One Second to Live
A cowboy friend invited me up into the mountains to help him spread salt and cut trail for his cows. He wanted to move them soon, but the brush and fallen logs made the route too tight for cattle to pass through. He sent me the coordinates to a campsite near a stream, and when I arrived the whole place was covered in wildflowers — purple, yellow, pink, white — like someone had spilled paint across the meadow.
The first day we hauled in a bag of salt and another of minerals, dumping them into rubber tubs for the cows. The next morning he brought the horses. The terrain consisted of open meadows, patches of loose rock, fallen branches, underbrush, and stretches of marsh. Our job was simple: clear the trail. He rode a colt. I rode Tigger and led a pack horse loaded with a chainsaw, oil, and fuel.
“Take Tigger down that road and I’ll catch up,” he said, pointing to a wide, flat stretch of dirt bordered by thick forest on the left and a sloped meadow on the right.
I put Tigger into a trot and tapped him up to a fast trot. My friend’s whistle cut through the quiet air.
“Come back! You went too far.”
I turned the horses around. I dallied the lead rope to the saddle horn and put Tigger into a lope. Then I remembered the chainsaw and fuel in the pack horse’s saddle bags and reconsidered that choice. I checked Tigger back to a trot and rode up to meet my friend.
We worked our way along the trail, clearing brush and moving branches. After a few hours, he gave me a break and took the pack horse— a decision that would prove beneficial later in the day.
We were working through thick trees and brush when we came to a sharp drop‑off.
“Which way?” I asked.
“Forward,” he said. “Don’t you remember? We crossed the stream here on the way in.”
He led the pack horse over the edge and down a steep slope of loose rock. I guided Tigger along a parallel line. I gave him his head. He was a brave horse, and he picked his way down until we reached the shallow stream at the bottom — fast water sliding over rocks.
When Tigger approached the water, he stopped. Horses are afraid of two things: things that move and things that don’t. I felt the tension gather through his body. The sight and sound of the moving water triggered his fear, and he reacted. He pivoted to the left, his nose pointed up the steep slope. It was an impossible position for a horse to hold.
He stepped backward with his right hind foot, and his front end lifted off the ground. My mind went straight to the physics of it: His center of gravity is too low — he’s going to flip over.
I jammed my boots into the stirrups and leaned forward as far as I could, my head nearly over his. His front feet came back down onto the gravel, but we weren’t safe yet. With all four feet on the ground again, I used direct rein and eased him around. I settled myself back into the saddle. We paused. I exhaled and let my body soften. Tigger felt it and softened too.
My friend’s voice carried a sense of release. “Good cowboy work.”
I put the reins forward and gave Tigger a moment to look at the water. Then I touched him with my heels. He stepped forward and crossed the stream.
A few days later I told this story to an eleven‑year‑old cowboy. He grinned and said, “Yeah, ya’ gotta’ keep pedalin’ all the way.”
Two years before that, I’d been on a flat trail ride when the white horse I was on reared up. His front feet were only a few feet off the ground, and I had no idea what to do. The ranch owner behind me said, “Lean forward and put him down.” I did, and his feet came back to the ground.
Three strides later he came up again. His neck slammed into my chin. I jammed my boots into the stirrups and leaned forward. His feet came back down.
That big white horse taught me a skill I needed — a skill that saved my life.
Sometimes life hands you a challenge that turns out to be a lesson. And sometimes that lesson ends up saving your life.
