by H. Alan Day
I settled my saddle on one of the cedar racks. “Well, we were able to get a few feet closer before they got ouchie.” I poured some grain into Clyde’s manger. I could see what lay at the heart of the training program—a massive amount of repetition and patience. We were about to become kindergarten teachers teaching a group of horses to follow the leader and not stray from the group. Teaching a horse like Aunt Jemima or Saber was high school level compared to this. Unlike cows, horses dribble out their trust. We needed to collect it with the patience of an Arizona rancher collecting rain in a gauge.
“I’ll see you all back here in two hours,” I said, rubbing on Clyde’s neck. “We’ll get in there and do it again.” Russ looked perplexed. “It’s all about the repetition, boys,” I said. “Building trust through repetition. We’ll keep getting in there every few hours until they wake up and realize we’re not the enemy. That’s the only way we’re going to break them out of the races. Then, when they learn to follow us, we’ll start taking them through gates and corrals, then into the lane, and finally push them into the pasture.” I coated the words with confidence. “And remember this conversation because in four or five more days you’ll see a whole different set of horses.”
Of course, I had no idea how long it would take for the horses to change their behavior. One week? Ten days? Twenty days? We’d find out soon enough.
Two hours later, we returned to the barn, curried and saddled our horses. Over four hundred horse hooves again pounded the sand in the arena. Yet this time, we could get closer to them before they bolted. This was progress in my eyes, though nobody else commented on it. We again called it quits after twenty minutes.
At the start of round three, the horses were noticeably calmer. But my favorite bay mare bolted out of the group. I turned Clyde and charged after her. We ran her into a corner. “Get back in the bunch, you renegade bitch,” I hollered, ten feet behind her. That shook her up. She wheeled around and hightailed it back into the bunch as fast as she had left it. Come spring, when we needed to move the entire herd six miles to fresh pasture, we didn’t want any runaways. Lessons needed to be learned in the corral now, before the field trips started. Teaching feisty individuals that their comfort level was highest in a group and not on solo jaunts became an important part of the training.
“We can get one more session in before dark.” I hung the bridle on a nail. “See you here in another two hours.”
Before walking out of earshot, I heard Russ say, “Does he really think he’s gonna train these broomtails?”
“Hell, he trained two thousand head of cattle. Nobody would believe that’s possible,” John said.
“Shit, man,” said Russ. “This could take forever.”
Marty replied, “As long as we can do it horseback.”
I watched a broad-shouldered black-and-white paint flare his nostrils and puff out a soft snort. Some of the horses nearby cocked their ears back and echoed his recognition at seeing four familiar men on horseback enter the training arena. The mustangs’ sentiment and behavior had shifted during the five days of training. They had graduated to following one of us in orderly fashion around the corral. The herd had begun to accept us as the alpha males. Even the bay mare that spooked and kept breaking away realized she couldn’t go anywhere and no one was out to hurt her. The cowboys had accepted that this training would be their way of life for a while. No one griped. It was becoming as much a part of the job as feeding cattle every day. We just did it.
Clyde and I walked at an oblique angle toward the paint. “Hey there,” I said, “did you get enough breakfast? There’s plenty to go around this camp.” I avoided direct eye contact. He flipped one ear forward and one ear back, then nodded his head and began a chewing motion with his lips even though his mouth was empty. What was he telling me? It almost looked like he had a grin on his face. “You keep talking to me and I’ll figure out what you’re saying. And I’ll keep talking to you. It’s not like we come from different planets. Right now, though, I’m thinking you’re the smarter of us two.”
Clyde and I walked past the happy guy and wove through a group of roans that insisted on hanging out together. If they got split up while running around the corral, they quickly found their way back together. Their coats, with the characteristic fine dusting of white, had started to turn darker, heralding the onset of winter. A few grunted at being interrupted from grazing on the hay. They took one or two steps to get out of my way. Being with the mustangs never jangled Clyde. He refused to let their glares and snorts antagonize him, and when they reared up or raced past, he stood his ground like a big brother inured to the antics of wilder siblings.
John threaded his way toward us. “Couldn’t do this a couple of days ago, could we?” he said and grinned.
“They were wound way too tight,” I said. A mare with the markings of a Pryor looked up from eating and turned to face us. She chewed her lips like the paint had done and pawed the ground with a front hoof. “Glad to see you’re so interested,” I said to her. Were she and the paint saying the same thing?
“I’ve noticed a couple other horses do that,” John said. “Could this be their secret code of acceptance?”
By golly, of course. It made total sense. “You might have just hit the mother lode of this training system,” I said, feeling a trill of excitement. “Cows acknowledged us by getting more gentle, but it’s looking like these horses are giving us a high-five in their own language.”
6. A wild mustang
The horses seemed to be recognizing that we weren’t like other men, who chased them with machines, trapped them in corrals, and did nothing to diminish their fear. Our training methods had opened the door to their world, and now they were saying hey, let’s be friends. And on day four of the training. If only Red and Roy could see this.
It was time to move on to the next lesson: “Going through the Gate.” Although the horses had passed through the gate to enter the training arena and had passed through numerous other gates, they remained timid about going through a new gate. I didn’t know what invisible wire they saw or maybe felt when they ran through that open space. Since moving from pasture to pasture required going through gates, it was imperative they get over their fear. I gathered the crew.
“Russ, you start leading the horses around the corral. I’ll open the gate and by the second pass, three of us will be ready to wing them through.”
Russ rode around. The horses looked up. A rangy sorrel that often positioned herself in the front next to the bay mare started following him. The rest of the group fell into line. John, Marty, and I headed to the gate in the corner leading into another corral.
Russ and his horse trotted toward us towing the pack, and he went through the gate. The sorrel came up to it and stopped almost in midstride. It was like one of those cartoons where everyone starts bumping into each other. Within seconds it became a cluster of horses. Heads pushed up against rumps. There was a chorus of nervous neighs. The lead horses just stood and looked at the gate.
“Bring ’em around again,” I yelled. John and Marty abandoned positions. Marty started out, got some of the horses to follow, and the pack loosened up.
“Guess they don’t like the gate,” said Russ, coming back through it.
I didn’t have to think long about this melodrama. I knew exactly what to do. If you can’t tell them, show them.
“Russ, as Marty comes around the corner, you jump in the lead with him and both of you go through the gate. Don’t even pause. John and I will push on the back. Show these horses that’s it’s not a problem to go through. They’ll see it’s safe and they’ll jump across.” Russ looked at me like my brain cells had fallen into my boots. Ah well, he didn’t have to believe me. I knew a horse could learn by watching.
When Russ swung in with Marty and went through the gate, John and I pushed hard on the back of the pack. The leaders paused for a second, then jumped over the barrier only they saw. The rest of the pack crowded through as fast as they
could go, pushing and shoving, knocking the outside horses into the posts on either side. Eventually they were all through. I got off Clyde and shut the gate, happy to have crossed this barrier. I sent a silent thank you to Blondie, the horse that years back taught me her kind can learn by watching.
7. Horses pushing through a corral gate
My partner in the Nebraska ranch, Allan Stratman, unexpectedly showed up one Saturday at Lazy B headquarters pulling a horse trailer behind his pickup. He had driven the three hours from Sonoita, Arizona, where he lived. I was in the house and saw him drive up and walked out to greet him. My eight-year-old daughter, Sarah, who had been playing nearby, and her dog Boots joined me.
“Hey, Al. How you doin’? Brought you and Sarah here a little something.” Stratman opened the trailer door and backed out a quarter horse palomino mare. She was tall, about fifteen and a half hands, sleek, and beautifully put together with an intelligent head.
“Meet Blondie,” he said, holding the lead rope out to Sarah. “She’s about to move in with you.”
Sarah looked at me as if I could explain away her puzzlement. I had no clue what was happening so answered with the same quizzical look. Sarah took the rope. “Hey, Blondie.” Blondie lifted her head in quick acknowledgement, then turned to check out her surroundings.
Stratman explained that he bought Blondie six months ago. She came from a lineage of top-notch quarter horses. He had been trying to break her since. “But she’s so hardheaded I’ve had next to no luck breaking her. Yesterday I got to thinking she just might be better off with a female trainer.” He put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re the finest young horsewoman I’ve ever seen and I think she belongs with you.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Do you want me to train her for you?”
“Nope. She’s yours. I give her to you, and I wish you better luck than what I’ve had with her.” Sarah looked as if she had been handed the biggest and best Christmas present from under the tree. Blondie looked down her muzzle at the small, pigtailed creature bouncing on the tips of her tennies.
With that and a brief visit, Santa Claus drove off over the horizon, a cloud of magical dust in his wake. We stood there awestruck, rubbing on our newest family member. Sarah already had the look of love.
“Go on,” I said. “Get your boots. Let’s see what this girl has to offer.”
Stratman was right. Blondie could be a real butthead. Sarah wanted to train her to be a jumper because she loved horse jumping and the competition it offered. But that rebel of a mare had her own ideas about how the world works. She’d grab the bit in her teeth and cold jaw, then run off with Sarah, refusing to do what Sarah wanted. More than once, Blondie threw her head up and hit Sarah right in the face and hurt her. But Sarah never cried. In fact, Blondie couldn’t do anything to make Sarah fear her or abandon the task of breaking her.
One day I came in from work and saw Sarah on Blondie. I went over to the corral to check on her.
“Dad, when I want her to gallop, she wants to buck. Here, watch.” Sarah spurred her and Blondie jumped but not into a gallop. That horse went to bucking across the corral. I couldn’t do a thing but watch and be ready to scoop up Sarah if she flew off. Halfway across the corral, Sarah looked back at me, grinning. “Look, Dad, isn’t she cute?” It was one female will against another and Sarah was determined to win.
Another day, I noticed the two of them in the jumping arena.
“How’s it going, Sar?”
“Dad, I can get Blondie to jump the regular jumps with the poles across, but not the roll top.” They must have been working at it for a while because she sounded frustrated. The roll top was solid and wide but only three feet high, the same height as the pole jumps Blondie easily cleared. “Can you help me?”
“Run her at it and show me what she does.”
Sarah rode straight at the jump. Blondie stopped right in front of it. The next time, Blondie veered right. Every time Sarah tried to jump her over the roll top, Blondie refused.
I had an idea. I hauled over two corral panels from the shed and set one at either end of the roll top at an angle, creating a V to prevent Blondie from veering. It didn’t take that horse but a few runs to figure out that she could turn in front of the panels. If Sarah managed to get her inside the wings, Blondie stopped at the roll top and refused to jump. Sarah tried this and that, all to no avail. The frustration factor was beginning to multiply. Without saying anything to Sarah, I picked up a piece of old plastic pipe lying on the ground and got in position near the jump. Sarah lined up Blondie and started riding her. The second Blondie started to stop, I swatted her a good one right across the hips. Blondie jumped about twenty feet forward, but not over the roll top. Sarah landed behind the saddle but didn’t fall off.
“Dad! What are you doing? Don’t hurt my horse.”
“I’m not hurting her,” I said. “I wanted to see if I could change her mind. This is a test of wills. Your will says one thing, and hers says another.”
“But that’s not the way to do it,” said Sarah. She scrambled back in the saddle, adding some further tongue lashes.
We worked with Blondie for a while longer without success. By this time, all of us had lost our temper. Blondie had her head set in every direction but over the jump. Sarah was angry with Blondie but angrier with me, and I was angry with Blondie for being so stubborn. We were locked up in a box of frustration with no productive place to go. I pushed my mind out of the box, breathed in some fresh air, and did some thinking. Sarah tried the jump again. Blondie stopped short again.
“Is Squaw in the corral?” I asked. Squaw was Sarah’s other horse.
“Yes,” said Sarah.
“Go get her. I’ll stand here and hold Blondie. When you get back, I want you to take the roll top with Squaw. I’m going to have Blondie watch you jump.”
Sarah stuck out her chin. “That’s a dumb idea. Blondie’s not going to jump just by watching another horse do it.”
“Sarah, do you have a better idea? We’re all angry and we’re up against the wall here. I don’t have another idea, but if you have one, now’s the time to lay it out. Otherwise go get Squaw and let’s try it. I agree it probably won’t work, but maybe it will give us time to cool off.” Sarah rolled her eyes, but she dismounted and huffed off to get Squaw.
She returned to the arena leading Squaw with Boots in tow. Wherever Sarah and Squaw went, Boots went, so Sarah, Squaw, and Boots all took the roll top.
“Now turn around and jump it coming the other way.”
“This is stupid,” Sarah muttered. Yeah, it probably is, but I didn’t admit it out loud.
8. Sarah and Blondie
The threesome prepared to jump. I squeezed Blondie’s halter and forced her head in Sarah’s direction. “Now you pay attention to this, you hardheaded bitch. Look how Squaw jumps that.” No response from Blondie.
“Do it again,” I said.
Sarah, Squaw, and Boots jumped four more times each way. I kept a tight grip on Blondie and told her each time to pay attention. She quietly stood her ground.
“Let’s try Blondie now.” Sarah rode Squaw over and swapped lead ropes with me. “Boots, stay here,” I said.
The three of us watched as Sarah and Blondie readied and started toward the jump. When Blondie came to the roll top, she shifted her weight onto her back legs and pushed off the ground. She cleared that jump like she had done it a hundred times before. Sarah quickly turned her and jumped her the other direction, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. She jumped her again and again. Boots and I joined Sarah and Blondie for a little congratulatory hoopla.
The switch had flipped in Blondie, and with the flip came the pledge of allegiance. From that day forward, Blondie acquiesced to Sarah’s every bidding—not just with jumping. Blondie was eager to read Sarah’s mind and did just that as often as possible. She and Sarah went on to win so many shows I lost count.
10.
Renegades
The Suburban bo
unced over the ground in the meadow east of headquarters. The snow had melted and the soil underneath the tires had a new give to it. The sky had decided to wear its blues instead of grays, but a wicked spring wind had kicked up after breakfast, so I opted to check on the horses from inside a heated truck. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been getting fresh air. I had spent almost the entire winter at the sanctuary, and except for Sundays and a few days lost to a snowstorm, the cowboys and I had been on horseback every day in the training arena. When conditions became slick, we took the pace down a notch.
Driving through the herd, I felt optimism surge. The sun highlighted the horses, now twelve hundred strong, creating a canvas of golds, bronzes, beiges, blacks, and deep browns that stretched out before me. This entire gang had graduated from training school. Every one of these mustangs had learned to follow a lead horse through corral gates, then into the wide lanes separating corrals from pastures, and finally into the horse pasture or meadow. Best of all, we had become friends, bonded in part by mutual trust. If we left them for a week, then came to gather them, we had a controlled game of follow-the-leader rather than a day at the races. On May tenth we would take the horses from headquarters to summer grazing. It was a six-mile journey to Mud Lake and we needed the horses to stay in a group. I suspected the herd could handle the journey now, but I didn’t mind having another six weeks to reinforce the training.
I drove slowly, keeping an eye out for injuries, limps, or a pregnant mare having trouble delivering. I passed a mama, a light-gray mare, and her dark-haired baby, one of the first foals to drop. This time of year was special. We weren’t sure how many babies to expect. As it turned out, sixty would be born by early May. Ahead the big black-and-white paint had assumed his usual position near the edge of the herd. He was handsome and regal and always caught the attention of anyone viewing the horses. John had taken to calling him Happy.