A lifetime of experiences has provided me the fuel for short stories spun around the people, horses and events that have touched my life.  Tip your chair back and escape into a world few have had the opportunity to live.

DANGEROUS EDUCATION

 

Thunder was scrambling. Hooves digging into the mountainside as he tried to find purchase in the thick slippery mud. I just knew I was a goner - a hair farther to the left and into the canyon I’d plummet. Boots gummed to the ground with that industrial strength mud and nowhere to go. The log was spinning around to the left, threatening to pass Thunder and pulverize me. The only thing I could think of to do was to roll headfirst and pray I stayed on the trail and that the log wouldn’t jerk Thunder into the chasm with it. He pivoted and lunged up the slope.

So much for my stubborn ‘do it my way’ attitude. I’d found myself in some mighty tight spots over the years, but this was one of those ‘I really screwed up this time’ ones. Old Ira had been emphatic when he told me to always stay behind the load. Of course, I reasoned that he hadn’t been in quite the same situation when he made up that rule. I should have known. Ira had a whole heap of more situations than I ever dreamed of. He’d been logging with horses all along- right on through the industrial age of logging. He just flowed with the times and renamed his company ‘Environmental Logging’. Just like that old fart to tongue-in-cheek folks. He always did get a kick out of the tree huggers. They seemed to think he was some kind of environmental god. Of course, the idiots failed to see he was logging out the very trees they hugged. He just did it in an environmentally compatible way.

When I decided that I needed to convert my fine cattle horse, Thunder, to an all purpose horse that was capable of meeting all kinds of different challenges, I went looking for the mythical man I had heard of that still worked these mountains with horses. Took me some doing. I drove up and down the Applegate. That peaceful river meandered through some beautiful farming country around the Grants Pass area of Oregon. There were some wonderful stands of trees encroaching the farms. Here and there could be seen the blight of clear cutting and the stench of diesel exhaust hung in the air. I drove on, doubled back and continued to question folks I found. Not many were familiar with a horse logger, but then, many were not too happy to hear I was trying to find a logger. I couldn’t help but wonder whose trees were being harvested if everyone felt that way. There certainly weren’t any government tracks around or forestry company cuttings.

I finally spotted what looked like a logging show loading area. The only funny thing about it was there were very few logs and they looked mighty short. There was just a flat bed two ton truck and a tri pod. But that shiny trek coming down the mountain was a skid trail for sure. So I parked the old station wagon under a scrawny pine and started walking up the trail. It was sure quiet. No engine noises off in the trees. No shouts of the fallers nor whopping of helicopter blades slicing away the tranquility. A couple of times I began to think I was climbing the mountain for nothing. After all, no one had said he was there.

Suddenly a couple of enormous Budweiser horses erupted around a sharp bend, snorting and slinging froth; and me with no where to go but down the bank. It certainly jerked my attention back from day dreaming. I jumped to the side of the trail onto a narrow knoll. The horses passed, log following close and a young fellow on taunt rein behind. When I asked for Ira Browninson he jerked his chin up behind and continued down the path. I just stood there a bit and watched them disappear. The quiet reasserted itself. It seemed as if I were alone on the mountain and the horses just a vision. Then I shook myself out of my reverie. I knew then I was really on the right track. The fabled Ira was within reach.

I was nearing the crest. The horizon of blue was breaking through the thick stand of trees. Still I could not hear a sound. I paused to pant and look around. As I raised my head I found myself looking into the most electric twinkling blue eyes I’d ever seen. They were mounted in the weathered face of a scrawny little man perched on top of a fallen log about ten yards up hill. He was just sitting there as still as a gnarl on that log. But the humor in those fantastic lively eyes was a screaming broadcast. I didn’t know if he was laughing at me in general, or the sight of me scrambling out of the horses’ way. He sure had a bird’s eye view of the entire mountain side from his eagle’s perch.

I collapsed on the end of the log, gasping to catch my breath. Sweaty tendrils of hair clung to my neck. He sat there quietly, those eyes still mocking me. Finally I blurted out, “I expected to see you logging. I heard you were a one man show”.

“Let that fool pup do all the hard work these days”, he replied. “Thinks he’s gonna be an en-vir-on-ment-list”. His tone reflected scorn.

We sat there for a bit. I was still trying to catch my breath. It was a comfortable silence. I didn’t feel compelled to speak.

Finally I did say, “Well, I don’t want to be an environmentalist or a logger. I just need to learn how to handle a pullin’ animal so I can use my horse to run my farm. I heard you were the most knowledgeable man around, so here I am.”

He snorted and twinkled even more. “What cha got fer a horse?”

“Just a saddle horse. He’s real steady though. Trained by a rancher as his main mount. Then he died. Horse ran loose for five years. Finally came to me as a nine year old. Been using him as my main transportation since my ol’ man takes the car during the week and my nearest neighbor is three miles away where I get my milk and eggs. Can’t keep a damn chicken alive ’round here. Weasels and such, ya know. And I can’t stand cows - dumber than a tick in my opinion.”

He chuckled at that. “Well, it’s hard on a saddle horse to be made to work. They’re kind of elite.” He paused. “What do ya know?”

“Nothin’. Startin’ fresh.”

We sat there a bit more. He alternately stared off into space and then at me. Those eyes still sparkled with his private joke. Finally he spoke. “Can’t have you gettin’ in the way”, he said. “Got work to do here.”

My grin split my face. “T-Thanks”, I stammered. I sure hadn’t expected such ready cooperation.

“When I tell ya somethin’, I mean right now,” he stated. “When a horse outweighs ya by a thousan’ pounds a mistake can be fatal.”

“No problem. I’ll listen up.”

I heard the labored breathing of the horses coming up the hill. One of them was soaked with sweat with it’s breath breaking in rattles. I looked at Ira with alarm.

“Broken wind”, he replied. “Sounds bad, but he’s ok. Just got to take a little extra care.” As if to explain it hadn’t been his fault he continued. “Too bad. He’s a young ‘un.”

“How’d it happen?” I asked.

“Pushed beyond his ability. A horse will do what you ask of ‘em. That’s why you have to have more sense than the horse. Folks that had him last didn’t”.

As the young man walked forward and looped the coil of long reins over the hames, the wind-broke horse stood with head down, sides heaving and sweat pouring in a river off of him. My heart broke to see the devastation caused by some idiot. The young man patted the horse affectionately on the neck and came and sat down on the log.

“Hi, I’m Gwen,” I said.

“Hi, I’m Brian.”

Ira offered, “He’s a grad-u-ate student in Grass Pants”. Ira used the local name for the town: coined because of the prevalence of marijuana farming in the area. “Thinks he’s gonna save the world learnin’ to log en-vir-o-ment-ly,” his mockery was apparent in the way he broke each word into syllables. Brian took it all in stride, obviously used to Ira’s manner. I wondered how Ira would reference me in time.

Eventually the horse’s heaving sides lessened and the rattled breathing settled into a low rumble. Ira nodded at Brian and he got up, moved the team in front of a log about five yards away. Ira slipped off the log with the ease of a fish in water. He went about the task of snugging the choker chain around the log. Brian backed the team until the choker leader could be linked to the double tree. He clucked to the team and they turned down hill. Ira told him to hold up.

“I’ll take ‘em down this time,” he instructed. He turned to me and pierced me with the directness of his gaze. “Stay behind me and do exactly as I say.” With that look I wouldn’t have thought to do anything else.

Ira leaned back a bit as he clucked the horses into motion. Walking behind the log he began my first lesson.

“Ya always keep a tension on the reins. They can feel exactly what yer thinkin’ through the reins. Don’t think the length of the reins waters down yer communication. Don’t jerk their mouths. They’re doing the best they can. They don’t need punishin’. In fact, punishin’ ain’t the way to train a horse. They’ll work for ya. Ya just need to tell ‘em how.” His instructions continued to flow as smoothly and softly as the log slipping along in the muddy track.

“Ya never, never stand on the load. I don’t care what ya see at those workin’ horse shows. Those idiots are just showing off. Dumb thing to be teachin’ kids. Ya can get seriously hurt that way. Always stay well back of the load.” I didn’t notice he was walking beside the log.

Suddenly he commanded, “Get up on that knoll there to the right!” The sharp tone of his voice propelled me instantly to obey.

The horses rounded a bend to the right. Ira, still leaning gently back resumed his monolog. “Never forget that you’re dealing with a job that outweighs you by tons. Between the horses and the load, you’ve got potential danger at each step.”

Just then the log’s center hit the bend in the bank and the fulcrum point caused the back end of the log to shoot toward Ira’s legs in the blink of an eye. Without breaking the even tone of his voice, the regularity of his breathing or the tension on the reins he sprang into the air as the log sliced beneath him. He landed softly on the right of the log and then played out the reins until he was safely behind the log again. I stood there flabbergasted on the safety of the knoll. I hadn’t even been aware of him gathering up rein as he set himself up for that demonstration of danger. His agility would be envied by a person a fraction of his age. It was hard to believe he was 72. I broke out of my shock and scrambled to catch up to his continuing monologue.

The next couple of weeks I continued to join this remarkable man as he adeptly worked up and down that mountain. He taught me to properly harness a horse, how to economically feed a working animal for optimum performance, the importance of daily grooming, not just to make the horse feel good, but to remove salts and irritants from the skin so the harnesses wouldn’t chafe. He explained that the white hair patches I had seen on many horses were the result of improper care by their owners. He taught me to breath gently into a horse’s nostrils as a way to communicate ‘horse style’. He explained to always stoke a horse with the direction of the hair. To stroke against the hair was to ‘ruffle their feathers’. I watched the wisdom of his words as a dreamy look passed their eyes as I brushed. He instructed me that horses nibble each other at the base of their manes as a sign of friendship, so I developed the habit of grabbing a hand full of lower mane and tugging and scratching as I stood beside them. These horses were Belgium, not Clydesdales as I had originally thought. They were impressive. Even standing on tiptoe beside their hip I couldn’t place my finger in the center of their back. They were huge! But so gentle. They were so trusting. It hurt my heart to know that the trust had been abused when Partner’s wind had been broken.

After awhile I began to suspect Ira was silently laughing at me and my gullibility. I steadily showed up early morning and trekked up and down that mountain. I groomed those massive horses thoroughly each evening. When I noticed I didn’t seem to be learning anything new, just enjoying his tales of past exploits and mocking observations of human nature, I decided to get back to my lifestyle. My first task was to turn Thunder into a good working horse.

We were poor as church mice. Working tack was not only hard to come by, but expensive. I really hit on the deal-of-the-century when I attended a ‘going-out-of-farm’ sale. I picked up a barn full of tack so brittle, caked with mud and cracked I wasn’t sure how much was salvageable. But the price was right. I got the whole shee-bang for $25 bucks.

I got that mess home and started scraping and cleaning. There was a whole pile of straps. I had no idea what they were. By the time I chipped my way through the pile I discovered I had a fortune in fine, workable tack. Much of it was stiff and I had my doubts whether it could be restored. But an old horseman who understood I couldn’t afford the saddle oil necessary to reclaim it all suggested I go to a gas station and get used drain oil and start the process there. I could then clean off the excess oil with very little saddle soap. The restoration process seemed to take forever. I had so many farm chores to catch up because of my extensive training session. But, finally, laid around the hardwood floor of my cabin was a fine buggy harness with an almost dainty leather strap for a collar with a big brass triangle in the center of the breast piece. The set had a britch’ strap, cupper and small blinders with a triangle brass doodad in the center of each. Nice set to have, but not really what I needed. The real score was a pair of good collars and stout hames, two sets of chain tugs and two sets of heavy leather tugs. I had four sets of good working harness! A couple of hardwood singletrees that weren’t too weathered finished out the works.

Along the way I was given a single-bit plow, a spring tooth harrow and a spike tooth harrow. All single horse equipment. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I love that saying. It couldn’t have been more true. I was all set to begin Thunder’s education.

We worked on the flat for awhile. He was neck reined and didn’t take too kindly to my tugging on the sides of his mouth in order to instruct him to turn. But, he was a quick learner and I kept in mind Ira’s words that he would want to cooperate if I would just communicate correctly.

My first order of business was to get some wood in. The shed was looking sparse and the thought of an inadequate supply for winter was pushing wood gathering to the forefront of the chore list. I had already been up the hill in back of the cabin with the chainsaw, cutting down what dead wood was there because I couldn’t wait to dry and season any if I hoped to keep warm that winter. Fortunately no one had been harvesting my mountain for years. I figured the difficulty of logging it down had been the problem. There weren’t really any roads or skid trails. Thunder really adapted well to his new position. We successfully pulled down quite a few logs. I had them lined up at the base of the hill, just waiting to be pulled up to the shed. We worked all day and both of us were tired. But, I didn’t want to stop until we had those logs up by the shed. Being the ‘know it all’ I was, I ignored Ira’s warning that non-wheeled items should only be pulled downhill - never up. Thunder had done such a tremendous job up until then and made it look easy. So I snugged a log behind him and clucked him into action. He didn’t like that stretch of flat dry ground ahead and started star gazing. The more I slapped at his flanks with the reins, the more antsy and obstinate he became. He bowed his neck and backed up. His hind end sashayed sideways and the tugs entangled his pastern. That set him into a panic. He reared, backing toward the log, trying to keep his balance. I was envisioning a crash of horse, log, leather and me so I ran to his head to try to steady him. He reared again. Hooves slashing the air around my head! I grabbed his halter headstall with both hands just as he reared again, pulling me up with him.. I stuck my legs out in front of me, standing on his chest between his thrashing legs, scared to death to turn loose of the headstall for fear of being struck by the flailing hooves. I hung on for dear life! He hit the ground again and rebounded up. I was shrieking in his face! The more I shrieked the wilder his eyes became! He tossed his head from side to side trying to be shuck of the banshee in his face. So much for Ira’s non-violent technique. Finally I got his attention. When his feet hit the ground that time they stayed rooted. He lifted his face as far away from me as possible but the feet stayed down. I stood firmly before him and changed my tone. My heart beat wildly but I kept repeating. “Easy, easy big boy”. He quieted finally and I stroked his big face. He pressed his forehead against my chest as if to apologize. I eased back and untangled his leg. To assure him we were in this together, I coiled the reins over the hames and took hold of the bridle and clucked him to follow me. He dropped his head, threw his shoulders into the load and pulled the log up to the shed. With wobbly knees I called it a day, knowing we would be back up the mountain again tomorrow.

The next morning, Old Ira’s words rang in my ears, “You have to have more sense than the horse”. Thunder proved I didn’t as he charged up the hill to bring the spinning log to a stop. He stood on that slope, mid-leg deep in debris, the log perched half on the trail and half suspended over the chasm, me piled up about a yard from oblivion. If my face could have been seen through the coating of mud, the flaming embarrassment proclaimed by stupidity.

Thunder looked down over his shoulder as if to see if I was all right. Nobody will ever convince me a horse is a dumb animal. He wasn’t taught to run uphill to stop an out of control log. He figured that out in the panic of the moment. Instead of being behind the load as I was instructed, I was in front of him, guiding him down the trail. He didn’t need guidance. Had I been behind him as Ira had instructed, I wouldn’t have interfered with him when my boots became slimed with mud, causing me to slip. He could have kept tension on the tugs and the log would not have had the opportunity to spin.

That day did truly convince me I had earned a dangerous education.

DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

“We’ll have to shoot the horses, won’t we?”

“Maybe,” Cowboy replied. His voice didn’t reflect the concern I felt.

I flashed hot at his matter of fact attitude. My stomach was churning around a growing knot. I couldn’t believe I had allowed my ‘I’ll show you’ obstinacy to put us in such a fix.

It had come about so simply. Cowboy and I had been out riding the skid trails and logging roads about ten miles out of Azalea, Oregon, the area we called home. We were quite a ways out when we realized how late in the afternoon it had gotten to be. We had reined up on a promontory overlooking treetops of a virgin stand when we got into our pissing match.

Cowboy was known for having more guts than brains. Unfortunately, I was known for having more stubbornness than brains. That makes for a stupid mix for any kind of conversation, let alone one that was supposed to produce an intelligent solution to our race against the night. Now, it’s no big deal to be out in that forest on well defined logging roads, even in the dark. But, for some cock-eyed reason, we got to arguing about how long it would take us to backtrack home the way we had come. That evolved into another argument about what lay at the bottom of that promontory.

Cowboy claimed that the meadow just up from the Wright’s spread lay just beyond the tree line at the bottom of the hill. I knew we were two fingers of land farther south of that meadow. We snarled our logic at one another for a bit until both of us announced, “I’ll show you!” and spurred our horses over the edge.

Concho, Cowboy’s appaloosa stud was one fine horse. Generally I don’t have much good to say about appaloosas. Their brains have been bred out of them and they stumble as much as they walk. But Concho was an exception. Not only could he think his way out of a jam, but he sure looked pretty doing it. He was a perfect blanket Appy with black forequarters and large tennis ball-size black spots on a white blanket across his rump. Taking into account the fact that he was a stallion, I was always surprised he could think at all. He stepped off the edge of the logging road as if he were taking a walk in the park. Thunder followed suit.

That stand of timber had never been logged. Ancient trees, moss covered were standing sentry over their long fallen brethren. The accumulated mulch of centuries was knee deep on the horses. The huge fallen trees chris-crossed into a maze of obstacles. Hidden rocks under the thick mulch caused the horses to stumble to their knees. They would slide through the debris until encountering a hidden bumper, then try to find footing for a step or two of their own choosing. The end of this descending ordeal left us in hell.

My stomach lurched as I looked at this Devil’s playground. We definitely were not at the edge of the Wright’s field. We could hear a stream burbling somewhere out of sight. Our vision was blocked by some of the most enormous boulders I ever saw. Some were as big as my cabin. They were tumbled upon one another, completely blocking any further hope of proceeding. The bank we had just come down was footed against the boulders as if to keep it from careening any farther into the creek.

The horses leaned against the boulders since there wasn’t any flat footing under them. There wasn’t even enough spark left in me to say “I told you so”. Cowboy just sat on Concho with slumping shoulders. Even he could see we were in a real jam. I couldn’t imagine how we could get the horses out of that canyon.

As my stomach lurched again all I could think of to ask was “we’ll have to shoot the horses, won’t we?” I couldn’t stand the thought of their slow lingering death as they starved in that hell hole.

“Let’s see how far we can get”, Cowboy said as he nudged Concho into motion. The horse started up the 45 degree slope. I watched him take a few steps up and slide a few steps back down. He hardly gained a foot distance for a yard’s worth of effort. But he kept at it. Once he had gained about ten yards, we started up.

Horses are incredible animals. Our athletes should show that kind of heart. Those horses plowed upward against unyielding odds. After lumbering yards uphill they would be stopped by huge fallen trees or a dense stand of trunks that seemed to spring up out of the same seed. We would turn them and start back down to get around the dead end. For each ten steps up we would slide back six.

Suddenly, Concho rose into the air as he vaulted a grandfather log wedged between two huge pines. He crumbled to his haunches upon landing. Cowboy sat easily as he waited for Concho to get his feet back under him and then kneed him off to the side. He waited while I aligned Thunder.

Thunder gathered like a pogo stick and launched straight up. His forelegs grazed his cheeks as he aimed his nose toward the landing spot. Too late I realized the disaster in the making! His hooves came up through the loosely flopping braided reins. Those beautiful round braided loop of reins just became a saboteur. The loop tightened beneath his elbows and jerked his teeth down to the log. It broke the momentum of his leap and his belly crashed onto the log. He lay arched across that barrel with me standing astraddle. It was too late to help, but I unsnapped the clasp from the bit anyway. His rear legs dangled and his front hooves barely touched the debris on the upside of the log. I broke into tears and tried to bite it back.

“Tell him to git”, Cowboy commanded.

I looked at him in amazement. How on earth could Thunder ‘git’?

“Do it!” he barked even louder.

I stood on the log, threw the loose rein across Thunder’s neck and demanded “Hit it! Get goin’ - go!”

Thunder scrambled like a dog. His knees dug into the log and he wiggled his belly until he actually slipped off the other side! He was piled in a heap against the log, but on the uphill side! We made it!

Cowboy urged Concho up again and Thunder lurched to his feet to follow. I grabbed a hunk of tail and just let him tow me.

Finally we sat on the edge of the logging road. The horses behind us standing straddle legged as saw horses. Sweat poured off them and their gulping breaths attested to their supreme effort. Silently, we just sat watching the deepening shadows claim the trail we had just cut through the forest debris.

We were going to take all the time necessary to walk beside the horses, home, the long way.

THE FIRST ANNUAL COW CREEK KENTUCKY DERBY DAY HORSE RACE

His ears bobbed with each step as if hinged on roller bearings. I couldn’t help but smile. I had never seen a horse look so idiotic - those ears flopping in the breeze. He was pulling easily. Guess he deserved it after his performance of yesterday. The ground was rich and pliable. Years of organic gardening made the plot smell of Grandma’s farm. The birds chirped in support, waiting for the worms to turn up.

A pickup rounded the curve and a burst of rapturous cheering erupted from the occupants. I didn’t recognize the truck. Funny how many people recognized us now. Thunder seemed to have created a fan club. Guess they were tickled to see him in his other role as a plow horse. I had to agree, he sure didn’t look like the sleek challenger of yesterday.

Philip had heard just one too many times about Patty Sue’s ‘big black stud’. I had been tolerating that inference for years. Always did repulse me, but I never said anything. After all, she did have one of the finest horses in the territory. Wim-P was every thing a ‘big black stud’ should be. He was raven blue-black that mirrored in the sun. He threw as true as a foundation stallion should and his get were sweeping the competitive fields every time they showed. Compared to that horse, Thunder looked like a skinny necked geek. But, I didn’t judge a horse by how he looked. In that country, where a horse was only as good as he produced, Thunder was every bit a ‘using horse’. I had never seen Wim-P perform anything but what was hanging. For Patty Sue to sneer every time she said Thunder’s name grated on me like sandpaper - worse than that even, a hoof rasp. After all, I couldn’t afford to even have Thunder unless he earned his keep.

Living a subsistence lifestyle on a farm in the mountains of Oregon and trying to keep a pack of kids fed, clothed and warm was a full time job. There was no money or extras to afford to keep unnecessary baggage, and a pleasure horse was just that. Thunder had to earn his keep. The day I introduced him to his job in the family we had a radical disagreement. But it all worked out. He did learn to throw his shoulders into the collar and pull. So he did successfully change from being a cattle rancher’s primary mount to logging our heating and cooking wood and plowing our garden.

“Put your money where your mouth is”, Philip barked at Patty Sue.

“What?” she asked.

“You heard me“, he retorted. “I’ve heard all I’m going to about your ‘big black stud’. I’ll pit Thunder against Wim-P any day. Thunder is a using horse and I haven’t seen Wim-P do anything yet.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Thunder against Wim-P?” Her look of disbelief was almost comical.

“You got it. You can even pick the game. Pick anything you think your horse can do better than Thunder and we’ll be there!”

Now, I’ve got to admit he really warmed my heart that day. I never knew he appreciated that broomtail nag the way I did. For him to outright challenge Patty Sue to back up her boast caused me to drop my jaw. I never really bragged about Thunder as we went through the daily chores of our lifestyle. I never realized that Philip even noticed. But I was sure tickled to watch the shock spread across Patty Sue’s face.

“But I’m pregnant”, she countered.

“So what? You pick the game and we’ll set it up for after you have the baby and you can have time to get your horse ready too. Thunder won’t need readying time. He can do it all now.”

“Well, I-I g-guess I’d pick r-running a quarter mile”, she stammered. “After all, he is a Quarterhorse.”

Boy! That set me back. How on earth could we expect Thunder to beat a horse that was a pure representation of the very name of the breed? Wow!

“Great!” Philip proclaimed. “But once Thunder beats Wim-P, I don’t want to hear any more about your ‘big black stud’”.

That sealed the deal. The following months I sneaked up to mountain meadows to practice quick starts. Now, that was against every thing I had worked a horse to learn. All the horse training I had done was to discourage jump starts and full-tilt running. Now I was teaching him to spring out of the hole at a dead run and then try to bring him under control before we hit the trees. That was a trick! He loved to run! My arms ached with pulling him into a circle, trying to wind him down. It got so bad if he even saw an open area coming up, he would start jerking at the reins to take control. He was becoming worthless as a using horse. All he wanted to do was run. (Guess it was mutual when I think about it.) He sure was fast! Even faster than Sugar, my running quarter mare I had years ago.

I was taking great delight in knowing that Patty Sue’s idea of training was to tether Wim-P to the back of her pickup and trot him up and down mountain roads. That may build up wind and muscle tone, but it sure wasn’t building in him a quick start and desire to run.

The day of the big race finally came. The Gaedekey’s offered the use of their back field for the day. The first stretch was better than a quarter mile long with a wide division in the fence for hay rakes to pass through to the other section. That last part would give us about another eighth mile to slow them down and turn them around. I was hoping that was enough to bring Thunder back under control, but I had my doubts.

Philip loaded the saddle and grip in the old station wagon and drove down with the kids. I threw a leg over bareback and meandered down the center of the river the five miles to the race track. The rocks in the riverbed would cause Thunder to keep his head into the task of navigating rather than running, so I knew he would be fresh when the time came.

As we came through the trees between the river and the meadow a roar erupted that reverberated the mountain air. It seemed every hillbilly and hippy in the mountains had been waiting for this grudge match! I had no idea there were so many people living in those hills! It looked like a Grateful Dead concert, complete with electric tie-dye costumes of the 60’s! Why, there must have been better than 100 people there! And there were two other horses that I learned were Doc Bar bred running quarter stock. That bloodline was one of the fastest on the Quarterhorse racing circuit. Ugh! As if outrunning Wim-P wasn’t a tall enough order!

Thunder began to prance and dance. It was all I could do to keep him gathered up. He seemed to act like the whole shee-bang was just for him, and he‘d put on a show.

The rules were set. Each of us had to match first against those Doc Bar mares. The winners then could race each other. If, by chance, one of the mares won her match then we would still have the grudge match between Wim-P and Thunder. I thought it was a little unfair that the “boys’ would actually be running a second time. But, then again I realized it was even-Steven since both horses would be in the same boat. After all, Thunder was used to going all day at his work, so he was up to it.

I don’t remember much about the race against the mare. It was pretty non-descript. Thunder just did what he loved to do when the gun went off. He was a handful to gather up afterward. I had to get off and walk him around quite awhile to cool him down. Mainly I had to hoof it because to stay in the saddle just made him anticipate another run. He was a powerful animal. But, finally we got the word to line up again. By this time Thunder knew what was ahead. He was bunching up in the middle and sashaying around. His excitement was contagious. Even Wim-P started to act up.

The gun went off. We broke off the line at a good run. Thunder was hauling down the field and Wim-P was right along side. About twenty good strides into the race the ground had an ever-so-slight depression. Thunder didn’t even notice. But, Wim-P, unused to working on irregular terrain reacted. He dropped back out of my line of sight. Thunder ran on. We were up front and cruising. About half way down the track that black nose shot up on my right. It startled me and I yelped. Guess I had gotten used to having the whole world to myself. Well, that yelp woke Thunder up too. He hit overdrive! Likened to suck me out of the saddle! I leaned over his neck and we flew! I never saw that black nose again. Thunder outdistanced Wim-P like he was standing still. I think Wim-P was still crossing the finish line when I finally got Thunder reined in and turned around! (Of course I’m bragging a bit, but not much.) Both Patty Sue and I had our hands full. By now the horses were all hyped up and crow hopping too boot. But we headed them back.

The roar from the crowd was tremendous. The whole pack of them was running toward us across the field. Ahead of the pack was Patty Sue’s husband, frantically waving his arms above his head. When we finally got close enough to hear he was shouting, “It’s all right! It’s all right!” John reached up to grab Wim-P’s reins. Wim-P reared. Dumb man! You would think he would know better than to run up to a fired up animal and grab at him. But then I heard John shout again, “It’s all right, Honey. I bet on him!” as he pointed to Thunder. Patty Sue shrieked and quirked John furiously screaming “How could you!”.

People were laughing, crying and shouting in unison. It seemed even that poor mountain community came up with betting material. Clothes, Buck knives and home baked goods were changing hands like Christmas morning.

Here it was, next day, Thunder back in his traces and blinders, head down, ears flopping and shoulders into the load, plowing the neighbor’s garden as his fan club cheered their appreciation. The champion of Cow Creek.