Hoppy and Horses
Four years old with a face lit up like Christmas, fancy two gun rig slung low over chaps with conchos and rawhide ties, tooled leather cowboy boots and of course a cowboy hat all with eyes glued to a black and white television built into oak cabinetry with a 12 inch screen completely filled with the face of William Boyd as “Hopalong Cassidy”. I could have been that young man but this image is not a memory; it is frozen and framed on my wall. This advertisement for Motorola televisions was a gift from my sister who remembers that the adventures of Hoppy were the beginning of “must see tv” in my life and my introduction to the life of a cowboy.
Hoppy wasn't just a character in a weekly drama; he was a hero! He had standards that were unshakable. Guns and fighting only happened in the cause of justice in a society of laws. Like the image on the television, issues were black and white. Hoppy never had to face qualms of conscience or angst protecting his vested interests. You could join Hoppy's fan club, but you had to agree to follow the rules and live the virtuous, cowboy life, he even sent a check list that you had to get you parents to sign testifying to your living the Hoppy code. Wow! Standards that would make a Saint jealous (is there a feast of Saint Hopalong?).
I would remember my first cowboy hat and chaps even if there were not pictures of me decked out ready to patrol the backyard for desperadoes. In truth, the only pictures of me from those years that do not include some sort of Hoppy gear are the ones that show me with my hair slicked and a bow tie and a face that very clearly says, “Real cowboys would never dress this way!” More than the outfit though I remember the lessons of Hoppy that there was a code that everyone was obligated to live by, more than ethical or moral behavior, you had to have a code and you had to stick to that code with only two choices, yes or no.
How many of us developed a cynical streak when we found out that life was not like Hoppy's scripted world? How many of us screamed to Hoppy for help when they found out that their friend around the corner was ridiculed because her family had a menorah in the dinning room? Where was the code when older boys bullied the younger ones and no one did anything about it? Did Hoppy know anything about blacklists, communists, atom bombs, organized crime or Viet Nam? Of course not, he was not real, he was made up for entertainment.
The first casualty of Hoppy's world was the idea that life had simple answers. As vivid as my memories of this time are, I would not trade them because they are the root of understanding that what things mean is not binary process that is full of precision. I can still refer back to Hoppy as a starting point for a forty year search for a nonlinear code that offered a way to grow and keep learning without having the foundation threatened. A quest of the length portrayed in another classic western, John Wayne's “The Searchers”, has to have an anchor and that was also a part of the Hoppy code. In order to stay true to your code, you had to state your point of view and agree to disagree with those who lived by a different code. Seems that cowboys were big on free speech or else they just lacked manners.
It was many years later, after reading about chaos theory, Harold Innis, differential equations, Harold Morowitz, information theory, John Fowles and developing a statistical measure of creativity that I moved to Texas. The black and white, cowboy code meets dynamic systems and deterministic chaos. I might have had an easier task carrying a copy of the Koran into a Baptist prayer meeting. Fortunately, there is a common thread to tie these element together and that thread is spun from horse hair.
What I found was that my geek nature with my statistical approaches to understanding human communication was offset by a natural affinity with horses. When my family heard that I had begun working with wild horses, no eyebrows were lifted. Seems they all thought it natural that someone who spent five years dressed as Hoppy would find a way to take up getting wild horses under saddle. So, while friends, neighbors and family called me a natural horse man, I knew that a lifetime spent trying to return the simplicity of Hoppy's code in a complicated world and producing an understanding of human communication that was based on chaos theory coalesced into communicating with horses. All of this sounds obscure and removed from practical experience, but I believe that by listening to my horses and helping them to develop meaning out of our shared experience, I was applying a lifetime of study to a very practical situation.
There are numerous books by excellent horse trainers about many of things that I started doing with my mustangs. Their explanations are all focused on helping people train their horses, while mine are focused on using the simple communications with a horse to help people train themselves to talk with other people. The stories on this page will bounce back and forth between my four legged friends and two legged ones. Each should stand up as a slice of life in West Texas and I hope that taken together they will produce a larger understanding of living a life in chaps and conchos where things are not black and white, but full of color and opportunity to develop new meaning and understanding from our shared experiences.
Cowboy Credibility
When I arrived in West Texas, it was fairly obvious to everyone that I "wasn't from these parts". There were several things that seemed to interfere with my being accepted as a part of the local culture. Among them were that I did not own a pair of starched Wrangler jeans, said Pecos with a long "o", used a plethora of words with more than three syllables and most importantly had never ridden a horse outside of a pony ring. In short, I had no "cowboy credibility".
We lived in a small subdivision where there were more horses than people. Suburban neighborhoods where I grew up had fenced yards to keep dogs in or children out. Quarter acre lots were large enough to include a swimming pool in the backyard. The lots in Midland were at least 3 acres and the fences were meant to keep the livestock from roaming the neighborhood and protected from the predators that walked brazenly down the center of the streets. Backyard entertainment meant roping arenas, barrel racing courses and of course, swimming pools.
My neighbors were either born in the area or had been there long enough that they fit seamlessly into the environment. This means that they grew up with horses, riding and rodeos. The culture that I had known through countless hours of cowboy movies was all around me, and yes, many of the people there would prefer to kiss their horses than their spouses. When we told them we were planning on putting horses on the property, they exchanged those knowing smiles that let me know that they expected dude ranch disasters. One of the things about the horse culture that never came up in the movies is that horse owners are all equine experts. They all loved giving me advice on getting started and I listened attentively because I never got the same advice twice.
It became obvious to me that I would have to generate cowboy credibility the hard way or I would have to listen to my neighbors tell me how to get things done for as long as I lived there. First, I bought the Wranglers and appropriate footwear. I did not starch them as I could not bring myself to wear jeans to a wedding or a funeral, but at least I had the outfit. The Smothers Brother version of The Streets of Laredo that included the line, "Get yourself an outfit and you can be a cowboy too" just is not true. You can wear the clothes but you are still just a dude on a ranch.
Second step was getting a mustang. The Bureau of Land Management in the Department of the Interior rounds up wild horses across the west and then holds auctions to find these animals homes. They are keeping the herds thinned because the land these horses call home is leased to ranchers for feeding livestock. The lease is more valuable if the horses are not eating the forage and killing the mustangs caused congress to intervene and protect the wild horses and their habitat. My first horse was a mustang adopted from the BLM, more properly, he adopted me at a BLM auction. Just like in the movies, he was a one person horse. He ate alfalfa from my hand the day I met him and would not let anyone else get close to him.
This was a great step toward cowboy credibility. I had a horse and he liked me! I also was getting even more of those looks as I explained that I was going to gentle him and get him under saddle myself. I also got numerous lectures about how unreliable and untrainable mustangs were and that I should get a quarter horse. My cowboy rating was falling again.
For sixteen months my mustang and I built riding arenas and horse stalls and worked on being friends. We walked around the neighborhood getting to know all the other horses and learning about the scary things that my neighbors had, like bicycles! Watching my new friend spook when a two wheel vehicle went by, earned me more of those dude ranch smiles.
My neighbors all insisted that I had to "talk" in a way that the horse knew that I was in charge. My years of studying communication led me to a theory that it was more important for me to teach him that I had a bigger brain and opposable thumbs by listening to him and doing things he could not. Mutual dependence seemed like a better approach than trying to convince a 1,000 pound animal that I was more powerful than he was. With this in mind, and my chuckling neighbors in the background, I spent the first month convincing this wild animal that he should allow me to pick up his feet and take care of them. Both of us knew how important his feet were. You cannot run away from predators or bicycles if your feet are not in good shape, so this is a major step in gentling a wild horse. Each day, I would head out to the barn with hoof pick in hand to practice having him give me a foot for cleaning. Each day, he would tell me he was not sure if this was a good idea, but we would make progress.
One morning when I went out to the barn, he was lying in the warm winter sun taking a nap. I walked up to him with my hoof pick and his halter and lead rope in hand. He looked up at me and considered what he was about to go through. I could see him consider his options and I expected that he would jump to his feet rather than have me get too close while he was lying down and vulnerable. He looked me in the eye and then put his head back down. He told me "go ahead and get it over with" so that he could go back to his nap. I went ahead and cleaned the three hooves that he had left available as he was lying with the fourth somewhat under him. With three hooves clean, I simply tapped the remaining leg until he gave me that one as well.
I was so pleased with myself that I had gotten all four hooves cleaned and there had not been a single moment of disagreement between us. I of course told everyone of our adventure thinking that I was building some cowboy credibility. Wrong! All I heard was how dangerous this had been because the horse could have decided to get up suddenly and step on me. I tried to explain that I was told to go ahead and clean his feet, but instead of cowboy credibility, I was once again getting dude ranch head shaking and muffled giggles.
As we got closer to the first time under saddle, the dude ranch giggles turned into open requests for tickets to the big rodeo. My neighbors were embracing the spirit of bronco riding rodeos with me in the role of battered and aching cowboy. I promised most of them that I would let them know so that they could see for themselves. I hoped that my first time getting thrown from a wild horse would earn the acceptance and a small loving cup of cowboy credibility.
On another late winter morning, I was working with my four legged companion on accepting cues from a a bridle and bit while saddled. He was responding quietly and patiently to each little tug on the reins when he finally turned to me and told me to get in the saddle. That is the only way I can explain the look in his eyes, the slope of his neck and position of his legs. It all said the same thing, it's time. Please remember, that I had never ridden a horse. I was about to mount a mustang without the first clue about what either of us would do next. My blood pressure was spiking, but I put my foot in the stirrup and went up, over and into the seat of the saddle. As soon as my weight was on his back, he turned his head to look at me. His eyes said, "now what?" We both held very still for a moment before I swung back out of the saddle to give the horse a big hug and a carrot.
When this story was told for the neighborhood, I always apologized for not inviting them for the rodeo that never happened. I still got lots of laughs for believing the horse when "he" talked to me, but the laughs were now laughs of comrades with shared experience. I earned cowboy credibility by listening.
The First Wreck
I have always heard that getting on a horse means that you know that one day you would be coming off, suddenly, just part of the pleasure of riding. Kind of like flying a plane, success is measured in walking after you are back on the ground. The trick for both horse and rider is getting back up as soon as possible to be sure that the required trust still flowers in the relationship.
I learned to ride by gentling a wild horse weanling and getting him under saddle when he was just about two years old. For my part, trusting a young mustang with my well being was no different than trusting a two year old human with a similar responsibility, not even in a dream. His attention span required a stopwatch for accurate measurement, his gregarious nature required him to introduce himself to everything he met and he still had a fondness for running just because he could. During the first six months, I limited our “riding” to about 15 to 20 minutes at time to reduce the stress on his still growing frame and to teach him things like starting, stopping and turning when requested. You do not get far from home in so short a time.
Part of Sundance's training had been long walks (on a lead) in the neighborhood with his barn buddy, Michael, who was recovering from a broken bone. The two were inseparable. Best buddies around the barn and a terrible twosome for herd dynamics. This bond led to my first wreck while riding.
We were riding through the mesquite and cactus in the neighborhood about as far we had gone on a “trail ride”. I was on Sundance, Michael and Fredo (that's right, Sunny, Michael and Fredo) were being ridden by friends who decided a nice gallop would be the perfect thing for the thoroughbreds so, off they went. Sensible attitudes say that we are not going to trust a two year old horse to decide what is the appropriated speed. I asked him to wait rather than chasing off after Michael. He agreed reluctantly and seemed to focus his attention elsewhere, after all, several seconds had passed.
There would not be a story here if he did not change his mind rather suddenly. I remember the first several steps that took him, make that us, to a full gallop. I remember feeling his determination to catch up with his barn buddy. I remember feeling somewhat unstable thinking that I must look like Kid Shilleen saving Cat Ballou. I do not remember the rush people say you get from riding at a full gallop. It must be one of those things that does not hit you immediately when it is your first time at gallop or maybe it was just the rush of my head to the ground that prevents real clarity of the sensation. I do not remember hitting the ground and for that I am grateful.
My next recollection was that everything was out of focus, like my glasses were missing, no wait, there they are right there in the sand. Better, but only half, so now I as still lying face down sifting the sanding in hope of finding the lenses with my fingers. Sundance, always true to his partner, had raced on ahead to tell everyone what had happened and that I might need help. From my position on the ground, I could feel, hear and see 3 horses (two with riders) galloping back to count the pieces. I knew I had to find them all before they got there so that we could get an accurate count.
When my horse got back to me, first he rubbed my cheek with his nose and then he hung his head to nibble my hand with his lips. His apology was accepted and we discussed the meaning of whoa and whoa dammit and how those might be different. We both learned something there that we discussed in silence. I gathered the reins, provided a couple of cues to make sure his head was back with me and swung back into the saddle to head back to the barn and find the spare glasses and the jewelers screwdrivers. He knew he had made a mistake that he would never make again and we had come to an understanding that he would listen to me and that I would always appreciate that he would come back for me every time I got in trouble. A nice thing to know.
I do not know how long all of this took. I do know that I found the lenses, wobbled to my feet and was able to assist in counting. Also, I am quite certain that the ride back to the barn was a blur because my glasses were in my pocket. The important point is that I did get back on the horse and tradition was maintained. I don't think I came off him again until a huge, very hungry, equine-eating butterfly with a wing span of at least 12 or 15 eighths of an inch darted out in front of us from his hiding place in a mesquite, but that is a different story.
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