“We’re gonna get you a bit, today,” Lanny West said when I stepped onto his porch.  An old saddle sat at his feet, the stirrups splayed on either side.  “I can’t sell it to you and I can’t give it to you, but you can use it for as long as you like.”

He pointed to an insignia stamped into the leather just below the saddle horn.  “What does that say?”

“Garcia.  Salinas, California,” I said.

“They didn’t make many of these.  People consider this to be a collector’s item.  Just needs a cinch and a few straps, that’s all.”

I didn’t know what to say.  The entire scene felt surreal.  It seemed that if I breathed wrong, the saddle would disappear, Lanny would evaporate, and the horse–the one grazing the pasture adjacent to the porch–wasn’t really mine, but the neighbor’s.

I checked myself, reviewing everything that had happened up until the moment I stood looking down at that saddle.  I needed to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.  My parents paid a buck for the horse and then gave it to me.  Lanny corrected Gambler’s bad habits for very little money and now there was this saddle sitting there at my feet.  Nobody gets into horses for this cheap.  And if they did, they wouldn’t have a trainer like Lanny or a horse as gentle as Gambler with a saddle thrown in.  Nevertheless, this was reality and I was living it.

“You might have to spend $200 for a bit,” Lanny said apologetically.

I shook my head in disbelief.  “It’s not a big deal,” I said.

We got into his truck and drove to Hurst Ranch in Jamestown, California.  A shack stood perpendicular to the main building with a sign over the door that read, Butler’s Saddle Shop.  Inside it smelled like brand new leather.  Harnesses, bits, ropes and spurs hung on the walls.  A workbench was covered with pieces of unblemished cowhide.

I wanted to take advantage of my good fortune and learn everything I could, but my ignorance blindsided me.  I gave up and relaxed.  I leaned against a table and watched Lanny spend my money.  It would be impossible for me to leave that shop as clueless as I was when I walked in even if I felt overwhelmed.  All I had to do was watch and listen.  

Ron Butler stood over a saddletree sewing leather onto the horn.  All around him workbenches were covered in tools and scraps. 

Lanny introduced himself.  They seemed pleased to shake hands.  “I’ve been in here a lot, but I’ve never actually met you,” Lanny said.  Later he told me they had mutual friends and had heard about each other. 

Lanny studied the bits on the wall.  He picked out a shank bit with silver etching on the sides.  ”That’s a pretty one.”  He turned it over in his hand and fingered the joints.  Lanny asked questions and Ron answered.  Before long they were reminiscing about the days when they liked riding colts no matter how sensitive they might have been.  

Then the conversation drifted to the color of horses and Lanny talked about how he didn’t know the proper names because he was raised by an old horse trader.  He never got a formal equine education, but he described himself as street smart–learning his lessons from the horses themselves.  

Ron said, “I had an old friend who called me from the hospital and asked me what the prettiest color on a horse was.  I told him I didn’t know.  He said, ‘Gentle, you sun-of-a-gun.’”

The two men chuckled deep in their throats.  It wasn’t a jolly laugh, but a knowing laugh rooted deep in a lifetime of hard-knocked experience. 

Lanny pointed at the joint of the bit and said, “That might pinch.”  He hung it back on its hook and picked out a plain iron bit.  Satisfied, he perused the harnesses and reins. 

I took the opportunity to ask a few quesitons about the saddle Ron had been sewing when we first entered the shop.  The saddle tree was formed from douglas fir lumber that had been aged for 5 or 6 years.  The tree-makers covered it with rawhide and now it sat on a stand for Ron to attach the leather.  He said he would add extra padding here or there depending on a customer’s preference.    

I ran my finger over the stitching on top of the saddle horn.  The cowhide was only halfway sewn on and a long thread of rawhide dangled to the side.  As soon as Lanny and I left, Ron would finish sewing the leather to the horn by hand. 

Lanny placed a pile of tack next to one of those big calculators with a roll of printing tape and a credit card reader–the most advance technology in the shop.  A way of life was slipping away with this generation of men.  Once again I felt as if I were in a dream standing in the company of  the kind of people who had inspired Western literature. 

My ignorance was enormous, but my resolve deepened to write Lanny’s story and to get it right.  I owed it to him in gratitude for his tremendous kindness and also to the next generation of horses and their owners.  I want to peel away the glamour Hollywood has attributed to these folks, and re-create them as who they really are–hard working and pragmatic people with deep equestrian insights and well-lived lives.

After we left Ron’s place, Lanny and I stopped by a drive-thru coffee shop and ordered two iced chai teas.  I chuckled and said, “I don’t know how I am going to write you up.  You don’t live up to the image of a cowboy.” 

Could I capture this character who straddles a place in time between the real life horsemen, cowmen and ranchers of the pass–legends in modern day minds–and the eccentricities of the present?  While I sipped my tea through a straw, I decided not to think about it too much.  I’ll just enjoy my horse, the saddle and Lanny’s company, and do my best to record his legacy and the way-of-life he represents.

Key and I sat down on the blue overturned barrel, while Lanny West led a paint horse through the gate of the round-pen.  He eased into the saddle, tapped his legs against the ribs and asked the horse to draw his head inward so that his face was perpendicular to the ground.  Lanny walked the gelding around perimeter, stopped, backed, turned him around and trotted the other direction.  Then he cross-reined the paint by tilting his nose to the left and moving clockwise.   After that, he asked him to spin. 

Key swept her long blond hair behind her shoulder.  She placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward on locked arms.  Her blue eyes were large and round. The muscles in her arms and legs twitched concurrently with the paint’s movements.  She may have been sitting on the barrel next to me, but I knew she was in the pen with her horse.  She gasped.  “There,” she said. A few moments later she gasped again.  “There.”

I watched the horse make sudden 180-degree turns and I couldn’t figure out what she was seeing.  “What is he trying to get the horse to do?”

“He wants him to park his ass and swing his front-end around.  Watch,” she said.

Lanny trotted the horse for a couple of laps, and then he did the turning routine again.  This time, the horse spun until his hind legs stood still while he crossed his front feet around in a true pivot.  It all happened so fast, if I had blinked, I would have missed it.  “There did you see it?” Key said.

“Yeah,” I said sitting forward on the barrel, and I wanted to see it again.  A moment later, Lanny got the horse to turn around once more, this time with its butt tucked, its hind legs planted in the footing and his body swooped around in an arc.  Key and I gasped at the same time.  “There,” we said in unison.  A thrill crawled up my spine and I got caught up in the moment.

But the moment didn’t last long, because once the horse whirled around, Lanny stopped, dismounted and loosened the cinch.  I felt let down.  I had finally figured out what all the excitement was about and I wanted watch them do it again. 

“When the horse starts workin’ good,” said Lanny, “get your ass off of him.  Leave him alone.  That’s the best reward you can give ‘em.  They’ll work to find that spot the next time.”

I looked at Key.  She wasn’t saying anything.

I knew better than to protest.  My own horse stood behind me with his eyes half closed.  As soon as Lanny led the paint out of the round pen, I would lead my gelding in.  I knew Gambler would be more responsive to my queues because Lanny was training him. His methods worked.  As much as I wanted Lanny to make the paint do it again so I could enjoy a display of equine athleticism, I kept my mouth shut.  This was about the horse, not about me.

When Lanny West was a toddler, he used to fall asleep on horseback.  Not wanting to disturb his son’s sleep, Noel West tied him to the saddle.  The Hidden Horseman is a book about a man who spent a lifetime with horses.  The son of a horse trainer, Lanny West was reared on the common sense of his father and the subtle wisdom of horses. 

As a boy, he trained colts, geldings, mares and stallions.  He taught ponies and horses to do tricks and tamed wild mustangs.  As a young man, he took care of cattle, shod horses and became a professional team roper.  Later, he put on schools to teach people how to rope.  He raised two children, one of whom became an incredible competitor and horsewoman.

Today, he is hidden away in the foothills of the Sierras enjoying the sunset years of his life, training horses, shoeing here and there and taking care of cattle.  He offers the lessons he has learned for free.

The Hidden Horseman will be written not only for horse lovers, but also for those who enjoy a good read about the Western United States.  Lanny’s life has been touched by survivors of the Depression, the revolution of the sixties, the rise of team roping associations and the contraction of ranch lands. 

The book is a work-in-progress.  Please watch for updates on the homepage.  The purpose of the website is to find readers who would enjoy The Hidden Horseman and to offer stories which will be helpful to horse owners. 

The goal is to earn a following of over 1000 readers.  The blog is free, but the information is priceless.  Tell your friends about it, leave a comment and feel free to give me your ideas.  

The horse shifted his weight on the concrete slab when I walked around him.

“Make sure you follow the direction of the hair,” he said.

I ran my hand along Gambler’s coat to feel how his fur swept back and down. Then I brushed. Gambler’s muscles twitched. Hair and dust billowed into the air at the end of each stroke.

“Don’t dig in the bristles,” Lanny said. “It irritates him.”

I lightened the pressure. I hoped that the less I bothered Gambler, the more Lanny would be willing to teach me that day. I became engrossed by every detail–the direction of the hairs, the way crusty fur smoothed after a few strokes, the way Gambler’s muscles held still when I didn’t press too hard.

Lanny’s voice interrupted my concentration. “Make sure he’s watching you. If you can’t see his eye, discipline him.”

I snorted. It was silly of me to become so focused on brushing the fur that I wasn’t aware of what the horse was doing. I shifted my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I looked to see if I could find Gambler’s dark glassy lenses. The horse turned his head in the opposite direction.

“See right there,” Lanny said. “Discipline him.”

I took a step back and held the brush at my side. It was too late. Gambler would not have known what I was asking. “Hey” I said to get his attention. Gambler swung his head toward me. I went back to brushing. After a couple of strokes, he turned his head away. I gave him a resounding swat on his shoulder. “Good” Lanny said.

Maybe so, I thought. But I felt mean. I continued to brush. I could see Gambler’s eye, but his nose was slightly tilted in the opposite direction. I wasn’t quite sure if the behavior was acceptable.

Lanny seemed to read my mind. “As long as you can see the eye, he’s watching you,” he said.

I ran the brush down Gambler’s back. He glanced away. I swatted him with the palm of my hand. He swung his head around and looked directly at me with his right eye. He understood what I wanted from him. After a second or two, he pointed his head forward, but kept watching me.

When I resumed brushing he tilted his nose ever so slightly in the opposite direction, but I could still see his eye. He was testing me. I waited for the inevitable. When Gambler snuck a glance outside, I swatted him so hard, my palm stung. This time, I didn’t feel mean at all.

Gambler wasn’t a bit alarmed. He turned his head back just enough. “He’s messing with me,” I said.

“You gotta get after him. Move his butt around.” Confused I took my attention off the horse and gave Lanny a quizzical expression. Gambler turned his head away.

“Stand back,” Lanny said.

When I took a couple of steps away, Lanny’s voice suddenly filled the barn. “Now you listen to me,” he said to Gambler.

My shoulders jumped involuntarily. I slinked into the tack room safe from the startled horse and the authoritative energy coming from Lanny.

I peaked through the door just as Lanny tapped Gambler’s rump with the end of the rope. That horse moved his butt so fast it was as if he had just been shocked.

Then everything was quiet. The horse lowered his head. The muscles, which were quivering moments before, relaxed and he chewed his lips.

“See what just happened,” Lanny said pointing to Gambler’s mouth.

I nodded.

“He knows I’m boss. He doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.” In times past, Lanny had explained the importance of pecking order. When a horse knows his status in a herd, he can relax. Lanny clearly asserted himself as the leader, so Gambler didn’t have to worry about it anymore.

“You can’t pick at a horse. You’re just irritating him. You have to make sure he knows you’re boss.” In other words, my swats were not communicating to Gambler that I was the one in charge. “You’ve got to get a hold of the horse’s mind,” he said.

I thought Lanny just wanted me to learn how to groom a horse. I should have known better. He always emphasized the importance of keeping the horse’s attention no matter what I was doing. If I didn’t have a hold of the horse’s mind, I was unsafe.

photo credit:  David Blaine

Lanny West slipped the bit into Gambler’s mouth and passed the leather strap over the Missouri Foxtrotter’s ears.  While Gambler chewed the bit, Lanny checked the saddlebag.  Six leather sleeves, three on each side, carried bottles of medicine, ointments and syringes.  A small pocket held gauze and Q-tips.  Everything looked fine.

Gambler lowered his head to graze.  Lanny reached over and yanked the reins.  The horse shot his head up. 

Lanny gathered the reins and a clump of mane in his left hand and placed the toe of his boot in the stirrup.  The horse stood still as he eased his body into the saddle. 

Lanny took a deep breath and the air chilled his lungs.  The leather of the reins felt cold and stiff between his fingers.  He reached in his pocket and got a pair of gloves.  The cotton stretched over his hands and a small hole appeared over the bottom knuckle of his thumb.

The sun beat down on his back, warming his jacket.  He pulled the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes.  He liked the feeling of clear cool mornings after a rainy day.  The air smelled of fresh grass.  The sky was bluer than usual. 

He surveyed the rolling green hills of the ranch.  Steers populated the knolls grazing over 900 acres.  His eyes passed over the fence line and he marveled at the crystalline colors refracting from droplets on the barbwire.  Diagonal rays of light made the dew on the grass twinkle. 

Lanny touched the horse’s ribs with his spurs.  He felt Gambler gather energy in his muscles before taking the first step, a feeling as familiar to him as coffee sliding down his throat.  The horse’s gate lulled him into a deep sense of contentment. 

He rode west down an easy grade.  A creek rushed in the bottom of the shallow valley.  Blades of grass bent beneath its flow.  Lanny loosened Gambler’s reins to let him drink.  The ole boy lowered his head, but instead of dipping his nose in the water, he reached for the grass on the edge of the creek.  Lanny yanked the reins.  Gambler threw his head up and pointed his ears forward.  Then he twisted the right ear back at Lanny.

Lanny directed his attention up a slope and tensed his legs.  Gambler must have sensed Lanny’s intentions because he splashed through the creek and up the hill on the other side. 

As he approached a small cluster of steers, he took note of the length and color of the grass to make sure the herd was getting proper nutrition and the range wasn’t being over-grazed.  He observed the bovines’ behavior.  One by one, each of them raised their heads and paused in the middle of chewing.  They glared at Lanny and Gambler.  Lanny just kept right on riding, daring them to a game of chicken.  The steers stood their ground for as long as they could until the pressure of Lanny’s approach became too uncomfortable.  Then they leapt out of the way as if something had bitten them on the rump.  They seemed healthy enough.

Lanny kept Gambler’s pace steady while they descended the hill.  He took special care to look for steers in the valleys.  Sick bovines usually drifted to lower ground close to water.  And that was exactly what Lanny found.  The eyes of this particular steer were cloudy and oozing. 

Lanny sat back in his saddle and the horse stopped.  He untied the leather strips that held his lariat.  He shifted the coils in his left hand.  With his right hand, he created a large circle.  He touched Gambler’s ribs with his spurs and swung the loop over his head causing a rhythmic rush of air across his cheek.

The steer took a couple of laborious steps up the knoll.  Gambler followed him for a few yards before Lanny delivered the loop catching the steer’s back hooves.  He dismounted, wrapped the rope around the steer and dallied around the saddle horn.   Gambler leaned into the pressure.    

Without letting go of Gambler’s long rein, Lanny removed his cotton gloves and stuffed them into his pocket.  He pulled a bottle of antibiotics from a sleeve in his saddlebag and drew 10cc’s into a syringe.  He inserted the needle into the steer’s hide and pushed the plunger.  He repeated the process three more times, giving the shot in four different spots.  He was happy with the way Gambler worked the bovine’s rope. 

When he was finished, he stood and looked over his shoulder at the horse.  The ole boy had his head down and was grazing.  Lanny yanked the reins and in a loud authoritative voice he said, “Hey.”  Gambler shot his head up and pointed his ears at Lanny. 

Lanny turned his back, shook his head and squelched the urge to chuckle.  The ole boy would do almost anything Lanny asked.  But by Jove, he was going to sneak a snack whenever the hell he could. 

Lanny removed the rope from the steer and stepped away.  The bovine tucked his legs under him and pushed first his rump, then his front end into a standing position and ran off.  Lanny coiled his rope, satisfied with his work.

Part Four of the Art of Believing

I stood in my driveway with the loop of my lariat dangling from my hand.  I remembered what Lanny West had said about doubting (One of a Thousand) and what John had said about believing (Dung Beetles Reaching the Stars).  In times past, I would have respectfully disagreed with both of them.  I would have pointed out all the people I knew who had worked hard to succeed, but ended up ruined emotionally, relationally and financially. 

Some people do become movie stars, athletic wonders or billionaires.  But, statistically speaking, given any population, there were going to be a few people who would succeed.  Both the successful and the unsuccessful had worked hard.  It had more to do with luck or the whim of some Higher Power than hard work. 

While staring at the horns of the dummy and feeling the lumps of the rope between my thumb and index finger, I decided there was nothing to lose by changing my thinking.  Maybe I would never learn how to team rope, but at the very least, if I could quit doubting and getting frustrated with myself, I would have more fun.  I lifted my arm and swung another loop over my head.  I delivered and missed. 

My first reaction was to get mad and make up an excuse:  I was a busy, 34-year-old mother with two children under the age of five.  The explanation seemed reasonable.  I didn’t have time to practice because I put my family first.  In reality, I was being smug. 

Then I told myself to quit doubting, which didn’t help.  Telling myself to quit doubting proved that I doubted.  I had to try something else.  I attempted to reason myself into confidence.  I had thrown good loops in the past, which proved I was capable of roping.  I just needed to do it consistently. 

I coiled the lariat, built a loop and tried again.  I missed. 

Frustration rose inside me.  I took a deep breath and, in an effort to redirect my thinking, I repeated a simple phrase to myself–I can rope; I can rope; I can rope.  It became a mantra as I delivered the loop.   I caught the neck of the dummy. 

Better.  But I needed to add another element if I was going to keep my mind from making excuses and doubting.  Maybe I should try to focus on feeling the swing–something Lanny West had told me to do a thousand times. 

I dropped the lariat.  I circled my arm in space in an effort to mimic Lanny’s arm movement.  I did it several times to memorize the feeling. 

Then I picked up my rope, and while I swung it over my head, I focused on the feeling of the rotation.  I felt the tip of the loop as an extension of my arm.  I went for the delivery.  I caught both horns. 

Better.  But, the way in which the rope had swung under the left horn was sloppy. 

I decided to try one more thing.  In addition to the mantra and miming, I wanted to see what would happened if I visualized the entire process from the swing, to the delivery, to how the bottom of the loop hooked the right horn, then crossed the forehead, swung under the left horn and over the back of the neck.  My instincts suggested that imaging as much detail as possible was crucial.  In my mind’s eye, I not only saw myself catching the horns, but I felt the rotation of my arm and wrist, heard the swishing of the tip going through the air and the sound of the friction of the rope sliding through the hondo.  I picked up the lariat and tried again.  It was a solid catch. 

I became so engrossed in the process that I forgot to get frustrated, doubt myself or make excuses.  I was having a good time.  It was fun learning how to do something new, something challenging, something slightly daring.  I knew I would be able to team rope.  Serenity came over me and I enjoyed the sensations in my arm and body and the peace in my mind.   All the frustration and doubting quieted. 

For a brief moment in time, I experienced what Lanny West had been trying to tell me all along.  Instead of expending my energy in frustration, I channeled it into learning. Even though I was a busy, mother of two young children, I improved more in a single practice session then I had in several weeks.  There was no need for excuses.

Deanna Burchette is a 30-something little girl who finally got her first horse.  She loves to write and to ride and she is learning how to team rope and train horses.

Deanna has published short stories and articles on topics which range from recreational activities for married couples to short stories for youth magazines.  She was a fiction editor for the Southern California Anthology and has a Masters of Professional Writing from the University of Southern California.  Deanna’s current book project is a narrative non-fiction chronicling the life of Lanny West.

In addition to horses and writing, Deanna’s interests have drifted from cycling, rock climbing and Pilates to quilting and gardening.  She has a tendency to acquire an ever-increasing number of domestic pets and enjoys raising her two little girls. 

Her goal for horsemavericks.com is to share her equine experiences with those who might be interested and to find an audience for her book about Lanny West.

Part Three of The Art of Believing

Photo by g-hat

While my four-year-old was living her dream and practicing ballet in the next room, I sat on a wooden bench in the lobby of the dance studio.  I was talking to the father of another ambitious dancer, when the conversation somehow drifted to Lanny West and how he thinks it is important for me to not get frustrated with myself and believe my body can learn to rope if I give it a chance. 

John leaned forward on the bench.  His eyes grew large and a smile spread across his face.  John, who didn’t look a day older than 35, but was really 43 years old, exuded energy.  He was a business owner, a husband and a father to two adorable little girls.  He had been a fireman, an insurance agent, and wore shorts in 30-degree temperatures. 

He shared his experiences about the importance of believing.  I listened because I knew he had bought two branches of a franchise in the current recession.  He told me about the vacation home he rented to tourist, which remained full because he believed it would remain full.  He told me about how he won a raffle for season passes to the local ski hill simply because he believed he would.

The examples seemed a little far-fetched to me, but he shared his experiences with such conviction that I couldn’t help but be intrigued.  “I’ve never had any thing like that happen to me,” I said.  “What makes it work?”

“You’ve got to believe,” he said.  “You can’t have a sponsoring thought.” 

“What do you mean by a sponsoring thought?”  I said.

He spread his fingers and hovered them over his forehead.  “You can’t think up here you believe, but –” he pointed to the back of his head “–in the back of your mind you wonder if it is really going to happen.  You have to believe.  It’s unwavering faith.”

I thought about all the times Lanny West had told me to believe I can rope even when I mess up.  “So how do you get rid of the sponsoring thought?”  I asked John.

“I tell my employees to just believe it.  Post notes all over the house.  Put your goals in front of you all the time.  Don’t have any doubt.” 

Later, as I mulled over the conversation, something didn’t feel right.  There had to be more to it than just believing.  The notion bordered on fairy-tale thinking:  If you wish on a star or if you wish hard enough, your dreams will come true.  It was too magical for me to feel comfortable.  On the other hand, he had told his stories with such self-assurance, there had to be some truth in what he was saying. 

Then, out of the blue, I thought about the tumblebug, and my mind sunk from the stars and landed in a pile of feces.  I’ve written about dung beetles before in The Tale of the Tumblebug.  During my research for the post, I came across a description in the Texas Bug Book by C. Malcolm Beck and John Howard Garret.   The article titled “A Dung Beetle Story” by Dr. Patricia Q. Richardson was especially interesting:

“As a child in South Texas, I loved the determination of tumblebugs . . . In Freer, Texas, . . . cows wondered freely through town.  I’d come across a fresh cow pie and watch the tumblebugs arrive.  Each would wrestle off a big blob of poop, busily sculpt a ball, and begin to push and roll it away to find a spot to bury it.  With curious glee, I would create obstacles in their path–a mud mountain over which they would laboriously trudge, a sand valley which they would have to scramble through.  Put a stick in the way that was absolutely too big for them to shove the ball over and they would turn and push the ball along the edge until the end where they would return again to their course. . . [T]hey always won, for the tenacity was of longer duration than my four-year-old’s attention span.”  [Page 49]

Believing in my dreams coupled with the tenacity of a tumblebug to roll a ball of poop around, over or through any obstacle had to be the secret to achieving my goals.   

Some day, I will reach the stars and rope off my horse, but I will smell like shit once I get there. 

Do you have an experiences you can share about how you believed in yourself and succeeded?  Is believing in yourself important?

Photo by g-hat

View quote here.

Part Two of The Art of Believing

Logs crackled in the wood-burning stove.  Lanny West sat across from me on a taupe love seat.  He was silhouetted against picture windows, which were displaying raining clouds.  He had been telling me stories about the thousands of people he had tried to teach to rope and how it was important to train the arm and the mind.

“How many people got really good?” I said.

“Fifty . . . maybe,” he said.

I was incredulous.  “That’s all?”

“Yep.”

“Why didn’t they make it?” I said.  I wanted to be one of the fifty and not one of the thousands.  If I knew what went wrong, then I could be different and succeed.

“Because they do what you do,” he said.  “They doubt.”

I gulped.  That hurt.   I could have gotten mad, but I didn’t.  He was right.