Doing the Bossa Nova with Black Beauty

The early morning drive up the steep alpine canyon was uneventful. The lights of the truck and horse trailer lit up the canyon walls like Christmas ornaments as they passed by. The winding road was strewn with sharp curves and narrow in its width. After what seemed like a long time the front lights on the pickup truck shined forth showing a dirt road turn off to the left. The blinking amber signal light radiated through the forest pine like a caution light down in the city streets many miles below the mountain vista. Turning up the dirt road the truck geared down and made a whining sound from the load it was pulling. After a short pull through dried mud ruts and loose rocks, the truck turned into a grassy meadow area and pulled up next to an old campsite area with a rocked-in fire pit.

As the truck came to a stop, the horse in the rear trailer readjusted her feet, and the sound of a metal shoe clanked on the side of the trailer panel. With the truck in park, the young cowboy stepped out into the dark nighttime sky and took the first breath into his lungs of the fresh mountain air. This day was going to be a good one for a deer hunt he thought to himself as he pulled his vest and jacket from behind the truck seat and prepared his saddle bags with lunch and goodies. He heard the restless horse in the trailer and walked back to unload and start the saddling process.

As the rear door opened on the horse trailer, the big beast started the all familiar quick stepping sound of four hooves digging into the rubber mat and trying to find the first step down with the back leg. Clambering and stomping she swung her rear hoof out into the night air and gently put it to the ground, and then quickly the rest of her feet found the safety of the mountain soil. Stopping and looking around, the big horse felt the glove hand of the cowboy reassuring her that things were ok and that the boogie man was not after her. The cowboy led her to the side of the trailer and tied the halter rope to the ring pin on the edge of the trailer.

With a brush in one hand and a glove on the other, the young cowboy massaged the big horse along the mane and back all the way down the tail and then rubbed and patted the horse's front chest and belly. The cowboy could tell that this maneuver was relaxing to the horse, so he continued until he felt the horse was fully at ease.

The cowboy pulled a gas lantern out of the truck box and lit the wicks with a match he had in his vest pocket. As he did this he could finally see the big solid black horse standing before him. The horse was coal black and had a hint of dark shine to its hide as the lantern light cast its glow upon her beautiful frame. Quickly grabbing the saddle and pads from the trailer compartment, the cowboy set the pads in motion, and the saddling task was complete in a few minutes. The cowboy started to hurry his tasks now for he knew he had two long hours of riding in the dark before the pair would reach their destination.

It would be a race against the morning sky. The plan was to be in a position atop a crop of rocks before first light. This spot had been previously scouted and would give the hunter an advantage on this hunt. Last but not least the cowboy pulled the rifle from the back window gun rack and softly slid it in the scabbard that hung from the side of his saddle. After securing his truck and lantern the young man grabbed a glove full of hair and rein then stepped into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle seat. Pulling up on the reins to hold the big horse, he adjusted himself and with a soft, gentle nudge the black mare walked out into the night air.

The cowboy and horse traveled along a rocky trail through the thick dark forest. The cowboy would speak calmly and quietly to the horse occasionally to reassure the horse, as the black mare picked her footing among the unseen rocks that adorned the mountain trail. A sound of metal horseshoes on rocks could be heard across the night sky as the horse and rider climbed higher in elevation along the ridgeline. The cowboy could feel the cold draft of frosted air as canyon breezes whipped against his bare neck.

It was late October and patches of snow lay here and there along the trail. As the black horse's hooves met with this snow, a hard crunching sound emanated from beneath the horse's feet and was heard throughout the night air. The cowboy was somewhat nervous that the horse was making too much noise and that it might reach the ears of the big mule deer buck he had spotted in this area the previous weekend. The prize on this hunt would be bagging the monster muley which had eluded the cowboy for the past two seasons. The young cowboy had expended a lot of scouting time and effort in trying to hunt down the trophy deer only to come up empty-handed for all his efforts. The cowboy thought this day would be different as he had carefully made his pre-hunt plans.

As the horse and rider topped out on the mountain pass, the first hint of sun highlighted the bottom edges of clouds on the eastern sky with a peach-colored hue. As the cowboy crested the mountain peak, he paused to enjoy the beautiful mountain and sky scene he had been fortunate to witness. There before him lay a scene of multicolored mountain foliage which made a man stand in awe. While giving the horse some time to catch her breath, the young man sat in his saddle, and silently thanked his God for the opportunity to view such an enormous stage of creation, as the sky expanded before him. In the cowboy's mind, his master was surely having a beautiful day when he set in motion this grand scene.

After the horse had begun to breathe easier, the cowboy nudged her along the trail as quiet as he could. The cowboy knew that the canyon below him was the old haunt of the big muley he was after. About half way across the side of the canyon the cowboy pulled up the reins and began to study the mountainside below him. He had an excellent vantage point and from this elevation, he was sure he was in a good position to glass the area with his binoculars.

Dropping the reins on the black mare's neck, the cowboy pulled his binoculars out of his jacket and with free hands around the lenses he began to scan the aspen groves in the canyon below. The horse stood still and had both ears pinned to the wind for any sound that might mean danger. The horse's natural instinct is to vacate the immediate area at the hint of trouble, and the cowboy could feel the animal's nervous heart beating through his chaps. As the cowboy was intently looking the area over for signs of deer, he immediately spotted a nice buck and several does making their way up the canyon toward his position.

As he studied the animals, the cowboy realized that this was not the big muley he was hunting, so he quietly observed the deer as they climbed the steep mountain. He would let these deer pass by him as he sat relaxed in the saddle watching the deer move toward him. As the deer passed within fifty yards of the horse and rider, a sudden piercing sound broke through the canyon air and without warning a rock ricocheted less than twenty feet to the left of the horse and rider making a crackling whining sound, as bits of rock and lead spewed into the air. As fast as a cat with nine lives, the black horse reared straight up and in one motion turned in mid air and leaped away from the sound and ricocheted rock. As the horse's hooves hit the mountain soil, she was in full retreat down the trail in the direction she had previously come. Riderless and half out of her mind she covered the ground at a breathtaking run until she was clear of all the danger and well out of the canyon setting.

I felt the big horse jump from the sound of the bullet crashing into a set of rocks to the left of where I was intently watching a herd of deer. The motion of the horse caught me completely unaware, and I was powerless to do anything except fall out of the saddle. With both of my hands wrapped around my binoculars, I didn't have time to grab the reins and try to make a ride of it. In one quick second, I was on the ground looking up and watching the big horse as she galloped at full speed down the mountain trail. I could see the saddle bags and rifle scabbard slapping her on each side of her belly and flanks as she squealed and bucked trying to free herself from the leather monsters that were on her back. That was the position I found myself in on that cold October morning back in 1980.

As I look back on the predicament, I found myself involved with that fateful day so long ago I now recall what circumstances brought me to that set of events, and I remember how the whole dance started. My father in law, Jim, had purchased a big black mare named Etta after his retirement and placed her on his ranch down in central Utah. She was the best-looking mare in several states and was well trained for reining, western pleasure, and halter class events at quarter horse shows throughout the western States. Her breeding earned the term, 'double stacked on both sides' which referred to her pedigree which was a star-studded list of proven sires and dams that had won many championships in competitions at various events in the past. Etta was Jim's dream horse. Unfortunately, Jim would not be able to enjoy his new found prize. He passed away at a young age shortly after purchasing the horse and left the co-ownership to his wife, Colleen.

About a year after Jim's death, Colleen moved back up to Northern Utah to be near her children, and she brought Etta with her. In the confusion of losing a loved one, Colleen was in a whirlwind of time and Etta was her last concern. The horse had sat in the barn for a solid year and had never been ridden since Jim's death. One day Colleen asked me if I would exercise Etta and get her ready for a horse sale that was coming up in a few months.

A good friend of Jim and Colleen's had been involved with helping Jim buy the horse originally, and after Jim's death, he had offered his help in selling the horse. Now, this wasn't some run of the meal average Joe horse. The beautiful mare was a four figure dollar horse and in 1980 that was a load of cash. Needless to say, I was hesitant to help because the value of such a pristine animal had me a little nervous. I had been around horses all my life, and I had been a witness to a few mishaps when it came to horseflesh. This proposition had me between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, I was sympathetic to Colleen's cause but on the other, I would feel great if someone else took on the responsibility of getting the horse ready for sale.

In the end, I caved, and the process with the horse started. After work and in the evenings, I would ride Etta in the low hills north of town. She didn't need arena work, she just needed some leg strength and manner reassurance. At that time I just wanted to get her in shape and used to being frequently handled. Her previous training would be enough to sell her for a big price.

As time progressed over a month, the horse settled into her routine and things were going well. I had my horses that I had been neglecting so I had planned on using them for the upcoming deer hunt that year. After careful planning, I had scouted the mountain area for the big muley and was in the process of taking a week off work when Colleen approached me and asked if I would ride Etta one last time before the horse sale at the end of the month. This request would put that ride right in the middle of my hunt week, and I didn't want to change my plans, I had planned on using my horses that week.

After careful thought, I agreed to take her out on Thursday, two days before the sale and ride her in the mountains on my hunt. At the time I thought one day shouldn't be too bad, and she was in real good shape which made for an easy ride up the mountain trail. It is at this junction in the story that I found myself on that October day laying on the ground watching a beautiful black beauty quit the country with dazzling speed while I was powerless to do anything but spectate.

As fast as I could, I got to my feet and looked in the direction the bullet had come from, but I couldn't see anyone in the area where I thought the shot might have originated. The canyon was empty as far as I could see. Then a shiver went down my spine as I realized the ramification of the events that had just taken place and I looked in the direction that Etta had run. I pulled off my chaps and stashed them behind an aspen tree with my binoculars and started to move in the direction of the horse. I ran so hard I remember my lungs burning and my legs tightening up, but I kept up the pace until I reached the edge of the canyon and could look down the other side where the horse had disappeared earlier. I nearly passed out from exhaustion at that altitude, so I was glad to reach the edge of the mountain pass.

Fearing what I might see I peered over the edge and to my amazement the big horse was down the other side standing just off the trail with head down pulling on some mountain grass. It appeared luck might be with me as I sauntered carefully down to within about ten feet of the feeding horse. Calmly and carefully I spoke to Etta and told her things would be ok. While I did this, I had my hand out reaching for the side of her neck, and as I did this, she lifted her head, took one look at me and whirled around in reining fashion and galloped away like I was the devil there to collect his debt. I ran after her down the mountain side, but she left me in the dust like I was standing still.

At this point, I started to get a little upset about everything and a few words spewed from my lips that won't be repeated here. Back down the canyon I ran, but not quite as fast, because I was wearing down and the day's events were starting to take a toll on my body. As I was running around a turn in the forest trail, I stopped cold because there in front of me about twenty feet stood Etta, contently grazing on some more mountain grass.

I repeated the process as before, and all went well until I reached for the cheek piece of the bridle then all hell broke loose, and she spun around and sashayed down the mountain trail staying just far enough in front of me to make it a real grind. Pissed wouldn't describe the feeling that I had as we did this dance at least seven times down the mountain. Each time had the same results, the horse had my number, and she was playing the game her way. All I could do is hope that at some junction along the trail, it would end without tragedy. My mind raced with every terrible thought about the horse I could conjure, from broken horse legs to running off of cliffs. All these things filled me with adrenaline and fear. The canyon was empty of people so I could not count on anyone to help me. I was all alone on this adventure and running out of patience.

Finally, the trail leveled out, and I had not seen the horse for over an hour. I was following Etta's hoof prints in the mountain soil, so I knew she was headed for the truck. I could only hope that might slow her up, or she would be on the paved road within a mile and tragedy might befall her with traffic. By this time in the story, I was completely exhausted and walking my way down the trail to the truck. I figure I would have to get some help to catch her or she would perish from an accident.

As I was coming in view of the truck, the prize was standing before me next to the side of the trailer looking at me with a look that said, what took you so long? My heart pushed back down in my chest, and I approached Etta with all the ease and stealth of a sneaking Indian in the old days getting ready to steal the soldier's horse. Slowly and calmly I got within reaching distance and put my hand out on her neck and with my other hand, I secured the halter rope that was tied to the saddle. My ordeal was done, and so I pulled the tailgate down on the truck and lay down on the bed taking it all in. Each time I would look at the horse, she gave me the what's wrong with you look. So finally I decided it was time to show her who was the boss.

I pulled new reins out of the trailer and got the bridle in working order and climbed on the horse and started back up the mountain to retrieve my chaps and binoculars. Etta didn't like this new move and felt like she should be rewarded for stopping at the trailer and allowing herself to be caught. She was being stubborn about going back up the trail, so I put more emphasis on the spurs and in time she realized that I was somewhat pissed about the whole ordeal and that the sass in her method had left us on shaky terms.

It's a good thing she was in real good shape, or the chaps and binoculars would be someone else's property. We climbed back up that mountain to the spot where we had parted company, and I climbed off her back. As I was reaching behind the aspen tree to get my gear, Etta thought this might be a good time to try the dance again, so she whirled around in cutting horse fashion and tried to distance herself from her partner. But this time, I held her close, and she could only dance in place with me. The look she gave me was one of disdain and frustration, but she got over it.

As I was putting my gear on her back, I noticed two hunters about a half mile down the trail, so I mounted and rode in their direction. As I came within earshot of the pair, I noticed one of the hunters was a very young boy, and the other one was an old timer. Upon my approach, the younger one said to the older gentleman, "Grandpa, that's the cowboy you shot off his horse earlier this morning." Well, I could hardly believe my ears as I confronted the older man. The old man came up alongside Etta and with tears in his eyes he told me that he had been shooting at a buck earlier in the morning from way down the canyon. He figured that he must have shot over the deer's back because his grandson had told him that he saw a man fall off a black horse and the horse run away.

They were scared and didn't know what to do so they had hiked up the mountain further to investigate the young boy's story when they ran into me. The old gentleman said he never saw me up on the mountain or he would never have fired at the deer. Listening to their stories, I realized that the whole incident was nothing more than an accident. I told the two of them that I was ok and that the horse had been scared from the ricochet, but that we were intact, and all was well. I reminded the old gentleman that he might be more careful next time and with that he shook my hand and asked for me to accept his humble apology. With that, I rode off in the other direction towards my truck as my mind filled with thoughts of the day's events. Etta knew that we were headed for sweet hay and horse conditioner with molasses, and she picked up the pace.

Looking back on this story I can see the works of the most famous prophet of all time. Murphy's law is always right, and his words are ringing in my ears as I write this tale. If things can go wrong, they will. Bad things happen when you least expect them, and when your intuition tells you that it's not a good idea to take a highly valued money horse out on the mountain two days before she's being sold, then you should pull you head out and use what little brains God has sent you to this earth with.

It sleeted on us all the way down off the mountain that afternoon, making for a miserable ride but at least I was riding instead of doing the Bossa Nova with Black Beauty down the trail. Finally, we arrived at the barn safe and sound, and Etta got her oats. The sale went off as planned and Etta found her a new home. The transfer of monies eased Colleen's burden a small amount. I didn't get the big muley that year, but I got a good lesson at an earlier stage in my life. I had dodged two bullets that day and came away nearly unscathed. Had it not been for my sore feet and bruised hip, my time with Etta might have been enjoyable.

This story is dedicated to the loving memory of Jim and Colleen and their beautiful horse Etta. May God bless you both and thanks for giving me your beautiful daughter, Patty, and her love, which has enlightened and made my life complete.