by Julie Carter
The
crisp, cool morning air and valleys full of golden leaves will do it every
time. For every cowboy that’s ever swung a leg over a colt that needed the
attitude adjusting outside circle, the season will trigger a harvest of fall
cattle working memories.
“At this time of the year for almost 40 years, I
would've been gathering cattle somewhere. God bless you who carry on,” one cowboy
commented as he recalled the impressive and lengthy resume of ranches he’d
worked all over the West.
The recollection overload of places and faces tugs at
his heart while sounds of bawling cattle, rattling trailers and wind through
the trees swirl through the periphery of his mind.
He’s old enough to know he lived a life that’s not
ever to be the same for him, or for most anyone in this day and time. He’s young
enough to value the lessons and share the stories with those that “get it.”
He recognizes that being able to verbalize his stories
and compare memories with others that rode as he did -- the mesas, canyons and
miles of open untouched country-- is a blessing. His dad is 94 years old and
full of stories of a hard life on hard ranches after coming home from WWII. All
his dad’s friends from those days are now gone and those memories fall to a
generation that can only try to understand them.
With wry wit and humor, the cowboy voices his
quandary. “When I finally had to give it up, my
knees hurt so bad it took all the fun out of it. I can walk a hundred miles and
not hurt, but five miles horseback would kill me. Now I know why them old
cowboys was grumpy all the time, unless they was drinking.”
The stories come in
colorful descriptive phrasings typical to a cowboy.
“I worked for a guy down in Arizona
who decided to break some wild mustangs for cowponies. One of them I ended up
with weighed about 850 pounds and had a head like a pump jack.
He could stand straight up and scratch
his ear with a back foot. He didn't have much left for ears. Looked like he had
been in a fight with Mike Tyson. I had to tie his mouth closed so he couldn't
bite me and loose hobble his front legs to get on and then pull the hobbles
once I was in the saddle.
He also gave me a 12-year-old stud that
tore an eye up in the process. So then I have a 12-year-old one-eyed gelding.
Third saddle out he sends me to wrangle the remuda. I was 22 years old. I kept
the remuda on the blind side and downwind until I could get behind them. Then
when he saw them, he ran off (as I knew he would) right into the middle of the
remuda which spooked’em all. There we went. Thirty horses at a dead run off the
side of the mesa through the boulders and me in the middle with my feet kicked
out of the stirrups waiting for the wreck. So typical deal, the horses ran by
the gate three times before they finally got settled down enough to go in the
corrals. Fun times.”
Old and not-so-old cowboys look back and recognize it
was but for the grace of God they didn’t die on many an occasion. They are also
very thankful for the memories. Sharp, clear remembrances that take them back in
bold living color.
Julie
can be reached for comment somewhere in the land of fall cattle working
memories or at jcarternm@gmail.com.
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