Over the next two hours of riding I worked with the horse to ease her fear and soften her response to my body, legs, and hands. I gently bent her back and forth, releasing the pressure on the bit when she gave to me. The mare responded like most horses would. When she realized there was nothing to be afraid of, she relaxed and became lighter on the bit and easier to control.
I was eager to pass on a few tips and suggestions that might take hold and spread to other parts of Mongolia like Tom’s and Ray’s had in the West, but the Mongolian horseman seemed more interested in showing me how it’s done than in exchanging ideas about methods. I was supposed to listen and take notes.
33
ULAN BATOR, MONGOLIA, 2000
That evening we bumped along in our bus on the potholed road to Ulan Bator. Barefoot children toted water in buckets they had filled from springs where livestock drank and defecated. Rows of shacks covered the hillsides approaching the city. I thought, How does a family survive a winter in one of those? Though my family had struggled financially in America, we had so much more. I felt rich.
We stopped to eat supper at a local restaurant. Not long after finishing my meal I got sick. That night I experienced what some of my friends had, a type of food poisoning they called “Mongolian Revenge.” Over the course of the night our toilet and I became well-acquainted. I didn’t eat for several days. The smell of meat—beef, sheep, or horse, which was a local favorite—turned my stomach. It all smelled like rancid rawhide.
The following day we loaded rice; large hunks of beef, sheep, and horsemeat; potatoes and carrots; clothing, underwear, shoes, toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap, shampoo, and washrags. I still felt nauseated when we started jostling the two hundred miles north to the mountains to deliver supplies to an orphanage and to spend a week with the children.
All along the way we passed sheep, cattle, and yak herders. Riders on horseback and people traveling on foot trudged along with their belongings packed on a train of two or three camels.
We arrived in a mountain valley surrounded by forests. A steel fence encircled a former Soviet military camp. A handful of Mongolian military men stood guard. A series of small wood huts housed the children, and an old wood lodge served as kitchen and eating area. Nearly one hundred kids, boys and girls ranging in age from five to fifteen, came running out. They were emaciated, dirty, dressed in rags. Their unkempt hair teemed with lice. Before long they were crowding in to touch us or hold our hands.
Periodically, the guards barked orders at them, and then the children immediately did calisthenics or ran laps around camp. Some of the children held their stomachs and cried. If one misbehaved, the entire group was punished.
I asked Susan, “How did these kids end up here?”
“They’re throwaways. Their parents either abandoned them or were sent to prison. Alcoholism and abuse are big problems. Many children run away to live on the streets where they get picked up by officials and sent to camp. Orphans, too. They’re taboo, ‘bad medicine.’”
No one wanted the kids, and the government wouldn’t allow foreigners to adopt them.
The women in our group hiked the girls to the creek, bathed them, and dressed them in clean clothes. We led the boys to a different area and did the same. We brought out toothbrushes and toothpaste and showed them how to brush their teeth. We dusted them with lice powder.
All week we played with the children teaching them various games such as soccer and kickball. At first they held back, unsure and hesitant to get involved, but soon joined in. Their laughter filled the air.
I bought some pine poles from a local rancher and built a round corral. We rented some old gentle horses, and led the kids around in the pen. For most of them it was their first time on a horse, and they hung on for dear life, but soon they were riding around with their hands in the air. The kids waiting for a turn stood outside the corral and cheered for their friends. Soon the older kids were leading the horses for the younger ones.
I wanted to try my hand at working with an unbroken Mongolian horse. Through my interpreter I asked the local herders where I might find one. One man nodded. “I know of a young horse that hasn’t been ridden. But it will cost you money.” We agreed on a price, the equivalent of twenty U.S. dollars.
The next morning two Mongolian men rode up leading a four-year-old stallion tied between their horses with two ropes. Though the stallion was half choked from the ropes around its neck, it kicked, pawed, and bit at their horses to get away. The men dragged him into the round pen. I paid them their money, and they turned the stallion loose.
Through my interpreter I told the men I would train the horse. I wanted to make a bold prediction, say something that would stir up interest in the local population. I pointed at one of the older boys. “In four days this boy will ride the horse.”
The men just stared at me.
“Would you like to come watch? Bring some friends if you’d like.”
They nodded skeptically and rode away.
Soon people started arriving from who-knows-where. Expressionless, they stood peering into the corral watching. I had made a big claim, but was not sure that this wild Mongolian horse would respond to my techniques. I drove the stallion around the round pen, getting him accustomed to his new surroundings and letting him know that no one was going to hurt him. The pen wasn’t very high and I was concerned he might jump out. I took off my cowboy hat and waved it around to show the onlookers I needed them to flag their hats at the stallion to keep it in the pen.
I decided to rope the horse and eliminate the chance of losing him or getting someone hurt. I took out my sixty-foot rope and threw an overhand loop around the stallion’s neck. The children cheered. The noise and feel of the rope caused the stallion to race frantically around the pen trying to escape.
Finally he got used to the rope and began to relax, yielding to the slightest amount of pressure. Soon he was leading around nicely without tension on the rope.
After rubbing him down with my saddle blanket I took my saddle from the top rail of the corral and let him smell it. He snorted and backpedaled a few steps, but stopped to smell again. I eased the saddle onto his back, gingerly tightened the cinches, and stepped back. He took a couple of steps and then, feeling the saddle cinched to him, started bucking wildly around the corral trying to dislodge it. The children cheered but the adults watched stoically.
When the stallion stopped bucking and moved freely with the saddle, I removed it and spent time rubbing him to help him relax. Pleased, I turned him loose, fed and watered him, and told the onlookers we’d be working again the same time the next afternoon.
The next morning a young man in his twenties who had watched the demonstration the previous day came by and asked through the interpreter if I would help him catch his stallion that had escaped. He made the motion of swinging the rope.
Though I’ve had plenty of practice, I’ve never been an exceptional roper. Roping a stallion in open country would be difficult. “I’ll try,” I said.
I rode off with the young man on one of the rented mares. Who knows what she’ll do if that stallion hits the end of my rope, I thought. The stallion, black with a long mane and tail, was running with a few broodmares on the mountainside. He would not let us near him. Each time we approached he would abandon the mares and gallop off for the woods. For several hours we gave chase, but I could not get close enough to throw a loop. Finally, we turned him back to his mares and their company settled him a bit. I eased my mare around, in and out of the mares, paying no attention to the stallion, keeping my distance but looking for a chance to throw a loop. If I got lucky I would have one shot. Finally, I passed within thirty feet, rope in hand, loop ready. Any flinch would send him galloping off.
He turned his head away to bite at a horsefly. While he was distracted, I took one swing and released. The loop seemed to fly forever. Just as his head turned back, the loop landed around his neck. The rope went taut and I dallied to my saddle horn. My little mare je
rked forward bracing her front feet against the rearing stallion as he bawled, fought and lunged.
Just like the colt in the round pen, I had the stallion leading in a few minutes. The young man rode up with a huge grin on his face. He was very impressed but not nearly as impressed as I was. In fact, I was shocked. How could the loop have flown so straight and landed so perfectly? I couldn’t have done that again in a million tries.
Together we rode back to the orphanage, the stallion in tow. “Thank you,” he said through the interpreter.
The next day he brought several of his friends to the round pen. He said something to the group while swinging his arm above his head. After his story the adults seemed more interested.
I worked the colt for the next three days, and rode him each day in the round pen. On the fourth day, one man complained to the interpreter that it was one thing to ride the horse in the corral, but could I ride him out in the open spaces?
“Open the gate,” I said, and away we went across the prairie loping along just fine. Suddenly, two dogs came running from a nearby yurt, lunging and biting at the stallion. He wheeled around striking at the dogs with his front feet and kicked at them when they tried to bite his heels. If this horse goes down, I’m dead meat, I thought. Holding tight, I gave the stallion his head to do as he pleased. After an intense battle the dogs finally gave up and the stallion and I galloped away across the grassland, my heart pounding. The young stallion calmed right down as if fighting off dogs was a common experience.
A young orphan rides the wild Mongolian horse in the make-shift round pen on the fourth day of the horse’s training. The Mongolians had never seen training techniques like Grant’s.
The crowd at the round corral had seen the entire episode. I rode the stallion calmly back into the corral as the people cheered. The older man who had challenged me nodded begrudgingly. The young man and his friends crowded around. I unsaddled the stallion and pointed to a twelve-year-old orphan boy in the crowd. Come here, I motioned.
I boosted him onto the stallion’s back and demonstrated how to stroke the horse with his hands. I looked at the crowd and put my finger over my lips, and then led the stallion around. The colt felt so at ease with the boy that I removed the halter and allowed the boy to ride him around the corral on his own. He grinned like a child on Christmas morning.
The people stood staring without making a sound. I had opened a door in their thinking. Through the interpreter I said, “I believe that love is stronger than hate, forgiveness is better than revenge, and kindness is better than cruelty. This is how we should treat our horses and one another.”
They seemed to soak up my words. At that moment I remembered the dream about Mongolia I had before leaving home. The actual scene differed little from my dream.
After the demonstration some of the onlookers sought out orphans, lifted them onto their personal horses, and led them around. One man looked awkward, but he was petting his horse. This was an aha moment for me. For the first time I realized that the mirror of the horse transcended cultures and languages. It could help soften even the hardest of human hearts. Never before had I felt a stronger mission to help horses and people. I thought about how life is short, that I needed to reach more people. This nagging sense of purpose began to gnaw at me.
The next day we left the orphanage filled with sadness, the kids clinging to us. We wished we could adopt them all.
34
MORAN, WYOMING, 2000
Late that summer, after I returned from Mongolia, we received a phone call. One of our neighbors, a builder, was looking for a piece of property for a client. Because of the sensitivity of selling any of Jane’s family’s land, we were hesitant to discuss the idea, but my dream prevented us from saying no outright.
“How much land are they looking for?” I asked.
“Around twenty acres.”
We thought about this for several days, and just for discussion’s sake picked out a possible location. Our selling would give us enough money for the kids’ educations and to build our new facility, which would allow me to pursue what had become my mission in life. Several days later the people our builder told us about, a nice couple from California, drove up to look around. They returned a second time and then asked us to sit down and talk.
Jane and I had finally agreed to sell. We arrived at a price based on an appraisal some of her family members had completed a year earlier when considering a conservation easement.
The man asked, “How much do you want for the property?”
I was about to reply but hesitated. Every horseman knows to let the buyer make the first offer. “Well, what are you willing to give?”
His offer doubled our price. Like a good horse trader, I kept a straight face. Is he serious? This is too good to be true. Jane sat motionless. I said, “That’s a good offer. I think we can work out a deal.”
In a few days we held a signed contract and a significant deposit. We were over-joyed. Our financial problems were behind us, and our dream of building the barn would come true.
Selling thirty-five acres or more in Teton County, Wyoming is relatively simple because the process can be completed under agricultural zoning. Sales of fewer acres require a seller to complete the laborious, restrictive, and politically sensitive county planning process. We had not considered the pitfalls inherent in this process. The county required us to build a road, bury underground power to the site, and perform a wetland delineation study. We also had to complete an eagle’s nest delineation due to a nearby nest of bald eagles. This proved to be extremely expensive. Our deposit dwindled to zero, and by December we were forced to go to the bank for a mortgage using the twenty acres. There was no turning back.
By February the buyers, frustrated with the permitting process, threatened to back out. Panic set in. All night every night I tossed and turned. What was that dream all about? Am I crazy? What have I gotten us into? What have I done to Jane and her family? Could we lose the ranch? Tormented by my thoughts and unable to sleep, all I could do was pray. It was the only thing that helped me feel any peace.
That spring a letter arrived from the buyers. The county was placing too many restrictions on them, they said. They would agree to complete the sale only if we’d lower the price.
Nervous, we shared the letter with our banker who was familiar with our property and financial situation. “Take the offer,” he said. Our attorney, who doubted the original deal would go through, advised the same. He said the buyers could sue us for the deposit we had already spent, and win.
I wanted to follow their advice, but Jane suggested we discuss the situation with Luke, who was then a sophomore at Harvard. I had learned to respect Luke’s ability to see the bigger picture.
Unlike us, Luke was undisturbed. He said, “Don’t be afraid. Stick to the original offer. If they back out, we’ll find another buyer.”
I wanted to share his confidence, but did not. We held firm during a month of negotiations. At last an agreement was struck: the buyers would purchase the land at the original price. We set a mid-July closing date. Our attorney, however, had had experience with their attorney and remained dubious.
At the closing, their attorney immediately started pointing out problems with the contract. After four hours of discussions, we reached an agreement that satisfied everyone. We got our original asking price.
The deal done and pressure relieved, we joined our neighbors-to-be for dinner. Together we celebrated the closure of a long drawn-out deal. They looked like kids when they described building their dream home. Jane and I were happy. The deal, fair to both sides, would enable both the buyers’ dreams and our dreams to come true. Over good food and wine we toasted the future. It felt like a massive weight had been lifted from our shoulders.
Two months later, the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001 sent the local and national consciousness and economies into a tailspin. If we had not a signed, rock-solid contract in hand, we could have been ruined by the buyers’ b
acking out.
35
MORAN, WYOMING, 2003
With the deal done and money in the bank we were able to move forward with our building plans. Then we, too, ran into the buzz saw of the Teton County, Wyoming building permit process. Our ranch in Buffalo Valley is located in two highly restricted corridors, the scenic view corridor and a natural resource overlay. County planners said we could not build a red barn; it had to be green or brown. This didn’t sit well with us because we didn’t want the building to look like a Forest Service building or airplane hangar; we wanted a historical red barn like you’d see anywhere in middle America. We had no choice but to accept a beige-and-brown color scheme.
Height restrictions and fire codes dragged out the planning process and increased our expenses. We continued to try to hold on by hosting groups in our dilapidated tent. Luckily, the terrorist attacks had caused the price of steel to drop, and we were able to lock in a good price for the building.
To avoid interrupting our upcoming summer business, the barn had to be built during the winter. Our contractor claimed this was no problem. They could pour the concrete foundation in October, and he claimed that we could ride in the building by January. The contract we signed, however, did not specify a deadline and did not contain penalties for missing it. October passed and November arrived with almost no progress.
I researched county regulations and found a provision for historic red, but it was too late for us to appeal to the planners. The brown steel siding had already been ordered.
Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Page 17