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Regional,
Monthly All-Breed Horse Magazine • Since 1993 |
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Copyright 2011 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
Having a horse in the family changed our lives dramatically. My parents
had always wanted to find a place out of town, and this gave them incentive to
do it because we needed a permanent place to keep our horse. In the fall of
1953, they found a little log cabin on seven acres for sale. It was sixteen
miles from town, up Withington Creek, in the bottom of a canyon.
The next spring we borrowed a horse trailer and took Possum up there, and
we lived in the cabin during the summers when my brother and I weren’t in
school.
There was no traffic on the little dirt road; the cabin was at the edge
of the forest, above all the ranches. The little creek was cool in the hot
summer and my brother and I spent happy hours playing in the water on hot
afternoons. There was no electricity, so food had to be kept cool in waterproof
containers in the creek, or in the old cellar dug into the mountain. We used
candles and kerosene lanterns in the cabin at night, and a flashlight to go to
the outhouse in the dark — hoping we wouldn’t meet a skunk or a bear.
We spent a day or two each week at our house in town, to go to church and
to do our shopping and laundry. Mom took our week’s worth of clothes to wash
in our electric washing machine.
When it rained, the road was impassible. Several times that summer, our
car couldn’t make it clear up to the cabin, so we had to park the car a couple
miles farther down, and hike. When we returned to the car later in the week, we
carried our laundry in a big duffel bag. But it was fun being isolated in our
little cabin, in our own little world, up the creek.
The most fun for me was having new places to ride. Possum and I explored
the little jeep road up the canyon and into the mountains beyond. We saw deer,
foxes, coyotes and other wild animals and enjoyed the beauty of the forest.
However, one time we went exploring too far.
At the head of the canyon up the left fork of the creek was an old copper
mine. I’d heard many tales about the Harmony Mine, but had never seen it. The
mine was active during the 1920’s and at one time the
One morning Possum and I found ourselves at the fork of the creek and I
decided to go up the left fork — which I’d never seen. The farther I went,
the more I wondered about the abandoned mine, and thought we must be getting
close to it.
Possum and I kept climbing up the steep, rutted jeep tracks, even though
it was close to lunchtime and Mom would be expecting me back at the cabin. But
I’d gone so far, I surely must be almost there. Possum and I kept climbing.
The Harmony Mine was much farther up the canyon than I expected, and it
was afternoon by the time I reached the old mill building, set back against the
steep mountain. Farther on were a group of old cabins, the old cookhouse, and a
steep little road winding up through the timber to one of the mine tunnels. I
was fascinated by some of the old things scattered around the area. The mine
hadn’t been worked for many years, but there were so many things left in the
buildings that it looked like people had been there only a short time ago.
After a quick look around, I rode Possum back down the jeep road,
hurrying because we were so late. Indeed, Mom had been very worried when I
didn’t show up for lunch. She imagined all kinds of accidents, and since Dad
was in town for the day with the car, she, my little brother, and a cousin who
was staying with us for a visit, started up the jeep road on foot to look for
me.
I met them at one of the creek crossings, where the old log bridge had
washed out; Mom and my cousin were trying to get across on some logs and rocks
without getting their feet wet. They were very glad to see me! After that
adventure, I tried not to worry my mother so much.
I got a dose of worry myself, one day when we came back up to the cabin
after being in town for the weekend. Possum was gone. Fear clutched at my heart
as I searched for him.
There was a bad place in the fence by the creek, in the bushes, and sure
enough there were horse tracks on the other side of the fence, in the soft dirt.
Possum had stepped over the fence — into a 160-acre mountain pasture belonging
to the rancher who lived farther down the creek.
I hiked and hiked, and finally found Possum grazing in a grassy meadow
along the brushy creek bottom, about a quarter-mile from our place. I put on his
halter, straddled his neck, and he lifted his head to enable me to slide onto
his back, so I could ride him home.
It was a wonderful summer, living at the cabin. One of the highlights
that year was a family reunion when several aunts, uncles and cousins came to
visit, and my grandma Lila Moser. She was past 70 years old and hadn’t ridden
a horse since she was a young girl, but the family talked her into getting on
old Possum. Dad put his old saddle on Possum, and he and Mom and an uncle helped
Grandmother onto the horse, first assisting her up onto our picnic table where
she could easily step into the stirrup.
Once mounted, Grandmother proudly rode Possum up and down the jeep track
in front of the cabin. Possum walked slowly and carefully, and didn’t even try
to stop and eat grass along the way. It was as though he knew he had a fragile,
precious passenger.
He was such a wise old horse. He would trot or gallop when asked by an
experienced rider — as I became a better rider I loved to gallop him up a
special place in the road that I called Possum’s Hill — but if a small child
or inexperienced person was on his back, he’d never go faster than a walk. He
was always careful to not get close to the thorny rosebriars or walk under
low-hanging tree branches. He took very good care of his inexperienced
passengers.
The only time I ever saw him grumpy was when our old cat, Thomas, kept
rubbing on his nose while he was trying to graze as I was brushing him. Finally
Possum had enough of the tickly cat hair, and took the cat’s tail in his teeth
and picked the cat up by the tail. He didn’t bite hard enough to injure the
cat; he just held old Thomas up in the air for a moment — while Thomas yowled
and clawed. The cat was unable to reach the horse with his claws, and eventually
Possum set him down on the ground again. From then on, Thomas left Possum alone
and didn’t try to rub on his head. Possum was probably the wisest horse I ever had. Even though I’ve owned and raised dozens of horses in later years, none of them were quite the same as dear old Possum. He lived with us for the rest of his life. Even though he became slower and stiffer in old age, he was still the perfect horse for any young or inexperienced visitors.
Readers:
Can you relate to this story? Go to “Forum For Horse People” at www.rockymountainrider.com. Tell us about your childhood experiences
with your first horse.
Heather
Smith Thomas is the author of numerous articles and 20 books. She and her
husband ranch near Salmon, Heather’s
blog online is: heathersmiththomas.blogspot.com.
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Rocky
Mountain Rider Magazine • Montana Owned & Operated |
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