My Life With Horses--Part Six

                                                by Laura Crum

            So just when you think you have it all figured out…it changes. I was enjoying team roping, but slowly my overall enjoyment began to grow less. Because no matter how hard I tried to dwell on the positive, I couldn’t help but see all the negatives in competition. This was the third competitive horseback event that I had immersed myself in, and it was more fair and more affordable than the first two. But it was just as hard on horses. In some ways it was much harder on horses than cutting.

            I was getting to the end of watching horses be trashed in order to win. In any form, for any reason. I was sick of seeing people be too hard on a horse because they wanted to win a damn event. I didn’t do this to my own horses, but it was all around me. My fourth mystery novel, Roped, had a lot to do with these feelings.

            I became aware that I was less and less interested in winning and less happy at team roping competitions. I began focusing on horse packing in the mountains more and more. Flanigan was my main mount at this time and he proved to be a wonderful mountain horse. We made many, many trips together, including some that were over a week long and covered a couple of hundred miles over many high Sierra passes. Here we are Wood Lake in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

            But despite my riding in the mountains from time to time, the thing that dominated my life was roping. I practiced twice a week and I competed on weekends. It was my life. Training horses and competing at horse events had been my life for twenty years. I didn’t know how to quit. Once in awhile I would stay home and putter around my garden on the weekends and just turn my horses out to graze…and I was aware that I would RATHER do this than go roping. But the honest truth was I felt guilty if I didn’t go. All my friends were going. Surely I should go, too?

            I had retired Gunner from competition at this point, due to arthritic changes. I was still roping on Flanigan, and I had trained my young horse, Plumber, to be ready to compete. But something was wrong. The heart had gone out of it for me. I knew how I felt, but I didn’t know how to change. So life made a change for me.

            I am going to say something here that not all horse people will want to hear. But it is absolutely true (at least for me). I had spent my life focusing on horses to such a degree that I didn’t think very hard about much else. I didn’t, for instance, think about how to create a happy marriage. I never gave much thought to having children. I was too busy with my horses. And now I was forty years old and competing on horses was beginning to seem meaningless and downright upsetting. I still loved my horses, but I went off to the ropings completely uninterested in winning or even performing well. “Please don’t let any horses or people or cattle get hurt,” was the only thought in my mind. “Let whoever needs to win, win.” By which you can see that the joy had really gone out of it. But I kept doing it. Because I didn’t know how to quit. And this is where life stepped in.

            In my 40^th year my husband fell in love with another woman and left me. And between this, and the very real angst I already felt due to losing my lifelong passion for horseback competitions, I fell into a true depression.

            Those people who have been depressed themselves will know what this means. For those who have not, I will say that depression is far more like being sick with the flu than it is like being “sad.” I had tons of physical symptoms. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I felt physically terrible. It wasn’t as if I could just sit around on the couch relaxing and feeling sad. I felt so awful that I was desperate to feel better. You know when you have a really bad flu how everything is just misery? That’s how depression was for me.

            And yes, I did try to get help. That’s what everyone says. Get help, there is medication, etc, etc, etc. Well, I am here to tell you that this doesn’t work for everybody. I saw three separate shrinks for a year straight, I took at least ten different anti-depressant meds (not simultaneously). None of it helped at all. Some of the meds just made me feel worse. The only thing that gave a little relief was a couple of glasses of wine in the evening. But the relief was always short-lived.

            And yes again, I contemplated suicide. That’s how meaningless everything seemed. But I honestly felt that I needed to survive for the sake of my animals. At the same time, I couldn’t really care for them. I did not go roping; I did not even ride. I had to drag myself through the most basic of horse chores—feeding and watering. Anything more seemed beyond me, and even this much was very hard to do. My friends and family helped me feed my horses…and they went to the grocery store and brought me food so that I would eat. Yes, it was that bad.

            But it passed. I just had to walk through it, one step at a time. It wasn’t easy. More like going through a severe illness than any other way I can think of to describe it. I felt like shit…all the time. And I endured it and continued to put one foot in front of the other. More than that, I contemplated my life and tried to see what the depression might be trying to teach me. Because strange though it sounds, that depression, as I began to understand, came to me for a reason. When I look back on it, I learned some very important things during the year I was depressed. But that didn’t make it easy to bear.

It lasted a year. Until finally it lifted of its own accord. A year and one month after it began, it left me for good. I was involved with a new man and I went to Europe with him, and suddenly life was worth living again. And I still had my horses. Thanks to my friend, Wally, who did much of the feeding and caring for them during the year I was depressed.

            The thing is that awful though it was, the depression was actually a gift. I emerged from it changed—for good. I no longer felt that I had to compete on my horses in order to achieve something. I felt perfectly free to interact with my horses in whatever way was best for me and them. And I knew that I would never again prioritize horse competitions and horse training over my marriage.

            At this point I was re-married and I knew I wanted to have a child. I still had Burt and Gunner, who were both retired, and Flanigan and Plumber. My friend Wally was roping on Flanigan and Plumber and having a fine time with them. And me? I went on the occasional trail ride on Plumber with my new husband riding Flanigan alongside me and felt that life was good.

            But there were still more changes to come. (To be continued.)

PS—I wrote Slickrock about my horse packing adventures, and Breakaway about my battle with depression during this period of my life. These books are, of course, fiction, not memoir. All my novels have classic mystery plots involving murder and such, and this sort of drama did not come my way in real life, thank goodness. But all the background material in the stories is drawn from my own experiences. Click on the titles to find the Kindle editions of these books.

My Life With Horses--Part Five

                                                           by Laura Crum

            I was in my early thirties when I decided to train my nine year old cutting horse to be a team roping head horse. Never mind that Gunner was solid in his role as a cutter and that being a head horse required completely different skills. Never mind that I had never trained a horse to be a competitive team roping horse before. I was sure that I could get this done. (Are you beginning to see a pattern here? See Parts One, Two, Three and Four.)

            I started showing up at the practice roping on my cutting horse, and swinging a rope. All I can say is I don’t recommend this approach. Gunner was (of course) afraid of the rope and he had been taught to move sideways (hard) when a cow even flinched, rather than chase it and provide a steady platform to throw a rope from, and he was, above all else, a big spook. I had never been good at ball sports and roping is very much about hitting a target. The gear is completely different from the tack/gear used in cutting, the position in the saddle is completely different, the way you hold the reins, the amount of contact…I could go on and on. The two events had NOTHING in common other than both involved cattle and western saddles. Seriously.

            In short we were totally lame. So bad that my uncle took pity on me and said he would train Gunner to be a rope horse, while I practiced throwing the rope at what is affectionately known as a roping “dummy.” I had to learn to rope the horns before I was going to be able to teach my horse to be a rope horse.

            Well, it sounded like a good plan. My uncle was a heeler, and once we had gotten Gunner somewhat used to the whirling ropes, my uncle tried to make a heel run on him. Gunner was willing to chase the cow, and when the header turned the steer my very cowy horse stayed right with the animal. My uncle stood up to throw the rope, the steer scooted to the left, and Gunner moved hard and fast to the left, as a good cutting horse should do. But cutters ride sitting deep in the saddle and team ropers must stand in the stirrups to throw the rope with force. Just try riding a cutting horse while standing in the stirrups…I dare you. My uncle landed flat on the ground. But he wasn’t discouraged.

            The next afternoon we went back to the arena and again my uncle tried to heel on Gunner. Same result. The next afternoon, again, the same. (I’m actually not kidding.) But this third time my uncle picked himself up off the ground, led Gunner over to me, and said, “I’m never riding this horse again.” And he didn’t.

            So it was back to square one. Fortunately my friend Wally was game to give a try at helping me train Gunner, and we discovered that Gunner was a lot more “stable” when he was on the header’s side. Within six months I was heading cattle at the practice arena on Gunner and having a fine time.  And Gunner was doing great. This kind and talented horse had allowed me to train him to do three different (and very demanding events), none of which I knew how to do when I set out to train him. Again, I don’t recommend this approach. Gunner was (and is—he’s 33 and munching hay happily in his corral on my property as I type this) an exceptional horse. Here we are heading a steer for my friend Sue’s dad, Bob.

            In order to help me progress as a roper, Wally let me rope on his good horse, Flanigan. And here, for the first time in my life, I discovered how much EASIER it is to learn a horse event when I was not trying to teach the horse the event at the same time. Because Flanigan knew his job and he did not need my help. All I had to do was my own part and Flanigan would do the rest. He was a wonderful horse and I fell completely in love with him. Here I am on Flanigan turning a steer for my friend Sue (riding Pistol) at the local jackpot roping.

            So life was good. I enjoyed roping; it was affordable and not political. I bought a half interest in Flanigan, and I had Gunner and Flanigan to compete on every weekend. My whole life was arranged around roping…I thought of nothing but the next practice and the next competition. (I’m sure all my friends who are passionate about endurance, dressage, eventing…etc will grasp this mind set, if not the team roping event itself.) I started training young horses for Wally and my uncle Todd—getting them started as rope horses. I bought a three year old colt for myself (Plumber) and broke him and began training him to be a rope horse. I’d known Plumber since he was born, so this was a special project for me. (Baby Plumber and his mom, Bucky).

            To top this off, I finally achieved another long held dream. A major New York publisher, St Martins Press, bought my mystery novel featuring an equine veterinarian and set in the cutting horse world (Cutter). I had always wanted to be a published author and now I was one. In short order I sold the second book in the series (Hoofprints—about reined cowhorses) and the third (Roughstock—about team roping.)

            I was able to buy a piece of land and began to develop it into a horse property. Everything was going well—or seemed to be, anyway. But life had a few twists in store for me. (To be continued.)

PS—Click on the book titles to find the very affordable Kindle versions of the first three books in my mystery series. Cutter and Hoofprints are currently on special for 99 cents each, and Roughstock is just $2.99.

Gathering Cattle

                                                by Laura Crum

            And now for something completely different…anybody remember that Monty Python movie? And yes, today’s post is pretty much the polar opposite of Terri’s previous post, in which she tells the almost fairytale story of her triumphs at the upper levels of dressage with her lovely horse, Uiver. Congratulations, Terri and Uiver!

And now you get me, the has been cowgirl, dinking around with my hairy pony, my young son, and a bunch of old team ropers. Quite the culture shift. Let no one say we are not a diverse group here at Equestrian Ink. Our common bond being a love of horses and a desire to write about horses (!)

So, lately most of my riding has involved gathering cattle. For many years now, I have been mostly trail riding, but this last year my son preferred to ride with our team roping friends and help them gather and work the cattle. I love moving cattle…I’ve done it my entire life. So I willingly prioritized riding with the roping crew a couple of days a week over the trail rides that we’ve been used to doing.

            However, the other day it struck me that I have very few photos of our gathers…etc, unlike my trail rides. The reason, of course, is that trail rides have many fairly quiet moments when it’s easy to take the ubiquitous ear shot, or turn and photograph your companions. Not so when you are working cattle. Most of the time you are focused on being where you need to be in relationship to the critter or herd, and you are moving too quickly for photos. There is almost never any handy person just standing around who can take photos OF you. Thus I have almost no photos of gathering cattle, despite how often I have done it.

            So the other day I decided to try and “capture” one of our gathers with my camera. I thought that many of you have probably never done this before, and might enjoy a vicarious internet version of the experience. 

It’s November and the fields are pretty bare here. The green grass is just barely started. The cattle are being fed hay every day. So the scene is not as picturesque as it is in the spring, when the fields are lush and green.

            Also, despite my best intentions, I only got a few decent shots. I was just too busy herding cattle the rest of the time, and the one shot I took when the cattle were galloping up a ravine was so blurry as to be useless. So here is my rather feeble attempt to take you all with me on a gather.

            Sunny and I are looking for the cattle. Can you see from his ears where they are?

            After this I had to pay attention to what I was doing as we went down into the ravine and pushed the cattle out of the brush and got them gathered in a herd. Then a certain amount of scrambling quickly up the hill and loping across the field happened, as we worked to get the herd moving toward the catch pen. I was too busy to take photos at this point, but here’s a photo from last fall, showing my son following the other guys up the ravine toward the upper field.

Finally the cattle are headed in the right direction and I hung back, pulled my horse up, and took a photo of my son and our friends pushing the herd toward the catch pen gate. That’s my kid on the far right and my uncle Todd and our friend/boarder, Wally, on the left.

            Then, more loping here and there, and ducking and dodging with the cattle took place, as we worked to get the more recalcitrant critters through the holding pen gate and then through the gate into the alley. Again, much too busy and moving too fast to take photos. Then I had to lope ahead of the group to open the gate that leads to the roping chutes, as someone had (ahem) forgotten to open it previously. So, again, no time to take photos. 

But here’s a shot from this spring showing my son and our friend Wally pushing the herd up the alley toward the roping chutes.

Once the cattle are loaded in the chutes the roping begins. The big fun for my son comes when there is a steer that is deemed no good to rope (lots of reasons—it “sets up” or it “drags” or it turns left in a determined way…etc), and my kid and his trusty steed, Henry, get to chase this animal down the arena.

            Anyway, thinking about gathering cattle reminded me of the many, many times I have done this. First on our family ranch here in Santa Cruz County, then on the northern California commercial cattle ranch where I worked in my 20’s, then in the central valley and the foothills where I worked for various cowhorse/cutting horse trainers (gathering the cattle was always the first chore of the day), and finally here on my uncle’s little ranch in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Almost fifty years of gathering cattle. I guess I should know how to do it by now(!)

            Gathering cattle (and working cattle in general) is all about a sort of intuitive understanding of a cow’s body language. You have to be able to read the cattle. A recalcitrant sort of cow will need you to be far more “in her face” to turn her and get her moving in the right direction. A flighty animal will need you to back off. You have to be able to tell what the cattle are thinking. It’s also important to read the herd as a group. Some people can work with cattle for many years and still they always seem to be in the “wrong place.” Just like people who have horses for many years and never learn to “read” them very well. And the skills that one uses in reading and moving cattle do translate to some degree to reading horses, though the two species have some BIG differences.

            Actually, the skills used in reading cattle or horses also come in handy when herding any sort of critter—including chickens. Trust me, I know.

            (The above photo is Toby, our banty rooster, crowing defiantly at me as I attempt to "herd" the chickens back in the coop after a day out in the garden.)

Anyway of course there are no photos of me cause I am the one holding the camera (as I usually am), so I talked my intrepid companion into taking a shot of me when we went riding the next day. A little blurry, but you get the idea. Sunny and me—having fun covering some country in November.

I know some of you, like me, enjoy working cattle in various disciplines, but maybe for a few of you it’s a new experience. Many of our authors here on the site are involved with dressage. And our readers do everything from endurance to reining. So our riding disciplines are pretty different—does gathering cattle seem exotic to some of you, just as high end dressage seems exotic to me? Anyway, this is what my riding time has looked like lately.

Happy Thanksgiving to all—I am so grateful for my happy life here with my horses and family (not to mention my garden and other critters)—words can’t express it. I hope you all have much to be grateful for, too.

And for those who are already embarked on Xmas shopping (black Friday and all that), I would like to point out that the first two novels in my mystery series featuring equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy are currently on sale as Kindle editions for 99 cents each. For just shy of two dollars you can give a fun Xmas present to anyone who likes horses, mysteries and reading on Kindle. Or you can give them to yourself to enliven the darker days of winter. Here is the link to Cutter, the first book, set against a background of western ranches and cutting horses, and Hoofprints, the second book, which revolves around murder in the world of professional trainers and reined cowhorses. Come take a peak at the western cowhorse world where I have spent my horse time.

Cheers--Laura

PS For those who prefer to read "physical" books, I'm thinking to have a giveaway. If you're interested, leave a comment to let me know. I'm never sure how many folks prefer "real" books to digital.

Don't You Miss It?

by Laura Crum


The other day a friend was visiting and I pointed out a silk tree in my garden. “I grew that tree from a seed that was taken from a tree at the Oakdale Rodeo Grounds,” I said. “Back when I used to rope there a lot.”

The friend, who rides but does not rope, looked at me. “Don’t you miss it?” she said.

“Miss what?”

“Oh, the roping, the competition, hanging out with the cowboys, the whole thing. Don’t you miss it?”

My immediate impulse was to say no, but instead I gave the question some thought. Because no, I don’t miss it, in the sense of wanting to do it again. But I do think of that period of my life (my thirties) fondly, and I certainly am glad that I had that experience.

I’ve written before on this blog of the distaste I eventually acquired for competition, and the love I re-acquired for quietly cruising down the trail. At the present moment no horse event draws me as much as gentle, non-competitive trail riding, either solo, or with my son, or with a friend. But certainly there were many years when I just lived to go team roping—I practiced several days a week and competed every weekend. I was never more than a just-competent low level roper, but I hung out with some good ropers. I was actually better at training horses to be rope horses than I was at winning ropings. But it was all great fun.

I think back to some of the big ropings I went to, with hundreds of competitors and their talented (and not) horses milling about. In those days I was thrilled just to be there, to be part of the whole thing. I always tried to do my best and I was tickled if I placed, but I think the greatest thrill for me came from simply participating in this grand western scene.

And now? Well, I won’t belabor the various negative aspects of competition that eventually drove me away. I’ve talked about this before on the blog. I will say that though I don’t wish to compete, I still retain a fondness for the grand western scene, and I’ve chosen to take my young son up to our local practice roping arena twice a week ever since he was six months old. At first I just watched, with my baby in a backpack, when he was two till five I rode around with him in front of me in the saddle, five to seven he rode his pony, first on the leadline, then independently, and seven to ten he’s been riding his retired rope horse, Henry, gathering cattle and bringing them up the alley, occasionally chasing a slow steer down the arena.
“Are you trying to raise him up to be a team roper?” the same friend asks.

Well, no. But I am trying to give him the part of the experience that I loved and still enjoy—that being together with a group of “cowboys”, all mounted on their shiny cowhorses, ready to go do a job of work. And yes, I’ve worked on commercial cattle ranches with real ranch cowboys and know the difference between them and team ropers, but it’s the best way I can think of to convey what, to me, is really a poetic image. Its an image that always resonated for me, and I want to give it to my son.

So, no, I don’t “miss” being a roper, and no, I don’t so much want my son to become one. I do want him to feel the thrill of the group gathered to work cattle on all their pretty horses—the comraderie and the love of horses and the western spirit that underlies it all. Are these two things in conflict? I’m not sure.

Have any of you ever experienced this sort of paradox? Loving some elements of a horse activity and not others, and not sure how to reconcile them? Any solutions that have worked for you?


PS-I wrote this piece a week ago, and my son and I watched the cutting class at the County Fair yesterday—the same class that I won twenty-one years ago on Gunner. It was a little odd for me to sit there watching it, explaining the rules of cutting for my kid. I was able to accurately pick the horse which scored the highest, so I haven’t totally lost my feel for it.

At the end of the class my son said he’d like to try cutting and could Henry do it? I explained that Henry was a rope horse, not a cutter, and we would have to teach him how to hold a cow.

“Gunner is a cutter,” my son said. “Maybe I could use him.”

“Gunner is thirty years old,” I said. “He’s really too old and stiff to go back to work.”

And I reflected that I had neither the time nor the skill any more to train a cutter, and I certainly didn’t have the money to buy one, or a place to put another horse.

So, another potential dilemma. If my son retains his interest in cutting, shall I try to find a way to plunge back into it? I’m sure I could borrow a horse if I combed the ground thoroughly enough. But just the thought of the hauling, the endless cattle needed for practice, the entry fees, the constant politicking among the trainers and just interacting with all those trainers and their oh-so-wealthy non-pros again makes me cringe. I do not relish the thought of dealing with that world.

At the same time, watching people lope their horses around the warm up pen and walk into the herd brought back a rush of memories. I could almost see myself out there in that same pen on Gunner, all those years ago, and the buckle we won is still in my closet. If my son really wants to do this, surely I should support him?

I’ve got to admit, I really hope my son stays happy with trail riding. But perhaps I’ve sowed the seeds of my own demise by introducing him to these other (competitive) aspects of horsemanship—roping and cutting—all in the interests of sharing the “grand western scene” with him—that world I loved so well and pursued so long. How should I handle his new interest? Any thoughts?

Mr Twister

By Laura Crum




Today I thought I’d write about a horse in my barn who is a shining success, against all the odds, a horse I helped train, and am very fond of. This would be Mr Twister, my one boarder, who belongs to my friend, Wally.

Wally bought Twister six years ago when the horse was a very green seven year old rope horse. By green I mean that this grey QH gelding had been broke at five, ridden very sketchily since then, and had been roped on for all of ninety days when Wally bought him. What Wally needed was another horse to compete on. What he bought was a project. Why?

There’s no easy answer. Wally and I have been partners on many horses, and I’ve trained quite a few young horses for him. He has always respected my advice when it comes to picking horses out. We both knew what he needed. But the two of us saw Twister at a practice roping, for sale cheap, and we both fell in love with him.

“I really like that grey horse,” I said.

We agreed he was too green.

Wally called me that night. “What do you think if I buy that grey horse?”

“Well,” I said, “he’s too green. But I like him.”

We tried him.

He was really green. And ill-broke. He had no idea how to give his head. He had no rein. He carried his head way up in the air. He had no idea how to stay in the lope for a full circle. You could rope and turn a steer on him, but it was very crude. He wasn’t a particularly well made horse, and looked too light to be an ideal candidate for a rope horse. Both Wally and I rode him.

We decided to buy him.

Why, you might ask. A lot of people asked us that. Several people said we were nuts. Nobody thought it was a good choice. Plenty of people told Wally he shouldn’t listen to me. So, I am happy to report that, six years later, Wally is “delighted” with Twister and having a blast with him.

Back to why. What did we see in this horse? Well, to begin with, when I first saw him, it was the look in his eye. Twister was green and ignorant, he was being ridden by a horse trader who had never ridden him before, and yet this young horse was trying really hard to do right. You could see it all over him. Despite his many flaws when it came to performance, he was trying. I saw other things. He was fast enough. He stuck a leg in the ground well. But it was the look in his eyes that told me that this, despite the odds, was a good-minded horse.

Then I rode him. Again, he was ignorant. He wasn’t just not very well broke, he was ill-broke. He didn’t have the smoothest gaits. But when I attempted to collect him at the lope, despite the fact that I think it was the first time that any one had ever tried it, he gave me his head for a few strides and loped in a gathered frame. That was big. And…here I am going to have a hard time putting something in words…I felt secure on him. Twister was and is a flighty, ampy, prancy horse, with a tendency to spooking and pulling back, and to look at him, you wouldn’t suppose that you’d feel particularly secure on his back. But you do. Everyone who has ever ridden him has noticed. No one has ever fallen off of him. He’s just that kind of horse. For all his faults, he gives you a good feel.

I told Wally to buy him.

Wally liked the same things about him that I did. He bought him. And proceeded to have instant buyer’s remorse.

Because Twister needed a lot of work. He was not a horse that Wally could just take to the next roping. There was a lot to be done first.

Wally taught Twister to lope a circle. I helped as much as I could, but my training was mostly limited to giving advice. I had a lively two-year-old boy to look after, and I wasn’t in the horse training biz any more. This was the first horse that Wally had really trained without any active help from me (other than advice) and to begin with he missed the old system—the one where I did all the work. But he persevered. And Twister learned to stay in the lope, and collect, and lope a circle.

We worked on his rope horse skills. To begin with Wally wanted to give up. This horse isn’t going to make it, he kept telling me. He’s too hot, he’ll never score well, and he can’t run. He carries his head too high. Everything was wrong.

I kept telling him the horse would make it. Yes, he was high headed and chargy, but he could run enough. And he had a good mind. I devised ways of getting the horse quiet in the box. Unlike many horses, Twister really responded to being petted. When he became over-excited in the box, I had Wally get off of him and stand beside him and pet him. (Oh and by the way, this is something that most ropers would never do—we got a lot of funny looks.) As time went on, Wally could stay on Twister and pet him and get the same result. Pretty soon, he could just reach down and touch his neck and the horse would calm.

I watched Wally rope on Twister and helped him figure out what the horse needed. When Twister got too high, I would have Wally run out, stop the horse gently, back him up a few steps (gently) and then just sit there until Twister relaxed. People continued to tell us we were nuts and Twister wasn’t the right type of horse. I told them all they were wrong. Wally, a bit dubiously, persisted.

Twister got better. Slowly. I watched him and I had confidence in him. And Twister grew in confidence, too. He was a sensitive horse. Wally and I learned early on that you could not—ever--hit this horse. You couldn’t even yell at him. He would be upset and afraid of you for days if you did. He was light sided and needed no spur. You needed to stay light on his face or he got upset. He remained high headed and a bit chargy. But he learned to be good in the box and to work well in the arena as a head horse. Wally started to compete and win on him. People stopped telling us how wrong we were. Twister even filled out a bit and became a decent looking horse. All seemed well.

And then Wally fell off a colt and hurt his shoulder. The shoulder mended, but in such a way that Wally could no longer throw a strong head loop. He could throw a heel loop. But Twister had been trained to be a head horse. A chargy high-headed horse is not an unreasonable choice for a head horse, if he has certain attributes. But a chargy, high-headed horse (who doesn’t cow much) is nobody’s choice for a heel horse. Still, Wally was really fond of Twister at this point and didn’t want to sell him. I assured him that we could turn the horse into a decent heel horse.

Everybody said we were wrong. Everybody said we were stupid to try. Certain roper friends told Wally he shouldn’t listen to me (the same ones as before.) But Wally persisted.

And for a while it looked stupid. Twister was really not a good choice for a heel horse. He was too chargy. He wasn’t very cowy. He was high headed. About all he had going for him was that he would stop hard. And he wanted to do what was asked of him.

I’m sure you all can guess the rest. Twister tried. He did his best to understand this new event. He trusted Wally. He tried to learn. I watched and helped as much as I could. We used many of the same tricks I’d worked out to teach Twister to be a head horse. And Twister learned. Wally took his time. He heeled on Twister only as much as the horse could handle it. It took awhile. But this year, now that my good horse Plumber is too old to be very competitive any more (Wally had been using him as his heel horse for the past ten years), Twister is finally really competitive as a heel horse. Wally is winning on him. And all those same people who said we were nuts are once again having to eat their words. It makes me really happy.

Twister has just recovered from a mystery illness that gave him a slight fever and some pussy discharge from his nose, and both Wally and I are hoping that he has a long life ahead of him as a rope horse. He is one horse who succeeded against the odds—and the naysayers—and I’m proud of him. He’s proven for me, yet again, that a horse’s most important attribute is his mind. And that a good-minded horse comes in many forms. This hot, flighty horse who had such a rough start, wouldn’t strike many people as good-minded….but he is. Wally and I have agreed that Twister has earned his home. He will live with me until he dies, and I’m glad to have him. Here’s to Twister—the gallant horse.
Cheers,
Laura Crum

Dannyboy

By Laura Crum



The last colt I ever trained is standing out in my sixty acre field right now, a retired pasture ornament. Fourteen years old this coming spring, Danny is arguably the most talented horse I ever owned, and certainly the one I got the least use out of. In some ways his story reminds me of the line from an old blues song, “If it weren’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.” And yet, in a way, Danny was and is a lucky horse. Here’s his story—see what you think.

My uncle, who used to breed Quarter Horses, both bred and raised Danny, so I’ve known this horse since he was born. Like Plumber, another horse I bought from my uncle (see “The Horse With Two Left Feet”, August 08), I was taken with Danny from the time he was a small colt. Interestingly, both Plumber and Danny were their respective dams (two different mares) firstborn colt, and I have heard many old timey horsemen say that the first colt out of a mare is often the “special” one. In any case, the two horses I own that came from my uncle’s breeding program are both firstborns.

I had good reason to be interested in Danny. His dam, Sugar, was a promising barrel horse who had been seriously injured in training—my uncle had traded a gentle older kid’s horse for the well bred and talented mare with the intent of using her as a broodmare. Sugar’s full brother was an immensely talented and successful barrel horse; the owner, a huge name in that business, had turned down big bucks for him. I had watched this horse run at the Salinas Rodeo and was really impressed. Danny’s sire was my uncle’s new stud, who, though quite unproven, had bloodlines that I liked. And Danny was a solid bay without a white hair on him, which has always been one of my favorite colors. The little bay colt had a bright, curious, calm eye; I just thought he looked like a good horse. My uncle let me name him, and I chose “Dannyboy”, which seemed to fit.

Well, Danny grew up, as colts do. He was a well-made horse, with a big, plain head and an exceptionally nice, kind eye. He seemed quiet and sensible. He looked like he’d be able to move well. My uncle had him started the fall of his three year old year by a woman who worked on a large cattle ranch and started colts on the side. She put thirty days on Danny and my uncle brought him home.

I was there when the colt arrived back at my uncle’s place and was unloaded from the trailer. “How’d he do?” I asked.

“See for yourself,” my uncle said. “Go ahead and ride him.”

Now this was ten years ago, and I had not yet given up riding green horses. So I climbed on Danny and rode him around the arena for awhile. He seemed like he was started pretty well, though he wanted to crowhop when I kicked him up to a lope and didn’t seem to know how to hold the lope in a circle...at all.

I rode back over to my uncle and said, “He’s got real smooth gaits and I like the way he moves. She sure didn’t teach him how to lope a circle.”

My uncle laughed. “She only has a bull pen. No arena. Once she can get on em, she just rides em around the ranch. Mostly at the long trot. That horse has never been in an arena and I’m sure that’s the first time anybody ever loped him.”

Well, OK then. I asked my uncle what he planned to do with the horse and he said, “Sell him.” He named a resonable price, and to make a long story short, I bought Danny. For no other reason than that I liked him. I had plenty of horses to ride, but no green horses, and I thought I had time for one more project.

I rode Danny a few more times as a three year old, enough to teach him to lope a circle. Then I turned him out for six months in my sixty acre pasture. I brought him back in as a four year old and rode him for several months. I taught him to collect, to watch a cow, to have a rope thrown from his back and stop a slow steer, to pull a log…etc. The stuff I would routinely teach a young rope horse. I liked him. He was a little lazy, very athletically capable, smart, sensible, calm and overall easy-going. I never could get him over the tendency to crowhop a little, usually when I first loped him. It was unpredictable; he’d do it some rides and not others. Sometimes he’d just hump his back. He never bogged his head; he wasn’t hard to ride. If I over and undered him he scooted forward out of it. If I yelled at him he usually quit. As they say, he couldn’t “buck your grandmother off.” He certainly never even threatened me. But, he did have this quirk.

I turned him out for another six months on grass that winter, intending to start roping on him next spring, when he was five. But….I got pregnant. I was thrilled. But I also knew I would not be riding Danny.

So, I made a deal with my team roping partner, who liked the horse. I would send Danny to a trainer we both knew and liked in the spring and have this guy put thirty days on the horse and get him going good. Then my partner could start roping on him in the practice pen. My partner had ridden Danny several times in the past and was quite comfortable with him. We all thought it was a good plan.

The following summer, as planned, I took Danny to the trainer. The trainer rode him for thirty days, complimented me on what a nicely broke horse he was and said he’d had no problems. I asked if the horse still crowhopped and he said not to speak of. No problem.

I brought the horse home and my partner started riding him and getting along with him fine. That was the thing about Danny. Everybody liked him. He was an easy horse to like.

By now I had a baby. My partner was ready to start heading on Danny in the practice pen. He’d heeled on him a little, stopped cattle on him, logged him, done all the stuff to get him ready. Danny was doing great. I was up at the roping arena, holding my baby and watching, as my partner ran down the arena and headed a steer on Danny. Before my partner even went to the horn, before the horse was asked to pick up the weight of the steer, Danny started bucking. My partner kept on with the run and yelled at the horse, confident that he would stop. He always had. But Danny put his head down and bucked harder. He bucked my partner off (hard) and bucked all the way down the arena with an empty saddle.

Fast forward here. After I’d hauled my partner to the emergency room, seen him diagnosed with six broken ribs and admitted to the hospital, where he struggled for a week with pneomonia, I was ready to be done with Danny. Yeah, I liked him, but I didn’t need him. I had a baby; I already knew I wasn’t going to be riding a horse that had even a snowball’s chance in hell of bucking like that. My partner wasn’t going to ride him any more either. I had no use for him. I hauled Danny to a cowboy friend of mine and told him the horse was his. He could keep him and ride him or sell him. And I told him exactly what the horse was.

My friend could ride a horse that bucked. He took Danny to the team roping practice pen and made a run on him. Or tried to. As soon as he threw his rope the horse started to buck. And my friend sat up on him and rode him. I don’t mean tried to get his head up or discourage him from bucking by whipping him, which is what most of us, including me, would have done. I mean sat up there, gave him his head and kept spurring him, encouraging the horse to buck as hard as he could. Danny kept bucking, getting higher and higher but staying straight. My friend kept spurring. This went on for awhile. Eventually Danny gave up bucking and started rearing. As those of you who are familiar with roughstock know, this is a sign that a horse is defeated.

From then on Danny got better. No, he didn’t give up bucking altogether. But it became manageable. He could be spanked or scolded out of it when he tried it. He began to be a very effective rope horse. And everybody liked him. Despite his “quirk”, in every other way Danny was a kind, cooperative, willing horse. My cowboy friend thought his bucking was an odd form of cinchieness, something the horse couldn’t help, like being ticklish. In any case, in all other ways he was great—fast, strong, good minded…etc. My friend was offered plenty of money for him but chose to keep him and rope on him. Danny was ready to compete on…..

Part 2 of this story will follow next time. (I type with one finger, and I’m tired.)

I Used To Be a Horse Trainer

By Laura Crum


First off, I have to say how thrilled I am that Janet Huntington is posting here on Equestrian Ink. She is a wonderful writer, as well as a talented horse trainer, and I have so enjoyed reading her blog, “Mugwump Chronicles”. Her stories will often bring me back to the days when I trained horses, rather than writing equine mysteries. This was awhile ago; the last colt I broke and trained is thirteen years old now. But the memories are still vivid and my mind goes back easily to the many young horses I rode and the particular problems they presented. Not so long ago, reading one of mugwump’s great “Sonita posts”, I was reminded of a horse I trained for my team roping partner, a mostly Thoroughbred gelding named Rebby.

Rebby comes into my mind easily enough, because I am still taking care of him, now that he is a twenty something year old horse and retired. My old team roping partner and I keep our retired pastured horses together and share the chore of feeding them, and several mornings a week Rebby comes charging in to see me, ready for his flake of hay. I can’t forget him.

I had never really trained a Thoroughbred horse before Rebby; all the horses I rode when I was working for reining and cutting trainers were cowhorse bred Quarter Horses. All the colts I trained and rode for my uncle, who raised Quarter Horses, were foundation bred QHs. All the horses I’d ever bought for myself were QHs with cowhorse breeding. Rebby was a 16 hand appendix registered QH, which means for all practical purposes that he was a TB. His mother was a TB and his sire was a running bred QH, which means mostly TB. So there you go.

Initially I saw this as no big deal. Rebby was four years old and had had ninety or so days put on him by a not-all-that-handy cowboy. He was gentle enough to ride, if ignorant, and with a tendency to stick his nose out and prop when you stopped him. My friend and roping partner had got him cheap and wanted me to turn him into a rope horse. I said sure.

My first impression of Reb was positive. I had never in my life ridden a colt who could pick you up and carry you at the lope the way this one could. I felt like I was floating when I rode him. Collection came naturally to him. Maybe all TB horses are like this, I wouldn’t know. Rebby was naturally cowy; I had no problems getting him to hook onto a cow. He was also naturally bold; I had no problem getting him used to the rope, either. He had no tendency to spook sideways; he had no inclination to buck. None at all. There ends the list of things I had no problem with.

My first indication that Rebby was a little odd came when I first caught him and led him in to be saddled. Rebby walked right on my heels….I mean right on my heels, breathing down my neck. There was no malice in it; he just wanted to be right on top of me. I backed him off. I did this again, and again, and again. I backed Rebby off the top of me endlessly. I wasn’t gentle and kind about it either. I really seriously did not want Rebby on top of me, stepping on my toes. Rebby never seemed to truly get this. I had to correct him at least once or twice a day. I was puzzled. I didn’t get it why he couldn’t get it.
Then one day I ran into his former owner. She mentioned that she’d rescued the horse from a woman who had run out of money and couldn’t pay the board bill. This woman had raised Rebby herself. His mother had died at birth. You guessed it. My project was a bottle colt. No wonder he wanted to be right on top of me.

This information explained a lot of Rebby’s behaviors to me. He was gentle but pushy; he required to be set down several times a day. But he never had any ill intentions at all. Okey-dokey. Bottle colt.

The next problem I ran into was also a new one for me. Did I mention that Reb was a TB and I had never trained a TB? Reb liked to run. He liked to run hard. Where a cowhorse bred horse is likely to spook sideways when startled, Reb never did this. He bolted forward--his version of a spook. Charge was Rebby’s first response to everything. I could never really get used to this; Reb’s saving grace was that he was both gentle and bold and didn’t “spook” that often. But once we got to chasing steers, the “run factor” assumed a whole different dimension.

Rebby would chase a steer all right. He would charge after a steer with great enthusiasm, and he could really run. But Rebby had no intention of slowing down when he got to the steer. Reb wanted to beat that steer to the finish line. He had every intention of sailing on past and winning the race. I briefly considered telling my team roping partner to sell him as a bulldogging horse.

Instead I worked on teaching Rebby to answer when I checked him, which turned into a very long project. For details on how I did this, and other insights on stopping, see Janet’s post today on her Mugwump Chronicles blog. I’ll cut this short by saying that, eventually, I taught Reb to back off when I pulled on the reins and his career as a team roping horse took off. My partner loved Rebby, once I got him trained: everybody admired him. I was proud of what I’d accomplished with my little TB bottle colt.

The end of the story? Unfortunately Rebby broke down at ten years of age. My partner hauled him to a major equine hospital where they diagnosed him as having a strained sacroiliac joint. Reb didn’t seem to be in pain, but walked, trotted and loped with an odd waddle in his gait. He had always been such a kind and well-intentioned horse that my partner decided to retire him to the pasture to live out his life as long as he was comfortable. I agreed to help take care of him. And Reb has remained stable for well over ten years now; he still has that odd waddle, but can gallop up for his hay with enthusiasm. It makes me happy to see him, knowing he’s had a good life; at the same time it makes me sad that he broke down so young. Its one of the reasons I eventually turned away from team roping, as I once turned away from cutting and reining. I don’t like to see the number of horses that break down in the course of competing (not that these events are any worse for horses in the long run than jumping, western pleasure, or any other competitive event).

These days I don’t train horses, I write books about horses. (Now there’s two lucrative pursuits for you—maybe I’m not too smart.) I still enjoy riding my broke horses in the arena and down the trail, and I am happy to report that I’ve had no breakdowns lately—knock on wood. But every time my partner and I look at Rebby we shake our heads ruefully, and one of us has to say, “Wasn’t he a great horse?” I’m sure all you fellow horse people will understand.
Cheers,
To Rebby

Laura Crum

The Horse with Two Left Feet

By Laura Crum


Those of you who have read my mystery series featuring equine vet Gail McCarthy, will recognize Plumber, a horse that Gail acquires in the second book of the series (Hoofprints) and who features in many of the stories. Plumber, as he’s described in the books, is a well-bred Quarter Horse gelding, cocoa brown with a small white star, and an especially kind, willing, cooperative horse. The real Plumber is nineteen years old this spring, still sound and a competitive team roping horse who has won many thousands of dollars and several saddles and trophy buckles, and is sunning himself in my corrals as I write this. He very much resembles Gail’s fictional “Plumber” in all ways but one. The real Plumber is a klutz.

I acquired Plumber almost by default. My uncle raised him, and I was the one who picked out Plumber’s dam for the broodmare band. Plumber was her first colt. When I did the feeding chores on the ranch, I was immediately engaged by this baby, who would sneak out from around his mama to “play” with me. Pattering his front feet and leaping from side to side as though I were the cow to his cutting horse, he made every effort to get my attention. I was smitten. My uncle had raised Quarter Horses for many years and this was one of the most winning colts I’d seen.

Time passed. Plumber grew up, as colts do. Eventually he was three years old, still unbroken. My uncle was ready to sell him. Since I’d always liked the horse, I said I’d come by and have a look. Together my uncle and I took the colt to the round pen and turned him loose, so we could watch him move. I let him trot around me a little and then stepped in front of him, in a horseman’s time-honored technique to get a young horse to plant his hind leg and turn around. Plumber tried to stop and turn around but got his legs tangled and almost fell down.

My uncle shook his head. We got the horse moving again and this time my uncle stepped in front of him a little more forcefully, in an effort to get the colt to exert himself. Once again, Plumber seemed completely unable to execute this simple maneuver. First he tangled up and stumbled, then seemed to panic and attempted to jump the four bar fence. Unfortunately he wasn’t any better at jumping than he was at stopping and turning. He ended up on top of the fence, and more or less rolled over it, landing on his back on the ground. Eventually he managed to scramble to his feet and trot off, completely unhurt, but clearly the world’s klutziest three-year-old colt.

“I wouldn’t buy him if I were you,” my uncle said.

I had to agree. But as time went on and the price on Plumber came down further and further, I couldn’t forget his bright eyes and winning personality. Six months later, when my uncle was about to sell him to a horse trader, dirt cheap, I bought the colt.

My team roping partner protested. Why would I want that clumsy colt? “He has a good attitude,” I said. “I’m going to prove something with him. A good mind can make up for a lot of lack in athletic ability.”

For a long time things went as you might have predicted. I broke Plumber with no problems. He never once bucked or gave me any grief. Training him was a whole nother problem. He could make a couple of turns with a cow, but could never manage a third one; his legs just got tangled up. When I first started roping on him, he appeared unable to run. When asked to go faster than a lope, he disunited every time. My team roping partner laughed at my efforts. “That horse is useless,” he declared. “Sell him.”

I persevered. I liked Plumber. The colt was in some ways more like a dog than a horse. He would (and still does) nicker if he saw me, even if he was tied in a whole row of horses, including his pasture mates. Plumber was a “people horse”. He wanted to be your friend. Though clumsy for sure, he was always cooperative.

I roped on Plumber for several years, strictly in practice situations. Slowly the horse got better. Eventually he could run (yes, run, though he was never very fast) down the arena, turn with the steer and make a decent stop—well enough to be a tolerable sort of heel horse. And he was always cooperative.

During the years I spent training Plumber, my partner’s great heel horse, Pistol, developed ringbone, and was eventually retired to the pasture. My partner shopped around for a replacement but couldn’t find one he liked. I offered to let him use Plumber and though he pooh-poohed the suggestion, he eventually started using the horse, for lack of something better.

That was twelve years ago. In the ensuing time, my team roping partner has won thousands of dollars and many saddles and buckles on Plumber (they just won a breast collar last weekend). My partner now considers Plumber to be one of the best heel horses he’s ever had. Of course, I can’t resist the occasional “I told you so.”

As for me, I had a little boy, and for many, many years Plumber packed the two of us around in his rocking chair lope, much to my son’s delight. My kid has his own horse now, and rides most days of the week, and his love for this is due in large part to the many happy hours he spent with me on Plumber (and Flanigan) when he was a toddler and small child.

I still ride Plumber regularly, both in the arena and on easy trail rides in open country. I plan to keep him and retire him when his roping days are done. He’s been a real inspiration to me, my little mind over matter horse.
Happy trails,
Laura and Plumber

Flanigan's Story

By Laura Crum


I just got back from vacation last week and was very happy to be reunited with my horses again. Almost the first thing I did on getting home was walk down to the barnyard and have a look at the four equines living in the corrals there—our current saddle horses. All looked as if they had weathered my absence nicely—a real relief. As always, my gaze eventually went to the large rock in the biggest corral, which marks the grave of what was argueably the best horse I ever owned, or more accurately, was partners on. Now Flanigan doesn’t appear by name in my mystery series featuring equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy, but he lends his abilities, personality, exploits and tribulations to several horses in the course of my ten books, and since he’s been on my mind lately, I’d like to tell his story here.

Flanigan was a team roping horse, and a good one, which was how he came into my life. At that time, I was competing at ropings on my horse, Gunner, and my team roping partner purchased Flanigan from a well-known rope horse trader for a fair chuunk of change. When Gunner started to suffer from sore hocks and I decided to quit roping on him, my partner offered to sell me a share in Flanigan, so that I’d still have a mount for the ropings.

I was doubtful. The horse trader had informed us that Flanigan’s previous owner had been so afraid of the horse that he’d attempted to starve the animal into submission; it had taken the horse trader six months to feed the horse back up to a normal weight. Flanigan was cinchy, and if a certain careful protocol was not followed with his saddling and warm-up, he would buck. He’d bucked my partner off several times and I wasn’t eager to be the next victim. Nevertheless, my partner insisted that Flanigan was a “babysitter.”

This seemed like somewhat of a paradox to me, as I’m sure you can imagine. Neither did Flanigan attract me, as some horses in my past had done. Plain, brownish bay with a little white, Flanigan pinned his ears in a grouchy way whenever one looked at him, and he did not have a particularly “pretty” way of moving or working. In short, on the surface there didn’t seem to be much to recommend him. Nonetheless, I tried him.

The horse amazed me. If you’ve ever had the experience of a mount who would really pick you up and carry you, who attended to his job without needing much if any help, leaving you free to concentrate on your end, then you know what I mean. I saw instantly what my partner had meant by telling me the horse was a babysitter.



I bought a half share in Flanigan and roped on him for many years. In the photo above I am turning a steer for my good friend Sue Crocker, who is heeling on Pistol (who also appears in my mystery series as an equine “character”). I mastered the art of Flanigan’s warm-up program, and though he crowhopped with me occasionally on the first run of the day (something he would do right up until the time he was retired), he never bucked me off. I also rode this horse on numerous pack trips through the rocky Sierra Nevada Mts of California, where he proved to be just as reliable as he was in the roping arena. Flanigan and I traversed many tricky trails together over those years (including some spots that brought other horses and riders to grief), and I will be eternally grateful for his calm and responsive reactions, as well as his strength and surefootedness. Our travels in the mountains form the basis of my fifth book, Slickrock, and though the mount Gail rides in the story is Gunner, the horse who crossed those passes with me in real life was Flanigan.

Flanigan had other virtues, too. He would work a cow as well as a well-trained stock horse; he would pack an outright beginner and/or a small child willingly and calmly; he won many dollars and numerous trophy saddles and buckles as a competitive team roping horse. For me, though, the thing that mattered the most was the incredible “feel” I got from Flanigan. An immensely strong, intelligent, self-assured and capable horse, he made me feel safe and centered, whether we were traversing slickrock passes in the mountains or charging at full speed down the arena after a steer. Flanigan was one of those horses who simply would not fall down. Didn’t matter if a cow turned right in front of him at a dead run or a foot slipped as he followed a narrow crack in the granite---the horse stayed up.

I grew to love Flanigan as much as I’ve ever loved any horse; I understood his grouchy behaviors and saw through them to the great heart inside. I nursed him through many bouts with colic, which he was prone to, and made sure that he spent long periods of time turned out in my sixty-acre pasture getting some well-deserved R and R. When my baby was six months old, the horse I chose to take my child on his first ride was Flanigan.

Sadly, though Flanigan stayed sound and usable until he was twenty-one, at some point that year while he was turned out in the pasture, he suffered an injury (we never knew what happened) that resulted in a diaphragmatic hernia (diagnosed through ultra-sound at a major equine veterinary center). From this point on, he could only walk about the pasture. Moving faster than the walk caused him to gasp for air. (More about this in my novel, Moonblind.)

We kept Flanigan for another year, and he was able to enjoy a reasonably pleasant season in the pasture, but eventually he came down with a severe colic which wasn’t responsive to drugs. Since surgery was impossible due to his condition, we chose to put him down rather than let him suffer. He is buried here on my small horse ranch and every time I look at the stone that marks his grave I remember him, and what a magical horse he was for me, enabling me to do many things I didn’t think I was capable of. I will always be grateful to him.

I still miss Flanigan, even though I lost him some years ago, but I feel his spirit stays with me—a protective guide. I’m sure that others who have lost beloved horses will understand.
Cheers—to Flanigan
Laura Crum and Flanigan
http://www.lauracrum.com/

The Real Horses Behind the Books

by Laura Crum

In my latest mystery novel, Chasing Cans, just out this month, Gail McCarthy, my equine veterinarian protagonist, acquires a pony for her child. This particular plot device never would have occurred to me were it not for the fact that several years ago I acquired a pony for my little boy. I had never owned a pony before and Toby was an education to me. I found the little critter so endearing that I just had to write about him, and Toby our pony is faithfully described in Chasing Cans, though the way in which Gail acquires him is rather different than the way in which I came by the real Toby.

This is often the case with my equine characters. Over the course of my ten mystery novels, I’ve based virtually every horse that Gail encounters, owns or rides on real horses I’ve known. Gunner, who is Gail’s main mount through most of the books, is modeled on my own horse, Gunner. He is accurately portrayed as to appearance (a fifteen-three hand Quarter Horse gelding with white socks, a blaze and a blue eye), personality and quirks (the real Gunner is a big spook, as is Gail’s “Gunner”), but the living horse’s history is a bit different from the fictional one.

Gail acquires her horse Gunner when a veterinary client refuses to spend the money and time it would take to allow the horse a chance at recovering from severed flexor tendons. (This occurs in my first novel, Cutter.) Gail takes the horse to save him from euthanasia. (The story is also based on a real horse; it just wasn’t Gunner.)

The real Gunner’s life history is rather different. I acquired him as a three-year-old, just as Gail did her Gunner. I was twenty-five years old and working for a prominent reining/cowhorse trainer who shall remain nameless. As his assistant, I rode a string of eight horses every day; these were horses that, for whatever reason, he didn’t care to ride. Some he considered less talented, some were in the barn just to be broken and the owners weren’t interested in showing them, some had a bad attitude (poor me)…etc. Gunner was in my string because the trainer wasn’t collecting training fees on him; the horse was just there to be sold. Gunner was a well-bred and talented cutting and reining prospect, and the trainer thought that not only would he collect a fat commission when he sold the horse, he might also be able to place him with one of his own clients who would then pay the trainer to ride the horse and enter him in the major cutting and reining futurities. Needless to say the price tag on this horse was high. He was probably the best colt I had in my string; he was also a very likable horse.

Just as he is described in my books, Gunner had a friendly, clownish personality, a willing and cooperative nature, and tons of athletic ability. He came to me with about thirty rides on him, and I took it from there. He was always an easy horse, never prone to bucking or other negative behaviors, other than his penchant for unexpected sudden twenty foot sideways leaps whenever he saw something worth spooking at, which was often. He never dumped me (and never meant to), but it was a near thing more than once.

Despite the swerves, I loved riding Gunner. It amazed me how quickly this colt came on and how much “cow” he had. As the months passed with no buyer coming up with the purchase price, I grew fonder and fonder of this horse. I began hoping desperately that no one would buy him; I dreaded his removal from the barn or seeing him placed in the trainer’s string (by this time I’d had lots of experience with the well known trainer’s rather harsh methods and didn’t want to see this kind, willing colt subjected to them.)

Eventually the day came. A prospective buyer was due to arrive, one who would surely buy Gunner. He was a rich man; the purchase price would mean nothing to him. He was known to be looking for a good futurity prospect and to like Gunner’s breeding. The trainer was very keen to make the deal. I gave Gunner a bath with tears running down my face. That morning, despite the fact that I had no idea where I would get the money, I told the trainer I would give him the full price for the horse and wrote and handed him a deposit check.

I’ve never regretted this decision. I borrowed the money to buy Gunner and I left that trainer’s employment almost immediately thereafter. I trained Gunner myself and showed him at some of the reining and cutting futurities as a three and four year old, winning some very minor awards. Gunner became an accomplished cutting horse over the years and I won many events on him eventually. Later I trained him to be a team roping horse and competed on him for several years at ropings. I still own Gunner; he’s twenty-eight, sound, and retired in my sixty acre pasture. He’s been my friend the whole time.
Photo: Laura Crum and Gunner winning the cutting class at the Santa Cruz County Fair.

Gail’s Gunner is given a slightly different history. She never uses him as a cutting horse, but does compete on him at team roping in Roped, my fourth mystery novel. In Slickrock, the fifth book in the series, she rides him on a major pack trip through the Sierra Nevada Mts of California. Though this pack trip is based on many pack trips that I made over those same mountain passes, the mount that I used on those trips was Flanigan, a horse I also rode for years and loved dearly, just as I did Gunner. Flanigan loaned his skills as a team roping horse and his quirky personality to Burt in my third novel, Roughstock.

Photo: In the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California

So the horses in my books are real horses, although almost all of them are in some ways combinations. One horse’s personality and appearance grafted on another’s history, so to speak. (This is the way I create my human characters as well. ) And though I give Gail some of my own life experiences, her responses are uniquely her own. Thus my mystery series is a tapestry of fact and fiction, which I hope will engage readers in much the same way that the real horses and life changes have engaged me.

Here’s to the three “Rs”—reading, writing and riding!
Laura Crum
www.lauracrum.com

One Woman's Path to Publication

I've recently been invited to join equestrianink and thought I'd begin by introducing myself and telling the story of the long trail that culminated in the sale of my equine mysteries to a major New York publisher. My name is Laura Crum and I write a mystery series about equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy. The books are set in California and revolve around the world of western horses. Each book deals with a different facet of western horsemanship, as well as a different stage in Gail's life, and all of the books arise out of my thirty years plus experience training and owning horses. Here's a condensed version of my history.

I grew up riding horses for my uncle (a part-time rodeo cowboy who competed at team roping and raised Quarter Horses), and was breaking and training colts for him by the time I was eighteen. In my twenties, I worked for a pack station in the Sierra Nevada Mts and for a large cattle operation in northern California. This was followed by a period where I worked for some prominent cutting and reining horse trainers and hauled my horse, Gunner, all over California and several other western states competing at reining and cutting events. Eventually I began competing at team roping, and continued to train horses, both for myself and others.

Right around the time I turned thirty I decided I was ready for a slightly less strenuous career. Since I had always been a big fan of Dick Francis (like so many others), I decided to try my hand at turning my background with western horses into mysteries, much as he had used his past as a steeple chasing jockey to create his own books.

So for the next few years I wrote. I continued to train horses for myself and competed at team roping, but my focus began to be on writing about it. I wrote longhand, in a spiral bound notebook, and I can remember writing away in the front seat of my pickup while I waited for my name to be called to compete at various ropings. I wrote in the barnyard while I watched my hosed-off horses dry in the sun. I wrote three book length manuscripts over a three year period before I was able to get an agent to represent me, and when she did agree to take me on she demanded numerous rewrites-this process lasting another year (she was a former editor and it showed). Once she was satisfied with the book, it took her over another year to sell my first novel, Cutter, to St Martin's Press. So the path to publication wasn't exactly easy nor was it a fast track. Still I have very much enjoyed the process of writing about the many aspects of the western horse world that I've been involved with, and I feel grateful that my mysteries have continued to be published regularly ever since that first book hit the shelves.

Cutter came out in 1994 and describes the world of cutting horses. It was followed by Hoofprints, which revolves around reined cowhorses. Roughstock features team roping and endurance riding, and Roped deals with ranching and roping. Slickrock is set in the course of a pack trip in the Sierra Nevada Mts and Breakaway involves Gail in riding the trails of coastal California. Hayburner describes breaking a colt and Forged takes Gail and her horses on a pack trip along the beaches of Monterey Bay. Moonblind features a Thoroughbred lay-up farm on the cliffs above that same bay, and Chasing Cans, my tenth book, which is just out this month, centers on a legendary barrel racing trainer.

I'm frequently asked by readers who want to become published authors what my advice would be to one who is getting started. Obviously you have to be willing to persevere with your writing even when success doesn't happen immediately. (Or doesn't happen for years, which was my own case.) I think this goes without saying. I have also found it helpful to write about things I know intimately. Almost all the facets of the western horse world that I explore in my books are areas that I have participated in for years and years. (The exceptions to this are endurance riding and Thoroughbred lay-up farms, on which my knowledge is second-hand-thank you Craig and Ginny!)

Since I have had horses all my life (currently I own eleven) the veterinary calls and emergencies that Gail deals with are based on things that have actually happened to me and my horses, or to my friends. And the horses in the books are all based on horses I have known (and mostly loved). This helps the books come alive (at least for me; I hope for others).

The books are set in California, primarily on the coast near Monterey Bay, where both Gail and I live, and where my family has been running a ranch for four generations. Though I know some authors can write about places after brief trips to research them (and do a good job of it, too), I don't posess that skill. In order to write effectively about the weather, landscape, and "feeling" of a place, I have to know it intimately.

When I first began writing these mysteries, inspired by Dick Francis as I was, I used a male protagonist. However it wasn't until I re-wrote my third manuscript, changing the male veterinarian into a female version, that an agent finally accepted my work. I believe this was in part due to the particular timing; female protagonists were just becoming very popular in the mystery genre, with a great many of us riding in on the heels of Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton. I have come to feel blessed by the chance that gave me a woman to write about; I found that my ability to give Gail life changes that I knew intimately (having been through them) contributed to my ability to keep her "alive" through many, many books (at least for me, again, I hope for readers, too). "Write what you know" has become my mantra.

One of the biggest thrills in my writing career has been to actually meet the man who was my inspiration-yes, I mean Dick Francis. Since our meeting we have had a regular correspondence for the last fourteen years. You can imagine how delighted I was when he read (and praised) my novels, but the the ultimate moment came when he asked to borrow some details of veterinary medicine that I used to further the plot in Slickrock. Of course I said yes. (!) "Borrow anything you like" (though I don't know if he really did). Praise from one's mentor is sweet indeed and I am never happier than when my books are likened to Dick Francis'. (See the comment on the back of Chasing Cans-I'm very touched by it.)

All in all its been a wonderful ride-both the books and the horses. I still ride my horses almost every day, and despite all the hours I've put in writing over the last twenty years (yes, its been twenty years-I started writing mysteries when I was thirty and I'm now fifty), it doesn't amount to half the hours I've spent on the back of a horse!

Happy trails, Laura and Gunner

PS-Gunner is twenty-eight this year, happily retired (still sound) and living in my sixty acre pasture.

Laura Crum
www.lauracrum.com