PrintThe calves trot into the arena. A mosaic of shape, size and color—brown, dun, chestnut, rust, white and black—slowly fills out the back wall. Bruce's stallion, Joker, flings his head as the two of them stand by the gate; he is getting the worst of the dust.
I am riding Three-sixty, a 2-year-old chestnut Quarter Horse mare, and Rhiannon is atop a young Quarter Horse gelding named Abra. The two of us will be turning back the calves for Bruce. I look over at the calves as they straggle in. The last few stumble into a canter and forget to stop before entering the herd; commotion and fear ripple out from the crash site.
Rhiannon takes her reins in two hands and looks over at me. “You ever do this before?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“In theory it's pretty simple. The herd stays on the back wall. Bruce walks through them and separates a calf. Once that calf is isolated, Joker goes to work. His job is to keep the calf from getting back to the herd. Cutting. It's pretty straightforward.”
Rhiannon takes up a position about 40 feet from the calves. I follow her lead and nudge my mare forward so we are facing the calves and are about 20 feet apart. Thus we are about a third of the way up the ring, with the herd on the back wall, and Bruce, mounted now, is between us and the herd.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“We stop the calf that Bruce is working from running to the other end of the arena. We turn it back. We're the turn-backers.”
“Sounds easy enough,” I look over at her, squinting to keep the sun out of my eyes. Rhiannon looks right back at me. “It's not,” she says. And then, “Get ready!”
I look back at the calves. Bruce is now in the middle of them; they bump and push their way away from him. Although Joker is small, I can see his shoulders above the herd. Bruce has picked out a calf that he thinks will work for him, and as he slowly drives it forward, the other calves move with it at first, but one at a time they separate and flock back together behind Bruce.
The calf, brown with a white face, is now isolated from its herd and faces Bruce and Joker—the only thing separating it from the safety that numbers provide. The calf runs to the left, thinking it will skip around Bruce. Its eyes are wide and still unsuspecting.
And then Joker goes to work. He lowers his hindquarters; his back pushes the saddle up; his head goes down. He’s transformed from an obedient animal into a willing partner. The tempo doubles, and I find I cannot not watch as Joker tracks the cow. Bruce sits deep in the saddle, his legs slip momentarily forward as Joker pivots on his haunches. One canter stride and Joker is parallel to the calf, blocking his return. The calf, eyes larger now, and watery too, turns the other way. I hear the slap of hooves on sand as Joker turns again in time with the calf. Joker’s ears are pointed, his nostrils have picked up the scent; the game is on. In no other equestrian pursuit is the ability of the horse to think for itself so necessary and so apparent.
The calf finally turns tail on Bruce and Joker, looking for escape, looking for a way past Rhiannon.
