What We Teach Them

The Smell of Leather

What We Teach Them

A Crew of Enforcers

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            I just sent a draft article to CJ Hadley for a possible slot in her spring issue of Range Magazine. In the mix of photographs, I included a picture of four little cowboys looking “Arizona Ranger” tough. Booted and spurred, each had in hand a Winchester Model 92 lever action rifle. Of course, the pose was coerced to look the part of an 1880 tin type, and the boys didn’t disappoint. They resembled their historical impersonations enough to make the witnesses to the event smile.

            To those who trust our way of life replete with our vigilance and demands for good behavior, the picture will find favor. To those who live in a progressive world of political correctness, the photo will result in further condemnation of our actions as proof that we are uneducated misfits who are adding to the general social unrest and the global warming phenomenon not just by our cows, but by self-induced flatulation.

            The Smell of Leather

            The thought of building a new tack room is finding added favor.

            The truth is there are too few really well thought out rooms that elevate the history of our way of life as much as the practical need to secure and protect our various accoutrements. I’ve been in a few good ones, but the late Chuck Hitchcock’s in Shafter, California could certainly provide the model to emulate. It was built in a dog trot arrangement with the eastern end dedicated to tools and supplies. In the breeze way between the two sides, he had chairs arranged to sit and talk. The western end, though, was the place of wonder. He had big doors and the right side door had a saddle rack just inside that, when opened, swung his saddle into position under the covered saddling area on its north side.

            When he turned the lights on, the illuminated wonderland that was revealed would make you curl your lips in pheromonal repose. Saddle racks lined the south wall. Saddle blankets, spare latigos, off billets, cinches (hand woven in large part), britchens, martingales, ropes, braided riatas, and breast collars were all hung in organized patterns on the north. From there to the end and around behind a work bench on the west end where he would repair gear hung the grandest assortment of bits and reins that I ever witnessed. It was buckaroo oriented with Garcia bits and Ortega museum quality braided gear extraordinaire. There were literally scores of bridles, bits, and bosals, jacima a’ freno, hung with honored care. Braided romal reins were both attached to bridles as well as hung separate and distinct.

            It was incredible.

            It was also the end result of several lifetimes of living lives of old Californios. The likes of Arnold Rojas, Jim Rocha, Jimmy Rogers, and Chuck’s father, Charlie, all added to the validity of what was there. It was history, but the correctness of the history was the witness of those who knew what they were looking at and appreciating the skill and the artistry of making it all work.

            That is what a new tack room should emulate.

            Our New Mexico heritage of swell fork saddles, grazer bits, batwings, and largely unadorned rigs are every bit as important and interesting. They are the tools from which our grandfathers made their living. They need to be arranged so that when a visitor walks in and the lights are turned on our history comes alive. It is visual, but it starts with that distinctly ranch smell of leather. Although too many of us can no longer smell it, the little cowboys can, and we can be assured … they will remember that smell as long as they live.

            What we teach them

            Our little crew of historical enforcers was reminded without flowers the proper handling of those firearms during that photo shoot. They knew we were serious just as they know when we are serious about all aspects of our existence.

Last Friday, we worked a bunch of bulls. Manning the runup to the chute from the alley was one of the prime suspects from that gang of little cowboys, 11 year old Caleb Kane. Among his other learned and acquired skills, he displays a real knack for handling bulls. He is genuinely interested in them and he is a darned good hand when we do this kind of work. The greater world might be horrified seeing a boy doing what he was doing, but he has become as good as any of us in this situation. The truth be known he is better. His senses are so much more acute than what ours have become with time and wear and tear. Reading brands, watching ear marks, and recalling individuals was all part of his contribution.

It was the same for the other little cowboys of eight and nine years of age. The two little Bell boys, Preston and Partner, drug a big part of the calves we branded the weekend of that photo shoot. They are visibly fearless in many situations, but it isn’t by chance and it isn’t unsupervised. Their father has been a constant teacher of the craft and the results are undeniable.

The other little cowboy is our only grandson.

Aden Morales is eight years old, and, if cattle are ever going to be part of his life as well as his heritage, the time is now. The foundation he cannot do alone. He has to rely on adults and that, of course, is me. Without my two grandfathers, I know this life would not have the same appeal or meaning. Exposure to it has become only more rare and limited.

What we teach them matters. It has modern validity of the greatest importance, but it all starts with … the smell of leather.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “The importance of little cowboys cannot be overemphasized.”