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Description

I ride alone a lot at night.  Sometimes, when my horse stops and perks his ears, I look out into the darkness and wonder what he sees that I don’t.  Now I kind of figure it’s best that I don’t know.

But I digress.

This is my first year at the University of Missouri; I transferred in from Truman and moved down here at the beginning of the summer.  But before I even started looking for an apartment, I scoured the surrounding area for a barn with an open stall so I could move my horse with me, but since the town is also home to a private equestrian college I couldn’t find any openings on such short notice.  So when I stumbled across what appeared to be a renovated stockyard miles out into the countryside, I was desperate enough to check it out.

It was a huge cattle stockyard, long closed down from the look of it.  Pens and runs stretched for acres around a big central building, with a smaller barn attached.  The property was surrounded by fenced-in, wooded pastures that looked like they’d been allowed to grow wild for years.

The owner didn’t live on the property, so it took me some time to finally track her down.  When I did, we finally agreed that I could board my horse in the barn that had once been used for the cattlemen’s stock horses, and I could do whatever I wanted with the property as long as I funded it myself.  The location was a bit far out from the university, but the price was right and I’ve always loved a challenge, so I was thrilled with the prospect.  Her only advice was to stay away from the northwest pasture, since another building had been there when the stockyard was in operation and had since burned down, so there was probably still debris in the area.

I was like a kid in a candy store.  I spent the entire summer completely stripping and renovating the stall barn and the closer pastures, replacing the rotten boards and the rusted metal, stripping out the old stalls and laying down rubber mats, replacing the piping, even relaying the roof—just completely fixing everything I could get my hands on.  I figured if I could make the entire area decent, I could manage the property for the owner and maybe even open it for boarders by the time school started.  I was feeling ambitious.

In the meantime, my horse Dude lived in the pastures, pretty much having a vacation since all my free time was poured into the project.  I’d bought him six years ago in Texas as a cutter—a stock horse that’s highly trained to work with cattle—and retrained him as a jumper.  We’d since retired from the show circuit, and he’s proven one of the trustiest animals I’ve had the pleasure to work with.

Only two weeks away from the beginning of the fall semester, I finally got the barn shipshape and moved my boy into the stall barn and started riding again.  I noticed at first that he was a bit spookier that he had been at my old barn, but I attributed this to the fact that he hadn’t had much exercise over the past few months, and that we rode almost exclusively after dusk—I was still working on the finishing touches of the barn during the day.  Often while riding the trails I’d hear the distant clanking of chains against gates from the direction of the empty northwest pasture, which was more than enough to send Dude rocketing out from under me.

By now I knew that the stockyard had a huge sale arena in the center of the main building.  So one evening we set out early, heading for the sale barn rather than the trails we’d been traveling.  Dude’s always been a quiet horse, so I wasn’t really all that concerned how he’d behave in the new environment.

But as soon as we reached the cattle chutes leading to the arena doors that I had left open, Dude stopped short and wouldn’t budge.  I spurred him, popped him with the reins, and finally got off and tried to lead him in directly, but I just couldn’t get that damn horse into the arena.

I gave up for the evening, and first thing the next morning I scooted on down to the hardware store and bought a set of floodlights and some extension cords, which I set up around the interior of the arena to make it a bit less terrifying for the dope.

While I was checking the sale barn’s electrical wiring to make sure it was safe despite its age, I came across an old sign that read “Benton Livestock Sale Co.”  So of course when I got home that evening I Googled it.

Though it took some real digging, I finally came across a brief reference to the old sale barn in an animal rights article about humane slaughtering methods.  Apparently the barn—and attached slaughterhouse—had been shut down after one of the steers brought to the barn for slaughter had broken through its pen, escaping and bringing the other cattle in the enclosure with it.  No less than four men and a horse had been killed in the cramped corridors of the sale barn in the stampede before the cattle were confined in the sale arena and shot.  The slaughterhouse had burned down later that year due to an unrelated electrical fire.

Intrigued but not put off, the next evening I led my horse back down to the sale barn, this time with the floodlights blazing.  It was a calm night without even a breeze, so the old boy was in a fine mood and eventually entered the arena with little resistance; I closed the main sliding doors behind us so he wouldn’t be inclined to wander out if I happened to fall off.

I was just settling down, the two of us practicing some simple reining patterns, when one of the closed arena gates slammed back against its chains, tearing free and crashing against the wooden run leading into it.  Dude leapt forward like a bronc that’d just had its bucking strap jerked, and I was barely able to hang on when I heard the deafening crashes of all the gates along the surrounding runs clanging and straining against their chains, as if caught in a driving blast of wind.

The floodlights died in unison, and I bit the dust.

I couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds, because when I came to Dude was screaming like a banshee in the darkness only a few yards away.  Staggering to my feet, I could just barely see him attached to one of the still-clanging gates he’d tried to escape through, one of his reins tangled up in the chain.  Confused and shaken, I moved to try and calm him when I realized my footing wasn’t bad because of my fall—the ground was SHAKING.  Fuck that!

Disentangling Dude and grabbing the reins, I threw myself in the saddle, grabbed the horn and gave the terrified horse his head.  As soon as he was free he tore down the open run, his agile old legs cutting through the twists and turns, slamming us into the high wooden sides of the tight chute in his haste to escape.  I appreciated our years of show jumping when the four-foot metal gate at the end of the chute slammed shut in front of us; he cleared it without killing either of us, although we’d both be sore in the morning.

As soon as we hit fresh air, the gates stopped clanging, and as far as I could tell the ground decided to stop freaking out, too.  But we galloped blindly away from the sale barn, and didn’t stop until we hit the end of the gravel road leading off the property.

I never did open the barn to boarders, but I didn’t move away, either.  I’ve since bought another horse—also trained to be thoroughly familiar with the toughest and meanest of cattle—and keep him with Dude all the time, so he won’t have to be alone.  I don’t ride after dark as much as I used to anymore, and I encourage my friends to come trail riding with me whenever they can.  The nonexistent chains still clang in the empty northwest pasture at night, and we keep away from the sale barn.

If you’re an experienced horseman and you want to take a peaceful ride through the beautiful countryside outside of Columbia, Missouri, you’re welcome to visit the Benton Livestock Sale Co.  Look for the bay and palomino geldings in the front pasture, and the white truck in the driveway; I don’t like to ride alone anymore, and I’d appreciate the company.

Description

I ride alone a lot at night.  Sometimes, when my horse stops and perks his ears, I look out into the darkness and wonder what he sees that I don’t.  Now I kind of figure it’s best that I don’t know.

But I digress.

This is my first year at the University of Missouri; I transferred in from Truman and moved down here at the beginning of the summer.  But before I even started looking for an apartment, I scoured the surrounding area for a barn with an open stall so I could move my horse with me, but since the town is also home to a private equestrian college I couldn’t find any openings on such short notice.  So when I stumbled across what appeared to be a renovated stockyard miles out into the countryside, I was desperate enough to check it out.

It was a huge cattle stockyard, long closed down from the look of it.  Pens and runs stretched for acres around a big central building, with a smaller barn attached.  The property was surrounded by fenced-in, wooded pastures that looked like they’d been allowed to grow wild for years.

The owner didn’t live on the property, so it took me some time to finally track her down.  When I did, we finally agreed that I could board my horse in the barn that had once been used for the cattlemen’s stock horses, and I could do whatever I wanted with the property as long as I funded it myself.  The location was a bit far out from the university, but the price was right and I’ve always loved a challenge, so I was thrilled with the prospect.  Her only advice was to stay away from the northwest pasture, since another building had been there when the stockyard was in operation and had since burned down, so there was probably still debris in the area.

I was like a kid in a candy store.  I spent the entire summer completely stripping and renovating the stall barn and the closer pastures, replacing the rotten boards and the rusted metal, stripping out the old stalls and laying down rubber mats, replacing the piping, even relaying the roof—just completely fixing everything I could get my hands on.  I figured if I could make the entire area decent, I could manage the property for the owner and maybe even open it for boarders by the time school started.  I was feeling ambitious.

In the meantime, my horse Dude lived in the pastures, pretty much having a vacation since all my free time was poured into the project.  I’d bought him six years ago in Texas as a cutter—a stock horse that’s highly trained to work with cattle—and retrained him as a jumper.  We’d since retired from the show circuit, and he’s proven one of the trustiest animals I’ve had the pleasure to work with.

Only two weeks away from the beginning of the fall semester, I finally got the barn shipshape and moved my boy into the stall barn and started riding again.  I noticed at first that he was a bit spookier that he had been at my old barn, but I attributed this to the fact that he hadn’t had much exercise over the past few months, and that we rode almost exclusively after dusk—I was still working on the finishing touches of the barn during the day.  Often while riding the trails I’d hear the distant clanking of chains against gates from the direction of the empty northwest pasture, which was more than enough to send Dude rocketing out from under me.

By now I knew that the stockyard had a huge sale arena in the center of the main building.  So one evening we set out early, heading for the sale barn rather than the trails we’d been traveling.  Dude’s always been a quiet horse, so I wasn’t really all that concerned how he’d behave in the new environment.

But as soon as we reached the cattle chutes leading to the arena doors that I had left open, Dude stopped short and wouldn’t budge.  I spurred him, popped him with the reins, and finally got off and tried to lead him in directly, but I just couldn’t get that damn horse into the arena.

I gave up for the evening, and first thing the next morning I scooted on down to the hardware store and bought a set of floodlights and some extension cords, which I set up around the interior of the arena to make it a bit less terrifying for the dope.

While I was checking the sale barn’s electrical wiring to make sure it was safe despite its age, I came across an old sign that read “Benton Livestock Sale Co.”  So of course when I got home that evening I Googled it.

Though it took some real digging, I finally came across a brief reference to the old sale barn in an animal rights article about humane slaughtering methods.  Apparently the barn—and attached slaughterhouse—had been shut down after one of the steers brought to the barn for slaughter had broken through its pen, escaping and bringing the other cattle in the enclosure with it.  No less than four men and a horse had been killed in the cramped corridors of the sale barn in the stampede before the cattle were confined in the sale arena and shot.  The slaughterhouse had burned down later that year due to an unrelated electrical fire.

Intrigued but not put off, the next evening I led my horse back down to the sale barn, this time with the floodlights blazing.  It was a calm night without even a breeze, so the old boy was in a fine mood and eventually entered the arena with little resistance; I closed the main sliding doors behind us so he wouldn’t be inclined to wander out if I happened to fall off.

I was just settling down, the two of us practicing some simple reining patterns, when one of the closed arena gates slammed back against its chains, tearing free and crashing against the wooden run leading into it.  Dude leapt forward like a bronc that’d just had its bucking strap jerked, and I was barely able to hang on when I heard the deafening crashes of all the gates along the surrounding runs clanging and straining against their chains, as if caught in a driving blast of wind.

The floodlights died in unison, and I bit the dust.

I couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds, because when I came to Dude was screaming like a banshee in the darkness only a few yards away.  Staggering to my feet, I could just barely see him attached to one of the still-clanging gates he’d tried to escape through, one of his reins tangled up in the chain.  Confused and shaken, I moved to try and calm him when I realized my footing wasn’t bad because of my fall—the ground was SHAKING.  Fuck that!

Disentangling Dude and grabbing the reins, I threw myself in the saddle, grabbed the horn and gave the terrified horse his head.  As soon as he was free he tore down the open run, his agile old legs cutting through the twists and turns, slamming us into the high wooden sides of the tight chute in his haste to escape.  I appreciated our years of show jumping when the four-foot metal gate at the end of the chute slammed shut in front of us; he cleared it without killing either of us, although we’d both be sore in the morning.

As soon as we hit fresh air, the gates stopped clanging, and as far as I could tell the ground decided to stop freaking out, too.  But we galloped blindly away from the sale barn, and didn’t stop until we hit the end of the gravel road leading off the property.

I never did open the barn to boarders, but I didn’t move away, either.  I’ve since bought another horse—also trained to be thoroughly familiar with the toughest and meanest of cattle—and keep him with Dude all the time, so he won’t have to be alone.  I don’t ride after dark as much as I used to anymore, and I encourage my friends to come trail riding with me whenever they can.  The nonexistent chains still clang in the empty northwest pasture at night, and we keep away from the sale barn.

If you’re an experienced horseman and you want to take a peaceful ride through the beautiful countryside outside of Columbia, Missouri, you’re welcome to visit the Benton Livestock Sale Co.  Look for the bay and palomino geldings in the front pasture, and the white truck in the driveway; I don’t like to ride alone anymore, and I’d appreciate the company.