For the trail horse and for those of us who take them to remote places, there’s nothing more important in training than the process old timers called "sacking out." We may’ve changed the terminology, but the principle is the same. "Desensitization" is in vogue, though disliked by some who feel the term is misleading, because we’re not trying to dull a horse’s senses but simply to take the fear out of new sensations.

To be safe for us to ride, particularly in the backcountry where help might be slow to arrive, this flight animal must be as unflappable as possible.

Though I was only 12 at the time, I remember the day very well, the late-afternoon August sun slanting across the corral that held the shiny black horse and the old cowboy, and the press into my rear of the corral pole on which I perched, uncomfortable as I waited and waited. I wasn’t seeing what I’d expected. I hated to admit it, but I was actually becoming bored.

My friend had rushed up out of breath to announce that a black stallion was "being broke" in the corral a quarter mile east of our house. The man doing the training probably wouldn’t mind if I watched, but my friend couldn’t go — her mother needed her for chores on their farm near town. I required no urging. To a horse-crazy town kid the mere phrase, "a black stallion was being broke" had the ring of romance. All the movie stereotypes of horse/man confrontation, of rearing and bucking and plunging, came to mind at once. I hopped on my bike and pedaled hard down the lane to the ranch on the edge of town.

I knew enough to park a hundred feet short of the corral and to walk up quietly. The old cowboy saw me. "Sir, do you mind if I watch?"

"Watch all you want," he said. "You can sit up on the corral over there in the shade of the barn, but don’t move around too much." It couldn’t get much better than that, so I settled down for the show. The man resumed concentrating on the stallion, a compact Morgan-looking animal with a proud arched neck, sweat shining on his sleek black hide. He’d been saddled, and he didn’t appear to like it too much. Wayne, the cowboy, was holding the horse’s lead rope in his left hand and repeatedly picking up the stirrup leather with his right hand, then dropping it down into place. Each time he did this, the horse jumped.

Interesting, I thought. He’ll do this a few times and then get on the stallion’s back and the show will begin. But I was dead wrong. I was seeing "the show" but didn’t know it. The trainer repeated the action over and over. Each time he dropped the stirrup, the horse jumped; each time, he repeated the action.

After what seemed eons, the horse’s reaction became less pronounced. Instead of a jump into the air that resembled a buck in place, the jump became just a jerk, the stallion’s feet not moving. And still the trainer slapped down the stirrup leather. The sun sunk lower, and the hill grasses behind the ranch house turned yellow in the light of the setting sun. But the trainer didn’t quit.

Finally, I saw Wayne pick up the stirrup leather still again and drop it with a resounding slap. The stallion didn’t move. As the cowboy raised it again, I noticed the horse let out a great sigh, lick his lips, and ignore the drop of the stirrup down onto his side. Wayne, too, let out a sigh. He pushed his cowboy hat back on his head, wiped sweat from his brow, and reached his right hand in a different direction now, up onto the horse’s neck where he petted several strokes. Then he started to lead the horse to the barn, but stopped for a moment as if just remembering I was there. "You’re welcome to come tomorrow night, too."

"What’ll you work on tomorrow?" I asked.

I’ll never forget his short answer: "The other side."

Just that, I thought to myself, just this same thing on the other side and nothing more? "When do you think you’ll ride him?" I boldly asked.

"When he’s ready and I’m ready. Not a second sooner and not a second later." Then, anticipating my next question, "And I have no idea when that will be."

Through patient repetition, a young mare becomes accustomed to the sound and feel of a dropped stirrup. When she’s comfortable on one side, the trainer will work on the other side.

A Masterful Approach

When the wind blows, when your slicker catches on a branch, when a covey of grouse flushes under your nose, when a bicycle appears suddenly on the trail, your horse must control his fear and his natural impulse to bolt. Regardless of our preferred terminology, we’re really asking the horse for a restraint that is completely unnatural. And even if you’re not starting a horse from scratch, your horse — you can count on it — will occasionally need training to tolerate a new sight, sound, smell, or touch.

Decades passed before I realized that Wayne’s work with the black stallion wasn’t simple; it was masterful. Both in training a green animal and in getting a more experienced horse used to a new challenge there are steps we must observe to stay safe and to accomplish the objective. Wayne had observed these, even if the boy watching was unaware of them.

First, Wayne had evaluated the animal as an individual. He’d trained countless horses, and I learned later that he mounted some of them and headed for the hills after just a couple of sessions. This horse, he knew, was different. The stallion’s skin was thin, his disposition edgy, and his powerful build the sort that could do much damage to his rider and to himself if things blew up. So Wayne adjusted his approach to match the horse rather than expecting the horse to fall lock-step into a "program" he’d developed.

Second, Wayne assured both his safety and that of the horse. The corral wasn’t fancy (nor was it round), but it was safe, with high, smooth, pole sides. There were no protrusions, nothing my father-in-law would’ve called a "death trap." Wayne’s handling of the horse, though second nature to him, minimized chances of an accident. He stayed close into the shoulder of the stallion so that he could move with him, keeping him in tight circles, but staying outside either the strike or kick zone. He didn’t wrap the lead rope around his hand.

Lastly, Wayne didn’t bite off more than he could chew. He didn’t ask the horse for more than the animal could reasonably be expected to accomplish. He told me later he would’ve slapped the stirrup leather all night if necessary, but he was quite sure the stallion would eventually tolerate the action, because it was a relatively small request. He didn’t blow the animal’s mind by confronting him with too much too quickly.

Below, the trainer repeatedly tosses a lead rope over the saddle. Eventually the mare will become comfortable in this safe working environment.

A Hard Lesson

Fast forward 40 years to another corral, another place, another horse. A trainer is working with a spirited but gentle sorrel mare. In telling you this story, I can be relatively hard on the trainer, because the trainer was me. I knew better. Still, as is altogether too common, I got in a hurry, and I skipped some steps.

One of my favorite methods of desensitization is packing a green horse with a sawbuck pack saddle (wooden bars connected by a pair of crossed wooden braces, rigged with two cinches, a simple breastcollar, and a breeching, or rump strap) and soft panniers (canvas or nylon bags that hang on each side of the saddle by adjustable loops) each containing a 50-pound sack of salt for our cattle.

Ponying the young horse a couple of miles up a fairly steep hill to the cattle’s salt trough had proven effective at teaching a colt to cope with weight on his back, a breastcollar around his chest, a strap under his tail, and the sound of a load scraping on trees and sagebrush.

The mare this day was spirited but gentle, and I thought I’d done enough to prepare her for the packing routine. But had I? Had I become too confident? Had I skipped anything in my normal ground-work routine?

I’d saddled Suzy several times, so she handled the cinches of the packsaddle well. The breeching under her tail was new enough to her that she ducked her rear at its first touch, but then straightened up and relaxed. I hung the 50-pound panniers, one on each side, and led her around. If she resented the weight, she didn’t show it. Then I turned her loose in the small round pen to do what the other colts had done: to nose around, rub the packs on the corral planks, and get used to all these new sensations. I’d take her to the hills the next day.

But it didn’t work that way. As I exited the corral, I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw her stiffen, quiver, and then come unglued. She started bucking in stiff, sharp jolts, each jump more determined, picked up speed around the perimeter of the corral, and then with a mighty bucking leap, went over the side of the pen splintering two boards as though they were toothpicks. She ran around the larger corral that enclosed the round pen putting on a show you would’ve admired at a rodeo. Finally, she quit and stood frozen, the whites of her eyes showing as she heaved for breath.

I was angry, but not with the mare. When you make a mistake with a horse you usually know it, often subconsciously even before you do it. But you refuse to listen to your own training and to your past experience. Luckily, neither the mare nor I was hurt, at least physically.

I’d failed to do nearly everything that Wayne had done. First, I hadn’t assured the safety of the environment. The round pen was relatively low-sided, more suitable for handling weanling colts than for training horses under saddle. Second, I hadn’t treated the mare as an individual. Because a certain training routine had worked well with the last several colts, I plugged this mare into the same regimen.

Lastly, I bit off a big chunk rather than a little one. She wasn’t quite ready for the pack saddle, at least the pack saddle plus loaded panniers. Hurry, which tempts you to skip little steps and jump straight to big ones, is the undoing of many horse trainers. I forgot the old maxim about a stitch in time saving nine.

The mistake didn’t ruin the mare, but we both paid for it, she with unnecessary fear, and I with huge doses of additional time. After working hard to accustom her to every sensation I could think of, she was finally ready to ride. But through all her earlier rides, she was one of the few I’ve trained that would buck if allowed to do so. I had to mount her and immediately put her in a tight spin. Failing to do so was asking for it. Then, however, she relaxed and was a joy to ride.

Never Quit Learning

We learn from experiences both good and bad, and with horses we’ll never quit learning. I used to believe that once you embarked on a sacking out or desensitizing routine you absolutely had to carry it through until the horse’s fear dissipated. So did Wayne, apparently, if you recall his comment about slapping the stirrup

leather all night if necessary.

I still think it’s best to carry such an action all the way through, but things happen. You might be called away because of an emergency. Usually, all is not lost. You can normally back up a step with the horse next time and work your way to the point at which you quit, then beyond. Yes, some time is lost, but more time spent means a better, safer horse in the long run.

Similarly, I believe that many quickie demonstrations by clinicians in front of audiences are destructive, not instructive. The clinician performs marvelous things on a stage-struck horse in a very short time, tells you not to do this at home, but shows that it’s okay to skip steps. You don’t see what happens Monday morning, whether the training had any permanence, whether learning actually took place. And thus you’re tempted to try too much too soon.

I’ve also become more tolerant, less convinced that every tiny spook really has to be trained out of a horse. Some horses, like some people, are jumpier than others. My old gelding Rockytop (who’s on the cover of my book, The Complete Trail Horse) always hated hook-and-loop fasteners. I had both jackets and vests with such closures, and I could count on a sharp but harmless little start from him every single time I ripped one of these open. It became a family joke, because Rockytop had done virtually everything a horse could be expected to do. He’d packed in camps, herded cows, won stand-offs with charging bulls, and tolerated the sound of gunfire during hunting season. But when the morning sun warmed and you opened your jacket, you could count on a little jump.

I suppose I could’ve sat on Rockytop in a round pen and ripped open hook-and-loop fasteners all day. Maybe he would’ve quit being affected by it, but maybe not, too. He hated the sound, and since his reaction was harmless, I allowed it.

But many reactions to stimuli carry danger with them, and these we must train out of the horse, whether he’s a new colt or an old hand that dislikes a new experience. If possible, use the tool or the situation that scares your horse, but in a safe, controlled environment (such as a round pen or arena with good footing). If he’s afraid of tree branches rubbing his rump, rub him with a tree branch. If that’s impractical, a long lead rope or a lunge whip scraping his body might do the trick. Stay safe, bite off little chunks, and try to stick with each step until your horse relaxes. That’s what Wayne would tell you if he were still around.