by Joe Camp
She knew that she should’ve established her leadership with Painto from the beginning. She should’ve found transportation to the remote camp that first evening, or early the next morning. For two days she had been nothing but a passenger, albeit a knowledgeable one. She had mistaken Painto’s calm for relationship.
She did not debate the old cowboy because she knew he had never experienced the kind of relationship with his horse that she had experienced with hers. He didn’t understand that when you speak the horse’s language, and give him choice, you become the herd and he doesn’t need to get back to anyone. You are his herd and he’s already there. You are the trusted leader. But Kathleen realized that to the cowboy, such a notion was as implausible as a Marriott on the moon. And she wasn’t about to end the trail ride proving him right.
She had a word with Painto, running through a number of exercises to engage his intellect and establish at least some degree of leadership: circling, backing up, moving his hindquarters left and right. Ultimately bringing both horse and rider back to the thinking sides of their brains. Then she took sight on a longhorn, albeit a small one, and off they went.
Two horses.
Both with separation anxiety.
I had spent time with Sonny Boy. I’d gotten to know him, and him me. We had dug around in his thinking side, and he had realized that I could be trusted and respected. Just remind me every once in a while, he said, and I’ll be fine.
Kathleen had done none of that, and when Painto’s pasture partner disappeared, he needed a leader and didn’t have one.
She had almost sixteen hours in the saddle during those three days, which helped her immensely. But the last couple of hours might well have been the most important, as she rose to the occasion of establishing leadership, and a true relationship. She and Painto definitely ended the trail ride as buddies. The best kind. We were both blinking back tears when we had to tell Painto and Sonny Boy good-bye.
Relationship makes a difference.
Leadership makes a difference.
Even with borrowed horses. Or rented trail horses, who carry folks around every day of their lives. You never know when it will come in handy for the horse to think of you as a leader.
And it’s so much nicer to know that you’re off on a ride with a friend. A partner who trusts you. Not some vacant-eyed mechanical device manufactured just to carry you around.
The rub, of course, is that leadership isn’t easy or free.
With horses or in life.
It’s earned.
But it does make a difference, and is worth every ounce of the effort.
21
Confined
The golden stallion stood on a small rocky knoll gazing at the canyon’s entrance. He sniffed the westerly breeze blowing lightly at his back, then turned a full circle, scanning the entire horizon. There seemed to be nothing to fear, but his senses wouldn’t relax.
Inside, through the outcroppings of the passageway, the canyon was green with grasses fed by a crystal clear stream that disappeared underground before departing the small gorge’s towering walls. This was grass and water much needed by the herd, and especially by the matriarch, who needed nourishment and rest for herself and the foal she carried.
But once inside, there was only one way out. The stallion’s herd had been trapped there once before by humans on horses and had lost several of their own. It was his job to make sure it didn’t happen again.
The stallion would’ve turned back, but the matriarch was tired, absent her usual spirit, and that convinced him to have a closer look. The uneasy herd was squirming and pawing the ground. They could smell the fresh grasses and wanted to go in. All had come too far without forage.
The stallion sniffed the air again, then eased down the slope of the knoll and walked cautiously toward the outcroppings that formed the entrance. The herd followed, but the matriarch spun with pinned ears and stopped them in their tracks.
Minutes passed.
The matriarch was growing impatient and began to paw the ground. She needed sleep. Finally, the stallion appeared and stood aside, allowing the matriarch and the herd to pass into the canyon.
The grasses were rich and full of sustenance. A good meal and sleep refreshed the herd. A few of the yearlings cavorted and kicked up their heels. The matriarch had much needed REM sleep and clearly felt better, her spirit replenished. She was ready to move on, but when she turned to the entrance, her blood chilled and her terrified scream spun the stallion in place.
There in the passageway, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, was a human. A man.
Terror raced through the herd like lightning through a thunderstorm. The stallion screeched and reared, striking out with fear. Images of his sister thrashing on the ground flashed through his memory, her legs bound by man’s lariat, her screams for help bouncing off the canyon walls. The great stallion’s front feet hit the ground at full stride, racing straight toward the man who was blocking their way out.
The man was not on a horse. He stood alone between the outcroppings with nothing but a bedroll under his arm. The muscular stallion slid to a stop mere yards away and rose to the sky, pawing and prancing, teeth bared, snorting and screeching.
The man stepped backward, seemingly mesmerized by the huge pawing stallion, then gathered himself and moved slowly aside, to the top of a large boulder, where he sat with his back partially to the big horse.
The stallion was not sure what to make of this, but he called to the herd and they raced through the entrance, their protector standing bravely between his charges and the man. When all had disappeared outside the canyon walls, the stallion turned to the man on the rock, still pawing and snorting, but also curious. This man was not like any human he had seen before. He did not look the great horse in the eyes, but kept his head lowered, toward the stallion’s feet. And made no attempt to approach him.
After a moment, the great palomino turned and raced off after his herd.
This venture into the canyon had ended well, but he would not go there again. He would not allow his herd back into confinement. They would have to find forage elsewhere.
22
Cute Hitching Posts
I remember it well.
My first encounter with a hitching post.
It was a Saturday-afternoon matinee at the local movie theater in Little Rock, Arkansas. I was six years old.
Roy came galloping into Tombstone on his beloved Trigger, scattering townspeople left and right. Trigger slid to a dazzling stop in front of the local saloon precisely as Roy’s first boot hit the ground. One loop of the reins over the hitching post was plenty for this brilliant steed. Roy then checked both his pistols, spinning them on his trigger fingers at least twice before they landed perfectly, and simultaneously, back in their respective holsters. Then the King of the Cowboys strolled calmly though a pair of swinging doors into the boisterous smoke-filled saloon, accompanied by the tinkling sounds of an old upright piano.
These weekend adventures were always the same. Inside the saloon, the noise would dissolve into silence at the sight of the tall silhouette in the doorway, itchy fingers only inches from the carved-pearl handles of his matching revolvers. Folks would creep quietly away from the half a dozen filthy, bearded, drunken villains crammed around a poker table in the back. No one wanted to get caught in the cross fire.
Roy was outnumbered six to one, but he would walk slowly, spurs jingling with every step, toward the table in the back. The villains would begin to spread, obviously planning to get the drop on him. Things did not look good…but I was never worried about Roy. I was worried about Trigger.
Even then.
I remember vividly wanting to know what was happening outside. Poor Trigger was tied—okay, looped—to the hitching post, standing, waiting, with nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to eat. Just standing. Or worse, perhaps being stolen. After all, he wasn’t even tied with a good knot.
Years later (a lot of years later) I was telli
ng Kathleen this story one night while we were doing the dishes.
“No one would dare steal Roy Rogers’s horse,” she said. “They’d be afraid for their lives.”
“This was no ordinary horse,” I argued. “And there he was just standing at this hitching post while his leader was inside for however long it took to first negotiate with then kill half a dozen notorious bad guys.”
“What’s your point?” she asked.
My point was that, as a kid, standing in one place for long periods of time would’ve been no fun for me. So it stood to reason that it would be worse for a horse. Horses like to move around pretty much all the time. And they like to be with their herd, not standing alone at a hitching post. Come to think of it, I even wondered why the saloon was always full, but Roy’s horse was the only one tied out front.
The whole concept seemed harsh to me. Tie your horse up and leave him as long as you wanted whenever it suited you. Never mind what the horse thought. Or felt. I totally bought into Roy’s love for Trigger. Lock, stock, and barrel. So he wasn’t supposed to treat him that way. He was supposed to care more. And back then I didn’t even know that hitching posts like these could breed some pretty nasty accidents.
My first real-life experience with a hitching post was at a riding instructor’s place where the family was taking riding lessons, just after we had acquired our first three horses. Seems backward, doesn’t it?
I led the horse Kathleen would ride from his corral over to the hitching post where he would be tied while being brushed and saddled. It was a standard hitching post, just like the two we had installed at our place. You know, the cute kind, with two upright posts and one horizontal post that stuck out maybe a foot on either side of the uprights, like those in front of every saloon in every western movie ever made. But in the real world there seems to be a design flaw with this type of hitching post.
“Watch him closely while he’s tied there,” the instructor said. “If he gets a loop or two wrapped around one of the end pieces, the lead rope will get too short and he’ll freak out.”
“Gotcha,” I said confidently, wondering, If that’s the case, why are the end pieces even there?
I had no sooner gotten the thought out of my head when the scenario unfolded exactly as the instructor had described it.
The horse leaned across the horizontal post to sniff something on the other side and in the effort managed to loop the rope over the open end of the hitching-post rail. Twice. Suddenly he realized he was down to about two feet of rope and went instantly nuts. He pulled back so hard that he jerked the halter clip right off the rope. Thankfully he was an older, well-trained horse and as soon as he realized that he was no longer confined by the two-foot rope, he stopped, snorted, and just stood quietly, waiting to be retrieved.
That could’ve been my very first learning experience in the horse world.
Could’ve been.
The very next week I tied Cash to one of our cute hitching posts, with the ends sticking out, just like the one at the instructor’s. And believe it or not, he did exactly the same as the horse at the instructor’s place.
Almost exactly.
He didn’t pull the clip off the lead rope. He jerked the entire hitching post out of the ground, concrete and all! This was one scary moment. Cash was dragging a seventy-pound hitching post around the yard, scared to death and wide-eyed crazy. And I was the same. I had only read about keeping my adrenaline down. I had not so much as even practiced it. I finally managed to get a hand on the rope and somehow calmed him before he seriously hurt himself, or me, with his dangling anchor. I was so terrified, I don’t even remember exactly what I did. But I do remember what I did next.
I went straight to the tool room, scooped up the Skil saw, and cut off the ends on both of our cute hitching posts.
No longer cute.
But infinitely safer. Such an incident could never occur again.
So many horse owners I’ve spoken with have recalled the same type of accident.
Why, I wondered, doesn’t everyone just cut off the ends?
When I ask, the responses are mind-boggling. Everything from Oh no, the hitching post is so cute this way to It’s not that much of a problem; just happens every once in a while.
Once is enough!
Highly respected vet and author Dr. Robert M. Miller says, “Horses categorize every learned experience in life as something not to fear and, hence, to ignore; or something to fear and, hence, to flee. This is extremely useful in the wild and utilizes the species’ phenomenal memory, but it often creates problems in domestic situations. It is incumbent upon those who must work with horses not to cause bad experiences that the horse will forever regard as a reason to flee.”
This is where our journey really began.
The hitching post.
The cute hitching post.
This was the first time we had questioned traditional wisdom, when applied against a rule of logic, and traditional wisdom had come up wanting. The first time I had come face-to-face with something that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Something that could very easily be fixed to make the horses’ life better. Something that would cost no money and take very little effort. I talked to dozens of folks about it, including the riding instructor. But, to my knowledge, not one end has been cut off a hitching post.
They’re all still cute.
And this was just the beginning.
Dr. Miller adds, “Horses have the fastest response time of any common domestic animal. Prey species must have a faster response time than a predator or they get eaten. We (humans) commonly interpret the flight reaction as stupidity.”
It was becoming clear to me that we were not dealing with stupidity. Confinement without escape leaves the horse no choice but to react. To attempt to flee. Why does it make any sense to risk letting the horse categorize a tying experience as something to fear? It’s up to us to make sure that he has no reason to fear it. It’s up to us to cut the ends off the hitching posts.
Or, better yet, use a tie ring.
Remember the instructor’s horse? Once he was free, no longer confined, his adrenaline went down, and he stood still. Just waited. I’ve noted this type of behavior so many times. When the horse is thinking, everything he’s learned in the past is available. His memory is truly incredible. But when he’s on the reactive side of the brain, thinking is trumped by the need to flee.
The goal, then, becomes obvious.
So how, I wondered, could I teach Cash that tying did not equal confinement?
It sounded like a pretty stupid question to me. Tying is confinement.
Yet there are times when a horse needs to be tied. For hoof work, grooming, his own safety.
Or at least given the illusion of being tied.
Hmm. Illusion. Good word.
I earned spending money as a magician when I was in high school, and I’m still fascinated with what people will believe when they want to. Maybe horses would do the same. I hit the Internet.
There are all sorts of complicated techniques out there designed to cure a horse from what are commonly called pull-back problems. Fear of being tied. Usually embedded by some incident like Cash’s. Some of the techniques I found were so complex, they bordered on the ridiculous. Others didn’t really address the issue, or just nibbled around the edges.
Then I stumbled onto the Blocker Tie Ring on Clinton Anderson’s website. The simplest, least expensive, most effective little device invented since sliced bread. And its effectiveness relied on illusion.
Yes!
One ring costs about twenty bucks. And solves pull-back problems forever, quickly and simply, because it addresses the issue from the horse’s viewpoint. Why everyone in the entire horse world doesn’t own a dozen of these is beyond me. Of all the folks I’ve shown it to, only one person had ever seen one before.
It’s a small stainless-steel ring with a pivoting tongue across the middle. One loop of the lead rope around the tongue, and that’s it. N
o knot. The tongue applies enough resistance to the lead rope to give the horse the sense of being tied, but if something scares the horse enough to make him pull back hard, he gets relief, not confinement. The rope slips through the ring just enough for the horse to realize: Hey, I’m not confined. It’s okay. Just enough to send him back to the thinking side of his brain.
Cash was afraid of being tied from the moment he uprooted our hitching post. The tie ring solved this problem in less than thirty minutes. He learned very quickly that tying no longer meant confinement. Following Clinton Anderson’s model, I would hold one end of a long lead rope with Cash on the other, and the rope in the tie ring. Then I’d run at him yelling and waving a plastic bag in the air. Certain that I had morphed into some sort of banshee, he at first freaked out and pulled away. He leaped backward several steps, with the rope sliding through the ring, maybe six or eight feet. The flight reaction. Flee first, ask questions later. But realizing he wasn’t confined, and that the banshee was actually me acting like an idiot, his adrenaline would drop, he’d eventually stop, and I’d praise him and rub him with the plastic bag. Back to the thinking side he’d go.
Then we’d do it again. And again. Soon he was no longer moving at all, not pulling back so much as an ounce. In fact, he began to give me that cocked-head questioning look of his as if to say, Why in the world are you acting so silly? He had learned very quickly that he was not confined and could move away if he had to, and that neither Joe nor the plastic bag was going to hurt him.
No more worries.
Except that Kathleen was afraid the neighbors were going to call the police about the crazy screaming guy up on the hill.
Dr. Miller says that horses not only respond quickly to flight stimuli but also are genetically disposed to return to normal quickly when they realize that what they thought was frightening is actually harmless. “If this weren’t so,” he says, “in the wild, they would spend all their time running, and there would be no time to eat, drink, rest, or reproduce.”
