I met Vic when I was a child, maybe 4 or 5. He was stocky in stature, quick with a smile and a laugh, but eerily calm in spirit. As a child I didn't understand how a persons childhood and young adulthood could shape the person, but I understood so much more about his quiet confidence after I learned about his past.
Vic, a Spanish Basque descendant from Nevada, was a father, a husband and a wonderful provider. It was only when he climbed upon the meanest horse in our corral, did I realize, he had a sort of god-like quality atop an un-ride-able Appaloosa named Jobo.
As a budding rider myself, I watched in awe as he used only his thighs to quiet the horse into gentle submission. I knew I was watching something impressive when I looked over at my slack-jawed father, who had worked himself into a tizzy trying to get that damn horse to even allow him onboard.
We leaned against the cold, silver pipe fence surrounding that pen and took in the sight of this magnificent horse, now under Vic's uncanny spell. The massive hooves that I'd always worried would trample me to death one day, smooth-danced under the Vic's quiet command. With a litany of almost silent clicks, Vic commanded Jobo to move right, then left, then forward and back in unison. The horse's silky chestnut ears perked back toward his steady rider, ever listening and understanding.
Now let me remind you, until that day, none of us had seen anyone stay in Jobo's saddle for more than a minute or two. But this man, not tall in stature, but steeped in confidence, somehow settled the horse's soul. His trust seemed complete within minutes. His bond instant.
When Vic swiftly dismounted the horse, and dropped to his booted feet, we all knew the truth. He was some sort of magician. That horse was always meant to be his - not his slave - but his partner. My dad's words are as clear today as they were when Vic slipped through those silver rungs of that fence, "I guess he's yours now." Vic just smiled that easy smile, his chin scruffy after a long days work, his eyes sparkling with untold knowledge. "No Ron, he's just not interested in being mastered, but he is willing to show you respect, if you show him respect in return."
What I didn't know then is that our friend and neighbor, Victor Arriola, had an incredibly interesting past that he chose to keep to himself. Not a secretive, wicked kind of omission, more a non-braggy kind of omission. He'd been one of the original Buckaroos from Paradise Valley, Nevada. The real deal kind of cowboy - or better known in the region - a Buckaroo - which is a name derived from the Spanish word Vaquero.
1 comment:
A true horse whisperer! Thank you for sharing Vic's story. He sounds like the friend everyone should have.
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