For the trail horse and for those of us who take them to remote places, there's nothing more important in training than the process old timers called "sacking out." We may've changed the terminology, but the principle is the same. "Desensitization" is in vogue, though disliked by some who feel the term is misleading, because we're not trying to dull a horse's senses but simply to take the fear out of new sensations.
To be safe for us to ride, particularly in the backcountry where help might be slow to arrive, this flight animal must be as unflappable as possible.
Though I was only 12 at the time, I remember the day very well, the late-afternoon August sun slanting across the corral that held the shiny black horse and the old cowboy, and the press into my rear of the corral pole on which I perched, uncomfortable as I waited and waited. I wasn't seeing what I'd expected. I hated to admit it, but I was actually becoming bored.
My friend had rushed up out of breath to announce that a black stallion was "being broke" in the corral a quarter mile east of our house. The man doing the training probably wouldn't mind if I watched, but my friend couldn't go - her mother needed her for chores on their farm near town. I required no urging. To a horse-crazy town kid the mere phrase, "a black stallion was being broke" had the ring of romance. All the movie stereotypes of horse/man confrontation, of rearing and bucking and plunging, came to mind at once. I hopped on my bike and pedaled hard down the lane to the ranch on the edge of town.
I knew enough to park a hundred feet short of the corral and to walk up quietly. The old cowboy saw me. "Sir, do you mind if I watch?"
"Watch all you want," he said. "You can sit up on the corral over there in the shade of the barn, but don't move around too much." It couldn't get much better than that, so I settled down for the show. The man resumed concentrating on the stallion, a compact Morgan-looking animal with a proud arched neck, sweat shining on his sleek black hide. He'd been saddled, and he didn't appear to like it too much. Wayne, the cowboy, was holding the horse's lead rope in his left hand and repeatedly picking up the stirrup leather with his right hand, then dropping it down into place. Each time he did this, the horse jumped.
Interesting, I thought. He'll do this a few times and then get on the stallion's back and the show will begin. But I was dead wrong. I was seeing "the show" but didn't know it. The trainer repeated the action over and over. Each time he dropped the stirrup, the horse jumped; each time, he repeated the action.
After what seemed eons, the horse's reaction became less pronounced. Instead of a jump into the air that resembled a buck in place, the jump became just a jerk, the stallion's feet not moving. And still the trainer slapped down the stirrup leather. The sun sunk lower, and the hill grasses behind the ranch house turned yellow in the light of the setting sun. But the trainer didn't quit.
Finally, I saw Wayne pick up the stirrup leather still again and drop it with a resounding slap. The stallion didn't move. As the cowboy raised it again, I noticed the horse let out a great sigh, lick his lips, and ignore the drop of the stirrup down onto his side. Wayne, too, let out a sigh. He pushed his cowboy hat back on his head, wiped sweat from his brow, and reached his right hand in a different direction now, up onto the horse's neck where he petted several strokes. Then he started to lead the horse to the barn, but stopped for a moment as if just remembering I was there. "You're welcome to come tomorrow night, too."
"What'll you work on tomorrow?" I asked.
I'll never forget his short answer: "The other side."
Just that, I thought to myself, just this same thing on the other side and nothing more? "When do you think you'll ride him?" I boldly asked.
"When he's ready and I'm ready. Not a second sooner and not a second later." Then, anticipating my next question, "And I have no idea when that will be."
