Ridin', Reinin' and Writin'

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.

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.

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...

"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!

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.

"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!

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.

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.