When I was growing up I dreamed of becoming a cowboy.
Got sidetracked.
And only very rarely got to ride horses.
Never, though, did I picture myself sitting astride a big brown horse named Lumpy while wearing a black, hard-shell helmet. Once I buckled the chinstrap it definitely seemed more Tour de France than Old West. I looked more like Lance Armstrong than John Wayne. It just didn’t feel cool. In fact, it felt kind of like striding through the bat-wing doors to order milk in the saloon.
Still, a bonus attraction of staying at the Wild Winds Buffalo Preserve is the opportunity to ride horses around their narrow dirt trails for an hour. It’s not exactly the last roundup because the 400 head of bison are penned. But unless you have the riding proficiency of Roy Rogers, Tom Mix or the Duke, you probably don’t want to be leading your mount into a mob of big-shouldered buffalo anyway.
According to preserve manager Shane Smith, he has seen ornery bulls turn on horses. Not a pretty thought, especially if you are in the saddle. Better to look at buffalo from a different vantage point.
The morning began with a thunderstorm, but while we inhaled a breakfast of buffalo sausage in an egg casserole, blueberry muffins, cereal and thick bread, the sky cleared.
By midmorning, Smith, who would lead me and partner Donna, was saddling Lumpy, Fury and Bessie. He placed multicolored blankets on the horses’ backs and cinched the brown saddles around their midsections. Smith said their names had nothing to do with temperament.
“They all have their attitudes,” he said.
Only later did I discover that my horse, Lumpy, had Barry Bonds’ attitude. The horses were tall enough to make mounting them an effort for people measuring 5 feet 8 inches. But they displayed none of the skittishness thoroughbreds often show as they are led into the starting gate for races.
Smith provided quick rein-handling instruction. Among other things, we were told to hold reins tightly enough to show the horse who was boss and pull straight back for halting, but not so hard the horse would rear up and dump us. In an emergency–defined as the horse being spooked by a snake or a backfiring car–we were to pull one rein steadily and turn the horse’s head.
Seemed like more rules than I’d heard on previous rides.
The horses consider the rides fun, Smith said, and when he enters the corral to choose participants they seem like children eager for an outing: “Do I get to go?”
We steered the horses out of the yard slowly in single file. I cooed to Lumpy and patted his flank in praise of his cooperation. But that didn’t last. He stopped. He resisted. He tried to munch every blade of grass in the field. Lumpy, Lumpy, Lumpy, what gives? Meanwhile, Donna bonded with Bessie. Donna said they had a “stable” relationship.
Finally, Lumpy was deemed so disruptive to class he was banished to the principal’s office. Smith traded horses. I climbed aboard Fury, and Smith gave Lumpy a stern talking-to.
“He just needed an attitude adjustment,” Smith said. “Maybe he was spooked by the thunderstorm.”
Actually, Lumpy was only slightly more docile with Smith. They have a history. One day, Smith was between the unsaddled horse and the corral fence when Lumpy, starting to roll in the dirt, kicked out and nicked Smith’s elbow. Bruise, no break.
Fury handled as if he had power steering.
Once the storm passed the sun grew warmer and the stickiness in the air increased. A horsefly bit Lumpy and he jumped.
“He can’t tell which is a bigger pain in the behind, me or the horsefly,” Smith said.
Just wondering . . . was Silver such high maintenance for the Lone Ranger?
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lfreedman@tribune.com
