Why not? Ride 'em, buckaroo

EDITOR'S NOTE: In honor of the Yakima Herald-Republic's recently published Annual edition titled "Working," our intrepid columnist recalls one of the many jobs he has held. He regrets to say there are no photos, or YouTube video, to document his 15 minutes of fame as a cowboy.

Imagine the vast expanses of the Yakima Training Center and then multiply that by 10, and then add to the mix about a million prickly cactus plants and a rattlesnake under every rock.

That's the terrain I faced when I gingerly settled into a hot leather saddle. It was cinched around a head-shaking, wild-eyed horse that had never been ridden before. Never.

As the horse kicked up its back legs, a chorus of cowboys roared: "Go get 'em, city slicker." Their weathered hands wiped away a tear or two as their laughter rolled like thunderclaps along a windswept arroyo.

These hard-bitten cowboys, rarely given to wild antics, were busting a gut at my expense.

I was a natural target. I was the ultimate tin horn, the kid from Chicago who couldn't tell the difference between a mare and a Morgan, and had no idea how to saddle either.

Among the many jobs that I have held in my life -- from a Holiday Inn desk clerk to a social worker in London -- being a buckaroo in the desert wastelands of Arizona ranks as the weirdest of all.

For reasons I have yet to fathom, I ended up in the tiny town of Parker, Ariz., some 40 miles south of Lake Havasu City, with a traveling companion whom I had met while hitchhiking out West. It was in the early 1970s and I was several months away from getting my draft notice from the Army. So I figured, "Why not?"

I confess, though, Parker was not what I had expected of a Wild West town. It had only one saving grace -- the Colorado River, which ran beside it.

Parker also had a Dairy Queen, a cafe that served terrible coffee and a gas station. I actually pumped gas there for several weeks. Not a bad job, except for the fact I kept forgetting to put the gas cap back on the cars that drove off. I ended up with a collection of six or seven before I left.

That's when I met up with a rancher who had more than 60 head of horses, donkeys and mules. He convinced me and my companion to help him out. So I figured, "Why not?"

The guy's spread was nothing to brag about. The 60-year-old rancher, who had been a welder most of his life, had a single-wide trailer where he lived with his wife. A swamp cooler atop the aged trailer provided the only reprieve from the sweltering desert heat.

Nearby, four corrals built of rough-hewn wood held an odd collection of horses, from American paints and thoroughbreds to a lone mustang he had roped from a roaming herd of wild horses. I was hired for room and board to help care for this hodgepodge of animals while the rancher did some part-time welding work.

One day, the rancher stopped by a friend's house and picked up a young, untamed horse. That's where I came in. The rancher wanted me, the city slicker, to be the first to ride the horse.

Now that may sound really dumb now, but back then, when I was barely 22 years old, it seemed like a good idea -- "Why not?"

This was also the time I discovered what the term "rank" meant when paired with the word "horse." For the rider, it's never a good match. Unless you're competing in a rodeo.

So a few days later, with three or four cowboys positioned around an empty corral and my friend urging me on, I slowly put one foot in the stirrup and swung over onto this "rank horse." Nothing happened. The horse just stood there and snorted.

"Is this a good sign," I asked.

The next sound I heard was my friend slapping the right haunch of the horse with a leather strap.

Whack!

That got the horse's attention. Off we went round and round the corral, the horse bucking crazily and the peanut gallery -- all seasoned cowboys -- whooping it up. Meanwhile I hung onto the horn of the saddle for dear life.

Then my friend got the brilliant idea of opening the corral gate.

Seeing an escape route, the horse charged past the dislodged gate and broke into a headlong gallop -- the kind I once saw on television with Roy Rogers heading into the sunset. But this time I was atop that galloping horse with no idea when the ride would end, or whether I would still be there to witness it.

Some 15 minutes later, the horse and I limped back to the corral with my left leg a pin cushion of cactus quills and my cowboy hat lost somewhere in a ravine. I had tamed the horse, but not through any skill on my part. Credit sheer exhaustion.

That was the only horse I ever broke. The rancher finished his welding job, and my traveling companion and I soon left Parker on separate paths. We never saw each other again.

Nor did I ever return to Parker. Sometimes it's best to leave memories of past conquests closed shut -- like you would a corral gate.

* Editorial Page Editor Spencer Hatton can be reached at 577-7704 or shatton@yakimaherald.com.

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