18/03/2024
Some writing for today…
I met a legend the day I left Missoula, Montana.
It was a typical, windy summer day in the Bitteroot Valley, the kind that makes flying in a small plane a little unnerving, especially for people like me who only take to the friendly skies with the aid of fortitude and whiskey. I settled into my seat. And soon, my companion arrived, an old man in a crumpled suit, a western hat, a bolo tie, and a well worn yet well made leather bag. He took a seat, smiled, and buckled up. Soon we were in the air, the high peaks slipping away from below, heading to Salt Lake and, eventually, for me at least, on to Seattle.
I don’t really talk to people on planes, more out of my southern sense of duty and an unwielding idea that I might have to pray at a moment’s notice, so I need to stay away. That day, I was reading a book. Pam Houston’s “Cowboys Are My Weakness,” which is more of a love story than about cowboys. He smiled at me, sort of a weathered smile, and I noticed that he had a set of wrinkles around his eyes that could only be acquired bya person who has spent their time looking, intently, at things. Either a cowboy or a pilot.
About an hour later, out of nowhere, he said, “This is the first time I’ve been out of Montana since 1969 when I went down to Vernon Texas to see Blackie’s grave.”
At this point, I couldn’t help it. I had to know.
“Who was Blackie,” I asked. And he smiled. “He was a little horse named Poco Bueno.”
A few things about me. I spent my childhood, and most of my life thereafter, obsessed with the pedigrees and stories of famous horses. Secretariat. Bold Ruler. Bask. Merry Go Boy. And, yes, Poco Bueno, who is considered one of the foundation horses of the American Quarter Horse.
For the next two hours, between shots of whiskey and little bags of peanuts, my new friend regaled me with stories of Texas ranch life in the 50s. Growing up on a ranch in Sweetwater, Texas. How he and his brother used to amuse themselves by snapping the heads off of rattlesnakes by grabbing them by the tail. How they married sisters and had a business cropdusting. How they eventually decamped for Montana in the mid-60s. And dozens of stories about that gracious little firebrand of a horse, Poco Bueno, who apparently ‘loved the ladies’ and anyone could ride.
Poco Bueno died in 1969. He’s buried on the Waggoner Ranch in Vernon, Texas. He’s in the Quarter Horse Hall of Fame. He was, in short, royalty.
One of my favorite horses growing up was a little mare named Hancock’s Grace. The day I got her as a birthday present I took her to a show in a neighboring town and won everything they had, mostly because of her experience as a show horse, not my experience as a rider. I told him a few stories about her as well, and he laughed when I told him that she’d kick any horse that got too close to her in the arena.
The camaraderie of horsepeople. It’s unmatched.
Soon our flight was over and we were on the ground in Salt Lake. At the baggage claim he looked, small, old, frail, and a little worried about a flight delay and the fact that his grandson had not arrived to retrieve him. To look at him, you would never know he had lived a life of legendary adventures, of horses and ranches and rattlesnakes and cropdusting and community dances at the only meeting place in what was literally a one horse town. I collected my bag and smiled at him. “Take care of yourself, girl,” he offered in parting. And then kissed me on the hand. He vanished into the crowd.
Are cowboys still my weakness? Damn straight.
