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David and Amelia Ladd. One of those days a father never forgets...Michelle Hoyt (foreground) and Amelia ridemid-pack as the group picks its way backthrough the herd of resident horses.Ionce dreamed of being a cowboy. That isn’t big news; mostevery boy dreamed of being a cowboy in the 1950s and1960s when I was young. Unlike many, though, I guess Inever outgrew it. Growing up in New England and raisingmy family and my Morgans here, the West has long seemed like anelusive adventure I might never know. That was, until I celebratedthe Morgan by living that dream, if only for a little while.While I readily admit to being new to the Morgan world withabout a dozen years under my belt, I have been strongly drawn tothe breed by its history, its character, and by those who share anadmiration for this wonderful horse. Inevitably, with myunquenched desire to be a cowboy and a strong interest in history,I found my way to a group of Morgan enthusiasts with a particularlabel of “Working Western Morgans.” I joined their e-maillist server and made new friends with people I’d never met. This isa jovial group who are not shy about poking fun at each other or,preferably, me.Amid the humor and wonderful photographs of Morgans, oftenperforming real ranch work, there was a recurring discussion aboutan event called the “Fort Rob Ride.” I soon learned that many of thegroup gathered each year for a fun ride to Celebrate the Morgan andthat this annual event had been held for the past three years at aplace called Fort Robinson, Nebraska. To my delight, they weregoing to return there last September, and I was invited.I planned my trip for months and counted down the days. Ivisited the Fort Robinson website so often that they had to installa separate “hit counter” just for me! Finally, on September 19, my20-year-old daughter Amelia and I embarked on our westernadventure to celebrate the Morgan horse on a historic cavalry fortin the Wild West.After driving through Wyoming from the DenverInternational Airport, we arrived at Fort Robinson a little afternoon on Thursday, ahead of the other riders and the horses.Though I had brought my own saddle, we would be riding borrowedMorgans and were anxious to get started. As the afternoonpassed, several trucks with trailers arrived carrying friends I hadnever met and their Working Western Morgans.While helping unload the horses from their trailers, I foundmyself in awe, as these were clearly Morgans, but not ones I wasused to. These Morgans were bred to work and were a wondroussight to behold. I couldn’t help but notice the great bone and hugemuscle mass of these horses. I could stand and look at them all daylong and never tire of their incredible presence. Tomorrow,though, we would ride them and it couldn’t be soon enough.Fort Robinson is now a Nebraska state park and is rich in thehistory of the West. Within these 22,000 acres, 11,000 cavalryhorses and 8,000 army mules once grazed. The Cheyenne uprisingand death of the famous Sioux warrior chief Crazy Horse

Left to right; Amelia Ladd, Donna Barrett,Michelle Hoyt, Karen Thiel, and Linnea Sidi.Fort Robinson today. Only a fraction of the buildings remain, but the State ofNebraska maintains them beautifully and is a gracious host.Supporting cast. These longhorn cattleprovide an undeniable photo opportunity.Family reunion. As the group settles in for the evening in the officer’s housing,relationships of participants’ Morgan horses are charted and pictures passedwhile the Sears boys provide the evening entertainment.occurred here. From this fort, the U.S. Cavalry soldiers, manymounted on Morgans, made their mark in history for better or forworse. From the historic horses at this cavalry remount station,including the famous Morgan stallion Linsley, descended some ofthe horses we would be riding tomorrow.The State of Nebraska has beautifully restored and maintainedmany of the original military structures, including barns,barracks, and officers quarters that now serve as guesthouses.Because we were there in the off-season, some of the amenitieswere closed, but we had all that we needed though, including agreat cook in Merideth Sears of AFS Morgans, and a cowboy rightout of “central casting” in her husband, Tony.Friday morning finally arrived and it was time to ride. I awoketo the smell of breakfast before the sun was up and gradually all ofthe riders appeared for a superb meal. Even Amelia was awakebefore the crack of noon, a sure sign of her enthusiasm for thisremarkable event.Before long, we were mounted and headed to the plains. Mymount for the morning was named Arapaho Kate (SidehillThunder x Sidehill Electra), who was big and bold and had beenspecially selected as the HBFGBE (Horse for the Big Fat Guy fromBack East). Amelia was riding on Trailhead Scarlet Rose (TrailheadCyrus x Trailhead Primrose), a choice bay mare bred and ownedby Bob and Donna Barrett.Riding through the fort and a few gates, we soon foundourselves in an open plain and headed for a spectacular butte.As we rode toward it, I was totally absorbed in the open space, thescenery, and the joy of riding with this bunch. Suddenly, I becameaware of some slight alarm at the head of the column. As I focusedmy attention, I was overcome by the magnificent sight of a herd ofabout 30 horses galloping toward us over a slight rise that had,until now, been hidden from our view.The spectacle of those horses charging toward us against thisbackdrop of classic western scenery completely enveloped me inthe moment. My attention soon was diverted, however, as Iassessed the fact that I was sitting on a horse with 30 days of training,who I had ridden a total of ten minutes, and who also was“off-the-reservation” (so to speak) for the very first time.Moreover, we were being charged by a herd of 30 horses!To my delight, Kate took it in stride and stood quietly whilewe determined the intention of the now integrated herd. As I sat,I had yet another opportunity to reflect on the born nature ofthese Morgans. None of the 15 or so horses in our group stirred asthe other horses ran upon them. One could attribute this to theiruse as ranch horses, but not all were; clearly the steadfast naturewas part of their breeding.With Linnea Sidi leading us, we picked our way throughthe herd of horses and made our way toward the looming

Top, middle: Stan Todorovich of 777 Morgans, ahorseman’s horseman astride Krila’s Avalanche.Right, top: Marty Thiel of Blackheart Morgansfrom North Dakota models full cavalry tack andattire ...some of us never outgrow it. Right, bottom:Post Headquarters historical marker.rock. The sheer faces of these buttes are set in more gentle, butoften steep, hills of sand, washed from the faces of rock throughoutcenturies. Few options exist when mounting these giants, asthe paths often cut through narrow passages. Thus steep climbsand descents are the menu of the ride.Around every corner and over each rise, the scenery changed.We would traverse ridges bringing us to peak after peak, manywith abrupt ends that provided scenic overlooks in every direction.Our band would make its way into, then through, a group ofevergreens, only to emerge with a new vista and a nearly differentenvironment. Clearly this was all foreign to us New Englanders;our senses were filled with this new experience. On our way backdown, as I was thinking it, Amelia turned to me from her horseand said, “I feel like I’m on a movie set.” We had just experiencedour first ride in the Wild West. This would be our sole ride onFriday, as the afternoon would be our only opportunity to visit thefort museum and the natural history museum. The latter featuredthe fossilized remains, discovered nearby, of two giant mammothsthat became locked in battle and died together.Later that evening, the much-awaited Shery Jespersen arrivedwith her horses. Shery is, to the Working Western Morgan Internetlist, a blend of Zane Grey and Joe Rosenthal. Her thoughtful writtendescriptions of daily ranch life accompanied by artistic photographyallow many of us to live ranch life vicariously. These talentsare topped off by Shery’s ability to create fine jewelry. Manyin the group, including me, were anxious to meet the womanbehind these talents and her mare, Roseta Sage LR, who is featuredin many of her pictures.In addition to bringing two of her Morgans, Shery brought anassortment of jewelry that she had made at the request of those ofus who had seen pictures. Thinking I should bring back somethingfor my wife who couldn’t get time off to come to the ride, Isent Amelia to scout out the jewelry. I ended up buying a smallsomething for my wife and a whole bunch of bling for Amelia.We finished the evening in good company in the living roomof our shared officers quarters. All of the riders assembled, alongwith a herd of dogs, and were serenaded by Andy and Skeeter Sears.As might be expected, conversation centered on our commonbond, the Morgan horse. Shared pictures and lineage diagramsmade the event seem more of a family reunion than a meetingof new friends as we found our horses’ common ancestors.One memorable discussion centered on the point that somany in the country and in the Morgan community aren’t awarethat cattle are still worked on horseback and in particular onMorgans. The ranchers in the room take their work and attendantlifestyle as a matter of simple reality. It’s what they do, it’s hardwork, and their Morgans are their partners in their daily routine.As we discussed their lives, I noted that few outside of it cantruly appreciate that this lifestyle still exists. Using my own experiences,I explained that many riders and Morgan owners I knowseldom ride outside of an enclosure and if they do trail ride, theytend to be only a few acres.Saturday brought us another unseasonably warm day. Italready was in the upper 80s when we finished breakfast and wouldreach 95 by midday. You know what they say about dry heat? It’strue! At 95 degrees back home I would be hiding in air conditioning,but with no humidity, it was downright comfortable.Saturday’s ride would start east of the fort buildings and barns,so we trailered our horses to a starting point called Soldier Creek androde from there. I changed horses this day as well. My mount for theday would be a young bay mare owned by Shery Jespersen namedBahia Belle LR (ML Meadowlark Jazzspur x Apple Pi Blue Belle).Soldier Creek seemed to be the only waterway still flowing inthe area. Though hardly a raging river, the creek provided somespectacular oasis environments as we rode through the highdesert. We descended from steep hills of dry vegetation and cactusinto lush wild gardens of green vegetation and even flowers.Horses would stop and play or take a drink as we crossed, providingan opportunity for the rider to enjoy the view.Taking a position at the rear of the group, I had the opportunityto appreciate the size of the now expanded group of ridersand the spectacle of the long line of Morgans moving up anddown the steep terrain. I could clearly see that my daughter andher roommate of the trip, Michelle Hoyt, had become friends andperiodically rode together. Michelle, who could talk a dog off of abone, was very proud of her Morgan gelding, Payton Breeze, whoreveled at every challenge.While not an accomplished trail rider in the terms of many, Ihave ridden trails with many horses before. The loose, steepascents and descents of these trails would challenge any horse and

Oasis. The many crossings of Soldier Creek offered lush greens and softcolors in contrast to the dry, high ground. Michelle Hoyt on Payton Breezein the foreground, Karen Thiel on Black Heart’s Magic in the creek.rider. The ups and downs, however, paled in comparison to trailsrunning along the sides of hills that drop easily 70 degrees or morefrom a path no wider than 16 inches. A spooked horse on theridgeline trails could be catastrophic for horse and rider, yet noMorgan faltered and none hesitated.One brave Morgan, who was as foreign to this land as I, hadspent her life doing things other than riding the trails and plains,yet she never flinched. JJF Lady J Takes Command was not aWorking Western Morgan, but a Third Level Dressage and carriagehorse. Her owner, Shirley Christian, proudly proclaimed thatbefore this ride her mare “hadn’t seen more water than her automaticwaterer would hold.” Yet true to her breed, she took everyhill, downed tree, and stream like a champ.Along the morning trail, we were faced with crossing adowned tree trunk that was probably three feet above ground.While the horses had no problem in stepping over the trunk, eachhad to “rise” to the occasion. As I crossed this obstacle, my cowboyhat became caught in a branch and was taken from my head. I wassuddenly confronted with a true crisis; leave the hat or dismounton this steep and narrow trail to recover it.Assessing my trusty Morgan, I was determined to save my hat.Dismounting on the foot-wide path, I turned my trusty steed andwalked back to the offending tree. There lay my hat in the midst ofits branches. The rescue was successful and I was able to remountwithout so much as a pause from this Morgan. Of course, I was thelucky one. Shery Jespersen had failed to wear a hat, so the samebranch that ate my hat managed to catch her braided hair. Ouch!Dang thing nearly pulled her right out of the saddle!As we descended from this series of hills, we had a slightlylarger water hazard, offering those of a more sporting mindset theopportunity to dive rather than wade their horses through. Ofcourse, Amelia and I could not resist. After all, we were there forthe whole experience, weren’t we?Sadly, this ride concluded after about three hours. I knew thatthis would be the last long ride of the trip. I again had seen countrythat had, for me, only existed in movies. I again gained anappreciation of these Morgan horses and their intelligence andwilling demeanor. Moreover, I had the chance to share this experiencewith my daughter, an opportunity neither lost nor underappreciatedby my fellow riders.There would be one more, brief, evening ride for us as thesun set that evening. That ride was led by Stan Todorovich,grandson of a Texas Ranger, who seemed to have been born in thesaddle. Stan spent most of his life working for Morganbreeder/rancher/outfitter, Ramul Dvarshkis, of Wyoming. Therugged hand took us one last time to the buttes where he talked ofthe routine of the soldiers of Fort Robinson who climbed the peakof these giant rocks each Sunday for church services. From thisvantage point, we would watch hues of the landscape transformedone last time from khaki and green to the reds and blues reflectedby the sky on the plains and rock faces of the buttes as the sun set.We bid farewell to those friends we could find on Sundaymorning, as some had ventured out for another ride. During theride to Denver, Amelia and I had an opportunity to recall theevents and share our impressions. We had truly celebrated theMorgan horse! We gained a new appreciation of an entirely differentdimension of this wonderful breed. We had seen, ridden, andexperienced the Working Western Morgan and those who knowthis horse as a partner in work and pleasure. Moreover, we had celebrated,in the literal meaning that I found in the dictionary, an“uninhibited good time.”The Morgan horse, as it turns out, seems best celebrated bycelebrating the joy, friendship, and wealth of experience that itbrings us. All my life I had wanted to ride in the wide open West,to experience that which had so fascinated me in pictures andmovies. Celebrating the Morgan had brought that and more, asthis unique opportunity gave me time with my daughter, capturedas it were, from our normally busy lives, and it embodied newfriendships. If I can offer a lesson from this event it would be tocelebrate the Morgans we so admire by exploring the horsebeyond our established routine. Let the Morgan take you someplacedifferent, to do something different. I learned that in sodoing, I rediscovered what it was that attracted me to this breed inthe beginning. With a new appreciation of the versatility anddiversity of the Morgan horse, I know that I am better as an ownerand breeder. I know, too, that because of the experiences that theMorgan has brought me, I am a happier person. Happy trails! ■David M. Ladd is the owner of Blackthorne Morgan Horse Farm inHanover, Massachusetts.