Give the Horse Its Head

When I was about twelve or thirteen years old, Dad and I were riding on the summer range.

Every June, our family turned our cows out onto a grazing allotment in the Caribou-Targhee National Forest that we shared with several neighboring ranchers. Around October, we gathered them and brought them home. Around our place, we simply called it "putting the cows on the range."

By the time this story took place, I had spent plenty of time on horseback, but I was still learning my way around the range. We were about an hour from home in the middle section of the allotment. Dad was riding a young colt that we were breaking, and I was riding Cheetah Bay. Dad had ridden Cheetah on the range many times that summer, so she knew those trails well.

For most of the ride, Dad led the way. But as evening settled in, it became harder to see. The colt was still inexperienced and didn't know the trails well enough to lead us home in the dark.

Dad told me to ride out in front.

I remember saying, "I'm not sure how to get home from here."

His answer was simple.

"Just give Cheetah her head. She knows the way home."

I had heard Dad use that expression before, but this time it was different. I was the one riding in front, and we were both depending on Cheetah.

So I loosened the reins and let her choose the trail.

Whenever we came to a fork in the trail or a place where I might have guessed wrong, Cheetah never hesitated. She knew exactly where to go. Dad and the colt simply followed behind us.

As we rode on through the darkness, I gradually started recognizing familiar landmarks. Before long, we were close enough to the ranch that I knew exactly where we were, and soon we rode into the yard.

Looking back, I realize that experience wasn't unusual. We rode horses after dark fairly often. Many of the trails crossed through thick timber where, once the sun went down, you couldn't see the trail ahead. There wasn't much point trying to guide your horse around trees or guess which way to turn. A good horse knew those mountains far better than we did.

Around our ranch, "give the horse its head" meant loosening the reins and trusting the horse to do what it already knew how to do. Good horses had remarkable instincts, and they often knew the way home better than their riders.

As my brothers and sisters and I grew older, Dad began using that same expression in another way. When he gave us more responsibility or allowed us to make our own decisions, he would sometimes say he was "giving us our head." He had spent years teaching us, correcting us, and giving us a structure for making decisions. Then he trusted us to choose the right path for ourselves.

Just this week, while talking with Dad on the phone, I heard him use that familiar expression again. It immediately brought me back to that evening on the range when a twelve-year-old boy, his father, and an inexperienced colt all trusted one good horse to lead them safely home. Looking back now, I realize that ride wasn't just about trusting Cheetah. It was also one of the first lessons Dad was teaching me about trust itself.