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...

About that photo...

Who's The New Guy?
Mac, South, Wyatt, Hawk, Logan, Geronimo (l to r)

October of 2015, our dear, dear friend Jen in Virginia sent us the third of an amazing trio of Arabian geldings - her own treasured War Lhord. In our custom of giving new-to-us horses a "Hideout" name, we decided on "Geronimo" for this striking Mahogany Bay Arab. Born Goyahkla, “The One Who Yawns”, this young Chiricahua Apache warrior became known as Geronimo. As alternate form of Jerome, some historians think the Mexicans appealed to St. Jerome to protect them from Goyahkla's ferocity in battle. In essence, Gernimo was Cochise's war lord, so it seemed fitting. 

An amusing side note, when I ordered his bridle tag (each horse had their own bridle and these wee brass discs with the horses' name made getting ready for rides easier), the woman said Geronimo would never fit on the disc. So, we decided on "G'mo", laughing it was his "rapper" name.

We'd been in close communication with the shipper and were expecting his call early that Wednesday morning. Because the roads were wet and sloppy, the semi would never had made it down to the pens. Already hitched up, we drove to nearby Rodeo and met the rig in an empty parking lot. The driver dropped the ramp, telling us there was no lead rope. Craig, ever resourceful, found a strand of baling twine, and that is how Geronimo came home. 

 

Baling twine - don't leave the ranch without it...

Not the "lead rope" G'mo is used to...

 

 

Geronimo spots Logan...

 

 

 

Craig proudly led Geronimo from the trailer to the pen where he would spend a fortnight in quarantine, and we stood back to watch the fun.

After hours in a trailer, G'mo was happy to stretch his legs, strutting and jigging around the pen. Of course he rolled in the desert mud. He and Dash, our farrier's horse who was just hanging out with us, exchanged pleasantries, and decided the other wasn't a big deal. Well, G'mo thought G'mo was a big deal, but Dash really couldn't be bothered. 

Mac looks smugly on, clearly having set the example for Mud Rolling...

Dash wasn't terribly impressed, to Geronimo's chagrin...

Then - the boys showed up...

At first, just a few of them realised there was someone new, someone to whom they must immediately convey The Rules. Then, all five of them showed up and the conversation began in earnest...

Mac, South, Wyatt, Hawk, Logan, Geronimo (l to r)

Mac was a big blood bay who came to us from a neighbour in the Valley. His backstory is heartbreaking. As we were given to understand, Mac was used by the Mexican cartels to transport drugs across the border. All over his left side are indentations left by the bundles being strapped tightly to his body. We soon discovered he was "cinchy" on that side, but who can blame him? 

Some of the scarring is plainly visible...

South was purely a sympathy purchase. This big bay reminded Craig of his Calvin, and so he paid WAY above the ceiling I set. Despite only having him out a handful of times, South was a guest favourite on the ground and around the Livery. Bless him, the calcification on his knees protruded several inches forward, and his back legs looked like dark brown parentheses. We had to teach him how to accept love and gushing - and treats. But he sailed through those classes and became part and parcel of the ranch.

His poor legs...

 

Wyatt had been with a couple of different friends in the valley, so everyone knew him. And most everyone had ridden him. Despite Charro and Flaming Arrow, "Elvis" simply wasn't a Hideout name, so this lanky dark bay became Wyatt. He was just the best. Guests loved him. He was a solid citizen out on trail, and just a joy to work around. There are more than one entertaining Wyatt Stories in the Annals of Hideout Ranch Adventures, and they will be told. 

Wyatt was a long drink of water...

Hawk towered over everyone, even Wyatt. He was enormous, actually too big for me to ride. His whithers were unbelieveably high, and my saddle would have pinched and rubbed. (We learned one rather eventful trail ride how Hawk reacted to pressure on his whithers...) He had grown up in Wyoming, riding trails and working cattle, and we talked Josh into leaving him with when he had to go back for a bit. We had several guests take Hawk on trail, and he even had a starring role in a "reality show" filmed here on the ranch. He was big...

Hawk, or as I called him, "Biggun"...

Logan was an incredible horse, left in our care so Josh and I could leg him up and put some miles on him - you know, wet saddle blankets and all. He was anxious, but grew to trust us. Some of our more advanced guests spent days with Logan, on trails and on the schooling ground. He was a joy to ride, to school, to be work around. Though truly a "horse of a different colour", Logan was an integral part of this particular herd. 

My sweet, sweet Logan...

 

So, now you've met the crew in what could easily be one of the greatest horse photos ever taken. Seriously, if I came across this in a catalog, I would be ordering it. I was snapping away with my phone, recording Geronimo's arrival, and was lucky enough to capture this phenomenal moment for all time. 

The most poignant aspect of this breathtaking moment is none of these amazing horses are here with me anymore. Geronimo is in a new life in Michigan. Hawk and Mac are in Wyoming with Cap, Craig's Mustang. South, South I sent on just ahead of Craig so he could walk without pain, run and not hurt. Logan and Wyatt were taken out by lightning, the culmination of a horrific week which left Craig weakened by the unimaginable stress of losing four cherished beings - and having to tell me about them. 

But I have this photo, this wholly unplanned moment in the lives of an astonishing group of horses, of magnificent beings who graced our lives for as long as they could to remind me how blessed Hideout Ranch has been...

Daddy's Boy...

Calvin, on the farm in Virginia...

Calvin was Craig's boy. A big dark bay out of the Impressive line (the good Impressive, not the HYPP-carrying Impressive), his registered name was "Impressive Caliente". He was schooled in Western Pleasure, experienced with cattle and on trail. Calvin held the distinction of being part of the Sheriff's Posse in the Tucson Rodeo Parade, the world's largest non-mechanized parade. 

Calvin was always the King, with Kansas his Heir Apparent, and he only answered to Craig. Well, until I became Mommy, he only answered to Craig. One afternoon, I was in his stall with him, combing burrs out of his mane. He snaked his head around and snarled at me. I popped him on the cheek with the comb I was using and used my best"Mom" voice to discourage his nonsense. He certainly looked at me and asked, "And who do you think you are?"

"I'm the Mom, that's who!" I will admit to chuckling...

Calvin rather enjoyed stall life...

When we got to the ranch, Calvin initially lead the boys, reigning over the front pasture. We had to pull him out for some reason - medication or maybe extra feed. While he was out and away from the boys, he saw and fell in love with Naja, our beautiful true black Arabian mare. We decided to put him in the pasture with Naja - and Hopi, Lozen, Mickey Free, Kachina, and... Tell. For the longest time, Calvin was king, chastising Tell for picking on the girls. We pulled Calvin out for some reason, then after a couple days, put him back in.

Craig found him the next morning standing, defeated, in the furthest corner of the pasture. He was savaged. Beaten and bloody, gashed and kicked, the only thing we could discern was Tell had finally had enough of being told what to do, and he showed Calvin, the "old man" who was now in charge. We treated Calvin, and just let him wander the ranch with Peppy for company. 

It sounds harsh and brutal, and it is. But nature often is far more harsh and brutal than we humans would prefer. There comes a time in every herd leader's life when the younger ones challenge and assume the mantle upon victory. Tell eventually ran Naja and Hopi out of the pasture as well. His herd consisted of Lozen, Kachina, and Mickey Free, Po Campo, Bolivar, Lippy, and Mouse. He truly didn't want anyone else in his kingdom. 

Believe me, what Tell wanted, Tell got...

Calvin...

Calvin expressing himself in his inimitable style...

Among our early guests was an amazing couple. Meredith was in her late 70s, and her husband, Ed, was perhaps 82. We went to Horseshoe Canyon one day, with her on Sambora and him on Calvin. I know I had Tonka, and Craig was likely on Clavo. Anyway, after lunch, Calvin pulled a shoe and I stepped in to say no, I will walk him back to the trailer. He was not to be ridden. (Calvin endured very tender soles, and I could not allow him to be lamed. So we switched tack and put the gentleman on Tonka. A few jigs around the field where we were, and Ed exclaimed, "He's certainly got pep!"

So Calvin and I walked the entire way back, more miles than I care to think of remembering, still, his hoof didn't get too badly chipped up. 

There are more Calvin stories which I will tell as I get to them. I do have a special reason for writing about him now, though. And I ask you to humour me...

Not many of the horses were keen to go in the Livery, but Calvin was King...

 

"Mom, if this goes on social media, watch out next time you ride me..."

 

Five years ago, about the middle of August, I was humbled to witness the bravest, most courageous act of love ever between horse and human. Calvin had tweaked his back so while his front end would walk forward, his back end went sort of sideways with his right leg not operating at full function.Sport had done a similar thing, and there is just nothing you can do for them. Because Calvin was so long-backed, it rendered him ultra vulnerable

 

I had gone out to feed The Pensioners after my coffee. It had rained during the night, so the ground was damp. I found Calvin down in the middle front pen. From the churned up dirt, I could tell he had been struggling for hours to stand. He was lying on his "good" leg, and was exhausted. Heart in my throat, I raced in to tell Craig. Mind you, Craig was never ever ever ever ever able to make "that" decision regarding his animals. Ever. He left that up to me. On Calvin's behalf, I insisted and Craig finally, reluctantly, agreed.

 

I went back out to check on Calvin while Craig took the backhoe to prepare his beloved companion's resting place. What I found furthered our heartbreak. Calvin had pushed and pulled and scooted himself through the gate of the pen and out into the open. Standing there, watching, I saw this horse fight against a failing body and stand up the very moment Craig came around the trailers from his sorrowful toil in Tell's pasture.

 

"The sign said 'All You Can Eat'...

 

Calvin did not want his daddy to see him on the ground. He wanted his last moments on earth to be upright, wobbling but upright. He wanted his Daddy to see him standing, on his own power, facing his farewell as he had faced his life. Proudly. Bravely. Head on.

 

It was the single greatest, most selfless proof of love I have ever seen. Craig dissolved. I dissolved. Josh dissolved. Still, Calvin stood like a statue, saying goodbye to the man who loved him so deeply. 

 

Four years, and the tears still flow to recount this unprecedented feat.

 

Calvin near Balance Rock at the Chiricahua National Monument...

 

Craig said his goodbyes, then went to hide in the office. Josh kept me upright, then tended to the details afterward. I took a goodly section of Calvin's tail for a memento to be created for Craig. He didn't know I had done that, so the look on his face and the tears in his eyes when he held his boy's tail in his hand again fomented a fresh flow all around. 

 

And Craig holds his boy in his hand forever more. Just as Cochise was buried with his favourite horse and favourite dog, so Calvin and Cleat are with Craig. 

 

Four years, and the tears still flow...

 

 

 

Snacktime at the Livery...

Calvin (r) and Sambora (l), reigning monarchs of Hideout Ranch...

Calvin and Tonka help themselves...

Mose side-eyes Calvin, plotting to overthrow him in the Brat Pack...

Tonka and Calvin prepare for a photoshoot...

Calvin and his favourite rider, Craig...

The quintessential cowboy photo - Craig and Calvin escorting Woodrow and Run to the water and their new grazing range...