denial

It seems that each of us undergoes several metamorphosis as we go through life and with each metamorphosis we take on a different role and become a somewhat different person. As we grow up and as time passes and as new and interesting things come to our attention, as our tastes change and especially as fate requires new things of us, we take on or are forced to take on all these different roles. We thus become different people while retaining our essential self with our associated memories and personality binding us into a single and sequential being. I am no exception, I have, throughout my long life, assumed many roles and at many different times I've come to think of myself in many different ways. Many people call these episodes in their lives "Periods." This story is about one such period that I shall call "My Historical Immersion Period." I entered this period when several older periods and their associated interests intersected with a new and unexpected opportunity.

My Historical Immersion began in earnest around 1983 when I discovered that I really liked horses and horseback riding. It was at this time when I felt that I needed a new and fun thing to spend my time and money on. It happened this way: my older sister and her family had recently purchased a mini ranch with a horse corral and and saddle room on the property. They had 10 acres in what was then a very sparely populated and rural canyon in Southern California (Mohler Canyon) located in (what was then) the outskirts of Anaheim Hills, California. In those days, I used to visit my sister and her family quite often, even though it was a 200 mile, 4 hour drive down there. In my sister's corral was a fine looking horse (named Chocko) that belonged to a neighbor. The horse was somewhat neglected and so got little of the exercise that horses crave. Chocko was confined to its otherwise ample corral for days on end and, as I was to soon find out, desperately wanted a really long and hard, gallop.

On one of my first visits to see their new place, my Brother in Law, Fred, asked me if I'd like to take Chocko for a ride and give the horse some exercise. I ignorantly assumed that Chocko was a slow and lazy barn horse and I'd be able to handle him with ease, so I eagerly said 'Yes I'd love to ride Chocko.' As I've written before, "fools have more fun" and making assumptions about unknown horses is very foolish. You might wonder why I was so eager to ride Chocko. I had this strong, but latent interest in horses and horseback riding that had lain dormant for decades, but now was my big chance.

MARINE CORPS TEACHES ME RIDING

This interest began when I was about 13, around 1956. My dad was a doctor at the little hospital the Marine Corps had on the Camp Pendleton and our quarters were up on a mesa just above the rodeo grounds with the Pendleton horse stables down the road a couple of miles further. As part of their recreation programs, the Marines had horses and would give us kids riding lessons. In addition to the lessons, there were guided trailrides that sometimes included a picnic cooked over an open campfire. All this was during the "Golden Age of The Cowboy and Knights in Shining Armor" Movie Era. In those movies and on our little black&white TV screens, there was plenty of very exciting and excellent horseback riding. Back then, all us boys wanted to joust in Medieval Tournaments with lance and sword like Ivanhoe and Robin Hood, or ride across the purple sage and handle a six-gun like the Lone Ranger, Wild Bill Hickok the Cisco Kid and Roy Rogers. Of course, Davy Crockett was another big hero of ours and he too rode horses. Sadly, this era is long over and almost no men under 75 today ride horses because it is now almost exclusively a woman's hobby.

Yes, thanks to the Marine Corps at Camp Pendleton I got an early exposure to horses and riding. Through them I learned a lot about these wonderful creatures and their fascinating equipment (called 'tack'). At this early stage, my biggest disappointment and something that colored my later decisions regarding riding style was the bulky "Western" type saddle with its horn and long stirrups. I did not like for the stirrups to be so long. I wanted the riding instructor to shorten my stirrups so I could get my butt off the saddle and coordinate my own motion with the motion of the horse, but the instructors always refused to shorten the stirrups for me. The instructors thought it was important for me to learn to "sit deep in the saddle" and if the stirrups were short, "I'd be tossed off." Well, that wasn't true, but that was "The Western Way" of riding and that was what I had to learn. I also wanted to go fast, like they did in the movies, but they would only allow us to go at a walk and if I attempted to break into a "jog" (a slow trot), I'd get yelled at and told to slow down. Very frustrating and it poisoned my mind against Western type riding. (The so-called "Western saddle" is actually a slight variation of the Mexican stock saddle and perhaps it should be called a Mexican saddle)

I might add that in 1968, when I was stationed on Guam, I rode my motorcycle all around the Island discovering things. One place I discovered and I visited was a riding stable on the Southern end of the Island where I could go on guided trailrides through the volcanic highlands. It was fun and scenic, but again the saddles were those "Western (Mexican) saddles" with their long stirrups and with their annoying "saddlehorns" that kept hitting me in the guts. Again, we were kept to a frustratingly slow walk, so it wasn't as much fun as it could have been. Those rides were enjoyable, but sailboating and snorkeling in the warm and clear waters of a big nearby coastal lagoon (Cocos Island Recreation area) was what I did most for fun.

I apologize for the diversion, so now back to the story:

Mr. JOHN'S WILD RIDE

So, my Brother-in-law got a saddle down from inside the tack room, grabbed a halter and bridle. Fred called the halter "a bridle" but I corrected him and told him the pieces with the reigns and the bit was the bridle and what he had was the halter. I astounded myself, how did I know what those things were called and how did I know the names of the saddle parts like the girth, the pommel and the cantle? For a couple of minutes, I couldn't think why I knew these technical names, but then it occurred to me that I got it from the riding lessons from so many years previously. Anyway, we got Chocko all saddled up and to my surprise, Fred simply wanted me to "have a good time" and left me to ride the horse all by myself over the miles and miles of trail that existed out there before all the huge housing developments made Mohler Canyon the dense urban jungle it is today.

We all know what a wild ride Mr. Toad took with his motorcar. Well, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride had nothing on the wild, wild, wild ride that Chocko took me on.

Wild Rides are scary, but fun as I'm sure Mr. Toad would agree

I had never, even on the wildest rollercoaster ride, been on such a ride before this. One thing the Marines taught me was to never, ever hold on to the saddle horn while riding, but if necessary, grab a big hunk of the horse's mane. This was the the best riding advice anyone ever gave me because if you hold on to the horn, the saddle will eventually start to slip and when it does, you will pull it over more and more as you more and more lose your balance. Very quickly you and the saddle will end up under the horse, the horse will go berserk and you will probably be killed. Grabbing a hunk of mane will keep you centered on the horse and you won't come off even under the wildest gallops. I have always kept my horses' manes long and grabbing it has saved me from countless falls. By the way, pulling on a horse's mane is entirely painless and most horses actually enjoy it. They don't mind a bit if you pull out hairs to "thin the mane" while grooming and a "pulled mane" looks a lot better than if trimmed with a clipper.

Anyway, Chocko took me on the Grand Tour of Mohler Canyon and ALL of its many long trails and we did it at a full gallop and in record time while I hung on his mane with my right hand and the reigns with my left hand, with my butt in the saddle and my feet in the stirrups.

CHOCKO GETS ALL LATHERED UP

When the horse had run off all of its cooped up frustrations and had throughly tired itself out, he finally came down to a walk and by that time we were somewhat less than a mile from the stable. The horse was absolutely covered in foam from all the sweating he had done. I knew what an overworked and lathered up horse looked like, but I had never seen one so throughly covered in foamy sweat as Chocko was. I was concerned that I would receive some severe criticism for "abusing the horse." Well, lord knows that I hadn't forced the horse to get all sweaty; in fact it was all I could do just to hold on for dear life. No, he had done it to himself, BUT, to my surprise, Fred seemed unconcerned at the appearance of the horse and I didn't even have to make my prepared excuses or have to confess that I was such a green rider that I couldn't control the horse and keep him from working so hard. Fred and I simply gave Chocko a quick bath and cleaned him up. I truly believe that Chocko, after his little run, was as happy as a horse can possibly be as he took a nice roll on the ground and he eagerly went for the feed we tossed out for him. Mr. John's Wild Ride did us both a world of good and made us both wildly happy.

Well, that did it, I was completely sold; my next major change in my life was to be a horseman. Within a couple of months after returning home, I purchased my first horse (Ibn Shaw) and that started my long career with horses that lasts to this day. By the way my first horse, Ibn, was an "Anglo-Arab" which is a cross between a Thoroughbred and an Arabian. He was small like an Arab and with the Arab's amazing endurance, but looked very much like a Thoroughbred in profile and lord knows, he was fast like a Thoroughbred. Ibn was one of the fastest horses I've ever owned, big or small.

MY METAMORPHOSIS INTO A HORSEMAN
AND THE BEGINNING OF A LIFE OF WONDERFUL ADVENTURES

After about a year of horse ownership, I was starting to get a bit bored just riding in an arena and around the property where I kept my horse. I was seriously thinking of selling Ibn, but then I discovered that there was a Fox Hunting Club over in the Santa Ynez Valley and through a series of complex arrangements, I was able to ride with them and join the club. What a thrill it was to go fox hunting on Winter weekends and ride after hounds across country at breakneck speeds and jump over whatever was in our way. Other wonderful worlds of adventure opened up to me too. In those days, the various clubs still put on race meets and we were all young enough to want to race. In those days, there were still plenty of men who rode, and, in fact, the fast races were the men's races.

MY FIRST STEEPLE CHASE WIN

I entered Ibn and myself in our first "steeplechase race" (the video is on this website as "Ibn's Race"). When I entered Ibn, me doing so was considered as a kind of a joke and everybody expected the little horse to come in last. After an exciting four laps around the race track, taking all the jumps perfectly at a full gallop, Ibn beat a much larger racing Thoroughbred by a nose to take first place. The Thoroughbreds owner was a famous race horse trainer and, let me tell you, he was angry that his big Thoroughbred got beat by my little Ibn. I had never before and have never since, felt such an elation that I experienced on winning that race against all odds. By the way, our revered 'Master of Foxhounds,' Brooks Firestone was there at the race and he was so impressed that he awarded me my scarlet coat and colors. There's more, but that's for another story. Another august and somewhat mysterious figure, John Boles, was there too, but again, that's another story.

A couple of years after winning my first steeple chase race I had to retire Ibn. He was still very fit and healthy, but because I just couldn't hold him back, he kept injuring the suspensory ligaments of his front legs. I was such a fool, I knew that I had to ride Ibn more slowly and carefully, but it was nearly impossible to hold him back because he was so eager to go fast and jump over everything. Like the damn fool that I am, I'd get tired of holding him back and just let him go. Well, after he injuring himself again, I finally decided that I needed to give him to a wonderful woman I knew, a woman who just loved him and would take good care of him. Some time later I bought a large ex-racehorse from Chris, my veterinary friend. On a suggestion from a lady at my barn, I named the horse Samson because she said he looked like a Samson, so strong looking.

MY "SHOTGUN" MARRIAGE TO CHESTER THE WONDER HORSE

Samson was hot off the race track and more than just a little bit crazy. He wasn't working out at first (later he worked out brilliantly) and so I decided I needed a second horse. The horse I looked at I really didn't want to buy, but only wanted to try him out. When I trailered him off his owner's property to try him out, the horse got injured in my trailer. When I got the horse to where I was taking him, I was horrified to see that he cut his right leg rather badly in my junky old trailer. Fortunately my veterinary friend, Chris, was right there and sewed him up with many stitches and then tightly encased his whole leg in this huge, brightly colored bandage so the cut wouldn't open again. The whole thing looked terrible and I was so ashamed that the horse had been injured in my junky old trailer.

I didn't really want to buy the horse at the time, but because it was my fault the horse was injured, I was desperate to buy him before the owner could see the horse's cut leg. With the horse hidden away in my trailer, I bargained for the horse. The guy wanted too much money for the horse, but I was willing to pay anything to salvage my pride. I was so eager to seal the deal for the horse, my hand shook a little when I handed him the check and I was so incredibly relieved when he took it and the deal with done without having to show him what I'd done to his horse. With that big bandage on its leg, my friend Rick, who was there when Chris put the bandage on, said that I should call him "Chester" after the limping actor in the TV series "Gun Smoke," Chester Good. People nearby said it was cruel to tease me that way, but I was rather delighted and the name stuck. Chester became its name and I can truthfully say that Chester was the best and by far the most intelligent horse I ever owned. I mean to tell you that Chester was spooky smart. There is a whole lot more to the story of Chester, but I'll have to leave it for another time because this story is already too long.

MY CAREER AS A UNION CAVALRYMAN

Back to the story: After I'd been riding Chester for about a year and had discovered what a wonderful animal he really was, another wonderful opportunity presented itself. I had the chance to join a rather elite Civil War Re-enacting group branding itself as the 7th Michigan Cavalry. During the Civil War, the Michigan Cavalry brigade was a famous military unit that was under the command of "The Boy General," George Armstrong Custer. This brigade, which included the 7th Michigan Cavalry, really made a name for Custer because of their outstanding performance in battle. This opportunity to join the cavalry was ideal, I have always been thrilled by the service that my mother's grandfather and my father's grandfather had performed while fighting for the Union under the American Flag and against the slave-holding Confederacy. Ever since I was a little kid, I was a passionate Unionist and an anti-slavery proponent. When I was little, I was thrilled to wear the Cub Scout uniform because it was Union Blue, but not happy about changing to the Boy Scout's khaki brown uniform. Anyway, I bought all the uniforms worn by the Union cavalry, a 1858 .44 revolver, a Smith Carbine, the McClellan Saddle, an authentic cavalry bit and bridle, an M1860 saber and I had the perfect horse for it, my wonderful Chester.

Trooper John with his War Horse Chester
From a genuine "Tin Type" photograph
taken at a reenactment.

LOSS OF CHESTER
AND MY FAILURE TO REPLACE HIM

I participated in some really big and impressive Civil War battle reenactments with the 7th Michigan Cavalry, adventures which I don't have the room to tell about right now, but, most importantly, I learned a lot about how it must have been being a soldier and cavalryman during the Civil War. Chester did magnificently, he was not a bit afraid of the gunfire or even being next to the cannons when they went off and he wasn't afraid to ride hard into the line of "enemy" horses to "battle with our sabers." Chester was also a wonderful peacemaker. If two horses were tied side by side and were fighting with each other, I'd put Chester between them and he would keep the peace. I won't say too much more, but after a wonderful few years of owning Chester, he was stolen and even to this day, decades later, it still breaks my heart when I think about it. I never learned who took Chester and I never got Chester back. Now, decades after Chester would have died of old age anyway, I still long to have him back. Stealing him was the cruelest thing anyone ever did to me. It is perhaps best that I should never find out who did this because, even today, I fear that my revenge would be terrible.

I tried and tried to find a replacement horse that could do all the things that Chester could do, but no horse could come anywhere close to him in talent, temperament and intelligence. One horse I tried, and I was stupid of me to even try, was a very good looking Thoroughbred that I thought I could train to be a cavalry horse. To say that I failed is a gross understatement. There was just no way I could get the horse accustomed to gunfire. loud noises, like shooting off its back, caused the horse to go berserk and go totally and dangerously out of control. I really should not have spent so much time and energy trying to do the impossible with that horse.

REENACTING A FAMOUS SCENE FOR DAVY CROCKETT

At some point after Chester was stolen and gone forever and while I was still trying to get the new horse trained (with no success), I had a wonderful opportunity to reenact one of Davy Crockett's most famous scenes for the very man that had played Davy Crockett when I was a boy. Yes, I was to be part of a reenactment scene where Davy and his sidekick George Russell were to have a shootout with the big bad Mike Fink (a professional actor hired for the part) and his band of cutthroat "River Rats." This scene was where Davy shot his flintlock at a target and put two bullets in the same hole to win the shooting contest. My good friend Rob, who was also a friend of the Parkers and the architect for Fess Parker's new winery, was all duded up in his brother's buckskin "Mountain Man" outfit and armed with his brother's flintlock rifle, Rob was to play Davy Crockett. I wore my 19th Century Civil War civilian clothes and carried my own flintlock rifle and played the part of George Russell. A big crowd of spectators was assembled on the lawn at the winery with a huge group of little kids in coonskin caps waiting for us to arrive. Davy and I came riding in on our horses with our flintlocks across the saddles, dismounted in front of the crowd and proceeded to perform the reenactment. The whole reenactment went superbly and I was so proud and thrilled to do all these famous scenes with Fess Parker, the "real" Davy Crockett watching.

HOW I CAME TO BE UNDER MY HORSE
AND TRAMPLED

When the reenactment was over, I was feeling relieved because my crazy horse had behaved himself and we had gotten through the day without incident, but then my own stupidity struck me, as it so often has. A guy in the crowd came over and begged me to help out at a small Civil War reenactment scheduled for the afternoon at a historical house and grounds in Santa Barbara and to please bring my horse. Like the fool that I am, I agreed to trailer down there and participate in the reenactment. The guy at Fess Parker's place made it clear that they needed someone in a Union uniform and with a horse to give authenticity to the scene they were planning. Somehow I felt it was my duty to represent the Union.

Before the reenactment was to begin, I took myself and the horse to a secluded area, deep in the sagebrush, to get him used to me firing my revolver off his back. I cocked the pistol and then I hesitated because I just knew that the horse would go crazy, but I planted myself firmly in the saddle and screwed up all the courage (foolish courage) I had and pulled the trigger. Yep, the horse exploded and went into a wild bucking routine, but I stayed on for a long time while hoping I could ride it out. A normally sane horse would have tired, but not this one, he really wanted me off of him and showed no sign of running out of buck. After the last of many of his jumps straight up in the air, I lost my right stirrup and when the horse came down again, I slid off on the right side and right under the horse. While I was under the horse, it planted one of its rear hoofs on my right leg a couple inches above the ankle joint and then sprang off on its rear legs (much like a gazelle). The details of what happened immediately afterwards with everybody looking for my lost, loaded revolver is an interesting story all in its own, but I'll only say that I was sick with fear that we wouldn't find the loaded revolver and that someday a kid would find it and blow his hand off while playing with it. A really smart young woman ignored my instructions and found it where I least expected it to be. Anyway, the result of all this was an injury to my lower right leg, but I was extremely fortunate because it could have been a lot worse. A whole lot worse, way, way, way worse and I was aware just how incredibly lucky I had been.