Chasing a Dream: A Horseman's Memoir Page 12

  Something about her head kept drawing my eyes: a short muzzle and lots of width between big doe eyes. You can’t go wrong with eyes like that, an indication an animal will be kind and easy to train. How can I go wrong? I thought. If she doesn’t work out, I can bring her back.

  At the trailer gate she spooked, spun around, and raced back down the alley straight at me. I waved her back. Each time she changed directions her hind feet slid up under her as she rolled over her hocks. Within a couple of strides she was galloping full speed the opposite direction. The slick surface had little effect on her. What an athlete, I thought.

  After several refusals the filly cautiously stuck her head inside the horse trailer and smelled the floor. One foot then two, gradually three and four, and she was standing in the trailer. Then she spun, jumped out, and ran back toward me. “That’s all right, girl.” I said. “You take your time. I’m in no hurry. We’ll just practice loading and unloading.”

  The years had taught me to proceed slowly with young horses, especially with trailer loading, an activity that can seriously injure both horses and people. If they have a bad experience they can develop a trailer phobia. It is very important to give the horse time to relax and get used to getting in and out until it feels the trailer is a safe place.

  Finally she stood quietly inside. I eased the steel gate shut and headed back home to the twenty-acre place we had leased. It was dubbed “The Lion Place” because the owner’s son had a lion act with Circus Vargas and he used the place to train his young cats during the off season. The lion pens were only a hundred feet from my horse paddocks. Every morning around four a.m. the lions would start roaring. This would scare the life out of any new horses. How would the new filly, wild as she was, handle the presence of the big cats?

  Locke came outside. “What’d you buy?” I swung open the trailer gate and unloaded the bay filly into the round pen. “Looks like a rack of bones.”

  “She looks pretty rough now, but I think she has potential. The price was right.” The filly looked toward the lion cage, raised her head, and perked her ears. Her eyes went wide, and snorting she wheeled and raced away to the far side of the pen. Her head raised, nostrils flared to take in the scent, she paced back and forth whinnying, for the other horses.

  Eager to begin working with my new student, I rose early in the morning to my usual alarm clock: the sound of roaring lions. The morning light crept up the snow-covered mountain range that rose up from the Coachella Valley floor. Frogs croaked in the pond and a meadowlark sang its morning song.

  When I entered the pen the filly flagged her tail in the air, raced to the opposite side of the pen, and crashed into the steel panels. With her chin over the top rail, she weaved back and forth looking to jump out. Halter in hand, I stepped to the center and began driving her around the pen. Her coat was soon white with lather. She kept looking out at the other horses to provide her some security. “Sweetheart, the answer to your problems isn’t out there. Just take a look at me.” As she moved around, her inside ear pointed toward me and she gave me a quick glance. I stepped back and away from her toward her favorite place, where the horses were, and then stopped and stood motionless, non-threatening. She slowed to a walk, dropped her nose to the ground as if sniffing the dirt, and licked her lips.” That’s it,” I said softly,” I’m not going hurt you.”

  Tentatively she took a couple of steps toward me, and then I got smaller and less threatening by dropping to one knee. I let her stand quietly and rest. She gradually eased her way closer. On my hands and knees I eased up within a couple of feet of her nose, but she looked ready to flee so I withdrew a bit and waited. In about a minute she moved closer to sniff my hat. Soon she was touching my hat, then my shoulder, with her nose. I could feel her warm breath on my neck.

  I held out my hand and waited. She slowly put her muzzle on it, and sniffed. Still on my knees, I crawled away a few feet to the side. She followed hesitantly, reaching for me with her head. Gingerly I turned and breathed into her nostrils much like horses do when they meet. Slowly I got to my feet and walked around her. She turned and followed like a dog following its master.

  This acceptance and bonding had happened many times before, but this time it overwhelmed me. Perhaps the cause was my emotional state, my guilt and self-loathing, or the lack of such closeness with Locke. I was astounded by the love that wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I fell to my knees as tears filled my eyes. The little mare stood next to me with her nose touching my shoulder.

  I looked at her, this helpless little filly in desperate need of saving--a horse with tremendous potential that had been tossed out and relegated to the killer pen. She had let go of her deepest fears to put her trust in me. In her I recognized myself, a man living in fear and in desperate need of help. My mistakes and an unwillingness to forgive myself had trapped me in a fog of hopelessness. The connection with the filly—her unconditional acceptance—sparked something in me: a flicker of hope.

  Awakened the next morning by the roaring of the lions, I felt a new energy and couldn’t wait to see my little mare; this time she came straightway to greet me. Would she let me pet her? She tensed and wheeled away as I reached out to touch her. “It’s okay, girl,” I said, “I know you’re afraid. We’ll try again.”

  It took her only a fraction of the time it normally takes a horse to turn toward the center of the pen. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I moved too quickly the first time.” Easing my hand toward her shoulder, fingers pointed down, I reached to touch her. She did not run, and I gently swept my hand down her neck. “That’s not so bad, is it? Someday that’ll feel good to you.” She stood quietly while I rubbed her. Occasionally she reached back and sniffed me for reassurance. When I finished rubbing her she followed me around. “That’s probably enough for today,” I said. “Let’s end on a good note. “For some reason I couldn’t think of the right name for her. No worries, I thought, it’ll come.

  As the days passed the filly changed, and so did I. My approach became softer, less critical, more accepting. After the hundreds of horses I had worked with, why did this one have such a strong effect on me? I wasn’t sure, but as I began to think differently, my horses responded by performing better, more willingly. It was more about connection and relationship than methods. Perhaps I was less threatening to them and seemed less like a predator and more like a friend. I learned to appreciate them for what they were instead of trying to force them into what I thought they should be. I noticed and developed their talents and interests. For the first time in my life I understood acceptance. I quit comparing myself to others. Little by little the burden of self-condemnation lifted.

  The filly progressed rapidly. She had transformed from a caterpillar into a butterfly. Soon I was riding her. She gained weight, her bay coat shone and her black mane and tail grew long and glistened in the sun. Her muscles took shape until she looked exactly as I had imagined she would. Then one day I was loping her across the polo field when Locke galloped up beside me. She looked excited. “I have the name for your mare.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Milagro,” she said. “It’s Spanish for miracle.”

  The name settled easily on my mind. “That’s perfect.”

  A miracle indeed, only six months after I picked her out of Leonard’s killer pen, I sold her to a polo player from Wichita, Kansas for $15,000. She had become more than I had imagined, and she had changed me in ways I could not yet appreciate.

  23

  DUBOIS, WYOMING, 1993

  The following spring Locke again refused to go to Kansas City, and she wasn’t about to let me go alone. This meant I had to give up my good job with Benny. We were on our own again.

  Despite the changes in me, the dysfunction in our marriage continued. Our church family had encouraged us to a great extent, but what we really needed (and failed to get) was some skilled counseling. Locke refused to forgive me and continued to wield my affair as a weapon when she needed to. She was, however, w
illing to stay together and hope that time would heal our marriage. Neither of us wanted to break up our family.

  Often close friends and family would ask, “How can you live with that woman? She’s so mean.”

  I would always say, “Yeah, but her good outweighs her bad. She’s a very generous person. She has a good heart. And she’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.”

  I often thought about divorce. Being free from Locke’s verbal abuse sounded appealing, but I loved her in spite of her faults, and she loved me. We were so entwined that it was hard to imagine life apart. She was my first love. We were Grant & Locke, not Grant and Locke. Some people referred to me as “Grant Locke” as if Locke were my last name. Maybe it was, in a sense. As difficult as she was to live with, she was my best friend and the mother of my daughter.

  A while back, the property owner had agreed to sell us the lion place. Buying it had been our dream, but how could we afford it if neither of us had a job? Good jobs were now scarce in polo. Once again times turned lean.

  The demand for polo horses was down so much that Locke began talking about leaving California and returning to Wyoming. “It will be a fresh start for us,” she said. “I’ve always loved Dubois. Thought I might move back there someday.” Her eyes pleaded. “Grant, I miss the mountains. I want Tara to grow up in Wyoming.”

  I missed Wyoming, too, and had always hoped to move back to the mountains and get back to the cowboy way of life. The younger players were passing me by; at thirty-six I was slowing down, and my handicap had been dropped back to three goals. My career as a professional polo player seemed to be waning. Perhaps it was time for a new beginning, and ever ready to move on, I loved the thought of a new adventure. We held a farm sale and sold everything we couldn’t fit into our horse trailer.

  Locke and I had developed a breeding herd of twenty mares and a nice Thoroughbred stallion. We hoped breeding and training polo horses might help us make a living in Wyoming.

  Locke, Tara, and I moved everything, including our horses, to Dubois. We rented a small modular house from the Diamond D Cattle Company, a beautiful ranch north of town on Horse Creek that had been owned by the Walt Disney family. The Diamond D is nestled in a small mountain valley between the Wind River Range and the Absaroka Mountains. The green irrigated pastures contrast with the surrounding red hills. These desert hills give way to high-country grass and sagebrush and high-mountain meadows, streams, and wildflowers. The mountains are home to an abundance of wildlife including elk, deer, moose, and bighorn sheep, as well as predators like coyotes, mountain lions, black bears, and grizzlies.

  At that time Dubois was known as the dude ranch capital of the country. Its wood storefronts and lumber sidewalks made Dubois look like a town from a western movie set. Two restaurants and three bars served tourists and a population of 1,500. This was not sea-level Palm Springs with all the amenities a person could want. Dubois was one of the farthest towns from an Interstate in America. It was eighty-five miles from the nearest hospital or commercial airport.

  The move drained us dry. Though I trained colts every day, they were not nearly ready to sell. We had little money to feed ourselves or our horses. Our only option was to sell our valuable polo prospects at a local livestock auction. After hauling them from California and working so hard on them, I wanted to avoid this option. So, to earn a little money we decided to put on a horse-training clinic at the town arena.

  I was new to the area and had never taught a clinic. I didn’t know if anyone would come. We placed an ad in the local paper and pinned flyers around town. This drew five students, all women.

  One lady brought a nervous filly that was barely halter broke and kept getting away from her. I put the filly through my typical routine, and she soon relaxed and let me saddle and ride her.

  Dubois was a cowboy town, and most people still trained using old, traditional methods. Natural horsemanship was a fairly new concept. Because all the students made such great progress with their horses, word traveled fast and people started asking me to train their horses. Some of these horses belonged to the Diamond D Cattle Company, which later hired me to run its horse program. The ranch agreed to buy all my horses. It was good to be out of debt and have a steady job, though the income was paltry.

  Man, it was good to be a cowboy again! Working with the cattle was particularly enjoyable. The Diamond D cowboys were excellent hands, and I felt fortunate to work with them. The ranch built an indoor arena that allowed me to train year round.

  The following spring we put on another public clinic at the Diamond D barn. A large number turned out. One man trailered his horse seventy miles over the Divide from Jackson Hole. His horse liked to buck. After working out a few kinks, the horse was soon relaxed and rode nicely.

  I was not good at public speaking, but I managed to control my nervousness long enough to address the group. Their rapt attention amazed me. Their eyes were locked on me and they were taking in every word. Right then a big aha hit me: What I’m doing can become more than helping people with horses. This can change people’s lives. This kind of responsibility scared me. I may have appeared confident, but was trembling inside. Who was I to be giving advice? What could I offer these people? I had a strong sense of déjà vu. I sensed I was glimpsing my future.

  That second clinic opened the door to other opportunities, although not all of them were positive. A couple of team ropers dropped by the ranch and asked me if I could teach their big six-year-old roan gelding to back up. He was gentle, they said, and had no other problems. They would not make eye contact, and I got the feeling they weren’t telling me the whole story. Nevertheless, I agreed to take their horse for a week.

  As soon as they left I saddled the gelding. He seemed gentle enough but was bunching up under the saddle and walking with short, stiff steps. I decided to first work him in the round pen. When I touched his flank with my flag, he kicked at me and shot straight in the air, bucking and bawling like a rodeo bronc.

  Treating the mature gelding like a brand-new colt, I drove him around the pen showing him that I was his leader. At every pass he threatened to kick me or rear up and strike at me with his front feet. He was acting like a child throwing a tantrum. Each time I met his challenge with my flag, spanked him on his hind quarters, and sent him around the pen. “You can be bad if you want,” I said, “but you’re just going to make it hard on yourself. If you want to behave, life will get easier.” After almost an hour of sweat and dust, the gelding finally lowered his head, licked his lips, and walked up with a submissive attitude. I stood there with him while he rested, petted him and congratulated him for making such a good decision. From there on the horse improved quickly. He started to yield his feet to me without complaint.

  It was time to mount up. I climbed up and rode around without incident. Soon he was backing nicely. It’s amazing, I thought, how one little problem can affect the whole horse.

  Over the next few days he continued to improve, backing in circles and doing about whatever I asked.

  When the ropers came to pick him up, I rode the horse for them and showed how well he was backing as if it was no big deal. They quickly wrote me a check and left with the gelding.

  Later I learned the real story. When his previous owner had asked him to back into the roping chute, he had refused. He had reared and fallen over backwards, landing on his rider and breaking his neck. The wife of the injured man decided to sell the horse to a killer buyer so no one else would get hurt on him. The two men talked her into selling them the horse, and then hauled him straight to me.

  With successes like this, I thought, This new life in Wyoming might work out. I hadn’t been sure but I was finding real satisfaction in this remote little mountain town. The job with the Diamond D was my dream job. Working with cattle and horses in beautiful country and having the freedom to teach clinics and work with people and their horses provided fulfillment and significance that I had not previously experienced. I thought I had found my work
and our place.

  The move to Dubios brought Grant and Locke back to the mountains and cowboy way of life they both loved. Grant and Locke enjoyed gathering horses together. Photo by George Grady Grossman.

  Tara, seven, was old enough to ride with me moving cattle in the mountains. On her horse, Chuckles, a retired Argentine polo pony, she’d ride back and forth like a bird sitting atop a rhino. She’d yell, “Yah! Get along little doggies!” “Yah! Hurry up. Get on up the trail.” Together we pushed the cattle into the mountains and the high meadows rich with grass. Some days Locke would ride along. During those well-lit green days I knew we were going to be a happy family. Then disaster struck.

  24

  DUBOIS, WYOMING, 1994

  While we branded calves at the Horse Creek cow camp about fifteen miles from the ranch, Locke drove her SUV back to the ranch to retrieve some supplies we’d forgotten. She was hurrying along the winding gravel road, and in a curve she met a forest service truck pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with heavy steel fence panels. The driver swerved to avoid Locke, who slammed into the front corner of the trailer, totaling her vehicle. Though she was wearing her seat belt, her head broke the windshield, knocking her unconscious and slashing her forehead. The seat belt broke her collar bone and the steering wheel broke several ribs.

  The forest service employees jumped out of their truck and called 911. By the time we got word, the ambulance was already transporting Locke to the hospital.

  She couldn’t ride for the rest of the summer. She bided her time by writing songs, which poured out of her. Three days a week she drove eighty-five miles to Riverton to sing and record her music with local musicians. Soon they formed a band and began performing at local gatherings. Now she was the one who was gone a lot. Although I had always been supportive of her music, her traveling and the expense of recording was hard on us.