"Easy big fella," I gently spoke to him as his muscular body tensed.
He was described being a crafty rogue and his bad-boy reputation was far from appealing, but he was the ranch horse I was assigned. His blue roan body was ruggedly beautiful with his light color highlighting all the battle scars that filled in with darker hair. His refined head looked more quarter horse than wild mustang which helped substantiate rumors of ranchers in the Brown's Park area killing the smaller mustang studs and releasing quality stallions. Such practice bred better quality using horses that were later captured and trained for ranch work or to sell for profit (none of the rumored activity was legal).
Not a true picture of Sierra, but nearly an identical twin.
Sierra's big brown eyes steadily processed the almost forgotten scenario as he slowly stepped aside, wary of the stranger approaching him. Because of his reported sour disposition, nobody had ridden him in many, many months and I was skeptical moving cattle on him all day. Intentionally ignored for too long, the temptation of glorious grain had him lower his guard and eat from the bucket and allow me to secure a halter on his head.
He willingly followed me into the barn where hollow footsteps resounding on the wooden floor went unheeded. After a much needed grooming and tending to his feet, I saddled him up and proceeded to the round pen. If he bucked, farted and snorted like I was warned, I needed the round pen to keep him nearby when he pitched me into the dirt. I stepped in the stirrup and prepared for lift off, but he stood motionless. As I swung my leg over the saddle, I grimaced in preparation for an explosion, but he remained still. I slipped my foot into the other stirrup and knew, just as soon as I bumped him with my heels, all hell was going to break loose. Instead, he moved out and we circled within the round pen. We went through all the paces and he was a gentleman.
We headed out the driveway to catch up with the other riders who were stunned with our arrival. They had described the devil on steroids and I was amongst them on a responsive, well behaved, well broke horse. We moved cattle all day and over the next several months, we had 1,000 cow/calf pairs, 100 yearling heifers and over 50 bulls spread over 100,000 acres so Sierra and I got to know each other REALLY well.
Sierra was a loner, even while among other horses in the horse pasture. When trimming his feet and nailing on new shoes, he actually held his feet up for me. We had a bond where he trusted no other human. He NEVER submitted to anyone catching him. Co-workers would round up each others' horses which saved someone a trip to the horse pasture. But, I never was relieved from a trip since Sierra cleverly avoided all people. Grain became unnecessary as he liked to work and he willingly came to the gate as he noticed my approach.
His quick learning and focused determination shined in the spring as we waded through the sea of cows looking for those getting close to calving. Once identified, Sierra and I would cut her from the herd and take her out a narrow gate to join other soon to be mothers who were more closely monitored in a separate pasture. After a few repetitions, all I had to do was identify the cow and start to make the cut and throw the reins on Sierra's neck. He knew the job and was relentless in getting it done. We gelled into a single living being, I provided the eyes and he the athletic body. He shadowed every move and danced with the most ill-tempered of cattle and I was humbled to be sitting on such a magnificent animal.
During idle times, I frequently threw the reins up on his neck. My opinion is it gives the horse freedom from the nonstop control they experience as hands tug and jerk on their mouth. Excessive bossing can lead to a mutiny and by giving Sierra his head, it was a relief from tyranny. I believe he enjoyed thinking and doing for himself rather than the non-stop domination of being told what to do via the bit being yanked around in his mouth.
Co-workers marveled at our relationship. They questioned, "Why you?" and I agreed. Why did this absolute renegade of a horse trust me and scoff at all others? My best answer involved mutual respect between us. I loathe the macho cowboy mentality of, "I'm the rider and in charge and you are the horse, simply a vehicle used for my mission." But, there was something else, something mystical. Sierra and I knew a special, spiritual bond was shared that was strengthened over all the of the craziness we experienced together in Colorado's high country.
The day I hastily moved away, and while driving past the horse pasture for the final time, Sierra stood alone in the setting sunlight beaming on him like a spotlight. I was crushed. Crushed that I did not say goodbye, crushed that a phone call ended something so beautiful and crushed as I feared what he was going to experience in my absence.
I completely let Sierra down.
That horrible day, so vivid in my memory, was nearly 25 years ago and it still torments me today. I asked, and even demanded, so much from him and he performed with no expectation of anything in return. I often wonder what he endured after I was gone. This ache that deeply whumps in my chest acknowledges the that following is not only owed, but is long overdue.
I'm so sorry, Sierra. I wish I had handled things differently.
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