Saddle Sore: A Slim connection to the other side

Some years ago, I started a column by describing a wreck my grandfather had while riding after cows up Collins Creek. It happened on a day of thunderstorms and continuing rain; the trail was slick, and his trusty blue roan gelding had slipped on the trail, rolled off the bank, and left Gramps in a bit of a mess. He showed up at the ranch house with blood on his face, a torn slicker, mashed up hat, and was very wet and cold. My mom and aunt were visiting inside, waiting out the rain when he arrived and spying his arrival through the kitchen window, they ran out, helped Gramps off his horse and into the house.

The warmth of the woodstove, some hot coffee, dry clothes, a different slicker, and out the door he went, ignoring advice that he should stay put. A little wreck like that wasn’t going to ruin his plan for the day. He got back on Blue with that familiar grunt — almost a mournful, short groan — and away they went. The scene upset me as there was my hero, having some serious trouble, and, as mentioned elsewhere, I hadn’t thought the man to be mortal.  

The big roan Grandpa was riding that day later got killed by lightning, and Gramps took up with a horse out of Carbondale. Slim, aptly named — a tall, shiny, beautiful sorrel — jumped the corral fence and ended up back near Carbondale, none the worse for wear. He came back in our Diamond T stock truck and never left again.   

A few years after witnessing Gramps and the effects of his wreck, he took me on as his apprentice, and we rode Collins Creek frequently, pushing cows up, scattering salt blocks, or just taking in the lay of the land and the health of the cattle. Grandpa on Slim, me on Spades, a big, ranch-raised, black gelding. At my youthful insistence, the spot where the accident occurred was reluctantly pointed out, and I always held my breath a bit when we went up that way, particularly when one of our horses would slip a bit. Many decades have passed, and in spite of changes in the condition of the path, that little blip, 15 yards of difficulty in the trail is still there, waiting for an unsuspecting horse and rider.

The years wore on, and Gramps and I had various great adventures and experiences together, many of which have appeared in this column. The autumn of my 11th year, Grandpa got some serious cancer; after surgery, he couldn’t go home, so he stayed at our house, my mother attending to him during the day. No longer needed, Slim was moved from Gramp’s place up to our corral, where he received his daily ration of feed. The draft horses used for pulling the feed sled stayed home in the hold at Gramp’s house, along with some other riding horses, as they needed the room, and besides, they were closer to the hired hand’s house, so he could easily harness them for the morning feeding rounds with my dad.  

Gramps died in March that spring, and each afternoon as I exited the school bus, there would be Slim, watching me as I went to round up the milk cows (only three or four), which were holed up in our apple orchard down the road about 50 yards. A heavy sadness hung over me, as the death of my grandfather had cut deep into my psyche, but Slim provided a bit of hope for better days ahead. Gramps was gone, maybe Slim would become my riding horse for the summer. That would be my connection to the other side.

Spring came, and Slim was saddled, ready to carry me on an adventure of a lifetime, so went my thinking. We started down the fairly level road in front of the corral, trying each other out. Slim was willing, took right off with a little nudge, but oh, that horse was painfully jarring in the front end. My grandfather was a large man, over 6 feet tall, and solidly built. All those days and years coming down the mountainsides had taken their toll on Slim. 

Gramps and Slim, riding the skies together, as it should be. Maybe I’ll meet them someday, riding my big horse, Spades.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.