Ridin', Reinin' and Writin'

“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…

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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 why 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

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.

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…

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?

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.