I have never really done very well with horses.  Over the years I have come to realize that is as it should be.  Despite their affections, most horse lovers have fared worse.

 

There are early, vague memories of my Aunt Sara taking me for rides on Dixie around the family ranch in Pittville.  She lulled me into the false belief that horseback riding was fun, and easy.

 

As a small boy, my heroes were Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and Trigger.  I wanted to be a real cowboy, with a white horse, six shooters, and drive cattle to Texas.  Not one of those singing cowboys.   By the time I was four I had all the equipment; boots, hat, sheriff’s badge, cap guns and a stick horse.  If you weren’t wearing Wrangler Jeans you weren’t genuine.

 

I remember telling my Dad I wanted a real horse.  He wanted to know what I was going to feed it, where I was going to keep it and if I wanted to spend my afternoons shoveling… manure.  He grew up on a ranch and much preferred a pickup truck.

 

I had friends and relatives with horses and got to ride once and a while.  My first solo was on Lady, a little harmless Shetland Pony.  I was about seven.  She ran away with me, rubbed me off under a tree and was gone.

 

A year or two later I had another chance.  I was given careful instructions about making a rope halter, putting on the bridle, then the blanket and saddle.  As soon as I stepped off the fence into the stirrup, the saddle rolled under the horse where it was promptly kicked off.  My friend calmed the horse and showed me how to cinch the saddle tight, wait till the horse exhaled, knee it in the ribs to make it exhale more; and really tighten the cinch.  I was so engrossed in the process I forgot to watch the feet.  The horse eased over, casually stepped on my foot and refused to move.  I couldn’t get away.   After an eternity my friend got the horse off my foot.  No broken bones but I felt like I was wearing a swim fin for a couple of weeks.

 

I swear the horse was grinning while standing on my foot.

 

My Aunt Gail and Uncle Paul lived on a ranch and had a couple of horses.  I decided to saddle up and ride one once, and got as far as the bridle.  I didn’t tie his head close enough to the fence.  When I bent down to pick up the saddle he turned his head, and bit me in the middle of the back.  That ended my ride.  I had a blood blister the size of the palm of my hand to hide from them and my Mom.

 

I later got to ride that horse with permission.  Uncle Paul helped me saddle him.  The further we got from the barn the slower he went.  When we finally turned back, he ran away with me.  As we neared the gate he ran my leg along the barb wire fence, shredding it pretty good.  I ended up with my first case of blood poisoning with that wound.   I nailed him with a few rocks before opening the gate.  We weren’t on speaking terms back at the barn.

 

By the time I was in my mid-teens I had a basic skill level for survival horseback riding.  I had adopted no-nonsense tactics.  If their eyes were not wide open with lots of white showing, watching your every move, you did not have their attention or respect.  Sticks were plenty, carrots were rare.  I had also come to realize why cowboys walked funny.

Years later, when I was a Smokejumper, I had a few opportunities to ride.  On rare occasions a packer with a string of horses and pack mules was dispatched to bring us out after we had jumped a fire in a wilderness.  We were eager to have them carry our gear and riding was fun.  Until the next day.  I was so saddle sore I could barely move.  After that I was content to walk while the horses and mules carried the gear.

 

Just before I went into the FBI, my wife and I were ranch sitting while our friends were on vacation.  A yearling colt was getting aggressive around a bucket of oats my wife was carrying and I backhanded it away.  It whirled and kicked.  I couldn’t get out of the way.  It caught me in the thigh and threw me about fifteen feet into a ditch.  We thought my femur was broken, my thigh had swelled to the size of a large watermelon.  Luckily, it was a bruise.  I had a perfect hoof-print in my leg for several years.  It passed for a tattoo for a long time.

 

Not long after that event I heard a quote attributed to John Wayne when someone had commented on his good fortune to ride horses as a side-benefit to his career:  “You may love horses but they don’t love you.  Horses are the meanest, nastiest creatures on this earth. They are full of vile treachery and not to be trusted.  If given the chance, they will buck you off, run away, and leave you in the desert to die.”

 

That day John Wayne became my hero.