T he enchantment of riding is a mysterious thing that generates never-ending reflection for those who wish to understand the mild euphoria produced by the proximity of horses. This is not the province of equestrian recreationists alone; the evidence abounds that Native Americans, cavalrymen, cowboys, and farmers were vulnerable to this sweeping affection, which finds itself in close bonds on the one hand and insatiable accumulation on the other. Among the accumulators are buffalo-hunting Indians, Coca-Cola heirs, sheiks, oilmen, and soon-to-be-bankrupt professors. The Plains Indians were liberated from the midwestern forests by the horse, and the cruelest strikes against their civilization were the execution of their horses, as at the Sand Creek Massacre, where a Methodist minister named Carrington tried to put a whole people afoot by killing their mounts.
That my house adjoins my corrals is one of the blessings of my adult life. I start very few days without taking my coffee out to stand among our horses so that we may contemplate the beginning of another day. When I’m stressful or troubled that I can’t make a piece of work come out right, or a friend or family member has received unsettling health news, or some other unhappy or unpleasant feeling comes over me that won’t find a quiet place of storage, a visit to the horses nearly always produces relief. Relief and perspective, which is perhaps the same thing.
When we had an irrevocably dying horse, my veterinarian told me that we had to change our perspective and try to understand that animals accept what happens to them. And it’s not as if they don’t know. They know. We humans, on the other hand, have evolved to accept nothing. We don’t accept how fast we go, how long we live, how much we eat, how frequently we copulate. Our position is: It’s all negotiable or I’ll buy my way out of this. In the life of horses, grave things happen from birth to death and they never negotiate; their bank accounts contain only the memories of their race.
Back to my corrals: The gates to native grass pastures are seldom closed, but there they are to see us anyway. We’ve swindled them with treats but are flattered because they seem glad to see us, and affection must be dealt evenhandedly to avoid jealousy. The personalities are very distinct: the erratic yearlings striving, not always successfully, for acceptance; the old mare with the frozen ears who requires twice the space the others need; a daydreaming mother-to-be, the star cutting horse who declared at twelve, by refusing ever to get into a trailer again, that her days of competition were over; the foursquare and uncomplicatedly heroic cow horse who shambles around like Ollie the Dragon but breathes fire when working cattle; my wife’s cutting horse, informal inspector of all ranch activities; my head-case saddle horse, who spooks at grasshoppers; the trusting young mare who among all our horses is alone allowed to transport the grandchildren; the tall bay mare, the stately mother of champions — and I’m afraid what some would say are too many others. The largest group is the pensioners, aged ranch horses living serenely in a riparian cottonwood forest; and, beyond, the burial ground where our old mounts, old friends, lie — most at the end of long lives but some that were too short: a fall that broke a neck, a lightning strike, a twisted gut.
In 1957, I loped across a Wyoming pasture trying to rope a calf. After three unsuccessful throws, my horse stopped suddenly on his front feet and I sailed onto the ground in front of him, useless lariat in hand. To this day, I remember the contemplative look on that horse’s face as he gazed at me on the ground, and the quiet acceptance as he let me climb on again. We’d agreed to accept my limitations, and to jog on home together. It’s unique to share a time, to share a job, with a partner who doesn’t judge you, even over the span of years. It occurs to you that you might do the same. Long exposure to horses should teach tolerance. One accomplished equestrian said you’ll never be a champion until you understand and accept the limitations of each horse. Certainly horses accept that humans can’t see very far, smell very much, or hear very well. Our lurching two-legged slowness must seem amusing to any horse that doesn’t wish to be caught. Every day, a rider must be reminded by his horse how little he notices about the surface of the earth. Squirrelly as we are, horses tolerate us and our addled, sex-crazed, money grubbing, vengeful brains.
Apparently there are more and more horses, more than ever before, shaded up, switching flies, traveling in single file to water, bucking off cowboys, leading parades, amusing children, skidding logs, sorting cattle, climbing mountains, carrying supplies — another society, almost, invading human loneliness.