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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