Summer 1966

It was the summer of 1967 and as in the summers before, the Wednesday night rodeos at the T-Lazy 7 had begun.  The kids of the valley looked forward to these Wednesday events with the anticipation of doing well enough to participate in one of the big events held at the W/J Ranch.  My older sisters participated in many of these rodeos and eventually went on to owning their own horses.

My parents always told me that the horses belonged to the whole family; but, I remember my constant companion in the corrals back then to have a metal scoop on one end and a long wooden handle.  Well, maybe that was best as horses and I have a sordid past. 

My general fear of horses dates back to one of those Wednesday night rodeos at the T-lazy 7.  I spent most of the summer working with the various horses that Hilder and Bill Anderson had at their ranch on the east end of town.  Yes, the Anderson Ranch, not the one in Snowmass although they did own that ranch at one time and Hilder Anderson taught school in the old School house up by the ranch.  They had their stables just over the Roaring Fork Bridge on the east end of town.  That was back when town ended at the bridges on both ends.  You could rent a horse or go on the ”guided” rides that took you south and then east from the Ranch.  You would pass through fields where “The Gant” now stands, through the old cemetery and out along the river on the south side, past the Smith Ranch, across the fields where the Aspen Club now stands until you reached the Anderson Stables once again.  Those rides were fun but they always ended the same.  Once the horse and its rider crossed the river for the last time, right where the main Aspen Club facility is located, the horses knew they were headed home and there was no stopping them.

Back to that fateful Wednesday rodeo…  You know, one of those turning points in your life, the type that no one will ever forget about, least of all you.  On that particular night in August I had signed up to do the Barrel Race.  The horse I usually rode was being used by a more experienced rider so I was given an old gray mare; yes, it was an “old gray mare.”  That should have been my first warning sign of the epic tragedy about to unfold.  This horse was about twice my age at the time and seemed perfect for the job at hand.  It just stood there as I got ready for my turn at the barrels.  It calmly walked out to the starting point.  I was convinced this horse had done this so many times before that all I had to do was stay in the saddle and let the horse do the work.  As my “race” started, the horse headed for the first barrel.   I was convinced it could do better so I gave it a kick which was met with no response.  This horse was going to go through all of the barrels but it was going to do it at the pace it had chosen.  From the sidelines the crowd began to laugh; Mr. Anderson was urging me to kick it again.  Then it happened, I gave the horse another kick and somehow it must have landed in a different spot than all the rest and the horse went down.  Right by the third barrel the horse lay dead.  Not a sound was heard from the crowd and I had passed the point of simple tears, I was in a full on cry.  Had I just killed the “old gray mare?”  Mr. Anderson calmly walked out, grabbed me by the shoulder and whispered, “Watch.”  He reached over to the horse and tapped it on its head, and like a faith healing the horse jumped up and just stood there.  By now the crowd had erupted in laughter, and I just stood there with tears running down my face.

Following that event Mr. Anderson got on the Public Address system to inform the crowd that this particular horse had worked for a circus and was just performing one of its tricks.  By kicking it in a very particular place it would lie down and play dead. Mr. Anderson had taken this horse in to provide it a nice place to live out its retirement years.