Although, some may call them "Cowboys", I maintain that there is a difference between a "Horseman" and a "Cowboy". One of the best "Horseman" that I ever knew was my father, Henry Laverne "Vern" Harrington. (August 12, 1912 ~ September 8, 1990)
Although, he was adapt at cutting a steer out of a herd or roping a calf, he was a "Horseman". I acquired the above picture of my father on my trip to Colorado last spring. I had never seen this picture of him, taken in what appears the San Juan Mountains in the area of Ouray or Telluride, Colorado. I came to this conclusion by a very brief description on the back of the picture written by my mother, "Vern when packing ore boxes".
This was yet another thing that I did not know about my father because most likely it occurred prior to or just following my birth in 1945. On my trip to Colorado this past fall, I inquired about the process of packing ore. Until recent years, there were several gold mines in this area still in operation on both sides of Red Mountain. Accordingly, in the early days of these operations, the high grade ore was packed by horse or mule from the site of the mine to the smelter plant at lower elevations. Special wooden boxes were constructed that would fit into a standard panyard, one of each side of the pack animal. This picture is interesting in that my father is not only wearing chaps but also a fringe laced buckskin jacket.
Although, it is controversial whether a human has the ability to communicate with an animal, such as a horse. There are those that are convinced that "horse whisperers" have this ability. I am not a total beleiver in the "horsewhisperer" concept, however, I witnessed my father on numerous occasions handle a horse when everyone else had got frustrated or given up. He could get rough with a bronc when needed, but in most cases just laying his hands and talking to the horse would calm them down. As a child, we always had a good number of horses. It was my older brothers and my daily chores to take care of the horses. My older brother, Tad was also a good horseman at a young age. While shoeing or roaching a mane he would get one that was occasionally on the fight. After fighting with the horse for several minutes, my father would walk out from the house, take the halter rope, turn the horse in a circle a couple of times, lay his hands on the neck of the horse, talk to them, and after a bit, would say, "don't fight them". The horse would be settled down and the chore completed without a problem.
When it comes time to "geld" a stud, the typical way to "cut" a stud is to lay and tie them down, even the veterinarians will use some type of sedative. My father was only "horseman" that I have witnessed that would cut all his stud horses while they were standing. I know for a fact as I was the "halter" boy on a lot of stud horses holding them for my father. Again, he would lay his hands on the sides of the horse, talk to them, and rub them down to their flanks, then go under the horse and complete the operation. Total time lapsed, less than two minutes. In later years, he would teach my brother Don this same technique.
As a youth in Nebraska, he started working with horses. At that time the farmers were using horse teams in their fields to pull their equipment. In his teen years and during the "Great Depression" he made a living out of breaking horses to both the harness and riding. According to his diary of this era he always had several horses around his place all the time, breaking them for others.
In the early days of oil exploration in Alaska, my father hired on with Shell Oil Company as their "packer" for their exploration of oil on the Alaska Peninsula. They barged a load of horses from Homer to the Alaska Peninsula. They would establish a base camp, then my father would pack in a second camp to their next destination. When the crews got to that camp, he would then move the next camp further into the field.
The following year he contracted with the owners of the Cherikoff Island in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska. A herd of wild cattle inhabited the island, it was his task to round these cattle up, corral them, and they would be processed for slaughter as any working ranch. After working the summer in an attempt to round up the cattle, none had been corralled. He recommended to the owners that they get a "better cowboy" by recommending that they hire his friend John Verde Hotchkiss form Colorado. John Verde also spent the following summer on the island, his record was very similar to that of my fathers. The "wild cows" remain on the island today. Over the years numerous attempts have been made to turn the island into a working ranch with little success.
Dad was a tough man, but he also grew up in tough times but when it came to horses, he seldom used his size, strength, and toughness to handle a horse, he was a "horseman". Every "horseman" has that one special horse, normally a horse that represents their personality and they bond with one another. Dad was no exception, his special horse was a big stud Palomino that went by the name of "Pal". They were Pal's, there are very few pictrures of my dad working with horses or leading a pack train that he is not riding Pal. He was dad's horse, no one else was allowed to ride him. There was one exception, after a summer of operating a riding stable in Aspen, Colroado it was decided that all of the horses would be driven cross country from Aspen to Montrose, Colroado. A trip of several days and mountian passes. There were five that made the "horsedrive", my sister had just recently married her partner for life, Cliff Miller. Dad told Cliff that he wanted him to ride Pal on the trip. Today, Cliff is still convinced that dad was trying to kill him. Pal had a mind of his own but after awhile, according to Cliff they had a little understanding and came home safely. I was just a youngster, but I still vidly recall when dad got the telephone call that Pal had been injured. He was being pastured at a friends ranch and was badly cut in a barb wire fence. Dad put him down but he was not as tough as he protrayed when he lost his "Pal". This picture hung in our various homes the entire time I was growing up, it was only recently given to me on my fall visit to Colorado.
"Pal" At Upper Soap Creek Hunting Camp
Although, he was adapt at cutting a steer out of a herd or roping a calf, he was a "Horseman". I acquired the above picture of my father on my trip to Colorado last spring. I had never seen this picture of him, taken in what appears the San Juan Mountains in the area of Ouray or Telluride, Colorado. I came to this conclusion by a very brief description on the back of the picture written by my mother, "Vern when packing ore boxes".
This was yet another thing that I did not know about my father because most likely it occurred prior to or just following my birth in 1945. On my trip to Colorado this past fall, I inquired about the process of packing ore. Until recent years, there were several gold mines in this area still in operation on both sides of Red Mountain. Accordingly, in the early days of these operations, the high grade ore was packed by horse or mule from the site of the mine to the smelter plant at lower elevations. Special wooden boxes were constructed that would fit into a standard panyard, one of each side of the pack animal. This picture is interesting in that my father is not only wearing chaps but also a fringe laced buckskin jacket.
Although, it is controversial whether a human has the ability to communicate with an animal, such as a horse. There are those that are convinced that "horse whisperers" have this ability. I am not a total beleiver in the "horsewhisperer" concept, however, I witnessed my father on numerous occasions handle a horse when everyone else had got frustrated or given up. He could get rough with a bronc when needed, but in most cases just laying his hands and talking to the horse would calm them down. As a child, we always had a good number of horses. It was my older brothers and my daily chores to take care of the horses. My older brother, Tad was also a good horseman at a young age. While shoeing or roaching a mane he would get one that was occasionally on the fight. After fighting with the horse for several minutes, my father would walk out from the house, take the halter rope, turn the horse in a circle a couple of times, lay his hands on the neck of the horse, talk to them, and after a bit, would say, "don't fight them". The horse would be settled down and the chore completed without a problem.
When it comes time to "geld" a stud, the typical way to "cut" a stud is to lay and tie them down, even the veterinarians will use some type of sedative. My father was only "horseman" that I have witnessed that would cut all his stud horses while they were standing. I know for a fact as I was the "halter" boy on a lot of stud horses holding them for my father. Again, he would lay his hands on the sides of the horse, talk to them, and rub them down to their flanks, then go under the horse and complete the operation. Total time lapsed, less than two minutes. In later years, he would teach my brother Don this same technique.
As a youth in Nebraska, he started working with horses. At that time the farmers were using horse teams in their fields to pull their equipment. In his teen years and during the "Great Depression" he made a living out of breaking horses to both the harness and riding. According to his diary of this era he always had several horses around his place all the time, breaking them for others.
In the early days of oil exploration in Alaska, my father hired on with Shell Oil Company as their "packer" for their exploration of oil on the Alaska Peninsula. They barged a load of horses from Homer to the Alaska Peninsula. They would establish a base camp, then my father would pack in a second camp to their next destination. When the crews got to that camp, he would then move the next camp further into the field.
The following year he contracted with the owners of the Cherikoff Island in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska. A herd of wild cattle inhabited the island, it was his task to round these cattle up, corral them, and they would be processed for slaughter as any working ranch. After working the summer in an attempt to round up the cattle, none had been corralled. He recommended to the owners that they get a "better cowboy" by recommending that they hire his friend John Verde Hotchkiss form Colorado. John Verde also spent the following summer on the island, his record was very similar to that of my fathers. The "wild cows" remain on the island today. Over the years numerous attempts have been made to turn the island into a working ranch with little success.
Dad was a tough man, but he also grew up in tough times but when it came to horses, he seldom used his size, strength, and toughness to handle a horse, he was a "horseman". Every "horseman" has that one special horse, normally a horse that represents their personality and they bond with one another. Dad was no exception, his special horse was a big stud Palomino that went by the name of "Pal". They were Pal's, there are very few pictrures of my dad working with horses or leading a pack train that he is not riding Pal. He was dad's horse, no one else was allowed to ride him. There was one exception, after a summer of operating a riding stable in Aspen, Colroado it was decided that all of the horses would be driven cross country from Aspen to Montrose, Colroado. A trip of several days and mountian passes. There were five that made the "horsedrive", my sister had just recently married her partner for life, Cliff Miller. Dad told Cliff that he wanted him to ride Pal on the trip. Today, Cliff is still convinced that dad was trying to kill him. Pal had a mind of his own but after awhile, according to Cliff they had a little understanding and came home safely. I was just a youngster, but I still vidly recall when dad got the telephone call that Pal had been injured. He was being pastured at a friends ranch and was badly cut in a barb wire fence. Dad put him down but he was not as tough as he protrayed when he lost his "Pal". This picture hung in our various homes the entire time I was growing up, it was only recently given to me on my fall visit to Colorado.
"Pal" At Upper Soap Creek Hunting Camp
5 comments:
I wonder if others know to stop by here as this is a great story and one definitely to pass down the family line!
Hello from a Harrington in Canada.
My g-g-g-grandfather Harrington came to Canada from upstate New York back in 1857.
Hey that picture sat on a shelf at Grandmas, then moved to a wall at Dons at some point...can I have a copy please? And a horse?
Hello,
I enjoyed reading your story! My dad forwarded it to me. His cousin was John Verde Hotchkiss.
Thanks for sharing,
Kelly (Hotchkiss) Haverkate
Dayton, OR
I just discovered this whole blog. Vern's mother was my Aunt Elle Belle Baker, married Henry P Harrington. Wow.
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