Saddle Horse Warthog
- October 28, 2025
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- Jan Swan Wood
Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life
Back in our steady day working days, my then husband and I had two royally bred mares who were just phenomenal saddle horses. His was a bay Thoroughbred called Holly and mine was a bay roan, speed bred Quarter Horse called Lily. They were tough, reliable, honest mares that were a true pleasure to do a day’s work on. Both were about 16 hands tall, covered country easy and no one we ever met wanted to long trot or lope with us when we were riding them. A 20-mile circle was an easy warmup for those lovely mares, even in the mud. Both were handy if something needed roped and we sure never got outrun by a bovine, plus both were very cowy.
As perfect as these two mares were, though, they shared a character flaw that made some of the early morning starts a hassle, to say the least. Their royal pedigrees didn’t suggest that flaw, as generations of their ancestors had all been classy, quality individuals, used to white fenced paddocks, manicured pastures, bedded stalls, and more. Our mares lived a more ranchy existence, though well fed and taken care of, their usual lodging was a nice big lot with a water tank and plenty of good hay.
The night before many a 3 a.m. start to get to a job, if I heard it raining I knew that the rain was going to make getting on the road much more difficult. No, the gravel was fine on our road and even the county roads. It’s what would occur in the corral after the rain. The temperature never made a bit of difference either, as it would happen if it was 38 or if it was 68 degrees out. All it required was mud. Gumbo specifically, as that’s what we had at our place.
Those two otherwise lovely mares were, if you’ll excuse the description, became absolute warthogs. Yes. Warthogs. They rolled in the mud with even a little rain. And rolled and rolled and rolled. They would roll and wallow until their hair was plastered in every direction; bellies, sides, backs, heads, hips, and clear over the top. Their manes would be mud tangled masses with mud balls the size of eggs or bigger in them
A curry comb could barely scratch the surface on their bodies and their manes defied any mane and tail comb. Of course, being thin skinned Thoroughbred types, they would wince and flinch like we were skinning them as we tried carving a horse out of each blob of gumbo. Once dried, as it would usually be, it was like plaster and would pull the hair out.
Somehow, at 4 a.m., a full bath was a bit too much to undertake, especially if it was chilly out. So, we’d curry, scrape, brush, and work until we had them cleaned off where the saddle blankets, cinches, breast collars, and bridles had to go and figure that the rest would sweat loose as the day went along. We might haul 50 miles and when we unloaded, the other people would ask us how much rain we got. Mud plastered horses were a dead giveaway.
Sure enough, the mud would loosen up and some would come off as they sweated, so when we were done for the day, their bodies were able to be curried clean. Their manes were not though, and it took hand picking the hair out of the blobs of mud to get the mud balls out. I recall using channel lock pliers to crush the rock-hard mass and make it let go of the silky hair within.
Getting them cleaned up daily was imperative, for if it rained again, the old mud layered with the new mud would literally pull their hair out by the roots and their manes would get thinned out and look positively mangey.
So, as grand and regal as those mares were on sunshiny, mud free days, they could sure flip the switch to warthog mode quickly. It was like it was their mission in life. I sure do miss them but I don’t miss the mud.
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Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life
About Jan Swan Wood
Jan was raised on a ranch in far western South Dakota. She grew up horseback working all descriptions of cattle, plus sheep and horses. After leaving home she pursued a post-graduate study of cowboying and dayworking in Nebraska, New Mexico, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota....