Finding My Horse

Radio has always been an important part of my life.

Some days, I would go so far as to call it crucial.

Years ago, I needed to move back home.

I had been working as a cowboy in Utah, owned two horses and used both of them on the job.

Nick was my go-to, reliable partner when the job had to be done.

Belle was a young, up-and-coming mare who never quit, even on the longest days.

My job ended and so did my housing.

I loaded my horse trailer with all of my worldly belongings and my two horses and drove from Utah to Oregon without much of a plan, including no way to feed my horses.

As has happened so many times, people I knew had solutions to my problems.

My brother’s in-laws ran a horse boarding stable.

Nick and Belle soon enjoyed their new home.

Before long, I discovered a small community of team ropers and I wanted to join them.

On the evening scheduled for the local roping jackpot, I loaded Nick into my horse trailer.

But I forgot something and needed to stop by home, across the wide Willamette River, on my way to the jackpot.

All of that lush green grass in the unfenced backyard beckoned to be grazed.

Nick wouldn’t go near the sprinkler that blocked the backyard until I turned it off so I knew I had an effective fence.

I would be inside for just a minute.

A minute later, my horse was gone.

Disappeared without a trace.

Tracks don’t show up on pavement.

I searched the neighborhood, then called the radio station.

The DJ answered.

“This is Lisa Schmidt,” I introduced myself. “I lost my horse.”

I gave him my phone number and waited.

Thirty minutes later, the phone rang.

A stranger asked me to describe Nick.

Nick had made a beeline back to Belle at the stables, but the river had blocked his progress.

I picked him up, but it was too late to go to the jackpot.

At least I had my horse.

I called the radio station.

“This is Lisa Schmidt. I found my horse.”

The DJ breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated me.

I planned to settle into the Willamette Valley – after all, I didn’t have a better plan – so I rented some pasture and bought some cow-calf pairs.

The sellers lived about 20 miles from the pasture, across the Willamette River and past the interstate.

They assured me that the untagged calves belonged to the untagged cows.

We branded them, loaded them into my trailer and I went on my way.

The cows and calves knew the sellers were mistaken.

When I checked my pairs the next day, the pasture was empty.

I called the popular country music radio station.

The same DJ answered.

“This is Lisa Schmidt. I lost my cows.”

I heard his eyes roll into the back of his head.

Thirty minutes later, my phone rang.

My cows and calves were weeding the edges of a woman’s newly-planted garden, content for the moment.

Her garden fence was wobbly and the cows were big, but we worked slowly and gently until we baited them into my trailer.

By the time I unloaded them at the seller’s corral, the correct matching calves and cows were bawling at the gate.

More branding time, and then I loaded twice as many pairs into my trailer.

After I unloaded them at my rented pasture, I called the radio station.

By then, the DJ recognized my voice.

“This is Lisa Schmidt. I found my cows.”

He played my call for the next four days.