HEART BAR JOHNNY, by Mary Wickizer Burgess

When I was a small child, before the age of five, and far enough back in the gray swirl of my memory that events I know to be true still seem like fairy tales, my parents made the decision to move from the bustling “downtown” city where I was born to a tiny resort nestled in the tall mountains near our valley home. I have little or no memory of the discussions leading to that decision, nor do I have any clear remembrance of the turmoil which must have surrounded such a move.

The destination selected was a small community near a man-made lake, and the fateful choice was made easier by the fact that my family already owned a rustic vacation cottage there.

My mother, true to her nature, insisted on a complete remodel of the house in question, and, to my memory, every property we ever owned underwent such transformations, both small and large, on a somewhat perpetual basis. We were always remodeling, adding on, building out, upgrading, in every property we ever owned or in which we resided. It may be a genetic trait, because I seem to have inherited the same need to “fix the nest.”

Soon we were no longer residing in the house in town which was my home from birth, but were, lock, stock, and barrel solidly ensconced in the refurbished mountain aerie which was to be my home through most of my childhood.

It was an ideal place to live and grow and play. At 5,000 feet above sea level, the air was fresh, scented with pine and majestic oaks. Curvy purple manzanita branches thrust their way through a deep carpet of brown pine needles and displayed their sticky pink blooms; occasional “snow flowers” pushed up spikes of red and white through the fragrant loam. We had snow in the winter, and plenty of nearby hills for sledding; and the lake right down the road was large enough for both fishing and swimming, and featured a pristine white beach with a lifeguard on duty throughout the summer.

In one of my earlier memories, probably at some point during the decision-making and moving process, I vaguely recall being taken to “see the horsies.” I do not recall begging to be allowed to have a pony, but I know I was tremendously impressed by my introduction to a great dark snuffling beast, whose velvety-soft nose and muzzle sought out the red apple slices I clutched in my small hand; and no doubt I prattled away about the experience in wonderment and joy for days afterward, as toddlers are wont to do.

In any case, shortly after we had moved in to our new mountain home, we went to some location which remains a mystery to me. And there, on a bright summer day, in an overgrown meadow, I was introduced to the first love of my life.

Standing there, confidant and alert, was a sturdy little cow-pony, smartly outfitted in a child-sized western saddle, beautifully rendered in hand-tooled leather, and decorated with tassels and rosettes swirling around the postern. His rough serviceable coat was brown, a little lighter than a bay’s shiny mahogany, and he had a white blaze down his expressive face, his right rear foot was dipped in white, and his mane and tail were black as a raven’s coat. I was told that his name was “Heart Bar Johnny,” and to prove that fact, he sported a single heart over a line branded into his right flank. Born on the Heart Bar Ranch in the National Forest nearby, he had spent the earlier years of his life as a working “cow-pony,” helping to round up stray cattle. He was older now, and the decision had been made to retire him from service. If my father had not purchased him, he might have ended up in one of the many riding stables in the area, but he came to us instead.

The little horse looked at me, and I looked at him, and it was love at first sight. I suppose there must have been a “learning curve” of introduction to basic horsemanship. If so, I don’t recall it. My earliest memories are of scrambling aboard and riding away. My father constructed a decent-sized corral amongst the pines at the back of our lot, complete with a roofed-over stall area covering the hay-manger, a large cement laundry tub for water, and weather-proof lidded box featuring a pulley-affair by which I could lift up the lid and secure it while I pulled out the hay and grain stored there for feeding.

I quickly learned how to saddle and bridle Johnny on my own and began, at the age of five, to ride out over the hills daily, exploring the many trails and deserted back roads.

Johnny had his own peculiarities, some obviously learned during his “cow-horse” days. He had a habit of pushing his belly out with air as he was being saddled, and it was necessary to tighten the cinch at least one more time before attempting to mount, or risk pulling the loose saddle over and landing in an ignominious heap on the ground beside the little rascal. He was also prone to reaching around while the cinch was being tightened—and taking a great big painful bite out of the saddler’s side.

Once saddled and mounted however, he was a dream to ride. He had the cow-pony’s sure feet, and a soft mouth. He could be directed from side to side with pressure from the rider’s feet and knees, and still possessed all the little herding tricks he had learned over the years chasing after unruly steers. His gait was sure and steady, and he never attempted to buck or scrape a novice off his back.

In the summer, I often rode bareback, foregoing the saddle altogether. I never did get the hang of running up and jumping from the ground, like all my favorite movie cowboy heroes did, but Johnny never objected to being hauled up next to a stump or a rock or, most often, the stable fence, and standing quite still while I clambered aboard. I would reach down and my little white fox terrier, “Terry,” would jump up into my arms and ride behind me. He was a feisty little thing, but steady on his feet, and I don’t ever recall him falling off or dismounting until he was ready.

We lived in the mountains from a little before my fifth birthday until the time I started junior high. The last couple of years, Johnny began to show his age, and since I was growing older (and larger) as well, a couple of additional horses were purchased to join him in the mountain corral.

Lady, a beautiful bay Tennessee walker, became my principle mount, and Ike, a big-muscled dark palomino with flowing golden mane and tail, was purchased for my father. My father rode infrequently, but I fulfilled my duty and kept all three horses well-exercised throughout the spring and summer months, and they were pastured comfortably together “downtown” during the snowy season.

About the time I started junior high, my parents tired of the snow and, knowing I would soon need to be bussed “down the hill” to high school anyway, arranged to trade our added-onto mountain castle for a 110-acre ranch in the lowlands. It was a beautiful spot, quite primitive in some respects, but perfect for the kind of gentleman-farming for which my father, a practicing attorney with an Indiana farmboy background, had been longing.

My parents installed all sorts of improvements, including a new barn and stable to house the horses and feeder calves they wanted to raise, and my mother established an extensive kitchen garden and a coop for laying hens. There were numerous fruit trees and a deep ravine with a meandering stream cut through the length of the property. The horses were in seventh heaven.

Johnny was now edging into his twenties. We were never quite sure of his actual age, but by the time we moved to the ranch he had been in my care for close to ten years, and he had been considered “over the hill” at the time we acquired him. Nevertheless, he continued to trot along patiently, keeping up as best he could with long-legged Lady and big Ike. He doggedly held his own, even when Ike bullied him from time to time, by nudging him to one side. I still rode all three as much as school and weather permitted, but would generally give little Johnny a “pass,” not wanting to burden his aging bones too severely. By now, I almost always rode him bareback. His little leather saddle was too small for me, and with a larger saddle, I knew the additional weight would burden him unnecessarily.

The prime location was the smaller “permanent” pasture, which was completely fenced in, thus confining the animals safely to a limited field. This area was always watered and never mowed, and served as grazing fodder for our ever-changing herds of young steers, occasional sheep, and, of course, the horses. Even my mother’s flock of gray geese strutted there, and it was best to give them a wide berth, since they weren’t always in a good mood. My father had saved out one of the nicer calves from castration, and “Bullie” reigned supreme in the pasture as well. The upper, more extensive acreage was reserved for seasonal crops like barley and oats, and the animals could run there, once haying and baling was through. Furthest in from the main street, a dozen or more treacherous foot paths and trails led down tricky slopes, skirting rocky outcroppings, to the bottom of the ravine and the streambed all along the upper reaches of the property. On the other side of the ravine were several smaller fields which we did not farm. They lay snuggled against the rising foothills which provided a natural barrier on that side of the ranch. Although I explored these back areas thoroughly, both on foot and horseback, the terrain was too rugged to make for a pleasant ride or stroll, and my ventures normally took me to more accessible locales.

During the winter months, while I was heavily involved with school and associated activities, I didn’t take the horses out as frequently. Roaming the open fields and pastures provided them with plenty of exercise, and they were free to run and graze and do what horses do for recreation during those periods. It was a lovely life for a horse, and other than “eyeballing” them on a more or less daily basis as they made their way to and from the watering station and feed lot, they required little care (or thought) beyond that.

Then one day Daddy came in from making his rounds and said, “I don’t think I’ve seen Johnny for a day or two…he doesn’t seem to be running with the other horses. Anyone seen him lately?”

We all thought. I had been fully occupied with some social scene or other at school, and had not even looked at (or for) the horses for the better part of a week. They were such a normal part of the landscape,that it hadn’t even occurred to me that they needed monitoring.

We were all silent for a bit, wondering what could possibly have happened to prevent Johnny from making his daily run in from the field for water or feed. The haying had long been completed, and the horses and cattle were now running in the upper fields covered with the remainder of a thin stubble of barley and oats. The back side of these fields was edged by the ravine, and the animals rarely ventured down those slippery slopes.

We waited another day, then Daddy and I rounded up Lady and Ike (who had not gone missing) and headed out along the upper reaches to see if we could spot our little truant. We rode to the upper end of the property, then headed back along the edge of the ravine, scanning across the divide into the little fields on the far side, and peering down into the various crannies and crevices as we rode. Nothing. We spotted no trace of the little horse, and the further and longer we rode, the quieter we got. My heart began to sink, and my eyes blinked away tears along with the dust we kicked up.

We finally made our way silently and sadly back to the house. Johnny had to be somewhere…but where? We sat through dinner, but I had no appetite, and finally excused myself and went to my room, where I spent the night in tears and recriminations. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to him? I knew he was old, decrepit really. Why hadn’t I kept him closer, in the safely fenced permanent pasture, where every square inch was visible from the house?

The next day dawned cloudy and cool, and I waited out front for the school bus in a mood dismal enough to match the atmosphere. I rode silently to school, made my way silently back and forth to my classes, saying little or nothing to my teachers and friends, then gravely climbed aboard the bus and rode just as silently back to the ranch.

Mother and Daddy were waiting for me as I entered the house, hoping against hope that the news was positive. My questioning gaze was answered in an instant. Mother’s eyes were red from crying, and Daddy looked equally grim.

“Johnny…?” my voice quavered. “Did you find him?”

“Yes,” my father began. “I went back out and crossed over to the other side of the ravine, about where that first biggest field is.…”

I nodded. I knew where he meant.

“Looking back at the cliffs from the other side of the canyon…well, I could see some of the places we couldn’t see so well, yesterday, and.…” His voice faded away.

I swallowed. “Did you spot him?”

“Yes. And I was able to get down to him from the front, once I saw exactly where he was, and.…”

“Was he alive? Was he hurt? Is there anything we can…?”

My father bent his head in resignation, and I knew then, without being told anything further, that plucky little Heart Bar Johnny was gone from this earth. We talked about it a little further. Daddy had done what he could, but Johnny’s body was stone cold when he finally reached it, and there was no doubt that he had fallen (or Ike had pushed him) from the rim at the top of the ravine, down into a deep crevasse at the bottom, from which he could not have extricated himself even if he had survived the fall, which my father assured me, had been doubtful.

Since then, I’ve witnessed the deaths of loved ones and family members and, in my seventies now, I have outlived almost everyone close to me from those earlier times. I have come to the conclusion that each death takes just a little piece of us, some intangible something which makes us whole and vivid and…alive.… And for me, each loss, each exquisite pain, brings back those clear eyes staring into my five-year-old face with all the devotion that was within his power to endow. And I think how ironic it was that Johnny, he of the surest feet in the world, should have met his end in a misstep which sent him over the brink of no return.