Filed under: Horse Training, Roping, Thinking Constructively | Tags: Gambler, Horse Training, Lanny West, thinking right
Lanny West
I am not exaggerating when I say Lanny West has ridden a horse nearly every day of his life. His horsemanship skills are on par with men like Chris Cox, Buck Brannaman, Tom and Bill Dorance and Ray Hunt. In times past, he used to put on roping schools and taught thousands of people from California to Canada how to rope, but now he prefers the quiet life–surrounding himself with quality individuals and handing out his advice and skills for next to nothing. To those who listen, he tells his stories; to those who don’t listen, he shrugs and moves on.
Lanny West’s techniques are fairly similar to other horse-training gurus, but he adds another element. He believes in the importance of thinking right, of creating a healthy state-of-mind and a constructive attitude. Confidence and respect are the comer-stones of everything from learning how to rope, ride and train horses to how to raise kids and have good marriages.
For the past several months, he has been teaching me. I’m having a blast, but this isn’t about roping. It’s about learning how to train my mind to think constructively. It’s about being at peace with myself. It’s about gratitude and contentment. Acquiring these attributes requires a certain discipline and roping provides that. Horses create a scenario to practice new habits.
Recently I hit a plateau in roping. No matter how much I tried to catch the horns of the dummy, I persistently roped the neck. I made little progress even though I practiced regularly. I was getting frustrated. But after a couple of serendipitous conversations and events, I finally had a breakthrough. On one particular day, I learned several lessons and have been getting better by leaps and bounds ever since.
I am starting a series titled The Art of Believing. Through several posts, I will share my journey from frustration to breakthrough. I hope you enjoy it. I looked forward to reading your comments and getting new ideas.
Quit on a Miss: Part One of The Art of Believing
The clouds hung low in the sky and dumped large drops of water. It hammered on the tin roof. It was too wet to ride, so instead of saddling the horses inside the barn, the dummy stood on the concrete slab. Lanny West sat on an over-turned bucket next to the door of the tack room. He was watching me rope.
I swung the lariat over my head. The top of the loop faced the ground. My eyes focused on the horns and I watched the tip swing just above them. Perfect. I went for the delivery. The loop caught the right horn, swung under the nose and around the left horn. I pulled the rope taut and squelched my frustration.
Several voices from past conversations flashed through my mind.
A few weeks ago you would have been happy to rope the neck, my husband had said yesterday.
But I wasn’t going for the neck, I thought.
You’ll get it, my dad had told me repeatedly over the phone.
But I wasn’t getting it, I thought.
Lanny’s words from past conversations chimed-in, Quit fighting yourself.
I’m not, I thought with gritted teeth.
I took a deep breath and slowly if not calmly removed the rope. I was trying to hide my emotions from the guy who sat on the bucket watching me.
“For you,” Lanny said, “you need to quit on a miss.”
I wasn’t hiding anything. “Ah-huh,” I said. There was no use arguing the wisdom of ending on a good catch. I have been around him long enough to know he had his reasons. I waited for the explanation. “You need to not worry about missing.” Then he went on to tell me the technical reasons of why I wasn’t catching the horns.
“Okay,” I said and dutifully created another loop. I took a deep breath and focused my mind on feeling the texture of the rope in my fingers, feeling the tip swing over my head and listening to the swish as the lariat rotated in the air. I stared at the horns.
A cramp grew in my hand, a culmination of fatigue from all the practice I had done the previous weeks. I tried for the delivery. The loop hooked the right horn, crossed the forehead of the dummy and swung under the left horn. I pulled the rope taut.
The rain, which had been falling the entire time, suddenly filled my ears with the sound of its hammering. The smell of the moist dirt infused my nostrils and I saw the branches of a large oak tree poke through the fog. It was a good catch, which meant it was a bad time to quit.
I shook out another loop and tried again. I missed. I did it again. I caught the right horn and nose. I tried again and looped the neck.
“It’s a good time to quit,” Lanny said.
I resisted the urge to argue. I unhooked the rope and coiled it. I flung the hood of my jacket over my head. Lanny and I tromped through the rain and I watched the toes of my cowboy boots moisten. I glanced down the hill at Gambler with his dripping winter coat. I wondered if I would ever learn to rope real live steers off my horse.
Weeks later, Lanny explained over the phone why it was particularly important for me to quit on a miss. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sit and watch you rope in the cold,” he said. “It was because I was training your mind. I can’t teach you unless your attitude is right. If you quit on a miss, you will learn to NOT get frustrated when you make a mistake.”
“So, I have to get my mind right first?” I said.
“It’s like training a horse. I can’t get a horse to load onto a trailer unless I have a hold of his mind. If he’s agitated and frustrated, I’m not going to try to teach him to go into a trailer. Same thing with you. If you are agitated and frustrated, I can’t teach you how to rope.”
“Hum,” I said. With Lanny, it was always about the mind.
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