Awaken

Tuesday September 15 2015

Of course it’s 1:40 AM.

Whinny, whinny, in my dream. Whinny, whinny, WHINNY, this is not a dream.

I sit bolt upright in the dark, my ear straining to hear through the window over my pounding heart. It’s cool and windy, spattering raindrops - and a horse is whinnying. That’s not right. And it’s Mufasa whinnying - Mufasa hardly ever whinnies, unless his herd mates across the fence, and/or Dudley, next door, are gone.

I jump out of bed, and as I grab a headlamp I glance at the clock. Of course it’s 1:40 AM, middle of the moonless, cloudy night, when it will be hard to find any horses if they are missing. I think to put on some warm clothes, because this might take a while. please god please god, my heart pounds, let nothing have happened.

Whinny, whinny, I hear Mufasa’s whinny moving around his pen. I step outside in the wind and raindrops, and indeed, Mufasa is galloping around upset. As I get closer with my headlamp, sure enough, I only see his glowing eyeballs. He’s running his north fence back and forth. His herd, the other 8 eyeballs, are nowhere to be seen. Dudley’s eyeballs are nowhere to be seen either, but hopefully he’s across the creek in the trees, by his herd across the back fence.

I duck under the hot fence, which is still standing, and head for where Mufasa’s herd should be. I see nothing but raindrops flying sideways in my headlamp beam. Mufasa keeps insisting the horses are missing in that direction. As I keep walking toward the far end of the pasture - there they are, 8 eyeballs. Have they escaped their pen? Mufasa thinks so; he’s still hollering behind me.

The 8 eyeballs are moving around. Have they escaped, are they outside? I’m talking to them as I’m walking, so they know it’s me. They nicker at me, and start coming my way. Mufasa suddenly stops whinnying, because he can see his herd again.

No, they hadn’t gotten out. They’d just gone to the other end of the pasture to get out of the wind. Just over a slight hill and in the darkness, Mufasa couldn’t see them. Sure, they heard their pal’s rather panicked whinnies, but horses never care about the one left behind, unless it’s them!

I walked back to check on Dudley and the rest of our horses, since I was out there anyway. Yes, Dudley was hanging out in the trees across the creek (also ignoring Mufasa), next to his own herd in the corrals.

As I headed back inside, back to bed. Mufasa’s herd had left him and ignored him again; he was back to whinnying; but now I know nobody’s escaped.

It’s always good when these night escapades end well, though they can disturb a nice sleep.

Of course it’s 2:02 AM.

Must Love Cows

Wednesday May 27 2015

It's not a prerequisite that a horse living in the West in Cow Country must love cows, but it helps that they at least aren't scared of them.

It's not a prerequisite that someone riding horses in the West in Cow Country must be a cowgirl, but it helps that you can competently fake it when local ranchers need help moving cows.

We don't dress the part: our horses wear endurance saddles, biothane breast collars and bridles, Easyboot gloves and brushing boots, and we wear helmets. If we wear long leather chaps, we'll probably have tights on underneath them. The ranchers are used to our funny costumes; they tolerate us if we get the job done, and know when to stay out of the way.


We joined about 20 other cowboys and cowgirls on the Owyhee front, and split up to gather and move a hundred head or so of cattle toward their next higher pasture. Dudley can get a little worked up when moving cows - not so much at the cows but at the dozens of different things going on at the same time in all directions, like when a cow shoots out of the herd and a horse takes off galloping after to head her off - but he feigned being a fairly competent cow horse.


After we'd all gathered them up, and corralled them, and the Real Cowboys and Cowgirls went to work sorting, roping and branding, and we were standing out of the way watching and holding our horses, one little cowboy told Regina, "You don't have to wear your helmet."

"That's alright," she said. "I'm not a Real Cowboy."


We do know how to turn and gather cows and keep them moving - not to push to hard or not to let up too much; we know to give bulls - particularly fighting bulls - a wide berth and leave those to the real cowboys and cow horses.

We prefer good footing and good weather: we chose to help on the day that wouldn't be so rugged and rocky and hard, and we chose the day that wouldn't be so long, since afternoon thunderstorms are a regular occurrence right now, and I'm afraid of lightning. (And here's a good reason to be, which just happened this weekend, not all that far from here!: http://www.ktvb.com/story/news/local/2015/05/26/nampa-man-caught-in-memorial-day-storm-gets-struck-with-lightning/27980899/ )

As it was, we almost got overtaken by a thunderstorm as we rode the 5 miles home from the cow corrals, while the cowboys were still at work branding.

We sped home where the footing was good, ducking off the ridge for the last mile, giving us at least a sense of more comfort and safety,

while the blue-black cloud on top of the ridge boomed and crackled. Mufasa spooked a bit at the cracking thunder, but Dudley just trucked along.

see? we really made it home just in time!

I'm not a Real Cowgirl, and Dudley's not a Real Cow Horse, and he doesn't love cows, but we had a Good Cow Day, moving cows in a little corner of God's country, Owyhee County.

Bum-Ditty

Tuesday April 21 2015

When it's been warm enough this spring to 'play' my banjo with my door open, my bumbling bum-dittying would thoroughly alarm Mufasa in the front pasture. His head would fly up, his ears pin-pricked in my direction, his nostrils flaring widely, and he'd snort that alarm call that some Arabians do so well, alerting the herd that something bad is brewing! Get ready to run away!

I'm embarrassed to say how long I've had my banjo and not learned to play it properly, so I won't say. This year, I decided, I am finally going to learn to really play it. I took my banjo out of its case and left it out, so I'd pick it up every time I walked past it. I started practicing (!!). I started chipping away at some of those songs in my many banjo music books that have piled up and collected dust over the years.

And then I stumbled across the first Old-Time Banjo Clawhammer Camp, in Weiser, Idaho, in April, on a weekend date I had open. You might have heard of Weiser as the home of the annual June National Oldtime Fiddlers’ Contest.

Why learn clawhammer banjo? Well, why not? I signed up for camp, fully prepared to be the worst player in class, and to enjoy the heck out of it anyway.

Ohmigod. It was one of the most amazing experiences, gathering with a group of around 15 banjo players of varying abilities and eclectic backgrounds for a weekend of learning from two extraordinary banjo (as well as several other instruments) players and instructors, Jason Homey and Scott Knickerbocker.


Music theory, hands-on drills, practice, evening concerts by musicians (one night joined by terrific fiddle player Dave Daley) exhibiting seemingly effortless virtuosity, followed by group jams - by Friday night, my brain had already exploded. And we went till Sunday! Sharing music with a group of like-minded people is magical. The great weekend ended with new friends, sore fingers and a load of material to work on.

Just to be on the safe side, though, and not scare the horse herd away, I'll continue to practice with my door closed.