A little red house on a wind swept desert prairie is the place I've called home for the last three weeks. Under a leaking, water stained roof I've slept sounder than any gypsy cowgirl ever thought she would. I sleep in my own room, in my own bed, with retired appliances as my shelves. I have had the luxury of unpacking my bags, doing my laundry (numerous times that is), using a bathroom(!), and cooking a meal on the range with cast iron. I made a friend to play cribbage with in the evening, punch cows with in the morning, drink ice tea with in the afternoons, and watch both daily events of the sun with from a cement stoop. I've watched flickers and robins and starlings kick their fledglings out of the nest and into the big country. And I've seen baby pronghorn with their stemmy, wobbling legs grow into young desert bounding speed goats. I have almost watched half a season pass by from the backyard of this little house. I never intended to stay so long, but here it was good. Doc asked me when I arrived how my horses were going and I explained... well, they're alright. I began to admit to Doc, or moreso to myself that I was feeling overwhelmed and intimidated especially by my mare. She nearly trampled me in a snow drift, she could put up a fight that reminded me of the rodeo bronc horse she first started out like and I was just plain nervous to ride her. Doc looked at me with absolute certainty and said "we'll fix it". He said that this ocean of desert surrounding us can cure anything for a horse. He also said " I cuss mustangs, but I'll ride her for you". Then he continued, "I also don't ride mares...they tie up and don't last nearly as long as the geldin's do, but I know you need the help". Well my friends, this old cowboy has now offered to buy my mustang mare from me and has proclaimed that she is the kind of horse he needs. I told him $10,000, but she's not for sale. I think it's just a testament to the heart in that girl, that she has an endless bottom and she needed to run her guts out on this desert. She probably hasn't run like that since before she was captured four years ago. In these last three weeks, I've learned so much more about my horses and myself as a horsewoman. I am not scared of Sparrow anymore. We've pretty much rode the fight out of her and I've found that fine line of when she picks a fight over something how to pick one just a little bit bigger and win it! I am proud of that tough little horse! I admire her strength and her sense of business. She is a cow punching machine that needs only look at a cow to make it run. Doc has affectionately named her the "croch rocket" and he chases cows off her while shaking garbage bags now and apparently she doesn't mind a bit.
Within a day of arriving at the Little Sandy Grazing Association I was making my living on horseback by chasing cows. I made $50.00 a day. I guess I now get to add to my resume "professional cowgirl". The offer to stay and help break colts was extended and I was tempted. But the urge to ramble on is too strong. I will be leaving in a day. Westward again, 80 miles to Cottonwood Ranch. I will find more work there and maybe make it to payroll status like I did here. The truth is that I have to find some way to make income as I travel. I knew I left Colorado without enough money, but it was a now or never kind of decision. And so far, I am so thankful that the now end of that expression won out. I am going to miss the little red house with rattling windows that sing along with the wind. I am going to miss crisscrossing the Oregon trail and Mormon trail, the Pony Express trail and the California trail in pursuit of punching some cowhide. I will miss stumbling upon the graves of pioneers with stone markers that one day, before 100's of years of wind and rain, marked the name of a courageous heart that attempted to pass through this land. I am going to miss cursing at the tail end of a bunch of cows as we push them through sagebrush and over sloughs and across the little sandy crick. I'll miss the comfort of a little red house tucked into 350,000 acres of BLM land at the Big Sandy Entrance. But most of all I will miss a new friend and fellow horseman Doc Foster. He is a cowboy legend, an anomaly, a gritty old bastard with a generous heart and more love for horses and big country than all the wild range land there is.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
No comments:
Post a Comment