Born and raised up a road-less "holler" in Kentucky, Gene didn't see his first car until he was 14. He was
never completely comfortable in the urban setting he was transplanted to, so he took to the mountains
every opportunity he had. I was lucky enough to accompany him and his cronies on some of those
trips beginning when I was about 12 and became his primary partner as I entered my 20's. Gene
would never pay money for a horse. He took in rescue cases, training problems and other
unwanted horses. We would doctor them, train them, and spend uncounted hours turning
someone else's problem into a pretty good horse. Then we would sell them to finance our trips to
the mountains and start over again with the next unwanted horse. One recurrent theme from our
campfire talks was how someday he was going to get one of them Tennessee Walkers he
remembered from his childhood days.
One day I was at the feed store buying some grain. While I was waiting my turn to be served I was
reading the bulletin board ads and notices. There was an ad for a Tennessee Walker for sale. At
this point in my life I had never seen a Walker, only heard Eugene’s dreams. There wasn't a phone
number on the ad, only an address about a 45 minute drive out of town. On an impulse I drove out
to see the horse. When I got to the residence it turn out to be a single wide mobile home parked on
an old hillside homestead, ramshackle barn, untended fruit trees and an uncut lawn decorated with
scattered trash. No one was home but I thought since I had driven so far that I would poke around a
little and see if I could see the horse. Surrounded by forest the homestead had a pasture stretching
out below it on the hillside down to where a creek flowed through the woods. At the bottom of the
steep hill there was a Shetland pony standing just outside the tree line. Reasoning that horses
never get very far apart, the walker must be in the trees where I couldn't see it off down the hill I
hiked. The closer I got the bigger the pony got. Blood red bay with four socks to the knees & hocks
and a bald face, butterball fat with a mane & tail so thick I confused him for a pony, every inch of
sixteen hands and then some, I decided this must be the walker after all. As I approached the horse
he took a step or two towards me, shoved his head into my chest with enough force to stop me in
my tracks (a severe breach of etiquette with the biters and kickers I was used to) and fairly begged
me to scratch his ears. Being more used to horses more fire and with a lot more flight instinct I
wasn't very impressed with this old plug. Being much younger then, full of confidence in my riding
ability and not incredibly bright I thought it would be better to hop on his back and have him carry
me back up the hill than to retrace my steps. So I hopped right up, grabbed a handful of incredibly
thick mane with each hand, pulled his head around so he was faced up the hill and buried my heels
in his ribs. Up until that point he hadn't moved his feet while I was jumping around. Off he went at
the most perfectly timed running walk I have yet experienced. As the hill leveled off, he broke into a
rack then shifted into the sweetest canter I had ever experienced. Coming to the door to the barn he
gently slowed to a stop, as if to say "is this where you wanted to go?", standing patiently for me to
dismount, then following me to the gate for more ear scratching. Convinced I had found the most
fantastic horse in the world, I sat on the front steps to the trailer and waited four hours for the
people to get home. I was so afraid that someone would come along and buy him before I could get
back, I wouldn't leave until he was mine.
never completely comfortable in the urban setting he was transplanted to, so he took to the mountains
every opportunity he had. I was lucky enough to accompany him and his cronies on some of those
trips beginning when I was about 12 and became his primary partner as I entered my 20's. Gene
would never pay money for a horse. He took in rescue cases, training problems and other
unwanted horses. We would doctor them, train them, and spend uncounted hours turning
someone else's problem into a pretty good horse. Then we would sell them to finance our trips to
the mountains and start over again with the next unwanted horse. One recurrent theme from our
campfire talks was how someday he was going to get one of them Tennessee Walkers he
remembered from his childhood days.
One day I was at the feed store buying some grain. While I was waiting my turn to be served I was
reading the bulletin board ads and notices. There was an ad for a Tennessee Walker for sale. At
this point in my life I had never seen a Walker, only heard Eugene’s dreams. There wasn't a phone
number on the ad, only an address about a 45 minute drive out of town. On an impulse I drove out
to see the horse. When I got to the residence it turn out to be a single wide mobile home parked on
an old hillside homestead, ramshackle barn, untended fruit trees and an uncut lawn decorated with
scattered trash. No one was home but I thought since I had driven so far that I would poke around a
little and see if I could see the horse. Surrounded by forest the homestead had a pasture stretching
out below it on the hillside down to where a creek flowed through the woods. At the bottom of the
steep hill there was a Shetland pony standing just outside the tree line. Reasoning that horses
never get very far apart, the walker must be in the trees where I couldn't see it off down the hill I
hiked. The closer I got the bigger the pony got. Blood red bay with four socks to the knees & hocks
and a bald face, butterball fat with a mane & tail so thick I confused him for a pony, every inch of
sixteen hands and then some, I decided this must be the walker after all. As I approached the horse
he took a step or two towards me, shoved his head into my chest with enough force to stop me in
my tracks (a severe breach of etiquette with the biters and kickers I was used to) and fairly begged
me to scratch his ears. Being more used to horses more fire and with a lot more flight instinct I
wasn't very impressed with this old plug. Being much younger then, full of confidence in my riding
ability and not incredibly bright I thought it would be better to hop on his back and have him carry
me back up the hill than to retrace my steps. So I hopped right up, grabbed a handful of incredibly
thick mane with each hand, pulled his head around so he was faced up the hill and buried my heels
in his ribs. Up until that point he hadn't moved his feet while I was jumping around. Off he went at
the most perfectly timed running walk I have yet experienced. As the hill leveled off, he broke into a
rack then shifted into the sweetest canter I had ever experienced. Coming to the door to the barn he
gently slowed to a stop, as if to say "is this where you wanted to go?", standing patiently for me to
dismount, then following me to the gate for more ear scratching. Convinced I had found the most
fantastic horse in the world, I sat on the front steps to the trailer and waited four hours for the
people to get home. I was so afraid that someone would come along and buy him before I could get
back, I wouldn't leave until he was mine.
My first ride on a Tennessee Walker
Gary's youngest daughter and their horse
Lady-vertually a twin to the horse in the
story.
Lady-vertually a twin to the horse in the
story.
I have always been horse crazy however I was the only
one in my family who was. We raised row crops and
beef cattle; there was no time, money or land to be
"wasted" on a horse for the kids. I had friends in the
neighborhood that did have horses and they provided
me with my introduction to riding. One family had a herd
of horses that they hired out for pack trips, hunting and
the like. They would rent me a horse by the hour on the
rare occasions that I had pocket change left from chore
money. The father of schoolmates also kept a small
herd of horses for pleasure use. It didn't take long for
him (Eugene) to realize that it was the horses not the
sons and daughters that I rode my bike 5 miles to visit.
Eugene took me under his wing, providing me with a
wonderful education in horse training. I have since
given up many of his methods as being too harsh for
the type of horses I have now, but the sense of timing
and the knowledge of the basic equine thought/reaction
process I learned from him has proven invaluable over
the years. We primarily taught his horses how to walk, a
good trail walk at a steady 5 mph, never trot, rarely run,
always the walk. Eugene also introduced me to the high
country.
one in my family who was. We raised row crops and
beef cattle; there was no time, money or land to be
"wasted" on a horse for the kids. I had friends in the
neighborhood that did have horses and they provided
me with my introduction to riding. One family had a herd
of horses that they hired out for pack trips, hunting and
the like. They would rent me a horse by the hour on the
rare occasions that I had pocket change left from chore
money. The father of schoolmates also kept a small
herd of horses for pleasure use. It didn't take long for
him (Eugene) to realize that it was the horses not the
sons and daughters that I rode my bike 5 miles to visit.
Eugene took me under his wing, providing me with a
wonderful education in horse training. I have since
given up many of his methods as being too harsh for
the type of horses I have now, but the sense of timing
and the knowledge of the basic equine thought/reaction
process I learned from him has proven invaluable over
the years. We primarily taught his horses how to walk, a
good trail walk at a steady 5 mph, never trot, rarely run,
always the walk. Eugene also introduced me to the high
country.
