It was never an aspiration of mine to start colts, nor did I intentionally define myself as a horsewoman by riding young horses. I was born into a horse family that reached generations back, but for most of my life, acknowledging myself as a horsewoman was not something I considered. Instead, I accredited myself to hold the title of daughter and granddaughter of ranchers and cowboys.
When I was six years old, I accompanied my grandpa Ken on horseback, moving cows on his ranch on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation. We rode along telling each other stories, and I mentioned how fast I was on my horse. Upon hearing me brag, my grandpa had the bright idea to challenge me to a race. I hesitated, not wanting to beat the old cowboy and hurt his feelings for losing to a little girl, but I accepted his offer.
Ready, set, go! We whipped and spurred, and off we went with the wind in my hair and my horse's mane. Glancing behind me, I saw that I was winning, but soon realized he was holding back.
As a kid, I was never concerned about a horse dumping me. Knowing I would stay in the saddle, I could jolt off on a cold horse in a race. I'm from a long line of rodeo people and cattlemen. Horses were always a presence, both on the ranch and in the arena, yet I do not recall seeing anyone start a colt on either my parents' or grandparents' ranch. Work had to be done, and no time could be wasted waiting for a colt to be ready to drag a calf or rodeo primed.
Many years later, I married a cowboy who started colts as a source of supplemental income. Together, we built a cattle ranch of our own. I knew nothing about riding colts before marrying him. I used to watch him work in the round pen, observing his moves and asking subtle questions. At that time, it never crossed my mind that I would ever ride a colt. Eventually, I worked my way to putting the first rides on a few outside horses.
Fast forwarding to when my husband and I parted ways, I found myself in deep anguish. The hurt and pain, accompanied by confusion and anger, filled all my days with a gamut of emotions. My focus during the divorce was to provide for a filly I bought prior to the separation and hopefully find someone to start her. In facing many obstacles I had at the time, I wasn't able to send her to anyone. I contemplated selling her, but something inside me pondered the idea of starting her myself. I began studying the skill of colt starting. I spent many hours watching videos, reading books, going to clinics, and riding with some of the country's best cowboys.
During this time, I also spent many hours sitting in the saddle with tears rolling down my face. Sometimes, I found myself in the backcountry screaming at the top of my lungs in frustration. And every so often, I got the air knocked out of me after hitting the ground fairly hard. There was definitely blood, sweat, tears, and a few broken bones.
After about four years of this work, I realized colt starting was more than just a skill. A big part of it is having the right mindset. I admit my mind was scattered during this time, but I stayed dedicated to working my colt. In the end, she saved my life. It is understood in our Lakota ways that horses are exceptionally spiritual animals and are a direct path from the human spirit to the creator. I've come to understand that my horse was sent to heal me. She was calm and forbearing as I processed the hurt I was holding deep inside me. The creator knew I would listen to the horse when I would not accept healing anywhere else.
In progressing my colt to day working for local ranchers, I thought I was just picking up a check, but I was also picking up magic along the way. I worked for a particular rancher at least once every other week who would sometimes send me down the road to neighboring ranches. The work was always horseback, often during busy times of the year, but mostly, it was just me riding among the rolling hills. The alone time with my horse was very therapeutic. She listened to and heard all my secrets and let me practice imaginary conversations I wanted to have with people. She stepped tried and true while carrying me on her back as I processed all my emotions. She took care of me from the time I first threw a leg over her to the time she brought her first calf to the fire. She carried me through my darkest moments to my brightest.
When a rancher showed me the kindness of allowing me to rope and drag my horse's first calf at his branding, it felt a bit like divine intervention. I got off my horse after pulling a few with perfect ease, only to be questioned by the rancher inquiring if this truly was my horse's first branding. He asked my name, where I was from, and who my family was. I told him my grandpa's name, and he responded with, "Well, I'll be damn." As it turns out, the rancher held my grandpa in high esteem and welcomed me back to day work for him anytime.
Reflecting on the cowboying I was doing on a horse that I started myself led me to believe I could do hard things. I learned what bravery was on many counts, and that on the other side of bravery is healing. Colt starting is not an easy endeavor and can be dangerous for both rider and horse. The perilousness hanging over my head in doing something I was not skilled at led me to be mindful in all my moves. Eventually, the performance of my horse and getting called to work for ranchers proved I had some skill. It was the novice skill that most people saw. Still, they were indistinctly witnessing a divorced woman in despair transform into a confident, persevering woman with renewed self-love. I cherish the healing process colts allowed me to have, along with the surprise outcome of having many stories to tell.
Someday, I'll ride alongside my grandpa again and tell him all about it.
