Crossing Over

No, not to the dark side, though some ropers might think so at first glance. Or listen, as the case may be. This blog post is a companion piece to an interview I did with John Harrer over on the Whoa Podcast, where I mentioned that the fastest loop in breakaway roping is often in the cross-over. (Helpful hint: the podcast at the top of the page is not mine. Scroll down past all the blah-blah about me and find Episode #49). Yes, I see all of you tie down ropers shuddering at the thought of roping a calf as your horse is moving left. Hang on. I'll explain.

And now all of my non-rodeo, non-roper readers are scratching their heads and wondering if I'm going to repeat that in English. Yes I am. With diagrams. And photos. And video.

First off, for the real greenhorns, what the heck is breakaway roping? Well, it's a version of calf roping where the rider doesn't have to dismount and tie the calf. The rope is secured to the saddle horn with a piece of string. When the loop goes around the calf's neck the roper pitches their slack and lets the rope go. The calf hits the end of the rope, the string breaks away from the saddle horn, and time stops. Hence the name of the event. When all goes well, it looks like this:

Breakaway is the fastest event in rodeo, not counting those bullriders who get drilled into the ground on the first jump out of the chute. And contrary to what many people think, it is NOT just tie down roping without the flank and tie. The most important difference is where you throw your rope. For a breakaway roper, that's gotta be as soon as you're within reach, regardless of the position. When it takes a run of less than three seconds to even place in the money, there's no time to be picky. The best breakaway ropers master the art of catching as they're running up on the calf and have a horse that'll let them hang out and throw a long loop at a hard running critter.

By contrast, a tie down roper will take an extra swing to get his horse, the calf and his slack all lined out. The half second he sacrifices is more than made up by being smoother through the dismount, flank and tie. His horse is trained to run in closer to the calf then slam on the brakes when the loop goes past his head, leaving the roper time to manipulate the slack in the rope so the calf spins around but stays on its feet, ready to be flanked.

In a nutshell, a tie down roper can make up time on the ground. A breakaway roper's gotta get that loop out of her hand as fast as possible.

And that brings us to the crossover. That magic slot right out in front of the roping chute where your horse's trajectory crosses the calf's. Why a cross? Because the horse leaves the roping box traveling at an angle compared to the calf, like so:

This is the sweet spot, but it's also where you can get into a whole lot of trouble if you're not riding your horse properly. Throwing while your horse is moving left in comparison with the calf is fine and dandy on one condition--you can't let her keep going left. If you do, over time what started out as a winning throw will turn into a horse that drops its left shoulder and ducks out before you can get the loop out of your hand.

How do you keep a horse honest? Most of it happens in the practice pen. For every throw you take in the crossover, you make at least two or three runs where you take a couple of extra swings and make the horse move back to the right to line in straight behind the calf. Even on the quick throws, you keep pressure on your horse with your left foot, pushing them back to the right as they stop.

But what if your horse is bound and determined to duck left? After all, everything is set up to push them that direction. You're swinging and throwing with your right hand, pitching your slack on their right side. How do you persuade them to stay straight?

First off. look at how your horse is positioned in the roping box. You want them to run to the front corner of the roping chute because that's the shortest distance between you and the calf. Start with the horse's nose pointed at that spot, they'll break out of the box in the lead that's most comfortable for them. Start with their nose pointed at the middle of the box, they'll either run to that spot, or they'll start in their left-hand lead to move toward the chute. Start with the horse angled toward the back of the chute, they'll start in their right-hand lead to adjust.

Why is that important? Because, as master rope horse trainer Bub Tate pointed out, a horse can't duck left if they're in their right-hand lead. So whether it's leaving the box or running up behind the calf, if you can use leg pressure to put your horse in the right-hand lead, they won't go left when you throw your rope.

Tricky? You bet, considering you're also swinging a rope, operating a set of reins and trying to take steady aim at a calf.  But if you're a breakaway roper and you want to keep getting that money shot in the crossover, it's a trick you need to master.

If you'd like to see what it looks like done really well, here's some excellent footage from the Indian National Finals Rodeo (Take note of Megan Lunak at the 1:07 mark, that's our hometown girl from up here on the Blackfeet Reservation).
 

For more information and links to buy my latest novel visit:  KariLynnDell.com

Right on Schedule

In my last post, I may have made mention of the fact that our snow was almost gone. Even posted a picture or two. The weather has been so nice, in fact, that I completely lost my head yesterday and decided to enter a rodeo coming up ten days from now. Got up this morning and went out and captured Ember, my very best roping mare, who only has to play when we're serious.

So of course, by this afternoon:



We were out on the highway because heading north across the border with a horse is not a simple process. It requires a minimum of a week of pre-planning, beginning with a trip to the veterinarian. Border crossings require a blood test known as a Coggins that screens for infectious diseases, plus a general health check, which is sort of a joke because the vet has to just look at the horse and say "Yep, it looks healthy." Then she signs a certificate attesting to that opinion and sends it to the state veterinary office for approval, for which they charge a mere arm and a leg.

The chances of me wanting to haul a horse to a rodeo when it is visibly ill are somewhere between zero and minus one, plus it's good for thirty days and who knows what she'll look like by then, but it is a nice little cash cow for the state and federal vet programs, so I doubt it's going away any time soon.

I will not be going into details about the ordeal of hooking up the trailer. Suffice to say there was mud and ruts and snow coming down sideways and every time I would almost get the ball lined up with the hitch, the back of the pickup would slide one way or the other and it's a good thing our child was not present because he would have come away with an expanded vocabulary.

Eventually, though, we did get hooked up, and I got to the vet clinic on time for our appointment. Had to borrow my parents' rig since ours is a two wheel drive:

For those of you who've never been near one, this is the view inside a slant load horse trailer. It's called a slant load because the horses stand at an angle, not facing directly forward. Research has shown they can balance better in this position as the trailer moves, and experience less fatigue with hauling. The dividers latch on the right side and swing to the left. As each horse is loaded, you swing the divider across and latch it to separate the horses. This is a three horse trailer, with a rear tack compartment in the back left corner.

This is the look Ember gave me when I told her she had to get out and stand in the snow for her exam.

Good thing she had her coat on:

It has stopped snowing now, and they're promising us fifty degrees by Saturday. So maybe I haven't cursed us all with another six weeks of winter by having the gall to poke my head out of my hole and enter a rodeo before the first of June.

The Pusher

I married my pusher. It was an excellent decision. A girl gets tired of having to find a different pusher at every rodeo, never knowing what she’s getting until she nods her head.

Calf pusher, of course. What other kind is there?

 In an earlier post, I may have implied that I married my husband for his rope horse. This was not entirely accurate. While he did, indeed, have a very nice horse, it turned out ol’ Brown and I had philosophical differences. In other words, I didn’t rope for crap on him. But once I’d experienced the thrill of having my very own, full time calf pusher, I wasn’t about to let Greg get away.

 Breakaway roping is the fastest event in rodeo. You nod, you swing, you throw, you stop, and if you catch, the rope breaks the string that attaches it to your saddle horn. Time stops when the string snaps. All within two to four seconds. There is very little margin for error. (Never seen it? Watch this: http://mx.truveo.com/breakaway-roping/id/2003617298) Therefore, the calf pusher is vital. A stall or a false step by the calf can cause the roper to break the barrier, a ten second penalty.

The pusher’s job is to be sure the calf stands straight and leaves when the gate opens. To achieve this outcome, the pusher must climb into the chute behind the calf. This is where the job description gets dicey. There are sewage ejection devices at the back end of a calf. This area is guarded by a set of sharp hooves mounted on spring-loaded levers, which are triggered by touch, movement or sound. Thanks to the above mentioned ejection of sewage, even in the midst of a ten year drought the bottom of the chute will be ankle deep in pungent muck.

 Above the pusher’s head there are additional levers, bars and bolts, ideally situated for removing hide from scalps. These mechanisms are operated by a gate man who habitually drops the rear gate just as the pusher is ducking under it. To avoid all this hardware, the pusher is forced to assume a hunched position, which brings his face in closer proximity to the sharp hooves and the raw sewage. Then they close the rear gate and lock him in.

 As romantic as it sounds, people are rarely standing in line to push calves. Finding a pusher can be especially problematic for a woman. The issue is the lack of reciprocity. If my husband needs a pusher, he simply rides up to another calf roper.

 “Give me a shove?” he asks.

 “Sure, what out are you?”

 “Fourth. You need me to get you?”

 “Yeah. I’m gunner.”

 Translated: “Will you push my calf?” “Sure, what number are you on the list?” “Fourth. Do you need me to push your calf?” “Yes, I’m first.” Even trade, all parties satisfied with the transaction. But in one of the finer chauvinistic traditions of rodeo—and I say that in all honesty, having no love for calf poop running down the front of my jeans—women are hardly ever expected to push a calf.

Which is great, except it means in lieu of trading pushes, we have to resort to asking favors. Breakaway roper says, “Uh, Jim? Could I get you to push my calf?”

 Jim looks around wildly, realizing he has somehow allowed himself to be the only fool who didn’t vacate the roping chutes well before the breakaway roping. He heaves a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Sure.”

 The woman can, of course, sweeten the pot by rewarding her pusher with the alcoholic beverage of his choice after the rodeo, but this strategy has its pitfalls. The biggest being Jim’s girlfriend.

 After many years of scavenging for pushers, imagine my delight when I realized that I now had one under contract. If it isn’t in the wedding vows, it should be, right after that ‘cherish and obey’ part. Not only did I not have to worry who would push my calf, but I knew he would do it well. After all, my winnings were his winnings. Or so he seemed to think.

 A good pusher can make all the difference. We once rolled into Buffalo Gap, SD only minutes before the performance started. The arena was knee deep in mud. I checked the stock draw and noted the number of my calf. Then I went looking for someone who’d watched the morning slack. As soon as I said the number,

Billy gave me a pitying look. “Piece of junk. Ducked left both times he was run this morning.”

 Crud. I might as well have mailed my entry fees and saved the gas money.

 “I’ll talk to your husband,” Billy said. “Be ready to get your rope out of your hand in a hurry.”

 He and Greg had a quick consultation. Greg climbed into the chute to push the calf. Billy strolled out to help the liners whose job it was to make the calves go as straight as possible. My mare and I slurped through the mud and into the box. When all was set, I nodded. Greg shoved the calf’s butt so hard to the left that it staggered out of the chute sideways. Billy fired a mud clod across its bow for good measure. The calf spooked to the right, in front of my horse. I took one swing and threw before it realized it had made a wrong turn. Snap! Second place.

 If only it was always that easy.

 Later the same summer, we were in Taber, Alberta. Breakaway roping hadn’t caught on up there yet, and only seven ropers entered the rodeo. The committee rounded up a handful of feedlot yearlings so fat their bellies hung up as they tried to leave the chute. There was barely room for Greg to squeeze in behind. I backed in the corner and nodded.

The calf bailed out of the chute in one long lunge. I roped him quick and looked back to see if I’d broken the barrier. My husband was prostrate in the dirt, blood running down the side of his head. It seems some teenaged kid who knew nothing about cattle got the bright idea to prod the calf when the gate opened. Startled, the calf jumped, kicking with both hind feet, one of which connected squarely with Greg’s eyebrow.

My dad helped him stagger to his feet, then dragged him from the arena before he could choke the chute help. I met them at the camper. Greg was still bleeding. His eye was swelling shut. We were in Canada, we had no idea whether our insurance company paid bills that were submitted in loonies, and a visit to the emergency room would definitely cost more than the hundred and ten bucks I’d won.

 Here's where the day job in sports medicine came in handy. After determining that any brain damage appeared temporary, I slapped an ice pack on his head. Then we found a drug store. I bought Steri-Strips, benzoin and iodine, cleaned the wound, and reattached his eyebrow to his forehead. Did a pretty good job if I say so myself. Strangers hardly ever gawk at the scar when they meet him on the street.

 The whole experience put a damper on Greg’s enthusiasm for pushing calves, though. At the next rodeo, he eyed the chute, eyed the calf, then looked at me and said, “Maybe I’ll just stand outside and tail him.”

Obviously, it was time to review his contract.