Letting go...

I was out this past weekend at the ranch, riding my Dad's new horse Ten. Yes, that's his name , obviously inspired by the Bo Derek movie of the same name. Although most agree he looks more like a moose than anything. Friday evening I went upstairs to the closet and brought out a dusty box, in search of something that I knew would fit him perfectly. I had put this box away almost 11 years ago. As I dusted off the box and began searching through the mass of lead ropes and head gear, memories came flooding back to me like an ocean wave crashing on the shoreline.

Almost twenty five years ago I was given a horse as a birthday gift. He was a six year old gelding with a good personality and a strong will. He wasn't very pretty, he had no pretty white markings like, stars or blazes, on his face. He had no pretty white socks on his legs.
He had a really big head, and a big fat butt - quarter horse style. He had really big feet and a thick neck, and all kinds of muscle.
. He was just a horse, I didn't care. He was mine and that's all that mattered. I rode him as often as I could, brought him treats brushed him and, during the summer months, when it was too hot, I'd find him sleeping under the shade of a tree. I'd prop myself up under the crook of his neck and read a book or just enjoy sitting there with him. It was like a movie with a horse and a girl. And that girl was me.
Dad and I would herd the cows together and spent lots of time trail riding. We would fill the saddle bags with our lunch and I'd fill my back pack with carrots and apples to give to the horses.
One summer morning I was out riding through the alfalfa fields, when I fell of of him suffered a concussion, and broken wrist. The cast put a damper on my summer, when it came to swimming but I still rode.

My parents decided at that time to put me in an organization called 4_H which teaches kids about animal husbandry, public speaking, record keeping, and riding. After my first year of riding lessons, pubic speaking and an Achievement day, which was basically a horse show where you showed a judge what you were capable of. I got the drift. Of what needed to be done, lots of work.
During a riding clinic in my second year, my riding instructor, who knew of my horse's past , let us in onitt: He had been a stallion at one point, because his first owner couldn't make up her mind just what she wanted to do with him.He and mare had been flipped in a trailering accedent. And he fell through the ice of a lake one winter, and therefore had a fear of going near pools of water. I also saw the true stubbornness of my horse's character. At the end of our lessons on our first day of the clinic, we went on a treasure hunt, on horseback , we were to find 10 specific objects as we went riding through the bush.
We came to a clearing , and we all decided to run. I knew that I had to hang on, because when Kip got excited, while being with other horses, he would put on a show. And as always, he did not disappoint. We galloped up a hill, Kip began to buck, and he bucked all the way up. Everyone laughed. One of the Mom's who was riding with us, just shook her head, and asked if I was "ok". Of course I was. Kip did this all the time, whenever we were in a group. I just knew how to hang on, I was completely oblivious at the age of 11 that it was bad horse behavior, not to mention totally unsafe!
The next day, we once again worked on side passing, correct leads and flying lead changes. It was hot, and to help with the heat we all stood under the only shade in the corral, and one by one walked out and practiced the exercise. Except Kip and I. Every time I took him away from the group, and began to lope, he would run right back, no matter how hard I pulled on those reins. My instructor asked me to do it again. Again I took him out of the group, I asked him to lope. Again Kip went were he wanted. Back to the group. Again I tried. Again I failed. I was becoming frustrated. So was my instructor.
She stopped me. "GET Off!" she snapped. " Everyone else can do this simple exercise? What is the matter with YOU!", she yelled, "If you can't figure out how to do this, I will show you.You need to make him do what you want. You are the boss. Quit being so gentle with him!""

She mounted and began the exercise with Kip. Again Kip went back with the group. She took the end of the reins and slapped him. Again she tried to do the exercise. Again he went back to the group. The fight was on. The other girls stood with their well-behaved horses, quietly in the corner under the shade, their jaws dropped in horror as the fight unfolded before them.
For 10 minutes I watched as my beloved horse received a much needed attitude adjustment. It was the longest and most embarrassing 10 minutes I had ever experienced.
She finally got off. She walked towards me. I fought back hot tears of humiliation. She handed me the reins.
"I owe you an apology", she said. "You deserve a @#$%# medal for even getting on him, and staying there."
I promised myself at that moment, this would never happen again. Over the next month, I spent three to four hours every day practicing. Ground work, riding, side passing, correct leads, and flying-lead changes. There were days Kip flatly refused to do what I asked. I would become so frustrated, and tired. I'd start over. Again. I would become frustrated. Again I would try. I would fail. I would start over. I would try. He refused and refused.
MY mom would be watching from the kitchen window. She would come to the corrals edge. She'd say,"it's time to take a break honey. Come inside, and have some ice cream and chocolate chips." I would tie Kip to the post and just cry.
It is truly amazing how mother's know when their kid needs a break. And nothing tasted better in those days, than ice cream and chocolate chips. I ate lots of ice cream and chocolate chips that summer.
I bathed Kipper in preparation for Achievement day. The day I had to come before a judge and make my horse do the required riding pattern. I washed the blankets , and shined up my show halter, bridle and saddle. I braided his tail and wrapped a tensor bandage around it to keep all the hairs tucked in neat. I polished his hooves, shaved his bridle path, fetlocks and whiskers.
When it was time, in that show ring, he didn't move unless I told him to. We executed the requirements flawlessly, and even the judge thought he had a soft mouth. My instructor told her - "he does as long as you don't take him out to the back 40". Kip and I walked away with Junior grand Champion that year, a show blanket, a show bridle, and of course the Most Improved horse award. We did it.
Kip became one of the best horses to ever be on the ranch. I loved riding him. I rode him everywhere, up and down the mountain, across the river, through the fields. Never again did I ever fall off of him, and never again did he refuse to do something I asked.
Ten years later he was diagnosed with ring bone in his right foreleg. It's where a bone-like growth occurs between the hoof and ankle, and becomes incredibly painful. Sometimes the growth will fuse itself to the hoof and then he'll be fine. But that wasn't the prognosis in this case.The vet said if I wanted to ride him anymore, I'd have to shoot him up with tranquilizers first. He was finished. I cried a lot that summer.
I packed up all of his bridles, halters bits, leads, and packed it away after Kip was gone, and stayed away from the tack shed. Until now.
I pulled out the show bridle that I had won, and ran my fingers over the familiar leather, and the silver plated buckles. I wiped back a few tears, okay, maybe there were more than just a few. Then I handed it to Dad. We began taking it apart to clean it, and then attach Ten's new snaffle bit to it.
"When did you get this?" he asked.
"The year I won Junior Grand Champion." I said, "It was my show bridle, at every show, competition and Fall Fair afterwards."
"Are you sure you want to do this? You don't want to keep it for show?"
"I'm not going to be showing any horse any time soon, it's okay."
And it is.

What fall brings

It is that time of year again.
The time when the camouflage clothing comes out of its hiding place, and is inspected. Each pair pants, gloves, jacket, shirt, vest, and balaclava, are carefully searched for rips and tears which are repaired by me and my sewing machine, or is just replaced with the latests and greatest new stuff. Then washed in de- scenting, phosphate eliminating, freaking expensive laundry soap. It is carefully hung outside to dry, not put into the dryer, and repacked in a rubber maid tub with outdoor scent discs, bark, pine needles and tree branches. The branches, leaves and needles are selected so as not to create any moisture and thus leave a mildew smell behind. But only that of the outdoors.

Limited entry draws that were purchased and sent away, months ago in hopes of receiving a chance for an exclusive hunt, are now published on the web with the results. All is needed is a hunters number to confirm a win or loss. A hard copy is also received in the mail. The hunting license is renewed and tags are purchased in accordance with the entry results and a few others just in case.
The compound bow is brought from its case and lovingly polished. Time is spent at the local gun range, sighting in the bow after work and on weekends. Broken arrows from the previous season are re tipped and once again practiced with.The binoculars, spotting scope, and tripod are found and tested to endure accuracy or replaced if necessary. The optics are polished and the legs of the tripod are tested for stability. Knives, and scalpels find their way out of sheathes and pouches to be sharpened with care., then packed alongside the rest of the hunting gear.
Cow calls, and bull calls are purchased and used with much fervor and passion as to annoy the neighbors as much as it is to practice the appropriate calls.
The 2007-08 Hunting Synopsis is memorized, then time is spent on Google earth mapping out possible areas of hunting, and my desktop image looses the smiling faces of my girls and becomes that of a large, bugling, trophy elk. Time is spent looking at the calender booking weekends after the full moon , before the full moon, and in between family commitments to spend time out hunting.
Red bull, canned soup, some fruit, tail mix, granola bars, bread, coffee, bratwurst sausages and a small camp stove are packed for a hunting trip.The first aid kit is replenished, and other necessities are packed, along with sleeping bags, and extra clothing.
Time is taken off work to leave early and drive 6 hours to prime elk country, and still only arrive at1 am. Then hours and hours are spent from light until dark on horseback and foot trudging through the bush, over mountains, old cut blocks, small valleys, searching for sign of a herd of elk. Surviving on camp food, long naps on the forest floor, and a strong adrenaline rush, (that I admit, I will never fully understand) in the hopes of tracking and shooting a trophy, and thus filling our freezer with meat. That in itself, is the major reason Carpenter hunts.
Now, I know that my Carpenter needs his time away to be with other men in the out doors, hunting and camping. And I know that he loves it. There is a gleam in his eye that only happens during this time of year, from when the season opens, to when the season closes. Weather he is successful or not, it doesn't matter, it is the being out there in the wilderness that counts- or so he says.
If I ever sat down and took the time to add up his hobby, I think I know the outcome. If I added up the dollars spent on hunting paraphernalia; Then put a price on the hours spent cleaning, practicing, packing, and driving; Added wages lost due to leaving early; Plus the cost of fuel to drive, and calculated the wear and tear on the vehicle, then added the cost of the food eaten; The cost of cutting and wrapping the meat, if a success occurs; Then I would have to conclude, beyond a reasonable doubt, that any elk my husband bags, has to be the most FREAKING EXPENSIVE meat, bar none, that I will ever have the privilege to serve my family at the supper table. And for that, I am grateful.