The Magnificent Seven...

I don't even know where to start, there are so many stories to tell. Maybe I should start with the seven horses we brought from Virginia to Arizona to be the starter set, if you will, for  Hideout Ranch. Craig and I each brought four horses to the mix, laughing we were the Brady Bunch on four feet. I went back to Virginia first with Sammy and Riches. When I got to Fareed’s, Doodle was there, so I had my pony back. Not long after Craig got to Virginia, we went to retrieve Sport from the people who had had him for the years I was in Arizona. So I had my four horses back together – Sambora, Riches, Sport, and Doodle.

Craig brought Kansas, Calvin, Tonka, and Sebastian with him from Arizona. Bear in mind Sebastian was "Pancho" when he arrived in Virginia. We changed his name, schooled him English, and he became this amazing very talented event prospect, enjoying his new life under English tack very much. At some point, I'll have to get into the Sambora story, the Sport story, Riches', Doodle's - each and every horse who had an impact and left a mark on me, Craig, our guests. As I said, there's so much to tell, so many stories, so much information. But for now, let's focus on the horses we brought with us to Arizona from Virginia to start the ranch.

Sambora, my sainted first horse, was the foundation. She was the axis upon which my world turned. She was my heart. And Riches, her first born, was the very blood Sam pumped through me. They had both already been in Arizona. Riches was on the guest ranch with me, then Sammy came to me when we were on Craig’s first ranch. Riches loved it. They both did, so coming back to the desert was nothing for them. (It is easier on horses to move east to west than west to east because of the humidity. The four desert rats suffered a bit until they were able to acclimate. Snow was something else entirely…). Doodle, my pony, my precious little bug, took several guests out on trail and gave even more lessons. She was a tough little cookie, as Craig would say, a little mountain goat. She went right out there, wrinkled her nose, and got it done.

My BigMan, Sport, sadly did not make it across country with us. Months before, he had tweaked his back. His front end would walk toward you and his back end would walk sideways. He was likely in his thirties and had just been through so much when he wasn’t in my care. One morning, I jumped on him bareback – truthfully, I climbed up there. He was so big I couldn't “jump” on him. But I climbed and rode him bareback down the driveway to turn him out. It was the last time I rode my BigMan. I loved that horse beyond reason, and he would have loved it out here. We got him in the trailer, but he slipped and fell. We had to back Sebastian out over top of him, across him, and Craig pulled him out of the trailer with the tractor. He lay there on the ground, heaving with the stress. I was convinced I killed my horse, but he got up because that's what my BigMan did. Sport had heart, and it belonged to me just as I belonged to him.

Sport, my BigMan
"The Highwayman"

Paul Anikas, the vet, showed up and looked at me with that vet look which clearly said, “Tamara, you should have done this a long time ago.” I said yeah but I couldn't. I couldn't. Wade and Kareen McGee offered to let Sport stay there as I had to drive across country then fly back to finish work (I was working on a proposal at Accenture but had the week off to drive across the country). Sport stayed there, hanging out in the barnyard, and I was to meet Paul the next week to put him down, arranging with the rendering plant to remove his body and make use of what could be useful. That decision alone shredded me, and it took God Himself to make me accept such an ignoble end for my BigMan. Melissa had walked down there with me and somehow, she managed to walk me back to the farm. She never once let go of me and kept me standing. And breathing. We finished loading up and left my beloved BigMan in my cherished Virginia.

I was driving Craig's black truck with the old steel trailer where Doodle, Sambora, and Riches (in that order) had been patiently waiting and munching during the entire Sport incident, across the country. Craig, in the newer truck with air conditioning and a CD player, had Kansas, Calvin, Tonka, and Sebastian – and twelve cats – in his trailer. Having left a huge part of me at the McGees, it was a very long drive.

We left Markham early evening on Sunday March 30, 2008, driving as far as we could before pulling off in a parking lot somewhere to sleep a bit. We got back on the road well before dawn, driving all day to hit Nashville at rush hour. There was a small mishap which delayed us, and we pulled into a rest area this side of Memphis where a huge thunderstorm made a fitful night even worse. We had reservations for the horses to enjoy some overnight stabling in Abilene, Texas on Tuesday evening. Of course, this meant we humans were going to enjoy some overnight stabling.

On a lovely spring Tuesday evening, we pulled into the ranch in Abilene where we had reservations and offloaded the horses who were all grateful to be out, able to stretch their legs. We had given each horse a 200lb compressed bale of hay. (When you put this type of bale in the hay net and cut the strings, poof! It explodes.) We figured 200 pounds of hay would get them all the way through to Arizona. Pffffffffft…

After we'd turned the horses into their paddocks and began cleaning out the trailers, Craig remarked, in a very puzzled voice, that Sambora, Riches, and Doodle were completely out of hay. They had none left. In response to his genuine and loud questioning, I merely said they were girls. They were stress eating. Hay was like chocolate to them. The boy still had hay (who knows what the boys were doing to amuse themselves on the drive), so we had to give the girls some of the boys’ hay to finish the trip. Craig never got over the girls eating 200 pounds of hay each from Sunday to Tuesday. I would just look at him whenever he brought it up.

We were in Deming, New Mexico about two hours from the ranch at sunset, and there was no way we were going to roll into the ranch at night and try to offload animals. Just not going to happen. We stayed in Deming, asking the desk clerk at the hotel if they wouldn't mind checking on the horses every so often. Kindly, they did. Missing our target by 12 hours, we rolled on to the ranch Thursday, April 3, 2008. We offloaded the horses, made sure they had hay and water, then the boys had to go pick up the cows which had been shipped the week before to the Willcox auction grounds. We girls emptied the trailer of the household goods and life began on Hideout Ranch.

The original seven horses were unquestioningly the foundation of the Hideout Herd:  Sambora was excellent for everyone, but best with those a little hesitant and children. Riches was mine. In her 24 years of earthly existence, I doubt more than ten other people have ever sat on her. Doodle went out on trail many times and spent lots of time in the round pen with kids. Kansas was Craig's horse. Craig stopped riding Kansas in 2006, and there is a whole big story to tell about it. Believe me. Kansas got to be Kansas for rest of the time he was with us. He was Kansas. He was here. And that's all that mattered. He was just Kansas. Sebastian spent many miles on trail with guests, and was a favourite for those we’d indulge with English schooling. Tonka went out with guests frequently. He was fun, reliable, and very comfortable. Craig's first horse, Calvin, was his Sambora while Kansas was Craig's Riches. Calvin took many guests out.

Craig was insistent upon developing the horses. He figured people could sleep anywhere and we ate in the Livery, but a guest ranch wasn’t really a guest ranch without horses. The seven we brought with us certainly aided us in our efforts, but we quickly began adding horses to ease their burden. Mose was the first to join us. Then Yaqui. We’ll talk about them. Trust me…

Aren't I fabulous?

In 2013, the young girl working for us told us about a Quarterhorse gelding which belonged to a friend of hers who had decided boy humans were more interesting than boy horses. She and I went to take a look at him, with Craig having charged me to make the decision. The horse was big, solid, grey, young, overtly personable, so my decision was easy. We brought him home to Hideout Ranch and quickly changed his name from "Skipper" to "Orrin". (More on names later...)

Well, Orrin was a little more "Orrin" than we anticipated out of the startbox. His first outing with Craig went swimmingly until - in a flagrant breach of trail etiquette - the other horses and riders went around the bend and out of sight before everyone was mounted. Orrin went a little spastic when he thought they'd left him. Wide-eyed (for Craig), he said to me later, "I don't know if he's going to work out. We can't have him acting like that!" Then, "You take him and work with him."

Um, okay.

I took Orrin out as often as possible for the next few months. He was quirky, to be sure. Not a horse you could "fall asleep" on, but a horse that made you ride. Really ride. You had to pay attention. Stay centered. Sit back. Keep a solid leg without nagging him. Heels resolutely down. Hands had to be quiet, consistent, steady. You had to mentally be three steps ahead of him on the trail, prepared in case a yucca hurled an insult as he passed or a chipmunk blew raspberries at him as it ran across the trail.

I loved it. He made me ride and I loved it.

After I'd "legged him up", Craig took him back with a "Thanks, dear", and off they merrily went.

Quite some time after Craig's passing, a group of us went over to White Tail to help our farrier work cattle, and I took Orrin. "Cowing" at White Tail was always big fun, and this day was no exception. This may well have been the day Orrin executed a stupefying move he had never executed before. We sat in a knot, waiting for Guy to give us our next directions. Suddenly, Orrin's front end picked up - head down and feet off the ground. Then his back cracked, followed by his back end and feet thrusting out behind my head. All in slow motion. Honestly. Slow motion.

"Orrin, what are you doing?" I laughed, wholly amused and still in the saddle.

"I did the wave, Mommy!" he replied, quite pleased with himself.

"In slow motion?"

"Yes! Aren't I fabulous?"

I remember shaking my head and chuckling because indeed, he had done the wave. In slow motion.

Later (perhaps even on a different day but still at White Tail), on the other side of the dirt road after scouring a couple pastures for recalcitrant cattle, Guy waited to close the cowboy gate as we all passed through. Shortly beyond the gate was a deep wallow. I eased Orrin down the slope at a walk, and he picked up a canter as he crossed the narrow bottom and flowed like heavy cream up the other side. We kept the canter, rolling along under the blazing Arizona sun hanging proudly in a perfectly azure sky. We cut through the warm spring air like room-softened butter, Orrin's feet pounding out the waltz-like rhythm of a joyful canter.

It dawned on me I was joyful, lighthearted, and at peace. Orrin and I were perfectly in sync as we rolled across the grassland, and I remembered why. Why I rode horses. Why I had come out west with my beloved late husband to build his dream of an equine-centric guest ranch. Why I was still on earth when Craig was with Sammy and Warner, Wyatt and Logan.

Orrin and I were the same being for that canter stretch. He might have prompted me to ask the customary question, "Orrin, what the hell are you doing?" at his slow-motion wave earlier. But for those blissful moments cantering through life, I knew, I felt "why"...

He Gave Me His Heart, His All...

Sport's story started long before this particular day in the late 1990s and will be told, but this is one of the most memorable moments in years and years of memorable moments.

I was taking both Sambora and Sport to the Dominion Valley Pony Club Schooling Event at the historic, picturesque Foxcroft Boarding School just outside Middleburg, Virginia with a new trainer. She pulled up to the barn with an older bumper-pull trailer, and we loaded the horses - Sammy on the right and the BigMan on the left. Something happened when the trainer started to pull the trailer forward, and the horses got jostled. They squeezed together, popping the center divider off its pins and it came sliding down between them. We got the trailer stopped, the divider out, and the horses unloaded and calmed down. However, they had each been scraped and Sport was rather bloody on his back right from the hock down. We got him cleaned up, Sammy checked out, and - bless them both - reloaded and on our way to Foxcroft.

Sport's division was first, and we managed to complete our dressage test reasonably well. Then came cross-country. We warmed up, then took our turn in the start box. Down and over and across and back up and over fences and obstacles, through the water, then we pounded on the right lead, around some trees and up to this particular jump called a hay manger. It was 2'7" high with maybe a 3' spread. But Sport was on it, listening to me, moving forward. As we made the turn around those trees and up the hill to this jump, I remember the sheer strength and power of him. Approaching, I touched him with my leg, yelled my encouragement, and felt him gather and go - up, across, over, down. The last fence was a stone wall leading to the alley home, and Sport got even bigger (as if 16.3 wasn't big enough). Hurtling through the finish flags, he started screaming for Sammy, exceedingly proud of himself. We made it through stadium, then Sport got to relax while Sammy did her thing.

Coming off cross-country, Sport was all big and bad, bursting with excitement and pride, calling for Sammy to share his triumph. He was brilliant that day, not high in the ribbons, but he went out after a terrifying trailer incident and gave me his heart, his all. THIS was my BigMan. And so he had always been...

One Particular August Night...

In the 1990s, Sambora lived at Miran Farm in Aldie, Virginia, a large boarding barn with more team ropers than English riders. We all got on though, with a mutual respect and recognition of riding skills and abilities but not without a healthy dose of good-natured teasing. The boys had roping practice every Wednesday night like clockwork. We girls would school our eventing ponies on the flat or over fences, then sit on them and watch the boys and their roping.

One Wednesday evening in August, Sammy and I were tacking up to enjoy some time together. I think it was rather early as there weren't many people at the barn, so Sam and I soaked up being together. As I was adjusting the saddle, I heard a deep voice say, "Come on girl. Let's go get cows."

Peeking around Sammy, I saw Ron, one of the ropers, on horseback just beyond the barn door, swinging a loop. Tickled to be asked, I undid the crossties, led Sammy out of the barn, and climbed up in the saddle. It was a typical sight at Fareed's - one horse rigged in full Western and another tacked English, walking companionably toward an adventure. It was a sparkling evening - no humidity, soft sunshine, vivid sapphire and shimmering emerald above and below us respectively, balmy temps. In short, it was a perfect late summer evening in Virginia.

Ron and I found the cows, gathered them up, and started pushing them toward the front of the large pasture, then across to the arena. We cantered across the gentle, open ground, the smooth summer air washing over and around us. I looked over and saw Ron riding effortlessly - without reins, gliding as if he and his horse were in fact a centaur, swinging his rope. Sammy was loving the canter stretch, reaching out and covering ground with as much joy as I was experiencing, feeling her reach and cover ground.

It was one of those occurrences in your life when everything crystallises, and you realise you are wholly in that very moment, crushingly alive and sublimely confident you are one with the entire universe. I knew this in the moment, and I know it still. I can still feel Sammy moving, the velvet of the air, the pure joy of two people of totally different disciplines simply enjoying being out with their horses in an easy camaraderie.

When life gets contorted and convoluted, as it certainly does, I slip back to this singular August evening. Sammy and I together. Ron ridin' and ropin' without a care. And all gets right with my world...

Sammy and I, goofing off in the round pen at Fareed's...

Welcome to As The Gate Swings...

I had been adopted as a seven-week old infant by a typical family living in a decent sized Midwestern metropolis. Horses had fascinated me as a child growing up on the Eastside of Indianapolis, Indiana - with sidewalks and neighbourhood schools and parks to roam with the other neighbourhood kids. But, I consumed horsey books (I believe my name was the ONLY name on the card for checking out "Linda Craig and The Palomino Mystery" at the school library). I sat rapt when watching Westerns, looking more avidly at the horses than the cowboys - well, except maybe for Little Joe Cartwright. My adoptive grandfather would steal me away on weekends, take me to the local public riding stable, and rent me a pony and let me ride for an hour. If a friend had a horse, I was around it, on it. I took Horsemanship in college, taking a bus from campus to a nearby stable every week to ride. My parents weren't necessarily keen on it, but I had to ride. Had to be around horses. Had to. Didn't know why, but I had to...

The answer came to me in a most unexpected way. One Monday night, home from one of my college classes, I walked into Mom's den. Before I could ask where my dog was, she flung a piece of paper at me, saying "Read this." My adoptive family donated every year to the agency which facilitated my adoption, and in appreciation, they periodically sent her information. And so I read. When finished, I looked at her and she asked, "Who does that sound like?" Without hesitation, I replied, "Me." It seems my birthmother was barely an inch over five foot, had dark hair, "penetrating" dark eyes, and a "determined jawline". She liked to type, rollerskate, and babysit. But, also contained within those few paragraphs on that critically important sheet of paper was the answer to why horses were so crucial to me. 

My birth family - all of my birth family - was involved with horses. My mama rode and showed, even rodeoed. My grandmother bred and raised horses, and my Cherokee grandfather trained. My "alleged" father was a horse dealer/trader ("thief", as my husband, Craig, would later tease me). And there it was. The reason I was addicted to Misty of Chincoteague, of why I would rush to the carriage horses in Colonial Williamsburg or Mackinaw Island. I was living proof of Nature vs. Nurture.

Here I am, 33 years since I was blessed with my sainted First Horse, Sambora, and I still have to be around them, on them. I need to touch them. Smell them. Care for them. Ride them. I need to talk to them. Listen to them. I need horses as I need oxygen.

In those 33 years, I have been lucky, blessed, privileged, and honoured to have been around, worked with, and owned so many incredible, amazing horses. There have been as many incredible, amazing horse people from whom I have learned so much in those 33 years. Typical of so many adventures, there are stories. Myriad stories. A plethora of stories. May I invite you to sit back and enjoy...