04/11/2022
A beautiful essay on the art of building a bridle horse and the horse that inspired this loving honor to his passing.
One thing I do—and have always done—whenever one of my horses leaves me, is to then take his, or her, bridle and lovingly clean it. This is not usually a time for tears but rather, to sit in meditation, to feel this one lasting link between me and a beloved horse and to give thanks.
A lot of people do not realize, looking at all those pictures of Cody happily at work, that he was a spade bit horse. It was a secret that I shared with few people and then, only those whom I trusted.
In almost every picture on Keystone, with occasional exceptions, Cody was packing one of several old spades in my collection. Oh, what a misunderstood thing the spade bit is, along with the horses and people who use them! As such, I’ve not been forthcoming about what this fine horse wore in his day-to-day work. Always afraid of causing unnecessary drama or controversy, I’ve kept very quiet about the old iron that Cody carried in his mouth.
“If I had to use a boat anchor to stop my horse, I wouldn’t ride him!” is just one comment that has forever burned itself upon my brain, after I’d unbridled my good horse at a local parade.
I vowed to never again set myself, or Cody, up for such committed misunderstanding. From then on, I tacked and untacked my horse in secrecy. With time comes healing, however, and I no longer fear other peoples’ censure. In many ways, I am proud to do my part in honouring this traditional ‘bit of knowledge’ in western horsemanship, one that is always in danger of going the way of the dodo bird.
People who decry these bits have no idea of the hours—rather, the years—that go into navigating the largely uncharted territory from starting in the bosal, to wearing the two-rein, to the bridle you see here. There is no known shortcut because to do so always comes out in the poor performance of the horse.
Why have the long-term goal of using such a bit, then? Why not stay for life in the snaffle? It’s a personal challenge, a way of striving always to do better, similar to aiming for advanced agility training in your dog… when ‘come’, ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ might be all a nice dog really needs to get by. As the horse advances in the bridle, he will need less and less input from the rider to do his job with all the acquired poise of a trained dancer.
Training such a horse has a very different mindset than our more modern one, of making the baby superstar. Rather than be a good young 'prospect', most spade bit horses are still peaking in their late teens and twenties.
A spade bit horse needs neither holding in, nor any pushing on. He carries his own balance at all times. This, alone, should tell us that to ride such a horse will be a beautiful experience. While Cody—like all horses brought to the point of correctly carrying a spade—actually cared little about what he was ridden in, he did have his favourites.
There was one, in particular, that made the old horse a little more contented, a little more dialed in, a little more lightly confident in front of me. It was this bit, made by the master Raphael (Filo) Gutierrez in California, in the 1920s. Cody did not hear the dismay in peoples’ voices when they questioned the mouthpiece. No, this was his outfit, a secret between his rider and her horse.
That said, Cody has been the only one of my horses to have carried this particular bit with such aplomb. Even amongst spades, this is an unforgiving one. With the old Gutierrez, there is zero room for error. It takes a certain horse with the sheer working knowledge, mental yielding, physical mouth shape and a disciplined rider to wear it comfortably. A horse who shines while working in this bit simply has no fear or questions left about his job.
I am aware that in my lifetime, I may never again have a horse who will wear this bridle.
In churchlike silence, I condition the leather of the old silver headstall. Its classic one-ear styling was a good one for Cody, a horse who over the course of his long life, absolutely loathed anyone touching his left ear. He would permit me to slip his off-side ear into the headstall and quickly pull the left side back, letting his ear pop out the front without any unbearable messing about. This one thing was the only spot of discord in our long relationship and it was a hill that my great horse was prepared to die upon. I let Cody have his little victory, for in every other aspect, he was fully on board with letting me believe that I was the boss. I smile wryly, only now realizing this and finally, putting it into words.
The silverwork gets a quick buffing, leaving all the dark patina in the old engraving. I pick a small fleck of green from the roller in the mouthpiece, knowing that I’ll never again do this small ordinary thing for Cody. When all is at it should be and my heart feels newly at peace, I push the lid onto the tin of leather cream and fold up my rags.
I will carry this old bridle and hang it in a place of honour in my tack room, where the spirit of Cody’s memory can swirl about with all the other ghosts that live there.
Each bridle, set of rawhide reins, or old saddle, brings to mind the wonderful horses who carried them. What beautiful—if sometimes flawed—characters these horses were, with their wise eyes and the souls of warriors. Many of the headstalls and bits have been worn by untold numbers of horses, going far back beyond the span of my lifetime. Realizing this, that my new heartbreak is but a blip in the circle of life, consoles me. I know that these treasures will wait on their hooks, until they will be used on somebody’s top horse, if not mine, once more.
Comforted, resolved to remember my time with Cody with nothing but gratitude, I turn out the tack room light and pull closed the door.
