Sonita/Chapter13

I have always loved this shot. If you look close you can see the tip of the cow's nose right below Sonita's breast collar. The heifer's tail is curled right above hers. Sonita's next step is to turn the cow into the fence.

When the Colorado sun sets in June it gets cold. Even if it was 80+ degrees just a few short hours before. The arena lights shone through the silhouettes of cattle milling in the dust. Sonita snorted and pinned her ears as we rode by, baring her teeth at the restless heifers.
She was in a good mood. The cool evening breeze and a full belly had helped her shake off the heavy workout we had sweated our way through earlier in the day.
We were about two hours away from our go at the Sagebrush Slide and Cowhorse Classic. The biggest NRCHA show we had entered to date. We were entered in the Limited Open Bridle class. Which means that our class was closed to open (pro) riders that had earned over $10,000. No problem for Sonita and I. We had yet to break $250. That left plenty of open riders to compete with. Plenty.
I was my usual jittery pre-show self. I headed to the warm-up arena to begin the ridiculously long warm up Sonita required in order to wrestle her into the show pen. I started out with my usual twenty circles each way. I kept my reins relaxed for the first ten or so, letting her snort and play as her muscles began to relax. Sonita shook her head and let loose with a series of gentle bucks. I called them her dolphin bucks. It was always a good sign when she was willing to goof at a show. It meant she was looking forward to the ride.
When we had loped long enough to get a good sweat started I brought her down to a walk and wandered over to the show pen to watch a few rides. She stood with her head slung high in the air watching the action over the arena fence. When the gate opened and the cow ran into the arena, Sonitas nostrils whiffled. She stayed frozen, her white ringed eyes wide, watching the fence run. She was stone until the whistle blew. Then she started to paw the ground and the roller in her bit clattered until foam dripped to the ground.
The Big K rode up next to us.
"She wants to cow tonight," he said.
"Maybe," was the best I could come up with.
The Big K stretched his arms over his head and flashed his two beer grin at me.
"Are you going to have fun out there or are you going to waste this fine night in a fret?"
"I'll do my best."
He could charm when he wanted.
"To show I mean, not fret."
I shook my head and went back to go lope some more.
I had finally learned how to warm up my horse. That afternoon I had schooled her stops and spins. I had bent and limbered her, checked her rate and speed transitions and made sure every part of her was physically and mentally ready to go.
Then I had given her a bath and settled her in a clean stall deep with shavings. I filled her two yellow buckets with fresh water and a splash of Mountain Dew. The yellow because she wouldn't drink unless she could see the bottom of her bucket, the Mountain Dew because she didn't like the taste of the water in Pueblo. I piled as much clean hay as I thought she might amuse herself with and let her be until it was time to get ready for our class.
When I saddled her I groomed her from head to toe. Checked her feet and felt her legs for heat, probably the 100th time that day. I went over my pad, feeling for burrs. I checked my rigging, my bridle, my romels. I cinched her loose and put on her boots, my nervous fingers fumbling with the velcro. Sonita boogered my hair as I bent over her forelegs, guaranteeing I would look like a total hooligan in the arena.
I tightened my cinch. Then we loped. Loped until she was winded and would stand quiet to air up. Then we loped some more, I asked her to go into the bridle, hold it for a few strides and let her go. We would watch the show for a few minutes and lope again when Sonita got restless. The Big K let me be, at this point in the game I was just another competitor and he had his own horses to ride.
My class began. I was draw six. I got down, put on my chaps and fought down the panic when my zipper stuck. I put on her skid boots, tightened my cinch again and got on. My stomach was in knots, my legs began to quiver and I felt Sonita tighten. She kicked out at the skid boots, once twice and then settled.
We walked out to the arena. We were in the hole. I sat with my arms crossed and breathed. I relaxed my legs. Sonita rolled her bit in a frenzy, but her legs were still.
"Draw six, you're up," the gate man called. He smiled as we walked in, I realized I must look like I was about to barf on my saddle.
The gate closed behind us and my stomach settled. Our pattern was a run in.We would run down the center of the arena, slide stop at the end, spin two and a half times, settle briefly and come the other way. I hoped.
I didn't make Sonita wait. It was never wise to ask her to hold still too long when we were showing. When she began her rundown I knew we were going to be fine. She took off with a confident, even stride. When I put my legs on her and raised my hand she came to the bridle and began to build her speed into the stop.
Our stop was solid, she whipped through her spins.
I took a breath. Sonita's head was high, she was feeling nervy. I willed her with everything I had to step out at a walk. She took one step, two and I was able to re-collect her for her lope depart. She got a little fast on our second rundown. I let it go, hoping she wouldn't sling her head when she stopped.
"Whoa!" I snapped.
She slammed into the ground, short and hard like a roper. I resigned myself to a -1 on that stop, knowing I had earned it by barking at her.
"Let it go and get on with it."
I heard the Big K holler. He was right. I let her step into her spins and made myself relax into my saddle.
Our last stop and back went fine, a little fast, a little crooked, but better than I had hoped.
I picked my head up and Sonita and I stared at the judges together. She loped off quiet.
Sonita kept her focus through her circles, stayed in the bridle for the most part and only lagged a half step through one lead change.
My heart started to lift, for us to only pull a half point penalty through our circles was about a miracle.
We squared off around the end of the pen for our last run down and Sonita rated like a champ. She lined out for the final stop and we were golden.
Not bad, not bad at all.
We sat in the middle of the arena, waiting for our cow. I went through my nervous ritual. I pushed up my glasses, settled deep into my saddle and shoved my feet further into my stirrups.
I could feel Sonita's back muscles quiver through my saddle as she stood mesmerized, waiting for the gait to swing open.
I waved at the gate man and he opened the gate.
Our cow blew out, tail high.
Good, Sonita liked them gnarly.
I sent her forward at a fast trot. She homed in on the heifers head, her own head beginning to drop and her ears flattened.
The cow feinted to the left and Sonita went with it, driving it across the pen. The cow began to run, I sat back and let my mare go. She stepped past and turned it back across the pen. The cow pushed towards us, trying to get by to head to the safety of the holding pen behind us. Sonita crouched low on her front legs and cut back and forth, holding the dodging cow in position.
The cow broke and returned to the back fence .
I put Sonita on the cow's hip and we drove her through the corner and down the long side of the arena.
The cow ran, thinking it had found an escape from my raging horse. Sonita was with it stride for stride. My hand was forward, she was in total control of the show. We ran the length of the arena, I asked Sonita to step by the cow five strides before the penalty marker.
She slammed in front of the cow, cutting off it's retreat and sending it down the fence the other way. We were flying, we were working in complete sync, I yipped out of pure excitement. The judges, the Big K, everything faded into the beautiful night . Nothing mattered except pushing that cow off the fence and circling her to the left, to the right, never wanting to quit. When the judges whistle blew Sonita slowed, knowing we were done. Then she surged forward again, unwilling to give up the beautiful game. I sat back and let her take one more turn.
We won that night. I knew it when we circled our cow. I knew when I saw the Big K's grin. I knew it when Sonita strutted out of the arena, cool, calm and about as happy as I was.

Seat bones and Trailering

I have had questions about seat bones and weight. How do I use them, when, where and why. I'm going to explain the best I can. I am aware there are different styles than mine. I have developed the way I use my seat from what works best for me within the confines of my sport.
I'd love to hear from everybody on the differences on how they ride. If you're going to share, please explain the purpose and how it works instead of just pointing out the differences. That way we all learn more.

I'll start with seat bones 101. If you're way past this bear with me, OK?

I will sit on my horse. My weight is balanced evenly in the middle of my horse. I try to ride with my ear, shoulder, hip and ankle aligned all of the time, unless I'm specifically moving something for a cue. You would be amazed if you could see what incredibly crappy posture it's possible to have and still maintain those points in a line. Think "cutters slump".

I'll take my feet out of the stirrups. I'll relax my legs. I'll raise my arms to the side to shoulder height. Now I'll turn my torso and twist to the left. I'll make sure my arms stay level, my head turns with my torso and I keep my chin up. I feel my left seat bone sink into my saddle.
Now I swing to the right and feel my right seat bone sink into the saddle.
Now that I've found them I'll walk around the arena and practice putting weight into my seat bones. First left, then right.
I always estimate about five pounds of pressure into my saddle. Think of adding a bag of Yukon Golds to each cheek.
I keep my shoulders level while I'm getting used to this feel.
When I get it right I'll be able to sink into my left seat bone and my horse will step to the left in an effort to rebalance me. Sink to the right and the horse will move to the right.
Once I'm solid in this concept I will play with my seat bones at the walk, trot and canter. I have found that my outside seat bone balances my horse and the inside creates a turn.
This is where it gets tricky.
All cowhorse maneuvers are based on drive coming from the haunches. The horse is crouched and rocked either back or balanced over her hocks through every stop, turn and spin. Most of what we do is at a fast clip with continually building speed, driving with every step.
If I create my turns by dropping my weight into my inside seat bone, the horse will be following my cue, or playing catch up. I will be in a position to fall to the inside and have to counter that with my rein drawn to my outside hipbone and my outside leg pushed into the back ribs of my horse. At 35 miles an hour on a cow that's a lot to think about and too many opportunities to fall out of position.
So instead I drive my horse with my outside seat bone and leg into my hands. My inside leg will catch her if she falls to the inside, but the only position I have to maintain is my outside hipbone into the corner of my saddle. I'm extremely solid and safe in that position.
I stay essentially in the middle of the horse and am driving her into my maneuvers, instead of her following the cue. Do you see the difference?
So in a lead change my weight stays to the outside of my circle. My outside leg drives the horse into the circle. When I change I simply shift my seat bones and my leg. I am able to stay centered and balanced without a lot of work or thought. (Important for those of us who "cowboy" their horses)
When I'm going down the fence after a cow my horse is on her fence (or off) side lead. My weight is on the outside corner and my shoulders are back over my hips. My cow side leg directs how close she is to the cow, my seat bones ask for speed.When my horse turns into the fence she'll slide and turn, I'll push with my calf through the turn, shift my weight as we straighten and be in position for the run the other way.
So that is why I use my weight the way I do. I hope it made some kind of sense.

Now on to trailer loading. I am pretty direct on how I load.
You guys might think I'm nuts, but I haven't hurt one yet. I've gotten them all loaded. And they all stay pretty good travelers when I'm done.
I never get mad.
I get it done.
Every time I load a horse I take it somewhere. Even if it's around the block. I want my horse to understand that I load them, we go somewhere, we're done.
If I load and reload 100 times it's only going to piss us both off.
So I load. We go somewhere. I unload. We're done.
This works with straight loads or slant loads.
I'll do this every day with a problem horse but only once a day.
I get out my 50 foot soft cotton rope and snap it to a very sturdy rope halter.
I run the rope through the front of the trailer and out the window.
I bring the end of the rope to the back of the trailer, so I have kind of a pulley.
If I have a helper it works best, but if I don't I can make it work.
The key here is the horse only gets a release for looking in the trailer.
He doesn't have to get in at first, but he has to look in.
I'll put pressure(by pulling) on the rope until he looks. As soon as he looks I release the pressure from the rope.
If he starts dragging me backwards I'll let him pull me, but I'll return the pressure until he's looking in the trailer. Sometimes I need all fifty feet of rope, but not usually.
I don't release for rearing, banging, hiding around the other side of the trailer, nothing except looking inside.
The key here is that while the horse is flailing around I am whacking him in the pasterns with a longe whip. Not killing them, not drawing blood, but consistently popping those pasterns until he moves his feet while looking in the trailer.
He doesn't have to get in, he just has to move his feet, look in the trailer and think about getting in.
This only works if you keep your pressure and release working.
Remember, if he's flying back, let him, just keep the pressure on the rope, keep flicking those pasterns and don't quit until he stops going back. Then stop everything. That will get the point across.
The longe whip keeps you out of kick range. The cotton rope keeps you out of the trailer. Remember that.
Once he's got the thought in his mind he'll get in there pretty quick.
I will give a release for one step.
I will let him smell the floor of the trailer as long as he wants.
I will let him paw with one foot and his head in the trailer as long as he wants.
I will let him step in and out as many times as he wants.
I will only apply pressure when he quits thinking about getting in the trailer. Then I'll pull and pop until he's thinking forward again.
Once he's in I let him stand there. I don't tie him or close the doors until he is quietly and happily standing in the trailer.
If I have to reload a time or two that's OK. Only if he gets out again on his own mind you. Once he's in and quiet we will go for a drive. Come home. Get out. Be done.
It works. I swear.

Mort Stories

"You want me to what?"
"Ride Mort in this ring snaffle," Mike Craig stood holding the bit and bridle in his hand.
My new instructor was young, friendly and confident. I was also sure he was planning to sacrifice me to the "Good Horsemen" gods as his first step in turning my horse and me into something usable.
"I can't control him as it is." I protested.
"That's right, so what's the difference?"
"You mean the difference between getting killed and living through the next ride? I'd say a big one."
I had grown into quite a smart-ass in my teen age years, as the nuns at Benet Hill could attest. I figured I was blowing any chance of this guy wanting to help me, but he was spelling out my doom, so what the hell.
"He runs off in everything you ride him in, so why not put him in something that won't make him bleed?"
He had me there. I loved my horse. More than anything in the world. It broke my heart every time I tore open the tender scar tissue under his chin, or added to the ever-growing lump that traveled across his nose.
"You have pretty much gotten your stop figured out," Mike went on, "you don't pull on him then do you?"
"No, I don't."
"The reason he has such a good stop on him is because he understands it. He's really willing once he knows what you want, don't you think?"
There was the crux of the matter.
Mike had showed me how to stop my horse with a mere touch on his neck. He taught me a simple three step process.
Step one: Focus on the strides my horse takes as he lopes. Get into the rhythm of the lope, paying attention to when my seat is rising out of the saddle, and when my seat is sliding down into the well of the saddle. He would have me call out "Now, now, now" with every rising stride.
Step two: On a rising stride say "Whoa" (instead of now) then push with my rein hand on the base of my horse's neck at the next stride.
Step three: Pull that bad boy into the stop.
What was important was that each cue was only given once. The Whoa came as I was in the air, which told him the stop was coming, the hand cue came as I slid down into the saddle, which is also when Mort would have both hind legs forward and underneath him, making it easy for him to stop, and the pull made it all happen.
Within one lesson he was parking it into a solid hard stop off just the "Whoa" and the hand. That was all the cue he needed and I didn't have to pull back. As my our timing improved so did our stops. Mort could slide. It was incredible.
Now Mike wanted this next terrifying step. Just a snaffle on my scarred, anxious, chronic run away horse.
He stood patiently and waited as I chewed on it. This young man had opened a door I didn't believe possible for me and my horse. Plus Mike was hot, which to a 15 year old girl is a deal breaker. I guessed it was time to step through it.
"OK, ring snaffle it is."
Mike gave me the bit to use until I could buy my own. He also let me try out a running martingale.
We spent the rest of that lesson focusing on left rein, right rein, push that hip, push this shoulder, anything that might unlock my bolty, rigid horse.
I left that day with my snaffle, my new resolve and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"Remember, less is more."
Mike's parting words rung in my ears.
I supported my horse with my baby-sitting money. I was lucky if I could pay for a lesson a month. Now that I had to save for yet another bit and a martingale I didn't know when my next lesson with Mike would be.
But I took his "less is more" theory to heart.
I started riding Mort bareback. With just the snaffle. I was going to figure out that damn left right thing if it killed me. I'm lucky it didn't.
Mort loved the snaffle. He quickly realized he didn't have to pay attention to me in any way. I was no more than an irritating gnat. A little buzz in his ear. We were off to the races. Buzz buzz.
I stayed at my barn for days. I soon found that without a saddle I had no leverage. I couldn't force him to do anything. I could, however, coax him into a gentle, sweeping turn. He would guide in an acre size circle. I could point him somewhere, release and he would head in the new direction straight and true.
I found that with a series of gentle tugs and releases he would kind of, sort of, steer in smaller increments. If I got the least aggressive he would grab that bit, snarl at me with his nastiest growliest grunt and we'd be flying totally out of control. But now I could stop him. Every time I got scared I could touch his neck and Mort would lay some track. He would stand and air up. I would rethink the latest mistake I had made and we would try again.
I learned that a tired Mort was a thinking Mort. So I reached into my eternal training manual, Walter Farley's Black Stallion series, and decided to "breeze" him in the mornings before school. (C'mon, you guys all know you used old Walt's training tips) I would trot him over to a big wide drainage ditch that ran a quarter mile between Maizeland and Constitution Blvd. It was about 10 feet deep and 100 yards wide, level and filled with sand. Meant to be used for flood control, it was a perfect place to run my horse.
And run we did. We would pick our way down the steep trail into the ditch and Mort would snort and blow, playful instead of anxious. When he hit the sand he would fly. I grabbed a handful of mane and relaxed into him as the morning wind blasted my cheeks raw. I felt his muscles thrum as he blew through the sand and as I leaned into him he would go faster and faster. We were mustangs. We were tornadoes. We were free.
We would go full out until we came to the cement bridge at Constitution. I would carefully steer him around and we would head back towards home. Mort would only tolerate a touch through the turns for the first mile. By the second he would be slowing. For the rest of our run I would play with steering him. We would float to the left, then the right. I would play with a tug and release, or a steady pull. What worked better? How did it feel? What created tension, or instant responses, good or bad? I was really thinking about my hands. What worked and what didn't.
As I walked him home I would continue to play. Go left a few steps, go right. Turn a circle and go forward, turn again and release. It was fascinating. My horse was becoming soft in the bridle. A term I didn't even know.
In the afternoon we would hit the trail, still bareback. Mort would extend trot through the trails in Palmer Park all day. If we loped, or I tried to get him to walk he would take off. I still couldn't get him to rate even a little.
I started my own version of the one, two, three cues. I would check him once with my reins. If he ignored me or sped up, which he always did, I would bump him pretty good to the left and right with my hands. When he ignored that I would grab my left or right rein and hoist him into the nearest emergency road block I could find.
I would run him up a mountainside until he couldn't go any farther. Or ram him into the thickest scrub oak patch I could find. There was a field in Palmer Park we called Yucca Flats. Guess why? I would whack him through that field over and over, jumping and dodging yucca every step of the way until he SLOWED THE HELL DOWN.
I'll be damned if it didn't start to work.
I'd pick up my reins and ask him to slow, he'd tense up and start looking to see where I was going to park him and if it looked rough enough, Mort would actually slow down by the time I bumped his mouth.
I was no longer along for the ride, I was training.