Hoofprints in early Tenmile

 

Eryn out in the pasture with Bill.

It's hard to believe the girls were so very little when we moved to Oregon. But they were obviously born to love horses. Looking at the album of Billy recently, we were struck by the time-warp effect of the photos...Billy never seemed to change, but the girls sure did. Thirty years is a long time...not only for horses but for little girls. We actually came to Oregon with 2 Morgans, one of which we acquired green-broke from Emery. More on that later. But we were able to take them just about every weekend up to some BLM land and ride double with the girls. We even started taking riding lessons in the big Douglas County arena from Nancy Hart, head of the the local Pony Club. I cannot ever admit how shocked I was when she told me, quite confidentially when Gary was at the other end of the arena: "your husband is a natural, you know", because , although his dad was in the mounted US Cavalry during WWII, he himself was never particularly taken with horses. (and I had grown up with them).  Poor guy. Little did he realize exactly WHAT he was marrying into when he married me. 

Hoofprints Deeply Etched in My Heart

My narrative has become dry somehow...too factual and objective. I think I need to address what has transpired barely 17 days ago. Then perhaps all the in-between will be more meaningful.....................................................

"to Billy...  Pain rends my heart. This morning we say goodbye. I am not there, neither is Jess, (Gary and the girls thought it best if we go to fiddle camp) but the reality of the huge emptiness awaiting me upon our return is quite nearly more than I can bear. I cried myself to sleep last night, as did Gary and Krista. We weep, yet in our anguish, each of us knows we cannot prolong this. Each day, each pain pierced step as you try to maneuver the 2" barrier from stall to corral where you have your special pea spot, it becomes more apparent this can't go on. Soon you will fall, or not be able to get up. The corral is deeply etched with the trails your hoof leaves as you drag your left fore with each step...and there are many craters, about 5' in diameter, evidence of your battle with gravity each morning trying to get up. Oh Billy, how we have loved you these 30 years. And frankly, you have been the perfect horse in most ways. Because I couldn't ride you the past 4 years with your ring-bone steadily worsening, I think what I will miss the most is your soft nicker standing there at the corner of the corral by the back fence, breakfast, noon, evening and the deep, rich, wonderful smell of you as I bury my face in your neck fur. Mary Mels Billy. This morning we say goodbye. You will go to sleep. We will weep and we'll weep a lot. But I know it's really for us that we weep. Not for you. For you, this is a mercy. Oh God, help us to FEEL this deep inside us. Surround, encapsulate the pain with the assurance that it is LOVE that dictates our actions. Give us the fortitude to get through this day and the next and the next without this beloved horse who has accompanied us through SO MANY years. We love you Billy. You have given us more than you know and each of us will carry with us memories etched and carved with countless episodes of Billy being Billy. And thank you Martha Graves, wherever you are. Could you possibly have known what that 18 month old colt was going to give to this once so fractured little family?
Billy has been the glue that helped put us back together. 30 years! Wow, we have been so blessed. Thank you, dear God, for the gift that has never stopped giving. And today, we give him back to you." 6/24/11.

Photos taken June 14, 2011

Hoofprints from Flagstaff to Oregon

In January of 1983, we moved from Flagstaff to Tenmile, Oregon. Gary was no longer a forestry student pursuing his Master's at NAU but a bonefide BLM employee in Roseburg. We found a beautiful piece of property with 8 cross-fenced acres complete with pond, perennial creek, barn and a little doll house ( or so I thought...Having only been married to Gary for 6 months, I had not yet learned to value and appreciate his ability to appraise a situation and when he said the place needed a lot of work, I was unconcerned. How could we ever have known that given a little time, we would end up gutting the house, putting in insulation and new windows, and tongue in groove wainscotting, wall-papering, drilling a new well when the old one went dry, building a holding tank, putting in a new septic tank when the old one collapsed, etc?) The land was surrounded by ranch land and infinite acres to ride. Billy was more than happy to graze all day and munch blackberries when in season. We acquired some milk goats and chickens and in time, another horse. We had begun to home-school and life was good.

Hoofprints Ancestry

Omar Sheriff, Grand National Champion as a 2 yr. old


I once asked Emery why they gelded Billy. His instantaneous response
"He wasn't stud quality!"
Since, in my eyes, Billy was everything beautiful any horse could represent, I was a bit taken aback. But as I look a bit closer at the only photo of his sire, Omar Sheriff, that I have, I must admit, he was probably right in his assessment. He did not mean to be cruel, just pointedly factual. Omar, as a 2 year old, took high point at the All American Horse Show, and this was among ALL breeds represented by 5 states... NV, CO, UT, WY, and ID. Billy took more after his mother, Beryl Belle, who was of the government breed Morgan.

A very early photo of Billy while still in American Fork, UT

Hoofprints...,along the Verde River

One of the first excursions we took as a new little family (complete with horse of course, which Gary never formally adopted, but certainly would have if called upon) was to go camping somewhere along the Verde River with some friends, Vic and Sherrill. Billy was awesome, even despite the lunacy of a teenage target shooter across the river who inadvertently hit the horse trailer, but thankfully nothing else. The girls were rapidly falling in love with this big gentle colt, as were Gary and I. He was just always ready and willing to do most anything, although he definitely had a mind of his own, from the start.

Hoofprints in Training

I compared Billy to a Brumby because as part of our training, Emery took us up in some of the red rock cliffs by Verde Valley School and took us down and by the time we emerged alive and well, I was as white as a sheet. Emery just chuckled and said "I just wanted you to see what this horse can do!" Without doubt, I never feared for the girl's safety from that point on.
Thinking back on some of the things Emery put him through, one thing we never did with Billy was pack, even though he would've been great at it. He was great at everything we asked of him. And that included loading in ANY trailer. Only one caution here...watch out once the door was open because Billy was not far behind. He knew that trailer meant two things...food and adventure and he was always up for both. Once, after Gary and I were married, we had the brilliant idea of turning the axle to lift the trailer, which often dragged on some of the roads we took it on. Problem was, it made the trailer about 3 feet off the ground. Yet, I have no doubt Billy would've at least tried to get in it had we asked him to :-) (yes, we made the trailer normal again).

Hoofprints across my heart...the beginning.

The day was January 21, 1981. Crisp, cold and bright. We'd been waiting all morning, my 3 year old twins and I . And suddenly, there he was in all his 18 month glory…a Morgan colt out of the famous Omar Sheriff, and straight from American Fork, Utah. He was the anonymous gift of untold people from Page, Arizona where Bill Murie (my late husband) was first stationed as a DPS patrolman 5 years earlier, before being fatally injured on Nov. 19^th, 1980 enroute the DPS academy where he was to be a counselor for the upcoming class. Probably one of the greatest ironies of this gift is that the young horse’s registered name was “Mary Mels Billy”…in truth!

So began the saga of 30 years…as he stood there, a huge red, white and blue bow wrapped around his neck, ready to frolic across the pasture kindly offered by my neighbor across the road from Pine Del (Flagstaff) where we now lived. Several months later, I was able to take Billy down to the Verde Valley to be professionally trained by Emery Henderson. When he returned a year later, he could have been a Brumby in Snowy River, so capable and sure-footed he was! He had been taught to drive (pull a cart). And, among many other feats, would even stand motionless while a chain-saw (without chain of course) was started and rubbed all over his legs. He was basically fool-proof. Emery told me “this horse will never kick” and he never did.

...to be continued