In every interview with a legendary horseperson, there is a repeated phrase: “You get one great horse in a lifetime.” For most of them, it was a champion, a versatile, intelligent partner that brought home blues in arenas around the nation. For some it was a horse that triumphed over a bad start, and grew to develop an unbreakable bond with their rider, and then brought home blues in arenas around the nation.
My equine soul mate may never have won a blue ribbon in his life. He’s a big boned, big-butted unregistered Appaloosa. Rumor has it he was raised on the eastern plains of Montana. His arena-sourness, his hard mouth, and his ability with a rope suggest he was once a rope horse. I know he was sold at auction and ended up carrying wranglers in Yellowstone National Park, where I met him. The day that rat-tailed Appaloosa was led out of the corral, I knew that horse was mine.
Howdy had no brakes, and ran with his head in the air. He would run until he won, no matter if he fell on his face five times first. I clung to him like a monkey, and would stand up in the stirrups with all hundred pounds of me pulling when it was time to stop. We probably didn’t make a pretty pair, but all anyone ever saw of us was his spotted butt anyway. Howdy and I herded bison off trails, moved bears away from guests, and surprised moose in bushes. We ran full out for three months, until my seasonal summer job came to an end. He came when I called his name one last time, and then I put him on a trailer and watched him drive away.
That one summer in Montana ruined me. I couldn’t do the city thing anymore, so I found a year-round job at a dude ranch and told myself with 80 horses under my care, there would be another Howdy. Ha! Howdy was cranky, stubborn and wouldn’t cross bridges, but he understood me. The horses at my new ranch were prettier, quieter, and better trained, but they just weren’t him. It took a month to convince my former boss to sell. One of the happiest days of my life I got this message: “Well, if he’s worth that much to you, you can come on over and pick him up.” I cried.
Three years later, I kicked my cowboy out of the apartment and broke off the wedding. Howdy wasn’t surprised. We were leaving the ranch, but I was leaving first. I told Howdy that cowboy was going to put him on a trailer, and I would be there to unload him at the other end.
Howdy nickered at me as soon as he stepped off the trailer. At his new pasture, he wouldn’t let the owner pet him, but he’d come trotting when I came to the gate. A month after we had settled into our new home, I answered a call from my former cowboy.
My former cowboy knew Howdy was never dangerous. Howdy had wrangled herds of horses, been charged by a bear, conquered collapsing creek banks, and had bullwhips cracked off him. When the cowboy caught Howdy in a 100-acre field, he figured he’d ride to the trailer. “Howdy stood quietly while I jumped up and lay across him,” ex-cowboy said. “He seemed regular old Howdy, so I gave myself a boost and threw my leg across.”
“Howdy’s timing was perfect. With one huge buck, he sent me flying. When I got up, I was seeing stars. Howdy acted like nothing had happened, and walked back to the barn like a perfect gentleman.”
My equine soul mate may never have won a blue ribbon in his life. He’s a big boned, big-butted unregistered Appaloosa. Rumor has it he was raised on the eastern plains of Montana. His arena-sourness, his hard mouth, and his ability with a rope suggest he was once a rope horse. I know he was sold at auction and ended up carrying wranglers in Yellowstone National Park, where I met him. The day that rat-tailed Appaloosa was led out of the corral, I knew that horse was mine.
Howdy had no brakes, and ran with his head in the air. He would run until he won, no matter if he fell on his face five times first. I clung to him like a monkey, and would stand up in the stirrups with all hundred pounds of me pulling when it was time to stop. We probably didn’t make a pretty pair, but all anyone ever saw of us was his spotted butt anyway. Howdy and I herded bison off trails, moved bears away from guests, and surprised moose in bushes. We ran full out for three months, until my seasonal summer job came to an end. He came when I called his name one last time, and then I put him on a trailer and watched him drive away.
That one summer in Montana ruined me. I couldn’t do the city thing anymore, so I found a year-round job at a dude ranch and told myself with 80 horses under my care, there would be another Howdy. Ha! Howdy was cranky, stubborn and wouldn’t cross bridges, but he understood me. The horses at my new ranch were prettier, quieter, and better trained, but they just weren’t him. It took a month to convince my former boss to sell. One of the happiest days of my life I got this message: “Well, if he’s worth that much to you, you can come on over and pick him up.” I cried.
Three years later, I kicked my cowboy out of the apartment and broke off the wedding. Howdy wasn’t surprised. We were leaving the ranch, but I was leaving first. I told Howdy that cowboy was going to put him on a trailer, and I would be there to unload him at the other end.
Howdy nickered at me as soon as he stepped off the trailer. At his new pasture, he wouldn’t let the owner pet him, but he’d come trotting when I came to the gate. A month after we had settled into our new home, I answered a call from my former cowboy.
My former cowboy knew Howdy was never dangerous. Howdy had wrangled herds of horses, been charged by a bear, conquered collapsing creek banks, and had bullwhips cracked off him. When the cowboy caught Howdy in a 100-acre field, he figured he’d ride to the trailer. “Howdy stood quietly while I jumped up and lay across him,” ex-cowboy said. “He seemed regular old Howdy, so I gave myself a boost and threw my leg across.”
“Howdy’s timing was perfect. With one huge buck, he sent me flying. When I got up, I was seeing stars. Howdy acted like nothing had happened, and walked back to the barn like a perfect gentleman.”
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