Chapter 83 New Purpose
Evan had always enjoyed the human element of his work, the chance encounters and the often-amusing anecdotes people shared. However, a particular kind of conversation began to wear on him: endless recitations about prized horses and dogs. It was, in his estimation, the most tedious form of social engagement, akin to being trapped in an elevator with an overzealous grandmother detailing the lives of her fifty grandchildren, complete with a photo album. Evan found himself increasingly tuning out the pedigree talk and the gloating.
Just as he finished enduring a divorced woman's lengthy description of her ten "pet horses," the time came to begin his next seminar. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, turning to leave. "I need to start my next session." The woman seemed taken aback, her monologue abruptly cut short. She followed him, still talking. "But I didn't even tell you about Heathcliff," she protested. "He's a ten-year-old Arabian gelding, seventeen hands tall, with a magnificent steel-gray coat..."
"Ma'am, I don't believe you heard me," Evan said, his voice sharpening with a hint of impatience. "I have another seminar to start." He continued walking towards the round pen designated for his presentation, his mind racing. As he approached, a seminar sponsor, Jim, stepped forward. "Jim," Evan said, relief evident in his tone, "could you please handle her?" "Sure thing, Evan," Jim replied. "Thanks," Evan said, a plan beginning to form. He needed a way to put a stop to this. The idea was simple: honesty. He had to start telling people directly that he wasn't interested in hearing about their horses, unless they had a specific problem that required his expertise. Bragging and anecdotes were a waste of his valuable time. It might cost him some readers or fans, but the current situation was intolerable. He stepped into the arena, flipping the switch on his microphone.
"Good afternoon," he began, a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He fought to keep his tone even, chiding himself for tolerating such time-consuming conversations. "Before I begin this afternoon," he announced, swallowing hard to regain his composure, "I need to clear something up." He paused, waiting for the hush that fell over the audience. "I've just spent the last half hour – no, that's not right, the last thirty minutes – listening to a woman recount every horse she owns and every horse she's ever encountered. This might be a little blunt for some of you, but I frankly don't care to hear about your horses."
He let the statement hang in the air, acknowledging that perhaps he'd been too direct. Then, an idea sparked, a phrase he'd use without realizing its future resonance. To soften the bluntness, he offered a solution: "Folks, you absolutely must stop viewing your horses as pets or as surrogate children. They are not. They are horses. Let them be horses."
From that moment on, "Let 'em be horses" became his ubiquitous catchphrase, adorning every poster, flyer, and banner. Evan realized that if this was what people remembered most, then it wasn't entirely a bad thing to have it out there, and he began to weave it into his presentations. He hadn't consciously considered it before, but he started to understand that his role wasn't just about fixing horses; it was about helping the people who owned them. His perspective shifted, and he began to see his seminar attendees in a new light, his heart softening towards those who were struggling and lost. He was eager to guide them, yet remained firm in his stance against the endless chatter about their equine "pets."
"Many people try to live vicariously through their children or their pets," he explained to one captivated audience. "I'm telling you, if you own horses, or plan to, steer clear of that mindset. These animals are not pets; they should not be treated as such or as babies. They deserve respect, because they are capable of causing harm," he emphasized, snapping his fingers to punctuate his point. This message, delivered with variations in his introductions, became a cornerstone of his teaching, extending its impact to nearly every facet of his attendees' lives.
"They are horses, and they need to be allowed to be horses. So, the first rule I'm going to teach you this morning is this: let 'em be horses. While they can be affectionate, and you can certainly lean on their shoulders, you must remember that you are dealing with an animal that is on average eight to twelve times your size and at least ten times more powerful. Without malice, and even without intending to, these animals can inflict serious injury." He often followed this with a personal anecdote, "I remember one of my first encounters with this lesson. I was about six or seven years old..."
He began to feel a profound sense of purpose, as if he were finally fulfilling his true calling. He was a teacher, yes, but also a horseman. His words and teachings reached people in a way that a solitary life in the wild Rockies could not. He needed that mountain solitude for strength, vision, and inner peace, which in turn fueled his writing and teaching. Yet, he realized he could no longer hoard the wilderness and its truths for himself. He had to share them, to demonstrate through his own example the realities of stewardship. The media, the activists, and various environmental groups, he felt, had been disseminating misinformation for years. Though his voice might be a small one, he understood, deep within, that it was a voice that needed to be heard.
His life finally felt balanced, a semblance of control within his grasp. Then, one day, as he looked out at the bleachers surrounding the round pen during a seminar in Monte Vista, Colorado, he saw Alexandra standing there, a smile gracing her lips. In that singular moment, he understood that their connection was more than a matter of convenience or shared loneliness. It was the deep, profound something his heart had always yearned for.