening process) in a hunt for the number one talent for 2010. Jackie's voice defies description. It does not seem real. It's difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that that voice is coming from that wisp os a girl - a little shy, a little giggly - but when she sings, it is with the voice of an angel and the maturity of a diva.

My mind wandered after I watched Jackie's last performance. I started thinking about where a talent like that comes from, and of course there is only one answer - they are born with it! There are people who are born with a gift, whether for singing, dancing, writing, drawing . . . or horsemanship! Although there are many vocalists, dancers, writers, artists, horsemen and horsewomen, there are a handful who stand above the rest - and it is because they are born to be . . . great!

Most of us work hard all our lives to achieve some level of expertise in our chosen field. Certainly I did. I am in awe of those born with the gift for I shall never quite achieve what they do with so apparent ease. I quite understand that, as hard as I try, I will always be missing that extra magic of a super-gifted horseperson, a person born with an innate sense of the horse, of feel, of timing. Although I know several people who almost have that, one name rises above the rest - Guy Gauthier.

Guy, a native of Quebec, stormed the reining world the moment he entered the reining pen. He stunned the competition with win after win., tapping into the best of each horse, delivering time and time again. He was unstoppable . . . until he and his wife were killed in a car crash in the late 80s. Guy's name is still 52nd on NRHA list of top money earners and he has been gone for over 20 years. (Keep in mind that reining competitions did not pay as much then either.)

A few years before that fateful day, I had a wonderful opportunity to take a clinic from Guy. I was living in northern Saskatachewan at the time, the clinic was to be held in Beechy, 300 miles away, and it was winter, but my neighbour and I hauled together. I took a 3 year old mare belonging to a client. Below is a photo of Guy with me, the mare and the owner of the mare.

This photo is of all clinic participants. BAck row: Jack Wartman, Chris Larsen (my neighbour), Jake Braun (owner of the facility), myself, Steve Braun, Brenda Gael; Middle row: Marg Perrin, Vicki Braun, Brian Braun, Doug Jones, Dale Montgomery, Eric Lawrence, Guy Gauthier; Kneeling in front: Dennis Perrin and Keith Taylor.

And here I am perfecting a spin on Bobby. (All photos by Verna Allinson)

And so this is a tribute to Guy Gauthier, gone so many years now, but whose mark will always remain in the reining world, and to Jackie Evancho whose career is only beginning. Born gifted. Born to be the best!

The Table

2010-08-30T09:52:00.000-07:00

A round oak table stands in the center of my kitchen/dining room. The table has been with me many years - my children sat around it every morning before they dashed out the door to meet the school bus; they ate there with me again in the evening; lively birthday parties and holiday dinners happened around that table. The finish on the top is wearing through in places and it has developed a squeak but still, every day, I use that table. Some days, like today, I remember where it came from.

When my husband, children and I lived in northern Saskatchewan on the Crooked River Community Pasture, my husband brought mail to an elderly gentleman who lived in the bush about two kilometers from our house. We called him " a hermit" and indeed he was. Frank Miklos never left his property. Once a month, my husband brought his mail to him and returned with the signed pension cheque and a list. Garry shopped for Frank and brought supplies back to him along with whatever money was left over. In the summer, Garry drove but, since no real road existed to Frank's place, in the winter he packed groceries, etc in on horseback. Almost always, Frank offered Garry a glass on his raspberry wine.

Frank made good raspberry wine . . . and lots of it - 45 gallons every year from the rather large patch of berries he grew. I don't think he grew much else in his garden, but he tended those raspberries well and the bushes rewarded him with an ample crop every year - more than he needed for his wine. So he asked if I would like to pick some. Would I!!

I was a bit shy around Frank at first, but I bundled up Lana, just a baby, and drove to his little house, put Lana in a baby chair between the rows and picked. Frank visited a little - he was fascinated by the baby - and I gradually relaxed and talked with him. A private man (that's why he lived alone far away from people, I guess), it was some time before I found out he had left a family in Hungary and had two daughters there. He did not reveal the reason why he moved to Canada alone and I did not ask. He was a bricklayer by trade and the brickwork in his home I assumed he had done himself. (I always wondered where he had found clay for bricks.)

I, too, was invited in Frank's house for raspberry wine. That's when I saw the table. Under a small, smudged window, a soot-blackened round oak table accompanied by equally blackened chairs and sideboard rested in peaceful obscurity.

I loved the table, the whole set, and tried to buy it from him. "You never can tell what I might do," he said, but he would not sell it. I gave up asking.

This was the pattern for two or three years until one winter, when Garry rode to Frank's for his monthly visit, he found him in a terrible state - very sick and weak. Garry quickly rode home, called friends with skidoos and an ambulance. Frank was admitted to the hospital.

Meanwhile, we worried about his property, now left unattended. Moreover, we knew there was cash in his house somewhere because Garry had been returning what was left of his pension cheque every month. We decided we should find it and bank it for him for he would be needing it.

The cash was in the sideboard in a tobacco can - $6000 - not a fortune now, but certainly a tidy sum then. We started a bank account for Frank. (He would only trust Garry or me to OK any cheques he signed!)

When I visited Frank in the hospital, he told me to take the table, chairs and sideboard, but I didn't. "You might need those," I said.

Frank did not come home. He died in Saskatoon hospital a few months later. In truth, I wonder how much of a favour we did him by rescuing him for he was lost and a little frightened away from his "little heaven".

He had one relative in Canada, a nephew in Calgary. When his nephew came to Crooked River, he visited with us.

"Uncle Frank told me that his round oak table, chairs and sideboard is yours,"he said.

Nope - I didn't know what Frank might do, but he did. I refinished the set and it was beautiful. I still have it today. I reminds me of a Hungarian hermit and raspberry wine.

Fiddling While Rome Burns

2010-08-23T10:13:00.000-07:00

Last Monday I loaded Whisper in the trailer and headed out for a one-day trail ride. Desperate for at least one ride in the mountains before summer was over and sure that cooler weather was on its way, I ignored all the work at home to go. I also did a really good job of "forgetting" about forest fires raging only a few miles from me. In fact, that was one of the reasons I wanted to go - to get above the thick smoke that blandeted my property. I hoped, if I rode to 6000-7000 feet that I would enjoy clear air. On my way to Tatlayoko Lake, I drove through reminders of the devastation a wildfire can leave behind.

The smoke thinned as I travelled and my spirits lifted. When I reached the lake, only a haze lingered over the mountains. I unloaded Whisper, hobbled her to graze, made myself something to eat, then started to organize for the ride the next morning. I checked my backpack for survival items, leaving lots of room for camera equipment and tied the saddlebags on the saddle.

By then, Whisper had eaten her fill, so I walked her to the lake for a drink (wasted effort because she wasn't interested). I led her back to the outfit and tied her to a tree for the night. I wondered if she would fuss since I had pulled her out of the herd to take on this ride, but she seemed content, almost happy to be alone with me... The next morning, I quickly packed up to head up the trail to Potato Range, high above Tatlayoko Lake. I had been there before so I knew how to access the trail to the top, a distance of about 10 km - all uphill! When the trail opened up for a view of the lake, I got off Whisper to give her a break and take some photos. What a view!

Finally, we reached the open meadows of Potato Range and here I had my sandwich and coffee. (Photo taken on the timer - camera perched on an old log.) A deep peace settled over me. Such a vast land - acres and acres of wilderness - and not another person for miles and miles!

I headed down the Potato Trail, through trees uphill, along an open side hill, lost in my own thoughts.

I wanted to explore the Crest Route more, so when I spotted an access, I left the trail to climb to the crest and a spectacular view. I dismounted and sat a spell by Whisper, who like I, seemed fascinated by what she could see.

After more pictures and a little video, I headed Whisper down to the trail again, but before too long, I detoured to the top again, this time weaving around snowbanks.

Horseflies were our constant companions and, when we reached the top, a stiff breeze cooled us. The weather was almost perfect for this ride - about 20 degrees, a good ten degrees cooler than it would be at the bottom! I looked at the altitude reading on my GPS - almost 7000 feet!

Whisper was starting to tire. I knew I must turn around soon although I wanted to go farther. Reluctantly, I turned back. Three hours later, after a long, long descent, Whisper and I arrived at the trailer, our home for the night. As I always do after a trail ride, I wished I was back up on top!

The next morning, I leisurely prepared for the drive home. At Tatla Lake, I stopped at a wonderful little store.

"You in Potato Range?" a patron asked.

"Yes. Just on the way home."

"If you can get home!" he said, and that is how I learned that the highway was closed from west of Alexis Creek to Lee's Corner, exactly where I live!

Now I was alarmed! "What a fool!" I thought. "You left home when wildfires were raging! What were you thinking!" Frantically, I tried to call the girl doing my chores and my neighbours to find out what was going on, but no answer... I started driving.

The 120 km home was a little stressful, not knowing what I would find when I got there. I had visions of my friends moving my horses, or maybe even the house burning. As I approached Alexis Creek, smoke engulfed me. The highway was closed all right, but I talked my way through to go home and, I am happy to report, my house was still standing. The fire, although a real threat, was still a distance from my property.

I was fiddling while Rome burned... or trailriding while the Chilcotin burned...

Happiness is...

2010-08-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

"How happy are you about that?" my friend asked me as I stepped off of Walking With Wolves (aka Little Wolf) after the NRHA approved three-year-old Futurity at Prince George Fall Slide.

It was a rhetorical question. She knew I was happy because she knew what I expected of him, but she may not have guessed how emotional I was as well. As I backed Little Wolf up, the last maneuver of reining pattern #5, I had leaned forward, wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him. I had felt tears welling up - this three-year-old, this playful, mischievous, not-always-fun-to-ride stallion, had just given me 100% of his attention for the past five minutes. He was "with me" every step of the way - he waited when I wanted to wait, he loped into clean lead departures when I asked, he circled, he changed leads, he spun and he stopped - exactly when I asked. My heart had swelled when I ran down for the last stop. My Little Wolf, my 'let's see what I can get away with', immature colt, had executed a really pretty reining pattern just because (no other reason) I asked him to!

It's no secret I love my horses, but Little Wolf was a little harder to love than most. He is a stallion, which makes disciplining mandatory, and he tested me - every day. After months of training and coping with his pranks, I finally figured out he likes to test me. He's smart, almost too smart, and he tests me just to see if I am paying attention. He pulls blankets off of racks when I walk him through the barn; he reaches around and grabs the end of the rein in his mouth if I stand in the arena teaching off of him; he unseated three times when he was two by laying down to roll (the first time he just forgot I was on him and rolling in the snow seemed like a good idea. After that he thought it was fun to lose me.) For many months, Little Wolf was not fun to ride because I never knew what he would do next ( Thank goodness he didn't learn bucking worked!) . . . and I never had anywhere near all of his attention! One day, though, well into his three-year-old year, I realized I loved this animal - in spite of, and maybe because of, his quirky personality.

What I hadn't learned about Little Wolf was that he would like the show pen - that, even thought he rarely blessed me with all of his attention in a schooling session, he was happy to do that at a show. Who would have guessed? Certainly not me...

And that is why I almost cried at the end of my run on Little Wolf at Prince George. My pretty bay stallion did not win anything that day, but he gave me exactly the run I asked him for. How happy was I about that? I was thrilled!

I've Got Her!

2010-07-26T07:30:00.000-07:00

For ten days I watched the Calgary Stampede. As the events unfolded - winners in Pool A, winners in Pool B, winners from Wild Card Saturday, then one champion declared for a cheque of $100,000 - a truth emerged from the arena dust (or mud!). A deep connection exists between the competitors. Contestants were competitive to be sure with such a huge prize at stake, but they were also supportive of one another. Bull riders pulled ropes for contestants that would leave the chute and beat them; bronc riders held plastic bags over reins and gloves of fellow competitors in the chute when it rained to keep them dry; steer wrestlers and calf ropers slapped one another on the backs even when the run took them out of the money and maybe out of a chance for $100,000!

All of this is no surprise to me since I travelled the rodeo circuit for a few years. I'm sure the support extended far beyond the arena. I remember well how cowboys and cowgirls helped one another on the the road and between rodeos. Here is one of my personal experiences:

I had competed at a rodeo in Wood Mountain, Saskatchewan. As I had done so many times, I travelled alone with my three children, my dog, Tanya, and of course my barrel horse, Duchess. After the rodeo, I loaded and left the grounds, mentally preparing for the long drive home to Crooked River. I wasn't looking forward to the first 60 miles because the road was not good, but I thought I could get to Moose Jaw before dark and the rest of the trip would be on pavement. A few miles out of Moose Jaw, I suddenly knew I had forgotten something in Wood Mountain - my dog! I could hardly face the trip back over the rough roads to get her, but I must. I thought perhaps one of the cowboys was still at the grounds and coming my way. That would save me the trip. But how would I find out? From a phone booth, I looked up the number for a cowboy who lived there. Maybe he could find a ride for Tanya to Moose Jaw. It would mean waiting, but better than going back. I dialed Dan's number.

"Hi, Dan. This is Sharon."

"I've got her!"

Dan had seen Tanya start to follow my outfit as I left the grounds. When she saw that she could not catch me, she turned around and sat down where we had been parked. He picked her up and took her home. "I knew you would be calling," he said. "Stay put. I'll bring her to you." And he did. He said she rode on the front seat with him all the way. A "thank you" from me was all he would take for his trouble. I can't describe how grateful I was, not only for him rescuing my dog, but also saving me pulling my outfit over the gravel road again.

I no longer rodeo and have not for many years. It's all about reining now - I show at reining shows. I sense a different "feel" between rodeo and reining shows. Although reiners enthusiastically support their "group", sometimes general support is lacking. In the short go of the barrel race at Calgary Stampede, Lindsay Sears ran third out of four. She posted a very fast time. I'm sure in the minds of most, including Lindsay, she would be the fastest, but the last rider, Savanah Reeves, on her strong palomino, bested that time by .06 seconds and would take home the $100,000. Since all the champions are immediately awarded trophy and cheque, she must run to the podium to collect her awards. The camera panned to Savannah, just off of Thunder . . . and Lindsay Sears, who had just lost the championship to Savannah, reaching for the cinch to loosen it, waving her to go (I could imagine her saying, "I'll look after Thunder. Just go." That's more than good sportsmanship. I felt the tears coming to my eyes watching this little scenario unfold . . . and thinking about another day at a recent reining show when a rider, late arriving for her class, scrambled to tack up her horse and herself - by herself! Although a spectator/horse breeder stepped in to help, not one of her fellow competitors offered help or encouragement.

At a reining show a couple of years ago, my dog (another Samoyed) got loose from my camper and came to the arena where I was riding, no doubt to find me.

"Who's dog is that? Get her out of here!" I jumped off of my horse to collar her and take her back to the trailer.

That's a long way from "I've got her!" I could be wrong, but I don't think it would be a stretch to believe that, if it had been a rodeo, I would have heard similar words . . . or another Dan would have rescued my dog. Hats off to the cowboys and cowgirls!

Rodeo Memories

2010-07-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

The Calgary Stampede is in full swing. I set the PVR to record everything before it started and prepared to stay up late watching each go around. The first recording was of the parade.

Although I do not often watch parades, live or otherwise, I did this time. The Calgary Stampede parade, then the stampede itself triggered some interesting memories . . . of rodeo, of my childhood and how the two connected.

I was born into rodeo life. Dad was a calf roper/trick roper. Before he married Mom, he had travelled Canada and the US to compete and perform in rodeos including Calgary, even then the biggest of them all. This photo is Dad at the 1929 Calgary Stampede (they called it "calf roping" then!)

And this photo is Dad performing the Texas Skip, a trick roping act - looks like he is out in the middle of the prairie somewhere...

After Dad married, he still competed - with his family in tow. Although I don't remember much about the first rodeos I attended with my parents (starting when I was a baby), I recall later ones and the fun I had in and out of the rodeo arena!

Clearwater Lake Rodeo - My black gelding, Rocky, at twenty years old, won enough money in the Barrel Racing and Pole Bending to buy me a transistor radio! I bought a plaque for the radio with "In memory of Rocky" engraved on it. I still have the plaque.

Jackfish Lake Rodeo - Dad was trick roping at this rodeo and I was riding for his horse catches (a crowd-pleasing trickroping act whereby Dad would perform some fancy rope tricks, then, as I galloped by, flip the rope around my horse - either both front feet or the whole horse.) The photo below was taken in Dauphin, Manitoba in 1936 of Dad performing a horse catch. I do not know who the rider is)What I remember most, though, about Jackfish Rodeo is dancing under the stars with a calf roper (that shall be unnamed!) to the "Blue Danube Waltz" ('Blue were your eyes; blue were the skies; just like the blue dress you wore.' So romantic...). I was 15 years old, chaperoned by my parents and totally enamoured. Go figure... I still have the card and note he sentthe following Christmas. "I'll be up to see you one of these days," he writes. ". . . Don, Jim and I went down to Montana for 3 weeks . . . went to 12 rodeos and each of us placed in each one, but we spent nearly as much as we won. I got back to barebacking two weeks after Jackfish and then bucked off a saddle bronc about a month ago and broke my right arm." Such is rodeo life. I wonder how my life would have changed had he showed up at Clearwater Lake rodeo instead of going south. I never saw him or heard from him again.

Herbert Rodeo - I brought my barrel racing horse to this rodeo, but I remember most hanging out with a very good looking cowboy (also unnamed!) after the rodeo. A stagecoach (There were a couple of stage coaches in the Calgary Stampede Parade) was parked on a hill by the arena and, on his suggestion, we rolled it down the hill - with me in it! It was a harmless prank but, for me, a huge step out of my safe, "don't ever break the law" way of growing up. I was pretty worried we would get caught. (We didn't.) On the same night, we dashed to town on back roads just for the fun of it, and picked up a hitch hiker. I thought my cowboy friend was crazy (and out of character!) to pick him up, but he had a plan. "We'll put him in the back," he said. "The back" was the box of his truck complete with stock racks in which he had hauled his horse to the rodeo. Then he drove madly down the side roads with straw and ??? flying everywhere. When we got to town, the hitchhiker, wind-blown, straw-decorated hair and all, staggered away without a thank you.

The pickup men for Calgary Stampede this year are Gary and Wade Rempel, the best in the business. But I don't remember them for their talent in the rodeo arena picking bronc riders from broncs. I remember riding to their home only a few miles from ours with Mom. They played in the yard while Mom visited with their parents, small boys doing small boy things. It would be wonderful if I had a hard copy of that picture that is in my mind, but I don't...

Steers for the steer wrestling at Calgary Stampede are supplied by Doug Wilkinson. I believe Dad bought Rocky from his father! Also, Doug won a CCA Championship the same year I won the CCA Barrel Racing Championship.

But alas, I do not personally know any of the barrel racers competing at Calgary this year. It is still my favourite event. Even after all these years, I feel a pang of "want to". I know my own Duchess would have been good enough to compete there. So many memories...

I believe I have only attended Calgary Stampede twice. The first time I was twelve. I remember two things - my parents discovered I need glasses because I couldn't read the numbers on the chutes and, after watching the chuckwagon races I wanted to become an outrider! The second time I was eight months pregnant with my second child - 45 years ago! I think it's time I went back. I'm aiming for the 100th anniversary of the stampede in 2012.

To Sell or Not To Sell...

2010-07-04T19:00:00.000-07:00

That is the question! (Sorry, Shakespeare, for the rough paraphrase...) When it comes to selling my horses, sometimes I don't know the answer.

"You must find it hard to sell your horses," a friend remarked just the other day. Indeed, I do - especially those I have trained and ridden. That many hours in the company of an animal forms a bond. It doesn't matter how many horses I train, each one is an individual deserving of my respect and attention. I have been with most since they were born. Many times I was the first living thing they saw - even before their mother! I witnessed their first steps, their first meal. I watched them play, discover the world. I haltered them the first time, encouraged them to follow me and not be afraid. I picked up their feet, trimmed them, treated their "owies" and then, at two years old, I saddled and bitted them for the first time. My weight was the first weight they felt on their backs, the first person they carried. Each learned to listen for "good girl" or "good boy", words from my mouth. They looked to me for confidence when they entered the show arena or walked down a new trail in the bush. And of course they looked to me to bring them feed and fill their water troughs. Is it hard to sell my horses? Yes.

But I am in the business of raising and selling horses, so sell I must. Sometimes I am not a good business woman - every horse is not for sale; I have bought horses back to be with me; I have turned down good offers because I didn't want to part with one of my horses. Do I regret that? No. Do I sometimes regret selling one of my horses? Yes.

Most times, though, I am very happy with my horse's new home. I recently sold Wildwood Splendor, a mare I originally intended to keep for a Working Cowhorse. She is going to a young man I coached many years ago, a family man with a kind heart. Splendor will be well cared for, loved, and used, which is a good thing because I did not have time for her here. When I saw him ride her, I knew his was the right home.

Still, it's easier to sell my horses before I have ridden them, spent all those hours on their backs. It's a little easier to see a weanling or yearling leave my yard because I have only spent a short time with those. To sell or not to sell - that is the question, one I have to answer when I offer one of my horses for sale ... and live with my decision.

Spreading Myself Too Thin

2010-06-15T07:05:00.000-07:00

"You're spreading yourself a little thin, aren't you?" my neighbour said last Monday as he watched me load mares to take to the vet clinic in Williams Lake for ultrasounds. Since I had just returned from a show in Kamloops a few hours before, I can see why he said that. As noted, that was a week ago and things have not slowed down much. In the ensuing few days, besides regular chores, I bred mares, tilled and hoed my garden, coped with a leaking washing machine, gave a few riding lessons and rode my reining horses every day. Tomorrow morning, I am loading three horses for a show in Prince George.

I do sometimes put too many jobs into a day. And sometimes that kind of planning catches up with me. At the Kamloops reining show, I planned to pick up my broodmare at the clinic the other side of Salmon Arm on Sunday morning. I had a class yet on Wolf, but I thought I had time to make the trip and still get back to show. I rode Wolf at 5:00 AM (I was the only person up!), fed him and pulled out of the grounds at 7:00. When I returned with the mare, the NRHA representative met me.

"I assume you scratched this class," he said.

"No, I did not," I replied. "Why?"

"Because it is almost ready to start!"

The next 15 minutes were a blur. I ran for Wolf, saddled, put on a long sleeved shirt and a hat (no chaps), and headed for the warmup pen. Two horses had already run. I would like to report that I won the class or something, but not so. It was an expensive schooling run.

My neighbour was right - I spread myself pretty thin sometimes . . . and sometimes I pay the price. I'm going to fix that this weekend...

The Stars Are Aligned

2010-05-31T07:30:00.000-07:00

There can be only one possible subject for my post this week after the phone call I received Friday - my good mare, Peppy Del Cielo, is confirmed in foal to Wimpys Little Step! Although this is hardly the last hurdle to jump before I have a foal, it is a major step (pardon the pun...).

It all started last fall. My friend, Jill, and I had planned to attend the NRHA Futurity in Oklahoma City since spring. As the date of departure neared, I checked the draws for the Futurity, which led to checking out stallions for my Gallo Del Cielo mare, Peppy Del Cielo aka "Prima". Prima is the dam of both my stallions - Running With Wolves and Walking With Wolves. She is also the dam of a Wildwood Liberty that is no longer owned by me but who competed successfully in futurities in 2009. I had not bred Prima in 2009 so that I could afford a breeding in 2010 (I will only breed her to proven stallions).

I kept going back to Wimpys Little Step, NRHA's youngest Two Million Dollar sire, but the breeding fee was high. I emailed his owner to begin communication but I did not get an answer before Jill and I left for the Futurity. When I got there, I found out Wimpys Little Step was one of three stallions being honoured at the Futurity. He was not only featured on the big screen in the middle of the arena, but also in the flesh. Shawn Flarida rode the gorgeous palomino stallion into the pen for the award presentation.

Following the Non Pro finals, Jill and I made our way back to the barn and there, in front of Green Valley Ranch aisle, was a celebration cake for Wimpys Little Step. As I ate a piece of the cake I talked to the breeding manager about shipping semen to Canada (not easy now!) and was satisfied that they could get it done. I still did not commit.

After I got home and for a couple of months I weighed the pros and cons. This was a big step, a huge financial commitment! In the end, after multiple emails, I booked Prima to Wimpy. In April, I hauled her to Deep Creek Veterinary Services in Salmon Arm. She had been bred there several times. The vets knew the mare and Prima knew the facility. I was going to have the best chance to get this done. She cycled (as she was supposed to) and checked back in foal 16 days later (as she was supposed to!). Jill was with me when I got the call. She said, "I think we should drive to Alexis Creek for a lottery ticket and you're buying!" I'm generally not a lucky person, but I'm feeling very blessed right now.

Could it get any better? Maybe. Here is how 2011 is stacking up - Prima's three stallions are all eligible for Derbies. Running With Wolves, Wildwood Liberty and Walking With Wolves - four, five and six year olds out of the same mare - will compete against each other in reining derbies - the same year that their dam, Prima, drops a Wimpys Little Step! If that isn't enough, Prima's first grand babies will enter the pen! The stars are aligned for 2011. Let's hope I can keep them that way!

Surviving Cardston South Country Derby 2002!

2010-05-25T07:50:00.000-07:00

Show season is upon me, but I have yet to compete this year. As May draws to a close, I think of the Cardston South Country Derby, which will happen next weekend. In the past (before there were several reining shows in BC) I competed there almost every year. One particular trip stands out in my memory - the 2002 edition of the Derby.

I was living in Armstrong then and had entered Wildwood Whisperin, my 5 year old mare in the show. My husband was not travelling with me and, so that I would have lots of time for the long drive, I rose at 4:00 AM to get on the road. In the truck with me was my Samoyed dog, Kirby.

As I approached Revelstoke, I saw trucks lined up along the highway and I knew immediately that Roger's Pass must be closed.

"Need to get breakfast anyway," I thought and pulled into an A & W. As I picked the order up, I saw trucks moving.

"Great," I said to myself, and slid behind the wheel to continue my drive . . . for about an hour. Then I was stopped again - for an avalanche - for three hours! My early start now eaten up by highway delays, I could only be thankful that I had started so early!

In Banff I ran into a little snow on the road, but nothing to worry about. Whisper, a seasoned traveller, rode like the pro she was and Kirby slept on the floor of the truck, only popping up if I stopped. I would be in Cardston before midnight.

At Claresholme, I stopped for gas. Daylight was fading and there was still some snow on the road, but I was anxious to pull into the grounds at Cardston, settle Whisper for the night and get some sleep myself.

"I hear the roads are not good south," the station attendent said.

That would be an understatement! A few kilometers from Claresholme, I knew what he meant. Two driving lanes had been reduced to an icy track on the extreme left shoulder and so rough, the truck and trailer shook and rattled. I reduced speed to a crawl. There was almost no traffic except for a semi in front of me. Every once in a while, I saw a vehicle stuck in the snow on the road or in the ditch.

"I'll be okay if I just go slow," I thought and that's what I did, so slow I could video as I drove. This is the video I took on May 22-23 from Claresholme to Cardston Alberta:

That's right - I didn't make it to Cardston that night. I spent the night along the highway in Fort MacLeod! The next day I followed the snowplow down the highway. It seemed more like January than May! When I got to the grounds, I unloaded Whisper on the road since no one could drive in. Snowdrifts covered some parts of the barn and horse trailers that had been parked when the storm hit. There was a certain amount of chaos with competitors digging themselves and their horses out and management trying to find plows to move the snow.

The show did go on. It will be remembered forever, especially by the show secretary! I, too will remember especially the haul to get there. I don't remember much about my runs, except we had 7 minutes before each class to warm up in the pen! The horses may all have been thankful for the blizzard that hit Cardston Derby 2002 - they were not ridden as much as usual!

Honoring the Mothers

2010-05-10T10:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Mother's Day. Mom has been gone for many years now and my children are far away, so I spent the day as any other - with my animals. I have only one new foal this year, but in my yard are many "mothers", mares who have had foals in other years. There is no miracle any better than the miracle of birth... unless it is the miracle of the instant bonding of mother and child. Without books or counciling or advice from their moms, the mares by instinct alone mother their babes. Here are some of my favourite photo moments in years past:

Wildwood Tamarac and her foal, Wildwood Destiny (1993)

Wildwood Destiny and her foal, Wildwood Magic Miss (2002)

Peppy Del Cielo and her foal, Running With Wolves (2005)

Peppy Del Cielo and her foal, Walking With Wolves (2007)

Wildwood Harmony and her foal, Wildwood Cactus

Isn't motherhood wonderful?

Women and Horses

2010-05-05T07:37:00.000-07:00

What is it about women and their horses? I just spent a wonderful weekend in Armstrong visiting with girlfriends. What did we talk about most of the time? Horses, of course.

I had hauled my broodmare to the vet clinic for breeding. In a once-in-a-lifetime decision, I booked her to Wimpys Little Step, the #1 NRHA reining stallion in 2009. Prima, a daughter of Gallo Del Cielo (another leading sire of reining horses), is the dam of my two stallions, Running With Wolves and Walking With Wolves. She is also the dam of Wildwood Liberty, successfully shown last year as a three year old. The prospective offspring of this mating was a hot topic of conversation over coffee, in the barns and during a night out in a local restaurant.What else did we talk about? We talked about horses we owned, horses we had once owned, horse accidents we had, training methods, clinics we had attended and, most importantly, the connection we felt to our horses.

I hauled my 3 year old stallion and a yearling colt with me to Armstrong. The colt (sired by Running With Wolves) was hitching a ride to the coast to the barn of a Working Cowhorse trainer. When I dropped him off for the next leg of his journey, the young mother and I talked at length about breeding, cowhorses, barrel racing for at least an hour. She is a barrel racer - or so I thought - that is now riding Working Cowhorse. I asked her if she has given up barrel racing.

"Not really," she said, "because my kids are going to barrel race. We are going all directions now." Her husband ropes...

I drove back to my friend's place to unhitch the trailer and check on my young stallion in a stall in her barn. He had already buddied a little with the senior Arabian mare of my friend's, a mare she had raised and of course felt a deep affection for.

"She still misses PJ," Mae said (She lost PJ last winter.) So does Mae...

"I'll be back to ride Little Wolf before we go out to dinner," I told Mae, and I was. After a whirlwind tour of a garden center, a fabric center (for show shirt material!), and two western stores, more "horse talk" with a sales girl who reins and a quick ride on Little Wolf, four of us met for dinner. What a great evening spent with women who love their horses!

The next day I drove to Mandy's farm to teach a lesson and see the Running With Wolves two year olds she had bought as weanlings. How wonderful to have sold to such a loving home! (Sable is pictured with Mandy at the beginning of this blog.) Mandy was preparing for a clinic at her place and was unbelievably busy - but not too busy to talk horses! We definitely understand each other's affection for these four legged animals!

At 2:00 PM I met Rick and Cindy from the south Okanagan, who had driven up to visit with me ... and watch me ride Little Wolf. After the ride Mae called us in for coffee. For the next two hours, we chatted about our horses, past horse experiences and plans for a "horsey" future.

"I thought I could live without horses," Rick said, "but I was wrong." A serious heart attack and a change of livestyle had not deterred him. He was back riding and he asked me to send him photos of a yearling.

The last evening in Armstrong I spent with Mae and Leslie (who is recovering from a horse wreck - a broken collar bone and four ribs!) We watched two DVDs I had brought - Wildwood promotional tape and a joyful short film of new foals I had made from footage I had gathered over the years.

The next morning, I picked up a mare to take back with me for breeding and started the long drive home. I had lots to think about - all those conversations with people with like interests.

"I havd a lot of really good friends who love their horses, " I thought. "That's the way it should be."

Then and Now

2010-04-25T09:02:00.000-07:00

Over ten years ago, I decided I would let someone else have the first rides on my two-year-olds. That year, I hired a man to ride two fillies for the first two or three rides. Although I have no complaints about how he did the job, that's the last time I hired the job out. The next year and every year after that, I started my own colts and a few that came to my barn as well. Since I believe the first six rides are so may be the most important rides of the young horse's life and since I take these colts on to become trained reining horses, I wanted to do the work myself.

I've been starting colts all my life, but my methods have changed through the years. My brother just reminded me of that fact. He is reading my book, A Life With Horses, and we had a lively conversation about our childhood, remembering, laughing about some of the thngs we did.He asked me if I remembered the names of certain horses or when they were born. Then we talked a little about how we started colts.

"That was just plain stupid," he said.

He was referring to the practice of climbing on the colt (at least three years old), opening the gate and riding across the prairie hoping we could hold things together. He reminded me of the colt who flat out ran away with him over the hills and holes until he stopped, fortunately with Harold still aboard. He reminded me also of the mare who bucked me off a couple of times and one who "spooked me off"in buck brush and ran.

Things are a little different now. Now we both work the colt on the ground before we get on. We use a corral or enclosed area for the first rides and we don't head out before we have a little handle on the colt and at least a little faith that he won't run away or buck us off.

I'm just starting to ride my two year old filly, Sapphire. She's a pretty little thing, a cross between my cowhorse (Silk) and my stallion, Running With Wolves. Like her mom, she has plenty of "sting". Last winter I saddled her in my barn and lunged her in the snow a few times. A couple of weeks ago I saddled her again, got on her in the stall, then mounted in my old round pen and walked her a few steps. I could not do more because the round pen is really a turn out pen and it was slippery in places. So it was time to graduate to my arena. Maybe not everything has changed about the way I start horses now, because my arena is not fenced, which means if Sapphire spooked or ran, she could leave the arena, run through trees or over various obstacles. I didn't have a choice though. I counted on her trusting me as much as I trusted her and so far that has worked. Here is a photo taken off my video (set on a tripod in the corner of the arena).

No, I didn't want to be bucked off any more than I did when I was sixteen ... or twenty ... or thirty. Now I miminize that possiblity, but it's still there. Taking that chance is worth it - I will have a horse that has been on my program since day one. I assisted in Sapphire's birth, halter trained her and now I'm riding her. What an incredible journey!

Would I go back to pulling a three year old off the range, slapping a saddle on in some fashion and heading out the gate? Nope. In the words of my brother, "That was just plain stupid!"

A Weekend at Wildwood

2010-04-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

This blog is titled, "Reinin', Ridin', and Writin'". There was lots of riding and reining this past weekend, but not a bit of writing. Consequently, I am a day behind on my blog. Here's how the weekend went:

My broodmare, Easter, was due to foal, actually due on April 25th, but since she has had all three of her foals early, I expected this one to be too. She also traditionally does not give me much notice. I attended two of the three births, but I may have been lucky. Since I had to cut the umbilical cord on one, I really wanted to be there when she foaled, so I slept in the tackroom of the barn Thursday night and intended to sleep there every night until the foal arrived.

Easter had picked a busy weekend to keep me up watching her - I was hosting a Vern Sapergia clinic at my facility on Saturday and Sunday, which meant I had to pick up Vern on Friday evening in Williams Lake 100 km away, ready the house for guests and ready the barn and pens for horses. No problem, I thought. It's all about preparation. I cooked ahead, planned ahead, arranged for someone to watch Easter while I made the trip to the airport. Vern and I arrived back (no foal), visited a bit and I walked to barn to spend the night there.

The next morning (no foal), the clinic started and ran nonstop until 7:00 PM. I rode in the clinic of course - that's one thing I was totally prepared for - and checked Easter at regular intervals. Since she was stalled behind the barn, she could have surprised me with a foal at any time, but she didn't. That night I again slept in the barn.

I was seriously sleep deprived by Sunday, but I showed up at 10:30 on Little Wolf for my class of course. Vern had promised to ride him at some point, but we had had such a good ride the day before that I thought maybe I would just let him step on him at the end of the day. I had pulled my mare, Legacy, out of the field so Vern could have a horse to teach on. Apparently, for Little Wolf (3 year old stallion), that changed the dynamics of everything. He saw right away that Vern was not on Wolf, my 5 year old stallion, as he had been the day before. He also remembered Legacy had been cycling only a few days before ... and he turned into a bundle of testosterone! I corrected him, worked him out, corrected him again, but he was stirred up now. A mare on the hill squealed, the yearlings ran down to feed, all things he was used to, but his attention was no longer on me. Worse yet, I was tired enough that I did not have it in me to cope. "This would be a good time to ride him," I said to Vern and he did.

Of course Little Wolf settled down eventually and the ride ended on a good note. For the last ride of the day, I saddled my five year old stallion, Wolf, for Vern and we traded back and forth during the lesson, ending the day with a fabulous sliding stop on Wolf. (Sorry - no photo - my camera girl said she was too busy watching!)

Still no foal of course and I had decided Easter was waiting until the clinic was over and it was once again quiet. By now, she was waxed and not eating. This time, unlike the others, she was giving notice of her intentions! After dinner, hashing over the weekend's events over wine (with multiple checks on Easter) I walked to the barn at 12:45, dead tired. I set the alarm for 3:00 AM in case I didn't wake up and looked through the window again - she was rolling, positioning the baby. She was going to foal!

So tired I could hardly keep my eyes open and knowing I had to rise at 5:00 to get Vern to the airport, I laid down on the bed to wait it out. I was falling asleep even knowing I would have a foal soon! To keep myself awake, I started visualizing some of the exercises Vern had shown me. I still wanted to doze off! "Hurry up," I thought, "because I need to get a couple of hours of sleep!"

Just before 2:00 AM, the filly arrived, strong and healthy and cute as a button! Her daddy is Wolf the stallion who had laid down the incredible slide in my arena a few hours before. It was another hour before I could sleep. By then baby was up and Easter had dropped the after birth. I left baby and mother alone to work out the logistics of getting something to eat. At 5:00. I watched the filly suck and left for the airport with Vern. What a weekend! I am still recovering.

River Magic

2010-04-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I rode down the hill from my house to check my property gates and fences. It was the first ride of the year for Legacy. I had pulled her out of the herd, saddled her and stepped on. She was all right with all of that, but when we left the buildngs, she missed her buddies. As we wound down the hill to the river field, she whinnied several times. The noise shattered the silence ... and the peace of my solitary ride.

After the fence check, I followed the bank of the river (the Chilcotin) for a stretch before heading home. I looked for the geese who nest there every spring, but didn't see them. Finally, the steady hum and the lapping of waves on two huge rocks in the river, worked its magic. Time slowed ... and stopped. I got off Legacy, tied her to the lone poplar by the river and sat on the bank. I should be living by this river, I thought.

The river has not risen yet, revealing banks strewn with rocks washed by millions of gallons of running water. I couldn't resist. I had to add to the little piles of river rock on the bank, piles I had made on other rides. I really didn't have time to dally by the river (My student would arrive in a half hour), but I did. With Legacy tied to the poplar, I walked along the banks looking for smooth flat ones until my arms were full. I even found a large piece of jade!

As I stumbled through the rocks, I felt like I was being watched. I was. When I looked up, I saw Legacy had company. Whisper and Silk, her pasture buddies, had joined us. All three silently stood on the bank staring down at me. The river had worked its magic on them too. They stood as one, in perfect harmony with nature and themselves.

Clutching the jade in one hand, I reluctantly mounted Legacy and walked away from the river. I'll be back.

Connecting the Dots...in the Horse World

2010-04-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

Horse people are all connected in some way - usually through horses. Throughout the years, there have been many examples of this and I am never shocked. In fact, it always gives me an unexpectd lift, kind of confirms who I am.

Take the case of the recipient mare, Ten (named for the number on her halter). The young sorrel mare was one of several mares bought by the veterinarian doing the embryo transfer from my Rooster mare. She was chosen for no other reason than the timing of her cycle to carry my mare's baby.

When I picked up both mares, the vet told me he thought Ten was a registered mare and that he would look into that. I promptly forgot the conversation. sometime in the winter, Ten's papers arrived in the mail. I absentmindedly looked at them . . . then looked again. I knew her grandsire very well - I had put some training on him! And I once owned Ten's great granddam!

Another example...

This past winter a lady contacted me to book her mare for training in the spring. In the course of the conversation, she mentioned she had an old Arabian gelding.

"Nero's a Spanish Arab," she said.

"I trained and showed a Spanish Arabian stallion many years ago," I replied. Then I stopped. I felt the hairs on my arms starting to prickle like the time I realized my cousin was sitting across from me in my own house and neither one of us knew it (a whole other story). Nero?

"Where did you say you got him," I asked. When she told me, I knew. Nero was the son of the stallion I rode. Not only that, I had handled the stallion when his dam was bred, the breeding that resulted in Nero. I had later conditioned Nero for sale , took him to the sale and delivered him to his new owner - the lady my client had bought him from.

I did not know my prospective client, who lived many miles from me. I still have not met her in person, but she said right from the beginning that something had led her to me. Maybe it was an old gelding named Nero, son of Nino Hermoso, the stallion I reined in 1992!

I'm sure many of you have a story like these. I would love it if you shared your story on my blog. Hoping to hear from you...

A Message from a Facebook Friend

2010-03-30T08:07:00.000-07:00

I never know for sure where I am going to get an idea for my Monday blog (which is late this week). Most times something in my life, on the news, or in the horse world inspires me, but this week was different. An email from Germany got me thinking...

I was away last weekend at the 100 Mile Sliders Horse Bazaar with my two stallions and though I brought my laptop with good intentions of writing for this blog, I didn't even open it. When I got home Sunday evening, I checked my email. There were several redirected from Facebook, most of which I deleted right away. One, however, caught my attention - a girl in Germany had read my post on AQHA regarding pasture breeding. Apparently that led to her checking out my Facebook photos and Wildwood Reining Horses web site and prompted her to send me a message:

"I love, love love everything about it. Reading about you and looking at your pictures takes away the fear of getting older," she wrote

Wow! That's really interesting! I have several reasons for posting photos on my web site and Facebook, but not once did I intend to be a poster child for growing old. However, if my life as presented through my web page and Facebook truly did take away the fear of aging, then that makes me happy. She's right. I am not afraid of the years stacking up - dismayed sometimes that they go by so fast, but not afraid. I suppose I live my life the same as I did twenty, thirty or forty years ago and that is what shows in my writing and in the photos. That too, will change in time, but I will adjust.

I do not connect with any Facebook people I do not actually know or consider a friend. I might have to rethink that, especially since my German friend tells me I made her break her own rule about only adding people she knows in real life when she contacted me!