Now I am certainly no expert horseman but I have some equine knowledge that may be useful to any budding horse person who might be thinking of trying their hand at this skill.
Now firstly I think that when embarking on acquiring a new skill it is useful to have the ability to recognise greatness.
Now you have probably read of my adoration for my childhood hero Uncle Athol (see “Loadin Cattle” and also “”Unloadin Cattle”) so its only to be expected that when considering starting out on how to ride a horse I should start with observing Athol, who was according to family folk lore the consummate bush and cattle man.
Like every thing else Athol did he varied between excellent to bloody fantastic and so it was with his horsemanship. Long before I saw Athol ride I was regaled by tales from my parents of his daring do on the back of a horse.
The first time I can recall Athol on horseback I was all of an impressionable 12 or 13 years old.
There was Athol mounted on a bay gelding with a white flash on its forehead. I don’t know how many ‘hands’ it measured but it was slightly smaller than a thoroughbred and slightly larger than a solid stock horse. It was an impressive beast with a temperament that said these is only one rider worthy and that worth rider was Athol.
Athol was impressive as he sat upon that horse, in a beautiful Australian stock saddle and tested working gear that had served both man and horse through many a muster on Nellyvale. With his large brimmed hat and ever present pipe, stock whip laying across his shoulders he sat easily in the saddle and chatted in his slow western drawl to my father.
Together Athol and this beautiful horse demonstrated a grace that showed that they were fully integrated and moved effortlessly as one perfect unit.
Place this man horse combination in the scene of a couple of hundred head of cattle in the background. These cattle had been mustered and pushed on since early light towards the cattle yards at Nellyvale homestead. Now in the falling light they were being moved through the low mulga bush, with its dusty drab olive colours against the dry red earth towards the cattle yards. They were hot, thirsty and tired out from a long walk but apprehensive of what was to be their fate.
Now its not unusual that a beast will break away from the mob as they are pushed along the long post and rail fence that leads the mob into the first holding yard. So it was on this day a steer made its break for freedom.
Athol spotted the breakaway and yelled to Keith Roberts and his boys that he would chase the naughty cow/ steer down. I think this might have been the term Athol used!!
In an instant both Athol and horse moved into action. The pipe went to the corner of Athol’s mouth, the hat flew back and the stock whip was instantly in his right hand. Effortlessly Athol’s toes were in the stirrups as he leant forward over the neck of the horse, gathering up the reigns in his left hand and standing in a crouched racing position. The two were at full gallop in an instant.
Athol and horse quickly gained ground on the steer and with the stock whip being plied with an easy skill continuously over the horse’s head Athol rode like a man possessed. As man, horse and steer rounded through the mulga and salt bush I can still recall the incredible angle that both steer, horse and rider achieved as the red earth flew from their hooves and they cleared the fallen timber without missing a step. The steer quickly realised that it was no match for this pair and surrendered by racing straight back to the herd.
No cowboy movie ever showed this level of skill; the mastery of man and trusted horse over a surly beast. My hero had just achieved a status beyond immortal.
This was the standard to which I aspired and I realised I had a lot of work to do.
You can only imaging the pride I felt when some days later as Athol chewed the stem of his pipe and got that look of a man about to say something important. Athol said “Terry do ya wanta come mustering with us tomorra’?. I could not believe my ears and mumbled ‘yes’. I had waited for this and my moment had come.
I was instructed to get over to the tack shed with my cousins and sort out some appropriate gear.
To top this off Athol reached down beside him and lifted up a pair of used tan beautiful elastic sided riding boots with cuban heels and smiled at me saying “See if these fit ya” .
They fitted like gloves and made me feel 6 foot tall. Walking on cuban heels is a skill in its self but I soon developed that cowboy swagger and that western way of standing with one knee slightly bent and hips at an angle. All I needed was a ‘rollie’ hanging off my lips!.
Over in the Tack Shed we quickly found a saddle, bridle and all the associated tackle needed to get me into the muster. I was assigned this old black mare called Lubra and who had seen one too many a musters on Nellyvale.
Lubra had seen it all and in fact had once been my mothers trusty steed. Lubra resented every part of this game she just wanted to wander the plains and live out her life in the style she had become used too. The last thing Lubra wanted or needed was some young wannabe stockman sitting on her back. I was in for a lesson or two.
The first morning of the muster came round and after breakfast we went down, caught our mounts and lead them back to the tack shed where we saddled up. I was amongst real men who were in charge of their environment, who expected and gave no quarter, and where you were expected to pull you weight.
I just loved the feeling but there was a truck load of apprehension about all that lay ahead. It was all new and I was working on the principle of ’fake it til ya make it’. This is a well used principle I later managed to almost perfect but right now I had a lot of faking to do. Also I didn’t know that my trusty steed was already on the other side
Soon we were mounted and rode out from the Nellyvale homestead in single file that had a particular masculine seniority order to it. At the head was Athol on his bay gelding with his pipe blazing and then Keith Roberts, tall and lanky rollie on the lips looking like he was born with a saddle attached to his bum. Next was my older cousin Jeff, me and then younger cousin Kevin.
I observed that horses are a lot like humans in the morning and I guess a tight strap around your tummy doesn’t necessarily help but the morning horse fart quintet set up a chorus that rivalled the morning bird song. There was an element of follow through that gave the air a strange aroma when mixed with the Dr Pats Irish Moss of Athol’s pipe and Keith’s pungent Log Cabin rollies.
The morning routine was to walk for a distance, then a trot, followed by a short canter and a bit of a gallop to warm the horses and then into the rhythm of the muster.
Now walking is very straight forward and all you need to do is surrender to the erotic movement of the horse and let your hips follow. The trot requires a bit more work where you use your legs to look a tad gay and bounce in the stirrups so as to not let your bum bounce off the saddle. Again surrender to the rythem of the horse.
UUp to this point I was going OK. But then came the canter and the gallop. Now as best as I can figure one is simply the speeded up version of the other but with less control. As I was to find out later foot and leg placement is all important. At this stage my style was to simple hang on for dear life with my legs flaying about generally with my toes out. This I was about to find out not one of the better styles one could adopt.
Day one of my mustering career went on and was largely a success other than I could not get Lubra to move neither in the direction nor the speed that I wanted. We simply sat at the back of the herd and walked. Any beast that made a break was chased down by one of the others, Lubra and I simply plodded along. I wasn’t getting that feeling of a man in charge in his own environment.
Day 2 and 3 were the same and I was given instruction to kick her and or use a switch off a tree to give her a smart swipe across the bum to show her who’s boss. Neither of these techniques produced the results I was looking for. Something more dramatic was called for.
Back in the tack shed I had seen a pair of spurs with the large texan star wheel. The sort of thing that John Wayne or Clint Eastwood would wear. They dragged in the dust and gave that chilling cling on the floor boards that sends everyone in the bar quite as the top gun slinger swaggers in to do his dirty business. These were for me and Lubra would be surly no more.
Day 4 was memorable to say the least. As we saddled up Athol said with a knowing smile ‘Are you sure bout them spurs Terry?’.
I said ‘Yep she'llbe right” Athol just smiled that smile of a knowing adult and I had no idea of the shit about to happen.
We mounted up, got in the familiar order and went through the fart, walk, fart trot routine all just fine and dandy up to here.
Then came the canter. This started OK but I noticed I was cantering faster than all the others and very quickly Lubra and I were in a full gallop. I didn’t know the old girl could still move that fast. Within seconds I had passed Jeff, then Keith and Athol was just a blur as Lubra and I looked like we were in the last furlong of the Burke Cup and about to break all records.
Now one piece of horse training I had been given which came back at this point was “If a horse bolts (i.e. takes off like a scalded cat for no good reason) then pull them into a decreasing circle and run em into the ground”.
The criteria of “scalded cat” and “no good reason” were fully complied with therefore I concluded that I was in a “bolted horse situation”. Heave on that rein and hold on.
Now I am not sure I cut the same integrated man and horse picture that Athol showed rounding up that wayward steer but I was still in the saddle on the first lap as I cleared the scrub and came up on the tail of the mustering team.
As Lubra and I went past like a steam train at full tilt I was fully concentrated on just staying in the saddle. Athol and the rest were yelling stuff at me which I thought were calls of encouragement. On the second lap as I came past again I realised that they were yelling ‘put ya toes in, put ya heels out’. Somewhere in on the third lap I finally understood what they meant. As I put my toes in the texan spur wheels stopped racking Lubras ribs every time she hit the ground.
In an instant we stopped and Lubra gave one almighty sigh. I tapped her gently with my toes and in an oh so elegant manner she walked on the tips of her hoofs and we rejoined the mustering team.
I realised my riding style needed to change and on Athol’s suggestion we put the spurs in the saddle bags. They had achieved their purpose.
Whilst I never achieved the horse riding standard of my hero Athol Lubra showed me a new level of respect.
Lubra tried every trick in the book whenever I tried to mount and had an interesting collection of hoof and teeth shaped bruises on my young body for some time. But for just a moment I was the man on the horse.