From Racehorse to Ranch Horse

by Natalie Keller Reinert

There are very nice people in the world who refer to me as a "horse expert." Of course, I'm not a horse expert in my eyes, I'm a person who has spent most of my life learning as much as I possibly can about horses, and that makes me an active enthusiast at best. Yes I can saddle-break a baby and inseminate a mare and remove eyelid stitches and jump a preliminary cross-country course and perform reasonable tempi changes on a well-trained horse and yes, teach a young racehorse to break from the gate.

An expert to most folks, maybe. But to the most of the readers of this blog I'm probably just... maybe a slightly above-average horsewoman? (You can tell me in the comments, if you promise to be nice.)

I got an email a few weeks ago from a reader at my site, Retired Racehorse, asking me to write about Gate to Great and Off-Track Thoroughbreds (OTTBs) who are being retrained as Western horses.

It went something to the effect of: You write a lot about OTTBs competing in English disciplines, what about Western ones? They excel at everything.

At Gate to Great, they know Western OTTBs are totally a thing. Photo: Gate to Great/gatetogreat.com

And while Thoroughbreds do, obviously, excel at everything, because sheer athleticism, curiosity, drive, and intelligence are traits wanted in every discipline, I really had nothing to write about. Because I just don't know much about Western riding.

I've been in a Western saddle maybe four or five times in my life, and that probably includes pony rides as a small child. The last time I was in a Western saddle, on an Appaloosa mare, she reared up and flipped over on me. Accustomed to the relative ease of dismounting from a flat saddle (I was an exercise rider at the time, riding about ten two-year-old Thoroughbreds every morning on the racetrack) I floundered in the Western saddle's high horn and cantle, got whacked in the forehead with her solid-rock poll, and eventually found myself on the ground, out cold.

A good craftsman never blames her tools, to be sure, but in this case this wasn't my tool, it was the owner's tool, and I owed her money, so I got on her damn horse and... I guess I am a little angsty about that saddle.

I also knew a Thoroughbred who was a very successful barrel racer. His name was, fittingly, Rocket. And my first OTTB, Amarillo, learned about the Real World outside the racetrack by moving cattle from pasture to pasture in rural Florida. (One of my very few Western rides was my test ride on Amarillo. He was so awesome, despite my complete discomfort in the saddle, that I just galloped him around the arena and then told my mom he was the one. He was.)

So I looked up Gate to Great finally, because their name is starting to crop up everywhere, and I was starting to feel distinctly inexpert about the whole situation, which isn't great for a person who runs a blog called Retired Racehorse and ostensibly knows a whole lot about retired racehorses.

And you know what? It's kind of amazing. I'm starting to feel very left out of the whole Western Thoroughbred Revolution.



In this fantastic video, you get an introduction to Thoroughbreds working with cattle, and the one word that springs to my mind is fun. These horses are having so much fun. I want to be one of these horses and have as much fun as they're having. It's ridiculous.

The Gate to Great folks are even sending horses to the Retired Racehorse Training Project's Thoroughbred Makeover in October, and you won't believe what they have planned:

The event, named “Who Let the Cows Out?”, will pair celebrity jockeys with retired Thoroughbred racehorses from the Gate to Great training program of Newell, South Dakota to compete on the Pimlico track in a “team sorting” event.  Each team of two horses and riders will have a maximum of two minutes to sort a small herd of numbered cattle into a corral in numeric order.  The team with the fastest time and correct sorting order wins the competition. The event requires cow sense, teamwork and fast thinking on the part of both the horses and riders.    - Press Release from Retired Racehorse Training Project

I can't even believe that this is an actual thing. I also can't believe I'm not going to be there. The event, held on October 5-6 at Pimlico Racecourse in Maryland, is going to be amazing. I just have other plans I can't change! Oh the humanity!

So there you have it. From racehorse to ranch horse, and apparently having a blast doing it. I apologize to my original reader for having to send that letter and get my attention out of the English world and into the Western one. What can I say? For a "horse expert," I reckon I have a lot to learn.

What about you? Do you consider yourself a well-rounded equestrian, or are there elements of riding and training out there that have simply escaped you over the years? I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of  -- we all know the saying "Jack of all trades, master of none," right? But then again, I'm starting to think there are some horses out there who might laugh at that phrase. It's looking like some horses can literally do everything, and do it well!

Visit Gate to Great and see their wonderful videos and training stories at GatetoGreat.com

Happy Endings

By Laura Crum

No, I’m not talking about happy endings in books. I’m talking about real life happy endings…the best kind. I spoke at the local Rotary Club a week or so ago, and got a very nice surprise. (As a published author of mysteries, I’m a minor celebrity in my smallish town and am occasionally asked to do these gigs—I always comply if I can. It helps sell books and can be fun.) I had done my usual spiel on how I became published, my life with horses…etc (trying to keep it light and funny, as I always do) and was answering questions and talking to people after the event. A man came up to me and told me his name, which meant nothing to me, and then said, “You gave my wife and daughter a horse eighteen years ago.”

I was puzzled. I honestly couldn’t think what horse he might mean. He told me his daughter’s name and the light bulb came on. “Oh,” I said, “You mean Artie.”

Indeed. Now I remembered. Artie had been a nice, reasonably well-broke seven-year-old Quarter Horse gelding that an acquaintance bought to make a team roping horse out of. Several months into training, Artie came up lame and was diagnosed with navicular. The acquaintance, who had got the horse cheap ($1000), was inclined to haul the poor critter down to the local livestock auction and get rid of him quick. A navicular horse is not a good bet for a long team roping career. But lame, as he was, the horse would inevitably be bought by the killers. And he was a sweet, kind, useful animal, who (according to the vet) had every chance of staying sound with light riding. I gave the acquaintance his $1000 back, took the horse home, and rested him until he was sound. Then I looked around until I found a home that was interested in him as a riding horse and seemed suitable. All information and X-rays to do with the horse’s navicular problem were given to the new owner. I charged her the same $1000. She was a teen-aged girl, and for years I visited her and Artie, and watched her show him in the county fair..etc. When she went off to college, she took her horse and sent me photos of herself competing on him at shows there. She took good care of him. She dealt with his navicular problem responsibly. He remained a useful working animal. And then I lost touch with her.

“Wow,” I said to the Rotary guy. “Is Artie still alive? He must be pretty old by now if he is.”

“Twenty-five,” the guy said. “And still sound.”

I must have had a grin a mile wide. Turns out the guy’s daughter became a horse vet, now has a little daughter of her own, and is teaching the kid to ride on Artie. How cool is that?

Its stories like this that make me glad I have stepped up to the plate for so many horses, dogs and cats over the years. Yes, folks, I have rescued even more dogs and cats than horses. Sometimes the endings have been happy, sometimes not so much. But I’m glad I tried. Hearing about Artie made me stop and think about horses I’d rescued years ago, that I’d more or less forgotten. One in particular came to mind, and though I don’t know the true end of this story, I think you’ll agree that what I do know of it is another happy ending.

So, once upon a time, a very long time ago (before I rescued Artie, so at least twenty years ago) a certain breeder of Quarter Horses for whom I worked, raised a colt he didn’t like. The horse couldn’t be registered as a Quarter Horse (too much white); he was coarse, homely, blue-eyed, though structurally sound enough, and the man who owned him was ashamed of him. When the horse got to be three-years-old, and it was clear he was not going to grow out of his ugly duckling phase, the breeder asked me to haul him to the local livestock auction (where as an unbroke, fugly three-year-old, he would inevitably have been bought by the killers). I refused. The breeder then asked the vet to euthanize the colt. The vet refused.

Now there was nothing really wrong with this colt. He may have looked more like a small draft horse than a Quarter Horse, and he sure wasn’t pretty, but, as the vet pointed out, that was no reason to kill him. Still, I knew the breeder would find someone to haul the animal to the livestock auction eventually (the man was embarrassed to do this himself—wouldn’t have helped his reputation as a breeder of quality horses). The colt was halter broke, had received reasonably good health and foot care, was sound and gelded, but had been not been handled much. He was a little "looky",” but seemed sensible to me. He really wasn’t so badly made, despite being coarse. I saw no reason why he shouldn’t have a decent life and bought him from the breeder for $100.

I had two horses at the time (Burt and Gunner—see Farewell to a Friend, June 08, and The Real Horses Behind the Books, March 08, for their stories), and I could not afford to keep another. But I knew a cowboy horse trainer and trader who was a pretty good guy. I asked him if he would take this horse for $100 and find a decent home for him. He said he would. I said I wanted to know where the horse went and I wanted his word it wouldn’t be the auction. He agreed.

I loaded this colt single-handedly in my old two horse trailer and hauled him across the state of California to the horse trader’s place. The horse was as cooperative as a green horse could be through all of it, and I liked him a lot and was glad I’d stepped forward to save him. I even wished that I could keep him. But I let the horse trader have him.

Several months later I heard that he’d been started and was an easy, willing horse and doing well. Some more months later I heard he’d been sold to a cowboy who traveled around Nevada, working for various ranches, and who also worked for the rodeo as a pick-up man (bronc riders who don’t get bucked off get off their bucking horse by grabbing onto the pickup man and his mount). A year or so later I heard that this cowboy really liked the horse and planned to keep him.

So far so good. Now comes the funny, or ironic, anyway, part of the story. The breeder raised only two colts of this cross. The second colt was the homely one I saved and the breeder never bred that mare to that stud again. The older colt wasn’t pretty, but certainly looked better than his younger brother and this colt was bought by a team roper. And guess what? He became one of the best heel horses in the state of California. The breeder, having heard (from me) that the homely colt turned out well, contacted the cowboy who owned him and tried to buy the horse back (!) The answer: No way. Not at any price.

I call that a happy ending.
Cheers,

Laura Crum

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/

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