leanin' H
Well-known member
I wrote this last week after spending a little time ridin' the old horse trail across the mountain. Had some quality time with my horse and my thoughts. Hope it's not to personal for others to understand and not too cheesey!
Trails
The snowflakes started swirlin' and the breeze began to blow, as the sound of horses coming reached my ear.
The clouds were low, just hangin' cross the ridges and the cedars, and I listened to the hoofbeats gettin' near.
I had rode across the mountain, on a cool,crisp winter day. With hopes of finding cattle, pushin' strays.
And in the early of the mornin', as the day began to break,i rode along and felt the sun's warm rays.
That's when I started thinkin' bout the trails underfoot, and how they take ya where ya need to go.
Across the ridges, through the saddles, down the draws and up the canyons. As smooth as cold, clear water when it flows.
There amongst the shale and there amongst the oakbrush, if ya let your pony have his head he'll see,
and he'll follow as it leads you like a highway cross the clouds. It's the high desert trails that set ya free.
Now those hoofbeats keep'a comin', but I can't tell who it is, so i'll let my cayuse puff a little more.
As I ponder bout the trails i ride and how they all became.
They look like they could lead to heavens door.
They seem older than the mountain, but as new as mornin' dew. They all string together like a song.
They ask nothin' for your passage. No tolls or signs are needed. They allow a horse and rider to belong.
They know where all the seeps are, where the salt grounds have always been. They lead to pretty vista's and even point ya home.
They lend their selves to wildlife and cattle as they travel, just a path of dirt among the jagged stone.
They were forged by mustangs runnin', free as eagles on the wind. Manes of black and eyes as clear as glass.
Carved by countless hoof prints as they wandered cross the ridges, as they drifted in their endless search for grass.
They've been gone so long my memory has to stretch itself to see em'. But they left these etched markers on their grave.
And they are now a part of this ol' range like mahogany and bunchgrass. A history, a tradition that can't be paved.
And my Grand Dad rode these trails as he worked to feed his family. He knew them like the back of his own hand.
As he followed 'tween the canyons on a half-broke mustang colt. That had grown up runnin' with the band.
Till the day the riders chased em', across the mountain comb. Down Green's ridge they flew like a comet's tail.
But the horse trap was built careful and they never saw it coming, til the hole was closed by sliding old pine rails.
And the colt became a partner to a rancher with a will. Together they would ride and act as one.
While the wild band would be turned out to the freedom they had comin'. To disappear behind the setting sun.
And through the generations, our horses have tread these trails. As we carry the tradition that we love so.
Till today, while in my saddle, as my pony pricks his ears. We can both hear the hoof clicks through the snow.
But as suddenly as they were there, they passed us and are gone. No sound but snow falling, flake by flake.
Did I dream I heard the horses? Did my mind play tricks on me? But the horse tracks on the trail prove i'm awake.
Do the mustangs roam the ridges? Do they still run wild and free? To bring the western spirit to my soul?
To act as a reminder that the freedom's never gone. It's as fresh and strong as a buckskin mustang foal.
Or were the tracks made by riders? Out lookin' for a stray? To look at how a Grandson's now a man?
Does he honor those who went before? In word and act and deed? Solid as a granite or more like shifting sand?
The tracks he left are legends. Not easy to try and fill. Do I measure up or do I lack the stride?
Then as sudden as the hoofbeats fled, I know that he approves! I can almost see him grinning, "Come on boy, lets take ourselves a ride"!
And everytime I saddle-up, I feel his level, steady gaze. I can hear him as he whistles for his horse.
And as long as I am on the trail, I'll never ride alone. I'll just follow as it bends along it's course.
And I'll listen for the brambies. And I'll listen for Grandpa's voice. Cause someday, I know he'll come, to call me home.
To take me from the mountain, to ride a different range. In a higher pasture I hope to someday roam.
By that time I hope my own two kids, will love the trails we've rode. And will take my place among the cliffs and sage.
And though some who read the story won't believe the words I write, most will know that there's more than on the page.
And can tell their testimony of the folks who've gone before. Most times that ol' veil is pretty thin.
And if you'll listen as your ridin', far from town and noise, you too,can see where they have been.
By followin' the trails they blazed, by stayin' on the path, you will find a closeness with them too.
It's when you stray and wander that the tracks get hard to read. Just shut your eyes, listen..... They'll come to you.
These trails I ride are sacred. They have tracks into my soul. They connect me to a heritage I adore.
They allow me all the freedom, of mustangs on the run. They still hold the dreams of those who've gone before.
Darrell Holden
Dec. 2008
Trails
The snowflakes started swirlin' and the breeze began to blow, as the sound of horses coming reached my ear.
The clouds were low, just hangin' cross the ridges and the cedars, and I listened to the hoofbeats gettin' near.
I had rode across the mountain, on a cool,crisp winter day. With hopes of finding cattle, pushin' strays.
And in the early of the mornin', as the day began to break,i rode along and felt the sun's warm rays.
That's when I started thinkin' bout the trails underfoot, and how they take ya where ya need to go.
Across the ridges, through the saddles, down the draws and up the canyons. As smooth as cold, clear water when it flows.
There amongst the shale and there amongst the oakbrush, if ya let your pony have his head he'll see,
and he'll follow as it leads you like a highway cross the clouds. It's the high desert trails that set ya free.
Now those hoofbeats keep'a comin', but I can't tell who it is, so i'll let my cayuse puff a little more.
As I ponder bout the trails i ride and how they all became.
They look like they could lead to heavens door.
They seem older than the mountain, but as new as mornin' dew. They all string together like a song.
They ask nothin' for your passage. No tolls or signs are needed. They allow a horse and rider to belong.
They know where all the seeps are, where the salt grounds have always been. They lead to pretty vista's and even point ya home.
They lend their selves to wildlife and cattle as they travel, just a path of dirt among the jagged stone.
They were forged by mustangs runnin', free as eagles on the wind. Manes of black and eyes as clear as glass.
Carved by countless hoof prints as they wandered cross the ridges, as they drifted in their endless search for grass.
They've been gone so long my memory has to stretch itself to see em'. But they left these etched markers on their grave.
And they are now a part of this ol' range like mahogany and bunchgrass. A history, a tradition that can't be paved.
And my Grand Dad rode these trails as he worked to feed his family. He knew them like the back of his own hand.
As he followed 'tween the canyons on a half-broke mustang colt. That had grown up runnin' with the band.
Till the day the riders chased em', across the mountain comb. Down Green's ridge they flew like a comet's tail.
But the horse trap was built careful and they never saw it coming, til the hole was closed by sliding old pine rails.
And the colt became a partner to a rancher with a will. Together they would ride and act as one.
While the wild band would be turned out to the freedom they had comin'. To disappear behind the setting sun.
And through the generations, our horses have tread these trails. As we carry the tradition that we love so.
Till today, while in my saddle, as my pony pricks his ears. We can both hear the hoof clicks through the snow.
But as suddenly as they were there, they passed us and are gone. No sound but snow falling, flake by flake.
Did I dream I heard the horses? Did my mind play tricks on me? But the horse tracks on the trail prove i'm awake.
Do the mustangs roam the ridges? Do they still run wild and free? To bring the western spirit to my soul?
To act as a reminder that the freedom's never gone. It's as fresh and strong as a buckskin mustang foal.
Or were the tracks made by riders? Out lookin' for a stray? To look at how a Grandson's now a man?
Does he honor those who went before? In word and act and deed? Solid as a granite or more like shifting sand?
The tracks he left are legends. Not easy to try and fill. Do I measure up or do I lack the stride?
Then as sudden as the hoofbeats fled, I know that he approves! I can almost see him grinning, "Come on boy, lets take ourselves a ride"!
And everytime I saddle-up, I feel his level, steady gaze. I can hear him as he whistles for his horse.
And as long as I am on the trail, I'll never ride alone. I'll just follow as it bends along it's course.
And I'll listen for the brambies. And I'll listen for Grandpa's voice. Cause someday, I know he'll come, to call me home.
To take me from the mountain, to ride a different range. In a higher pasture I hope to someday roam.
By that time I hope my own two kids, will love the trails we've rode. And will take my place among the cliffs and sage.
And though some who read the story won't believe the words I write, most will know that there's more than on the page.
And can tell their testimony of the folks who've gone before. Most times that ol' veil is pretty thin.
And if you'll listen as your ridin', far from town and noise, you too,can see where they have been.
By followin' the trails they blazed, by stayin' on the path, you will find a closeness with them too.
It's when you stray and wander that the tracks get hard to read. Just shut your eyes, listen..... They'll come to you.
These trails I ride are sacred. They have tracks into my soul. They connect me to a heritage I adore.
They allow me all the freedom, of mustangs on the run. They still hold the dreams of those who've gone before.
Darrell Holden
Dec. 2008
