The Horse Whispherer

Usually around the second day in elk camp our livestock is delivered. When hunting the remote regions of the West, one aspect that is crucial to a successful, and in my opinion, a truly enjoyable hunting experience is the employment of horses. Horses are used in elk camp for two primary reasons, to expand a hunters range and to for packing out meat. To me, there is nothing more exhilarating than riding horseback through the Rockies in the predawn light, your rifle slung at the ready in a leather scabbard by your side and the shrill cry of a bull elk in the distance. It’s enough to cause one’s imagination to conjure up images of what it must have been like to live the life of old Jim Bridger or Liver Eatin’ Johnson, sleeking through the aspen groves on their trusty mountain steeds keeping one eye open for big game and the other for hostile Crow warriors.

Now when enlisting the services of horses, I would advise that there be at least one horse expert or seasoned rider in camp. This will cut down on the buckings, kickings, and nasty horse bites that novice riders may endure. In our camp, this responsibility falls squarely on the shoulders of my father, an experienced horseman who has worked around the unpredictable four-legged beasts most of his adult life. He likens himself to Redford’s character in the THE HORSE WHISPER, but in reality he’s more like THE HORSE YELLER, THE HORSE INSULTER, or more accurately THE HORSE PUNCHER. I don’t mean to paint a bleak picture of my father, he really does love horses, but let’s just say has a short temper when it comes to dealing with them. Spare the 2x4, spoil the horse, he would always say.

Every year there’s usually at least one member of our party who’s hesitate to get on the back of a 1,000 lb animal who’s natural speed is used to gauge the power of professional race cars. A few years ago that individual was my 3rd cousin Mikey. He had been nervous about the idea of horses ever since we began our long road trip to Colorado and at some point along the way, he pulled my father aside and expressed his concern. My father promptly asked him what, if any, experience he had had with horses. Mikey thought about it for a moment and proudly announced that he had once owned a VHS copy of THE BLACK STALLION. Dad knew he had his work cut out for him, but set Mikey’s mind at ease by promising him that he’d personally pick out a nice, gentle horse for Mikey to ride.

Once in camp, my father went to work immediately. We had rented a total of four head of horses from a local ranch outside of Craig and for over the course of the next several hours, he rode each and every one; carefully observing their individual temperaments and disposition, looking for any erratic behavior or flaws in personality. Finally, he made his choice, and led a little bay mare over to Mikey and handed him the reins.

“This little gelding is the sweetest of the bunch, Mickey. She’s perfect for you. Take her for a spin.”

My father helped Mikey into the saddle and watched him walk the horse in figure eights behind the cook tent for several minutes. It wasn’t long before Mikey had her trotting and loping up and down the length of camp, his confidence soaring. My father beamed a wide smile and nodded with contentment of his accomplishment and his newly acquired status in the annals of premiere horsemen, ready to dethrone Marty Roberts himself as the quintessential horseman.

With Mikey, relaxed and now galloping in the saddle, my father turned and entered the cook tent to help the rest of us prepare the evening meal. We had just begun peeling the potatoes for the stew, when we heard what sounded like a ten year old girl screaming at the top of her lungs in sheer terror. We rushed outside just in time to see Mikey atop the gelding, but now looking as if he were competing to the title of bucking champion in the National Rodeo Final in Vegas. Mikey was wailing like a banshee, desperately trying to stay in the saddle, while the mare bucked and spun with the ferocity of professional rodeo stock. It looked as though Mikey was a goner for sure.

Suddenly, without warning the mare broke into a full, flat out sprint down an embankment toward the road. Mikey gripped the saddle horn and hung on for all he was worth. Then as if on a dime, the mare spun abruptly to the right.

Mikey, unfortunately, went to the left.

As if watching a slow motion sports reel, and we watched in horror as Mikey’s body became silhouetted against the cobalt blue Colorado sky, hung in mid air as if he were Michael Jordan and then came crashing down like a sack of soggy potatoes into a sharp, jagged pile of sandstone boulders.

As his limp and seeming lifeless body landed amidst the rocks, each of of immediately began thinking of what passage of scripture we’d read at Mikey’s funeral. Corinthians 3:12 would be a nice choice, I decided. We rushed to his side and miraculously he was still alive and conscious. Fortunately for Mikey we always brought along as a member of our hunting party, a professionally-trained medical physician just in case of such an emergency.

Unfortunately, Mikey was that person.

Mikey was a EMT who flew in medical helicopters back home in Asheville, NC so under his semi conscious guidance, he instructed Cousin Ray in the proper way to pop back into place his dislocated shoulder.

In the end, Mikey only suffered a dislocated shouldered which Cousin Ray quickly popped back into place. His sore shoulder didn’t keep him from hunting and on that particular trip, Mikey killed the biggest bull in camp, a nice 6 x 6. For the next two seasons, Mikey would show up in camp and each time would ask my father to pick him out the gentlest horse in the corral and over the next two years Mikey suffered a slight concussion from being thrown, was bitten in the left shoulder, and kicked repeatedly. Mikey still hunts with us but has sworn off horses forever much to the chagrin of my father.