I’ll always remember that old cornfield, that’s right across the road from a rather new middle school. It’s where the hooves of many horses I’ve known have galloped. From an old red bay called Peter, to a spunky chestnut roan called Smudge, to a patchy red paint called Apache.

My grandpa once raced his brother in Peter's saddle in that corn field. His brother was on Apache. Apache was younger and theoretically faster, but in that old cornfield right across the road from a rather new middle school, that old spirited bay won the race by ten yards or so. My grandpa’s brother is more of a cowboy than my grandpa, but even he couldn’t get Apache to win the race against my grandpa Lyle in old Peter’s saddle.

Peter was my favorite. When I rode him, Peter was always careful, but he still went as fast as I wanted him. I never rode past a trot when I was younger, mostly because I couldn’t reach the stirrups. I used to race my older cousins who always rode Apache or some other horse they brought over. When I finally started to canter as I learned how to ride an english saddle, old Peter’s lungs got infected, and he was put down. I was very sad, but I decided that my riding days were far from over, and it was time for me to tame Apache.

Old Peter was still around the first time I rode Apache, but Apache was such a spookable horse back then, that when I tossed a coat to get it over my shoulders, I ended up landing in the dirt face-first after holding on for almost two bucks. I was fine, albeit it I had a mouthful of blood and mud, but I walked away that day, scared of riding Apache. My uncle Courtney gave me my first cowboy hat that night and told me to wear it with pride. Several years later, old Peter died, so I had to ride Apache, who had calmed down considerably by then.

I started by working Apache on the ground. My great uncle Courtney taught me how to command 1,000 pounds of galloping steed, with just the flick of the rope and a step of a boot. I’d stand in the middle of the round pen, spinning a rope in my hand. Apache ran around me as fast as I wanted him to, and when I wanted him to change direction, I’d take a risk by stepping out in front of him and flicking the rope lightly towards him. He'd skid as he turned around, and would almost always begin the next few laps bucking. There were a few times where I felt the wind of his rear hooves against my face, and Courtney would always react with a smile by saying something like, "Woah, you better give him some room next time!"

After a few laps in both directions, I’d step in Apache's way and walk towards him as he skidded to a stop. With a soft voice and gentle touch, I’d get him to stand so I could clip the reins on his bit and get in the saddle. By then, I could stand in the stirrups, and Courtney was always proud.

After a couple years, I started getting bored of Apache, because age was slowing him down. He was still a good horse, but he never rode past a slow trot, and his back was beginning to sway. Years of seasonal hunting trips takes a toll on a packhorse like Apache.

A new horse was introduced to the family. His name was Smudge. He was a wild and young chestnut roan who was even more spookable than Apache was. It took forever for me to gain the courage to ride him.

I ended up going to english riding lessons for a year. I enjoyed it for the most part, but it just wasn't my style. I didn't like the helmet, the feel of the saddle, or the way I was asked to hold those pretty pink reins. I got bored of that same old indoor arena I rode in every weekend. My horse was so predictable that by the 5th lesson we rode without too much thought. My teacher did her best to keep it interesting. I was a fast learner, so I was cantering, riding sideways and even backwards in the saddle, and doing small jumps in almost no time, but I missed the western style of riding. I got some useful experience out of that year, and I definitely gained some courage, though not enough to jump on a wild horse like Smudge. 

I only gained the courage to ride Smudge after I went to North Dakota for the first time. There, a neighbor called Steve invited me and my grandpa Lyle to ride one morning. Steve is exactly who you see when you picture what a cowboy is. He breaks his own horses, and has stuck to the old timey ways of working cattle. He even has a clever cattle dog who follows him wherever he goes.