Life With Horses....Now

By Laura Crum


As those of you who have read my posts here and/or my ten mystery novels featuring equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy already know, I’ve spent most of my life with horses. I grew up riding horses on our family ranch, I spent my twenties cowboying on a cattle ranch and training and competing on cutting and reining horses, and my thirties competing at team roping. Along the way I’ve broken and trained many colts (for myself and others), horse packed across the Sierra Nevada Mts numerous times, and hey, even showed jumping horses as a teenager. I’ve owned and loved many good horses in my life; currently I have eleven. So I think I can say with some fairness that although I was never a world caliber rider by any means, I have as much or more experience with horses as many horsemen (or horsewomen) who bill themselves as experts.

Whether these experts are trainers or horse bloggers, clinicians or authors of some kind, they all have opinions, some of which I agree with and some of which I don’t. While reading a horse blog the other day, I came across the blogger’s description of how to catch a difficult horse. Now I believe this gal is reasonably knowledgeable; nonetheless my first thought was, “that’s sure not how I would do it.” I considered posting a comment to that effect, complete with a description of how I would do it, but then decided, why bother? She has her opinion; I have mine. And more and more, at fifty-one years of age, after a lifetime spent owning and training horses, I do it my own way, with no regard for what anyone else thinks. (And I try to make space for others to do the same—which means not proffering unasked for advice to the lady with the blog about horse catching.)

Yes, that’s me in the photo, which was taken just this last summer. Those of you who read my May post titled “The New Horse” will probably recognize Sunny, the little “palomino plug” I bought to ride the trails with my seven year old son. And in case anybody’s wondering, yes, I ride him in Ugg boots and cargo pants. Very comfortable—not at all PC by horseman’s rules.

I do realize that the boots have no heels and most of the horse world would say it was dangerous to ride in them. Folks, I ride in sandals, sometimes even in flip flops, in the summer. Its not that I don’t know the rules. Having trained horses and competed in contests for so many years, I can’t possibly count up the hours I’ve spent in cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, pressed long-sleeved shirt, cowboy hat…etc And you know what? I’m not planning on going there again.

Today horses are part of my life in a different way. I no longer dress up to “do” horse activities; I don’t drive to my horses in someone else’s barn. I rarely haul them anywhere in my trailer (believe me, after hauling horses around the western United States for twenty years, the trailer does not look very appealing to me)> My horses live with me: I can see their corrals from my front porch. I feed them night and morning (sometimes in a sarong and sandals); I ride them out my front gate and through the hills in whatever comfortable clothes I have on. They graze around me as I work in the garden and nicker to remind me when I’m late with breakfast or dinner.

I don’t mean to heap scorn on the idea of boots and/or hardhats or other items relating to safety. I would never ride a green horse or a rank horse in anything other than proper boots. My son wears a helmet when he rides and has tapaderos on his saddle, which I highly recommend for kids. I definitely believe that its best to err on the side of caution if you are a novice rider, and especially with children. But at this point in my career, I’m perfectly comfortable on/around my broke horses in Ugg boots, sandals… you name it. And I take deep pleasure in how comfortable I am with my horses now. They are part of the fabric of my life in a way that’s hard to explain if you haven’t experienced it. Those who have will understand.

At a “girl’s night out” not too long ago with two fellow horsewomen who have been at it as long as I have and have reached a similar (but not exactly the same, of course) point in our thinking, the thrust of our conversation was mostly about how enjoyable this stage of life with horses is. Yes, none of us are as good at riding as we once were, all of us have given up competing, two of us are stout, two of us have back problems…the list goes on. But we are all having so much more fun with our horses, now that we aren’t so driven to compete, to improve, to excel…etc.

In short, after a lifetime spent with horses, and a few trophies to prove I was once a decent trainer and competitor in some pretty demanding events, I can honestly say that this is the very best part. Or my favorite part, anyway. My life with horses right now, as a plump fifty-one year old mama riding a little palomino plug down the trail wearing my comfortable Ugg boots, with my son following me on his old, gentle horse, headed back to our small horse ranch where the other equines (and dog, cats, chickens, vegetable garden, not to mention husband) are waiting….this is the life with horses that I want now.
Cheers,
Laura Crum

Campfire Stories....With Horses

by Laura Crum


Reading Mugwump's blog yesterday, her story about hobbles reminded me vividly of some of my horse packing experiences. I told one of my "hobbles stories" in the comments there, and a few people asked about the way I kept my horses in camp on pack trips. This brought so many stories to mind that I thought I'd tell a few here.

First, a little background. I spent a couple of years working at a pack station on Sonora Pass in California's Sierra Nevada Mts in my early twenties. (This would be about thirty years ago.) Then, in my thirties, I spent many summers packing into the mountains with friends. We taught our more phlegmatic horses to carry the pack rigs, and fortunately I had a friend who was good at packing (which is somewhat of an art) and had the gear. Our team roping horses became sure-footed on the rock after a few shorter, easier trips, and we went on to do many longer (two week) trips, crossing numerous passes and visiting many high mountain lakes. These adventures form the basis of my fifth mystery, Slickrock.

As for how we kept the horses in camp, well, as I said on mugwump's blog, some horses will stay in camp (turned loose) and some won't. Unfortunately you often find out who are the trustworthy ones the hard way. Our usual habit was to put half the horses on run lines, or zip lines, and turn the other half loose. Usually this worked well....except for the times it didn't.

I remember one trip when a friend and I had gone in to a favorite meadow. There was a pretty creek and a lot of feed here; a horse could graze his fill. We had two reliable horses and the friend was riding a new horse, a red roan mare named Shiloh. Shiloh hadn't been on any trips that we knew of, but she was a ranch raised horse and gentle and we thought she'd be fine. We were careful, though, and when it came Shiloh's turn to be loose, we tied up both the other horses, so she'd have no excuse to wander far.

Well, we unclipped the lead rope from Shiloh's halter and she looked around the meadow with interest. She studied the creek, and her buddies on the tie lines, and our camp. She looked at the trail. And she put her ears forward and started into a long, swinging walk. Down the trail.

My friend and I looked at each other. This wasn't good. Surely she'll stop and graze, we said. Nope. Shiloh walked in a purposeful, determined way down the trail, across the meadow, and out of our sight. We flipped a coin to see who would go after her.

My friend lost and I stayed in camp with our other horses while he trailed the mare. Fortunately she ran into a party of hikers not a mile down the trail. They were standing there wondering what to do with this roan mare they'd caught when my friend retrieved her. Needless to say we didn't turn that horse loose again.

The funniest "campfire story" concerns a horse we called Lester. This was a lively, restless gelding; I often referred to him as our ADD horse. The first time we turned Lester loose on a pack trip, he looked around, lifted his head, and started out away from camp in the long trot, which quickly escalated to the gallop. My friend and I looked at each other with that "oh no" look on our faces. Lester galloped across the meadow and we waited for him to hit the trail back through the woods. But just as he was almost out of sight, he stopped. Whirling around, he galloped back across the meadow, straight at us.

Our "oh no" looks turned to "what the hell" looks, as that horse proceed to gallop right through the middle of camp, leaping over the fire (I kid you not) and out across the meadow again. On his next pass he went through the woods behind camp, jumping a log that was at least three foot six in diameter. He kept galloping around until he'd had enough (you would have thought he'd be tired after the ride in) and then settled down to graze. And we all gave a big sigh of relief. Turned out this became a routine with this horse. I can't count the number of times he ran through camp, often jumping the fire. We'd yell, "Here he comes!" and get out of the way. But he never once took off on us.

So, a couple of campfire stories for a winter's day. I'll try and post a few more pack trip tales later, for those who are interested.


Happy Holidays!

Update

Okay, everyone, 2 out of 3 isn't bad.

I've lost 2 pounds this week and written 54 pages. Unfortunately, I only rode twice this past week. I was doing well, riding both Monday and Tuesday. Then the arena was closed starting on Wednesday for new footing. I think it reopened this weekend, but I haven't driven in to town to find out.

Let's hope for 3 for 3 next week.

How did everyone else do?

When my hunter decided he was a show jumper

Hello,

Today I flew into Connecticut to visit my family for the first time in five years. Although I love our home in the Midwest, the years I spent showing were primarily in Connecticut, Massachusetts and New York and on the drive from the airport all I could think about was the fantastic shows Topper, Spencer and I went to through the years.

There is a great town near my family’s home, Simsbury, which has a large C rated show every year. When I had only had Spencer about a year and I was still introducing my husband to the wonderful world of horse shows we went to the Simsbury show. Unfortunately, Spencer was very excited to be there and I was still at the beginner/intermediate stage at that time. Undaunted by this less than idea combination, I cheerfully directed my husband Eric onto the show grounds to my barn’s trailer.

Being relatively new to showing I had spent an inordinate amount of time on my tack and show boots getting the gleam my trainer said was absolutely necessary. I lavished attention on Spencer, grooming and tacking him up and went to work on putting myself together. While I was sitting on the back of our SUV totally involved with getting my outfit on I handed Spencer’s reins to Eric and said “just hold him a minute,” which seemed simple enough at the time.

Unfortunately, the weather was very windy and it had poured the night before so mud was everywhere. This in combination with Spencer’s show excitement level had him prancing like he was ten years younger. At the moment I was tugging on my new, excruciatingly tight boots I heard Eric call “He’s standing on my foot.”

Being otherwise occupied, I yelled back “Just shove him off.”

When I emerged a moment later Spencer was snorting wildly with his foot planted on top of Eric’s, stared wild eyed at a nearby truck. Eric had made the mistake of sitting down while holding Spencer’s reins and was at an angle where he couldn’t get any leverage to shove Spencer off. Eric was fine, but I heard about the horseshow shaped bruise he’d had on his foot for years!

Having survived the scary truck we headed over to my first class, a low hunter division. The jumps weren’t too high, maybe two-six to two-nine, but the ring was a sea of mud. Spencer pranced in like he was still competing in Medal/Maclay. Now feeling a little nervous, I started my course. Sensing I didn’t have full mastery of the situation, Spencer decided he needed to take charge for Mom, pulled the bit between his teeth and took off! I guess I’d forgotten to tell him there were no time faults in this division.

Thus, my husband’s first large show experience was watching his wife a total passenger as Spencer leaned almost horizontal into the muddy turns and sailed over each jump with tons of room to spare and me hanging on for dear life! I vaguely heard my trainer’s shouts to slow down, but if she wanted to talk to the boss, she should have been calling to Spencer instead of me.

Needless to say we didn’t win, but Eric had stories to share with our friends for years. Still, being back here during the height of autumn with the leaves so many brilliant colors brings back reminiscences of that day which are filled with laughter and love. (Okay, I’ll admit while I was careening around the course on Spencer my feelings were closer to terror.)

Still, I’m figuring both Topper and Spencer are up in heaven watching me show my daughter the local horse country and saying ‘Remember when, Mom?’

My thanks to everyone who gave me such wonderful advice regarding the more active new horse my daughter’s trainer wanted her to ride. I asked the trainer to let her continue on one of the older, small beginner horses for now and she agreed. My daughter still rode a new pony, but this old girl was as calm as can be and my daughter’s smile was ear to ear. She’s back to thinking about riding only as a joyful activity!

Happy autumn everyone and many happy rides!

Cheers,
Mary

www.marypaine.com

My Rescue Horse . . .

by Kit Ehrman

During my last post, October 7, 2008, I talked about Stoney, my first horse. I just found a photograph taken a few months after I purchased him.


Stoney--definitely not a rescue horse.

Once I owned my own farm, I was ready for another horse. When I drove out to look at Koby in the spring of ‘85, I didn’t really think of him as a “rescue horse,” but it seems everyone else did. He was extremely thin, but I’d seen horses like him turn around with the right care, so I had full confidence that Koby’s transformation would be no different.

After injuring his left knee on the track, he was sold to a young woman who didn’t have the knowledge or resources to give him the kind of home and care he needed to successfully transition from track to farm life. He was placed in a small, muddy paddock with three other geldings who denied him access to grain and hay as well as the run-in shed. He spent all of that first year off the track suffering under the brutal sun or standing in the freezing rain, scouring the ground for whatever wisps of hay or kernels of grain the other horses might have missed.

Despite the hardships he’d been through, he had a kind temperament, so I had a vet come out to perform a pre-purchase exam which he passed. I had a very strong sense that she was just hoping I would buy him and take him to a better place, especially after she took him into the run-in shed to examine his eyes in a darkened environment. She looked disgusted when she came out. Apparently, the shed was filthy, piled high with a deep layer of manure and crawling with maggots.

A couple of days later, he settled into my barn with my first horse, Stoney. Both horses had roomy stalls that opened to private paddocks, and after the two horses got used to each other over the fence, and Koby became accustomed to eating grass again, I turned them out each day in a ten-acre field.



Routine vaccinations and regular deworming, along with a gradual increase of grain and occasional beet pulp hot mashes, not to mention getting his teeth floated, all combined to put the weigh on and his coat blossomed. So did his personality.

I guess I never really realized just how emaciated he was until, several months later, when my farrier commented on how good he looked and confessed that he thought the horse wouldn’t make it when he first came out to trim his hooves. Here was a guy with undoubtedly lots of horse experience, and he thought Koby would not survive.



But survive, he did. In fact, once he regained his weigh, he was an incredibly easy keeper, and I actually had to watch his diet. He was a broad, bay horse with lovely conformation (this was especially evident once he filled out) and at 16.2 hh, he was an impressive horse. Way too big for me, I might add.


By fall, he'd picked up quite a bit of weight, though his coat wouldn't look healthy until he shed out.

I did wonder if he’d become difficult under saddle once he began to feel better, but except for a little testing early on, he developed into a wonderful mount. What I do love about ex-racehorses is that they are acclimated to a wide variety of sights and sounds and activities from their time on the track. He was easy to load and handle and was generally a levelheaded horse.


Koby being ridden by my instructor.

I used to load him by myself and trailer him to my instructor’s farm where I took dressage lessons in her indoor. He didn’t even blink when he went into the arena the first time, and I could leg him over to the wall to get a drink and he would stand so quietly. One of the nicest compliments my instructor gave me was when she said something like, “Why don’t I find nice horses like him.”

I remember the first time I took him on a long trail ride with some neighbors. Up until that point, all he knew was the track and my riding arena, but he just took it all in and was so full of confidence. The only thing he did not like, and never became accustomed to, was a herd of Holsteins that we had to pass to get home. He never could get used to the sight of those black-and-white cows.

When I moved to Indiana and had children, I often did not get around to riding until about midnight. This worked out especially well in the hot summer months, but I’d ride in the winter then, too. It was my time to just fool around, with no pressure or distractions. I’d put some music on, and we’d be out in the lighted outdoor arena, just the two of us. And sometimes the snow would come down, spiraling past the sodium vapor lights, and I just loved those nights. Often a herd of eight or ten deer would walk past in the neighboring field, and we’d stop and watch them. They had no fear of us and took their time.

I’m happy that our paths crossed and that we both enriched each other’s lives.

Happy reading and riding,
Kit
www.kitehrman.com

Things aren't always as they seem

First of all. I'm doing lousy on my challenge. Darn it! I'm actually putting on weight, and I only rode three times last week. I do have one good excuse. The chiropractor worked on my mare so I had to give her a few days off. This week won't be much better as the arena is getting new footing and will be closed for a few days.

I hope everyone else is doing better than me. Let me know.

Here's the post I promised for this this week.

I’m not a brave rider, though most people look at the shear bulk and size of my mare and can’t believe it, but it is true. I’ve had a 10-year history with this particular horse. I bought her as a barely-broke three year old. If you’ve been reading this blog, you know some of the trials and tribulations I’ve been through over the years with her. I can honestly say that for the past several years, she’s been a very safe horse to ride. She’s never had a buck or a rear in her—too much work. Though as a greenie, she did have a balk. The worst think she does is shy. I’m not talking about the leap out from under you and whirl around shying—again, too much work. But she does her “cutting horse” thing where she gets down low until her belly is about a foot off the ground—a sight to see from a 17-hand warmblood. Then she does a slow motion pivot and lumbers the other direction.

My trainer rode her on Monday, so I was looking forward to a good ride on Tuesday. She started out being her usual self, trying to get out of work by shying in a particular corner. I now know that if I wave the whip in front of her shoulder that she’ll go into that corner with minimal fuss. Again, too much work to fight it and get in trouble.

Well she starts getting really fussy. Not unusual considering she’s in heat. So I’m trying to post rather than sit. We head to the spooky corner, she plants all four feet and stops. I try a shoulder-in to get her by the corner. She started backing up, slamming her big butt into the metal arena gate and refusing to budge. She bends the gate. At this point, I realize that the gate is no match for her 1500 pounds. All I care about is safety and survival (not necessarily in that order). She is in a major snit. Normally, I’d turn her in a tight circle to get her moving again. But I can’t. Her butt is plastered on the gate. I try to maneuver her away from the gate. Not a good idea. She starts backing up against the flimsy railing of the small stands in the arena. If she busts through that she’s going to break right through those first set of bleachers. Damn. I have a problem.

I give her a good smack on the butt. She goes up (about a foot, not much). Okay, more smacks. After all, I’m worried about her safety and mine. Now is not the time to be delicate. I get her going forward again. She plants her feet near the corner. Now, she switches tactics. Instead of not wanting to go in this corner, she starts backing into it.

WONDERFUL.

There are over a dozen trotting poles piled vertically in this corner and a mirror. If she backs into them they’re coming down on us not to mention we could break the mirror. Again, I can’t turn her. I am kicking her for all I’m worth. Finally between kicking, cowboying her head around, I manage to drive her forward. We trot a large circle. She’s sucking back every step of the way. She attempts to stop in the corner again and back toward the poles. I’m using everything I’ve got to kick her forward. I throw the reins away. I’m panting, she’s huffing. Two or three more turns around the circle, she’s finally moving forward, fussy as can be, and backing off the bit (never her problem, she prefers leaning). By the fourth circle, she’s feeling pretty good. Forward and powerful and listening and not hesitating when she goes by the spooky corner. She’s still feels funny in the bridle. I let go of the curb rein completely (I’m riding in a double bridle) as she had been known to have fits if you hold onto the curb too tight. You have to be really careful with the curb.

I look down, and see her tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. Halting her, I leap off. A double bridle has two bits, a curb and a snaffle. She’s managed to get her tongue between the curb and snaffle so it’s being pinched. I fix it, get back on, and off we go, as if nothing ever happened.

I felt like a real rat. The poor girl was trying to tell me that something was wrong, and I completely missed the problem. She’d never done that before, so I wasn’t really expecting it. Now I know.

Guest Blogger--Sandy James

First of all, I want to welcome Jody Jaffe as a regular member of EquestrianInk. Jody writes equestrian mysteries, and we are very happy to have her here.


Today, we are pleased to have a guest blogger, Sandy James. Sandy is a writer and races harness horses.

SANDY JAMES

http://www.sandy-james.com/

http://www.geocities.com/hockeyjam415@sbcglobal.net/

Sandy is a fourteen time finalist in RWA contests who recently signed with Maureen Walters of Curtis Brown, Ltd. She lives in a suburb of Indianapolis where she teaches high school social studies. The James Harness Racing stable races mostly at Hoosier Park and Indiana Downs, but they race horses in Canada as well. Her first book, Turning Thirty-Twelve, will be released by BookStrand in January. Her racing story, Murphy's Law, will be released by BookStrand in March.

Our homebred three-year old won his first race

not too long ago. I’m not sure I’ve ever been prouder of one of my racehorses. Oh, sure, our stable has had horses that have raced faster. We’ve had horses who earned quite a bit of purse money. And there have been some I’ve really become attached to. But Heart’s Prince is unique. Let me tell you why.

My husband, mother, and I owned a racehorse named MyHeartStoodStill. She had the heart of a champion. You never saw Heart give in, and I think she would have raced on three legs if that was all God gave her. She raced well at our home track, Indiana Downs, and when that meet ended, we sent her to a trainer we were working with in Ontario. The trainer did a good job, but Heart seemed to be struggling. When the husband and I went up to Windsor to watch her race, we went back to the paddock after to see her. Things weren’t good. My poor mare was blowing so hard, her nostrils flared almost impossibly large. I wanted to throw my arms around her and make it all better. We sent her to the veterinary school in Guelph.

Poor Heart seemed to have developed a sort of exercise-induced asthma. She wasn’t going to be able to race any longer. I’d made the mistake of getting attached to her, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her ending up pulling some Amish buggy. I put my heads together with another trainer and decided to breed her. A friend near Ladoga, Indiana, had a stud he was standing for only a few mares. Problem was we didn’t have a farm to keep Heart at while she waited out the birth. Problem solved. The breeder said he’d be glad to keep her with his broodmares. Heart only needed to be covered twice before she conceived.

I “saw” Prince before he was born. The breeder brought the ultrasound to the track when one of his horses was racing. All I saw was a big black dot, but I have to admit, it was thrilling to know that a new horse was in my future.

Heart had an easy birth, and my mom and I went to visit the day after Prince was born. We hadn’t decided on a name. I wanted “Midlife Crisis” since owning horses was literally my husband’s midlife crisis. Second choice was “Freudian Slip” because I teach psychology. My mom took one look at that little chestnut colt and said he looked like Bambi. Since the joke in the Disney movie was that Bambi was going to be prince of the forest, mom got it in her head that we should call him Prince. I just rolled my eyes, but she wouldn’t give it up. So we finally settled on Heart’s Prince.

He trained to harness well and we had high hopes for him. He even had a start or two as a two-year old, but we weren’t very encouraged. Prince had a habit of getting rough gaited, and we were starting to wonder if we might just have another saddle horse on our hands. But the little guy has turned his three-year old year into a profitable one, starting with that first win. I had never been prouder walking into that winner’s circle. My colt had won. My colt!

When I write my romances about racing, I try to throw in all the love I have for the animals and the sport. My first story about racing will be released by BookStrand in March. I sure hope the passion I have for standardbreds comes through in Murphy’s Law.

When our horses are ready to retire, my sister adopts them and trains them as saddle horses. We still have MyHeartStoodStill, and she is enjoying her "retirement." Standardbreds make fantastic pleasure horses, and I strongly encourage adopting one when his or her racing career ends.