“Thank you, son,” she said as she crawled into bed.
Before sunrise the next morning the smell of bacon wafted down to my room in the basement. I could hear someone padding around in the kitchen upstairs. I assumed it was Dad. But when I went upstairs there was Mom cooking breakfast, something she had not done for months. She smiled. “Good morning, son.”
I stared at her in shock.
She said, “I’m okay now. I slept peacefully. I’m well.”
How can this be? I wondered. But Mom really was different. “That’s amazing, Mom. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am fine. Back to normal. I slept like a baby. The depression is gone.”
I rushed to wake Dad and Tara. “Hurry, hurry! Come and see Mom.” For perhaps the first time ever, all four of us enjoyed breakfast as a family. Tara had her Nana back. I had my mother back. Dad had his wife back. As astonishing as it sounds even today, Mom never suffered from depression again.
Having finished pruning the orchard, I needed to make some money, so I placed an ad in the newspaper: “Horseshoeing. Specializing in difficult horses.” This declaration would help me shoe horses that the other farriers didn’t want. It would help me break into a new location without threatening the farriers who didn’t like working with the tough horses, anyway.
Before long, the phone was ringing. The local farriers were soon sending me their problem horses. Since this was my specialty, I quickly gained a reputation for working with troubled horses. I rented a tack room and some pens from a local equestrian center, and began taking in horses to train.
A lot of people in the Grand Valley owned mustangs, formerly wild horses that required a lot of skill to train much like the wild colts at the Diamond D. I began teaching clinics for a nonprofit group called Friends of the Mustangs, which advocated for the Bookcliff mustangs, a herd that runs free in the mountains above Grand Valley. During a clinic a spectator told me about his fourteen-year-old mare, a mouse-colored dun mustang that had never been handled. A young mustang is a challenge. The older they get the more difficult they are to gentle. Some are nearly impossible to tame.
THE DUN MUSTANG MARE
The gentleman had purchased her from one of the many Bureau of Land Management wild horse adoption events around the country. He had adopted her not to ride but to use solely as a broodmare. Attempting to apply natural horsemanship techniques, the man had worked some eighty hours without success. He could get close to the mare, but each time he would reach to touch her she would take off. He was getting desperate. “I need to get her feet trimmed. They’re way too long,” he said.
This man was an official inspector for the wild horse program. His job was to make sure that the animals were properly cared for after adoption. He knew he wasn’t meeting his own standards and needed to be a good example. I chuckled and said, “Yeah, you may have to give yourself a ticket.”
“How much would you charge me to trim her feet?” he asked. “I don’t want her tranquilized.”
“If I can even do it, it’ll be a lot of work and dangerous. How’s three hundred sound?”
“That’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll bring her right over after the clinic.”
He tempted her into his large stock trailer by putting a gentle gelding, her corral mate at home, in the trailer first and then chasing her in behind him. He left them both with me and left for work.
The mustang trotted around the round pen snorting and dropping her head to sniff the ground. Having lived in a small corral with soft footing, her hooves had not worn down as they would have in the wild. They had grown out about two inches beyond a normal hoof and were beginning to crack. These cracks could extend up her hooves and cause serious, long-term lameness.
Since he was only paying me to trim her feet and not halter break her, I roped a front foot. When she finally got used to the rope around her foot, I tugged on the rope, holding firm until she learned to yield to the pressure. Little by little I got her leading by a front foot and eased her in close to me while I squatted on the ground. I put my hand up and touched her just above the hoof. She pulled back, and I allowed her to run on the rope like a fish on a line, holding some tension on the rope but allowing her to escape. Gradually she became less fearful of me, and soon stood quietly while I held her leg extended out in front of her. I stroked her leg from the knee down while she put her nose on my back, sniffing me warily. I eased my shoeing stand up under her foot and little by little trimmed the long thick hoof wall down to proper length. Though her powerful body was tight with nerves, she managed to stay calm trying to trust me. About an hour had passed. I was soaked with sweat. Catching my breath I said to her, “One down, three to go,” and turned her loose in the round pen.
I roped her other front foot and repeated the process. Familiar with the routine but still suspicious of me, the mare gradually gave in to the pressure of the rope and came to me. It took about half as long for me to trim the second hoof. She was gaining confidence. Once again as a reward, I took the rope off her foot and allowed her some time to rest. “Two down, two to go.” I wiped the sweat from my brow, sat down in the shade, and thought about how I was going to tackle the hind feet, which could seriously injure a person with one blow.
Lasso twirling, I drove her around the corral, threw my loop, and caught a hind foot. She felt the rope tighten around her foot and kicked out hard while running around the pen. I gave her slack and let her to run a few laps until the panic subsided and she realized the rope wasn’t going to hurt her. Soon she was giving to the pressure of the rope and even allowed me to take hold of her foot. But I had to put her foot on my leg to get it trimmed. It was more than she could take and she continued to kick at me. Would her gelding friend make her feel more secure? I wondered.
I opened the trailer gate and let her get in and stand next to her friend. His presence calmed her, and she allowed me to hold her hind foot and trim it. That went pretty well, I thought. Three down, one to go.
Untying the gelding, I led him out into the round pen as the mare followed. Leading the gelding back into the trailer, I tied him in the opposite corner—this would allow the mare’s other foot to be exposed. I roped the last hind leg, and after going through the same process, opened the gate and let her back into the trailer to stand with her stablemate. She stood quietly while I trimmed the last foot. I looked at my watch. Three hours.
In giving problem horses like this mustang mare a new opportunity for a healthy life Grant found a calling for his own life. Photo by Mary Steinbacher.
That’s a hundred dollars an hour, I thought. I felt quite satisfied, but the owner wasn’t due for two more hours. I wonder if I can break her to the halter. Once again I turned the mare loose in the round pen. Lariat in hand, I drove her around swinging my loop. As expected, this caused her to run around the pen, but after a few laps she stopped and glanced at me. This was my cue. I quit swinging and stepped back allowing her stand and rest, then I eased toward her until she ran off again. I followed, loop swinging. She discovered that if she stopped running and turned to face me, the rope would stop and she could rest. She eventually allowed me to walk up close to her. Finally, she reached out to smell my hand, but would not let me touch her. I had played this cat and mouse game with mustangs before. She had gained a lot of avoidance experience with her owner. Stepping back about fifteen feet, I swung my loop--but only once. When she gave a sign she was about to leave, I stopped. Her fear decreased. This allowed me to drop an overhand loop over her head without her even knowing it was coming.
The feel of the rope around her neck sent her into a frenzy, and she wheeled to the outside of the round pen trying to escape. As I had with her feet, I allowed her some time to get used to the feel of the rope. Soon I was stepping in front of her and getting her to change direction by tossing the rope over her hindquarters. At first this frightened her, but she soon became used to the touch of the rope. I began lightly tugging at the rope, releasing her at the slightest yield to pressure.
In just a few minutes she was following a soft feel, and before long I was leading her around without tightening the rope. After she realized there was no need to be afraid of the rope, I was able to halter her and lead her around calmly. I looked at my watch. Another hour. “We’ve come this far,” I said. “Let’s see how much you can learn before going home.”
Starting with her head and neck I began rubbing her with my hands working my way over her body and down her legs, picking up her feet as I went. It was amazing how fast things were progressing now that she trusted me. I even got a tarp from my truck and “sacked her out,” desensitizing her to its feel and sound. She soon learned to relax and stand quietly.
When the inspector drove up, he was happy to see that I had a halter on her and that her feet were trimmed. I demonstrated how I could pick up all four feet without the assistance of a rope while she stood quietly. I coached him while he did the same. We even turned the mare loose in the round pen and she stood still for him to approach and catch her. I can’t explain the satisfaction I felt knowing that the dun mare and her owner would have a better relationship. It was the oldest wild horse I had ever worked with. I often wondered if there was an age limit beyond which Tom’s and Ray’s philosophies wouldn’t work. Surely it depends on the horse, but this mare made me even more of a believer. I think with a little more time she would have let me ride her. We had connected through trust. In only a day we had become friends, and I was sorry to see her go.
Because the mare’s owner was well-connected to the wild horse program, his endorsement opened new doors to work with more mustangs, and working with mustangs would lead me to other horses and, several months later, to another person who would change my life as dramatically as Locke had.
THE END OF RUNNING
THE END OF RUNNING
28
PALISADE, COLORADO, 1997
Spring in Grand Valley turned to summer. Temperatures rose to nearly a hundred degrees and I found myself missing the coolness of Wyoming’s high country. Jane Lucas, a rancher in Moran, Wyoming near Jackson Hole, and Locke’s and my good friend with whom we had put on several horse events, invited me to put on a clinic at her place. The clinic would give me a chance to see Tara, who was spending the summer in Dubois with Locke and Les, who had married the previous winter.
Jane lived on the Diamond Cross ranch, a spread her parents had owned since the 1940s. To remain on the land she and her family had clawed and scratched to make a living. A twice-divorced mother of two boys, Jane continued to do whatever she could to raise her boys and keep the ranch. The location was stunning: green meadows and a free-flowing river against a backdrop of the majestic Teton Mountains.
The clinic was well-attended and I decided to stay over a few more days to help people with their horses and do some shoeing. It was good to be back in Wyoming around old friends, and I thought about how nice it would be to spend summers in Jackson Hole where horse work seemed plentiful. I decided to make another trip later in the summer.
When I arrived home in Colorado at the horse facility I had rented, my landlord said she was making some changes and I would not be part of them. She gave me twenty-four hours to remove my stuff from her property. This was quite a shock; I immediately looked for another place to train. Nothing was available. The heat was oppressive. Some of my shoeing accounts had dried up and nothing seemed to be working out. I prayed and asked, “What’s going on? Every door here is closing. What should I do?”
Still seeking direction the following morning, I opened my Bible. The verse almost knocked me down: “Go back and possess the land you were banished from.”
I knew a move to Wyoming would affect both Tara and me in a big way. Plus, I had been dating a couple of different women—both blondes—and wasn’t sure if an exclusive relationship with either would offer long-term potential. The single life didn’t fit me well, and I hoped to marry again, but I didn’t trust myself to make a sound decision. I continued to pray about the situation for the next couple of days.
I had always had extremely vivid dreams, including the nightmares that continued to plague me. But since Tara had been born and I had begun to focus more on my spiritual life, the nightmares had decreased and I had begun experiencing dreams that felt like they were foreshadowing the future. Of course, it took me a long time to trust them, but as more of them came true trusting became easier. Before I went to sleep that night, I prayed for wisdom about which woman would be best for me, and dreamed the two women were standing on opposite sides of me. I was in the middle next to a short, slight woman who had shoulder-length brown hair with a sort of red tint. We were smiling at each other, and I felt very happy. I tried to get a good look at the woman’s face, but could not.
Upon waking, I knew this was the right woman for me. All I had to do was wait for her to show up. I promptly ended any hint of a relationship with both blonde women.
Eager to get back to Jackson Hole, I called Jane and arranged to stay in her bunkhouse. Ecstatic about seeing Tara, I loaded my tack and shoeing equipment and headed north. When I arrived at the Diamond Cross, the sunset behind the Tetons cast a splendid glow over the green fields. I inhaled deeply. How good it was to breathe in the high country air of Wyoming. Jane was some distance off turning a horse out to pasture. When she walked back and got closer, my jaw fell open. “Jane, what did you do to your hair?”
She seemed taken aback, a bit embarrassed by my noticing. She shrugged. “I had it cut shoulder-length. My hairdresser got the color wrong. I really didn’t want it this red. Does it look that bad?”
I stammered. “No, no. It looks fine,” and then quickly changed the subject. I thought, Could this be her? The idea shocked me. Jane and I had been nothing but good friends. Not that I wouldn’t have been interested; I just had not thought of her in a romantic way. I had no idea if she was interested in me, so I decided to keep my mouth shut and see what happened.
Jane and I were both hard up for money. All summer we worked on the ranch and trained horses together while I did some shoeing on the side. I helped with the 4-H horse program where Jane’s two sons, Luke and Peter Long, competed. When she wasn’t in Dubois with Locke, Tara, now eleven, stayed with me in the bunkhouse. She seemed happy to be back in Wyoming with both of her parents and her old friends.
One day an event planner from Jackson Hole drove onto the ranch and asked Jane if she would be interested in hosting a rodeo in her arena for a group of three hundred and fifty Microsoft executives. A private rodeo for a corporate group was way outside our expertise, but the event sounded like fun. Jane needed the income, but told me she couldn’t put on such a large event alone. If I would help, she’d split the profits with me. I had no idea that this random, one-time event would lead me to my life’s work.
One night Jane and I returned from dropping Tara at her mother’s. Out of the blue Jane turned to me and asked, “Grant, have you ever thought about us being more than friends?”
The dream popped into my head, but caught off guard and reluctant to reveal my thoughts, I said, “Well, yeah. It has crossed my mind.”
I was still wary of marriage. I needed time alone to think things over. That night I prayed hard. “This is important. I don’t know what to do.” As had become my habit when I needed answers, I grabbed my Bible and opened it. My eyes landed on a verse in the book of Proverbs: “He who finds a wife, finds what is good, and receives favor from the Lord.”
The next morning I walked straightway to Jane’s house. “I had a dream a while back,” I said, and told her the whole thing, including the verse I had read.
“I haven’t told you,” she said, “But two years ago, before I had any idea you and Locke would split up, I had a vision about a man with a mustache. He was a man of the land and we were happy together enjoying a common lifestyle. I had no idea that the man might be you.” We both agreed that it was no coincidence that we were now together and decided to get married that fall. It seemed like our destiny.
The nex
t evening, Jane, Peter, Luke, and I were eating dinner with friends. Grinning, I said, “I have an announcement to make. Jane and I are getting hitched.” Everyone laughed and clapped and congratulated us—except Peter and Luke, who, blindsided by the news, sat unmoving with looks of shock and terror on their faces. Luke hung his head and stared at the floor. Peter glared at Jane, and then his eyes filled with tears. Uh-oh, I thought. I should’ve talked with the boys first. At that point I was mostly unaware of the trauma that Peter and Luke had been through during Jane’s previous marriages. I hadn’t realized why the news would be so hard on them.
The next morning Luke came out of his room, his eyes welling with tears. He told Jane, “I want to go live with Dad in California.”
Jane said, “It’s going to be okay, Luke. Give it some time. You’ll be all right.”
But it wouldn’t be all right. Like many sixteen-year-olds, he stiffened up and said, “I’m calling Dad.”
He dialed the number, and to our surprise Luke’s dad suggested he stay put and give things a try.
Before, I had been just a friend to Jane, and no threat to Peter and Luke. Now that we were marrying, their lives would change in many ways. After seven years of living alone with their single mother, they had become content. Now, stuck with having to deal with me, Luke and Peter shut me out. They reminded me of many horses I had dealt with that were mistrusting and fearful. No matter how I approached them they would not communicate.
They would need time to get used to the idea, and I would need to patient. I had stepped into their life and they had been given no choice. I had no idea how difficult it was for them to accept a stranger into their family. Their insecurity, fear of abandonment, and the worry about going through another divorce must have been overwhelming. What good could possibly come from this man marrying their mother?
The boys pretty much pretended I didn’t exist, and when school started they focused on school and sports. Tara accepted the idea because the marriage would land her permanently in Wyoming near her mother and friends. Without difficulty she settled into the tiny Moran Elementary School.
Chasing a Dream Page 14