Riding the historic Alvord Ranch with Martin Black

From the Road
How I spent my summer vacation...
Riding the historic Alvord Ranch with Martin Black
by Steve Bell
It’s
been said there’s nothing like an honest day's work, and at Martin
Black’s Clinic on the Alvord Ranch you can experience this
satisfaction and much more from the buckaroo point of view.
In over a week you can gain a practical knowledge of ranching
by actually riding out, holding herd, cutting cows, roping, and
branding. Still, you’ll come away feeling relaxed and rested
after feasting on some Dutch oven cooking, visiting with great
people, kicking back in the local hot springs, and pulling up
a chair on the porch to listen to Pedro Márquez pick and sing
some cowboy tunes. To follow is my first cut at a report for
Eclectic Horseman. After six years it’s time to swing a leg over,
and I can only hope what I write is worth reading.
The Alvord Ranch, in southeastern Oregon,
is at a location so beautiful that I’ll likely miss the mark in
my description, but I’ll give it my best shot. It's a spread so
vast it would be in direct violation of the Code of the West to
even speculate to its actual size, but a forty-five-mile access
road should give you some idea. The main ranch house is
nestled under a variety of old trees in a sweet spot below
where streams form from the cascading falls of melting snow
on Steens Mountain to the west. Alvord Peak, the crown jewel
of the Steens, stands nearly ten thousand feet tall, a shear rock
face towering over smaller spires and dome rocks that almost
get lost in the late afternoon shadows. Below, the vast foothills
of purple sage extend and descend gradually out to what the
locals call “The Flats” to the east, and in the distance, shallow
water and salt
on the Alvord
Desert shimmered in the
heat where I
almost expected
to see a mirage.
I wondered to
myself, then
was certain that
the water from
these melting slopes was
never going to
reach the sea
this side of the
Guest cabins circa 1900, built by the
mountain
Basque workers of the original ranch.
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Eclectic Horseman
I had driven through from Portland; then it dawned on me
that I was in the fabled Great Basin: The Big Empty; The Sage
Brush Sea; Land of the Buckaroo. Regardless of the region's
many names, there’s just no denying its natural greatness.
At first sight it’s plain to see that there is some pretty old
history there at the Alvord, with several outbuildings and walls
raised by the region's Basque from giant rocks and stones.
Down toward an old red barn I saw someone walking along so
I headed that way, parked, and got out of my car. I was greeted
with a friendly “Howdy, I’m Matt” and a fast handshake from
12-year-old Matthew Davis. I told him I was there for the
Martin Black Clinic, and he looked at me with a grin as if what
I just said was information he’d known for a while. I asked,
“ Did I beat Martin here…?” And again, with a Cheshire cat
smile he said: “No Sir, he’s down at the house. Just head up
there, I have some chores to take care of and I will catch up
with you later.” So I drove back to the main house where I
was greeted at the door by Tonya Davis, who walked onto the
porch and with an extending handshake introduced herself
with a demeanor that put this total stranger at ease. “I
figured you’d make it back to the house here pretty soon,”
she said, smiling as if driving by was a common occurrence
for every new visitor. “Come in, come in…” she said, opening
the screen door inviting me into her house. She ushered me in
through the kitchen to the dining area where further
introductions began.
Standing there with shorts and a T-shirt,
I was first introduced to her husband Paul Davis, the owner
of the Alvord. Martin Black, whom I already knew, was sitting
next to him. Then Martin, in a way only Martin can, with an
easy smile, leaned over and told Paul that I was: “One bronc
ridin’ son of a gun—And not to let my appearance fool
anyone.” By Paul’s nonchalance and half chuckle I knew that
we’d get along. To follow, there were greetings from their kids;
From Justin, 14, their oldest boy, quiet, stout, and obviously
strong beyond his years; A smiley “Hi” from a freckled Cody,
12, an identical twin to Matt, which I had to double take; A
hello from Kailee, their triplet sister who has a quick grin from
ear to ear that flashes her braces and a 12-year-old's freedom
from any cares; Finally, a “Nice to meet you” from Elizabeth,
#31—September/October 2006
their youngest at 11, who I’d later learn
has ambition to one day run the ranch
and can crack a stock whip better than
many men. After visiting for a while
around the kitchen table, I was given the
grand tour of the grounds and assigned
a stone cabin to sleep in. After some
more clinic participants arrived, and
more pleasantries exchanged, I then said
goodnight and shuffled off to bed.
The next morning came early with a
brilliant golden light rising quickly into
the sky where the stars were still barely
hanging on. The air smelled of sage and
the only sounds to hear were that of rustling cottonwood leaves, horses, killdeer
birds, and my boot steps up the drive.
After a breakfast of toast, eggs, and a few
cups of coffee, it was down to the
stone-walled corral where I was paired
with a four-year-old horse named Jane.
Martin said she’d be a good match
because she was a good babysitter,
which was exactly what I needed. On
the drive out I was thinking about how
much time I’d actually spent on a horse,
and what I concluded was probably less
than the life cycle of a
barn fly. So I was really
excited, but admittedly a
little nervous.
In my younger days
I loved doing things
some people would deem
insane, like climbing rock
walls taller than most skyscrapers, or tucking down
mountain roads on a bicycle faster than
even cars can risk. But never
anything that involved another animal.
It has always been just me holding
things together with my own self-preservation. But now, pushing forty with
tendons and muscles as tight as a bbender string, I was in for a crash course
in equine at the Alvord Ranch. And I’ll
tell you, just getting my foot in the dang
stirrup was a highly inflexible task. But
eventually, I was on Jane, and after a
few quick pointers of pure basics from
Martin’s partner Jennifer, like stopping,
backing, and turning, the group of us
were off and riding east across the sage.
I guess I could point out the small
things I focused on from the back of that
horse, like directing our path through
the sage brush, or jumping over the
small irrigation streams. Or, I could
describe the rhythm I felt with each
footfall. Perhaps I could
mention what I did to negotiate
a turn around a cow's carcass rotting in
the sun, or edging bogs that could swallow up both my horse and me into some
deep black hole. Maybe I could try to
write about how she responded to subtle
pressure from just below my knees. But
to the more experienced Eclectic readers,
that would just be trite, so I’ll skip it,
and just say that this time transcended
anything I’d ever done on the back of a
horse. Moreover, my personal nervousness vanished and I was amazed at how
relaxed it made me feel. Within an hour
on that first day, I was part of a group
holding rodear of more than a hundred
cattle, helping real buckaroos cut pairs
of black mother cows out with their
calves to be branded and vaccinated on
another day. Martin kept things light in
classic Martin style with a few humorous
anecdotes about staying out of trouble,
spreads he’d worked on, and people he’d
worked with. All between laying his
Top right: Sheri Balzer dragging
a calf.Bottom left to right: The
Alvord's big red barn, a ranch
border collie, and the scenic
Steens Mountains.
Eclectic Horseman
#31—September/October 2006
17
From the Road
the calf back perfectly around
nervous thoroughbred
toward the gate, they all came
down, and taking calls on
rumbling right beneath us in a
his cellphone. Off in the
distance we could see a
big clouded wad like you see in
herd of wild horses kickcartoons. Jane came unglued,
ing up dust, and I thought
bounced to the left where I
to myself: If only my
was able to hang on, before I
wife could see me now.
felt her body jerk powerfully
That night, with another
to the right. She reared a bit
Owner Paul Davis and his son Cody work the ground.
Martinism, he said that I
and bounded toward the fence.
did nothing to embarrass
I bared down on my left rein
her, which I shall take as a compliment.
trying to double her up, but I was just too damn green. I also
On my second day riding at the Alvord, I was beginning
failed to grab hold of my coiled rope, and I remember seeing
to feel a difference between actually posting, and letting my
the fright in her left eye just before my right toe lost hold in
boney butt just smack the saddle. “Put your heals down,”
the stirrup. All of my weight then shifted dramatically downward, and I could actually see some detailed leather tooling on
Jennifer told me, which made things much easier. “Isn’t that
better?” she asked. I grinned like I’d discovered a map to some the slick fork saddle before flying off. Then I disappeared in a
cloud of dust.
hidden treasure. My goals were small, and one was to keep
My rather ungraceful landing knocked the wind right
up. Then finally, for once, I wasn’t the last person through the
out of me. To add to that difficulty, I fell on the side opposite
gate. I got an acknowledging smile and a nod from Charlie,
one of the Alvord ranch hands, as he closed it behind me.
my mecate, which posed some trouble for Jane struggling
We all trotted up to a clearing and stopped to wait for Mike
to get free. I felt it zipping through my belt, then suddenly
Smits, the cow boss, Charlie, his son, and Monel, Charlie’s
stop. Still attached to poor Jane, yanking on her face from the
wife, to ride out and around to bring in the herd. It was surground, she stepped right in my gut. Then, with no wind, and
real watching them come in toward us. What looks flat in the
a mouth full of dust I managed to move off the reins and let
Jane dance around me and away. Zip! The mecate came free
distance of tall green grass was not flat at all, and the uneven
and I was out of danger. Oddly enough, my first thought was
ground made the progression play out in stages. First small,
“Oh shit; my hat!” which I had just received custom-made and
almost indistinguishable moving dots on the horizon. Then
had worn only twice. I rolled over and got to my knees, caught
riders, cows and dogs, with just a faint distant sound. Then,
a breath, then up to my feet. Mike came hustling over. I was
seemingly sudden, they were all right there on us in a swarm
dusting myself off, and as he put his hand on my shoulder I
of bugs, stink, mooin’, bawlin’, dust and barking dogs. It’s at
said, “Thanks Mike.” It was my lame attempt to add some
that point I really had no choice but to join the game. I could
levity to the situation. But my words must have sounded
never have pictured myself in that spot in a million years, but
there I was on a horse actually helping to drive cattle. It was a
churlish, because I know that I made Mike feel bad. A
great day and I was gaining confidence with every step. When
testimony to the unpredictable power of language I guess. I
we approached the corrals, Jane and I went right in with the
wasn’t hurt, and I didn’t need to say anything. He wasn’t in a
group pushing the cows through one large pen, then through
place he could help me, and the dogs were just doing their job.
to a second smaller pen with an open gate on the far side to
encourage the herd through. My first thought was to hang
back, but it was a fine line of wanting to gain some
me in an interesting sense that what I take from that
experience or help do a job. So I went on through to the
experience was not the fall itself, or even the setup, or my
second pen. Then it all fell apart.
feeble horsemanship skill, but the aftermath of an occurrence
like that. How we treat one another even imperfect strangers.
I got bucked off, then rattle off something smart ass sarcastic,
happening from a mile away, but not me, as one yellow calf
and Mike gives me a bundle of the best beef jerky I’ve ever had
squirted free and darted behind the group. Three border colin my life the very next morning. Something about that to me
lies were on it in an instant, and I quickly looked to my left
is just out of sorts. So with a lot of contemplation, I’ve decided
and saw Mike with a pretty serious look on his face hollering
I’m going to try hard to abide by the wisdom of Cowboy Rule
to call off the dogs. Too late. I moved Jane forward and out of
Number 13 Mike had jokingly told me (a few days prior to
the way as the first wave came behind us at full speed; One
my ground greeting) driving down a dusty road in his pickup
crying terrified calf and three ecstatic dogs. In hindsight, I
truck, which is this: “Never pass up a good opportunity to
should have stepped her back, because as those dogs steered
keep your mouth shut.” I found out later that the quote is
With digression, I must say that it’s funny to
A more qualified rider would have seen it
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Eclectic Horseman
#31—September/October 2006
attributed to several people, including both Mark Twain and
Will Rogers, but either way it’s sound advice. What’s more, the
next time it might happen that a dog chasing a calf sends a
horse I’m on to bucking, I’m going to grab my coils and hang
on, perhaps just to leave a more favorable impression on a real
cowboy like Mike.
The folks there were genuinely
concerned for me, and I even got
one compliment on my rather short
bronc ride. But I didn’t really want
to hear it, and certainly not for any
damaged pride, but a sense of getting
on with it. I was certain everyone
there had come off at some point.
No blood, no harm done, and I was
smiling because I’ve survived much
worse in my time. Martin, who had
missed the event due to a story to
be told another place, another time,
shouted over the fence to make me
an offer I just had to refuse: “Steve,
you can get a ride back in the truck
if you want.” “No thanks” was my
answer. Taking that route would
actually be humiliating, and a
decision I would
just regret later on.
I grabbed Jane’s
reins and climbed
back in the saddle,
held my chin high
and started for
the house. It was
lunchtime and I
was no worse for
wear. My hat was
fine too. I knew
inherently what had happened to me was just part of a big
adventure. I joked with Justin that since my first spill was
over I could now stop counting, and then handed him my
camera to take a snapshot to remember the day. There are no
substitutes for experience. Yep, no substitutes, and a few good
lessons learned that day about friends, horses, and myself.
In fact, the next day out wrangling I put what I had learned
the hard way to good use when another calf came bolting out
behind us with a black and white dog right on its tail. My eyes
were no doubt like saucers, but Jane and I prevailed.
Since meeting Emily, I’ve been auditing clinics of what
Martin Black wittingly calls Empirical Equine Psychoanalysts.
I have watched many of the very best, even learned a few
things. But for various and multiple reasons, I’ve had no good
opportunity to apply any of it, and I’ve grown tired of riding
Eclectic Horseman
the bench as it were.
After the Alvord Clinic,
I caught a glimpse of
what the addiction is
about and why people
are so horse crazy, and I
now want to get on with
my individual pursuit of
horsemanship. It was a
plain great experience,
and I would encourage
everyone of you to go. In
closing, I would like to
thank Emily for
sending me faraway
from this overblown bit
cruncher to gain a new
perspective on my life;
with any luck, we can
both attend next year. I
would also like to thank
the Davis Family and
their working hands.
They are the quintessence
of an American ranch
family, and it was my privilege to meet and spend time
with them. A big thanks to Martin and Jennifer for
inviting me along, and for their patience with this novice. Last, but not least, thanks to that horse named Jane,
who out there on the Oregon flats revived some things
inside me that needed reviving.
Join Martin
Black
May 14-18, 2007
at the historic
Alvord Ranch.
For details visit
martinblack.net.
Top to bottom: Charlie Smits waits patiently for the ground
crew, Martin and Jennifer make a good team, Matt Davis
makes a heel shot, and Pedro Márquez strikes a classic
ranching pose.
#31—September/October 2006
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