ORME SCHOOL

The Orme School is located outside of Mayer, Arizona on the high grasslands of Central Arizona below the Bradshaw Mountains and south of Prescott and north of Phoenix. The school was started in 1929 to educate the Orme family members and the children of the staff and employees of the Orme’s cattle ranching and diary operations. In the summer of 1967 when I was a riding instructor/counselor for Orme’s summer camping program, the ranching and dairy were still operating. Today, I believe, the two-roomed school of the 1920s has blossomed into a prep school that has overtaken the ranching and dairy businesses in terms of employees and staff.

The summer program was a wonderful experience for many of the youngsters who had been raised in large cities. The campers’ ages ranged from ten to eighteen. The focus was on the care and riding of horses; however, there were other activities such as rifle target shooting, swimming programs including life saving, pottery, nature studies leather working, and so on. In short, a youngster’s day was packed with activities. And to get out of the relentless afternoon sun, there was an hour of rest after lunch — siesta time it was called — not a bad idea to get out of the blazing sun.

The last two weeks of the summer program was the truck caravan; campers were assigned one of five or six large trucks. Sleeping and duffel bags were tossed into the trucks, a canvas tarp was pulled over them, and in went the campers who could watch the passing scenery or sleep. The trucks traveled through the Southwest’s nature sights: Monument Valley, Brice and Zion Canyons, the Goosenecks of the San Juan River, The Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, the summer Indian Ceremonials at Gallup New Mexico, and the White Mountains — to mention a few. From those trucks, we learned that the Southwest’s beauty was as unimaginable as it was staggering in scale.

Many of the youngsters had never confronted animals larger than cats and dogs. On the second day, the new campers encountered an animal that often weighed a half a ton or more. The first few days after the new campers arrived were mostly orientation about horses and how they liked to be treated. The primary adage was: If you treat a horse nicely, most likely the horse will treat you nicely. Another adage was: Remember, you’re in control; if the horse senses that you’re frightened, he will take control which translates into an unpleasant, uncomfortable, and sometimes dangerous ride. By the third day, the new campers were learning how to bridle and saddle a horse.

Bridling a horse is tricky. One hand holds the bridle just above the horse’s nose while the other hand opens the horse’s mouth; at that point, the hand holding the bridle pulls the bit into the horse’s mouth until the bit finds its home between the horse’s back teeth. Most horses and most people did not enjoy the procedure.

The next step was saddling the horse, easier than bridling; however, some horses began to exhale only part of the air they inhaled in order to expand their chests. After the saddle was cinched and in place, the reserved air was released; the cinch would loosen making the horse more comfortable. The dilemma for the rider was a comfortable horse or an uncomfortable rider as the saddle began to slide and wobble. Recinching the saddle after the horse released the reserved air often settled that trick.

The girl campers often fell in love with the horses that were assigned to them and spent a great deal of time improving their horse’s looks — braiding the mane and tail, washing their horse once a week, and brushing their coats. Boys were less affectionate, but several would build a relationship with their horses.

I would usually bring something to feed my horse, Cherub — a tall roan that was assigned to me when I was a camper. Of course, he didn’t remember me after seven years, but we reestablished our old relationship with food that he enjoyed. When I was a camper, I always approached him with a snack. Horses often have a sweet tooth: a couple of apple slices were appreciated, more so with a carrot; he would nuzzle me after sugar cubes, and he was crazy about carrot cake. After rides, he usually got a feed bag with a couple of handfuls of rolled oats in molasses. My campers began feeding their horses with snacks; I was flattered.

I once asked my mother why our dog liked her more than the rest of us. Her reply was, “I feed her, that’s why. It works that way with most animals, ourselves included.” As usual, Mom was right.

Most of the campers in my group enjoyed riding; within a few weeks, they were bridling and saddling their horses efficiently. Many swung into the saddle with the growing authority of characters in a John Wayne western. One late afternoon were about to collect our horses for a ride up the dry creek that ran through the ranch. On my way to the horse corral to collect Cherub, I was told that he and a group of horses were undergoing their physical examination with the vet, and I was to ride a mare named Sparks that afternoon.

Sparks was the meanest horse I would ever encounter. Sparks and I weren’t getting along from the get-go; when I gave her some apple slices, she glared at me and refused the apple. I had never seen a horse do that. Bridling her, she shook the bridle away and bit me just below my left shoulder. A horse bite is like a living vice and left a long bruise. Saddling her, I went around to her right, and she cow kicked me (horses usually kick straight back; cows usually kick sideways). The kick landed on the top of my right thigh and left a dark purple bruise the size of a hoof. My campers were watching: some were worried, others bemused.

About forty-five minutes out, we were cantering down the creek bed to a fork: I reined to the left and leaned leftward. Sparks was going left, then bolted to the right. I had committed to the left and was thrown. As I was getting up, Sparks came toward me and looked at me with her big brown eyes and seemed to say, “Gee, Steve, we’re having fun; what’s next?”

I put the stirrups across the saddle, removed the bridle, slapped her across the rump, and Sparks took off for home. I told my group that I would walk back. After questions if I was alright, they headed for home. James Fullerton from Boston stayed behind and said, “You told us to ask around about a horse you’re about to ride — you know, to learn about the horse’s strong and weak points. Did you do that before you rode Sparks?”

“No, I didn’t have time. Why don’t you ride off into the sunset?”

“You’re upset?”

“Frankly, I’m embarrassed. The walk back will allow me to think how I’m going to explain this without people laughing at me.”

He turned away and trotted off to join his friends.