Looking back to September 2011
A LIFETIME WITH HORSES, by Sheila Varian
September 20 11
286A
lifetime
rabians The CaTTle Drive by S h e il a Va rian
CLICK TO VIEW
September
Lifetime
rabians
The CaTTle Drive by S h e il a Va r i a n
288A | A r A bi A n Hor se T i mes
Arabian Horse Times columnist Sheila Varian has been busy this past year. In addition to her ranch duties, she’s done everything from walking the tundra to teaching at the highly-respected Light Hands Horsemanship Clinic. We welcome her back with a report on one of her favorite pursuits, one which few people get to experience: gathering cattle the same way our ancestors did—on horseback.
SEP TEMBER 2011 | 289A
Those
of us who grew up in the 1950s and 1960s are familiar with cattle drives from the television westerns, and I expect most people figure that that sort of thing is just a piece of history now. The long-distance drives from Texas to Montana, or to Kansas City to ship the cattle, are no longer, but the routine of looking for cattle in the rugged parts of my country, gathering them up to move to a new part of the ranch, is not. That goes on today much the same as it did 150 years ago. My telephone is ringing from my rancher friends and relatives to gather cattle, especially in the early spring when branding time arrives and then in June when all the shipping of the steers and weaned calves is done. This is an account of a drive this summer.
T
he first necessity for cattle work of this kind is a very capable horse. I have two that I ride, Jubilation and Murrietta V. Those two I can take anywhere, through anything, over anything, and they stay quiet when everything goes to hell in a handbasket. When you’re driving cattle any distance, it’s usually quiet and you’re going slow, but when you have to hurry, it’s four-bells-a-jingle.
T
his particular cattle drive was for my cousin, Jack Varian, at the V6 Ranch, 20,000 acres in the Cholame Valley and the Timbler Mountains, about halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Jack is very much a holistic rancher; he really understands the land and how to feed it, so he moves the cattle to allow the land to rest. Over the years, many ranchers have overfed their land, and the native grasses have nearly disappeared. Unfortunately, the hardy but poor-quality grasses come up where the native grasses have been overgrazed, leaving what we call “starvation grass,” which means the cattle don’t do well. Jack has about 1,000 head of cattle on the V6, and he is making a strong effort to let the native grasses come back. Because he doesn’t overfeed, the V6 will eventually return to the grasses that were native to the state a hundred years ago.
Lifetime
rabians
T
he plan this time was to start with the cattle we could find on the lower part of the ranch and drive them up the Slopes, gathering more as we went, probably about 200 head. At a place called the Fresno Gate, we would count the cattle before heading on over the top to the Mustang Field and finally on to the Rambo country. That would leave the West Slopes free until next year, so that they have a good cover of grass to protect the winter and spring grasses as they come up.
W
e knew that if we could get most of the drive done in a day, it was going to be a really long day. If you’re riding on a ranch and you want to eat, you put a sandwich in your pocket and eat as you ride. Jack takes an apple and some other little thing and that’s what he eats. When we were kids, no one thought about drinking water; my father always said, “If you’re thirsty, suck on a rock” (which works, by the way). Nowadays, I take a peanut butter sandwich, some nuts, water, a knife, string to fix what breaks, and a flashlight. If you come home in the dark, trying to read a gate combo by the light of no moon is nigh onto impossible.
F
or this ride, we had photographer April Visel and her husband, Brandon, along for pictures and to enjoy the opportunity to actually move cattle for real—a working drive, one that wasn’t set up for a lot of people, one where you have a job and don’t come home till it is done (which well may be in the dark). For obvious reasons, that’s not an opportunity that comes along unless you know the ranchers, are experienced working cattle, and have your own horses. We were able to mount April and Brandon from Jack’s ranch horses, and they earned their keep with more than just photographs.
I
t was a typical, but memorable, drive. This country is big country; you can see the Sierra Nevada Range from the top on a good day. And this year we’ve had such wonderful rains at such perfect times that the feed has been astonishing—truly California golden at its best. The air was clean and the day wasn’t too hot. It was the kind of day that makes you feel lucky to be out with good people and good horses, doing a job that needs to be done.
This story continues in the September AA issue on page 298.
298AA
See page 286 in the September A issue for the first half of this story.
We
met at the V6 on Tuesday afternoon. There was Jack, an apprentice girl from France named Naomi, my girlfriend Kristin Reynolds, and April and Brandon and me. That afternoon, we pushed about 50 head of cattle maybe a half mile up the Slopes, and we left them there to re-gather in the morning.
A
t 6:30 the next morning, Jack ’s daughter Lilly, his grandson Brinnin, and granddaughters Samantha and Sage joined us. Samantha, 8, and Sage, 13, are already full-f ledged cowgirls. As babies, they rode in front of Lilly on a pillow, and by the time they were 2, they could ride alone. Jack split us into two groups: Jack, Brinnin, Naomi, and I would take the higher line, while Lilly, Samantha, Sage, Kristin, April and Brandon covered the middle and lower part of the Slopes. We would all meet at the Fresno Gate about noon (hopefully). We were picking up all the cattle we could find along the way and pushing them east toward the Rambo, where eventually we were going to end up. Some of the time, my group could look down and see the others moving along, and they could sometimes see us as well. We all knew it would take about four hours to gather and push the cattle to the Fresno Gate.
O
ne of the things about moving cattle—one reason experience is important—is that you have to be very aware of who’s doing what. Since it’s Jack ’s ranch, Jack was the boss, of course. When we split up Wednesday morning, he called off each rider’s name and where they were to ride. You don’t question it or pick where you might like to go. You might have a preference or like a certain area better, but you keep those spots to yourself and go where the boss tells you to go. It’s that way on all ranches.
Lifetime
rabians A
290A | A R A BI A N HOR Se T I MeS
nother thing you have to know whenever you work cattle on someone else’s ranch is
298AA | A R A BI A N HOR SE T I MES
299AA
that they will tell you what they’re going to do sort of. Sometimes they will tell you where they want you to go at a particular time. They’ll say things like “well, ride up to the second white oak tree (with a finger pointing in the general direction) and up the draw, and wait there until the cattle come by,” because they know that cattle will circle back around if no one is there, and if you aren’t where you are supposed to be and the cattle get away, there will be more hours of riding. (If that happens, no one says anything, but it sure gets quiet, and you’ll be hoping it isn’t your last time on that ranch.) Of course, you don’t know which white oak tree they’re talking about, or, for that matter, which draw. You’re wondering if you’re under the right tree or not, but you do it. The key is, you do not ask the difference between a white oak and a black oak. Those are things they figure you know. It’s the cowboy way. Don’t ask.
O
f course, if the cattle don’t go in the direction the boss wants, then everything changes. So, you have to be aware of what’s happening and know the direction you’re going and have ridden ranch country enough, even if it isn’t the ranch you are on, to be able to guess that cattle might be down there or up here, and know how to look for them and where they’re going to be at a certain time of day because cattle tend to do the same things. So, you’re going to be thinking “I’ll ride and check down that draw” or “there might be something up under that grove of trees,” and you’ll split it up and you may not see anybody for a while. But you know you’re going east, and you know you’ll run into a fence sometime and you’ll just follow the fence down and eventually you’ll run into everybody else. Probably.
S
o we just kept picking up cattle, and Lilly, Sage and Samantha, Kristin, April and Brandon were doing the same thing. We finally made the Fresno Gate around noon and held the cattle up. By this time, we probably had about a couple of hundred head. When everyone was there, Jack opened the gate to the Fresno and two or three counters counted the cattle coming through so that he would know how many head we had gathered and were taking on to the Rambo country. That allowed others of us to ride ahead to block holes in the brush the cattle might head into, which is what cattle do. SEP TEMBER 2011 | 299AA
SEP TEMBER 2011 |291A
See page 286 in the September A issue for the first half of this story.
We
met at the V6 on Tuesday afternoon. There was Jack, an apprentice girl from France named Naomi, my girlfriend Kristin Reynolds, and April and Brandon and me. That afternoon, we pushed about 50 head of cattle maybe a half mile up the Slopes, and we left them there to re-gather in the morning.
A
t 6:30 the next morning, Jack ’s daughter Lilly, his grandson Brinnin, and granddaughters Samantha and Sage joined us. Samantha, 8, and Sage, 13, are already full-f ledged cowgirls. As babies, they rode in front of Lilly on a pillow, and by the time they were 2, they could ride alone. Jack split us into two groups: Jack, Brinnin, Naomi, and I would take the higher line, while Lilly, Samantha, Sage, Kristin, April and Brandon covered the middle and lower part of the Slopes. We would all meet at the Fresno Gate about noon (hopefully). We were picking up all the cattle we could find along the way and pushing them east toward the Rambo, where eventually we were going to end up. Some of the time, my group could look down and see the others moving along, and they could sometimes see us as well. We all knew it would take about four hours to gather and push the cattle to the Fresno Gate.
O
ne of the things about moving cattle—one reason experience is important—is that you have to be very aware of who’s doing what. Since it’s Jack ’s ranch, Jack was the boss, of course. When we split up Wednesday morning, he called off each rider’s name and where they were to ride. You don’t question it or pick where you might like to go. You might have a preference or like a certain area better, but you keep those spots to yourself and go where the boss tells you to go. It’s that way on all ranches.
Lifetime
rabians A
nother thing you have to know whenever you work cattle on someone else’s ranch is
298AA | A R A BI A N HOR Se T I meS
that they will tell you what they’re going to do sort of. Sometimes they will tell you where they want you to go at a particular time. They’ll say things like “well, ride up to the second white oak tree (with a finger pointing in the general direction) and up the draw, and wait there until the cattle come by,” because they know that cattle will circle back around if no one is there, and if you aren’t where you are supposed to be and the cattle get away, there will be more hours of riding. (If that happens, no one says anything, but it sure gets quiet, and you’ll be hoping it isn’t your last time on that ranch.) Of course, you don’t know which white oak tree they’re talking about, or, for that matter, which draw. You’re wondering if you’re under the right tree or not, but you do it. The key is, you do not ask the difference between a white oak and a black oak. Those are things they figure you know. It’s the cowboy way. Don’t ask.
O
f course, if the cattle don’t go in the direction the boss wants, then everything changes. So, you have to be aware of what’s happening and know the direction you’re going and have ridden ranch country enough, even if it isn’t the ranch you are on, to be able to guess that cattle might be down there or up here, and know how to look for them and where they’re going to be at a certain time of day because cattle tend to do the same things. So, you’re going to be thinking “I’ll ride and check down that draw” or “there might be something up under that grove of trees,” and you’ll split it up and you may not see anybody for a while. But you know you’re going east, and you know you’ll run into a fence sometime and you’ll just follow the fence down and eventually you’ll run into everybody else. Probably.
S
o we just kept picking up cattle, and Lilly, Sage and Samantha, Kristin, April and Brandon were doing the same thing. We finally made the Fresno Gate around noon and held the cattle up. By this time, we probably had about a couple of hundred head. When everyone was there, Jack opened the gate to the Fresno and two or three counters counted the cattle coming through so that he would know how many head we had gathered and were taking on to the Rambo country. That allowed others of us to ride ahead to block holes in the brush the cattle might head into, which is what cattle do.
SEP TEMBER 2011 | 299AA
W
e were on a two-track road at the time, and cattle being cattle, instead of staying on the road, some of them dumped off the side and down into a heavily wooded area, even though we had holes covered. We sent in the dogs, who are all border collies and good working dogs, but it was very brushy and steep. The dogs couldn’t always get into some of the undergrowth, so there we were, trying to get cattle back up to the road, while at the same time, Brandon and April continued to push the rest of the herd up the hill; otherwise they’d all have headed for the brush. There was a lot of noise, a lot of yelling and shouting and barking, and eventually everybody showed up with most of the cattle (hopefully all). There were a lot of sweaty horses when we eventually got to the top.
T
he cattle filed into a football-field-sized hollow, and we waited for anybody with stragglers to arrive. We knew when we saw Jack up ahead, standing on the hill, facing the cattle, that he wanted to give them a rest. We spread out, each about 40 or 50 yards around, to hold the cattle from other sides. When Jack turned and rode toward the Rambo, we started them along again.
I
t took another hour to get to the gate into Mustang Field. As we approached, I saw Sage take off around the cattle at a gallop, and I realized that the gate up ahead, which should have been closed, must be open. If the cattle were to get there first and get through it, they would all head down to the bottom of the Mustang, which would mean another three hours of hard riding, gathering them up and getting them back on the trail to the Rambo again. I high-tailed it after her, got through the gate ahead of the cattle, and made sure they stayed on the trail towards the Rambo.
I
n due course, we got to the Mustang holding pens and some water for the cattle and horses, and we took that moment to grab a bite ourselves. Most times, you just eat whatever you have with you while you ride, but this time, we were at the campground Jack uses when he’s leading one of the ranch’s “dude cattle drives.” He has four cattle drives a year for paying
Lifetime
rabians
300AA | A R A BI A n HOR Se T I MeS
guests who want to experience what it’s like to gather cattle. (They even get fed!) So, we got a few minutes to eat, and then we mounted up.
T
hings had been going far too smoothly. Other than the cattle going off into the brush after we came through the gate into the Fresno Field,
the drive had moved pretty much by the book. That changed as we came away from the campground; it is very hard to get the cattle out of that area. That countryside is full of scrub oak, which is low and sticky, and you and your clothes take a real beating—I had gloves on and I got my hands bloody and clothes ripped up. The horses just have
to put their heads down and bully through it. There was poison oak too, so thick you couldn’t even ride through it. I don’t get poison oak, so I wasn’t thinking about it. Brandon was there, and I’m yelling, “Brandon, give me your horse! You climb in there and push the cattle out!” Little did I know, Brandon does get poison oak—but he didn’t say a
SEP TEMBER 2011 | 301AA
word (must want to be a cowboy). He jumped off his horse and went wading into the poison oak, yelling at the cattle to get out. We had cattle everywhere and there was a lot of crashing and yelling, because as soon as the cattle were out of the scrub oak, some of them circled around and went back in again. The dogs really got after them, biting their heels, noses and ears, until they lined out and got back on the trail. How we ever did this before the dogs, I don’t know. I do remember doing a lot more tying my horse and struggling through the brush on my hands and knees to push the cattle out of bad places.
T
here was no quitting, and so eventually with the dogs barking, people yelling and horses pushing, the cattle gave up and moved back to the trail. When we arrived at the Rambo, we re-counted to see if we had lost any cows, and watered the horses. By that time, it was 4:00 and we’d been working for nearly 10 hours. The trip back to the ranch
Lifetime
rabians
302AA | A R A BI A N HoR Se T I meS
house is all downhill and took another couple of hours, so by the time we finally arrived home, the sun was setting and we’d been riding for nearly 12 hours. Brandon’s smile was a little slow in coming, but nary a complaining word came from him, and April was her always-energetic self. We rinsed, watered and fed the horses and were able to take a shower ourselves—thank heavens for modern conveniences!
I
suppose rounding up cattle might sound picturesque and romantic to those who have never done it. What is it about the job I always look forward to, that makes me happy and feeling fulfilled?
I
t’s the country. It’s the unexpected, not knowing what is going to happen that day. It’s what will you find? What beautiful thing will appear? The other day on a gather at the Alisal, an historic old ranch in Santa Ynez, I saw a bald eagle up close, sitting in the top of a tree in the foggy mist of an early morning. Now, what gets better than that?
will comment, “That’s really a nice horse, Sheila.” That means I have one of the best horses there. All the horses are used to riding hard; they take a long day in stride. They’re quiet and they tie to anything or just stand waiting. They don’t cause any trouble, they know what they’re doing and they do their job.
F
or sure, it’s life-refreshing. There is you and who you are riding with, watching and being aware and looking and not asking very much. You don’t have somebody telling you every move to make. You figure it out; you see what somebody else needs and you back them up. You back them up, they back you up. Ranch kids learn that lesson when they are tiny little things.
F
or me, Dave Stamey expresses it best when he sings “Night Rider’s Lament,” by Mike Burton, where a cowboy’s friend observes that he must be crazy to ride for short pay. I’ll paraphrase his answer. “Have you ever seen the Northern Lights? Ever seen a hawk on the wing?”
I
t’s doing something with other people, but not close, not with telephones or sound—the birds are the music. The brook is music. The cattle noises are music. Once in a while, you visit a little bit with the others, usually about the weather or the feed or how the cattle look (this year it’s that they’re in such great shape) or how the creek is running.
I
t’s the essence of a job on your horse’s back and getting the job done well, meaning just getting all the cattle to where they are supposed to go. Maybe it’s because that world is simple and there is no complaining. If you get hurt, you keep it to yourself, since that’s the cowboy way. On a rare occasion if someone (and it won’t be a cowboy) asks, “Are you hurt?” just say, “I’m fine,” unless your leg is falling off. And then just say it’s fine.
I
t’s the joy of a really good horse. It’s not something that you brag about or that anyone talks about very much. The most I ever hear, riding an Arabian in Quarter Horse country, is that people
Sheila Varian of Arroyo Grande, Calif., has bred, trained and shown Arabians for more than half a century. Now in its ninth generation, the Varian Arabians program is a dynasty of her bloodlines, with national champions in nearly every division. She has been a leading breeder at Scottsdale and the U.S. Nationals many times, and in 2008 received the USEF/ Performance Horse Registry Leading Breeder Award, a selection made over all breeds. Sheila’s own record includes U.S. and Canadian National Championships in halter, English, park, stock horse, and western. She is a recognized authority in the equine industry as a whole, and was inducted into the Cowgirl Hall of Fame in Fort Worth, Texas, in 2003. Her techniques for socializing and training horses are based on the “soft approach” of the legendary Tom Dorrance, with whom she was close friends from their introduction in the 1960s until his death in 2003. For more information on Varian Arabians, and its April Spring Fling and August Summer Jubilee weekends, please go to www. varianarabians.com. For more information on the V6, please go to www.parkfield.com. SEP TEMBER 2011 | 303AA