What kinda horses are them? — those versatile Arabians
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Those who admire the Arabian horse are fond of talking about the animal’s versatility, and they have a point. The show horse people exhibit them in English classes, and the critter’s animated and brilliant action make them frequent winners. Pretty as a picture, they are, but most folks would say the American saddlebred horses do it a little better.
You’ll even find some Arabs on working cattle ranches. The horse is well known for its stamina, and has a nice jog that covers a lot of ground and is easy on the rider’s rear end. Occasionally you’ll even find an Arabian cutting horse, or an Arab someone is roping off from. Of course, we all know that the quarter horse makes a better ranch horse.
Venturing into the demanding world of dressage, the Arabian has done a very credible job. They half-pass, piaffe and passage with the rest of them. But until you’ve seen a seventeen-hand Trakehner do the Grand Prix stuff, you haven’t seen the best.
Versatility is like that. “Jack of all trades, but master of none,” is how some folks put it. And that’s just fine, there’s a lot to be said for handling any job put in front of you with a high degree of skill and success.
Have you noticed you never hear people talk about what fine pack horses the Arabians make? This too is a specialized and demanding job not every breed is suited to. Normally a pack horse is saddled with a hundred and fifty or more pounds of gear, a load the animal must handle without the help of a rider to steer him around.
On the end of a packer’s lead shank, they have to take care of their load with little help from their two-legged boss. They must learn, with little coaching, they have to give trees and rocks along the way an extra wide berth, and if the cross-buck rig shifts to one side a little, it stays there until the end of the trail. Arabian horses seem to have enough savvy to quickly figure out their duties as pack horses, and their built-in endurance keeps them on the trail for many miles.
A while back I planned an elk hunting trip into the wilderness. Elk country is horse country; I like to hunt and I had Arabian horses, so it happened I was probably the only man in the wilderness riding a blue ribbon winning Arab mare, and pulling a couple pack horses that had won championships at Arabian horse shows.
Our hunting spot was nineteen miles back in the mountains, and all of the equipment and supplies to last three men for ten days were loaded on these pretty desert blue-bloods. They were both well-trained to do a lot of different things, but packing wasn’t on their list. A pair of panniers weighing around 170 pounds were tied on each horse, and I lined them out across the river toward the continental divide.
It soon became apparent they didn’t have to be led, so I stuffed the lead shank under a strand of hitch rope and left them to follow the mare. A couple hours out we had to stop while a pack was rearranged, and a diamond hitch snugged up – my fault, not theirs.
The day was hot, and sweat rolled out from under the saddle pads and turned to scum that caked on their flanks.
Starting up the steep shoulder of the mountain towards the top of the pass, the packs rocked back and hung on the breast collars. No complaints; they climbed for another hour, nodding with each step and puffing through flared nostrils.
On top at last, we stopped in a small flat clearing where packers traveling either way on the trail pull in to rest their livestock. I was proud of my handsome Arabs who stood with their heads up watching a grizzled old wrangler pulling five loaded mules. His veteran stock had the hair worn off their rear ends under the butt straps, and they stood sag-eared and dripping sweat from matted winter coats that hadn’t shed yet. My pretty Arabs eyed them suspiciously, recognizing that there was something a little different about them.
We visited for a few minutes, the old packer and me, mostly about the weather and the lack of elk sign. As he took a swig from his canteen I noticed him eying my show horses with interest, and I was silently flattered.
When our animals had caught their breath we prepared to start out again, in opposite directions. He called out to me as he was leaving, “What kinda horses are them?”
“Why, these are purebred Arabians.”
“Huh,” he says. “Funny lookin’ sons-a-bitches, ain’t they?”
The day turned hotter when we started down the switch-backs on the back side of the divide. We still hadn’t crossed a creek where they could drink and their sweat was now drying a chalky coat on their sides.
When we startled a young black bear out of the brush alongside the trail, I fully expected my little pack string to scatter. The bear shinnied up an aspen tree and glared down at us, but my Arabs calmly stayed in line, and we moved down into flatter and more open country.
It was almost dark when we found a suitable campsite where a creek made a horseshoe bend around a quiet little meadow. A gigantic full moon hovered over a line of dark pines and a chill settled on the evening. My tired, dirty horses were unloaded – no blue ribbon, no clean stall with extra grain, just a pat on the neck and turn them loose in hobbles to find their own supper.
Now don’t let anyone tell you those versatile Arabians don’t make a fine pack horse, because I’ve learned that they do . . . but to be real honest about it, a good mule is even better.
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