Let's see if any of you folks gives a shit about this. Last night we were over at a friend's house for dinner and I told this story. This morning I wrote it down. I've been writing down things like this, from my career since I retired. Maybe one day, I'll try to assemble them.
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Problematic Paint

A prejudice against paint horses had been instilled in me. My mentor, Chet Smith, years ago had said to me, “You can see a fool a long ways off on a paint horse.” Chet, like most horsemen, was dogmatic about his opinions concerning horses. His bias carried the weight of a cowboy’s practicality. Paints, especially tobianos of course, had a lot of white hair. White hair usually meant thin hide, which was prone to galling at the heart girth and more susceptible to wounds that penetrated the hide than darker pigmented horses. Worse, they often had 4 white feet. The hoof wall of a white-footed horse was thinner and tended to dry out and get “shelly.” It’s just harder to hold a shoe on a white foot.

Nevertheless, it was a paint horse that I bought one year for the district when I was early in my career as a Range Specialist. During my years with Forest Service, I bought quite a few horses. I don’t remember how many I had bought before this one, but it was within a year of so of my promotion and departure from the Kaibab.

There were always guidelines to be followed with respect to what to look for in a Forest Service horse. Some of the guidelines I recall were:
Gelding;
Age between 5 and 10 years old;
Good confirmation;
Mild eye;
Easy to catch and halter;
Good to load in a trailer;
Stands still to mount and dismount;
Well broke to stop, turn, and backup;
No obvious injury or deformities;
Sound of foot and will allow his feet to be handled;
Gentle to ride for anyone.

As I recall, you weren’t required to find one that could count to five, or tell you if Timmy fell down in the well. Essentially though, if you can find Trigger as a 6 year old and get him for $1,500—you were good to go.

Truth be told though, most of the time I was able to find a good horse that fit the important components of those guidelines, and hold the cost to the $1,500 limit that kept you from testifying before a Congressional Committee. They might not load in a trailer well, or always be easy to catch, but most often they just weren’t “gentle to ride for anyone.” I thought that was my job. Ride the horse for a season or two. Teach him what a Forest Service horse needs to know, and get him to the point where anyone could ride him.

I had been looking hard for a horse to replace one that was retired. I looked over a wide area and felt essentially forced to consider the paint. I believe I found him down around Chino Valley. He was 8 years old and had a pretty good handle on him. I did feel his muscles tighten up on 2 or 3 occasions when I test rode him, but he didn’t balk or offer to buck, so I took him up to the district for a one-week trial.

I followed through with the purchase and began to use him for my duties as a range con. That day I was riding a fence line on one of my allotments. I was by myself, and as I often did when I didn’t yet have mutual trust established with a horse, wore my portable radio around my waist like a gun belt, instead of looped over the saddle horn or stuffed in a saddlebag. Just in case.

I always wondered if he wasn’t stung by a wasp. Without any warning, he bogged his head and exploded under me. I had the reins in my left hand, crossed over my fingers such that when he took his head from me, he broke my middle finger. I was blown out of the saddle like the guy in the seat of 007’s Aston Martin in Goldfinger. My left spur tore out a piece of the rawhide wrap on my cantle, and the rowel left a deep track across the seat as I left.

One good thing about horses, they always try to avoid stepping on you. I rode behind a guy once who spent the day telling me all the virtues of a good riding mule. He had me about half-convinced. Then I saw the mule dump his rider in the dirt, turn his head around to locate him, jack up both hind legs and stomp a hole in his chest. Rodeo bulls are, of course legendary for going after the cowboys that they buck off their backs. A dramatic advancement in the skill and athleticism (and number) of rodeo bullfighters has saved many a bullrider from serious injury. Horses are nice though [wink].

When I landed I found myself on my knees, like I was praying, except rocked back on my pockets. The paint was right on top of me. I felt one of his hocks “kiss” me on the mouth, and bloody my lip. Looking down I saw his foot poised directly above my crotch, but he felt me and moved away without putting that foot down.

I got up as he bucked off into the trees. I hurt in a couple of places, but I was really upset because I saw him step on, and break, one of my reins (all my horse gear was my own—none government). That was the best set of latigo reins I ever owned. They were thick, probably 7 ½’ long, and took a long time to get well broke in. Shoot.

I must have been wearing my radio as I stated earlier, because the horse was gone and I was able to call in to the office. The ranger came out in his truck and the two of us located the horse. After that I don’t remember much about the horse. I’m sure I rode him again, but I did leave the Kaibab within the year. I don’t even remember what I called this horse. Just as well.

Interesting read

I would've named the horse "asshole" after that.

Good read.

A life and experience that is so different from mine.

Thanks

quote:

Originally posted by LS1 GTO:
I would've named the horse "asshole" after that.

“Shithead” is a name I recall using a time or two.

I would have named it Alpo.

quote:

Originally posted by DrDan:
I would have named it Alpo.

Was Elmer already taken?

Interesting read.

I had a gal friend from West Virginia who rode English in shows as a kid. She lived way out in the sticks, had a stallion who dumped her when out riding him.

The horse kicked out at her when she was on the ground, & broke her kneecap. It took her a couple hours to limp home, once her dad got her to the hospital he drove up, found the horse & shot him on the spot.

I'll match that one...

We had about 75 head of dry mamas that got onto a Nature Conservancy property and I spoted them late on a misty Saturday afternoon as I was headed to the barn.

The NC piece was around a section in size and I drove in on their two-track about half way and unloaded the paint horse. His name (if he really had one) was Paint Horse and did pretty well except if I had to peel the brand off a dead, and we would loose a few every year to lightning or what not. He'd only bucked me off once and that was when I went to rope a lump-jaw early in the spring. More cowboys are dumped May first...

Anyway, we started the mama cows toward the far corner and being dry they were a proper pain to keep moving. They strung out broadways to the way I wanted to go, so it was go-to-the-left then go-to-the-right, go-to-the-left and repeat. We were going, but not going good, and the rain was picking up.

On one pass, heading to the right side, and moving at a pretty good clip, I saw a depression in front of us. It was too shallow to call a hole, but it did drop down a bit. Well I guess the paint didn't notice it and the next I recall is head head disappearng and me thinking "This is either gonna hurt, or hurt real effing bad" as I went into free fall going forward.

When I hit I skidded on my belly like I was trying to steal second base and when I stopped I began to think that maybe this wasn't too bad after all.
Then there was the paint horse.

He sommersaulted and rolled right over me. End to end.

I was a little slow getting up after that, but I did and the paint was just standing there breathing heavy.

I crawled aboard and we got them mamas to the corner, but at a lot slower pace.

There wasn't a gate there, so I had to get down and unwire the fence and pull the strands off to the side. Then the cows cooperated and filed through
nice and orderly and then I had to put the wire back up.

Well that that took a bit and didn't work so well because I couldn't get back aboard, having stiffened up and so we walked the half mile back to the trailer. Slowly.

When I got home, the woman I was living with at the time noticed me moving slow and as I was telling her about the wreck I pulled my hat off and she started giggling. I stopped in mid story and she had to point out all the dirt, grass and stones stuck on the top of my head.

Two days or so later when I turned all yellow and purple there was a clear impression of the saddle horn on my right calf from when Paint Horse made his roll over top.

I did like that horse and we sold hm to a young kid who was just right for him to retire to as he was plumb gentle and probably damn glad to get away from cow work and me.

quote:

Originally posted by TMats:
I always wondered if he wasn’t stung by a wasp. Without any warning, he bogged his head and exploded under me.

My wife had an experience like that, as a horse mounted officer, on her TB, in Wheaton Regional Park in Montgomery County MD. Willie strode across an underground yellowjacket nest, she was tossed, and resulted in a fractured humerus head. She still has pain from that 25 year old incident. I stay away from horses. Some of my neighbors trail ride every day, but not me.
 

About 55 years ago i was riding a gentle experienced gelding after a 6" snow. We came across a fallen branch low to the ground and he kind of hopped over it but hit an ice patch under the snow and fell down with my right leg under him. I hit my head and got knocked out. I came to and he was just standing next to me. Fortunately I didn't break anything. Neither did he. We just went back to the barn. I'm real glad it happened when I was 18 instead of yesterday. I'm sure I break a lot easier now.

Last time I was on a horse was in 1975, northern Alabama.

I decided to take a ride. The horse's owner warned me that he had not been rode for awhile. But being in my mid twenties I knew it all with a touch of bravado. Also as a P.S. this horse would head back to the barn at the drop of a hat.

Fast forward a hour or two in the saddle. Country roads heading back to the house and barn. Well horsey decided that he wanted to shortcut across a field. Starts a good trot then breaks into a flat ass run. I pull back on the reins, well he stopped and reared up on his hind legs. I loosen, we take off. Over a wire fence, cleared it easily and across a field we go. Ahead is a wooded area and I see another fence. Reining him in does nothing, the trees are getting closer and closer. I start to slide off the saddle, only choice is get free and quick as I cannot see anyway to stay in the saddle.

Off I go, push to get away as far from the horse as I can as not to get caught or trampled. Now the part of the field I'm in is muddy, I hit and slide, and slide. Horsey goes out maybe a hundred feet, turns around and returns at a nice walk. On my back. Covered in mud. Here I lay, taking inventory and making sure I can still move all my extremities. He comes up and nuzzles my foot as if to say "get up, let's go ride again".

So I get up, take the reins, and now walk him back to the barn, about a mile or so on the road. Have not been on one since.......

Great horse story, be sure to share if you decide to compile I would love to read them!

My daughter's first horse was a little paint pony named Chip - he was not an easy ride, but it made her a much better rider than if she had just got a kick along type. She rode him in a bunch of different disciplines until she was just too big to ride him any more. My wife's best lesson horse was a paint mare who passed away last year. Jazzy was a great lesson horse who taught probably hundreds of kids how to ride over the years.

Have you read the Joe Pickett series?:
https://www.goodreads.com/series/41706-joe-pickett

quote:

Originally posted by BamaJeepster:
Great horse story, be sure to share if you decide to compile I would love to read them!

My daughter's first horse was a little paint pony named Chip - he was not an easy ride, but it made her a much better rider than if she had just got a kick along type. She rode him in a bunch of different disciplines until she was just too big to ride him any more. My wife's best lesson horse was a paint mare who passed away last year. Jazzy was a great lesson horse who taught probably hundreds of kids how to ride over the years.

Have you read the Joe Pickett series?:
https://www.goodreads.com/series/41706-joe-pickett

I have read a few of them. C.J. Box is what passes for a Wyoming celebrity

Great story, something simple like “Buck” or since it was a paint and crazy “Picasso”

Good read. Thanks for sharing. Please keep us informed if you do compile more of your stories. Sounds like something I'd like to read.

Thanks, wolfe, that’s a kind thing to say.

There is a lot to be said for WHO trains a horse. Always remember this, "never was horse who couldn't be rode and never was a rider who couldn't be throwed.

quote:

Originally posted by Stinger4me:
There is a lot to be said for WHO trains a horse. Always remember this, "never was horse who couldn't be rode and never was a rider who couldn't be throwed.

No shit?!?

I’ll bet Iraqi cab drivers in New York know that one

TMats,
I concur that you should write your experiences down - maybe in book or blog form.
I bet lots of people would read them and relate.

PC