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REFLECTIONS ON TURNING SEVENTY
Old age has arrived like an uninvited house
guest
One you
can’t turn away or hide from either
Like a desert thunderstorm it’s come sweeping
over me
From time to time I've glanced at it from a
seemingly safe distance
Barley noticing the wispy clouds as they began
to gather
Whirling and swirling, fighting to form a
threatening thunderhead
Still too far off to invade my conscious
comfort zone
Just occasional flashes of flame lighting up
the Western Sunset sky
Paying no attention I laughed in the face of those first felt
breezes
Even as they begin to blow stronger and
get colder
I was lost in the camouflaged comfort of my
personal den of denial
Hiding out in the shelter of my seemingly
invincible body
I took refuge from reality repeating my youthful
physical pursuits
I
ignored mirror aches and pains and the obvious signs of
impending disaster
To prove the point of my physical prowess
I played
even harder as the storm crept ever closer
With beer and wine I floated in that hypnotic lull, that
quiet ire stillness
That
strange palpable silence that creates a euphoric high
A false sense of security that preceded the
tempest...and the inevitable fall
An uncanny calm settled in right before life unleashes its Earth shaking
onslaught
For
awhile
I still harbored my naive hope
That this storm would pass too, and bring me more
blue skies
Others die but I will live forever...I'm the cat with nine
lives,
Eight down, and plenty more to go
As so
many weaker storms had done before
I thought that somehow I’d be
spared ...but, of course I was
not
I'd somehow avoided the inevitable ravages that so much hard living
and physical abuse is
bound to bring
Still, I was surprised when my luck ( my
youth, my health, and strength) all began running out
Being caught up in the loving arms of long
term denial, I was totally unprepared for reality
I fought hard as the inevitable reality
began to sink in
Like a downward, ever narrowing spiral
Time seemed to sped up as I slowed down!
I used
to talk to my body and it would listen to me and perform at my
command
Nothing I asked of it seemed to be too much...
so I asked more and more
Now my body talks to me, constantly reminding me
That for
those who dare to live hard the pain of ageing cannot be denied
You’ve
pushed past the alloted normal manly mark
You've beat the hell out of your body, won
your races, and
tempted fate once too often, Old Boy
And now there’s too much damage done
So it's patch and repair and try to keep the hull afloat
awhile longer
But full sail ahead will never come again...you're still
afloat, but you don't really sail
You limp
towards the final port, knowing in your heart that your
time has passed,
Your races are all run
and now it's rest and recuperate
Between your occasional
sprints of fun...sails still in the sun
Yes, your dances are all danced, except for
that final one
The dance you dance with the ghost partner unknown
The one dance we must all, some day, dance alone
So now, Old Man, relax and enjoy
There’s nothing left to do
Just thank your few good friends and forgive
the fools
that loved you
And be grateful for the fun, love, and
laughter that came so easily
As well as the pain and sorrow that life has gifted
you
Try and see the other side, the one you
hardly knew
Get up and do your best, as long as you can
And let go of vanity, and who you used to be
Strive to survive each remaining day with good
will and dignity
With your sails now furled this storm will
pass
It'll blow right on
through
But sometime soon one will get you
And you’ll be passing too
Happy trails, Don West
May 28th, 2011
Thursday, a week ago, I was handing a horse on
halter to a friend on the other side of a gate when somehow my
thumb got between the gate and the horse and before I even knew
what was happening the last joint of my thump popped off. The
Doctor in tthe emergancy room sewed it back on. I am now in a
cast up to my elbow, waiting to see if the thumb will survive or
if it will have to come off. They say it's a fifty-fifty deal.
Either way, I'm going to be out of commission for a few months.
So, don't plan to come ride with me until this Fall. I'll keep
you posted on the outcome. Don
Check out my latest short story:
Well Amigos, it's no secret that today the
horse industry is in big trouble. In fact, it sucks! If you're a horse breeder you
already know that. Fact is, people are giving horses away all
over the country... from coast to coast, its all the same. Unwanted horses are
being turned loose on public lands, or just dumped out on other
peoples private property. It's a sad state of affairs, but it's
reality, so it might as well be faced up to. The folks who raise
horses, both professional and amateur, and those who own and
love horses aren't disputing this reality; they're just debating
the reason why! Some say it's because the slaughter plants in
the USA have all been shut down. It used to be that if you had
an old horse that was past it's useful life, was taking up your
resources, and probably suffering from the same aches and pains
that you are contending with, or if you had a horse that had
been injured and couldn't be saved, you could call the vet, have
it humanely put to sleep, and call the local rendering plant.
They'd come and haul your dead horse away for free, and put it
to good use in its death. It would probably end up on the plate
of some Frenchman, and the rendering plant would turn a profit
on it to boot. Now, if you want to dispose of a dead horse you
have to rent a back hoe, dig a big hole in your back yard, cover
the corps up as quick as possible, and hope the neighbors don't
see what you're up to and call the law on you. Or, worse yet,
you take the poor critter to the local livestock sale barn, say
goodbye to it and drive away, and some profiteer buys it and it
gets shipped, under the worst of conditions, to Canada or Mexico
to be slaughtered there! This sad scenario can be laid at the
feet of the well meaning animal rights folks who are trying to
protect the animals they say they love so dearly, demonstrated
by giving twenty bucks a year to their favorite horse rescue
charity. Seems like they don't have much sympathy for the people
who find themselves hard pressed to feed their families and can
no longer pay to feed and care for an animal they don't need,
don't want, and can't keep as a pet. Well, that's one theme that
comes up regularly when this subject gets tossed around by
concerned horse owners.
Another school of thought has it that because
horses are no longer an active part of a modern young persons
life, younger folks don't harbor the thought of owning a horse.
The seed wasn't planted in them when they were kids to make
owning and riding a horse a cherished dream locked into their
sub-consciousness. When I was a young boy, the ice for our
icebox, our milk, and the vegetables and pork and chicken
products we bought were all delivered to our door buy horse
drawn wagons. Going out to the curb to pet the horse, and maybe
feed him a carrot, was a cherished part of the day. That all
came to an end with the end of the Second World War ("the war to
end all wars", or was that the First World War?). Well, anyway,
kids of my generation grew up with a cadre of cowboy heroes on
horseback who we emulated in our after school hours, playing
cowboys and Indians, and pretending that we were riding one of
those heroes' horses. With some of us, this fascination never
went away. We not only fantasized about it; when we got old
enough, we actualized it and made it a part of our adult lives.
For some of us, me included, the cowboy code was the foundation
of our values, and the horse became the source of our
recreation, and in my case (and many others), my vocation. Now,
there are very few new equine addicted young people moving up to
take our places, as we, like the horses we have loved, falter,
fail, and fall back into the source of our existence.
Many horse folks say: "It's the economy.
Today, no one has any money!" Well, I say: "That's horse shit!"
There are plenty of folks that have tons of money. It's just
that horse people rarely get the chance to rub shoulders with
them. It's a fact, birds of a feather like to flock together.
Wealthy tenderfeet move in entirely different circles. Rich
people, with a few rare exceptions, just don't happen to be the
kind of people who want to have horses in their lives. Horses
would be an inconvenience to their high speed, rapid reward, use
it and forget it, I phone lifestyle. You see, the type of person
you need to be to get rich in today's world just doesn't jive
with the kind of person who is likely to take on the day to day
responsibility of large animal husbandry. Tennis, skiing,
sailing, riding the stationary bike, and maybe, for the most
adventurous, even motorcycling (as a weekend bad boy on a
Harley, of course) all fit the corporate executives image. But
animals that are unpredictable and dangerous (to the
unacquainted), those big hairy critters that are dirty and have
smelly stuff occasionally coming out of their back sides just
don't have the appeal to those with fat wallets, who have spent
their entire lives living in a clean, safe and sanitized,
sterile environment. Looked at through their eyes, it's not that
hard to understand their lack of interest in our passion. They
like their recreation to be like their sex. Schedule it, do it
(in the allotted time slot, of course), put it away, and forget
about it until the urge to do it again comes up. And, oh yes, if
you do it for more than four hours, be sure to call your doctor
right away, because you're probably bound to have a deadly hard
attack.
There are lots of other explanations for the
fall from grace that horses have experienced over the past ten
years or so, but I won't bore you with all the theories. The
simple fact remains the same; these days there are a lot more
horses than there are people who want then, (or can afford to
keep them). That's a crying shame, but it's the God's honest
truth. And what's going to happen to all those unwanted horses?
Only God knows, 'cause it sure doesn't look like things are
going to turn around any time soon, and the horse market isn't
going to suddenly re-bound. Folks who have horses and can no
longer afford to keep them are going to have a hard time selling
them, unless they have some real good horses and can find some
rich person to buy them. The rest of those horse owning folks
that want to bail out aren't going to have a pleasant ride.
They're just going to get bucked.
Now it just so happens that I'm one of those
horse addicted crazies I've been referring to. I decided, long
ago, back when horses were selling at a profit, and a fellow
with a good eye for picking good horse flesh and some horse
handling horse sense, learned through the seat of his pants in
the school of hard knocks, could make himself a fair, if not
extravagant, living as a horse breeder and brink stomper. Having
been raised up on Gene Autry, Hop Along Cassidy, and the Lone
Ranger, I found the appeal of the life of the silver screen
cowboy (a life without cows, of course) to be irritable. And,
for quite a spell, I did quite well practicing my hard learned
trade. Now I find myself facing, and learning to deal with, the
unexpected but inevitable reality of old age. Just getting
myself out of bed and getting my sox and Levis pulled on is
enough to about wear me out. At the same time I'm still feeding,
riding, and training twelve "Beautiful to behold, smooth to
ride, and easy to handle" naturally gaited Paso Pleasure Horses,
the remnant of the hundreds of fine gaited horses that I've
produced, trained, and sold over the past forty years. Well
friends, now I find myself in the same boat as most all
of my many horse owning and breeding friends, comrades in our
love of horses made over the years of being actively involved in
the various Peruvian Paso and Paso Fino associations, being out
on the road for ten years as a speaker/clinician at horse fairs
and expos all over the country, doing weekend workshops for
gaited horse owners here, there and everywhere, and giving my
week long Training for Trail Riding, Paso and Naturally Gaited
Horse Intensives here at my place, West Gait Equine Learning
Center, at the entrance of the spectacular Colorado National
Monument, near Fruita Colorado. In short, I've got way too many
horses for my own personal recreational needs, and not enough
students clamoring' to acquire my knowledge to justify keeping
so many of them.
So, here's what I propose to do. This Spring,
anyone who comes ride with me in my Come Ride With Me, Training
for Trail Riding Intensive and falls in love with one of my Paso
Pleasure horses, and can prove to me that they have the
where-with-all to keep it, and care for it, will get a full
$1,200.00 refund on the lessons. How's that for a deal?!
Interested in owning one of the most beautiful horses you ever
laid eyes on, one with the smoothest ride you can imagine, and
with a people pleasin' personality like no horse you've ever
experienced? Well, Come Ride With Me! this Spring, and find out
for yourself. You'll learn the foundation of basic horsemanship;
my Horse Handling-Horse Sense, Sit-Down Equitation, and
Synergistic-Synchronistic Riding skills. And, maybe you'll go home
with a horse that you already know, one that is going to be your
dream horse...not your night mare. So, how can you go wrong?
Saddle Up-Let's Ride Together! Happy trails,
Don West
Dear horse lovers and
fellow trail riders,
The savvy folks who’ve been
saddlin’ up and hittin’ the trail, enjoying using my HSWT
quality line of made in the USA trail riding products; the Don
West Saddles and Tack for training and trail riding Paso,
gaited, and most other hard to fit, shorter backed horses, our
Saddlebag Softwear Systems (“SSS”) saddlebags, packs, and
accessories, and our Storm Riders, weather beating western style
outerwear, already know that Have Saddle-Will Travel, Inc. is
the smart choice for today’s discriminating pleasure-trail
riders. They know through their own experience that HS-WT is the
INNOVATIVE OUTFITTER that provides them with the Don West
designed and field tested trail riding products, all made to
meet the needs of today’s discriminating trail riders, people
like me who know that they were “Born to Ride!”
In 1979 I gave up my
job as Town Marshal of the town of Crested Butte and Deputy Sheriff
of Gunnison County, Colorado, and part time cowboy, mountain
guide and outfitter, and
built Needle Rock Horse Ranch on the Western slope of the West Elk
Mountains. There, I began my full time career as a professional
horseman. At the time I had a herd of about twenty-five
Appaloosa Horses. As much as I enjoyed riding and packing those
spotted Indian ponies, I soon realized that I wasn’t going to
make much of a livin’ breeding and training ‘em. So, after some
market search and head scratchin’, I switched breeds and started
raisin’ Peruvian Pasos, a Spanish gaited horse that was
“beautiful to behold, smooth to ride, and easy to handle”. The
Paso’s virtues appealed to the majority of my payin’
customers, middle aged trail riders (mostly women), who
recognized the qualities that these naturally gaited horses
possessed, the qualities that became our ranch slogan.
It didn’t take long to
realize that these compact, short backed horses, with their
high, elegant head carriage, presented one difficult
problem…finding a safe and secure saddle that would fit them
comfortably, be comfortable to ride in, and put us in the
correct place, the “sweet spot” on the horses back, and still
have the looks of a western saddle. After looking everywhere for
a saddle with these features, and finding none, I figured that
I‘d have to design, and have built to my specifications, the
saddle that I had in mind. I’ve always felt that fashion should
follow function, not the other way around. But, unfortunately,
in today’s western saddle world most saddle manufacturers seem
to feel that fashion should come first. The number of sore
backed horses we hear about all the time is the direct result of
those ill-fitting western saddles. The poor horses bear the
consequences. We love our horses, and always want what’s best
for them. So, after numerous trials and errors, I came up with a
saddle that met my needs.
Once I had the basics
of good (comfortable) saddle fit worked out, made up a good
fittin’ saddle tree and had some saddles made up on them, and
tested ‘em long enough to feel good about ‘em, I started to take
‘em along with me to the Peruvian Paso Shows. At the shows, the
horses were always ridden in traditional Peruvian saddles and
tack, an interesting, if esoteric collection of parts and pieces
that are beautifully made and fascinating to see, but not very
appropriate or functional for trail riding in our country. When
people saw my saddles they quickly recognized their virtues and
wanted to know how they could get one. That’s when the company
Have Saddle-Will Travel came into being. I never planned to be
in the saddle business. It just happened! Since then we’ve added
numerous products to the HS-WT’s offerings; things that I
designed and field tested; things I needed in my day to day work
as a gaited horse breeder, trainer, teacher, clinician, and back
country guide. These were all things that I couldn’t find in the
market place. Because I wanted them and needed them, I had to
design and make them for myself. The success of our company, and
the fact that other outfits have copied many of my designs and
our products, tells me that I wasn’t alone… just first!
We’ve always been proud
of our creations, and proud to say “Made in the USA”. And
we’re always gratified to get so many complimentary phone calls
and letters (now-a-days mostly emails) from satisfied customers
who use, (abuse), and enjoy our products. But while we’ve been
putting our time and energy into perfecting and producing our
offerings, our communication line hasn’t kept up with our
product line and we’ve been outpaced by the rapid pace of
Internet Technology. So, crushed under the stack of papers that
gets deeper by the day on her desk, Maria hired on her
Brother, a high ridin’ hi-tec talent, to ramrod the overwhelming
job of updating our antiquated web site. Now I know horses, and
I ain’t afraid to put my money where my mouth is when it comes
to bronc stompin’, but when it comes to computer communications
I know just about as much as a steer does about breedin’
heifers. For you-all what ain't savvy to that lingo...that ain’t
much.
If it weren’t for the
fact that Maria, my wife and partner, has been doin’ some hard
computer ridin’, keepin’ this outfit in line and movin’ on, and
not stampedin’ out o’ control, we’d a been rode under
many times over somewhere’ further back down the trail by now.
But, against all odds, she’s persevered (and perspired) to keep
us alive. Along the way we’ve been flattered and encouraged by
all the HS-WT “Born to Ride” fans we’ve picked up along the way.
So now were pleased to be able to present you with a new
website; one that speaks more kindly to the effort that’s gone
into our twenty-five years in this business. Hope you enjoy it.
And please, let us know what ya’ think. Happy Holidays and Happy
Trails, Don West
Another West Elk Mini Adventure
JUNE 23, 2010
Dear fellow trail riders, and all you cowboy (lazy-boy arm chair) horseback
adventurers,
A few weeks ago I set off on another one of my backcountry, low-impact horse
camping trips. I call them my “mini-adventures” because I only stay out for four
or five days, and by then I’m ready for a long hot shower and a tall cold beer.
This time I was headed around the West side of the West Elk Wilderness with a
new client/friend from Florida as a partner in adventure. My plan was to ride a
circular clockwise rout that would take us up the Through Line Trail, swing on
around the bottom of Tater Heap, Smith Fork Mountain, Sheep Mountain, and Mount
Guero, and finish up by descending down and out to our starting point on the
Sink Creek Trail. This is a trip that I’ve made many times over the past thirty
some odd years. I especially enjoy riding through the West Elks because there
are no “fourteeners” in that mountain range, and consequently not many
backpackers or mountain climbers use the area. Except during hunting season,
it’s not unusual to go for many days without seeing another living soul out
there. I love that.
Our adventure started from the trailhead located a mile or so up the Smith Fork,
just above the serenely beautiful Hawks Nest Ranch. It’s just a few miles from
Crawford, at the head of the Smith Fork valley, the road going right under the
base of Needle Rock, a well-known local landmark to the folks who live there, or
an attraction to the tourists that visit that sleepy little cow-town. Now, just
for the record, I define “an adventure” as a rugged trip where you have a
predetermined goal in mind and a basic game plan in place, but no assurance that
that plan can actually be accomplished. Well, as things turned out, this little
expedition would surely qualify as an adventure under my definition, even when
compared to the hardest old mountain man’s litany of tall tales.
The first day went like clockwork. In the morning we got our gear sorted out,
divided up, and packed. We loaded the horses in the trailer here at West Gait
Equine Learning Center, and headed out for Crawford. We hit the trail around
mid-day. When we arrived at our camp, we turned the horses loose, on hobbles, to
graze. Our camp was down in the bottom of Little Elk Basin, a beautiful spot,
with good grass for the horses, and an up close view of Big Sand Mountain. We
unpacked and organized our gear, set up our high-lines, pitched the tent, and
cooked our dinner; all just in time to enjoy a cooling rain storm that had been
threatening us all afternoon. Towards dusk we were treated to a spectacular
alpenglow show, the mountains acting like a drive-in movie theater screen. And
then, as a grand finally to a glorious day, we went skinny-dipping in a beaver
pond. Bellies filled and souls
satisfied, we watched a large herd of cow elk casually making their way along
the slab rock that contours around the mountain at timberline. Serenaded by a
choir of coyotes, we each took a few pulls on our bottle of brandy, and crawled
into our sleeping bags. What could be better?
The second day, allowing the slower pace of the wilderness to mellow out and
tone down our societal driven inner clocks, we took our time in breaking camp,
fully enjoying drying our gear in the sun, and reveling in the experience of
just being there…and being alone. We finally left camp around ten o’clock, and
back-tracked up and out of Little Elk Basin (after indulging ourselves in
another glorious, refreshing cold bath in a deep pothole we found in a sharp
meander in the free flowing stream). At the top of the divide, we cut across an
open meadow and picked up the Through Line Trail again, following it up and over
the ridge crest, and headed back down again on a long, easy, straight line grade
that took us across a long, but well settled (talus) bare rock slope, the man
made trail obviously built years ago for driving cattle into, and through the
bottom of coal creek, and up to the summer high country. Once we reached the
stream, the trail cut through many endless tedious miles of willow and alder
bushes, impassable recent new avalanche debarred, and long sections of loose
screed and talus blocks.
Navigating cautiously over and through what seemed like endless sections of
loose and unstable clattering plates of
rock, and making numerous stream crossings, going back and forth across Coal
Creek, trying to find a way through the new array of sharp and pointy fresh
obstacles was nerve wracking, both for us, and for the horses. In numerous
sections, the creek and the trail are trapped in tight quarters between
formidable stone cliff faces. In other spots, huge avalanche shoots, coming
right down to the creek on either side, give you clear view to the tall mountain
country that lies above. The rubble that the spring avalanches carry down each
year, when they finally build up too much weight and finally let go and slid to
the bottom, gets scattered everywhere. Year to year, you’ll never know what
you’re going to encounter. It’s very impressive to see, big trees snapped like
toothpicks, blocking the trail, and forcing us to frequently seek out
alternative routes.
At last, we pulled away from the stream bottom, and scrambled up a rough, rocky
trail, finally reaching the trail intersection, right on the top of a long flat
ridge top where our trail intersected with the Curecanti Pass Trail. That put us
just a short ways East of Minnesota Pass and Mount Gunnison, a massive
stand-alone mountain that fills the landscape in that direction. After taking a
little rest and lunching on a power bars and some beef jerky, we hung a sharp
right and followed the high ground on the crest of the ridge. At first it was
impossible to distinguish the real trail from the numerous cow trails. Never the
less, staying with the ridge top, heading almost due south, we made our way
along the Eastern sides of Smith Fork and Sheep Mountains. Although there was
much more blow-down in the aspen groves than there had been in past years, we
were still able to find a way to make it around and/ or over even the worst of
the blocked spots. A beautiful doe mule deer watched us go by, standing
motionless, only ears twitching, as we passed.
Finally we came out of the aspen into a circular clearing with a little shallow
lake in the center. I couldn’t help
noticing that it had diminished dramatically in size over the years of my
travels there, muddied up and being filled in by unsupervised free roaming
cattle, but still big enough to deserve to be shown on the USGS topo maps, a
comforting landmark in an otherwise confusing tangle of blown down trees and
meandering cow and elk paths. The fact is, in my many years of backcountry
travel I’ve seen many trails disintegrate, and even disappear, their current
zigzag paths now dictated by crisscrossing cow trails and fallen dead trees
rather than by the natural contour that was the basis for the original trails;
trails that were probably cut a hundred years ago, by hand, by Basque sheep
herders and the young men of President Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps,
way back in the depression years of the late 1930’s.
We swung to the left around the lake, heading for our next camp site. We hadn’t
gone far past the pond before we ran into a herd of elk, all bedded down in an
open meadow, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. They’re had to be at
least forty elk, all cows and their cute, romping baby calves. When they saw us
they didn’t run. They only stood up, and meandered off a short way before they
stopped, turned around in unison, and stood stark still, like so many statues.
Obviously checking our smell in the breeze with their ultra-sensitive noses, and
finding that horse smell passed their test, they held their ground, just staring
at us as if to say this is our territory, and you are intruders.
They were not about to be rousted out of their comfortable resting spot
by a few horses with odd things on their backs. We, on the other hand sat on our
ponies, transfixed by the dream like quality of these majestic creatures, viewed
at such close quarters. If we had been on foot instead of on our horses, they
would have been gone in a flash.
Leaving the elk to bed down again, we dropped down over the hill and soon
arrived at the spot I had in mind, a long, narrow, flat meadow, hemmed in on
both sides by old growth aspen, with a little clear, cool, bubbly stream
meandered gently down through the lush grass and low growing willows. The water
was coming straight out of the ground, from a spring, a few hundred yards above
our camp set up. Scattered here and there around our meadow were little ponds,
and indentations that obviously had been ponds in the near past. Some had water
in them with bull rushes, horse-tails, and marsh grass growing in them. Most
were silted in and dried up, covered with various short grasses. These
indentations were created, years ago, by beaver. At one time the whole valley
had been covered in aspen, and those busy rodents cut them down and built dams
with them, creating the pools by annually cutting down the aspen closest to the
water, and renovating their dams. Eventually they ate up all the trees that were
close enough to the water for them to be able to use them as food, or for
construction. Over time their ponds gradually silted in, and willow, alder, and
native grasses took over, leaving an array of interesting potholes on an
otherwise open meadow. Note: the same thing, but on a much larger scale, is
happening right now at Lake Powel! In a few more years it will be silted in and
be one giant pot hole.
Our camp site was close by a big stand of mature, well-spaced Aspen, with plenty
of grass growing between them; a perfect place to set up our high lines for our
tired horses. Before making camp we had turned the horses out up at the top of
the valley, a ways form our camp, but not out of sight. We knew that they were
hungry and would stay put for a while, and when they got tired of eating they’d
start to drift back toward the trail they came in on… right past our camp. With
their lead lines left on, hanging and dragging, and winding up around the
hobbles, they usually don’t run very far, or for very long. Even though I can’t
run very fast any more, they haven’t gotten away from me yet. Just for the
record, I used to be an athlete. Now I’m just an athletic supporter. Note: if
you can catch the herd leader first, and put him on a high line, the rest of the
horses are almost sure to stay around. Still, be sure to bell them, and don’t
take them off the hobbles until you’re ready to put each horse on its high line.
Note: for more details on high-lining get a copy of my book Have Saddle-Will
Travel. It’ll give you more complete information on all phases of low–impact
horse camping. The book is straight forward, chocked full of useful information
and sound suggestions, as well as some funny stories based on my personal
experience, learned through the seat of my pants, in the school of hard knocks.
Hearing about my mishaps might make your horse camping end up being more fun
with less fuss.
We set up our little tent (four pounds total weight, including the tent, fly,
poles and stakes), with its two side doors, a blessing for a stiff and sore old
man to conveniently roll out of the sack to answer the call of nature without
having to crawl over his sleeping partner). We pitched the tent to face the
morning sunrise. It was nestled serenely along the edge of the aspen that were
rustling in the slight down draft that also kept the bugs at bay. We spent that
evening discussing what I call “Horse Handling-Horse Sense”, fortified with a
few sips of the brandy, as we enjoyed another beautiful sunset, the vibrant
colors reluctantly giving way to pastel shades of tan and grey, and then,
finally, pitch black. This beautiful progression was projected onto the face of
the triangular pinnacle known as Porcupine Cone, an interesting spire that
dominates the long cliff face that ends in Curecanti Pass to the Southwest.
As night set in and darkness surrounded us, we finishing off the evening with
one more cup of hot chocolate. As it began to rain we were dry and cozy,
protected from the elements by our hi-tec tent that was resting on the flat,
soft surface of those sweet smelling, deep layered, dry spruce needles, a
natural, made to order mattress left just for us by hundreds of years of
evergreen exfoliation. However, taking no chance that our beauty rest would be
disturbed, we still had rolled out our ¾ length self-inflating air mattresses.
We crawled into our ultra-soft down sleeping bags, and lovingly surrendered to
the reward that comes from physical effort, induced into tranquil dreams, safe
and secure under our very own guardian bull spruce tree, our last thoughts
anticipating that we would be gently awakened in the morning when the sun poured
across the valley and engulfed our tent.
Speaking of horse handling-horse sense, I’d like to point something out here
that I think might be important to you, and is often misunderstood; knowledge
and mastery are not the same thing! Mastery
comes from taking knowledge and putting it to work. When working with horses,
repetition is the Mother of skill, but only if it’s right repetition. Mastering
horsemanship and low-impact horse camping skills, and not inadvertently
developing bad habits, either in yourself or in your horse, habits that won't
serve you well, or make your horse happy, is best achieved by going out with a
trail buddy that has mastered those skills, and can teach them to you. If you’re
already a great rider and are getting everything you want from your horse, I’m
happy for you. I don’t argue with success. But, if you are among the many folks
that I see all the time out at the trailheads, folks that obviously aren’t
getting what they hoped for from owning a horse, and are treating their horsey
companions in a way that the horse doesn’t know clearly where he fits in the
pecking order, or what is wanted from him, or worse wet, if he thinks that he is
above his owner on the pecking order, whether or not the rider knows it,
that rider is stealing a ride on the
horse, and sooner or later they’re bound to get hurt.
I have three basic rules when I’m around, or working with horses! 1. I don’t get
hurt. 2. The horse doesn’t get hurt. And, 3. We are having fun. I know that a
comfortable horse is a happy horse, and a happy horse makes for a happy rider. I
think there are the two most important things that a trail horse needs to know
from his rider in order to be comfortable, and thus happy, and able to perform
at his best: (1) where do I fit in the pecking order with my rider/trainer, and
(2) give me clear, concise, easy to interpret commands that I can understand in
horse talk. You do this by using aids: the reins, your legs, your balance, your
weight change, your voice, and most difficult to master, the correct timing,
knowing exactly when to ask for the desired response based on where the horse’s
legs are under him. When you have mastered these “Aids” you will be able to say
that you are a real horseman. Leave out any of these aids, or use them when you
are not in balance and harmony with the natural motion of your horse, and you’ll
soon have an unhappy and unruly horse. The hotter blooded the horse, the more
important it is to follow Don West’s Basic Rules of Horse Handling Horse sense.
What are those rules?
First of all, remember that if you’re a rider, you’re a trainer! Every time you
touch your horse, you teach your horse. Every time you rein your horse, you
train your horse. Think of this partnership as if you were dancing with a
partner. To be effective, someone must lead, and someone else must be willing to
follow. In this case, you are (supposed to be) the brains. Your horse is the
brawn. To be successful, you must learn to think like a horse, but, at the same
time understand that a horse can’t learn to think like you. So… don’t expect him
to! Horses are dynamic, not static. They are always changing. Depending on how
they are handled they are always either getting better, or worse. Your job as a
rider/trainer isn’t to make every horse the best; it is to make the best of each
horse. Training horses is not “one size fits all”. But, at the same time, the
basic rules of horse training apply to all horses.
The right horse is the light horse. Light hands make for a light horse. As a
rider/trainer, your goal is to develop the right light horse. To accomplish
that, you must learn how to have right-lite hands. You must develop the right
touch on your reins; a method I call take, tug, and release. That is, first you
take the slack out of the reins. Then you give a little tug on the rein. And
then, no matter what the horse does, you immediately release the rein at least
the length of the tug, bringing you back to a slack rein. Do not yank, or pull
with steady pressure, on the reins. Your horse is stronger than you are. So,
never get yourself into a fight with your horse that you can’t win. To be a real
horseman, learn to use finesse instead of force, and patience and perseverance
instead of pain and punishment in your training. There may be situations that
require you to use a little pain on your horse, just like one horse does to
another that challenges his position in the pecking order. But there is no place
for punishment in horse training. Horses don’t understand punishment, and
consequently applying it is nothing but abuse. Remember, you want to end up
being the benevolent master, with your horse being your happy and willing
servant…and your friend, your dance partner.
While training, it is always better to do too little than too much, especially
at first. Keep your training sessions short and sweet. Don’t sour your horse by
overworking him. If things aren’t going well, and the horse sticks, or become
stubborn, hostile, or brain fried, stop, rest, and re-think what you’re doing.
Then, when you start over, back up in your training and try something the horse
already knows how do. Whenever possible, (which is almost always) reward good
behavior and ignore bad behavior. Most “bad behavior” goes away on its own if
you just ignore it, and keep the horse’s mind occupied by “riding through” these
little problems. I can’t overemphasize this point: reward good behavior at every
opportunity. Doing the wrong thing harder doesn’t usually work, and bad behavior
is usually the result of you doing something wrong anyway…not using Horse
Handling-Horse Sense. Remember the rule of holes: if you find yourself in a
hole, the first thing you should do is to stop digging. And, finally, always
find a way to end on a good note with your horse.
Our third day’s objective was to pick up the Curecanti Pass Trail and follow it
up and over the pass, then camp on the other side of Mount Guero, where the
trail crosses Sink Creek. We hadn’t gone far before we accidently disturbed the
sleep of the biggest, blackest male black bear I’d ever seen. He just sort of
popped up out of the skunk cabbage that he was sleeping in, and stared, wide
eyed at us for a moment. Man oh man, you should have seen how fast that big guy
took off and ran away once he caught our scent. Bears don’t see very well
(unless they’ve been fitted with contact lenses). But, they have a great sense
of smell, and their curious and usually hungry. I like bears. They are a lot
like us…or at least a lot like me. So I’m always interested in them, but I show
them a healthy respect. I’ve spent a lot of time living in the mountains, and
I’ve encountered lots of bears, and so far my approach in dealing with them has
worked well. No one could have outrun
this bear on foot. A good lesson to cogitate over. Also, remember, black bears
can climb trees. Scaring one off is better than pissing one off. It’s better to
have them running away from you than towards you.
We hadn’t gone much further before the trail turned away from the stream and
started to climb up and out of the aspen and into some very heavy old growth
spruce and fir… dark timber. It looked like a hurricane had blown through! Huge
trees were down everywhere, laying helter-skelter, in all directions, like a
giant pile of “pickup sticks”. To move ahead we were forced to take more and
more, and longer and longer side excursions. When we could, we used elk trails
that crisscrossed to the left or right of the blocked trail.
Our Paso Pleasure Naturally Gaited Horses (my home bred horses) were amazingly
good sports, stepping over belly high logs, and stepping delicately between
downed trees lying so close together they could scarcely get a leg between them.
As we held our breath and pushed on, things went quickly from bad, to worse, to
impossible. Unfortunately for us, elk don’t mind jumping over chest high logs.
Finding no way to stay with the trail, we were forced to leave the horses and go
scouting on foot, looking for any possible alternative elk trail that might get
us up, around, and beyond the evergreen forest, and finally onto the switchbacks
on the north side of Curecanti Pass. In the end, exhausted and frustrated, after
hours of finding only dead ends, we gave up. We’d spent the whole day crashing
and thrashing, and trashing ourselves and our horses, to no avail. Finally, we
were forced to admit defeat.
Reluctantly, with our circular route plan obviously not going to pan out, we
retreated back to the comfort of our old camp of the previous night. With the
help of a few more good gulps of brandy, the defeat of the day was erased by the
peacefulness of the evening.
The following day we decided to try a circular route in the opposite direction.
We got back onto the trail and headed toward Porcupine Cone. We only went a
short way until we picked up what we thought was the Navajo Flats Trail. There,
we took a sharp left hand turn and headed North, trying to make our way down
Navajo Canyon to where the trail intersects the Through Line Trail. From past
experience I knew we could camp in the valley bottom along Willow Creek. From
there we’d have a long, but much easier trail to navigate to go home. We hadn’t
gone a half mile before the Navajo Flats Trail turned into an indistinguishable
mess of cattle and elk trails, going in all directions. Our only hope was to
keep heading down, trying to pick out what looked like the most used paths.
There were no horse tracks to be found anywhere; nothing to help give us a clue
in our decision making process. In open areas, the skunk cabbage was belly high,
making it almost impossible to tell where the dead and downed aspen lay, just
waiting to skin up, or worse wet, break the leg of one of our brave horses.
At one point the steep, slippery elk track we were following took us and the
horses, slipping and sliding on their haunches, right down into the creek. The
rushing water was at a down grade steep enough to form a cascade of multiple
boulder strewn rapids. On the far side of the creek we were faced with a solid
rock wall, far too steep for us to climb on foot, let alone ask the horses to
try. We were really stuck. Trying to backtrack up the hill seemed to be next to
impossible. It had been hard enough just getting down this far! Leaving my
partner holding the jittery horses, I went to scouting afoot. I soon realized
that the only way we and the horses were going to have any chance of getting out
of this mess was to ride the horses about a hundred yards down that boulder
strewn stream, and try to get them out where the elk had found a way out.
We started out into the rushing water facing downstream. After the first few
steps the horses lost their footing and we were under water, swimming, and being
spun round and round as we fought for their lives. We just hung on and tried to
fend off whatever big rocks we could with our boots. Well, somehow we made it!
Both horses had blood streaming from multiple minor injuries here and there on
their legs, and a few puncture wounds along their bodies. We didn’t escape
without making our own small blood donation to the stream Gods too, but after we
let our heart rates drop down under 100 bpm and checked each other out to be
sure there were no bones sticking out, or blood squirting out, we decided
neither one of us was really hurt…we were just hurtin’. So, we cowboyed up, and
headed into the woods again.
All the rest of the way down the route I selected (I wouldn’t begin to flatter
it by calling it a trail) was miserable, constantly testing our sense of humor.
By now our horses were so tired, and used to us crazy cowboys meandering around
like drunken sailors, that they were willing to jump over waist high logs,
dragging their skinned up bellies and legs behind them, moves that they would
have absolutely refused to try only a few days before.
After many more hours of this self-inflicted torture, thrashing from one
elk trail to the next, finding what looked to be a good trail only to have our
hopes dashed as some big old downed spruce tree, having given up the ghost in a
recent storm, blocked us in again, leaving us no choice but to backtrack a ways
and try another zigzag detour. By now, we had both about run out of humor. In
fact, we were just about at the end of our ropes.
And then, in an instant, everything changed. What a relief! We had finally come
out on the Through Line Trail. We were beat up and fed up, but we were still
standing up! We got down off our ponies and symbolically kissed the ground.
Raising our outstretched arms to the sky, saluting the four principle direction,
we gave a war hoop of thanks to the Great Spirit that guides all of us
worshipers of Mother Earth. But here’s the real kicker. Our horses, having been
over the Through Line Trail before and, of course now knowing the way home, went
down on their knees and kissed the ground too. Seeing as how they weren’t afraid
to express their emotions in such an open and honest way, right in front of us
old grizzled cowpokes, and knowing that no one was around to see us and make fun
of us, we formed a circle and had us a group hug.
The last day we headed on up a steady pull to the West on the well-worn,
unobstructed, Through Line Trail. After the challenges we’d met and conquered
over the past few days, this cattle punchin’ trail looked like a major four lane
highway. We stopped atop the pass where we had been only an eternity (actually
three days) ago, took some pictures of each other, and let our ponies take a
well-deserved snack-break. From there on, all we had to do was to turn the reins
loose and let the horses pick their way through the many miles of
clatter-clatter slide rock…scree and talus, mostly dinner plate size pieces of
fresh fractured igneous rock that comes down every year with the spring wet
slide avalanches. This section of the trail is never the same from year to year,
and without the considerable trail clearing work done by local cattlemen, the
cattle couldn’t be driven up into the summer grazing high country.
When we were within a few miles of the trailhead we ran into a group of about a
half-dozen trail riders, the first folks we’d seen since we entered the
wilderness four days ago. It was easy to size up the group by the way they sat
their horses, and how they were dressed. The leader was a young Cowpoke, decked
out in a Nevada Buckaroo style cowboy outfit; low crowned flat brimmed sombrero,
a wild rag around the neck, and high heeled, tall toped boots worn over his
Wrangler jeans. He had an obvious bunch of dudes in tow, heading for the old cow
camp, with its cozy little cabin, a few more miles up the way, and a short
distance off the main trail on an in holding piece of private property that’s
surrounded by leased Forest Service supervised Wilderness. Given the light load
of gear he had on the only pack animal, I figured he was combining an overnight
outing with checking up on the cows, maybe moving some salt around to new graze,
and making a few extra bucks by guiding these nimrods on a Wilderness type
“adventure”. The way they were plodding along, he looked like a Mother goose
with a bunch of goslings following in her wake.
Right away, I noticed that the Cowboy had a chainsaw on his pack mule. I asked
him how he was getting away with using a chainsaw in a wilderness area. He
explained that Smokey the Bear had given the local cattlemen a special
dispensation to forego the Wilderness rules and regulations, and use the noisy,
but very effective, motorized power tool, to keep the trails open for the
cowboys to drive their cattle on. I thought that was a bit strange, seeing as
how we trail riders are only permitted to carry hand tools to do voluntary trail
maintenance. Also, I’d like to note that the trails cut and maintained by the
cattleman’s association go to the places they can count on finding the best
water and grazing. They’re not much interested in getting up and over the high
passes. And, after forty years of riding on a regular basis the country between
Crested Butte to Crawford it’s become quite clear that cowboys can’t count, and
Forest Service Personal don’t count. The end result is that the land the
cattlemen lease for pennies on the dollar, compared to what they would have to
pay to graze on private property, are not only being over used...they are
knowingly being abused. And no one is doing much about it; not thirty years ago,
when I cowboyed out of Crested Butte, and not now, even with the full, but
feeble, effect of the environmental movement.
What I have personally observed over my many glorious years of living, loving,
and extensively exploring the West Elk and Ruby-Anthracite Wilderness the
low-impact horse camping way…”Go right…Go Lite”, traveling quietly and unnoticed
with no pack horse, and leaving no trace of horse grazing, camp or campfire
behind me, is that there is little to none when it comes to Government oversight
once you get a few miles into the back country. Cattlemen and their hired
cowboys act like the land that their corporate bosses lease from the government,
we the people, gives them the right to treat it like they own it. People often
ask me if I pack heat on my excursion. They want to know, is it to fend off the
lions or bears?” They are naive. I pack a pistol to shoot my horse if he (or
she) needs me to end their unnecessary suffering, or to defend myself as I ride
and camp on “cattle permitted land”. I don’t just say this idly. I’m speaking
from experience.
So, when I got back into town the following Monday I called the Forest Service
to cross check this chain saw story with them, and sure as shoottin’ (pardon the
pun) the kid with the cowboy outfit was telling me the truth. I explained to the
Forest Service gentleman that keeping Curecanti Pass Trail passable was the key
factor to being able to make a variety of circular routes for backpackers or
horseback riders., Without that pass being kept open, trail riders would be
forced to ride in, and then turn around and go back out the same way they’d come
in from many of the trailheads. He said “I understand what you’re saying, and I
know that the trails are in awful shape once you ride in a mile or two, but the
Forest Service has no money for trail maintenance, that’s zero, goose egg bucks
in their budget”. I said, “Well, what if
I take my own little chainsaw and clear that trail myself?” He said that if I
got caught doing it I’d be arrested. I wouldn’t mind being locked up in the pen
for a while. I could focus on completing my memoirs! But I already suffer from
colitis, and I just can’t risk having that problem exacerbated.
So, I’ll just have to let the
vigilantism fall on the shoulders of younger, tougher, tighter butted young
buckaroos. If you share some of my feelings, but don’t have the guts to act, at
least email your congressmen and bitch. It probably won’t change things, but it
might make you feel better.
Depending on your political point of view, you may feel (as I do) that our tax
dollars should go toward things like having the Forest Service protect our
Wilderness, keep trails cleared and open for hikers and trail riders, and
especially for low-impact horse campers. (In case you’re not tuned in to my “ go
right-go lite” terminology, that means carrying ultra-lite backpacking gear,
Packing it on your riding horse, and taking nothing but pictures, and leaving
nothing but hoof prints that would last no more than a day or two. Or, you may
think that the work should fall to volunteer organizations. That’s OK too, but
it doesn’t create paying jobs, and because of the limited number of volunteers
that can get into the real backcountry, it means that only a few of the hard
core types get anything done, along with the Orange Army (hunters) who invade
the wilderness, in mass, each Fall, and leave their trash behind for us
“environmentalists” to pick up, and pack out. And these days the modern
sportsmen don’t seem inclined to go very far out of sight of their four
wheelers…bless their flabby little hearts.
There’s one thing I’d bet you, my fellow backcountry horsemen, would agree with
me on. If the cattlemen can get special permission to use a chainsaw to clear
wide cattle trails into designated wilderness areas, we should be granted the
same privilege. A few fit people with a few chainsaws, given a week, could open
up all the blow down and restore the old sheep herding trails to their original
condition, making the riding and camping much more fun (you could even look up
once in awhile, and see the scenery, for example), and at the same time do lots
less damage to the overall environment. And, isn’t that the real goal of the
rules and regulations after all?
You can call me a tree hugging, granola head, environmentalist, but I’m also a
pragmatist. I don’t want to spend days and days pulling on a two man buck saw,
not when I can take a chain saw, get in, get done, and get out, and then have my
fun with my horse riding and camping along those maintained trails. If the
Government Agencies can’t do this, I’d like the authorities to let us do it. But
odds are they won’t. We horsey folk are usually a house divided against
ourselves. We don’t seem to have the smarts to stop bad mouthing each other, ban
together as brothers in arms, and demand what we really want, and deserve… the
same political clout that the Cattlemen’s Association has. And because Curecanti
Pass is so far back into the backcountry, chances are that the trail will be
impassable again next year, unless some hunters dare to ignore the law and
chainsaw their way into their high hunting camps. And, if they do it, you can
bet that they won’t be using brush hooks and two man bucksaws to get there.
Here’s hoping for Happy Trails for all my fellow Trail Riders. Saddle-Up! Let’s
Ride. Don West
|
FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF THE COWBOYS
Ya' know it's hard to express in a poem, the emotions
that come to a man,
when your pony you straddle, sittin' tall in the
saddle,
and you take up the reins in your hands.
You connect with your old childhood heroes; you
commune with the earth and the sky, time seems to
stand still; yea it's more than a thrill,
it can bring a tear to your eye.
'Cause you know then what's really
important, and you're right where your wantin' to be,
when you ride out alone, the whole World is your home,
and your spirit soars high and flies free.
So if you're headin' the call to adventure, and
you're able to follow my lead, then go
saddle your horse, and ride the one sure-fire course,
that takes you to what you most need.
Go follow the trail of the cowboys, and the others
who rode out before, with a good horse
beat ya', your cares can’t defeat ya',
and like an eagle your spirit will soar!
Happy trails! Don West
Saddle up-- Let's ride! Happy trails!
Don West
Dear horse happy friends,
"Howdy" to all of you
buckaroos and buckaretts out there from Maria and me at
West Gait Equine Learning Center, the home of the World
famous Paso-Pleasure, naturally gaited trail horses, here
in wonderful Western Colorado. Over the past few years the
trails around here, the ones that I've had all to myself
for years and years, seem to have been "discovered". On
any weekend the horse parking lots at the trailheads are
filled up and overflowing with big fancy new horse haulin'
rigs! Seems like I'm seein' a lot more inexperienced
riders out on the trail these days, too. That's great, of
course, but the way some of these folks are handling their
horses makes me doubtful for their long term success, and
a little nervous about their safety. So, let an old hand
pass along a few key concepts and training tips in hopes
that they might help a few of you new trail riders build a more synergistic-synchronistic relationship
with your horse; one in which you and your horse partner are
working in balance and harmony, where you are the benevolent
master and your horse is your happy, willing servant, and
where you don't get hurt, your horse doesn't get hurt, and
you're havin' fun! That's my goal, and I'd bet it's your
goal, too.
Once you master
the basic principles that I call Horse Handling Horse
Sense, you and your paso or naturally gaited horse will
dance down the trail to the syncopated rhythm of those
paca paca hoof beats,
you and your happy horse totally tuned-in to each other,
in balance and harmony!
First and foremost remember that a comfortable
horse is a happy horse, and a happy horse makes for a
happy rider.
On the other hand, an uncomfortable horse is an unhappy
horse, and an uncomfortable horse can soon make for an
uncomfortable rider. When a horse gets nervous, the flight
instinct starts to kick in and take over, and that soon
makes for an unhappy rider.
Knowing its place in the pecking order, and knowing
that someone above it in that pecking order is in charge, makes a
horse comfortable.
Not knowing where it fits, or who is in charge, makes a horse uncomfortable.
If a horse doesn't feel like someone above them on the
pecking order is looking out for what to a horse spells
danger, they feel like they have to look out for
themselves. What they do when they are scared can get a
rider in big trouble real quick. An insecure, nervous
horse between your legs spells danger for the rider.
That's when things can turn to horse picky real quick. To
avoid that you need to establish and maintain a
relationship in which the horse recognizes you as above it
on the pecking order…in other words, you're in charge.
In the relationship
between horse and man, you are (supposed to be) the
brains, and the horse is the brawn. Even though you are a
team, to be safe you must be the master, and your horse
must be your servant. Still, at the same time, you want
your horse to be your friend. You want to feel like your
horse is enjoying being ridden by you. You want your horse
to be your willing servant, so that you can be a
benevolent master. To achieve that, whenever possible use
finesse instead of force, and patience and perseverance
instead of pain and punishment while teaching your horse
with your Horse Handling- Horse Sense magic
touch.
Keep in mind, horses are dynamic, not
static. From a human point of view, they are always getting better...or worse. Your
job, as a rider-trainer, is to make sure that your horse gets better
with each contact you have with it. That
means that you have to really ride your horse, not just
sit on your horse. Remember, if you’re a
rider, you’re a trainer, and as long as you are with your
horse you are always training, weather you know it or
not. Every time you touch your horse –
you teach your horse. Every time you rein your horse – you
train your horse.
With horses, repetition is the mother of skill, but
only if it is right repetition. You can learn to think like a
horse, but a horse can’t learn to think like you. Your job
(as a rider-trainer) isn’t to make your horse the best –
it’s to make the best of your horse. To do that you have
to pay attention, and ride your horse the way you drive
your car, not as though you are a passenger in the car.
What is a "good horse"? The right horse is the
light horse. And light hands make a light horse. Start with
whatever force it takes to get the horse to give to your
aids: your hands, seat, legs, balance (weight), and voice.
Then, as the horse responds, back off, and use less and
less pressure. That is the horse's reward for good
behavior! Fear and frustration are the horseman's two
worst enemies. Fear makes a person shut down and not
respond correctly. Frustration makes a person overreact. Neither you nor your horse can learn when you
are scared, nervous, or angry. So, keep yourself, and your horse
comfortable. As much as possible, reward good behavior,
and
ignore “bad” behavior. Keep your training sessions short
at first.
Don't push your horse to the point of frustration, or
worse yet, anger. It’s always better to do too little than too much.
Don't put an artificial time table on your training goals.
You always have tomorrow. And, never get into
a fight with your horse that you can’t win. The idea is to
have the horse think that you are stronger than him (or
her), so don't let your ego get you into a situation that
ends up showing the horse otherwise. And always end
each session on a good note!
If you will follow these
few simple Horse-Handling Horse-Sense rules you will become a
real "horseman". Remember my
definition of success: " You don’t get hurt, your horse
doesn’t get hurt, and you’re having fun!" The real joy of
riding comes when your having fun, and your horse is
having fun too! So, don’t forget that. Be careful out
there, but don’t be too serious, too soft, or too sour. May you
always ride a good horse – and may you always ride him (or
her) well. Saddle Up – Let’s Ride!
Happy trails, Don West
March 15, 2009
I'm sitting at the computer, looking out the window. One
of my fifteen Paso Pleasure Horses, "Dancer", is banging
on a feeder. He's got a real steady rhythm going. Maybe
he's going to provide the music for the others to start
a dance. I'd like to be out there with them, going
riding. But, at least for a few more weeks, that cannot
be. You see, last week I went into the hospital and had
my prostate reamed out, the remedy for TB (tiny bladder)
another of the almost inevitable afflictions that come
to men in the process of getting old. So, for the
moment, I am practicing patience, but I 'm not sitting
easy. Good thing that the weather isn't very pretty. If
it was, I'd really be going crazy.
It's been a long, hard winter here at West Gait Equine
Learning Center. We've had more snow this year than
we've had in the past seventeen years that we've been
living here. Maria hasn't been feeling well since she
did a ten day hitch in the hospital back in late August,
and so I've been hanging around the cabin, keeping an
eye on her, doing the shopping and housekeeping chores,
and feeding the horses, dogs, cats, and fish. The
result? Well, for one thing, I've watched more TV this
winter than in the past ten years put together. Now, as
the days are getting longer, I'm ready for Spring!
As I mentioned, we still have fifteen of our own home
bred Paso Pleasure Horses (see my horses for sale list).
Last Fall we sold off all of our remaining pure blood,
registered Peruvian Paso
mares, except for Maria's palomino mare, Fantasia, who I
had bred to Big Red, right before we had him gelded for
his new owner. We were really looking forward to her having one
more foal for us, but a few months ago she
aborted; a chestnut colt. It's interesting how I first
realized the mare was about to abort. When I went out in
the morning to do the first feeding, while I was still a
long way from the front paddock, I smelt something
"dead" in the wind. My mind immediately turned to the
mare. I expected to see the foal lying somewhere on the
ground. But no, it was still inside her, with only a
little bit of a bubble of the placenta showing. Of
course I rushed her right over to the vet, but I knew
that the foal was dead (remember, the smell), and she
couldn't shed it, so we had to pull it out. So, no foals
for us this Spring. And, no more foals for us ever.
Thirty years of looking forward to bringing horsey
babies into the World, coming along with the warmer
weather, has come to an end...forever. It has been a
labor of love, and if the results are to be judged by
the quality of the product produced, it's been a great
success. But, it's also been a great financial failure,
and an expense that we can no longer sustain.
Our hay price has gone from $3.00 per bale, delivered
and stacked, last year, to $6.50 a bale; and that's if you come
and get it. Given the price of gas, that probably adds
another fifty cents to each bale. How's the hay price in
your area? What ever it is, I doubt that we can expect
to see it get better given the state of our economy.
January 1, 2008 This morning, I
woke up and looked at my watch in udder disbelief. It
wasn't the time of day that jarred my senses...it was
the date! Can it really be? Are we really already into
the month of January? This past year hasn't flown by.
"Flown" wouldn't even begin to be the right description. No, this
past year just sort of sneaked by, almost without being noticed.
Like a ghost that comes in the night when you are
sleeping and is gone as soon as you open your eyes, this
year has slipped by me, almost without me noticing.
And yet, as I look back and try to remember various
individual events that punctuated my planning calendar,
I realize that many significant changes took place this
year that will have a profound effect on my life for
years to come, and influence the next segment of my
life's journey.
It has been a year
of giving up on old goals and ambitions, letting go of
the old game plans, coming to grips with and adapting to
new circumstances, and accepting a new reality.
Tomorrow the horse
transport people will come here and pick up my last
three Peruvian Paso mares. They will take them to their
new home in Wisconsin. When they are gone, for the first
time in twenty seven years I will own no Peruvian
Paso horses. Their departure will end my thirty plus
year career as a professional Peruvian Paso horse breeder. I will not
cry when they leave. In fact, I will feel relieved. The
mares are going to a good, loving home. And, they will
be staying together. That is good for them, because they
have lived together all their lives, and are such good
friends. On top of that, they are going to be with one
of their sisters who I sold to the same folks a few
years ago.
I have been working my
way out of the "horse breeding business" for a few years
now. Tomorrow, that goal will finally be met, and become
a reality. I am no longer a "horse breeder". That
portion of my career as a professional horseman is over
and done with. I am sad, of course. I will miss my
wonderful stallion, "Big Red", and the spring time, when
the foals hit the ground. But, I am glad, too. Given the
nationwide state of the pleasure horse market today,
this is probably the best I could have hoped for, for
me, and for my beloved horses. And, I still have sixteen
Paso Pleasure Horses, the offspring of these and other
Peruvian Paso mares that I have already relocated into
new homes, here at West Gait Equine Learning Center to
keep me, and my "Come Ride With Me!" students busy for
years to come. So, what
now? Well, I still have a few years left as "an equine success
coach" before it is time for me to hang up my
cowboy hat, and
really retire. My hope is that this year I will have
many people "Come Ride With Me" in my Training and Trail
Riding Intensive here at West Gait. If you are
interested, please, look up my website
www.donwest.net,
and click on the Latest News Bottom. Happy holidays, and
Happy Trails, Your amigo in horses, Don
West
Every
day, when I'm at home, part of my daily routine is to take
the dogs for their walk down to the river. We have a
standard, circular route that we travel; one that we have
walked together so often that it has become a well worn
trail, our private path through the sage brush, rabbit
bush, prickly pear cactus, salt bush, and the vast array
of desert wildflowers that bloom in profusion at their
appropriate times during the spring and summer seasons, giving the
broad, open landscape an ever changing pastoral hue, noticeable
even to the eye of the most casual observer. By
repeating this journey so often over the fifteen years
that we have lived here, I have become intimately
acquainted with even the smallest, least conspicuous
grasses and wild flowers, those that come and go, year by year,
without the approval or recognition of the general populous,
marking their own time and keeping their own council.
Some, I now know by name. But many have become my
friends without revealing their human given identity. I
like them all the better that way. So often we just
name things so that we can comfortably dismiss them, and, that way, do
not have to really get to know them, and can dismiss them categorically,
out of hand...out of mind. There
are only two large plants that grow along my path: two mammoth,
ancient cottonwood trees. I presume they are husband and
wife. They stand side by side in the moist bottom land
along the river's edge, a protected little flood plane
enclave that's hemmed in on three sides by the steep alluvial river
bank, almost a vertical cliff actually, about eighty feet
high. I often sit at its edge, taking in the quiet
scene below, looking up and down the river as my dogs
take their turn coming up to me and getting their special hugs,
scratches, and strokes. Usually, we turn west there and
follow the path that runs along the top of this
ridge. At this time of the year, the stunted tops of
these two grand old behemoths are covered by a lush green
canopy that mimics the height of the escarpment I stand
on, their growth halted by the powerful winds that
occasionally blow across the
open land, uninterrupted. Upon
occasion, when the spirit moves me, I take a longer side
trail, around and down, that brings me under the roof of these massive
old-timers. Viewed from above, in full leaf, these stately
trees
look serene and free from strife, only slightly agitated,
on occasion, by the breeze. But viewed
from their base they reveal their true life stories,
telling a tale of the violent storms they've weathered,
sicknesses they've endured, and their major appendages
that have been broken or lost. Just standing below them in the
shaded helter-skelter rubble of their huge dead limbs, some
lying rotting on the ground, and others carelessly propped
against the huge trunks, or still dangling lifelessly from
the branches they broke from, gives the observer a sense of their
determination to endure their trials through time;
those they now so majestically bear witness to. Eagles,
both bald and golden, and herons too use the tops of these
tall sentinels as a vantage point, or a place to rest.
Sometimes I am able to walk up close on them, we being almost
at eye level, to where I could count the feathers on their
wings. Sometimes, if I get too close, they take flight,
slowly, deliberately, seeming more annoyed than alarmed. But sometimes,
under the same conditions, they are apparently feeling
more lazy (or trusting), and simply watch me as I go by, a
temporary, harmless intruder on their tree top turf. It
gives me great satisfaction to know that they see me as no
threat. My only fear is that they will confuse me
with other men. My
cottonwood friends talk to me. They tell me of the
seasons just as surely as the calendar that hangs on my
wall. In the winter their branches are bare, their twigs
empty, with only the shinny, sticky buds at their ends
giving a hint of the exuberant life that lies dormant
within, awaiting the warmth of longer days and stronger sun to
prompt them to burst fourth, revealing the new growth of
leaf or flower that they have held onto and protected
through the cold months, so tightly. In the spring I watch
as their leaves unfold and grow to full size, shiny and
dark on the top, lighter and dull on the bottom.
Suspended, as they are, at the end of flattened petioles,
these leaves shake back and forth in the wind, making a
rattling sound that can make me shiver, even on the
warmest days. Today
we witnessed the first yellow leaves on these season forecasters, scattered
here and there among the top most canopy, harbingers
of the full array of fall colors that are soon to
luxuriate the shorter, cooler days that fall is sure to
bring. If I had to pick, I guess I'd say that fall is my
favorite season. It always feels like the reward
that finally comes for enduring the disempowering heat of
summer that always seems to go on, and on forever, wearing
out my patience, and sapping my energy. Yes, I love
fall. Even though the bright red and yellow colors
are the result of a dying process, they seem to be so
glorious in death that they fortify my heart against the
cold of winter that I know must come. This is a good
season to go out and ride your horse. So, saddle up.
Let's ride!
Last updated May, 2011 |


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