COWBOY ELDERS

Lone Ranger and his horse. "Hi-Yo, Silver. Away!"

     We may have been truckless, but we were not without horsepower!  After following orders to deliver our worthless vehicle to the Ford dealer in Albuquerque we were now “Hitchhiking Elders.” Sometimes by the end of the day, we felt like “The Walking Dead” Elders. That might not sound so bad. After all, there are Mormon Elders and Sisters serving missions all over the world who walk and ride bikes to accomplish their tasks. But in the desolate back-country of the Navajo Reservation, where camps were spread several miles apart, and connected only by rut-filled dirt roads, it wasn’t very practical.

      When would we be getting a new set of wheels, you ask? “Hóla, doo shił bééhózin da!” This Navajo saying was like shrugging your shoulders or saying “I don’t know!” It will come when it comes, was always the answer.

The vast Navajo Reservation.

      Not to be deterred in our quest to visit and teach the people we were up early, standing by the side of the road with our thumbs out. I told Elder Stanley he was with a pro hitchhiker. After all I had thumbed rides to California and back to Utah on several occasions before my mission. But the reservation had one big difference. Traffic, or rather the lack there of. Without it there were no rides to be had. If we showed enough patience while walking along with our thumbs out, eventually someone would pull alongside, roll down their window and ask, “Háágóó shą’?” (Where are you going?) There were no addresses on the reservation so we would just tell the driver the surname of the family we planned to visit and pointed in the general direction.  Then we’d gratefully climb into their truck bed, often joining other family members or barking dogs, and we’d be on our way.

      Usually we made it a mile or two before the driver turned off in another direction at which point we’d hop out, thank the family (Ahéheeʼ nitsaago), wish them well, and start walking again, often whistling or humming a tune like “Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel, Push Along, Do Your Duty with a Heart Full of Song!” Singing was out of the question. Neither one of us could carry a tune! I was thankful to be with Elder Stanley. His fun-loving ways kept us laughing as we plugged along the dusty roads, hoping for another ride.

Elder Rogers thumbing a ride in the Navajo Reservation outback. 1965.

 

      About a week into our hitchhiking days Don Smouse, the Borrego Pass trader, approached us with a splendid idea. He had just taken two horses in trade and they were corralled just behind our place next to the trading post. Smiles crept across our faces. We thought we knew where this might be leading. Sure enough, he offered us the use of his two horses and would let us use his riding gear. “The Navajos who traded me them horses said they was broke. Just how broke I couldn’t guarantee, but you’re welcome to them,” he said with a grin. Elder Stanley and I had both spent a little time on horses so we were more than excited to give it a try.

      Bright and early the next morning there stood Brother Smouse with the horses all saddled and ready to go. “Judging by size, Elder Rogers, you take the small gray. And Elder Stanley, the large black is yours,” he instructed while handing us the reins. “Be careful with them saddles! They’ve been in the family for a long time,” were his last words before heading back to the trading post.

Don Smouse. 1965.

      To test out our horses we decided to impress the elementary students by  strutting past the Borrego Pass day school at recess, all decked out in our cowboy hats. We soon learned that Elder Stanley’s horse had only one gear, a slow walk. And my little gray had just one speed and that was as fast as it could go. With a slight nudge my horse was off like a shot charging down the dirt road. As I neared the elementary school, the kids could hear my horse approaching at full gallop and ran to the fence to get a good look. They were surprised to see Elder Rogers racing his horse like he was in the Kentucky Derby. I waved to the kids as I sped by pretending all was well. Still wildly galloping I swung the little gray in a wide circle through a nearby field and came racing back past the gaggle of wide-eyed kids crowded along the fence, and soon darted around Elder Stanley who was still plodding along almost where I’d left him.

      As I flew past the trading post my nice brown Stetson hat blew off and landed on the ground next to the gas pumps. Without warning my horse suddenly slammed on the brakes, and the horse and I both came to an abrupt halt at the corral’s gate.  Quickly tying up my horse, I ran back to retrieve my hat, but it wasn’t there. What! Where could it have gone? Looking about I spotted an old timer in a rocking chair on the porch of the trading post. I called to him, “Did you see my cowboy hat laying here on the ground?”  He replied, “Yup.” “Do you know where it went?” “Yup.” “Well, could you please tell me?” “Yup. See that beat up truck driving away?” “Yes.” “While you were tying up the horse, that big boy in the truck picked up you hat, tried it on for size, and is now driving off with it.” “Do you know that hastiin?” “Nope. Never seen the feller before.” When I looked back down the road, there was Elder Stanley sitting tall in the saddle, shrouded in a cloud of dust kicked up by the hat thief’s rusted out pile of junk.
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Rust bucket

      Not to be deterred by our mismatched, stubborn horses we made a plan. I would run ahead until my horse began to tire, then dismount and wait for Elder Stanley on “Old Slowpoke” to catch up. Our first visit was to be the Largo Camp, about a mile jaunt up hill through the pinyon pines, so off we went: running, walking, waiting; running, walking, waiting. Again running ahead I finally reached the Largo Camp. My horse still had plenty of pep with no plans of slowing down, so I kept running her around the Hogan until she finally got the idea that this was a good place to stop. The Largos’ youngsters thought this was great entertainment. Their surprised little faces appeared as they looked out the window on the side of the Hogan. And then they dashed to the window on the other side. They didn’t want to miss a thing. The circus had come to town!

      As my horse finally came to a stop Sister Largo, our Relief Society President, stepped outside, politely covering her mouth in the Navajo tradition, and still laughing at the wild entry. She finally looked up at me and asked, “Where is your companion?” “Oh, you mean, Elder Stanley? He should be along shortly!” I replied. Upon his eventual arrival, Sister Largo and her kids gave Elder Stanley a warm greeting.   

Cowboy Elders. Elder Stanley, and Elder Rogers (without his brown Stetson) at the Largos' camp.1965.

      We hadn’t planned a long visit. We just wanted to test out our new rides. But just before mounting up to leave, Elder Stanley said he had a brilliant idea. He had spent a lot of time on his grandmother’s ranch, and had become somewhat educated in the fine art of horsemanship. Looking at me he announced, “We need to trade bridles! Your horse needs my horse’s hackamore bit. That might help you keep her running under control.” He then immediately began removing the bridle from my horse. “Shouldn’t I put the reins around her neck to hold her?” I started to ask.  “No need. They just stand there,” he replied. I watched in horror as the bridle slipped off and my horse bolted away, running through the trees to who knows where. And to make matters worse, she still had Don Smouse’s prize saddle strapped to her back. Thoughtfully rubbing my chin I turned to Elder Stanley. “So they just stand there, huh?”

      After several hours of scouting the pine-covered canyons with no success, we reluctantly gave up the search and began the long ride down the mountain back to the trading post. With two Elders astride, the stubborn plodder was now slower than ever.  “What are we going to tell Brother Smouse when we get back?” I asked. “What do you mean WE, cowboy?” Elder Stanley quipped. “It was your horse that ran away!”

Don Smouse's corral behind the Elders' quarters at the Borrego Pass Trading Post.

      It was late afternoon when we finally arrived. I watched Elder Stanley’s retreating back as he made a quick get away to the corral to take care of his horse, leaving me to face the music. This was going to be tough! I put on my most humble face and went in search of Brother Don Smouse. When I found him he was just finishing his evening chores. I stood in silence, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Well, spit it out Elder! I have things to finish before dark,” barked Brother Smouse.  I started to explain what had happened to his horse and saddle. It was worse than telling my Dad I had just rolled his shiny new VW.

      After taking several deep breaths, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. I could tell he was about to explode. Fighting back the urge to express his deep displeasure, Don finally choked out, “ I’ll spread the word and maybe – just maybe - in a day or two someone might bring in the horse.”

        

Bye, bye money!

      Two days went by. No horse, no saddle. A sign appeared on the trading post door, “LOST. A small gray horse with saddle. $25 Reward.” Well, glory be! Would you believe, the horse and saddle showed up that afternoon. Elder Stanley and I dug deep into our meager reserves to come up with the reward money. Now in our minds the big question became, “Would Don ‘The Trader’ ever trust us with his horses again?”

       

STATE FAIR CARNIE

       The State Fair was coming to town: Animals, Music, Ferris Wheels and Cotton Candy. Every thrill ride known to man was going to be there. We gassed up the family car the night before and woke up at first light. We wanted to hit the rides early before the crowds arrived. Standing in line for rides was for suckers!

       

        We made the 50 miles from Provo to the Salt Lake Fairgrounds in record time, parked the car, bought a bundle of ride tickets, and were ready to enjoy the best the Fair had to offer. The first ride the kids ran to was the Octopus. They handed their tickets to the Carnie and jumped into the first car, securing the chrome bar tightly across their laps. Their eager looks broadcasted, “Push the button! Let’s get this show on the road!”

The Octopus ride at the State Fair.

      From across the park sounds of rides firing up and kids screeching began to fill the air. But, there they sat. Five minutes passed, enough time to have completed the Octopus ride and be off to the next thrill while the lines were still small. But, no! There they continued to sit, locked in their seats like caged animals. After ten minutes two more excited riders showed up and were locked in, but the ride stood still.

State Fair rides.

       More rides were coming alive all over the park. The sounds of joyous children were everywhere, except on the Octopus. I approached the Carnival Professional. They had looked long and hard to find this greasy haired, toothless, tattooed prison parolee. “Could you please start this ride?” I asked.

Typical Carnie.

        “Not 'til all them seats is full!” barked the Carnie. He was enjoying this. It was a power trip! Seeing a white collar family man squirm under his control was giving him goosebumps. “If you won’t start the ride, could you please take my kids off so they can move on to other rides?” “No can do! They have to wait.” Fifteen minutes had gone by and no one else had gotten on the ride. This could go on forever. I felt we were stuck in a horrible nightmare.

  

        Now twenty minutes had ticked by since our excited kiddos had been locked in their seats. The Fair was in full swing. I couldn’t believe this. We were caught in the “Twilight Zone.” The kids were stomping their feet and pounding on the sides of the car. “Do something, Dad!” they implored. 

The Twilight Zone.

       I approached the Carnie once more. “We’ve been here twenty minutes. It’s time to start the ride or let my kids get off!” He was grinding what was left of his teeth. Hatred for people like me was beginning to surface. His left eye was starting to twitch, his hands began squeezing into fists, his mouth and throat were making guttural noises before he spit a blob of tobacco juice just inches from my shoe. “I’ll let ‘em off. But they don’t get no tickets back!” he growled. “Whatever!” I replied. He smiled a sly grin and turned toward the ride. The kids were squawking, “Come on! Hurry up!” This slowed him to a snail’s crawl.

      While this was going on I noticed our tickets laying on the entrance stand. I snatched them and stuck them in my pocket, feeling a twinge of guilt for taking back my own tickets. Strange! Released from Carnival Lock Down the kids came running, eager to finally get on a real, moving ride.

        Suddenly, with the howl of a wounded animal, the Carnie was after us. “Give me them tickets!” In a flash we were toe to toe. He could certainly move fast now! His dirty-nailed hand was out and shaking. “The tickets!” “Oh, you mean MY tickets? The ones I paid for so my kids could actually go on a ride?” His shaking hand jerked upward, and quick as a striking rattler he grabbed my shirt and almost lifted me off the ground. He must have been pumping iron in prison for years. This guy was strong!

Musclebound iron pumping prison parolee.

        From behind me the kids were yelling, “Beat him up, Dad! Show him whose boss!” “Yeah, you want me to be toothless too?” I thought to myself. Just as my pride was shattering and the kids’ belief in their dad’s invincibility was quickly disappearing, a voice, as if from heaven, boomed, “Hey, Joe! Get the hell over here and do your job!” A slight pause, a moment of indecision, then a quick shove, and Joe the Carnie reluctantly trudged away.

State Fair Cotton Candy booth.

        The kids enjoyed the rides, the animals, the freaks, and the cotton candy, but I felt sick inside. My kids would always remember their dad being collared by Joe the Carnie for as long as carnivals  came to town.