Who needs boots when a girl's got Shoes...

Famous Shoes, staring out over the wash he just galloped...

I was working "back East" in Maryland, spending a free weekend visiting friends and driving on familiar roads in Northern Virginia, when my phone rang. It was a dear friend whose first question was "Do you want another gelding?" A couple years before, she'd sent me a most amazing Arabian gelding (one of my absolute favourite horses ever). Given his successful transition from show ring to mountain trail, she offered to send us another. I drove out the next weekend to her fabulous farm in Rappahannock County where she introduced me to a smallish bay Arab gelding with a stripe and a snip, and three white socks. Registered as "Afire Krewe", she affectionately called him "Krewby".

Farewell Virginia! I am heading west...

We took a test spin around the indoor, and he was fabulous. I laughed, telling Jen he certainly made it easy to pet him as his head was up and his neck almost in my lap. On my way back to Maryland and my hotel, I began thinking of this lively little horse's Hideout Name. 

When horses came to us without knowing their name, I just named them - Kachina, Mickey Free, Belle Starr, South, Ike among others. However, when I knew their names, I tried to make their Hideout names similar enough to shorten the time it took them to learn their new appellation. Some were easy - Hope became Hopi, Sada became Naja, Lizzie became Lozen. Some were completely different - Elvis became Wyatt, Sonny became Washoe, Ragtail became Yaqui. All the horses who came to us were special and unique, so naming them appropriately was important. A great deal of thought, not a little research, and maybe some magick went into the name change (see https://asthegateswings.blogspot.com/2020/10/and-they-call-wind-mariah.html for an example), so whomever this self-assured little Arab was to be at Hideout Ranch was critical.

Everyone who came under the crossbars knew immediately what weight the novel and miniseries "Lonesome Dove" carried with Craig. The characters were vibrant, real, riveting - and some of them had amazing names. Most of the cattle bore Lonesome Dove names, but I could never find the right entity to wear the name "Famous Shoes", who was the Kickapoo tracker who appeared in the "Comanche Moon" installment of Larry McMurtry's saga (perfectly portrayed by Cherokee actor Wes Studi - more about that later...).

So, "Afire Krewe" became "Famous Shoes". And believe me, those Shoes fit him perfectly. 

My friend had sent Shoes west because he decided one day the show ring was not for him anymore, and he wanted a different job. Unlike Blue Duck who got some time to acclimate, we just started taking Shoes out. He was quick both to learn and to move, unrestrainedly goofy, and great fun. He would march along the trail with his tongue squeezing out the right side of his mouth. He never spooked or shied, just went forward wherever we pointed him. 

I loved riding him. There was so much power in that little horse. So much joie de vivre. Shoes loved going out, going forward, being in the world. We had some schooling to do. Shoes thought leg meant fast, and more leg meant faster. Took a little time, but he settled into his new life as a trail pony with the same flair and aplomb he undoubtedly displayed in the show ring. 

When I took him out, we'd be up behind Craig and Shoes would keep up a steady stream of chatter (well, I would for him, but you understand), pestering Craig and making him laugh. Craig never rode him, but he loved his little "squirrel in a horse suit". 

Shoes could be a bit "high headed", but he'd spent years in the show ring competing in a variety of disciplines including the high-stepping Saddle Seat. He automatically fell into that pace when he would get excited - or behind - and it took some effort to convince him he could relax and just stroll along the mountain trails, snatching at tall desert grasses or chattering at his Dad. Famous Shoes wasn't necessarily a "guest horse", but there were a few who spent their stays here with Shoes out on trail.

We had a family of four visit from Wales for several days. The mother, son, and daughter were riders - eventers, I believe. The father was being a sport - though Ike did give him a completely new perspective on horses and riding. 

The young man, we gave to Yaqui - who thought teenage boys were the greatest invention ever. Most likely, Mom rode Cholo or Bascom, and the daughter, who really was a talented and bold rider, we let try different horses during their stay. Well, she wanted to try Famous Shoes before they left. At breakfast the morning of their last ride, I made her this offer, "Tell you what. You ride Kachina today, and I'll ride Shoes. Then at lunch, we'll switch."

Her face said it all.

We went to White Tail and everyone enjoyed a lovely canter up from one of the many washes up the gentle slope toward the gate through which we continued on our journey around some of Southeastern Arizona's fabulous landscape. We lunched in a grove at the base of a long road coming down from the grasslands to a huge, wide wash, winding through the lowlands. As we finished up our mid-trail snack, I smiled and said, "Let's get this tack switched," and her face lit with the glow of a thousand Christmas lights.

We got her settled on the impish Arab first, then Kachina looked at me sideways as I stepped into the stirrup from the tree stump. Smirking, I settled into my own saddle and watched as our young Welsh eventer tried on those Famous Shoes.

 

After we made our way through a shallow wash, past the 300-year old Arizona Live Oak Craig always said he thought Geronimo knew, I stopped and turned Kachina, waiting for everyone to catch up. I looked at our girl and asked, "Ready for a canter?"

Her eyes lit to an even greater wattage, and she nodded in some measure of wonder. 

"Heels down and sit deep on him," I advised and, legging 'China around, we lifted off. A few strides across the grasslands and a startled voice shouts "Oh, s&$%!" as Shoes does his big show-ring canter right by the rest of us. She sat him fine, but didn't expect so much power in that little bay Arab. The look on her face - the excitement, the joy, the wonder of a horse-girl who realises just what she is sitting on said more than any words could.

It was great fun and such a fabulous ride to bring an amazing week to a reluctant close. Since I rode him so often, I never got to see him in action. Seeing him cantering on the flat, eating up the desert floor was watching poetry in motion. My breath caught and there were chills...

Customarily, when guests arrived at the ranch we would walk them through the pastures, introducing them to the horses and watching the ensuing interactions. Then, Craig and I would confer over coffee and decide which horse would escort which guest through the mountains for their stay. On the rarest of occasions, we would have to switch horses, but our batting average was solid, reliably in the high 900s. 

However, sometimes a person opened a gate and a particular horse would walk right into their heart, and a partnership was forged.

Anne from Denmark and Famous Shoes shared just such a partnership. From the first time she slipped her boot into the stirrup and swung her leg across his back, they were a team.

 

 

We were at White Tail on a warm, bright blue sunshiny day, and the group of us were down in the wash. Blue Duck and I were up front, near Craig in the lead, and Anne and Famous Shoes were perhaps a couple places behind me, in the middle of the pack, as it were. We lifted off into a lope. As we pounded around bends and dodged branches, as Blue Duck gained speed, I heard Anne call out brightly, "Excuse us!" I looked around to see Anne, with a megawatt smile to rival any smile of pure joy, move Famous Shoes to the outside and they both giggled as they flew past. 

And that was but one of the giggly, squiggly, utterly wiggly rides Anne and Shoes shared...

 

 

Cuddles with our pony...

 

I designed this to go on a coffee mug for Anne's birthday...

 

Riding with an Australian family whose youngest girl redefined firecracker, Shoes bounded up the hill out of Round Valley, eliciting a yelp from me as he caught me off guard with his speedy burst. 

"Was Shoes having a moment?" she asked innocently.

She was riding our stalwart Mickey Free, and we indulged in a walking "race" back to the trailer. Once there, I popped her up on Famous Shoes and lead them in a couple circles. The explosion of happiness on her face was blinding.

Another of our younger guests was caught up in Shoes' spell, asking for a session with him in the round pen. As she walked and trotted him around (and cantered a bit, to be honest...), I asked her surprised Dad, "Do you realise what your child is doing right now? Do you?!" (Bear in mind, this is the same child who rode Chisum for a week out on trail. Fearless isn't a big enough word to describe her.)

 

 

More than one young lady fell under his spell...

His fan club had an international reach...

Helen, who had ridden Tell previously, asked to take Famous Shoes on her second visit. Like soooooo many others, those bottomless brown eyes under that long wispy forelock had worked their magick on Helen. She mounted up in the Livery Yard to adjust stirrups and get used to him as even hinting at Shoes being the polar opposite of Tell was the height of understatement. I was busy with the other guest and getting Geronimo and Echo ready, I heard a squeak and some thunder. Shoes had misread her leg and shot forward, as was his wont. She stayed on, but quickly reassessed her thinking sitting our little man was going to be like anything she'd known before.

Out on trail, Helen and Shoes made a fabulous team, and the smile on her face was one for the books...

 

Helen and Shoes share a moment in the Faerie Glade at Price Canyon...

 

Three-quarters of the BeeGees at Price - G'mo, Echo, and Famous Shoes...

Shoes was all too happy to share lunch with humans. In fact, he once ate all my peanut butter crackers, faerie fruit snacks, AND my apple...

Notice his tongue...

Like always having his tongue bulging out the right side of his mouth, Famous Shoes loved to watch his shadow as he meandered along on trail. He would preen and prance, admiring his image cast large across the desert.

 

Of course there are more Famous Shoes memories and moments, but I have to save something for later...

Classic, classic Famous Shoes...

Ike's Dreaded (and ONLY) "Mommy Day"...

Started thinking about all the incredible horses we have been privileged and honoured to have with us here at Hideout Ranch. Then, I started thinking about those I'd ridden and I quickly realised it would take less time to list those I had not swung a leg across. Discipline was not really Craig's strong suit, but when he did raise his voice to cut through equine chaos, they knew they were in trouble. With us, he was the Good Cop, and I was the Bad Cop. I was the one who made the horses behave with politeness and good nature. Our guests would be so charmed by Washoe's cheekiness or Cimmy's good nature or Mickey Free's youthfulness they would indulge every snatch for a bit of grass and "unintentional" trot through washes while on trail.While minor, these small infractions would compound, earning the culprit a "Mommy Day"...

One of my very favourite "Mommy Days" involved Ike. Now, Ike was very nearly the perfect horse, and he quite likely worked harder and was a part of more guest rides than anyone except perhaps Tell and Cholo. On a particular day, we had planned to take our two guests on a short ride along the base of the Chiricahua. The plan was to put the wife of a frequent guest on Ike because well, he was Ike and she needed a staid and steady mount. Craig went out in the Brat Pack to catch Ike, but gave up after half an hour. He threw the halter to me, snarling, "You catch him!"

Ike...

So, off I went. Mind, at this time, the Brat Pack (those vaunted, valued geldings who were the shine in Craig's eyes) had 35 acres to themselves, and Ike managed to cover all those 35 acres countless times running from me. I even caught Bascom and locked him in a pen. But Ike was having none of it. 

After five minutes - ten minutes max, catching a horse becomes principle. And catching Ike was beyond principle at this point. Finally, my grit defeated his cheekiness, and he was haltered. As I walked him toward the Livery, I saw Craig halter and start to walk Kiowa into the saddling area. 

"Nope. Put her away and get Sammy. It's an Ike and Mommy Day."

Craig chuckled and shook his head in amusement, no doubt anticipating the ride ahead. 

Ike and I strolling along Owl Butte...

Saddled, loaded, and trailered across to the trail, my heart swelled to see Sambora out with guests (as she truly was the perfect horse). Tell and Mickey Free were also along, but my focus was on our Big Red Horse.

As soon as I settled in the saddle, Ike realised he was in for it. He was just too good a boy to do anything really naughty like crowhop or buck, and he knew he dare not rear with me. (That would have been VERY naughty indeed!) So, as we walked along, I could feel him gather himself beneath me as if he were going to bolt, and I would sit deep and clamp my leg to his sides. Like iron bands. I could feel Ike get all offended, indignant I would dare to sit on him with such ferocity, but I was in no mood to brook any impertinence. 

I laughed a good bit, but allowed him no leeway whatsoever as we walked placidly along.

When we got back to the ranch, we untacked the horses and turned them out. As I reached up to untie the halter and release him back into his wild, Ike cast a baleful, gimlet eye my direction before moving off toward freedom. However...

He could glare so disdainfully you could feel it...

The next morning, Ike stood stock still when I walked out with a halter...

And they call the wind, Mariah...

In March of 2016, Craig got a call from the people who had purchased the guest ranch where we had met. They were closing and selling their horses. We had a lovely young woman with us as a guest that week, so we asked if she would like to join us. She literally jumped at the chance. Our thinking was we could get an honest guest perspective on horses. 

It was surreal for Craig and I to return to the ranch where we met. He'd spent ten years there, only leaving after they'd treated our friend and me SO horribly. It seemed smaller, dingier, unwelcoming. The couple "running" it were on the completely crazy end of the spectrum. They had 30 horses in the paddock. Babies. Yearlings. Very aggressive horses terrorising those less confident. It made us really wish for a gazillion dollars so we could take them all.

Anyway, we pulled a few out we were interested in - a tall, lanky bay Thoroughbred gelding, a black and white Tobiano paint large pony, a stunning flea-bitten grey Tobiano paint mare. I was fixated on a dun paint mare who was clearly terrified of most of the others. The guy, seeing my interest in her, said they called her "Drifter". Well that alone was enough to strengthen my determination to take her with me. 

We put our guest on her first, then I switched to see what she could do. The bit they had on my girl was harsh and horrid, and she was clearly, noticeably afraid of it. Certainly made me use seat and leg as we took laps around the arena. Bless her, she just didn't know and she was afraid. When I took her back to the gate to turn her out, she held back, dancing in fear of of the horses standing in the way. Shooshing them back, I got her through the gate, finally. 

We decided to take her, the two paints, and the Thoroughbred. Then, they threw in a stocky clear bay gelding who, as we were told, was a Mustang with a more-than-likely fabricated history. 

 

 

Naming horses was my job, though Craig made the occasional contribution. He named the Thoroughbred gelding "Doc". We had a Wyatt, already, so of course we needed a "Doc". Truth be told, they were nearly identical. The grey paint mare became "Echo". The Sackett family was the naming convention for grey horses at Hideout Ranch. We had Tell, Orrin, and Tyrel who were the three most famous brothers. And we had Logan, who was a cousin. "Echo" was the only female character author Louis L'Amour had narrate a story. And so this lovely mare became Echo. The "Mustang" we called "Belden" for a yet another character in the story of those three Sackett boys. 

My first inclination was to name the black and white paint gelding "Quanah" and my dun paint mare "Naduah". Those familiar with the true story of a nine-year old girl child, Cynthia Parker, kidnapped in Texas by the Comanche. She grew up in captivity, but was eventually adopted into the tribe. "Naduah" means "Someone Found". She married Peta Nocona, and they had three children together. Quanah was their son who played a major role in treaty negotiations and reservation life. 

Craig said he could never remember those names, let alone pronounce them. "Well", I said, "What about Little Joe for the little black and white paint? After all, on Bonanza, Little Joe Cartwright rode a black and white paint called Cochise. It makes sense."

He liked the sound of that, and we went with it. My mare, hmmmmm. Still a conundrum.

We took guests from England over to White Tail, and I rode our beautiful Lozen. Walking through the grassland, washed with bright blue Arizona sunshine, my mind drifting along on the warm breeze, a song began softly. I was thinking about my sweet paint mare when I realised it was Harve Presnell's booming baritone pouring the refrain of a song from Paint Your Wagon into my awareness.

"A way out here they got a name for rain and wind and fire. The rain is Tess, the fire's Joe, and they call the wind Mariah..." 

And there it was. Her name. Sure as I heard his voice, it was her name. Excitedly, I told Craig and the guests about the experience, and everyone agreed. 

When we got back to the ranch and put everyone away, I went to the pasture to tell my pony about her name. She seemed happy, given it was SO much better than "Drifter". 

Mariah and I went with guests to Rucker in October, and this was how I described the experience we shared that day:

Yesterday, heading back to the trailer after a great (and wet!) ride down in Lower Rucker with special guests and friends, as I strolled along on my Mariah, I witnessed a genuinely heart-squeezing sight. I watched eight riders, at varying levels of experience and comfort, spread out along a quiet mountain road or off in tall, waving grass. Each appeared to be lost in thought, but all appeared to be relaxed and truly enjoying themselves. I watched people on horses who haven't gone out as "guest" horses before - Cap, our first Mustang, out with a young girl from Germany who was a vision of grace and beauty - poetry, really - on this majestic, powerful, once-wild creature. Mac, who was once subjected to the horrific world of drug cartel work and has every plausible reason and justification to be a monster, out as a perfect gentleman with a guest who'd not ridden in quite a spell. Washoe, our paint imp, out giving a young man the time of his life. Hawk, a truly gentle giant, with a guest who sat him as if he had never been out of the saddle.

As I watched the horses and the people enjoying the day, the tears welled up and trailed down my face. With all the losses we have endured this year, it was a moment of exquisite pride for me. These people genuinely appreciated our horses, and that appreciation showed on their faces, in their eyes. The horses behaved exactly as I expected them to because they are such good ponies. Craig and I put so much of our hearts and souls into our horses that seeing them out in our incredible landscape, behaving so well and tending to their riders rather validates what we do here and why we do it.

Mariah strolling though the tall grasses at Lower Rucker...

Cap with his young German rider, one of so many guests having a remarkably memorable ride...

Still crying, I laid the reins I once held while riding Logan against Mariah's neck, turning her toward the trailer, and thought how having his bridle now has given her even greater reassurance and confidence.

The recent loss of Sambora, Wyatt, and Logan, while still raw, lessened the tiniest bit to hear the exclamations of "the horse did it all – made me look good". My soul surely brightened to hear such compliments on our boys, proving horses are good for the soul...

*****

Mariah's mane looked like the spice rack had fallen off the wall, the spices spilling out through the sparkling broken glass. My camera unerringly gravitated to it, particularly in the sun. It was amazing...

There is more to Mariah's story, but we'll save that...

The BigMan....

Sport, at the farm in Bluemont...

 

In 1993, Sambora was at a small barn south of Leesburg, Virginia, across a small dirt road from Miran Farm, a team roping barn (imagine "cowboys" in the middle of Hunt and Eventing Country, Northern Virginia). After working Sammy, I went over to join the gang. There, the guys were quick to show me a group of horses on consignment from Marriott Ranch in Hume. However, when I looked, all I saw was a huge flea-bitten grey gelding with black leg shadings and a defiant eye. Admittedly, I am not generally a fan of greys, but something in that defiant eye, his defensive stance, the slight flair to his nostrils - something about him reached me across the arena and clutched my heart. I learned he was called "Sport". It was the most appropriate name imaginable...

 

In his cave in the top barn at Cerene Acres...

 

Of course, I wanted to ride him. Of course, John, the barn manager, gave me some tripe about getting on first and getting Sport "ready for me". He climbed up on Sport's back in his Western tack and commenced to spurring, whipping, and swearing the big grey into a blind, furious frenzy. The horse exploded - and so did my head.

Barking for John to get off my horse, I also demanded English tack and a simple snaffle. I strode into the arena (much taller than my 5'2") and caught Sport, calming him enough to switch tack. Once he was ready,I climbed aboard, and began simply walking him. I talked to him, touched him, sat deep and gently applied my leg. Twenty minutes or so, and he was moving off quietly, politely - even though a little unsure. This huge horse was genuinely afraid. As I came to understand, his size was typically used against him. They made him be a rope horse without really explaining it to him. He would get frustrated with what his rider was asking for (more like yelling at him to do) and act out, then said rider would beat him and leave Sport tacked and tied in the arena for hours, even overnight.

Sport, as a head horse...

Sport, as an Eventer...

I understand some of the thought behind that, but beating a horse doesn't teach it to modify the bad behaviour. Remember. There are no bad horses. Just bad riders. 

Several days passed before I could get back out to the barn (work - pffffffft...). On that Friday night, my (then) boyfriend and I went over to Miran's after being with Sambora. I wanted to ride Sport, and when I announced that to the gathering of ropers and riders, there was not-so-muffled laughter. John told me Sport was "turned out" and I would play hell catching him. I took one of the old ropes lying about, and went down to the small paddock where Sport and the other horses from Marriott were quietly munching on the spring grass. 

I climbed the fence, called to Sport. He stopped and lifted his head, looking at me. I quietly but confidently approached him, stretching out a hand. He took steps toward me, letting me touch his muzzle. Talking and touching, I stepped to the side and slipped the rope over his head. He didn't fight me, nor did he balk as I led him out the gate and up to where everyone was standing around. 

 

At The Hideout in Virginia...

John looked up and saw me standing there with Sport. His expression clearly registered his surprise, and he said, "Well, I'll be damned."

Lifting a hand to Sport's face, reassuring him I was right there, I replied pointedly to John, "Yes you will."

 

I didn't ride him that night because it was late. But, I spent valuable time with him, getting him used to me, to being handled by someone whose first instinct wasn't to beat him senseless for not doing what they wanted when he simply didn't understand what they wanted. When I finally walked him back to the small paddock and slipped the rope over his head, releasing him back to the night. He stood there for several seconds, looking at me. I touched him once more, then he ambled off into the soft Virginia darkness.

I wanted Sport. I had Sambora and she was my heart, but something about Sport caused a tremor deep in whatever it was that made me me. And I needed him. Perhaps he needed me too - but I think I needed him more. Much more.

We'll get to that...

For a fictionalised version of the Sport Saga (which, admittedly, does need finished), go to:  https://verbosityoftamara.blogspot.com/2018/02/sport-my-bigman.html

His eye - so soft, once the defiance faded...