Captain Milo and Jubilee's Gloria "Backyard Dressage"

Excerpts from an old 8 mm movie!

Form Eve Oakley's Photo Scrapbook.

This is a story of J. G. - an inquisitive and energetic little Morgan mare. In order for you to get a clear picture of J. G., I will have to go back a few years. She was foaled on a Vermont hillside in 1949. Her sire is the grand old stallion, Jubilee King and her dam is Townshend Lass, full sister to the famous Sadwin.

I had the opportunity of seeing King once again recently. Anyone who is interested in the Morgan and its history should see and study this old stallion for he has a style and elegance about him, even in his old age, and one has the feeling of looking upon royalty in the equine world and this amazing quality he so often transmits to his offspring. I have seen many of his children and grandchildren throughout the country and even when the mating has been made thoughtlessly without regard to type, there appears a certain quality that is hard to define, even in the animals lacking the approved Morgan type. This quality when used correctly should be of great value to the Morgan horse. J. G., herself, is an odd combination of King and Lass, with style and stamina and with her beautiful tawny golden coloring and terrific walk, she fills the eye and need of a horseman.

When J. G. was a yearling, my husband made an 8,000 mile trip from Northern California to Vermont bringing J. G. with him. My first glimpse of her was at 2 a.m. when I opened the van door and peeked in. I saw a tawny flaxen foretop, an interested amber eye and a very pert little head. After numerous articles of equipment were removed she was unloaded and we were formally introduced. We sized each other up and whatever went on in that pretty little head of hers I do not know, but for me it was instant admiration, for I recognized that free and independent spirit which is the basis of courage in a horse.

The days and weeks that followed were a repetition of patient showing how, disciplining and getting acquainted. J. G. was a little irritating at times, for I am sure she understood perfectly what was required of her, but if she did, she never gave any indication of it. She was shown numerous times in model classes during this year, also her second and third years and when in the show ring, her manners were perfect and she always placed well. However, J. G. at home was another story. She was coolly polite with not the slightest regard for discipline and turned her charms on and off at will, depending what was asked of her. There was one thing that appealed to J. G. above all else, even at an early age, which irritated everyone at the ranch-that was keeping the calves boxed in corners of the pasture. Consequently, as a result, she was confined to her own quarters. It was this early attentiveness to cows, which she displayed that gave us the idea of sending her north to Jim McCann for training as a cutting horse. So, in the fall of her second year, she was moved to his stable high in the Napa hills of California. For fifteen months, this little mare did nothing but work cattle. In this phase of her training, she was eager for the work she loved and as the weeks went by, she progressed amazingly. At times, her enthusiasm got the better of her and she would work the cattle both in front and behind, kicking out in an attempt to block their passage. This, of course, was strictly taboo and she would have to be removed from the cutting and put to other jobs to calm her high enthusiasm.

During this time, we moved our entire stable of Morgans from the west coast to Illinois. Then, shortly before her fourth birthday, I went west to bring her home.

As I pushed west, the landscape slowly changed. The small farms gave way to larger ones and finally the ranches of the west appeared, growing continually in size as I neared the Wyoming hills. There, I traveled mile after mile of rolling hills, hardly seeing a ranch house or building of any kind, but fat Herefords and occasionally a herd of Angus dotted the landscape. Then finally-the Snowy range and the snow capped Wasatch Mountains in the distance and Utah. Oh, what a welcome sight. Those rugged, beautiful mountains, majestic in their bareness of rock and lava, always when you raise your eyes to the horizon, seeming to enclose you in your own special world. That is the one thing I miss so keenly in the Midwest. I am not yet accustomed to the soft rolling green hills which seem to go on into eternity.

There is no state in the west where you get so much of the true feeling of the old west as you do in Nevada. Not so much in the larger towns, but in the small towns scattered here and there. Possibly the vast distances, sparse population and gambling laws contribute greatly to this feeling. I happened to stop in Elko for dinner on this trip and as I sat in the large room which serves as bar, gaming room, cafe, in the old Stockmen's Hotel, watching people milling around the gaming tables and bar and listening to the all-consuming sound above all else-almost a roar-of the "one-armed bandits" as the slot machines are called; I had the feeling that should I close my eyes and open them again, a hundred years would have dropped away and instead of the present day stockmen, tourists, etc. the cowboys, miners and gamblers of the old west would appear before my eyes. While I spent the greater portion of my life in California and Arizona, I was born in one of these Nevada mining towns. My mother was a city girl from Cleveland and my father from Boston. Many are the tales my mother has told me of these Nevada mining towns before my time, when they were in their heyday and Death Valley Scotty was in his prime.

As I wound swiftly through this vast sparsely settled country and I looked out over the grey-green of the sage reaching to the purple mountains in the distance, it occurred to me that it had not changed greatly from the days when I was a little girl, when we would wind our way slowly along a mere wagon track, which sometimes was almost obliterated by the sandstorms. Very little had happened to change it except the ribbons of modern highways which were strung here and there across its face. These vast distances give one a true feeling of freedom and each time I return to it, the old excitement which I had as a child when I looked across the desert floor and wondered what lay beyond the mountains, returns and a line from a favorite poem comes to mind-"Sun and Solitude and Sand, this is my Desert Land."

After endless hours of following the ribbon of highway west, suddenly there were the familiar faces of Una and Phil Thorns and their small son, Glenn, and Jubilee Hawk, their black Morgan stallion was tearing around the corral. Every time I see this good looking Morgan with his inky coat glistening in the sun, a childish wish comes to mind-that of owning for my very own, a beautiful shining black horse. After spending a night with the Thorns, I proceeded on the last lap of my journey, which took me into the Napa hills of Northern California.

My first view of J. G. after fifteen months was in her stall. I was slightly taken back when this grownup edition of J. G. stepped to the door and sniffed at me inquisitively. I am not sure whether she remembered me or not, but she was willing to be friends. Jim worked her for me and I was amazed at her agility. Deep down inside of me there was a feeling of regret that this little mare could not continue in the cutting world, but I simply had no use for a cutting horse in our new set-up and J. G. was much too valuable to part with.

I loaded her in the trailer and we started down the winding road out of the Napa hills with J. G. howling her disapproval. She registered disapproval at intervals all the way into the Oklahoma Panhandle and finally gave up. This was a rough trip, made the last of March with bad weather dogging our footsteps all the way.

I left Flagstaff, Arizona before daylight just ahead of a snow storm, for I had no wish to be snowed in with a horse on my hands. All day, I raced across Northern Arizona and New Mexico with this storm just behind me until that evening it seemed to move south into Texas and I finally found good accommodations in Tucumcary, New Mexico.

The next morning, I was again on the road before daylight, only this time there was no rush for it was a clear morning and not too cold. However, as the morning wore on and I crossed into Kansas, I watched the cloud formations along the horizon and one in particular fascinated me with its unusual shape. Many times during the day this unusual shaped cloud mass seemed to be traveling around me, depending I guess upon my direction of travel according to the highway, until finally in the late afternoon, this peculiar funnel shaped cloud mass seemed to be about to pass over me, casting an eerie light as it came. I watched it curiously as the very tips of the tallest trees seemed to whip violently in a dead still atmosphere as the cloud passed to my left. I then decided to check the car radio as to possible weather conditions ahead as there had been thunderstorms off and on all day. Imagine my consternation when I picked up a Farm Bureau's warning of a possible small tornado in my immediate area. Right then and there, I decided that Kansas could be given back to the Indians.

Just after dark that evening, I whipped the trailer off the pavement into the mud and for one agonizing second, I thought J. G. was lost forever. Through sheer luck, I was able to keep the wheels of the car along the pavement edge until my momentum had slowed down and luckily I was able to whip the trailer back onto the pavement with nothing more serious than a lurch that sent J. G. into a fit of scrambling for a foothold. I know now how a person must feel who has ever had a horse trailer overturn with them. It is, indeed, a most sickening feeling.

For the rest of the trip, I had to battle that trailer through thunderstorms, rain, mud and finally a pea soup fog when I hit the Illinois state line and in spite of all of this, I made the 2800 miles from Los Angeles in four days with no night driving and not a hair out of place on J. G.

The next year was one of ups and downs for J. G. in her attempt to learn the ways of a pleasure horse. Sometimes she screamed to high heaven over the cut and dried exercises and I know she longed for the excitement of the cutting work. At the slightest chance, she would cut a dog, or even a tire that was rolled in the ring. Sometimes during this period, I almost gave up the attempt of turning her into a pleasure horse.

Then, in her fifth summer, I decided to take her back to Justin's land for a few weeks of trail riding. She was in excellent condition, having been worked regularly through the winter and spring months. This trip was in the nature of an experiment for I was anything but optimistic about J. G. and her reaction to trail etiquette. The trip from Chicago, through Canada and across upper New York state was uneventful. There is nothing backward about J. G. and she would nicker hopefully at each stop and when the Customs Officials looked at her, she would turn on her charm for their benefit. Charm is something that only a Morgan mare can turn on and off at will. She was exercised twice a day as is my custom when traveling and she spent her nights in the trailer outside my motel window. Her manners were perfect on this trip, but due to her innate curiosity and alertness, she spent more time looking than eating, with the result that she was a little on the thin side when she finally stepped out of the trailer at her destination high on a Vermont hill.

For the next two weeks, J. G. lived in the barn of Mrs. Frances Bryant at her West Windsor Farm, along with several of her relatives and stabled across from her was a good looking half sister, Spring Darling. I am sure J. G. did not know of this close relationship.

Life for J. G. fell into a pattern of eating, resting and traveling the beautiful Vermont trails. Each morning we would plan some new trail to take her over. The first two days I spent in Western tack, then on the third morning we awoke to find it was raining. I found that my rain coat would just fit comfortably over my English saddle, so from that day on, J. G. and I went native.

J. G. showed an amazing aptitude for trail work right from the first day. The speed of her terrific walk was maintained either uphill, downhill, or on the level. She cared nothing for the other horses, so long as they didn't get in her way and would simply walk away from them. Her gaits proved to be excellent, with an easy, springy quality that is heaven to ride and the relaxed manner in which she traveled gave one the impression she was simply out for a stroll. She was interested in everything and each time we passed a pasture of cows she would stop and check the position of every animal, much in the same manner she did in the days of her cutting work. Whatever she thought about these dairy cows is anyone's guess, for after looking them over well, she proceeded down the trail in her usual strolling manner.

We all worried a little over her thinness the first few days, but on the fourth day, we imagined we saw a little muscle showing. From then on each day, the muscles along her upper legs deepened and it seemed she took her trail work with greater ease, until towards the last, we could take a 12 or 15 mile ride, which in Vermont is either up or down, and she would hardly turn a hair. She would come back to the barn around lunch time, giving the impression that she had just been out for a stroll around the block with never a sign of weariness or slowing down. My one regret was that she could not continue this program for another six weeks or so, that I might see a fully muscled J. G. However, business duties at home made this impossible until another summer.

One of the last rides that J. G. and I took was up over Silver Hill. As we came to one of the breaks in the woods we stopped to enjoy the gorgeous view of the valley below and the Green Mountains beyond, I realized then that I had a jewel beneath me-the making of a wonderful trail and pleasure horse. You've guessed it, she is Jubilee's Gloria of Caven-Glo.

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