Champ, and … Goofus

 

Honest Performance or Unpredictable Nonsense

Champ, and … Goofus

“Hey, Man!”

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            Time has been spent preparing for cow work next week.

            Vaccine was ordered, tails and manes were combed out, shoes were tacked on, menus were planned, riders were reminded, the radiator on the Komatsu was repaired, a hydraulic line on the Little Cowboy was changed, and the first Executive Order (EO) signed by the new fellow in the Oval Office was read, and then, it was read again. The writ clearly stated in Section 1. Policy that on-duty or onsite Federal employees, on-site Federal contractors, and other individuals in Federal buildings and on Federal lands should all wear masks, maintain physical distance, and adhere to other public health measures, as provided in CDC guidelines.

            That pretty much mandates that more than half of all ranchers west of the 100^th Meridian have his or her mask on and ready to meet the dawn … smiling, of course.

            Champ, and … Goofus

            All the primos from our paternal clan started life with at least a cursory opportunity to reenact history. That meant being horseback was a right of initial passage. Every one of us was set aboard that wonderful old horse we knew affectionately as Chocky.

            Chocky, short for Choctaw, was a dapple-grey with feet as hard as flint. Although, he was shod like all horses in his working years, he never had shoes when he was relegated to babysitting the kids.

            We rode him everywhere, though. He was tough.

            Grandpa and Tom McCauley had roped him as a yearling one morning back in Depression times in the Davis narrows. He was running in a band of wild horses that ranged from the river over into Blue Creek. His third decade was in the wings when it was my turn to climb aboard.

            He was a fixture in our lives and our hearts.

            The last time I remember riding him was down the creek and I was starting to follow Grandpa off a cut into the Mangus. He had tripped and fallen rolling up on my leg as we tumbled. The details of what ensued need not be rehashed, but I wound up going to the house (and should have been hauled to the doctor).

            I didn’t feel so good.

            At some point, I remember waking up staring up into the sun and at Chocky’s nose as he sniffed my face. The hint of smell of him is still there. I had passed out and fallen off. He was standing guard until I woke up.

            He was obviously getting feeble, and we didn’t ride him anymore at least hard. A short time later we were told he had tangled up in a fence and he had to be put down.

            Champ had become an occasional partner along about that time. He was a step up and part of the passage of horsemanship was learning and then advancing. Champ was a dark bay with typical black points. He wasn’t big, he certainly wasn’t a dud, and he would work a cow. One day at the Cottonwood corrals, he took care of a young cowboy and made him look handy. We were sorting calves off some droughted out cows and had run the cows out of the corral as the calves were being penned inside. Grandpa was in dealing with them and the cows were all trying to come back into the corral before I could get the gate shut.

Champ had listened to me as we tried to turn them back, but, at one point, he dropped his head and went to cutting on his own with his ears back. I held onto that neat little silver saddle horn and just rode him.

From behind us came that sing song, familiar, “Ahaa!”

The credit was accepted, but Champ and I both knew who had done that deal. In fact, that was the way he always performed. We were together several years, and, truly, everything was great in that combination at that time in life.

After Champ’s term, Goofus came along.

His name was appropriate. He looked good on stage, but none of the cowboys liked him. He wasn’t an outlaw, he never hurt us badly, but he was just goofy. He filled a void. I suppose if we had taken any pictures, he would have dressed the whole works up, but big forced, cheesy smiles on command are not all that count.

Funny how that remains as true today as then for both horses and men. From the honest performances of Champ to the unpredictable nonsense of Goofus, the world is seldom fair much less equal.

“Hey, Man!”

The wording of the EO is indicative of how Washington views our existence.

It is also suggestive of the center of the universe from which it was crafted. It is highly likely that neither the staffer who wrote it nor the man who signed it have any idea the order encompasses 61% of the footprint of the rural American West.

Those lands are far afield from the hallways of Washington. From historical southwestern batwing country, to the armitas ranges of the Pacific slope, and on to the domain of the Eskimo hunters outside of Barrow, Alaska the federal domain dominates.

This sets up a yet stronger contrast between urban and rural needs and viewpoints. Striking down 12,000 jobs on the Keystone XL pipeline and a similar number of losses on the border wall does not bode well for energy independence or the economy. That pipeline alone represents 10% of domestic energy use and a whopping 50% of import demand, and that wall is the conditional barrier between the current conservative estimate of 12,000,000 illegals or the more realistic 32,000,000 that will likely emerge without any new crossings.

What have we wrought?

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “The mask party isn’t going to hold a candle to the accelerated tax and spend avalanche that is coming.”