Guest Posts on County 10 are provided by contributors and the opinions, thoughts, and comments within are their own and may not necessarily reflect those of County 10.
I’ve never been much of a horseman. Yes, I can saddle a horse, I’ve herded cows on horseback, and I’ve even managed to rope a handful of calves after multiple attempts, but I’m far from a cowboy.
My grandfather was a true horseman, as you’d might expect from someone who served in the cavalry.
Not the flamboyant U.S. Cavalry of Hollywood fame, but more along the lines of the reality of serving in a cavalry unit, caring for horses, feeding them, cleaning stalls, and drilling incessantly. Add cutting hay by hand and stacking it with pitchforks onto wagons, and the excitement of riding into battle soon loses its luster.
Corporal Eugene Gasser served in the Swiss Cavalry from 1915 to 1919. As a private, he won a gold cup in clearing 7-4 on his horse, Firpo, in a national equestrian jumping competition.
Disgusted with what he saw in Europe after the end of the Great War (World War I) he came to America where those equestrian skills were put to use as a sheepherder near Hailey on Beaver Creek and later a rancher on the Bar Gee north of Morton before retiring from the saddle and moving to Gasser Road, the road that bears his name in 1938.
My father, growing up in Arkansas, was familiar with mules, but not horses. Dad always spoke of the strength and intelligence of mules in comparison to horses. He also lived by the adage, “Horses will always cost you. Cattle will make money.”
I tend to agree with that statement, but it doesn’t mean I don’t respect the power, grace, and raw speed of a horse.
Two of the very first songs I can remember were “Old Red” by Marty Robbins and “Comanche” by Johnny Horton. Both ballads told the story of extraordinary horses in tragic settings. Not surprisingly, they’re still popular songs with youngsters in the Cowboy State today.
Old Red was an unrideable bronc, and Comanche, a war horse
It’s hard to beat the beauty, power, and grace of a finely tuned world-class horse. To me, a horse at full speed is a magical incarnation of wind. I’ve watched a couple of fillies on Cooper Road all summer, and they seem to float across the pasture when they run. The impression of flight is one of the reasons that motion pictures were originally developed.
In the 1890’s two men disagreed over whether all four feet of a horse were ever off the ground at once. After making a wager, they agreed to set up a series of 24 still cameras triggered by small trip wires to prove who was right. A horse ran through the photo gauntlet, and the 24 still photos viewed in succession resembled the old flipbooks in Crackerjacks. It proved that a horse does indeed have all four legs off the ground at the same time.
The fact that an animal weighing over 1000 pounds, traveling at over 40 miles an hour, is airborne occasionally gives you an idea of how much stress a racehorse puts on its lower legs.
In 1975, one of the greatest match races in horse racing history took place. It didn’t end so well for the three-year-old filly Ruffian. Ruffian was truly an amazing horse, winning 10 of the 11 races she had entered.
The world was eager for another triple-crown winner that year. Secretariat’s victory two years prior shattered a 25-year drought, and interest in Triple Crown racing peaked. Unfortunately, the three races in 1975 produced three different winners in Foolish Pleasure, Master Derby and Avatar.
To appease the sudden surge in thoroughbred racing, a match race was set between the three winners at the Belmont Track. Avatar was already in California and unavailable for the race, so a proposal was made to substitute the filly Ruffian.
Foolish Pleasure’s trainer felt his jockey would be so distracted by Ruffian that the third horse, Master Derby, would run virtually unopposed. So, an agreement was reached and Master Derby was paid $50,000 not to run, setting up a match race between Foolish Pleasure and Ruffian.
The horses were virtually equal in pace, but Foolish Pleasure had a slightly larger stride. To compensate, Ruffian’s handlers made a terrible mistake, altering her shoes to force a slightly larger gait.
The force created by this change in stride shattered Ruffian’s leg as the duo reached the mile marker. A sound like a breaking board stunned the crowd, ending the race with the filly in agony.
An emergency veterinary team was able to reconstruct her leg, but as she emerged from the anesthesia, she thrashed about so violently that she injured the leg beyond all hope of repair and had to be destroyed. She was buried inside the Belmont Track.
Like many famous horses, she was immortalized in a song. Joan Baez altered the lyrics to “Stewball” to pay tribute to the gifted but star-crossed filly. Ironically, both of Ruffian’s parents died in a similar fashion within two years.
Baez introduced the song in a live concert later that summer.
”When the little horse Ruffian died on the race track, I became really sad about that,” Baez said. “Maybe because there’s some female chauvinism in me, and she was a lady, and she was going to win. I altered some lyrics to honor her.”
So come all you gamblers, wherever you are
And don’t place your money on the little grey mare
Most likely she’ll stumble, most likely she’ll fall
But never you will lose, boys, on my noble Stewball
The fairgrounds were crowded and Stewball was there
But the betting was heavy on the little gray mare
The hoot owl she hollered and the turtle dove moaned
I’m a poor boy in trouble and a long ways form home
Cause I bet on the gray mare and some on the bay
If I’d a bet on old Stewball I’d be a rich man today
As they were a-riding, ’bout halfway round
That grey mare, she stumbled and fell on the ground
And way out yonder, ahead of them all
Came a-prancing and dancing, my noble Stewball
The gray mare was a racehorse and her heart it was gold
She lies dead on the infield but her story’s been told.
I watched this race live on ABC. It was as tragic a sporting event as I’ve ever seen.