Skipper, a Go Getter of a Pony
- December 6, 2025
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- Jan Swan Wood
Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life
All of us who have ridden virtually all our lives have many horses in the memory bank. It all starts with a particular horse and mine was a pony named Skipper. He wasn’t very tall compared to the big saddle horses my dad and siblings rode but he was a go-getter and kept up with them.
The first time I rode Skipper out by myself was an auspicious beginning for our relationship. For whatever reason, the water wasn’t working in the corrals, so I was plopped onto Skipper, bareback and
with a halter to ride him down to the creek and water him. I may have been three or four. This seems like
an idea a sibling would have come up with, probably to keep from having to take him themselves, but I
don’t know that for sure. Anyway, I rode several hundred yards down the road to where the creek was
running over the crossing as it was a firm place to water a horse. No one went along, though I faintly
recall someone, probably the wise sibling, waiting at the top of the hill for me.
Going down to the crossing was fine, as Skipper walked like a little gentleman all the way, then drank as he was supposed to. When he was done, he turned and we headed back up the hill. I doubt I had a very short hold on him since he’d just had a drink, so it was undoubtedly due to operator error that he got a whole bunch of speed up on the return trip. I was a scrawny little kid with not much experience of course, and knew only to stay on, so I had my free hand holding the little wad of mane on his withers with a death grip as we sped toward the house. The rest of his mane was roached, of course.
To be fair, he may have only loped, but it seemed like he was flying to little bitty me. He didn’t stop
so hard as to throw me off, but I had my arms around his neck and wasn’t hurt, but it sure gave me a scare! I was probably told not to tell Dad and threatened, and since I wasn’t skinned up, all was well. But
it stayed with me for a while. Later on I rode him all over the place bareback with a halter, maybe bridle,
sometimes a twine tied around his lower jaw, or maybe nothing, so it didn’t ruin me for good.
Skipper was a lot of pony. I have no idea what he was but he must have been Shetland crossed on a small horse. He was a hand-me-down from my sister Linda who had outgrown him, and she doesn’t
remember his origins either. Our Grandad probably bought him or traded for him would be my best guess. He was broke and solid, but absolutely terrified of a rope, so he had a story behind him. But he was a good pony, wasn’t ornery at all and an honest little horse.
He was chargey and hard mouthed though and was ridden with a high port U.S. Cavalry “S” shank bit. To say he lugged would be a gross understatement. My skinny little girl arms would ache from
holding him when we were out on a circle. But, after a few miles of him trotting to keep up with the big
horses, my side ache would distract me from my aching arms. His nail driving trot could sure cover the
country but it was hard on me. I wanted to go along with the crew though, so didn’t complain. Not that it
would have made a bit of difference as Dad had a job to go do and didn’t put up with whining. His answer to whining in any form was “quit yer blubbering or I’ll give you something to blubber about”. So, quiet suffering was good. The bonus was that early on, like by first grade, I had genuine biceps.
Riding Skipper, I rode bog lines, checked cattle, moved and worked cattle and kept up with the big horses and big kids. He was darned sure tough and could take a big circle day after day without a
problem. He was fit and healthy and ready to go always. Ridden like he was and kept in shape, he had
never foundered or had any of those pony problems.
About the first summer I rode him we had pasture leased away from home and had run steers there along with our uncle and his family. It felt like that ranch was a thousand miles from home to me, who
hadn’t been anywhere in my short life, but was probably only about 65 miles from home. The big
adventure of going to ride on the Haines place was the presence of an actual river. We had lots of creeks at home, but no river, so I figured it would be some big deal to see a river up close. No one, of course, told me that we’d have to cross that river. I was terrified of water, and leary of any creek or crossing that was even damp due to be raised in the gumbo where you could cripple a horse in a boggy creek or dam. I had never in my short life ever ridden through running water to cross anything.
Of course, we had to get right out and get the pasture ridden before it got hot and the heel flies hit, so
Dad left the trailers and headed right for the river just as it was light enough to see anything. When I hesitated to ride into the water one of my siblings said it was only knee deep and to get moving before
Dad noticed I was lagging. Skipper went right into the river and it was not knee deep on him. I knew
beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were going to go out of sight and man, that river was wide! My
quivering boots nearly touched the water at the deepest point and I got dizzy from watching the water, not the bank, which would have been a handy tip to have been given beforehand. Before I fell off and
drowned from the whirlies, Skipper scrambled up the bank on the other side. I was sure glad to be on
solid ground again. Dread, though, rode with me, since we’d have to cross it again on the way back.
I remembered that river for almost 40 years as being at least a half mile across, but as an adult I crossed it again on a bridge just south of where we crossed and it wasn’t over 30 feet wide. Odd how it had shrunk like that. I guess distance is relative to how tall you are at the time. Kind of like how knee deep is different on a pony or a 16 hand horse.
Skipper and I became quite the pals over the years I rode him. My cousin had a bigger pony called Buster that was a gem too and she and I had some big times together on our ponies. We explored both our ranches, played games, pretended to be Indians and hunted buffalo, which required we ride bareback with a baler twine tied around our horses’ jaws so we were authentic. We stood on their backs in the barn to survey how many eggs or babies were in all the swallow nests, sometimes catching flies to feed the wide open baby bird mouths. Skipper and Buster were steadfast accomplices in all our antics, that’s for sure. I’m sure they shook their wise equine heads in wonder at times too.
During county fair, not only did we have our regular 4-H events, including a halter class for our horses and ponies, but there was horse racing. Pony races for two different sizes of ponies, men’s saddle horse and women’s saddle horse races were on the docket, along with starting gate races for real race horses. The pony races were held first, and man it was a full race card for every one! Skipper was in the bigger division and he was a veteran of many years of pony races. My sister Linda had raced him all the years she’d had him and had been undefeated against all comers. Even when match raced against big horses he won with an embarrassing margin. So, he was definitely in-the-know about racing.
Linda had coached me on how to do it all, so I was ready but not as ready as Skipper. He got so wound up in the walk down to the starting line that it was hard to keep all his feet on the ground for the start. I could hold him, though barely, but he’d walk on his hind feet and jumped trying to get going. It was pretty disconcerting for me when I was really little, but the adrenaline rush of the race itself made up for
it. I’m proud to say that Skipper was never defeated under my riding either. He could flat scat!
The years went by quickly and I soon outgrew Skipper and he was getting old. I think he was probably about 20 when I started riding him, but I don’t know for sure now. Being snow white with only the one bay patch over the left side of his face, the sun raised havoc with him and he sunburned, and by the time I’d quit riding him, he had melanomas all over the inside of his hind legs, on his sheath, under his tail, and they grew quickly. The northern sunlight all summer and the reflection off the snow in winter
had done the damage that led to the cancer.
My oldest brother put him down one winter day when he saw that Skipper was suffering. I knew it was necessary but oh how I cried. I’d moved onto big horses by then, but he was still my friend and I loved him dearly. The memories made with that first horse or pony are pretty special, and by golly, I still have a heck of a set of biceps too that started when I rode Skipper.
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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....