Some evenings fifty or sixty people showed up, but other nights there were few as ten. Dancer served delicious beef stews with onions, carrots, and potatoes, and he wowed the people with his poetry. I started colts and shared a few life lessons learned from horses. Freckles and I pushed the colts around the round pen. I then removed Freckles’ bridle and rode him around and around, back and forth, schooling the colts.
Freckles developed an affinity for having his picture taken. People swore that he was posing. Overshadowing Dancer and me, he became the star of the show.
Dancer Davis served up delicious dutch oven fare and cowboy poetry for his contribution to Grant and Jane’s first and failed tent business.
We were having a lot of fun doing the demonstrations, but by early August we were failing due to the modest attendance. Because Dancer was earning very little money he announced he was moving on. His Cadillac and wagon pulled onto the highway and disappeared. Jane and I sat in our empty tent wondering what we were going to do. I had gained experience working horses in front of an audience, but we had earned little more than some great memories. We were dead in the water during the busiest part of the summer season. Soon the snow would fly and chase away the tourists, along with our potential income. Had we made a mistake erecting the tent?
31
MORAN, WYOMING, 1998
We were trying to figure out what to do next when a meeting planner from Jackson Lake Lodge, a resort in Grand Teton National Park close to the ranch, called to say she attended one of our demonstrations and enjoyed it. She was looking for unique experiences for corporate groups that stayed at the lodge. Our program would be perfect, she said, however with no kitchen and no Dancer we had no way to cook food, especially of the quality corporate groups would expect.
No problem, she said. The hotel would cater the food.
Soon buses loaded with corporate leaders started rolling in. Grand Teton Lodge showed up in trucks filled with delicious gourmet foods. We weren’t sure about all this. Would these business people relate to our program, to our lifestyle? Would they enjoy watching a cowboy train a horse? Would they relate to anything we would show them? Would they pay for such an experience?
The corporate audiences, made up of accomplished leaders in their industries, intimidated me. These people were unlike any groups we had hosted: they were attentive, results oriented, and quick to connect the process of horse training to their companies and personal lives. I kept thinking about how Tom Dorrance, Ray Hunt, and Tink had often said that the philosophy for dealing with horses applies to humans, too. I had begun to see the truth of that in my early clinics and the summer demonstrations, but these corporate types really made the connection and were eager to apply the lessons.
The strength of their reactions surprised me. Often, individuals would approach me after the demo with tears in their eyes and exclaim how grateful they were, that what they had seen had made a profound impact on them. The horses appeared to be having the same effect on them they had had on me. People also recognized themselves in the horses, which were serving as mirrors to teach attendees about themselves. The horses reflected powerful images of employees, customers, spouses, and children. When I’d ask the leaders what they had learned, they would mention lessons relating to trust and communication, the exact things horses had taught me. What we believed would be entertainment and a meal turned out to also be an experience of personal growth. This astounded me; but when I thought about it, the effect made sense. Horses had influenced me in the same way.
I thought back to my first demo in Dubois and to my excitement about how much the lessons of the horse seemed to be helping their owners, too. I remembered the thrill I got from feeling that my work was helping people as well as horses. I recalled having an inkling that I had stumbled onto my future. But that future still seemed elusive.
Freckles nuzzles a young colt that Grant is working with at a demonstration in the Diamond Cross barn. His presence helps the young horses relax, making them more trainable for Grant.
Now it was presenting itself again. Buzzing with excitement over people’s reactions, Jane and I spent many evenings talking about the relationship between horses and humans and how the philosophy might also apply to coworkers, employees, spouses, and kids. I thought about my experiences with Carl and Neal, and about how, in addition to helping horses I had always felt a desire to help people. Jane and I began to feel a new purpose.
Our financial situation was still strained. However, by the end of summer we had earned $5,000 in profit, just enough to replenish the savings we had invested in the tent. The meeting planner felt the business could grow, she told us that the groups talked about the experience even after they returned home. New groups were already booking the event for the following summer. Jane and I sensed we were on the cusp of something big. The stakes felt high because this new venture was really our only option to significantly improve our finances, send Peter and Tara to college, and to feel that we were fulfilling our purpose.
We “put on the dog,” including white tablecloths, china, and silverware. For the next few summers, a steady stream of groups joined us: various health care groups, several banks, and auto manufacturers. One group included railroad owners and thirty U.S. congressmen. A Supreme Court justice came.
After one horse demo, Jane and I sat at the head table; where our wire-haired cowdog Doffie made his rounds begging for scraps of steak, chicken, and ribs. Though full as a tick he would stop and stare at a guest with those big brown eyes as if he were a starving street dog. “The Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor goes to … Doffie.”
Doffie with his sweet and friendly nature was much loved by guests, ranch hands and family alike.
During dessert, one of the guests at our table, remembering that Doffie had just made another round, said, “I sure do like that dog. Where’d he go?”
I hollered, “Doffie, come here.” From out of nowhere Doffie leaped up and landed right in the middle of the table, lighting so carefully that he did not spill so much as a glass of water. Embarrassed, I picked him up and set him on the ground. “I’m so sorry,” I said.
But Doffie’s antics only seemed to endear him to our guests, and they peppered me with questions about him. I ended up telling the whole story.
DOFFIE
One day, driving home after visiting Locke and Les in Dubois, Tara was crossing Togwotee Pass right in the middle of the Bridger-Teton National Forest. She rounded a curve and saw a mangy-looking red heeler trotting down the middle of the highway. There was nothing but mountains and forest all around. No houses, no people, but plenty of bears and wolves to keep a dog from lasting long. Worried that a predator would kill him or a car would hit him, she pulled off the road, rolled down her window, and called to him. She opened her door and stepped out, and the dog ran up, wagged his tail, and leaped inside.
He had no collar, so thinking him abandoned, she brought him home. He immediately made himself at home, acting as if he had lived on the ranch his entire life. He proved helpful with the livestock, moving cattle and wrangling the horses with me each day. We tried to locate his owner by running an ad in the newspaper: “Found on Togwotee Pass, red-and-white heeler with wiry hair and one floppy ear.”
We tried out various names like Red, Rusty, Rojo, and any other name we could think of for a stock dog, but he didn’t respond to any of them. While he slept at Jane’s feet one evening, she called a rancher friend who ran cattle on a grazing permit up on Togwotee Pass. “Are you missing a red heeler?” she asked, and then described the dog.
“Oh yes. Kaddafi.”
Jane looked perplexed. “Kaddafi?” Suddenly the dog jumped up and started wagging his tail.
“Yup. He belongs to the cowboy who looks after my cows. I’ll tell him where he is.”
We all had a good laugh about the name. Kaddafi the dog was no dictator. He loved people. But cows were another matter. He liked them, but they didn’t like him. He would nail them if they refused
to move.
We waited for the cowboy to call, but he never did, so the dog became ours the way most of our dogs did: by default. We had a strict rule against terrorist dictators living on the ranch, so we changed his name to “Doffie.”
Doffie was a valuable partner around the ranch. He became an integral part of our demos when he learned to leap up on Freckles and ride behind my saddle. He learned to love our groups because they gave him a chance to eat like a king. After each demo he waddled around bloated but happy.
By now our group demo business was increasing. We were succeeding, but our tent was failing. Pollen had turned the white canvas top an ugly brown. The weight of spring snows had begun to pull the fabric apart. On chilly evenings the heaters did not keep the tent warm.
We were still operating on yearly temporary-use permits. Our little business, which we had worked so hard to grow, could be snuffed out in an instant. A complaining tourist or neighbor could cause our permit to be revoked. The county had done this before in other instances. Our only long-term solution was to construct a permanent facility. We felt that our future depended on it.
I had already begun to envision it: a barn that would allow us to host our groups and train horses year-round.
I asked Jane, “Do you see it?”
“No, but I believe it can happen.” Such a building, however, would require a huge amount of money. Although our corporate demos had increased our income, such an investment appeared impossible.
One night I dreamed a stranger came onto our property. He said, “I’m looking to buy twenty acres.” When I told Jane about my dream, she, as had become her custom, wrote notes about it. Because her parents had struggled to keep the ranch and pass it down to their children, selling any part of it was a highly sensitive issue. For two years we ignored the idea and told no one about the dream.
Since we believed in the power of visioning, we cut a picture of a barn from a magazine and taped it to our refrigerator. We researched numbers and determined the building would cost half a million dollars. Raising this amount seemed impossible. Though our cattle pasturing and horse-training businesses were improving and we were booking between thirty to forty corporate groups each summer, Peter and Tara were about to graduate and enter college. A building project seemed out of the question.
32
ULAN BATOR, MONGOLIA, 2000
In the early spring, my friend Brent Bauman, founder of Cowboys with a Mission, called and asked me to participate in a three-week service project to Mongolia. I couldn’t even locate Mongolia on a map. Our minds were occupied with everything we had going on, including summer activities with the kids. I couldn’t afford the expense of going, especially during the summer demo season when we earned most of our income. I told him I would pray about the idea, but soon dismissed it.
A few days later I picked up a newspaper. It showed a photo of a Mongolian sheepherder standing next to his yurt on a vast, remote prairie. I picked up an atlas, which opened to the page for Mongolia. That evening I sat down with Jane. I asked, “What do you think of me going to Mongolia?”
She frowned. “That’s our busy time. We can’t afford for you to be gone.”
A few nights later I dreamed I was in Mongolia working a horse in a round pen. Mongolian men were watching me with very stern expressions. I couldn’t tell if they were hostile, but the situation made me feel uncomfortable.
I told Jane about the dream. “I think I am supposed to go. This trip may be somehow tied to our future. What do you think?”
Jane didn’t hesitate. “Well then, you better go.”
The day my travel partner Ebon and I flew across Mongolia toward the capital city of Ulan Bator, the sky was clear blue. Green mountain ranges divided vast, rolling plains. Periodically a yurt appeared on the plains surrounded by horses and livestock. Not a single fence dissected the land. I thought, This is what Wyoming must have looked like two hundred years ago.
Having been under Soviet rule for fifty years, Ulan Bator was in shambles. Half-finished apartment buildings towered above groups of yurts and rows of shacks. The streets were full of potholes. Diesel buses and trucks billowed smoke that settled in a thick smog over the city. Trees were scarce. The restrooms consisted of lines of wood shacks. Inside, people relieved themselves standing on wooden boards above a trench of open sewage. The heat made the smell almost unbearable.
We met the team of young people that had already been volunteering for two weeks. Our group of seven shared an unfurnished two-bedroom apartment, in a ramshackle building. We slept on the floor in our sleeping bags, we were lucky: our apartment had running water and a toilet!
We had arrived in time for Nadam Days, the annual harvest festival celebrated with horse racing, wrestling, and archery. Mongolians had traveled from various locations hundreds of miles away. Many had arrived on horses or camels and stayed outside the city in a huge yurt camp. Many of the adults wore traditional clothing—colorful coats and loose pants, black leather boots, and brightly colored gold trimmed velvet hats in red, purple, and black. A pointed tip rose up from each hat like a church spire.
Grant has a little fun, expanding his riding skills when he hops on a camel in Mongolia.
Many of the young people wore t-shirts and blue jeans and ball caps. Men stayed with their clans and families on horseback. Women cooked around campfires.
Their horses were small and thin, shaggy-maned, long-tailed, and hardened by harsh winters and nomadic life. The bridles were crafted from rawhide with crude, hand-forged steel bits. Mongolian saddles were made from rawhide-covered wood. They had no leather, and no padding.
The main event was horse racing. Huge crowds gathered at the starting line, where the people pushed against each other for a better view of the beginning of a grueling twenty-mile race that would cover rugged terrain and circle back to the start. The crowd crushed in on us. Our guide, Susan, a local missionary, said, “It’s the way they are. Don’t be intimidated. Just push back.” We shouldered our way in.
The race began. Young boys and girls dressed in bright colors galloped off through a large cloud of dust. In unison the crowd chanted a low-pitched guttural sound.
When the last racer disappeared, the crowd fell silent. Everyone milled around waiting for the racers to return. We mingled in the crowd, shot pictures and video. Finally, a buzz arose among the people. The race leaders were coming.
Dust rose up on the horizon. As the riders appeared, the people again started to chant. The thunder of hooves grew louder until the leaders galloped across the finish line. The crowd closed in around them as if welcoming back the army of Genghis Khan. More riders streamed in. Some horses came back riderless. Cheering, the people hoisted the winners onto their shoulders and paraded them around.
Another day we went to the coliseum to watch wrestling and archery. People stood shoulder to shoulder in the bus. At the venue, an old wooden coliseum, hundreds of Mongols pushed in line. We crowded in. While stocky Mongols grappled, the people cheered. Archers—men, women, and children—shot at targets. Dignitaries paraded the winners around on horses draped with colorful banners.
After Nadam Days our group of seven rode a minibus out of Ulan Bator to visit a horse trader. Susan hoped I would have the chance to give a horse training demonstration. After sharing some fermented mare’s milk with us in his yurt, the trader led out an unbroken colt and handed me the lead rope. The sorrel colt looked to be about three years old, rangy and ribby, about thirteen hands tall.
As soon as I started working the colt on the end of the lead rope, the trader barked at me in Mongolian and jerked the rope out of my hand. He grabbed a horse’s ear in each hand, twisted, and jerked its head down. His son, a boy of about thirteen, came running with the saddle and set it on the colt. Each time the horse tried to move; the trader made a deep guttural sound and jerked harder. The horse stood stock-still, paralyzed by the pain.
Rawhide quirt in hand, the boy fastened the saddle with two narrow rawhide straps and c
limbed on. The father let go and yelled something to his son. The boy began whipping the horse down its flank and over its head, and the terrified colt squealed and bucked like a rodeo bronc. The boy jerked on the reins as he continued to hit the colt with the rawhide quirt until it finally quit bucking and broke into a run across the steppe.
The boy pulled on one rein with both hands and finally turned the horse toward us. It ran back and stood head hung and nostrils flaring for more air. The boy, his chest puffed out, dismounted. His father stood proud and grinning. He reminded me of my Dad teaching me how to break his mules. “Just show ’em who’s boss.”
The Mongolians’ methods didn’t differ much from those of the old American cowboys who trained through force, fear, intimidation, and repetition. We horsemen were proud of our methods, which were a part of our culture. A cowboy had to be all-around tough, especially to win the battle between horse and man.
Not until Tom Dorrance and Ray Hunt came along had much changed in the training of horses in America or the Western world. When Ray said, “Anybody can make war with a horse. I am more interested in making peace,” few people listened. But over time, his philosophies took hold and revolutionized horse training in the States and spread to other Western countries.
Though I cringed at the way the Mongolian horse trader treated his horse, I understood this was still the way of his world. He was only doing what he knew, what he had been taught. Like all of us, he was a product of his culture and upbringing, a son of his father’s knowledge. His pride had prevented him from seeing a different way. Like some horses, his feet were stuck.
After lunch our group rented some horses from the trader. I was eager to ride one of the tough little Mongolian mounts. I cinched down my own stock saddle on a tiny mare that turned out to be impossible to stop and difficult to turn, like a car with no power steering and the gas pedal stuck at full throttle. The horses performed fine at a walk, but when we asked them to lope they galloped off out of control. I was glad to be riding my own saddle and not one of the crude Mongolian ones.
Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Page 16