BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN!

Lone Ranger and Silver.

      Yippee ki-yay! We were back in the saddle again! Our trader, Don Smouse, agreed with Elder Stanley. My horse needed a hackamore. Using it on my small gray mare would give me much needed control. She still had the urge to take off running every chance she got, but the new bit helped bring her to a more manageable stop.

Bit, Bridle and Hackamore.

      You might think that riding horses on their mission would be every Elder’s dream. But it did have a downside. We quickly learned where the term “pain in the butt” must have originated. We also had a theory as to why cowboys walked bowlegged. After a week in the saddle our thighs and calves were rubbed raw, and just walking around made our legs feel like they were on fire. We were as bowlegged as any cowboy on the planet. Old Yosemite Sam would have been proud! It never ceased to amuse the locals as they smirked while watching us gingerly hobble about conducting our daily business. “What you boys need is some of them leather chaps,” they would smugly comment.

Yosemite Sam

      Except for a couple of bizarre situations, we coped with our painful riding days just fine. One particularly crisp morning when you could see the steam from the horses’ nostrils hanging in the air, we mounted up and were on our way down the canyon for a special appointment. The Little Toms expected us to arrive on “Navajo time” – which basically meant whenever we got there. Their place was made up of three hogans, several small outbuildings and the usual wooden sheep pens. Three of our best Relief Society women occupied the hogans. Hastiin Little Tom seemed to have a close relationship with each of the ladies and their families. Usually there were playful youngsters scurrying about the camp. Sometimes it was difficult to figure out just who belonged to whom.

Navajo Relief Society sisters from Little Toms' camp. 1965.

      On this particular visit we had been asked to bring my portable tape-recorder with lessons in fluent Navajo to help teach some of the older folks, who only understood Navajo. The younger generation were quite comfortable carrying on a conversation in English.

      Elder Stanley had purchased a deluxe speaker to complement my Panasonic reel-to-reel. He gently cradled his prize speaker with one arm while reining his horse with the other. I was doing the same thing guarding my precious tape-recorder.  About a quarter mile from our destination Elder Stanley shouted, “My saddle is loose! I need to tighten the cinch.”

Elder Stanley was using a saddle and cinch similar to the ones in this image.

     We stopped and he dismounted. I looped the reins tightly around the saddle horn and took his speaker for safekeeping, encouraging him to make it quick. I wasn't sure how long I could trust my restless mount. Perhaps it was Elder Stanley’s groan as he tugged at the cinch, or the snorting of his horse, but suddenly my little gray took off running. With the reins still tied around the saddle horn, it was all I could do to stay in the saddle while holding the speaker in one hand and the recorder in the other. I could have let go of either one and grabbed the reins to gain control, but this really wasn’t an option.  

Pegasus

      The rapid hoof beats of the approaching horse aroused the attention of the children who had been playing and waiting excitedly for the Elders to arrive on horseback. They must have been surprised to see me on my wildly galloping horse, with arms outstretched and flapping wildly like a giant bird. Together we probably resembled a winged Pegasus.

Old-fashioned wire clothesline

      My attention shifted to what lay ahead. The little gray was making a beeline for a wire clothesline stretched across our path. The horse would make it under the wire with no problem, but it was the rider I was concerned about. Ducking low in the saddle and dropping my arms as far to the sides as possible, I heard a loud “RIP” as the wire slid across my back. My runaway stopped at the first Hogan and casually looked back at me as if to say, “This is the place. Right?”

     When Elder Stanley finally caught up I asked him to take a look at the back of my sweater. “Looks like your sweater now has air-conditioning,” he grinned. “Really? My new birthday sweater!” I groaned. What would I tell Mom in my next letter home? Well, a ripped sweater was much preferable to a decapitated son.

Sweater before air-conditioning

      All in all the recorder and speaker were just what the doctor ordered. The older folks understood the lesson in Navajo and appreciated our efforts to make things easier for them. “Ahéhe, ahéhe, ahéhe!” were their parting words of gratitude as we mounted up to leave the Little Toms Camp.

 

Elderly Navajo couple

 
    On another occasion Elder Stanley and I saddled up and headed east toward the far side of our area to visit the Thompson-Livingston camp. We never knew if the adults would be home. If not, they usually left their oldest daughter Louise in charge of her brothers, sisters and cousins living in the two Hogans. Louise was a very capable young woman, and made sure all the youngsters were fed, had clean clothes, and went to school. She also wanted them to be taught by the Elders.

Postcard from Navajo country. 1960s.

      Getting to their place by truck wasn’t so bad, but getting there on horseback was a different story. The distance from where we lived was almost eight miles, and by the time we got close we were tired, sore and cranky. If you continued to follow the dirt road it was still a couple of miles to reach their camp. But if we could find an opening in the fence surrounding their property the distance would be considerably shorter. From where we sat on horseback you could almost see their place. It was just over the next rise.

     

Strand of barbwire

     I was determined to find a shorter route by following the fence line cross-country. Elder Stanley felt that if there was no gate we would have to come all the way back, which seemed like a real waste of time, to say nothing of the additional pain. We were at a stalemate, both of us refusing to concede.  “Elders Pride” was a big deal, so a bet was made as to who would arrive first. There HAD to be a way through the fence.

     So, we were off, my speedy little gray following the fence and Elder Stanley’s horse doing a great imitation of a fast walk down the road. I followed the fence line carefully searching for a way through. No luck. To my disappointment, the fence eventually butted up against a steep cliff. The Thompson-Livingston camp was right there just over the hill, which happened to be just over the fence. Dang, dang, double dang! This dilemma was driving me crazy! Maybe Elder Stanley was right. But I would never admit it. There was only one solution: the little gray and I HAD to jump the fence.

Barbwire fence

     There were only four strands of barbed wire. What’s the worse thing that could happen? Well, the horse could stop short and throw me over its neck into the barbed wire. I  refused to consider anything but sailing over the fence. A short distance back I had spotted a place in the fence where the top strand of wire hung a little lower than the rest. This is where we would make the jump.

     I spoke encouragingly to the horse while stroking her neck. “You can do it girl. You can do it!” I softly whispered. Her ears twitched as if she understood my plan. At 30 feet from the fence I gave the little gray a quick nudge. She surged forward moving faster and faster as we closed in on our target. That’s when it happened: we were flying up,  up and over the sharp wires. Glory be! We made it. What a horse! Oh, what joy! We still had a chance to win. Maybe my pride would be left intact after all.

Bucking bronco

      As we crested the last hill a strange sight greeted us. There on the flat land leading to the camp was Elder Stanley, on foot, running after his horse. It was fascinating to see how fast that horse could move with him chasing it. Come to find out, Elder Stanley, in a desperate effort to win, took to whipping his horse with the reins. This made his horse run, but also brought out a new talent: he turned out to be a "world class bucker." It had launched Elder Stanley off his back like a rodeo cowboy on a losing streak.

James Livingston

       From the corner of my eye I saw one of the Livingston boys on horseback streaking to the rescue. Expertly swirling a lariat above his head and lassoing the runaway horse, he brought it under control, making the capture look easy. We all shared a good laugh before the three of us rode into camp. After witnessing the fiasco, we found everyone in high spirits and beginning to gather for a gospel lesson. Just another spectacular entry! -- This incident clearly demonstrated that even broken pride and stubborn Elders couldn’t stand in the way of the Lord’s work.

Mesa scenery near Borrego Pass, NM.

      It was a long, sore ride back up the mesa to our place. Maybe riding horses wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  The next day our District Leader contacted us and explained that we were to ride in the back of their truck to an All-Mission Conference in Mesa, Arizona, where a replacement vehicle would be waiting for us. For better or worse our horse riding days were coming to an end. 

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?”