scottsdale all-arabian horse show 2011

February usually equals cold, wind and snow here at 7,000 feet, which generally makes it a blissful time to head down to the Valley of the Sun for a little sunny R&R. I've been doing it off and on since the early 90's when I moved to Arizona, but I have to say, this was one of the coldest weekends I've ever spent down there. Still, the reasons to get out of Dodge were numerous, so down we went.

First timers to Westworld, where the show is held every year, can't help but catch their breath a little when they come upon the bronze Arabians at the entrance:

Once inside the entrance tent, you're greeted by wall to wall booths full of amazing art and saddles and bling, and it's almost too much to take in:

Due to the rain and the wind this year, the covered warm-up arena was packed. Halter classes were actually being held in the outdoor warm-up, which makes me think Wendell Arena must have been a mess:

Inside the Equidome, though, it was business as usual. I never got an official entry count, but classes were decent sized, and there were lots of spectators there for the long weekend:

The mare halter classes on Saturday night were awesome. For me, it was all about the greys this year. So many breathtaking beauties:

Before heading back up to the snow and our own fuzzy four-leggeds, we got to see one of the benefits of all that rain:

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down side

At some point during the night last night a neighbor’s yearling filly was mauled by a mountain lion.

At least, we think it was a mountain lion. Walking over there this morning I checked out the tracks, and though I don’t have the most trained eye, it seems pretty clear that’s what they are – big pads, no nail marks, prints disappearing into the forest next to my house. The filly’s going to be put down, and the thought made part of me not even want to go over there to see if the owners needed anything from a fellow horse person. Too many long-buried memories there, memories I didn’t want dredged up. But that’s what you do in our community (in any decent community, I guess). You stop by, and you acknowledge. You ask if there’s anything you can do. I was pretty sure they’d say no (they did), because I’ve been in a very similar situation with a doomed horse, and, really, what the hell can anyone do?

This is the worst – the absolute worst – part of living in the country.

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cowgirl bling

I spent Saturday at a rodeo queen contest with a bunch of 4-H girls. For as much time as I've spent in the horse world (about 25 years now), I've had pretty limited experience with the rodeo. I mean, aside from watching a few local events, admiring the scenery

and noticing that bull riders at the National Finals have started wearing crash helmets (It's about time, says I, the old riding marm), Rodeo and I haven't crossed paths much. Of course, every time I hear Garth singing about it I wish I'd spent my life on the circuit. But I digress.

I have to remind myself occasionally that I chose "Try it" as my motto for 2008. Besides, it's not like the whole rodeo queen thing was for my benefit. As the great Bob the Tomato once said, "It's for the kids." And what the 4-H girls want, the 4-H girls get. I'll admit it. I'm a total pushover (I've even managed to wheedle them in as my ring stewards for a show I'm judging later this month, so they can get a center-ring view of the classes).

So, anyway. Rodeo queens (like cheerleaders and beauty pageant contestants) = Extremely visible, flashy targets for all sorts of ridicule. But, you know what? Some of those girls were really impressive. Not only did they have to memorize and perform a reining pattern on the spot, but they had to dismount in front of a panel of judges and stand there looking pretty while answering a bunch of random, off-the-cuff questions like, "Can you name a famous bronc rider?" and "Can you point to your horse's gaskin?" and "Who is the stock contractor for the 2008 Pine Country Pro Rodeo?"

A couple of the girls were clearly flustered by some of the questions, and I heard a few of them tell the judges, "I'll look into that and get back to you" (with those dazzling smiles glued firmly in place, of course). After the Q&A each girl had to mount up, ride over to the announcer's booth, take the mic and deliver a speech to the crowd about why she should be chosen as this year's queen. Then she had to demonstrate a victory lap around the arena - at a gallop - while holding up a huge American flag. Heck, I'd do that and more for the chance to wear the flashy chinks that get passed down from queen to queen every year. And don't even get me started on the tiara.

Anyway, the winner was a completely adorable Navajo cowgirl with a smile that could melt steel, a personality that could re-carbonate a keg of flat sarsaparilla and a thorough knowledge of all things rodeo. She was a solid hand, too, on her big, borrowed paint. Total crowd favorite, and I think everyone but the runner up's mom was thrilled that she won.

When I got home I saddled up Zzari and headed out for a long ride all over the prairie. I rode up to a big ridge I'd never visited before, and from where I could see a little lake/cattle tank below. Then I discovered an old homesteader's cabin, long abandoned, before heading to my favorite spot on Earth, which is basically a big pile of boulders that sits on a hill overlooking the prairie below with pine-covered hills and mountains all around it.

I love bling as much as any cowgirl, but I guess I love the simple stuff just as much. It was pretty fun to enjoy both in one day.

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bloodlines on the brain

My friend April and I headed down to the annual Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show last Friday morning. April's grandparents were well-known Arabian breeders in the Pacific Northwest, so she got to spend her summers on their ranch growing up. She also bought one of our horses last year, so this was a good chance for her to get to see some of his relatives. I haven't been this excited about going to Scottsdale since I showed my gelding Zzari there a decade ago. I was also kid-less back then, so I had no idea how rejuvenating a couple of days of solid "girl time" could be. I think I can speak for April when I say we had a blast.

We got to see a nice Prix St. George dressage performance that first evening. This boy's tempi changes and extended trot were lovely, though I couldn't quite figure out how to get my camera to behave in that night-time, fluorescent Equidome lighting.

On day two, this volunteer from a Phoenix wild animal sanctuary was there in one of the exhibitor tents with her friend:

The outside warm-up arena between the Equidome and Wendell were full of action. It's my favorite place to evaluate the horses and riders because they're not trying to put on a pretty performance for the judges. This stallion really caught my eye (and April's, too). When I asked about his bloodlines, the trainer told me he was Russian and Spanish. It figures. That explains both the substance and the pretty. April's gelding is the product of our *Nariadni daughter (now, sadly, deceased) bred to the great *Muscat son, Mussiah. My husband and I love those Howard Kale/Taylor Ranch Russian bloodlines. I've never owned or bred Spanish lines, but I've long admired them from afar. In my opinion, you can't top mares like Estopa for beauty, or stallions like Gual Kubesi for exotic masculinity. I'd like to get back into the horse-breeding game someday, but not yet.

As the sun was going down, this rider had the covered warm-up practically to himself.

Here's the Wendell in-gate at the start of one of the Western Pleasure semi-finals. You can see the judges standing in the middle, awaiting their victims.

And here's a happy Native Costume champion just after her victory pass.

Don't even get me started on the food at Scottsdale. I meant to have a falafel at some point, but never got around to it. Instead, I had some awesome, spicy Thai noodles with chicken; some Miss Karen's frozen yogurt in a waffle cone (that's a required tradition); and, at the Shada barn party, a reeeeeeaaaaaallllly yummy pork sandwich with Hollandaise sauce, plus sourdough/cream cheese and cucumber/shrimp appetizers. Yeah, I'll add some minutes on to my next prairie run.

Scottsdale is also a great place to find romance. Case in point:

Her name is Marissa, and she's not even a year old yet. She is sired by an up-and-coming *Nariadni son out of a *Muscat daughter. Bred by Taylor Ranch, of course.

Did I mention that I love her?

Now I just need to go dig around under the couch cushions to find that spare $20,000 in change that has no doubt collected there.

As the husband said when I told him about Marissa, "Hey, she costs a lot less than a new F-350 Powerstroke." Oh, had he been with us, he would have been a GONER, I tell ya. It would have taken him only one moment of scritching her behind the ears and seeing her big eyes go all half-closed and dreamy, and that would have been all she wrote. We'd have a new filly in the pasture this morning, and credit card bills out the yazoo. But can you just look at this face for a moment? What's crushing debt compared to something like this? Plus, there's filly breath to take into consideration, which everyone knows is priceless.

And speaking of nice things to look at, where there are cow butts...

...you'll also find these:


So, while I was capturing the scenery, April was snickering and capturing ME:

Its a good thing I have one of these at home. That's all I'm going to say about THAT.

My overall impressions of the show? It was first-class all the way. The exhibitors and horses seemed happier in general than I've noticed in years past, with very few exceptions. The vendors seemed happy, too, which doesn't surprise me, since the tents were quite packed both days we were down there.

Judging by the "for sale" fliers tacked up on every available wall and bulletin board, the Arabian market looks like it's in a fairly healthy place right now. Nice horses certainly aren't being given away, but you don't see exorbitant price tags on green horses of questionable quality, which has been the case in the not-too-distant past. April was bugged by the greasy shaved faces, especially on the halter horses, but that's been going on for decades now. Overuse of whips in the halter arena and spurs/rein-jerking in the performance arenas was practically non-existent as far as I could see, and that is a wonderful development.

The weather down in the valley was quite blustery the first day, but considering the fact that we drove through a near-blizzard to get down the mountain, it didn't seem that bad. Saturday's weather couldn't have been much more gorgeous, which is another reason it's such a treat for us high-altitude folks to head to Scottsdale in February. I missed having my man there with me, since some of our best times are Scottsdale/Arabian/horse-related, but let me tell ya: There's no WAY he would have wanted to stop and ogle the pretty jewelry and clothes on display the way April and I did. I'm hoping she'll post a comment with some of her impressions, too.

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going forth

A friend and I are headed to the land of beautiful horses and big-haired handlers this morning, so this is the last you'll hear from me until my full report on the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show.

Until then, here are the answers to Tuesday's quiz:

1. The Buggles big one-hit wonder song that gave them their 15 minutes of fame was "Video Killed the Radio Star," which was correctly answered by Heidi. Go, girl! This was also the first video ever aired on MTV.

2. Nobody guessed the origin of the "manservant" quote which, frankly, shocks me. It's from the BBC's phenomenal 80's t.v. show "Black Adder." This particular quote is spoken by a medieval doctor to Sir Edmund Blackadder, played by Rowan Atkinson. You can get the gist of the whole story here.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

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it's alive! (or: you might not be a redneck if)

Taking a year off to enjoy the comforts of suburban life in the Bay Area has apparently put a bit of a dent in my country cred. Allow me to explain.

A couple of dear friends were kind enough to keep our horses for us while we took our CA sabbatical, and earlier this week I bought some fence-mending equipment in anticipation of the last two "boys" returning home. We use a heavy-duty electric tape fencing system called Horseguard, with which I've been quite happy for the past few years (yes, even while we were away, because the tape doesn't seem to have degraded at all, despite being subjected to the wild weather of Northern AZ). The task was to get it "hot" again (i.e. to get a current running all the way through the perimeter of the pasture) so that it would serve as an effective fence - otherwise the geldings just stick their pointy little heads/fuzzy little bodies under/over the tape to get to whatever intrigues them on the other side.

On Saturday I replaced all the worn out/broken insulators, and yesterday I worked on splicing the tape in a few places where it was weak, or where I'd done a rush job splicing it over a year ago. It felt good to be out in the pasture, despite the waist-high tumbleweeds and the mud created by all the snow melt-off. I had to be a little careful of the gash I'd put in my hand earlier in the week when trying to cram a trash bag (into which I'd apparently thrown broken glass of some sort) into an overly full trash receptacle without wearing work gloves. But other than that, everything was copacetic. I did have to re-do a corner insulator after I got it screwed into the wood post and then realized that I'd forgotten to insert two necessary bolts beforehand, and I did have to go back and undo a few twists in the tape that somehow snuck in there, but no pain, no gain, right?

Finally, like Dr. Frankenstein, I was ready to test my creation. I'd bought a fancy-schmancy tester at the fencing supply store, but unfortunately its use requires sticking a metal probe into the ground, which was still too frozen to allow any kind of probing. No problem: Over a decade ago my husband showed me how to test an electric fence the Redneck Way (and, no, it does not involve bodily fluid - that's the Idiot Way). So, unable to locate a good-sized piece of wire, I unwound a big paperclip, wrapped it around a little pine stick I found in the snow, and touched both points to the fence.

ZAP! Stick goes flying, Nicole's arm shoots up in the air, and someone says "YIPE!"

Apparently, if you use a damp stick when testing an electric fence the Redneck Way, you're going to know beyond the shadow of a doubt whether or not you've got a successful current.

Well, that was all fine and dandy for THAT section of fence, but how was I going to know if the section farthest from our house, the problematic side where the horses tend to escape with the most frequency, was hot?

Hmmmm. Let's see. If you have some kind of insulating material...Plastic! I have plastic kitchen tools! A few minutes later I emerged from the house with my big slotted pasta spoon, into the grooves of which I had crammed my little damp stick with the paperclip wound around the end of it. There was no way that sucker was going to zap me now. I made my way over to the far fence line and carefully raised the pasta spoon until the paperclip points were touching the tape.

Nothing.

Nicole: Dang, what's wrong with this thing? It's supposed to give a little snap to let me know it's hot. Shoot, this side must not be getting current. Here, let me just grab the stick with my bare hand and try it this way just to be su-

ZAP! "YOW! ($%#@*!#)" Stick goes flying; arm shoots up; neighbors (who are out doing their own yard work) no doubt chuckle.

Well, even though I have very little feeling on the right side of my body at this point, at least the pasture is ready to house our horses again. A few hours later, my husband and brother-in-law pull up with two fuzzy geldings in the trailer. All is well, the equines are reunited, and the three of them get to work reacquainting themselves with their old digs. Oops, I forgot to fill a water trough for them.

Imagine, if you will, a beautiful February afternoon on a pine covered, alpine prairie. A handsome, rugged man stands by a pasture fence gazing upon three serene horses. A warm breeze blows across the melting snow, carrying with it the promise of an early spring. And what's this? Here comes his wife, a country girl once again, a little longer in the tooth than she was back in the day, but still a sight to behold with the metal-handled water bucket she has carried from the round pen, filled to the brim. See how she conserves? She how she works with Mother Nature, not willing to let a single precious drop be wasted? She how she lifts the bucket high and pours the water into the waiting trough on the other side of the fence? See how the water arcs, like liquid crystal, through the air. Hear how the husband wonders aloud, "What are you - " as the water splashes across the electric fence.

ZAP! "HOLY mother of -" Arm goes flying. Bucket goes flying. Husband turns politely away so that he will not be seen trying (unsuccessfully) to contain his laughter.

Husband: "You know, there's a reason for that saying about peeing on an electric fence."

So yeah, that's me: Officially certified practitioner of the Idiot Way. But, hey, the lack of sensation in both arms is worth it, if for no other reason than this:

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we've got stoveage

Judging from the ice crystals attached to the whiskers of my husband's old gelding this morning, it's a good thing the WSIGs came out to install the wood stove that's been sitting on a pallet in our living room all month. Yes, we've been enjoying propane heat through the past few January storms here on the prairie, but have you checked the price of propane lately? Our bill for the latest tank fill-up came to $900. In the winter, a tank full of propane should last about 2-3 months, so you do the math.

We'll still use propane for the oven/stove and the water heater, but for keeping our little selves warm and toasty it's going to be wood heat all the way, Baby. Well, it will be as soon as the county inspector comes out and gives us the go-ahead to light the first fire. My tendency to follow the rule book to the letter in situations like these drives my poor husband nuts, he being more of a punch-a-hole-in-the-ceiling, throw-an-inherited-old-wood-stove-in-there-and-call-it-good kind of guy. I think this will be worth both the wait and the flaming hoop-jumping, however:

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