Mort and the Dog Pack

In the 1970's, Colorado Springs was a rapidly growing, up and coming city. It still had a population under 300,000 and was surrounded by open grassland and working ranches. I lived on the outskirts, on the northeast side, in a brand spanking new example of urban sprawl, Village Seven.

If Mort and I crossed about 8 miles of prairie, picked up Templeton Gap Road and headed due north for another 4 or 5 miles, I would be in my ultimate fantasy land, Black Forest. It contained everything a girl could want, my riding club, a hot boyfriend and miles of gorgeous horse property buried in a deep forest.
It was out in the country, but still tame enough to not completely intimidate a wild-haired suburban girl rampaging through life on her first horse.

Colorado Springs is primarily built in the prairie and butts up against the foothills of the Rockies. The Black Forest is part of a 1000 miles of scarce timber that trickles down from Divide. It had recently been broken up into parcels of a minimum of five acres and filled with horses, horses and more horses. There were people and houses too, but I was a teenager and didn't care about that stuff. Once romance entered my life, it wasn't unusual for me to make the trek to the dark line of trees crossing the horizon.

I loved riding in "The Forest." There were horse trails everywhere, following the mandatory easements between properties. Cruising  through the deep shade on a hot summer afternoon, with Mort flying along in his ground eating trot, was life at its finest. The ground was level, soft and deep with pine needles, not steep and rocky like our Palmer Park, and the stands of mixed conifer forest were tall and thick, instead of  the grudging pinons and junipers I was used to.

That sunny afternoon we met a surprising danger on those trails - dogs.

Any rider who has spent enough time riding outside an arena has encountered them. Dogs love to bark at horses. They like to try to make them run and nip at their heels if they do. They can scare the crap out of a horse and the rider too. Dogs think they are pretty damn funny sometimes.

Mort and I had a pretty good defense. While my rangy gelding tolerated our dogs at home, he became savage if he was bothered by dogs which hadn't received his personal stamp of approval.

I had learned to confront loose dogs head on, at least I learned to sit deep and grab some mane, Mort was the one who knew to turned on our loud mouthed attackers. I soon realized most loose dogs were quick to scoot back home when we spun and Mort charged, his front legs and teeth flashing with intent.

One sunny, late summer afternoon we were taking our time along the shadowy trails. It was cool under the trees and I wasn't in any particular hurry to end my ride, having nothing more important to do than flirt with the boyfriend. In my infinite horse girl wisdom, I thought I'd look pretty bitchin' trotting bareback up the road to the boyfriends house in my cut-offs and a halter top. We ducked under the trees about a quarter mile from his street and I noticed I was looking and stinking about as horse-sweat sticky as I felt.

"Nothing says romance like the smell of hot horse, fly spray and day-old girlfriend, huh Mort?"

Mort snorted, loud and booger loaded, but I took it with a grain of salt. He wasn't impressed with me finally finding my hormones. I wasn't riding as much, and he spent way too much time hitched to fence posts at various strange places, waiting for me to show up, rumpled and breathless, from my latest clandestine meeting with "that boy."

Of course it was Mort's own damn fault. He wouldn't tolerate long trail rides carrying us double and distracted. After he had dumped us, first with a buck, again with a bolt into a goat shed, and finally scraped us off on a low lying limb, he got to stand tied.

I picked up my legs, one after the other and it felt like they'd been glued to the vinyl front seat of a locked car in July -- and a hairy one at that. I gazed at the thick line of goopy muck and horse hair stuck to the inside of my leg, knowing it made a perfect horseshoe across my butt and down the other leg. Oh yeah, I was smokin' all right. My Jon Boy's brick house. Sheesh.

It wasn't hard to decide to meander through the woods and at least cool down enough so my crazy hair could dry. When I got all sweaty it stuck flat to my head from part to ears, then sprung in wild, frizzy coils straight for the sky. The stubborn curls would tangle too tight to let me drag my fingers through it. I always ended up with double handfuls of damp snarls. If I flipped my head upside down and gave my scalp a good scrubbing, right before it was dry, sometimes I could get a semblance of the wind tossed curls I wanted.

Waiting to dry out a bit also gave me a chance to scrub some of the dried salt from my temples and let the half moons of embarrassing boob sweat dry.Then maybe, if I offered to let him hose me off at the spigot, the boyfriend wouldn't notice I had also forgotten to shave my legs. One could always hope.

Lost in my musing, I got a half-second of air time when Mort spooked and spun to the left and barely managed to keep my seat. I grabbed a handful of sparse mane and centered myself, leaning forward to squint into the shadowy ground under the trees. He was tense, veins popping on his neck, his legs and back so tight we rose a couple of inches in the air.

A pair of golden eyes and the wide grinning mouth of a chow mix poked his big head and powerful shoulders through a tangle of scrub oak and weeds. We squared off, but the look in the dogs eyes made me hesitate.
His eyes were cool and calculating, not the usual goofy, barking, "Hey guys, watch what I can do!" I was used to seeing in trouble-seeking dogs.

He was thin, matted and muscled. He was serious.

I heard a rustle behind us. An eager shepherd mix and a beagle made their presence known. Lots of barking and howling going on. We spun around and faced them. Mort took one look at their excited, goofy  faces and spun back to keep an eye on the chow-thing. He had moved forward a few paces and was joined by two more dogs.

There had been a story circulating all summer, comprised of sightings, rumor and dead farm animals. In the Black Forest area, a pack of dogs were attacking, killing and partially eating goats sheep, foals, calves and area dogs in broad daylight.

It was out of the Humane Society's jurisdiction and the county sheriff had been unable to find this mysterious pack of dogs. Newspaper accounts told of anywhere between four and fifty dogs. Theories abounded - these were coy-dogs, or attack dogs turned loose by an unethical owner. Maybe they were rabid, or strays, dumped by city-folk who assumed the dogs would find a "good country home." Nobody had a solid description.

The fact was, there was a trail of dead goats, sheep and chickens. There were a few wounded horses, a partially eaten new-born foal, and some cattle, bitten and run through fences. Some of the animals were eaten, some were chewed up, some were just dead. Nobody seemed to be able to get a handle on where the dogs were. The newspapers hinted it was a bunch of baloney. They labeled them "Ghost Dogs."

Turned out the dogs were certainly real, Mort and I were making their acquaintance.

I didn't know how many, it seemed to me, there were a lot of damn dogs. I heard the clink of dog tags and saw too many well groomed and fed critters to think these were all mangy strays.

Truth be told, I didn't have enough time for more observation. Mort and the chow thing had decided it was time to parlay.

Mort went after the big dog hard, his head was low and snaky and his front legs were pounding the ground, intent on mowing him down. Chow-thing came to meet us, then feinted off to the side. Mort grunted and hesitated for a split second. The cacophony rose around us and several more dogs closed in. Mort squealed in anger and fear, and I felt more than saw a dog leap at my legs.

I heard a dog scream when Mort threw out a double barreled kick with his back legs, but had no time to look, he gathered and leaped forward towards Chow-thing. We didn't stick around to deal with the dogs. This time he ended up plowing right over the top of Chow-thing and smashing him hard into the ground. Then we ran.

We shot through the woods and towards the boyfriend's house. The dogs followed for a few yards, but didn't leave the safety of the trees. We flew up the road and skidded into the boyfriends yard like hell itself was on our heels. He came from the garage, followed by his Dad, wiping his hands on an oily rag. Even in my panic it registered this must be a car repair day.

"You're bleeding," He said and offered a hand so I could slide to the ground. I ignored the hand and jumped down to inspect Mort. He had a tear over a tendon on his back leg and a solid bite on his shoulder.

"Got to meet the damn Ghost Dogs," I said, talking tough to cover my panic.

The boyfriends dad went to call the sheriff and boyfriend opened his arms wide in an unspoken offer of comfort. I side-stepped him, almost as neat as that effing chow-thing had and hugged Mort hard. He wrapped his neck around me and there I stayed until our shaking stopped.

epilogue:

The cut on my thigh proved to be from a tree branch. Good thing, or it would have been rabies shots for me.

Mort's wounds healed nicely and he was back to dog stomping in no time.

The county decided to temporarily ignore the law against firing a gun in housing areas, at least in Black Forest.. They also ignored complaints from owners whose dogs were shot if they were off their property.
It turned out the Ghost Dog pack was primarily caused by the flood of country-ignorant city folk buying up their five-acre piece of heaven. They left their much loved house dogs loose while they went to work. Perfect pets while their owners were home, they joined in with area strays to become the pack from hell from 9 to 5.

Several dogs were shot and killed over the next few years, but the killing of farm animals didn't stop until somebody nailed the big chow-mix. Nobody stepped in to rescue him, nobody declared him alpha, nobody screamed "breed prejudice."  Somebody finally shot him though, and the roving, day-time dog pack was done. Poor dog. His brains and bravery got him killed. Whatever dumb bastard dumped him on the roadside  was the one at fault. I don't think anybody shot him though.

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

The handy-dandy techniques Jenny had shared to slow Mort down had really helped. All the way up to the second he realized we were headed for home. Then all bets were off.

Home may be where the heart is, but for Mort, the horse trailer and some chow would do just fine. He was tired. He was definitely tired of me. Now that he had sensed where we were, he was taking me home and he didn't particularly care what I thought about it.

He began to jig. His bone jarring, 'I'm pissed and tired and you need to LET GO!' jig. How he could keep this up mile after mile when we were both so fried was beyond me.

As his irritation grew, so did his energy. Mort could toss his head with a rapid-fire fury that would break my nose, blacken my eyes or split my lip if he made contact. I knew all this as fact, through unfortunate experience, and had developed the habit of hanging on to my reins with grim concentration, riding slightly off center, my weight mostly in one stirrup, and my head safely to the side and out of range.

He responded to the uncomfortable shift in my weight by performing a gorgeous half-pass, one I could only wish to achieve on purpose, and threw in lots of tail snapping and growling for dramatic effect. he could keep at it for miles.

"That's some noise coming out of your gelding," Jenny said.

"It can get worse," was all I had to offer.

The horrible sound emitting from my horse was more like a roar than a growl. It came up through his chest and could terrify the horses I rode with, dogs, coyotes, small children, old ladies and to a certain extent, me. It was usually accompanied with bared teeth and incredible amounts of thick, ropey slobber, slung in a good sized circle with every angry shake of his head.

Mort saved his growl for when he had had just about all he could take of me. It was savage and made me very glad I was on his back rather than the ground. I had no doubt in my mind he would eat me alive and spit out my bones, neatly whittled into toothpicks by his gnashing teeth.

Jenny had nothing to offer, she pulled her horse off a ways and watched the show. I tried to hang tough, not lose my temper and just stay with him until we covered the last ten miles of our ride.

I had plenty to keep me occupied. The inside of my knees were killing me. Dark red smears had started appearing on the fenders of my saddle a few hours ago, as they dried they were layered with more blood soaking through my corduroys. It had built up to a thick, greasy black stain I didn't know if I would ever get out of the leather.

At our last vet check, I left Mort in the care of a volunteer and hobbled into the outhouse to check the damage. My thighs were red and covered with angry looking welts along the seam line, which were turning into blisters the closer I got to my knees. But I didn't get a chance to see the mess that had to be covering the tender skin. My cords were welded firmly to the worst of the damage with dried blood. Even the gentlest tug at the fabric sent waves of paining shooting through me. I gave up and pulled my pants back on, gritting my teeth at the scrape of fabric against my mutilated skin.

What was I going to do now? If I showed this mess to anybody I would surely be yanked from the ride. We were almost done, I couldn't bear the thought of Mort not finishing because of my own stupidity. I could see the judgement in peoples eyes, my parents would never let me try again, Karen would hear only weak excuses and I would have failed at yet another attempt to succeed with my horse.

By the time I had collected Mort again I had made up my mind. I wouldn't say a word. I had made it this far and would make it to the end. My cords were navy blue, as long as I stayed in the saddle, nobody would see what was going on. By the time we crossed the finish line I might have figured out how the hell I was going to peel my pants off and doctor my legs.

He realized we had about completed our circle and were close to camp as I pulled myself into the saddle. The next ten miles made the previous forty feel like a day at a 4H play day.

I could smell the blood through the salty sweat that began pouring out of Mort as he ramped up. I knew he was exhausted by the feel of it, thick and slimy between my fingers, but it only made his behavior worse. He was like a six-year-old child after a slumber party, so tired he was becoming hysterical. Every bump and jar of his nonsense shot through my legs, through my neck and made stars of pain explode behind my eyes.

"Janet, are you OK?" Jenny asked.

"Yep, I'm fine, I just wish he'd settle."

She was looking me over with a critical eye, like a buyer at the Calhan livestock auction. I must be showing signs of wear and tear. I took a deep breath, settled in my saddle so I could ease my knees and sucked it up.

"I might be getting a little tired, he's hard on my arms when he's like this."

"Well hang in there, we've got less than an hour."

I let my mind take me away, imagined being back at the barn talking about the beauty of this Southwestern Colorado mountain range. I would have a cool buckle for completing the ride that nobody else would have. Mort and I would have finally done something right. I could smell the trees again, mingled with sharp sour sweat and saddle oil. A breeze cooled the back of my neck and I could hear the steady rhythm of Mort's feet, he was finally walking. I relaxed the death grip on his reins and realized the smile on my dirty face was genuine as we splashed through the last creek crossing and into the line of congratulatory cheers at the finish line with a solid time, right in the middle of the pack. Jenny gave me a high five and Cindy was there, with a big smile and a loud, "Whoo Hoo!"

After we passed our final vet check I took Mort down to the creek and sponged him clean. He snorted at the sharp smell of the peppermint liniment as I rubbed him down, but stood quiet, enjoying it's soothing warmth. I was jealous, I'd use it myself if it wouldn't have burned into my poor legs like a match to gasoline.

Once he was creekside with his nose buried in the grass I eased myself up to my waist in the creek. The icy water ran across my legs and stung when it soaked through my cords. I settled in, welcoming the numbing cold and began to gingerly peel the stiff fabric away from my skin. Next year I would be able to ride alone. Next year I planned on finally having Mort's jigging under control. Next year we were going to place.

Mort snorted at the no-see-ums and I watched him for awhile. He was still looking a little hound gutted, but the gloss was coming up in his coat as he dried and he was relaxed and happy. He had come through in good form.

Next year I wasn't wearing cords.

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

Mort liked to be in front.

He really, really liked to be in front. If he didn't get to lead on the trail he would jig, tossing his head hard enough to break my nose if I didn't pay attention. When that didn't work he would begin to canter, almost in place, an angry, rumbling growl rattling deep in his chest.

Here I was, riding with a group of women who rode these 50 milers "for fun" on a regular basis. Their horses were fit and shiny, their tack was clean and worn and they rode with an ease I hadn't seen in an adult rider before.

They were kind and friendly and tried to put me at ease, asking about my horse, my experience on the trail, if I showed at all or if I just rode, just about anything they could come up with to get me talking.

Fat chance.The best I could offer were grim, one word replies, made up for the most part of, "Yup," and "Nope," with a few "Maybes," thrown in for comic relief. I was embarrassed beyond belief. There was no way I could let him go in front. I was a guest of this group and they had actually read the map the night before the ride. I needed to ride alongside them in the open and behind them on the narrow trails that climbed high into the pines.

Mort decided to up the ante and added some foam slinging, head shaking to the mix. I hung on for dear life.When he started to show his heels every other stride Jenny decided it was time to step in.

"Gotta lotta horse there," she said.

"Yup."

"Is he always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"What happens if you let him go?"

"He'll go."

"Does that scare you?"

I just snorted. I was way too cool to bother answering that one.

"Then let him go."

Now she had my attention. Eyes bugged, mouth open, maybe a little drool in the corners, attention.

"I mean it, he'll really go." Maybe the sun was getting to her. Maybe she couldn't hear so good. Probably she was like every other adult in my life and just didn't believe me.

"I'm sure he will," she paused and waited while Mort bucked in a little circle. "If you can, just sit there. Don't try to stop him or steer him. See how far he takes you."

"OK," I said. I was wondering if she had bets with her buddies on how many tries it would take before she killed me, but I wasn't going to let her think I was chicken.

I let him go.

Mort hesitated for just a second before he shot ahead and down the trail. He was as surprised by the turn of events as I was. He blasted down a rocky incline, his ears flicking back and forth between me and the trail. I didn't lean forward and ask him to go, I didn't try to stop, hold or steer him. It made for a wild, unsettling ride.

Without our usual tension my balance was off. He popped over a log when the trail leveled off and I almost biffed it. I didn't know what to do with my hands, my legs were so tight I had two inches of air between me and my saddle. My stirrups slipped away from me, first one, then the other.

Mort was weaving and wobbling across the ground, his head was high and his feet unsure.What the crap was going on?

I never felt out of balance, even bareback I always had a seat like glue. It seemed like I was going to have plenty of time to figure it out though, my rowdy dun was showing no sign of slowing down. Mort launched off the trail and through the trees, I was suddenly getting slapped in the face by branches and ducking heavy limbs. This was getting nuts, I was going to have to pull him in before I got my head knocked off.

My seat suddenly showed up. One second I was stiff kneed and lurching from side to side and the next I was where I belonged. My shoulders loosened, my back relaxed and my legs let go so I could find my stirrups. As my seat deepened and steadied Mort began to find a rhythm. He curved back through the woods and found the trail.

He began to slow, still moving at a good clip, but easy and relaxed. This was getting fun. Finally he broke down to a trot. His breath was labored, his neck was lathered, but he trotted along the trail with his ears pricked and his tail waving a cheerful beat.

We heard a faint whinny far behind us. Mort stopped and spun around. He, like me, was too cool to answer. I stayed with him like I should and we both looked up the trail. We waited, a good fifteen or twenty minutes, before the women showed up. I sat on him, letting him graze, listening to his breathing slow and head back to normal.

Jenny broke into a wide smile when she came around the bend. She had been worried, I could tell. I was proud of staying with him and glad she realized I had meant it when I said, "He'll go."

"He really took off," she said.

"He's like that."

We headed out together and Mort didn't walk ten steps before he started to jig. I glanced at Jenny.

"Let him go."

I did and he did, but this time we didn't go nearly as fast or far.

The group caught up, we fell in and Mort stayed at a walk for a good five minutes before he tried to pass. It gave Jenny time to tell me what she was doing.

"All a horse really wants is to stay in his herd," she said. "Sometimes the pulling and jigging comes from not knowing his place and then it turns into a fight with you. If you don't pick a fight with him, maybe he'll quit trying to leave."

"I'm not trying to fight with him."

"I know, but think about it, when your horse puts his head up it's because he's nervous. If he puts his head up and you make your reins tighter, he can't relax. He thinks you're telling him not to."

I looked at the other horses ambling along, heads low, the whole group of women talking and looking around, with their horses on a loose rein.

"But he takes off."

Jenny laughed, a great big belly laugh, but it didn't make me feel embarrassed. "He certainly does."

About then Mort started making his move to the front. I kept my reins loose and looked back at Jenny.

"This time, as soon as he passes Meg bump him with your calves and keep at it until he lopes off, once he gets going, relax again."

I did what I was told and as soon as I quit bumping him, Mort stopped and waited for the group, not twenty feet behind us.

Pretty soon Jenny had me bump him up before he passed Meg, the lead rider.

He barely broke into a trot.

Before we got to the next vet check I was walking with my group, my horse on a loose rein, satisfied with being a horse or two behind. If he sped up, I would squeeze him forward a few steps, relax, and he would drop back to a walk.

I had a lot to think about. Why had I lost my balance when I first let him go?
Why was he slowing down when I asked him to go forward and why did he speed up when I pulled on the reins?

These thoughts were completely crowded out of my head by the biggest question of the day.

Why were the insides of my knees starting to feel so raw?

I looked down at my cords and saw dark, damp dots starting to seep through the fabric. I rubbed my fingers across them and the skin at the bend in my knee immediately began to burn. I looked at my fingertips and saw pale red stains. I had started to bleed right through my corduroys.This couldn't be good.

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

I stood off to the side and stayed out of the way while Cindy fretted over her gelding.

I wanted to be consumed with concern over the Saddlebred, but my thoughts weren't much under control.

SHE was supposed to know what was going on. SHE was supposed to have the mega-trail horse. Mort might be skinny but it wasn't MY horse standing in the creek with his eyes shut, his lower lip sagging and his respiration out of control. MY horse was chewing on my hair and looking at me with that, "C,mon. let's go see what's around the corner!" look in his eyes.

I turned my back so Cindy couldn't see my face. My eyes burned and my teeth squeaked with the effort it took to hide my anger. I didn't want to hurt her anymore than the day already had.

We ate lunch in silence, both sunk deep in our respective gloom. After lunch I saw Cindy go check her horse and then speak briefly with the veterinarian. He gestured to a group of riders sitting together on a log, deep in an animated conversation punctuated with occasional outbursts of laughter.

Cindy headed over and was soon deep in conversation with a deeply tanned woman in a baseball cap. The woman looked over at me and then scrutinized Mort. She got up, stretched and then sauntered over to the vet. He flipped through his clipboard and showed her one of the  pages. They both turned and stared at my horse again. My stomach flipped and I put a protective hand on Mort's neck.

It was bad enough I was done with the ride, but now somebody was going to yell at me, I just knew it.
By the time the woman walked up to me I was stiff with righteous anger. Endurance races stunk. It wasn't my fault Cindy's stupid horse couldn't hang. Now I was going to get chewed out for something. Somehow her horse going belly up was my fault.

"Are you Janet?" The woman asked me.

Her voice was kind and even, so I risked a quick look and peered up through my bangs at her. Her face was brown and white squint lines streamed from the corners of her friendly brown eyes. She looked pretty old, maybe not as old as my mom, but at least 40. I gave her a quick nod.

"I hear your sponsor had to pull from the ride," she said. "If you want, you can come along with me. You and your horse look pretty fit, and the vet said he has a heart beat as slow as an elephant's."

"Is that a good thing?" I asked her.

"What, riding with me or a heart like an elephant?"

"Both I guess."

"If all these horses had a heart rate like yours we wouldn't need vet checks. As far as riding with me, well, you'll just have to find out. I'm about to head out, so if your break is up why don't you saddle up and come on over."

   I saddled up Mort and noticed my hands were shaking. Was it excitement? Maybe. This lady was riding with a small group of riders that seemed to know their stuff. I was going to look like such an idiot. Mort was skinnier than any of their horses. He would easily be the rowdiest. I was going to start hearing all kinds of comments about how bad he was, I was sure. But I really, really wanted to finish the ride.

I decided to put on my "polite for the nuns" school face and ride it out. If they didn't decide I was completely useless maybe I could hang until the end of the ride.

Mort thumped me a good one with his head and jolted me awake. I was standing there daydreaming and my new sponsor and her friends were all mounted and staring at me in a friendly/impatient/puzzled kind of way. My face flamed red and I swung into the saddle and trotted over to them.

"I'm Jenny," the woman who had taken me on said and leaned over to shake my hand.

Each of the ladies introduced themselves. They were relaxed and goofing with each other. Their horses ranged from Arabs to Quarter Horses to varying mixes between the two breeds. They didn't seem to be in much of a hurry but they sure were having a good time. I didn't understand how they could be so relaxed. this was a race wasn't it? Maybe it was because they were so old.

I fell in with this odd assortment of riders and caught on pretty darn quick they had been riding together for years. Feeling very much the outsider I steered my jiggy horse to the outside and resigned myself to a long, slow afternoon.

Mort and Merry Christmas

The heavy clouds had lifted during the night and bitter cold had laid claim to the snow laden ground below.

When I looked out the window, the thermometer showed the temperature hovered just below freezing. I could just see the horses, their shaggy winter coats were puffed out and glittered with a fine shower of  ice crystals. They bucked and spun, rearing up at each other in a goofy mock battle, rowdy with the cold and the clear blue sky.

Their play was irresistible. I slid my bare feet into my boots and pulled a jacket over my pajamas. I eased the basement door open and shut it behind me with barely a click. My parents were upstairs and sleeping at the other end of the house, but raising six rowdy children had honed their hearing to razor sharpness, it wouldn't take much to wake them.

 I wanted to be alone with my horses and delay the chaos of holiday togetherness. My freshman year of college, and first time away from home,was proving to me how much I still needed my family, but it was my horses, especially Mort, that I had missed the most.

 When I slid between the corral rails the horses bolted. They tore up the hill, digging with their front feet, hinds pushing dirt and snow and  their tails flagged in fun.

The three of them crowded together, Murray, the flighty Arab, Oakie, my goofy yearling Paint and Mort, playing wild mustang.

He blasted a warning snort at me and I squared off. I spread my feet and bent my knees, my arms spread wide and my hands open.

Mort charged down the hill,leaping in a zig-zag pattern with lightening speed, the other two came racing behind him. He snaked his head and his mouth opened with deadly intent as he approached.  He skidded to a stop in front of me with his ears flat against his head. His eyes were wild and steam blew out of his nostrils.

"HA!" I shouted and stood upright, my hands in the air. Oakie and Murray spooked and spun away.

Mort arched his neck and we faced off almost nose to nose.

He blasted me with another snort and snot showered on my face, freezing as soon as it hit. When he reared up to his full height I stepped into him, ducking his front feet and slapping him on the chest.

"HA!" I yelled and stepped to the side as he came crashing down.

He whirled and shot back up the hill, crazy with fun.

We were getting in position for another round, snarling and snorting like two WWE wrestlers in the ring, when I heard a door open with a bang somewhere behind me. Oops.

"Janet! Knock it off! You're going to end up with a hoof planted in your head! Good God!"

I ran for the barn, if  I fed and chopped ice it would give Dad time to cool off and hopefully see the humor of the situation. Mort and I had been playing our game for years, it was as inevitable on a cold winter morning as the ache in my fingers from an old case of frostbite.

Poor Dad had about had a heart attack the first time he had seen it and was pretty bent. But jeez, you'd think he'd have gotten over it by now.

I filled up the feeders and gathered up their buckets. A good hot mash was in order for today. It was Christmas after all. I headed to the house, whistling the alto part to the Hallelujah Chorus and banging my buckets in time.

Merry Christmas!!!!

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

It was the night before the race. Cindy, her husband, and I had pulled into camp in the early afternoon. We tied the horses to the trailer, filled up hay bags and hauled buckets of water.

We pitched our tent and stored our food.

By the time we had our little camp set up the horses had eaten and emptied a bucket or two of water. I untied Mort and slipped on his bridle.

"I'm going to check out the camp," I told Cindy.


"Don't get lost," she told me. "There's a BBQ and trail meeting in an hour."

I swung up on Mort and rode off. I kept my mouth shut, but couldn't hide my scowl. I hated trail meetings. All they did was confuse me. By the time I yawned through the NATRC meetings I always felt like I needed a compass and a divining rod to survive the ride. I didn't see how it could matter anyway. I just let Mort follow the horse in front of him and when we were done we were done.
We jigged through the camp, Mort was feeling fine and wanted to strut his stuff a little. The horses were different than the ones I encountered on the endurance rides. They were mostly Arabs, but a lot of them were big and rangy. They were as skinny as Mort. They seemed calm and quiet.

The owners were different than the horse people I was used to. There were very few cowboy hats or boots. I saw a lot of tennis shoes and English boots. The riders seemed as lean and muscled as their horses. They would glance up at me and give me the same dismissive look I got from the morning kids at the horse shows. My face turned red and Mort tossed his head and jigged sideways.

I figured we might have to go blow off a little steam before he whacked out on me and I was about sick of getting looked at. We headed out a promising looking dirt road. By the time we left sight of the camp he had kicked into his trot and when I found a hole in the fence line, we hopped over the bottom strand of barbwire and headed up a good hill at a run.

Mort chugged up the incline, weaving in and out of the trees at a good clip. When we hit the top he was calm and content to stand and breathe. The sweet, clean smell of the air mingled with the light sweat on Mort's neck. I peeled my sticky legs off his back one at a time and scooted back over his flanks to let him dry. He pulled at the bit, wanting to graze, and I let the reins slide through my fingers. I breathed in and out in unison with his slowing heartbeat and felt better than I had since we had gotten to camp.

On the way back I became a little confused. I couldn't remember which way to turn on the road to get back to camp. Mort, using his unerring sense of direction, tossed his head and chugged until I turned the right way and we headed back to our BBQ.

The BBQ was great. The meat was lean and the sauce was spicy. Instead of baked beans, potato salad and coleslaw there was green salad, fruit and vegetable trays. It was like eating at my house.
As I stood in line with my plate I watched a group of the "lean and mean" competitors load up on fruit and vegetables and take very little meat or bread. I did the same.

"I'm not too thrilled with the food," Cindy complained. "I don't know how we're supposed to get full on this stuff." She looked at the dusty broccoli and carrots with disdain.

"I don't know, " I answered, "anything tastes good with onion dip."

I didn't want to point out the riders around camp seemed as in shape as their horses. It was sure giving me something to think about.

The pre-ride meeting was about the same as the NATRC meetings. Maps I didn't understand were handed out. The trail was discussed and the boggy spots, and slidey places were explained. As usual, I figured if I ran out of markers I would have to back track. I zoned out and started to think about Mort and I on the trail. I wondered how fast we were really going to go.

When the meeting was over I went back to camp. I dug my book and a flashlight out of my duffel bag and took Mort out to graze in the field behind our tent. I settled against a tree and turned him loose with his lead rope dragging behind him. He settled into the grass and I settled into my book.
The camp became quiet as the stars came out. Horses stamped and snorted and an occasional plaintive whinny floated through the air. I let my book fall in my lap and turned off my light so I could see the stars hanging so close over my head. Mort was like a film negative, a pale shadow against the dark grass.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic chomp and tear as he tore off big mouthfuls of grass.
The moon was going down when I woke up cold and stiff. Mort stood close by, dozing, his head hanging low and one hip cocked. I got up and stood by him, wrapping my arms around his barrel and hugging him close, trying to warm up. He snorted and shook his head.

"Don't you dare," I felt his muscles bunch and I lunged for his lead rope. He took off across the field at a high trot, his short little tail held straight in the air and his smart-ass head waving back and forth.

With every stride his whole being said, "See you later sucker!"

By the time I finally caught him the warm smell of coffee was teasing me and my fellow competitors were feeding their horses. I was plenty warm though and ready to ride.

Mort and Me - Segue

I have been suffering from writers block, sorry about the wait. I am trying to shake things up with a Mort story that is not other half of the endurance ride, that's the one I'm stuck on. This tale goes back to the first few months I owned Mort...

    The sun prickled hot through my jean jacket. An impatient yank pulled the arms inside out and the buttoned sleeves coiled tight around my bony wrists.  

     Mort began to jump when he felt the reins tangle and the jacket began flapping around his head. He shook his head in irritation and my dirty, tanned knees were flecked with pink foam.

    The scars across his tongue had opened again and remorse swept through the anger and deepened my frustration.

    He just wouldn’t stop. He jigged, he leapt from side to side, a growl rattled low in his chest and vibrated up to my clenched hands.

    Horses shouldn’t growl. Horses were supposed to nicker sweetly when you came to see them. They were supposed to be your friend, your best friend, not a quivering muscle mass of roaring, raging, lunacy, day after day.  

     This horse, this glowing, magnificent horse wanted nothing to do with my tentative gestures of friendship. He fought to run every time I was on him, he fought the bridle and he fought me.

   I finally untangled my hands and slung my battered jacket over the barbwire fence. Mort jumped sideways, with the twist of a cat falling from a roof. I slid to the side and grabbed his mane to keep myself seated. By the time I found a precarious balance we were running flat out.

   Fine. Let him run. We were headed away from the barn and I would just keep it that way until he was tired enough to walk, then we would come back.

     Mort flew across the field, the pounding of his hooves dulled on the mat of dry prairie grass. I leaned back as far as I dared and watched the brilliant blue October sky flash overhead.  The rows of suburban houses lined up next to the field blurred into the silhouette of a rocky canyon wall in a black and white western. I was an Indian, racing after the buffalo herd, a pony express rider trying to deliver the mail on time, Alias Smith, trying to find Jones, to tell him a posse was hot on our trail.

     Mort relaxed and leveled out. He chugged like a freight train and the heady smell of his sweaty coat made me lean into his neck. His wet sides grabbed my legs and glued me to him. I urged him around the edge of the development and into the open fields between Academy Boulevard and us.

   If we circled the huge field a few times he might come back to me and we could head home, if not, then we would go east into miles of undeveloped prairie. I’d ride him to Falcon if I had to.

     Mort felt the tug of a rein as I tried to ease him into a big circle. He shook his head and jumped in the air. My seat suddenly didn’t feel so secure and I grabbed a bigger handful of mane with one hand and gave a savage pull on the reins with the other.

     His angry growl turned into a roar and he jumped again before yanking his head forward and bolting. A huge surge of power from his haunches shot us forward and we were flying. I pulled at him again and he picked up speed, straight as an arrow, straight at the Boulevard.

   What was he doing? Home was the other way. It was rush hour with the road packed with commuters burning along at 55 mph. They were never going to see us, they would think I would stop, if only he would stop.

   We were headed in a straight line to my friend, Karen’s, barn. Oh god, oh God, we were moving so fast. Mort had abandoned all thoughts of home and was running to horses he knew, friends he could trust. I was not his friend.

     The bumper-to-bumper traffic was coming at us with terrifying speed. I pulled again and got nothing but more speed. I had never gone this fast on a horse before and through my terror a flicker of excitement began. If I could control this, it would be like riding a dust devil, a hurricane.

   We were going to cross Academy, that was a given. We were going to be smashed flat, I was sure of that too. Maybe, just maybe, the traffic would slow for a loose horse.

     The ground raced by underneath us and my stomach flipped when I looked down. This was really going to hurt. One deep breath and I slid my leg over the side. I clung to him for a few seconds until the tip of my bare foot caught the ground.

    A bolt of pain shot up my leg and I was jerked to the ground. I rolled and the world tumbled by, first the sky, then grass, then a glimpse of my horse disappearing from sight. My head slammed into the rock hard earth, the coarse grass scratched my face, a stone bruised my shoulder. I felt blood running down my legs and a stick poked a good hole in my side.

    I finally stopped and lay flat in the grass, gulping and grabbing for air. With a pounding head and a crushing pain in my ribs I tried to sit up but I still couldn’t find any air. Was I just going to die here in this field?  The sky spun in circles over my head and nausea rolled in like waves on a lake. I struggled to my knees and threw up in the grass.

   The smell of my own vomit made me stand up and stagger after my horse. My nose was swelling and my knees and elbows were a bloody mess. A sharp, painful poke in my side let me know a rib or two were no longer where they belonged.

     I limped to the side of Academy and waited until a gap gave me time to stagger across and made my way down the long dirt road to Karen’s stable.

     Mort stood flirting over the fence with Karen’s mares. He waited while I gathered up his reins and was quiet when I leaned into his shoulder. I hated him. What was I going to do? He was way too much for me to handle. It had taken so long to get my horse and I had ended up with this one.

     He wrapped his neck around me in a warm horse hug. I stepped back and stroked the perfect diamond on his forehead. His eyes were warm and soft and he gently lipped my bloody, scratched arm.

    “Do you get it?” He seemed to say. “Do you understand?”

     I didn’t. The ache from not knowing was so much bigger than the cuts and bruises all over my body. I wiped my bloody, snot-filled nose on his bright dun coat.

     “There,” I told him, “war paint.”  

     I gingerly prodded my swelling face and wondered how I was going to explain this one at home. My parents could never know Mort had done it, not in a million years. They’d freak.

     Mort followed willingly down the road towards home. It made sense to wait to get back on after we crossed Academy. I leaned on him to support my shaky legs and he slowed his steps to match mine.  

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

Hi guys. I'm glad to be back. I'm not leaving or slowing down, I simply didn't realize how complex and overwhelming my life was going to be. Things might be a little wonky for awhile yet, but are definitely on the upswing. I've missed all of you, believe me.

Thanks so much for the Kindle reviews, I'm already popping up all over. Now to get back to regular posting and life will be good again.

Me and Mort- Pacing

It was cold in the mountains at seven in the morning. I shivered in my T-shirt and turned to untie my saddle strings to get at my jean jacket. The sun was bright, but not hot enough to burn off the fog settled heavy and wet on the floors of the surrounding canyons. Horses and riders milled at the starting line and I sat watching them, my jacket forgotten.

The more seasoned competitors bantered back and forth, their voices clear like a layer of ice along a stream bed, making up for us greenies, who clutched our reins and sat our anxious horses in tight lipped silence. Steam rose from necks and flanks, and coiled with the conversation, thinned and disappeared into an impossibly deep blue sky.

I looked up and felt the ache that always swept through me at the beginning of an endless Colorado morning. Mort shook his head and foam speckled my knees. He didn't know what we were doing, but he was ready. He danced in place, light in the front, until I kicked him to the side.

"He's going to exhaust himself before we ever get going," Cindy said. Her saddlebred gelding stood calm and alert, one hip cocked, oblivious to Mort's antics.

"He's fine," I answered. "He has his own style of warming up."

"I wouldn't worry if he wasn't so thin," she answered. "I just don't know if he's going to have the reserves to get through all 50 miles."

I knew he could go 50 miles. We had covered that distance and more before. On weekends Mort and I routinely trotted over 30 miles just to go visit friends in Black Forest. I had never competed in a race over this kind of distance though. Cindy knew a lot more about these rides than I did.

Maybe he wouldn't be strong enough to keep up with her horse. He was certainly a lot fatter than Mort. His back sagged under Cindy's weight, a sharp contrast to Mort's quivering muscles which easily held my saddle a good two inches off his back. I could see the first three ribs on Mort's sides and the ropey muscles on his shoulders and butt stood out in stark relief.

I didn't really know Cindy. I had wanted to get to this race so bad I had simply jumped at the chance for her to be my ride sponsor. I wouldn't be old enough to ride on my own until I was 18. I'd have to keep up as well as I could. I hoped she'd wait for us. I hoped we didn't ruin her ride.

I could tell by her face she did too.

"Let's get this show started!" the man in the pace car hollered and the horses formed into a loose herd behind him as we walked down the road. Mort jigged and grunted and snapped his short little tail. The sharp smell of nervous sweat filled my nose and I could see the road dust already sticking to his neck and the hollows over his eyes.

Cindy glanced over at us and shook her head.

"He'll be fine once we can trot," I told her.

He didn't let me down. After half a mile of nonsense the car sped up and we moved into a steady trot. Mort immediately levelled out and I was able to loosen my reins. Cindy's gelding moved out with us and I watched her horse with enjoyment. I had never really watched a Saddlebred move with a natural headset and gait, and it was a beautiful thing to see.

His trot was elegant and efficient, his ground covering stride was every bit as fast as Mort's, something I had never seen before.

"What's Mort Doing?" Cindy was watching him move with a puzzled look on her face.

"This is his travelling trot, why?"

"He's pacing!"

"What?"

"Pacing, his left front and hind go forward, then his right."

"This is how he's always goes."

"Quarter horses don't pace. I thought he was a purebred."

"He's registered, I have his papers. What's wrong with pacing anyway?

"It's fine for a horse who's supposed to pace, like a Standardbred, but in a quarter horse it's probably a sign of lameness or something. How long has he moved like that?"

"Like I said, always."

I quit talking and watched the trail ahead of me, lost in my own troubled thoughts.

What if Mort was lame? What if I had been hurting him trotting him like this? Worst of all, what if pacing meant he wasn't really a Quarter Horse after all?

We covered ground at our usual speed and I had trouble maintaining my gloom and doom. I could never stay down when we were exploring and the trail was gorgeous. Mort might not trot right, but he sure felt good. He snorted and played as we went, his head high and his eyes wide. It was impossible to look at the world through the frame of his pricked ears and not feel optimistic.

"Janet!" Cindy called. "You've got to slow down!"

I glanced behind me and saw her way behind us. I reined in and waited as her gelding struggled up the hill we had just lunged up seconds before.

"I told you to take it easy!" she snapped. "We need to have some horse left to get through the ride!"

Why should we slow down? This was supposed to be a race dammit. Mort was breathing easily and ready to rock. Her gelding was blowing and sweat soaked. So was she.

Somewhere, in the back of my dim little brain, a light bulb began to glimmer.

I kept it slow and we walked most of the way into our first vet check. Mort and I sailed through, his deep and steady P/R  brought a smile to the vet's face.

"He's ready to go on right now, good for you!"

Not a word about being too thin, or in poor shape.

We ended up waiting an hour. Cindy's gelding was having a tough time. I watched as she stripped off his saddle and led him into the stream. She stood next to her gelding, up to her knees in the water, gently sponging him off.

It seemed like a great idea, so I stripped off Mort's saddle and hopped up on his back. We waded into the stream and he began to paw great sheets of water behind and over us.

"King Tumba terrorizes tiny toddling tots!" I told him, sliding into our old game with him as my war elephant and me as his simple mahout.

He suddenly dropped in the water and I shrieked as I rolled off him and into the icy brink. Laughing, I scrambled up and waited for him to decide to get on his feet. Mort groaned and stretched out on his side. I threw my leg over and balanced on him. The freezing water cascaded around my makeshift horse dam and soaked us both through.

He finally heaved himself up and I clung to his mane, pushing off with one foot to shift to the middle of his back.

"What are you, eight?" Cindy snapped."How are you going to ride soaked to the skin?"

"It's getting hot, we'll dry off." I mumbled and rode over to let him graze in the sun. This could turn out to be a long day.

Cindy's gelding finally passed his P/R, just minutes before he was pulled. We went on our way at a much slower pace. I didn't dare mention how uncomfortable my damp clothes were. I was wearing corduroys instead of jeans and they were rubbing at my knees as they dried out.

We rode in silence until the lunch stop. As we came into the camp there was another exhausted horse standing in a stream with her owner. The mare stood quietly, her head hanging just above the water. Her lip hung low enough to cause the faintest ripple.

Cindy pulled her gelding after her P/R check.

"I'm sorry Janet, I don't want him to end up like that mare."

"I understand." But I didn't, not even a little.

I understood I was screwed. I couldn't finish the ride without an adult.

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler Part 1

Mort and I had struggled through a few more NATRC rides. We had even managed to place.

Those rides were such a frustration to me. My inability to pay attention to instruction or direction kept tripping us up. I would continually make mistakes which would get us nickel and dimed to death by the judges.


Our PR checks were always great. We never had a problem finishing a ride, but we had lots of trouble coming in on time. Not late mind you, early. Much too early.


Mort's travelling trot averaged 17-20 mph. I don't know how this speed stacks up against the endurance elite, but for a quarter horse it was really, really fast. His heart rate was so low and steady he was often checked and rechecked at the required rest stops. We almost always came in just a few points above normal and were back to his low, steady rhythms within five minutes.


So, as was the story of my life, and still is today, my horse was fine. I was the one who kept screwing up our success.

I couldn't keep track of our time and I continually messed up the math of MPH and how many stops we would make within the designated miles. My buckets were always hung in the wrong spot and Mort could untie a safety knot in 2 seconds flat. The judges frowned upon my horse cruising the camp at night and turning as many other horses as possible to come party with him. My surly teen-age attitude didn't help much either.

I was at one of our riding clubs first-of-the-year Sunday shows and visiting with Cindy, one of the adult club members.


She kept looking over Mort with a slightly critical eye and I was gearing up for another "your horse is too thin" lectures. She said, "Have you ever been in an endurance race?"


"I've been on some NATRC rides," I told her.


"I'm talking about a race," Cindy said, "a fifty miler."


"No, I haven't." I could feel my excitement start to rise, but squelched it down hard, I'd been fooled about this endurance thing before.


"You race 50 miles in one day," Cindy continued. "There are regular vet checks and they'll pull your horse if you push too hard, but it's a race. Your horse looks like he's in great condition."


"We could race 50 miles," I told her. "I've already rode him 70 miles in one day and that was just because we were lost."

Cindy gave me a funny look. I couldn't read her, but she kept talking, so I hadn't run her off.


"I'd like to have a riding partner for a race coming up in July. Do you want to come?" she asked me.

"I'll have to ask my parents," I told her, "but I bet I can." My mind was racing as fast as my horse was going to on the 50 miler.

Permission granted, I started to get Mort ready to go. We only had 6 weeks to get ready, but I knew he was already in pretty good shape. We embarked on a conditioning program I made up myself. Part what I had managed to learn on the NATRC rides, part Bonanza, part Walter Farley.

I was up before dawn to take him to "the ditch," a 1/2 mile length of flood control canal with a deep sand base. We ran 2 miles at whatever speed Mort chose. If you asked me what we were doing I'd have told you we were "breezing."

For the last few weeks of school I was on him for a fast trot through Palmer Park as soon as I could get to the barn. On week ends we headed out to the reservoirs or back into the park for as many hours as I could wrangle from home.

We were bareback for most of these rides, it took too much time to get my saddle out to the barn. I figured it would make me tougher. We went cross country often, smashing through scrub oak, climbing shale covered hills, winding our way into deep ravines with no trails to guide us.

Mort loved it. He was in his element when we were on the trail. He would head out in his big strided trot and hold it for as long as I asked him too. He was bold and eager while we were out, willing to jump a log or scramble across soft red rock faces without hesitation. I trusted his judgement so completely I never made him go over an area he refused to cross. I assumed (and to this day I think it's how I managed to not kill me or my horse) he knew better than I did where we could safely go.

I let go of all my thoughts of training and just rode. Often in shorts and a T-shirt, rarely in shoes, I shook loose of the constraints I had put on Mort and myself over the past few years and reveled in the joy of my horse.

We became lean as a pair of gray hounds and I had a hard time getting Mort to break into more than a light sweat no matter how much ground we covered or how many hills we tackled.

Cindy sent me entry forms, releases and suggestions on what to wear and what to bring on the ride.

Finally, finally, the week of our ride arrived.

Mort and I

Bareback Anyone?

By Janet Huntington

My insides were shaking and my thoughts flying as I walked across the field to the little run down sheds and corrals built piecemeal with silvery gray boards. Mort snorted and began to trot around his corral. He bucked and spun as if spurred by my approaching energy. I grabbed his hackamore out of my shed and crawled between the poles of the corral.

He came to me and I leaned into him. His heady smell filled my nostrils and he curled his neck around me in his best Mort hug. The silky feel under my hand and the metallic shine of his coat couldn’t soothe me. Not today.

I slipped the hackamore over his nose and ears and flipped the reins over his neck. The ache was building and I swung up on his back with a single, fluid jump.

We were through the gates and out on the road at a high trot within minutes. We ignored the staccato beeps from the cars and held our trot across Academy in a careless game of chicken.

The long slow hill leading into the trees opened in front of us and Mort bolted. He was confident there would be no pull on the reins today.

I slid back and a little to the side, I wasn’t ready for his huge jump forward and the lightening fast speed of his surge, but Mort was right, there would be no pull from me today, I needed to fly.

I grabbed his mane and hoisted myself to the middle of his back.

The trail flattened out parallel to Maizeland and we raced the cars up the hill. As we approached the trees Mort slowed to an extended trot. We zigged- zagged through the familiar twists and turns of the trail. A gentle touch of the reins sent us down the trail to the outer loop around the park.

He picked up speed as we came out in the open and we were soon in a full gallop.
I sat up straight as his pace evened out, finding my rhythm with each powerful stride. I let my legs swing free, balanced and easy in my seat.

The knot in my stomach began to loosen and waves of sadness began to flow over me. Anger soon followed and the weight of my out of control emotion sent my thoughts spiraling.

I asked Mort for more speed and he stretched out into the rough 1-2-3-4 of the full gallop. I clung to his mane until I found balance again. The trees whipped by in a blur and I felt everything slowly easing. My anger seeped away, I felt fearless and strong. But it still wasn’t enough.

I leaned forward and slid the hackamore off of Mort’s head. I slung the bridle over my shoulder and stroked his neck. I leaned back and lost myself in the freight train chug of Mort’s breathing.

I clung so tight to his mane I felt my nails cut into my palms. I forced myself to take first one hand and then the other from his mane. I flung my arms out and my head back and we ran.

One entity together, my stigmata marked palms faced up to the sun and I closed my eyes. As we pounded around the far end of the park I finally felt peace come through me. Mort slowed to a canter as I relaxed deeper into him. We were one, we were I, we were him.

***********************************************************************************
This is what your kids do on their horses when you’re not looking folks.

As a teenager I had complete confidence in my horse and my balance. I trusted absolutely nothing else. I wasn’t the only nut job high school age girl out there either. There was a whole gang of us. I would say my friend Melinda and I were the most daring, but the rest of our group was pretty courageous.

Our parents had no clue. Not even an inkling.

Now I’m a grown up. I’m sane and sober and my mare has never been ridden bareback. She is well mannered and steady because I broke her and trained her to be that way.

But a funny thing happened to me last week. I felt sad and angry and scared all rolled into one. I needed to ride with a desperation that surprised me.

I met my friend Kathy at the barn. She had already gotten the horses out and had groomed them both. I got out of my car and realized I had forgotten the key to my tack room. My saddle and hackamore were locked up tight. I ran my hand over my mare’s back. She has a strong, sturdy back, well-rounded and cushy. My thoughts were racing.

“What are you doing?” Kathy asked me.

“Nothing, just thinking,” I told her.

I untied my mare and lined her up by my trailer fender. I put my leg on her back and she danced away, uneasy and confused.

“Have you ever ridden her bareback?” Kathy asked.

“No.” I replied.

“How long has it been since you’ve ridden bareback?” she pursued.

“Oh, probably 12 years or so,” I said.

My mare kept moving away and tossing her head. Clearly she agreed with Kathy, this was a bad idea.

Finally, sanity returned and I gave up. My muscles have tightened over the years and my bareback riding instinct has been buried deep by proper riding, correct horse training and age.

We took the horses back to their pen. Kathy assured me we would try to ride tomorrow.

My mare bucked and snorted around her pen as if spurred.

My restlessness is still here. I may have to bow to my years but I don’t have to give in. I’ve decided I’m going to ride bareback again, but I’ll do it right.

I’ll get on my mare bareback for the first time after we’ve ridden and she’s tired. I’ll ride with her hackamore, not her halter and I’ll begin by walking around the round pen. I have balance exercises I taught my students for years. I’ll use them myself and see if I can find my the muscle memory of days spent bareback on my horse. At least enough to keep me in the middle of my horse. My restlessness will just have to wait.

I had no idea retiring as a horse trainer was going to bring this back. I have to admit it’s going to be fun.

Mort Again

I rode down to the arena, tired and worried. It had to be late in the afternoon for the show to be completely done. I wondered what time it was. My mind skipped briefly to my watch, sitting abandoned at the back of my dresser and then skittered away. I squinted up at the sun, it wasn't straight up but it wasn't on it's way over the mountains either, so maybe it was around 2 o'clock. I hoped so anyway.

There was a water pump, but no trough. I turned the pump on and twined my fingers into a bowl. Mort drank, taking great gulps from the gushing water that drained my makeshift bucket and soaked me down for the second time that day.

I wiped down his face and belly with my wet hands. He was ganted up and he had wrinkles under his eyes.

I loosened the cinch and let Mort graze for awhile. My stomach rumbled and I thought about how long it was going to be before I ate.

"I sure don't want to backtrack," I told my weary horse, "maybe we'll go out this road and find another way home."

I laid my head on his butt and closed my eyes. I gave him another ten minutes before we headed out.

After an anxious couple of miles we came to a little grocery store at the corner of our dirt road and a main road.
"Why honey, where did you ride in from?" The lady at the counter said after one look at my grimy clothes and sunburned face.
"I'm from town," I said, "I was wondering if you could tell me the best way home."
"Well you're in Falcon now. If you head out this way you'll end up in Black Forest," she pointed North, "this way will put you right in downtown," she pointed West. "You look about done in, do you want to call somebody?"
"No, no, I'm fine, which way did you say Black Forest was?"

I couldn't imagine who I could call. My butt was getting deeper in trouble every minute. I had friends from my riding club in Black Forest and I knew how to ride home from there. It seemed the best bet.

I felt better as we headed North. I didn't have a clue where I was, but I knew I'd eventually end up somewhere I recognized.

Mort's trot picked up and he seemed a lot cheerier. It might have been my renewed sense of purpose, or he might have had an idea where we were, whatever it was he slid back into his easy, long strided trot and headed the direction I asked.


We felt good enough to stop and cause a little trouble.



There were maybe 8 pairs of cattle drinking at a water tank. I came in through the gate and they scattered as we came up to drink.


Mort snorted and played in the water. He'd bury his nose in deep and make waves by pushing his head back and forth. When he felt the cattle edging back in to share the water he would pin his ears at them, sending them back out.

Once I remounted I hesitated before I turned back to our road.


I'd seen the cowboys do it on TV. Herding cattle couldn't be that hard.


I pointed him to the cattle which were still patiently waiting for us to leave them to to the water. Mort pricked his ears and headed towards them with interest.


We walked around them, bunching them up first. They were easy enough to keep in a bunch, especially since we were circling the water tank.

Then I peeled an old cow off the herd. She trotted around the group, her calf snugged in to her flanks.

We trotted behind her, she disappeared into the herd ahead of us.We peel off another pair, then another. Mort was getting pretty good at pushing them out and we both agreed to stay away from the cows who lowered their heads and shook their horns at us.

Then I decided we could hold one out of the group. It took several tries but we finally cut a cow and calf away from the herd. The cow slipped past us, but we held the calf.

Before I could think of what to do next the calf turned tail, whacked through the lower two strands of the barb wire fence and hightailed it.

I ran up and down the fence looking for a gate as the little calf disappeared into the heat waves shimmering above the pale prairie grass. This was not good.

I looked all around and saw no place to go for help.

It occurred to me I could be shot for cattle rustling and trespassing. Or hung. Or both.

With a guilty conscience I hustled out to the road and headed on my way, trying to look as innocent as possible. I never did see the calf again.

By the time we hit Black Forest, Mort was down to a walk. When I finally found a street I recognized the sun was definitely hanging over the mountains. The heat had picked up for it's final blast before the cool evening would take over for the night.

The shade from the thick pine trees gave us a welcome relief.

We walked along the side of the dirt road, finally close enough to home territory to need to stay out of traffic.

I made one last water stop as I came up on Mike Craig's place, Pine Run Ranch. Mike met me in the yard.

"How did you end up here?" He asked.

As I unfolded my day (sans the cow episode) his eyes grew wide. He looked Mort over, ran his hands down his legs and pinched the skin on his neck.

"Go ahead and give him a drink and let him graze awhile," he said, as he loosened his cinch.

"He seems to be in pretty good shape."

"I've let him rest and drink off and on all day," I told him.

"You look about done in too. Should we call your folks?"

"No, no, let's not do that," my words rushed over each other.

I sat in the grass and leaned back against a fence post. It did feel pretty good to sit still. My legs ached and I felt a pretty good saddle sore starting on the inside of one knee.

I visited with Mike until Mort started to pick his head up and look towards home between bites.

"Are you sure I can't call somebody for you?" Mike asked again.

"You know, I think we'll go ahead and finish it," I said.

Mike stood with his hands in his pockets and a worried look on his face while I cinched my horse back up. I noticed my latigo went up another two holes since the far away morning. Mike watched from the end of his drive until we turned around a bend and disappeared in the trees.

I was so tired I kept dozing off. Mort walked on without my help, sure of the way home now. We travelled steadily, Mort's ears were up and his walk was even. We rode by our riding club as the sun began to sink, came down T-gap road, passed Swede's arena and finally, finally, saw the drive-in on Barnes Rd.

Mort whinnied, his voice was raspy and deep, but he found his trot one more time and we cruised in the last few miles.

I pulled off his tack and was grateful I had remembered to fill his water in the early morning. The cool night air raised goose bumps on my arms. The cold was starting to settle on me and I wished for a jacket. I tossed him half a bale of hay before I picked up my saddle and made my way home.

I slid in the door a little after 8 p.m.

"What happened?" My mother's worried face switched gears into pure pissed as soon as she noted I still had both arms, both legs and there was no blood.

"I got a little lost," I told her.

My weariness was seeping through my bones and I went to sit down on the couch. Somewhere in my fog it registered I must have really scared her because she was letting me sit on the couch in my barn clothes.

I gave my parents an abbreviated version of my day. I saw them glance back and forth at each other, resignation and belated worry crossing their faces.

"Couldn't you have called?" My Dad asked.

We don't have a horse trailer! I shouted in my mind.

"I never found a phone," I said instead.

Later, after I had cleaned up and had my much anticipated cold supper I found myself back on the couch, staring into space in a total stupor.

"Have you ever been so tired you felt heavy?" I asked my Dad.

"I swear, my arm weighs about 1000 pounds." I slowly lifted my arm and let it fall.

Dad came over and sat next to me. He unfolded a map and spread it across our laps.

"Let's track this ride you went on," he told me.

"We talked and whispered, my poor Mom had her fill of me for the day, and figured out the route I had taken.

Mort and I had covered a little over 70 miles.

Mort/Water Holes

I didn't think this was going to be a two-parter, but it is.



I was a little stumbly at 4 a.m. Enough to wake my mother. She come around the corner and into the kitchen, peering at me drinking milk out of the jug, with my boots tucked under my arm and a Ding Dong in the other hand.


Her hair was a little messed and she was tucked into her soft over-sized robe. As usual she looked coolly beautiful in spite of her tired eyes.


"Where are you going?"


"I have a horse show today, I told you."


"Why do you have to leave so early?"


"It's at a new arena, I want to make sure I get there in time."


"Wait a minute, just exactly where is this arena?"


Even at 4 in the morning my mother was one of the sharper tools in the shed.


"It's out east," I told her, "Karen told me I could get there by following the railroad tracks from her house."


"Is she going? Why aren't you catching a ride with her?"


"She's taking two horses today so I have to ride."


"I'm not sure you should ride to an arena you haven't been to before," Mom said.


Her eyes narrowed and she frowned a little just like she did when she worked on the crossword.


"I'll follow the tracks and if I can't get there before noon I'll come home," I assured her.


I started edging towards the door, hoping to get out before she woke up enough to notice I hadn't finished my Saturday morning chores.


"Make it ten, you haven't done your housework," she told me as I slid into the garage to collect my gear.


I clumped down the road with my jeans still stuck half in my boot tops, loaded down with my saddle, bridle and show pad. The cool gray dawn felt clean and a little damp as I made my way down the street, crawled over the Molines back fence, through the ditch and across the field to the barn.


Mort's welcomed me with a hungry nicker as he waited, his neck stretched so he could get his head over the top rail of his reinforced corral.


I threw his hay and three-way in his feeder and cleaned and filled his water tub. I groomed him as he ate. Of course he had a huge green manure stain on his hip.


"Stop moving, we're in a hurry," I said as he stepped away from my scrubbing fingers.


He snorted and buried his head into his hay, unimpressed with my anxiety.


Finally, finally he was done and I saddled him as he tanked up at the water tub. Mort knew me well enough to drink deep before we started out this early in the day.


"If you ride your horse right after he eats keep him in a walk until he passes his first manure," a sage bit of advise from a horsewoman much wiser than me rang clear in my guilty conscience.


Her words helped me walk him for the first ten minutes until I couldn't take it anymore and released him into his long, rolling trot.


Mort blasted air through his nose several times as he settled into his mile eating gait. The sun was up in earnest and the dew laden prairie grass began to crackle and rise as the dry heat rolled to greet us.


The swish of the grass brushing against his legs and the light blue of the horizon deepening into a bowl high over our heads invited us to roam the day away.


It was exciting to be heading someplace new and the prairie lay open in front of us. Within a few miles we would be out of town and crossing the big ranches.


Mort picked up on my growing anticipation and he gave a huge leap to the left as a prairie hen flew up under his nose.


I laughed and grabbed the horn as he jumped again in fun. He kicked into a lope and began to speed up. I leaned forward and let him go. He leveled out and ran. The morning was too glorious to worry about a sweaty coat at the horse show.


Several hours later I was regretting our early morning run. Mort was walking below the tracks, his coat sweated white and crusty. He moved quickly, anxious to be so far from home without a clue where he was.


I was feeling pretty much the same. We had stayed with the tracks, so I knew we weren't lost, but I sure didn't want to turn around and ride the whole way back.


Mile after mile had rolled under Mort's steady feet. We hadn't passed a soul. I had stopped and let him drink at a cattle tank. While he drank I stripped his saddle and splashed him down with double handfuls of water.


I had looked around us and saw nothing but prairie. The only sounds were the creak of the windmill and the buzzing flies.


The sun was high and hot enough to dry Mort within minutes.


I took another quick glance around and stripped my shirt. I dunked my whole head in the tank and soaked my arms and chest.


I looked into my sweaty cowboy hat and wondered how the cowboys in the olden days ever managed to drink out of them.


"Ugh," I told Mort, "if it's drink out of this or die I guess we're done for."


I saddled him again and soaked my head one more time before we left. I tied my shirt to my saddle strings as Mort trotted off, the breeze against my bare skin made me shiver. I stretched my arms out from my sides and stood high in my stirrups.


Now it was hours later and the only reminder of our our cool reprieve was the sore a drying bra strap had rubbed next to my armpit.


We crested a long rolling hill and I pulled up. Mort cut loose with a long and lonesome whinny. The empty show grounds spread out below us.


We had missed the whole thing.

Why I Hate Halter/Mort

Here's my little colt, Leland. I saddled him for the first time this past weekend. Don't mock my fabric saddle. I borrowed it. It's light as a feather. I will never, ever ride in it.

Anyway, you can see how stressed he is. Not even a little.

I was saying hi to my little herd and visiting with my friend who owns the pasture when he sidled up next to me. I put an arm around his back and rubbed on him a little. He thought that was fine. So I put both arms across him and kept talking to my friend. I scratched his neck and his butt at the same time. Leland thought that was pretty cool. He air groomed a little.

"He's decided he's a gelding," I said.

"He is getting friendlier, he almost lets us pet him," she answered.

In case you are new to the blog or don't remember, this is my little colt that I'm experimenting with. I'm trying to train him in clean enough and clear enough steps that I only show him what I want once. Then he should know it.

He is about 2 1/2. I have had him since birth. He has been handled very little. He has never been fed anything by hand except wormer.

I've been loosely documenting what I've been doing with him. I can catch him, halter him, lead him. He trailers, allows other people to handle him, will pick up his feet, stands quiet for shots and worming.
Leland understands he needs to keep his shoulder clear of me and looks up politely when he sees me.

I don't think I've handled this colt more than 20 times.

So far so good.

I let him in the round pen and he sniffed the saddle and pad over. He pawed it a little, then ignored it.

I haltered him and led him next to the saddle and pad. I slung the rope over my arm and picked up the pad. I put it on his back and took it off. Then I put it on his back and slid the pad around.

Leland was interested and calm. I let the pad fall on the off-side.

He looked at the pad, then me.

I picked up the cloth saddle and put it on his back.

I ran the latigo through the cinch ring and pulled on the latigo without committing to cinching him up.

He humped his back a little.

When he relaxed I loosened the cinch, then finished looping it through and tightened it.

When I finally tighten my cinch on the first saddling I go ahead and cinch tight. I don't want a broncy colt to get scared with a saddle under his belly. I don't want to ruin a saddle either. Even if it's a cloth one.

I let Leland go and sent him around the round pen. He trotted with his tail clamped for a few goes, then relaxed. I sent him the other way and quit when he relaxed.

Then I left him in the round pen and messed with the other horses for a little.

I unsaddled him and let him go about 20 minutes later.

So now he's saddle broke.

Doing things this way has showed me some interesting results.

It has created a colt who is interested and respectful.

He just about says, "So what did you cook up for today?" when I decide to show him something.

He is incredibly calm. I can see his little baby brain work when I present a new task.

He has days, weeks, sometimes months between lessons. He hasn't forgotten one of them.

I think it has to do with the idea that each contact has meaning to him. He doesn't try to avoid me because what we do is interesting. He doesn't disrespect me because our contact has been minimal enough to not let bad habits develop from too much familiarity on either side.

My latest concern about my methodology is that so much of his training relies on muscle memory. Which is repetition.

His three-year-old year will be easy enough. He will be learning to carry me and to work a cow. Each lesson will build on the one before, so we should be good.

But what happens when I start his reined work during his 4-year-old year? Circles become perfect through repetition. Strength and calmness during each maneuver comes through repetition.

If I break each step of each maneuver down to it's smallest point, will we still progress enough to be competitive by the time he's 5?

Being able to count on a horse in the show pen depends on having trained his muscles to react automatically through muscle memory. Which comes from repetition.

Hmmmm. I'm giving myself a headache.

Why I Hate Halter

I wanted an all-around trophy so bad I thought I could die. Most of the local clubs offered a high-point trophy at the end of their monthly day shows.

Most of those trophies went to kids with two horses. It didn't mean I couldn't get it done. It just meant I had to do some figuring.

The speed events were not a problem. Not that we were consistent winners, but Mort and I had become reliably competitive.

Hot as he was, Mort wasn't particularly fast. He could place in barrels, flags and 75 up and back, but we were usually beat by at least one or two of kids with faster horses.

He shone in poles and keyhole. His lightening quick agility put him at the top of these two events pretty consistently.

But the morning events killed us. Pleasure? Ha. High headed and quick legged, we pretty much just lapped the rest of the group and were cut pretty quickly. Once in a while we would luck out and be in a class filled with even rougher stock than we were and Mort and I could place. I always entered, it was good for the both of us.

Horsemanship was a little better, but not much, I could ride, my seat was solid, but I didn't have the polish the other "morning" kids had. My weaknesses were glaringly obvious in those classes, but I watched like a hawk and copied the winners the best I could.

Reining was the best. We had that one down. Once Mort became consistent with the Monte Foreman stop, we won the reining every single time we walked in the arena. It was cool. Because we became contenders, I started to make friends with some of those dreaded morning kids. I was able to ride with them and expand my knowledge beyond what I could wrangle out of my friend Karen.

I needed another class though. That stinking Casey Heare was so good in the speed events she could take a day trophy without ever setting foot in the arena before the lunch break. If I was going to take her I needed some points from the morning.

So I decided to show in the halter classes. Even I should be able to pull off halter. All it took was a clean horse and a 4-H book, right?

I worked hard. Mort had a bad habit of moving a hind foot forward when his fronts were square and stepping forward when his hinds were square. But we practiced and practiced, I listened to the advice from the kids who knew what they were doing and got ready to give it a try.

We didn't place. I wasn't too surprised. I held my arms like I was balancing a tray of glasses, I smiled and remembered to keep my chin up.

It didn't get Mort square. He still stepped in and shoved me out of the line up with his nose. He thought halter was pretty boring. He wanted to nose the horse next to him, he wanted to snuffle the dirt. At one point he thought it might be a good time to roll. I was no fun at all.

So he sighed and cocked his hip. I sighed too.

After the class I went to talk to the judge, as was my habit after these classes, hoping for a tidbit of advice I could chew on. I was already thinking ahead to the next show.

"This isn't a halter horse," the judge told me.

"He's narrow chested and his front feet turn out."

"He's thin necked and it's set too high. You need another 50 pounds on this horse, that will hide a lot of his faults. You want your horse to look like a square."

I walked away in shock. I had no idea this class was about looks. I wouldn't have stayed out even if I had. Mort was beautiful.

I took Mort to the tie rail and tied him. I stood back and looked at him hard. My shining, race horse fit, beautiful headed boy looked different.

He was thin. He was so long legged he was a narrow, tall rectangle. Never a square. His feet turned out like a duck. Suddenly he looked shabby. My face burned in embarrassment.

Two classes later the same judge gave us a first in reining. It didn't change a thing. Suddenly the difference between my horse and the others at the show were stark, glaring and painful.

On our long ride home that evening I threw my reins out and let him trot. He stretched out and glided over the prairie. There wasn't a horse on the planet that could trot like Mort. It was miles out before I could sit back and admire the metallic glint of the setting sun against his coat.