Arizona Cowboy College

I rode around the ring clockwise and then, on Rocco’s command, I reversed Viejo and rode counter-clockwise, and then we cantered a bit, me getting the feel of Viejo and him getting used to someone other than Rocco giving him commands. There were some 50-gallon barrels a few yards apart down at the end of the ring and Rocco said anyone who was of a mind could gallop down there, turn their horse around the barrels, and gallop back. A young cowboy showed us how to do it. He was all grace and effortless motion, horse and rider a thing of beauty.

Right up until that moment, I had absolutely no intention of taking Viejo for a gallop. But watching this young cowboy made me change my mind.

I made a little clicking noise and gave Viejo a light kick and he went tearing for those barrels like a freight train on a downhill track. I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid. I held the reigns tight and used my legs to squeeze Viejo with all my might, bouncing around in the saddle like a sack of potatoes on the back of a tractor. In other words, I did everything wrong. I was afraid that Viejo would run right past the barrels and into the fence, but at least one of us knew what he was doing.

I began to ease up on the reigns, focusing on moving with the horse instead of against him, and by the time I pulled Viejo up short in front of Rocco, you’d swear I’d been a cowboy all my life. Sort of.

“You’re not climbing on top of me, cowboy.”

This morning after breakfast at Arizona Cowboy College, Rocco went around the room and assigned everyone a horse. This was a big deal. Like finding out who was going with whom to the prom. I was last.

“I think there’s only one horse for you,” Rocco said, sizing me up. “Viejo.”

Well this was news indeed because everyone at Cowboy College knew that Viejo Vaquero was Rocco’s horse. In a way I felt like Rocco was saying I could sleep with his wife.

I grabbed a halter and went into the pasture where Viejo was grazing and walked slowly up to him, approaching him from the left shoulder the way Rocco had taught me, trying to reassure both the horse and myself that everything was just fine. I certainly didn’t believe it and I doubt very much that Viejo did either, but he went along with things and allowed me to lead him back to the stables where I groomed and saddled him.

Viejo is a large horse; probably the largest on the ranch, which meant it wasn’t easy getting in the saddle. For anyone who had trouble getting on their mount, there was a two-step stool by the corral you could use, but everyone knew using that was as good as admitting defeat. So I made sure my saddle was cinched properly and threw myself up like John Wayne getting ready to head up the cavalry. Viejo danced around a bit while I got situated and Rocco watched the two of us like a man watching his young son attempt to back the family car out of the driveway for the first time, half amused, half nervous someone was going to get hurt.

As for me, I just kept reminding myself that Viejo was a coward and I was in control. Total control. Just like that young boy steering his father’s prized Beemer down the street for the first time, no problem at all.

Sleeping with a real bitch at the Arizona Cowboy College.

In the evening we took turns using the lone shower in the bunkhouse which was nothing more than a garage-like room with cots spread around a couple of ratty old couches, one of which I immediately commandeered. I’m a pretty light sleeper and knew that, even as tired as I was, it was going to be difficult sleeping in the same room with six other people, what with the coughs and snorts and farts and whatnot. Still, I managed to fall asleep almost immediately. And stayed that way until I woke up sometime in the middle of the night and realized that someone had crawled up on the couch with me.

It was one of the ranch dogs. I guess I was sleeping in her spot. I kicked her out of bed but two minutes later, she was back, spooning up against me. At this point I figured I had two choices: Sleep with a smelly old dog or grab my bedroll and sleep outside. I chose to move outside.

The ground was hard, the stars were bright, and the nearby horses made a ruckus all night, but I still slept pretty soundly. Until I felt something running over my sleeping bag and across my legs. A pack rat. Who stole my iPod headphones, which I found the next morning in his nest inside the barn along with a sock (not mine), several beer caps, an empty cigarette pack, and a chewed up ten dollar bill. I took back my headphones and, just to be sure, checked to see that my wallet was still tucked into a pocket of my denim jacket. Just to, you know, make sure that wasn’t my ten spot the rat had borrowed.

Rocco trying to convince us that horses are cowards.

Rocco, wearing a white Stetson, his thumbs hooked in his Wrangler’s just above a belt buckle the size of a small salad plate that reads ROCCO COWBOY U, sits atop his appaloosa taking a long, hard look at us faux cowboys before giving us a little speech.

“This is an unpredictable 1,200-pound animal that can accelerate 50 miles per hour in a few strides,” he says, slapping at the flank of Viejo Vaquero. “Anytime you think you know what this horse is thinking or what he’s going to do, you’re making a mistake. I ride this horse every day and he still surprises me. Do not—I repeat—do not take a horse for granted.”

Part of my problem with horses has always been that I think they’re a lot more fearless than I am. Which Rocco assures me simply isn’t true.

“This animal is an absolute coward,” he says. Which is what makes them dangerous. “Horses have no canine teeth, no claws. So when they feel they’re in danger, they turn 180 degrees and run as fast as they can in the opposite direction. That’s because they’re used to being in a herd and if there’s danger, the slowest one gets caught and eaten.”

So what Rocco is telling me is that when that paint up in Telluride threw me over the fence or that Mexican pony tossed me into the surf, it’s because they were afraid of me. Not the other way around.

Well I’ll be damned.