Come Hell or High Water
The Great Flood(s) at Ruidoso Downs have uncovered a flood of memories about the place. For me, that magical location has served as a touchstone throughout a life of wide travels. For countless dreamers, the sight of that once-majestic grandstand stirred the deepest feelings as it sprang into view from whichever direction they may have traveled. It stirred feelings of excitement, fun, and most importantly, hope.
Nearby ranchers and their cowboys had joined with Mescalero Apaches on that riverside meadow for years for a summer gathering, complete with rodeo events and informal sprint horse racing.
By the late 1930s, an inside rail had been built to surround the steer roping arena and some races were run around a turn for the first time. Shortly after World War II, the pastures once known as Miller’s Farm became an official state sanctioned racetrack named Ruidoso Downs.
The evolution of the place and its chain of ownership form a fascinating history worthy of a suspense novel, complete with a supporting cast of bootleggers, mafia bosses, and billionaires. Along the way, episode after episode, lives were changed, careers transformed, and dreams fulfilled.
Until 1986, when it was moved to the infield, the old saddling paddock was the launching pad for many of those dreams. It was my favorite spot at Ruidoso Downs, and it remained my favorite saddling paddock throughout a long international career.
What I loved most was how the pavement outside the paddock rose from ground level to well above the horses and riders, giving the whole place the feeling of an amphitheater. The area nearest the betting windows served as the balcony, with fans descending closer and closer to the horses, separated from them only by a chain-link fence. At the bottom, just where the horses left the paddock to enter the racing surface, was a small gate, always tightly guarded by a perpetually grumpy security man. That gate, and the chain-link fence attached to it, play a central role in this Ruidoso recollection.
Seeing the way most kids are raised these days, with parents or other authority figures hovering over them constantly, makes me appreciate the more Darwinistic approach taken by my own parents. I was expected to work, and that meant seven days a week during the summer months. But once the morning chores were done, I was often free to ride my saddle horse wherever I pleased, so long as I cared for him properly afterward.
I should hasten to add that my freedom was not absolute. There was one overriding command that stood above all others: I was not to race the saddle horse I was riding. My father made sure I thoroughly understood that edict, and I followed it religiously, until we got Little Zeke.
Little Zeke was a 1953 son of Leo who had once won the Kansas Derby as a three year old. Dad had trained him briefly as part of the stable Walter Merrick had turned over to him in Denver in 1956.
His name resurfaced one morning in 1961 at a table in the track kitchen, when one of Dad’s old friends said:
“Hey, I saw that old horse of yours get beat again the other day at Ardmore.”
“What horse is that?”
“That old Little Zeke. He can’t run a
lick anymore.”
“Damn, I hate to hear that. I always
liked that horse.”
“Well, if you like him, you can buy him. Fellow said after the race he’d take $500 for him.”
“Hell, I’d give that for him just to
make a saddle horse. Give me that old
boy’s number.”
That evening, I listened as Dad bought Little Zeke for $350 and arranged to have him shipped to Ruidoso. A week or so later, he arrived—looking worse than a $350 horse ought to look. Dad gave him a once-over and muttered something that strongly questioned the parentage of his previous owner.
“Hell, no wonder he was getting beat. Look at him! Look at his feet!” From that moment on, Little Zeke was Dad’s horse. Within weeks he was transformed from an iron-jawed ex-racehorse into a serviceable saddle horse, one who responded to the lightest neck rein. In time, he regained his flesh and began to look every bit the royally bred retiree he was.
As Little Zeke settled into our workforce, I began to ride him—occasionally at first, then as a matter of course. By midsummer I was taking him for long rides along the river and into the mountains behind the racetrack. And then, inevitably, temptation took over.
In those days, the path that racehorses took from the stable area to the saddling paddock ran parallel to the straightaway but sat well below it, leaving a long, straight stretch, wide enough for several horses, hidden from the view of the stables. Naturally, this secret runway became the perfect spot for kids to race their horses.
I tried to stay on the sidelines and just watch, but the competition looked ripe for the picking, and I was dying to try my hand. It wasn’t long before I gave in, and once I did, I was hooked. Little Zeke surprised me with his sudden burst of speed, and we were easy winners in our first couple of races.
Jimmy Curry, mounted on a quick little Paint gelding, demanded a head start for the third heat. But even with that advantage, Little Zeke and I won again—though this time, just barely.
Now undefeated and having completely forgotten the rule against racing my horse, I accepted the next challenge. Jimmy not only claimed a ridiculously generous head start, but he also jumped the break, already lengths in front before I could even get Zeke’s attention.
But by then, the old warrior was warmed up and ready to fire. He snapped my neck back as he dug in, trying to run down that little Paint horse, and suddenly I was going faster than I had ever gone on horseback. The wind pulled tears from my eyes and blurred my vision. Realizing there was no way I was going to catch Jimmy, I began pulling as hard as I could on the reins.
But Little Zeke was in racehorse mode now, and if he noticed my tugging at all, he didn’t show it.
As Jimmy pulled up his little Paint, we blew past him and barreled full steam toward the apron in front of the grandstand, when, I suppose, Zeke finally noticed the chain-link fence. He went from a dead run to a sliding stop, launching me up onto his neck. His chest slammed into that fence with tremendous force, bending the top pipe into a noticeable bow.
Just then, Jimmy and his brother came riding up, all excited about the long skid marks Zeke had carved into the path.
“Wow! Look how far you slid! That was the coolest thing ever! You must’ve slid fifty yards!”
I dismounted and checked Zeke’s chest for what I was sure would be a nasty scrape. Fortunately, Dad’s wide breast collar had prevented that.
But all I could see was the bow in that fence, and the trouble sure to follow. Not only had I…
