The Graduate
by Mark Berent
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 1971 Mark Berent
Discover other titles by Mark Berent at www.markberent.com and/or www.smashwords.com
ROLLING THUNDER
STEEL TIGER
PHANTOM LEADER
EAGLE STATION
STORM FLIGHT
Smashword Edition License Notes
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The Graduate
Who, at 74, went back to college, Cowboy College, that is.
By Mark Berent May 1, 2006 ©
“Heels down, Mark, heels down,” were the words I heard over and over again until they were indelibly inscribed in my brain but, alas, not in my heels. The signal shorted out somewhere, most likely where my rear end contacted the saddle.
Those commands came from Elaine, a comely blond from Chicago, who incessantly sang quiet songs to herself on the trail (something about it being so hot the devil had to pray). As my drill instructor, in a hoof beat she could change her voice from the dulcet and sometimes winsome tones of a country singer to a Marine DI. And I was the receiver.
It all started when I saw “Cowboy U” on the CMT TV channel. In it, a bunch of city slickers were gathered on an Oklahoma ranch to learn then compete in cowboy rodeo events such as roping, flanking a calf, six-shooter accuracy while galloping, bull riding (BULL RIDING!?), and the like. The 16-episode show was honchoed by a big cowboy named Rocco and was a cross between “Survivor” and “The Apprentice” in that one had to survive the training then not be fired and driven off the ranch. The final contestants made up the competitors in their own rodeo, the winner to receive $25,000.
The show took me back to my teen years when I worked on ranches in Montana and North Dakota mostly driving wheat trucks and hay rake tractors. On one ranch, near Broadus, Montana, I bunked in a sheep wagon and was introduced to a horse named Henry, a beat up saddle, and a fence repair kit. After the intro, the rancher told me to put saddle on horse, bridle up, take kit and go repair fence. “Oh, yeah,” he added, “kick Henry in the belly before you tighten the cinch.”
But the most appealing memory of that era was when we herded a few cows to an ancient cattle pickup chute out on the plains just off an old road. Since the truck was due way before dawn, we arrived just before sundown, tended our horses, ate sandwiches from our saddle bags, and bedded down on our saddle blankets. The stars at night are big and bright, all right, more so in Montana than Texas, by God. It was awesome.
At first light we loaded them up and rode back. Lets see, that was, um, ahh, sixty years ago.
Okay, so, motivated by “Cowboy U” and old memories, I searched the local Yellow Page and, behold and lo, found the Arizona Cowboy College at Lori Bridwell’s Lorill Equestrian Center not 14 miles from my Scottsdale home. Drove out, checked it out, and found they had a six-day class that included two days at the local ranch for training then four days out on the range where, the brochure says, “You will work side by side with real cowboys, not dude wranglers.”
To my surprise, Rocco, THE Rocco, was the head man at the college. Now, everyone knows never tangle with a guy (or a girl) named Butch. And East-coasters know never, but never, tangle with a guy named Rocco. And here was Rocco, who looked just like his name: a big mustachioed hit-man from “The Sopranos,” a guy who bites hubcaps in half to clean his teeth. Furthermore, he packs a .45 in a hip holster.
Yup, but Rocco Wachman only looks like all that. This highly experienced rancher and rider knows horses and people and trains each to the best of their abilities. Again, proving appearances belie reality, Rocco has a degree in Theology, is a member of Mensa, and is a very safety conscious (“Be a witness, not a victim.”) and patient teacher. Turns out, Elaine, one third Rocco’s size, is the real hit man out there. (“Heels down, Mark. HEELS DOWN!” and, “No, no, NO! Don’t use both hands to hang on!”)
So I joined a class with four others and began my sojourn into the cowboy’s world. The first hours went way beyond ‘this is a horse, this is a saddle.’ Rocco taught us a horse is a herd animal that responds primarily to fear and food. Fear because it is prey and flight from predators is in it’s genes since time immemorial. Prey animals, Rocco taught us, have eyes on the side of their heads to detect danger in almost all directions and a built-in explosive getaway in response (check your local rabbits). Predators have eyes side-by-side to focus and depth-perceive their prey (check your local coyotes, rattlers, and cougars).
Rocco assigned a specific horse to each of us based, he said, on his knowing the horse’s temperament and our abilities, or lack thereof. My horse, a big paint gelding, was named Tank. An appellation that immediately conjured pictures in my head of the 1,200lb animal living up to his name by plowing through vast fields of spiky cactus regardless of my, the tank commander’s, desires.
The big man then gave many demonstrations in a small arena with his horse, an Appie named Viejo. They included never approach a horse directly from the front or the rear (they can’t see you) to approach a horse obliquely to his shoulder (you are a friend) and never stare at his rump (you are a predator about to leap).
After that we were taught how to catch, halter, and groom a horse. Then the parts of the saddle and bridle. Finally, put it all together and mount up. I spent valuable time looking for a high place to stand on since my legs don’t flex the as well as, say, um, ahh, 60 years ago.
Thence to the big arena for lessons, followed by hours of trail riding through the local desert (avoid the jumping Cholla cactus, rattle snakes, and old barbed wire) up and down ever-steeper washes and always, but always, be in command.
A word on that subject: I am a retired fighter pilot who also raced stock cars in my teens. Hell yes, I know what ‘be in command’ means. Think which way I want my vehicle to go, what maneuvers I want it to perform, and it happens.
Not so with horses. When I looked up a fighter’s tailpipe during preflight inspection, I knew the bird was not going to kick me, step on my foot, break wind in my face, or dump on my boots. Give me a jet-powered steed with 3,000 PSI hydraulic controls that obeys only Bernoulli’s and Newton’s laws and my commands … rather than some animal that obeys nothing except violent fear from a blowing leaf.
Point is; besides keeping my heels down, I had a lot to re-learn. Mainly that not for one second can a rider lose situational awareness and must always be prepared for the worst (as in always wearing a parachute in a fighter). On the trail we even carried a horseshoe repair kit in a saddlebag. By the way, we had one whole morning being taught hands-on how to shoe horses. It is a dangerous, multi-step, leg-burning, awkward procedure that could make the difference between walking home or riding home.
On day three we loaded up our horses, tack, and bedrolls then trucked our way up to the Triangle M ranch in the high country just south of Mayer, AZ. Ed Hanks the owner, a cowboy’s cowboy, taciturnly watched as we unloaded and set up camp on the dirt between our two horse trailers down by his corrals.
That afternoon we mounted up for an area checkout. Rocco and Elaine led us toward the Bradshaw Mountains through ever-increasingly rough and rocky terrain; ever steeper descents and ascents into and out of washes, canyons, and arroyos. “This is the only time,” Rocco said, “ to let your horse have his head as he picks his way up, down, and around the huge rocks, boulders, and loose shale. But you still control over-all direction and speed.”
Back to the camp at dusk where Rocco proved to be a more than competent cowboy chef. Whereas breakfast would be a granola bar and Rocco’s hi-octane coffee; lunch a snack of tortillas with cheese and sliced meat; dinner would be chops, steak, and Mexican food. All prepared in Rocco’s cowboy microwave: an almost bushel basket-sized cast iron pot in which he’d place the meat, potatoes, and vegetables topped off with a can of beer then set it on a bed of hot coals in a cut down 55-gal drum. On the heavy lid he would shovel more hot coals. In about a half hour or so our gourmet repast was ready. Oh yeah, we also had plenty of iced down soft drinks and beer in the coolers we had brought.
About 9:30 each night we would spread a tarp, our sleeping bags, and zonk out under the brilliant stars. Since we were at a 4,500 ft elevation with air as pure as from an oxygen bottle, the nights were very cool. So was getting up in the pre-dawn until we warmed up by Rocco’s fire.
Once up and fortified in the morning, we would catch our horses, saddle and bridle up, and ride out into the incredibly up-and-down terrain on Ed’s ranch. We threaded our way through and around clawing Manzanita bushes, thick shrubs and cactus, impassable thickets, around huge crags and rock formations, along ledges, and up and down such steep and narrow defiles I swear would require rock climbing gear if one were on foot. Our confidence grew, though, as we trusted our instructors, our horses, and, finally, ourselves.
Ed, his son, and a fellow rancher joined us on the roundup as we searched for cattle in the vast mountainous terrain. I was proud to be the first, I thought, to spot two and call them out. “Yeah, I know,” Rocco said, “but we are still in the holding pen.” An 1,800-acre holding pen as it turned out. Through a few barbed wire gates and we were into the wilderness, looking, looking. Is that a cow or a boulder under that acacia tree over there?
Near noon on the second day after hours of a fruitless search, we stopped to let the horses blow while we sipped water from our canteens. Suddenly Jessica, a 28-year-old from Tucson, called out “Cows. Behind us” Yeah sure, everyone thought until we turned to look. And there they were, five cows and four heifers across a wash cautiously topping a ridge-line about 500 feet away.
“How did you know?” Rocco marveled, probably as chagrined as all of us for not being the first to spot them.
“I felt something staring at me,” Jessica the prescient said.
Jessica was our heroine. We herded (well, watched the others herd) the nine money-on-the-hoof animals back to the holding pen, had a light lunch, then back on the trail. Hawks soared and buzzards circled in the bluest of skies.
And so it went for the remainder of the four days. No amenities (You want a shower? Use the hose hanging from the corral fence. Bathroom? That one-holer yonder.), just pure cowboying. The adventure was exhausting (for me, anyhow), dusty, and pure thrill. More “Lonesome Dove” than “City Slickers.”
Did Tank live up to his name? Well, fortunately, no. We had come to an understanding wherein I was the ad hoc commander but he was the de facto boss and he would do his best to get both of us through the grand adventure in one piece. Bless his equine soul. In reality, Tank validated his excellent training at Lorill.
Late Saturday we broke camp, loaded everything up, and trucked back to Lori’s ranch. We washed our horses, ourselves, and sat down for our last dinner and presentation of the graduation certificates. Surprisingly, thanks to Rocco and Elaine’s expert tutelage, none us were sore, sick, stiff, or scratched.
Would I do it again? You bet. In a hoof beat. And I did. I joined the Montana High Country Cattle Drive. But that is another story.
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Mark Berent had three tours of combat in Southeast Asia and is the holder of the Silver Star, two DFCs, the Bronze Star, numerous Air Medals, Legion of Merit, and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. In his first tour he flew F-100s with the 531st at Bien Hoa. Two years later, he returned as an F-4 pilot, assigned to the only all-night-flying outfit in SEA, the 497th TFS at Ubon RTAFB Thailand. While there, he also commanded the Forward Air Controller unit called the Wolf FACs. His third tour was in Cambodia.
Berent is the author of a five-book “Rolling Thunder” Vietnam airwar series available on Smashwords. See his web page at www.markberent.com