There are a lot of titles that encompass greatness in our industry:
And the list continues.
I applaud this greatness. Each and every title is up for grabs year after year, and often, the best men and women of the horse world take hold of and clinch the well-deserved win. But when it comes to horsemanship, a lot of greatness goes unnoticed. It’s a quiet, humble greatness that doesn’t boast a shiny buckle or a big check. But it can be just as rewarding.
It’s finally starting your very own colt. It’s noticing the way a good horse travels. It’s gaining the trust of an animal that shouldn’t trust anymore. It’s a little boy realizing that bringing a handful of grain with him makes his pony easier to catch.
Just like winning a world title, these moments are important, appreciated and cherished. They are a rare and special treasure.
I had a neighbor in California who died in January. He was a man who recognized the joy and beauty in what horsemanship offered. His name was Gene Armstrong, and he lived just down the dry riverbed from us. A few times a month, we would take a trot down to say hello and visit or he would do the same to us. He was semi-retired and usually piddling around in his yard, shoeing a horse or riding one, but he always found time to share a story or two and smile in amusement at whatever we had to tell him.
He seemed to have at least one caballo around his place in each stage of becoming a bridle horse, from foal to semi-retired, and the journey always seemed more important than the destination. Not to take anything away from his accolades — he was a regular competitor in stock horse events and was well-recognized for his achievements as a master farrier, educator, teacher, cowboy, student and horseman. He was inducted into the International Horseshoeing Hall of Fame and awarded the Vaquero Award from the National Reined Cow Horse Association. But that didn’t matter so much to him as doing right by the animal and finding joy in the process. And the better I got to know him, the more special I realized he was.
There was no doubt that Gene admired the horse and wanted to figure out how to better their lives as they had bettered his. He once told me he realized at one point that riding was so much more than just sitting on top of their backs. And that turned into a lifetime of knowledge-seeking and dedication.
He had a soft way of speaking and could hardly hear, but he had a lot to say and drove a loud truck. Whenever I would see him, he was calm, casual and charismatic. He was a thoughtful man and extremely good at sharing his wisdom and knowledge with anyone interested. Sometimes, he would get so deep on his horsemanship that I could hardly visualize what he was even trying to say, but I enjoyed hearing it anyway. He was appreciative and generous; I remember writing him a check once for hay (we were working in Hawaii and left some broncs in his yard), and he tore it up in front of me with a joking scowl and an excess of drama and emphasis on the tear. I still laugh at that.
He had nice horses, but even more importantly, he had happy horses. Relaxed horses. Confident, quiet and helpful horses. I’ve rarely seen a man more patient with both people and animals. He loved education — both learning and teaching — and his students varied from kids at Cal Poly and Feather River College (in both Farrier Science and Horsemanship classes) from novice riders to million-dollar professionals.
There’s a small hole in my heart knowing that his genuine grin and thoughtful stories are no longer in Paso Robles, waiting along that riverbend to be shared with me should I stop in.
When I watch top-level competitors on aged-event horses succeed, I think of all the sacrifice that takes. But when I watch my husband take a horse from being tight and terrified to usable and happy, I think of Gene. When I see my daughter work on getting her pony to lead better with patience and feel, I think of Gene. And when I see something in a horse mentally click, and he sighs, relaxes, lowers his head and licks his lips, I think of Gene.
And I’d bet that every horse and human who knew him would agree that with his patient spirit, his kind eyes and a clear love for what he did, he was important, appreciated and cherished.
A rare and special treasure.
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