DAM HORSES

The Rancher starts before sunrise, at first light, dawn of a new day.  After a big, dark, heavy breakfast he heads out to his pasture with a few halters to track down a couple of horses for the day. Like his family has been doing for hundreds of years. With a carrot or an apple, it is easy, most of the time, and some of the horses come to him when he clicks his tongue intimately.  He gets the feisty one for his’self, the young one for his boy and the gentle gelding for the gov’ment guy.  Even a mare and her foal know where he is goin’ and they want to go with. ‘Not this time’.  But the others balk and stall when loaded into the trailer with a groan and a grumble from both man and beast.  ‘Goaaoon’yup’. 

The drive to the trailhead isn’t long but it is up hill and the diesel truck lugs in the cold morning dew.  It is August but the first hard frost has come and the trees are turning, especially the red Canadien Maples.  At the trailhead there are other acquainted ranchers with familiar horses.  ‘Moanin’.  They are all dam owners going up together for the annual inspection, and to turn the last of the water out.  They wear their favorite dirty cowboy hat and boots with Wranglers and Carhartt’s (No Levis, Patagonia or sunglasses), gloves and an opaque dress shirt, so as you can see thar Garments.  It’s a special occasion; it’s a stockman party. 

As they casually, but systematically, unload the horses and gear, a broken down old truck pulls up, with a faded State insignia.  A fuzzy yuppie parks and hops out, glad to be early, glad to be there.  ‘Moanin’.  This ain’t his first rodeo.  Despite his long hair and gentile attitude, he is familiar with the crew, almost friendly.  ‘I’m from the gov’ment and I’m here ta help.’  They all laugh and the ice is broken.  The young engineer; isn’t LDS, doesn’t hunt, doesn’t chop wood or carry water, isn’t married and has no kids, catch and releases fish, likes Obama and believes in climate change.  He has six strikes against him before he gets out of the truck or opens his mouth, but they don’t pack the hanging rope or hold it against him.  ‘He’s a doer, he’s a goer, he’s a keeper.’  So, they help him saddle up his favorite horse, Daisy. 

The dam man walks around the steed and combs and pets it, trying to establish a relationship that will last all day, but the horse knows this guy is from New York City.  It is just a matter of time to show him who’s boss and scrape him off on some tree or overhanging branch.  Like I said, it ain’t his first rodeo.  He is wearing bike shorts under his blue jeans and lathers toxic Army grade Deet bug spray on his open skin.  The real Caballeros surreptitiously wear stockings underneath their Wranglers to protect their balls, ass and knees, wearing some secret Avon softener that smells sweet and sour to the bugs and the Señoritas.  Every year they do this ride and no matter if it is a bolt of lightning and thunder or a flapping poncho, someone was going High-Ho-Silver over the handlebars or off the back, leaping streams and galloping across meadows, hanging on for dear life.  Someone is going to get hurt, probably him.  It is hard enough spending a day in the mountains, let alone hauling 1200 pounds of attitude with you.  The dam safety rodeo they call it. 

They are going up to inspect a couple of dams in the High Uinta Wilderness Area, a place ‘where man is a visitor’ with no roads or machines.  Ranchers don’t hike.  Their legs are bowled and their boots have pointed toes and high-heals.  So, they take horses and make a day out of it.  Just like they used to do in the drought years when they were done farming early.  They would go up into the mountains and look for gaps around lakes they could dam up for another turn of water and another week of farming the next year.  Now they go up with the gov’ment guy who tells them to fix things and writes them nasty letters to document the liability.  But they get along anyway and bridge their discrepancies with cryptic conversation, while making a short story longer and a long ride shorter.

 ‘Ya think it’s gonna rain?’ 

‘Somewhere’. 

‘Only fools and newcomers predict the weather.’ 

‘Which one are you?’ 

‘How ‘bout them Yankees?’

After some name re-memorization, and saddle hitch check, they head up a dusty cobble manure trail without consulting a map or restroom.  Relationships are re-forged between man and beast, men and men, beast and beast as a pecking order is formed according to experience, temerity and will.  They put the tenderfoot in the middle, like wolves, so they can watch and protect him.  The air is cool and drying and the leaves are ‘going off’.  The beginning is always fresh with optimism and goodwill while the horses have a little hop in their gate that is not yet a ball busting trot.  It is a beautiful day and what could go wrong?

The trail begins to steepen quickly to the point that it felt like they were rock climbing on horses.  As the horses approach a difficult section, they bunch up and ram their snouts into the butt in front of them.  This is disconcerting to rider and steed.  At a particular pinch point the horse in front pauses to contemplate a 3-4 foot high, bouldering move on the tight trail.  After being nudged by the horse behind, he makes the leap of faith, planting its front feet firmly on top of the boulder while its back hooves scrape frantically at the face and the rider yells something about a ‘shit show’.  After his initial good-faith effort the horse looks behind to see if here is room to bail but the tailing horses urge it on.  So, with herculean effort, it stretches its neck out and mantles up with all the strength in its front end and somehow drags its body up the rock where it turns sideways to examine what it had just done.  The next horse is already duplicating the same move with it’s rider holding on to the saddle horn with one hand and his hat with the other.  The heck with the horse, save the hat.   

After all the horses had succeeded they rested wide eye on the steep trail, ‘taking a blow’ nervously thru their flaring nostrils, resigned to the task at hand and resilient to the possible consequences.  While these silent sentinels stand stolid, a young cowboy slips off carefully to untwine his reigns from around the foot of his horse.  The horse is reluctant to lift his foot from his precarious purchase when asked with a ‘haaall’ grunt from his master.  He finally does comply gradually, but when the cowboy tries to slide the strap over the hoof, the horse balks and plunges his foot back down catching the cowboys finger in the leather, popping the nail end off.  The poor cowboy jumps back dancing painfully and sucking on his hemorrhaging digit cursing in ineffective parochial parody.  ‘Flippin, shoot, dang, doody, number 2’.   The others dismount carefully and apply pressure and a tourniquet and wrap the finger in a dirty rag.  The injured cowboy determinedly agrees to stay on the ride for continuity and convenience and holds his hand above his head to keep it from pounding with pain.  ‘Cowboy up.’  They ride on.

The next challenge is a muddy meadow with new snow in the shade.  The horses clomp aggressively through the mud and posthole more carefully through the snow.  They are all reminded to ‘give them their head’ and not force anything that will snap a leg.  They are also told to stay on, for if they fall off, the horse will try to walk on them for purchase.   Not a comforting thought but they all make it though with only one old nag rolling in the mud, probably on purpose, in revolt.  Coming up lame, the horse is relieved of its rider, and a cowboy is forced to walk.  They each ‘take a spell, cause they hate having to hoof it’.

Not able to keep up with the group, some of the cowboys hang on the tail of a lead horse so they can walk faster with the help.  Most of the horses don’t mind but one gets antsy and rears up and prances around like a madman.  The walker forgets to let go and is dragged around, holding on to the tail with one hand and his hat with the other.  When the horse eventually settles the battered walker goes to the front and yanks the halter and slaps the horse in anger with an open hand, pinching his ears.  The owner quickly dismounts and slaps the angry walker with his hat and leads his horse in concentric circles, gentling him with soft words and a light touch.   No more tail rides for this one.

They arrive at a small dam and hobble the horses in a meadow to hop around and feed for the few hours it will take to inspect the local dams.  They don’t want any of them Philly’s heading back to the barn without their riders.  The dams are 100 years old and stable but desperately in need of immediate and long-term repairs.  Built mainly out of local rocks, silt, sand and a Fresno full of clay for the impermeable core, as much as the Johnson Bar would handle.  A Fresno was a type of metal scraper, and the Johnson bar was the lever used to operate it.  These dams leak like sieves, but the natural soil filters prevent them from eroding to much internal material.  It’s like footballs, basketballs, baseballs, tennis and ping pong balls in a basket; water can flow thru but materials can’t.   The over-steep slopes won’t withstand the design earthquake, and the spillways won’t pass the official 100-year flood, even though they already have. 

A plan is negotiated with the stakeholders, that is practical and affordable to the shareholders, given the limited access for machinery, materials and money.  Temporary Band Aid solutions are compromised but these dams will eventually have to be stabilized or rolled over to slow breaching, low hazard heights.  They plan for a future dam thickness that can withstand overtopping while still promoting a safe and healthy fishery behind them.  The water storage will be moved to lower new dam that can be easily monitored and maintained.  They call it progress.  The end of an era is upon them as they think of their ancestors who built these old dams during drought years of the Dirty, Dust Bowl Thirties.  Their iconic and mythic cowboy adventures will come to an end, as their land will be turned into condos so they can go south in their new motor homes.  The kids don’t want the ranch, but they know that if they stop working they will die.  Cowboys don’t play Pickleball.

They stop, after the inspections, to have some dinner, take a nap and open-up the rusted outlet for the fall.  Stories are exchanged with each culture living vicariously through the others.  City slicker engineers long to be cowboys with the simple solitary life, living and dying with nature.  The cowboys long to see the big city with its big buildings and throngs of beautiful people. 

Mounting up to go home feels strange with new aches and pains and the loss of the romantic journey they started so long ago. The sunny day has turned cloudy with mountain showers menacing.   Raincoats come out as the afternoon breeze picks up.  Soon, one cowboy falls asleep in the saddle and ultimately slides off, waking up just before he hits the ground.   At a rocky stream crossing, Daisey slips and goes down on her side and on her dam man’s leg.  He can’t get out but His leg isn’t broken but he can’t get out.  Thankfully his head is above the water line of the stream.  The cowboys dismount laughing and coax Daisy to her feet as the other horses drink and graze on the ripe riparian grasses hanging in broken bunches, from both sides of their mouths.  Just another day at the office. 

The sun is setting when they get to the trucks and silently load up, too sore and tired to make small talk.  They take their gloves off to shake hands, not their hats, unlike golfers. One firm pump with eye contact is all it takes and they head their separate ways.  The Rancher gets home well past supper; he pulls into his pasture and lets the horses run free or roll in the long grass.  The day ends after sunset, the last light, dusk of a lifestyle.