Home on the Range

I can hear the buzzing of the motor before I see it, but I know it is my neighbor Joe racing across his pasture in his – I’m unsure what they are called now – maybe “utility” vehicle. It is a bright orange, more rugged kind of golf cart, but with a small box on the back to carry things. “Kubota” is painted across the back, but I have also seen others made by John Deere. If we would have had one of those things when I was a kid on the farm, my brothers and I would have had fist fights over who got to drive. Every strand of barbed wire on our place would have been in perfect order because one of us would have volunteered to go fencing as long as we could drive the cart. As it was, our Kubota was either a beat up 1951 Ford pick-up, a wheel barrow, or a wooden contraption my Dad had created to fit on the back of the Farmall H tractor we owned. I do, however, distinctly remember trying to use our quarter horse Tricks as a Kubota substitute one time when I was about 12 years old. Let’s just say things did not work out as I planned.

We ran about a hundred fifty pure bred Angus beef on our farm and we would break them into smaller groups when we pastured them. It was one of two times I was glad I was the youngest because Dad gave me the job of herding those cows from HORSEBACK. I got to saddle up Tricksy – a six year old quarter horse – and act like a real cowboy. (The other time I liked being the youngest was when I was given the job of tending the maple syrup fire in spring.) These cowboy adventures would require me to herd 25 or 30 cows onto the sections of pasture my Dad picked for the day and make certain they did not wander off into the neighbor’s fields. These sections often had partial fences, so I thought I’d be busy keeping those “doggies” rounded up. I was psyched. As it turned out, the cows were more hungry than curious, so they simply filed into the field and ate for hours on end. Did you ever sit in a saddle watching cows eat? There are only so many times you can ride to the edge of the field and back. I soon realized that cowboying was really, truly boring. And painful. Go sit on horseback for a few hours. I could hardly sit down for supper at the start. I was soon trying to figure out what I could do to pass the time.

My opportunity arrived when we shifted the grazing to a section of woods and swamp that ran along the Fox River. I had figured out that if I took a ride around the herd every once in a while I could easily keep track of them. So what could I do to fill the all the extra time? Along the Fox River? Where there are fish swimming?  I realized that fishing would be perfect. I could set a line or two and easily watch the herd and the poles at the same time. Perfect! I made a quick check of the cows and headed the half mile home to get my fishing equipment.  

I figured I’d just need one pole and my tackle box because I could find some bait worms by the river. When my Dad asked what I was doing home, I made up some excuse about needing water or something. I didn’t want to tell him I was going to be fishing while I watched the cows. I got my pole and tackle box and walked Tricks out to the edge of the hay field I had to cross to get to the river. I realized that I could not hold on to my fishing stuff and still manage the reins. I would need to carry them in some way. The cowboys had saddlebags, but all I had were two leather straps that hung down behind the saddle. I figured I could hold the pole and tie the tackle box to the saddle. I should mention here that this was an old metal tackle box filled with metal hooks and sinkers. It clattered loudly when you shook it. I should also mention that the leather strap on the saddle hung down just at the horse’s flank, the spot where horses can be very sensitive. I did not realize any of this until later, but it does have an impact on what happened.  I quickly tied the tackle box on and climbed into the saddle. I had the pole in one hand and the reins in the other. Tricks started to walk and everything was fine – at first. Soon, however, the metal bait in the metal box began to clatter around. This made Tricks nervous, so he walked a little faster which made the box clatter more. I realized what was happening, but it was too late. Tricks was WAY more concerned about the rattling on his flank then the reins I was pulling to stop him. In an instant Tricks took off across that hay field as fast as he could run. And the tackle box kept slapping his flank to go faster. I instantly ditched my fishing rod and tried to hold on for dear life. It is sometimes amazing how quickly a spooked horse can change directions, especially with a tackle box banging on his hip. Tricks executed a perfect ninety degree turn and I went flying through thin air to tumble on the stubbled ground. I had the wind knocked out of me and I was crying out of fear, but by the grace of God and everything else that looks out for stupid kids, I wasn’t seriously injured. I had fallen only a short distance from the machine shed and I could hear my father calling as he ran toward me. 

“Are you hurt?” he shouted as he ran up. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“I don’t think so,” I replied through my snuffling and tears.

“Are you sure? Does everything move?” He helped me stand up.

“I think so. … I think I’m ok.” My voice was shaky.

At this point in the story, if we were watching an old movie, the father would engulf the child in his loving arms and rejoice in their good fortune. Let’s just say my Dad didn’t watch too many movies. Once he was certain that I was uninjured, he proceeded – in his unique way – to explain the errors I had made and the consequences of those errors. In a loud and clear voice he critiqued my mental abilities, my understanding of horses, my work ethic, my mental capacity again, and even some suggestion about my head being in a certain part of my anatomy. He seemed far more concerned about the harm I may have done to our horse and our riding equipment. Fortunately, Tricks had shaken the tackle box free and made his way back to the barn. The tackle was spread all over the hay field, but no other harm was done. I remember my father gently talking to Tricks as I limped toward the house.

            I don’t remember herding cattle again after that, but somebody must have collected the cows from the river. I did learn to be more careful around horses, but I also learned that sometimes the worst does NOT happen. Sometimes the world conspires to make a happy ending. And even now, the smell of a horse can carry me back to those “cowboy days” of my youth. Yee hah.