Where Do I Belong?

Today I visited Colorado State University in Fort Collins. I had an appointment with an advisor in the Animal Sciences department. The purpose was to investigate their veterinary and equine science program.

When I first moved away from home, it was to go to college. I went to Texas A&M intent on entering vet school. For various complicated reasons I've probably blogged about before, I ended up moving to Austin and finishing with a completely different major at Texas State.

Today was about revisiting that original academic urge. CSU is an agricultural college, and Larimer county is the agricultural center of the state of Colorado. It's pretty evident just from driving around. Trucks like mine are common, and it's the only place in Colorado I know of where cowboy hats and big belt buckles are common enough that they don't elicit a response. Except from girls, which I find are, on the whole, extremely attracted by them. It's an odd place, Fort Collins, because it's also an extremely progressive town. It's a pairing I tend to like.

I arrived on campus, parked easily enough and went inside. On my way to the office, I saw a nameplate that said "Temple Grandin." The Temple Grandin, author of several popular books including Animals Make Us Human? Indeed, they are one and the same. Cool.

I found my way to the advisor's office. Brock Nelson was my age and wore polished cowboy boots, starched jeans with creases down the front, a tooled leather belt and a western shirt. He was well spoken with a slow, soothing western accent and a deep voice. We had spoken on the phone previously for about an hour and he invited me to come up and spend a half day talking with faculty, staff, students and tour the facilities. We talked at length about my current career, what I like and don't like, my cabin in the woods, the animal science program, the equine science program, vet school and career opportunities. I also spoke with several other interesting people, including an equine veterinarian who shared bits of his vast experience. He pretty much confirmed what I already knew: vet school isn't going to do it for me, though I didn't share that conclusion. I'm not that dedicated a student. Even if I were, the career wouldn't satisfy me. Still, I had to reconfirm it to quell that nagging voice in my head that keeps trying to suggest ways to get out of a desk job and into something more physical without having to live under a bridge.

During our conversation, farriery came up several times. A farrier is someone who cares for horse feet. This includes shoeing, trimming and other forms of maintenance and preventive care. Apparently 90% of horse ailments involve the feet. Without feet, a horse is nothing, and for all the heft and power of a horse, their feet are terribly delicate. I'd been toying with the idea of farriery for the better part of this year and had intended to ask about it. Mr. Nelson mentioned that a former student and personal friend of his had put himself through vet school, paying all of the $125,000 cost by working as a farrier for the four years he was in the program. To my surprise, I was informed that farriers make really good money. According to several sources at CSU, a decent farrier earns as much as I'm currently making sitting behind a computer. I haven't verified this with independent research. A good, established farrier I'm told makes twice that. And what's more interesting is that farriers not only have no degree, they need not have any formal education or even so much as a certification to perform their duties. Farriery is a very old craft, and though you can go through farrier programs to learn the basics of the trade, you only become good by being an apprentice. It's one of the few truly old tradesman's jobs still in practice. Apparently, like farming, no one is going into it anymore. But unlike farming, there's no mechanized corporate solution, so demand for truly skilled farriers is very high.

As we were wrapping up the meeting, I ask Mr. Nelson directly about farriery. "I've got a guy you need to meet." He rifled through his desk, pulled out a post-it with some scribbles on it, turns on the speaker phone and dials. A strong young male voice answers.

"Mr. Masterson, Brock Nelson here," says the advisor.

"Yes sir! How are you, sir?" replies the voice.

A brief exchanged ensued. Mr. Nelson had written a letter of recommendation for Mr. Masterson who just graduated with his master's in animal science at the tender age of 25 and now wished to enter the vet program. Mr. Masterson was apparently an established and well regarded farrier who did some work for CSU. He was incredibly polite, lots of yes sirs and no sirs and thank you sirs. Mr. Nelson discerned that Mr. Masterson was on campus working out at the equine facility this very afternoon, and asked would it be alright if he sent over someone who'd like to know more about farriery. Mr. Masterson expressed his enthusiasm to meet me, I thanked Mr. Nelson copiously, and headed out to the equine facility.

The equine facility is a pretty good distance from the main campus. At one time it was right on the edge of town, but now cookie cutter houses and town homes were closing in on the property. It still has a remote feeling, because the property is pretty big and has an unobstructed view of the mountains. It's what you might expect of an equine facility: dirt roads, big gravel parking lots, arenas, livestock chutes, lots of dust, big trucks, cowboys and, of course, lots of horses. I parked and wandered toward the arena. A couple of young cowboys walked by and nodded politely. Horses grazed in the shadow of the mountains. The arena and stables loomed ahead, and a massive truck pulling a 6 or 8 horse trailer cruised slowly by raising a thin cloud of dust which give the whole place a sort of movie-scene feel.

I entered the airy arena, walking slowly, taking in the sights and smells and sounds. The arena was covered and the dirt freshly graded. Massive doors on either end were open and a 70 degree breeze swept through. Light entered through skylights, illuminating horses in pens along both sides. A young girl outfitted for English saddle walked past leading her clip-clopping horse, and she gave me a smile and a nod. Across the arena I could see a couple of horses and some people milling around them. Mr. Nelson said I could find Mr. Masterson there working.

I approached. The two horses were tied to a hitching rail and two young girls stood facing them, chatting quietly with each other. A man was on the opposite side of the horses, fiddling with the foot of one. I couldn't see him clearly, so I walked around.

"Mr. Masterson," I said.

I can best describe Mr. Masterson's physical appearance as "burly" and probably the handsomest redneck-type I've ever seen. He stood a little taller than me, had thick black hair covered mostly by a battered old cap, light olive skin, and a facial hair density that could supply three men. He had thick chops and a goatee, but he had several days of stubble growing in between which almost filled out a full beard. He had thick curly hair on his arms and popping out the neck of his t-shirt. He wore dusty boots, baggy jeans and a leather belt with a large buckle. I couldn't read it because he was also wearing a style of chaps which covered most of the buckle. I'd bet money he didn't workout in a gym. Instead he had that characteristic hearty, powerful physique that comes from years of physical labor. But his most captivating feature were the eyes. Big, deep brown, friendly, calculating. They were simultaneously full of light and mystery and were framed by youthful skin free of blemishes and wrinkles.

"Yes sir!" he said, coming to his feet. "You must be Mr. Roberts. Pleasure to meet you," he extended his hand.

I reciprocated, "I am, sir! The pleasure is mine!"

My God it was a macho moment.

His hand was rough and dirty, his grip was firm. He looked me directly in the eyes, which I love, and which most men rarely do.

And so it began. Immediately I noticed he was very different with me than he was on the phone with Mr. Nelson. With Nelson, Masterson was almost kissing butt, which you might expect considering the circumstances. With me, he was lecturing. I briefly explained that I had an established, successful career, but was exploring other options. He immediately jumped into telling me how to go about figuring out what I want in life, what mistakes not to make, and other things I'd either figured out years ago or at least learned enough to know that he didn't have as many answers as he thought he did. I didn't interrupt, and I probably couldn't have if I'd wanted to. He hardly took a breath as his thoughts flowed from his mouth. Curiously, all the while he worked furiously. He never missed a beat moving between two horses, cleaning their feet, trimming their hooves, fitting them with new shoes, stepping reflexively over a steaming pile. I listened politely, examining his every move, listening to his every word, and just trying to absorb the environment I was immersed in. His verbal outpouring flowed seamlessly from one topic to another, and I learned his opinions on "horse people" and other farriers, his disdain for text messaging, and the finer points of a good work ethic. He also really despises authority figures and won't tolerate being told how to do his job.

Farriers, I learned, not only shoe horses, but they actually make the shoes they put on the horses. A large part of what a farrier does is blacksmithing, which is done onsite out of the back of his truck. And apparently farriers are all (or at least are predominately) men, because when referring to them Mr. Masterson always said, "his" rather than the more generic, "they." At one point he was telling me about the tools of the trade. "Now, you'll need a truck. What do you drive?" he asked.

I said, "Ford F-350. Crew cab, long bed." He paused for a moment, took what I perceived to be his first breath since I arrived, and nodded his approval.

"Now you'll need a shell for it," he continued by listing items and their costs. As he was doing so, he was selecting blank shoes from a rack in the back of his truck and placing them in a portable firing oven. He never stopped moving, always doing something productive, and returned to the shoes when they were glowing hot. He pulled one from the fire and placed it on his anvil and started alternately pounding and tapping on it in a clearly skillful manner, subtly altering the shoe's curves. As he worked, he flipped hammers and files and various tools in his hands like some kind of blacksmithian circus act. He made it look like he'd been doing it for longer than he'd even been alive and I was captivated by the spectacle.

Then the whole world began to move in slow motion. He stood up, pulling his attention away from the hot iron. He looked directly into my eyes and waved his hands around to make what I was sure was a very important point about something. His lips were moving and I know words were coming out, but I was completely transfixed. I could hear nothing, I could think nothing. My eyes were flooded with what was probably the manliest thing I had ever seen with my own two eyes. It was the very definition of masculinity. A brutally handsome, educated, self-employeed, rugged young man standing with his hips tilted, leaning into me to, asserting his dominance in a friendly but extremely confident manner. He was the master, I was the apprentice. He was the possessor of an arcane and privileged skill set belonging to one of the most masculine of all trades. His skin glistened with sweat and dirt. He was wearing chaps -real chaps for real work. Before him was glowing iron and a black anvil. In his hands were heavy, mysterious tools. To his left, his rig and all his equipment. Behind him, horses - massive beasts that would completely submit to him as he scraped and hammered on their feet. And as the backdrop, the Rocky Mountains and a liquid blue sky.

Now I ask you, what more? What more? By God, what more could possibly have made this moment more beautiful? It will be burned into my mind until my dying day.

Eventually, fortunately, I did come back to Earth. And Mr. Masterson did, eventually, relax his jaw. I'm not sure what was going on initially, but I think as we got to know each other and I had a chance to get a few words in, he was able to relax and a real two-way conversation could begin. I don't know if he was just checking me out, testing me for something, or was maybe on the defensive or nervous, but I definitely got a sense of a wall coming down. I could clearly see him warming to me over the two hours or so I was there. He eased off the authoritative lecture and started offering useful advice, such as suggesting that I ride with a farrier sometime. Then he suggested maybe I apprentice. Then he offered that he might be looking for an apprentice, and ultimately he asked if I'd be interested in apprenticing under him.

It all sounded good to me. It was really interesting the way he could clean up a hoof, eyeball it, and then pound a horseshoe into the proper curves. He can also build shoes from scratch and is capable of whipping up special shoes for horses with special needs. He also claimed that the very best farrier he knows of pulls in an unbelievable quarter million a year. He said the really good guys he knows won't even leave the house unless they're going to pull in $700 that day. The income claims are intriguing, almost unbelievable and so I'm taking it with a grain of salt. But he encouraged me by reminding me that farriery is something I could do part time on the side to figure out of I like it, if I'm any good at it, without having to give up my current career. And, he'd be happy to take me on as his apprentice - or even just out for a single day if I only wanted to check it out. Well you don't have to ask me twice. Soon, we ride.

After my experience with Mr. Masterson I was in a mood. I don't know what kind of mood, but it certainly wasn't bad. I left the rural setting and returned to the reality of Boulder. I hadn't been in town five minutes when I was sitting at a red light. A cyclist on a recumbent came pedaling toward me. I was quietly staring out the window still lost thought, when the cyclist looked directly at me and flipped me off. It took me a moment to register what had just happened. I was in no way doing anything offensive. I wasn't even moving, and the cyclist wasn't even on the same road as me. And it was definitely me he flipped off. And this wasn't some punk kid either. He looked like one of those uppity holier-than-thou "greens" and my immediate thought was he flipped me off because of what I was driving. I don't know that for a fact, but I can't think of anything else it could possibly be. I thought of the pink-haired lesbian and her eco-smirk about my truck. I told Gerard about it and offered nothing in the way of why I thought the cyclist might have done it. Gerard immediately said, "It's your truck."

So then I was pissed off. I just don't understand why someone would judge someone else, a complete stranger, based on ONE thing. Be irritated by it, fine. Even if you don't know who I am or why I might need it, you can still hate big trucks I suppose. But I've met exactly one person in my life who I think is probably "greener" than me by virtue of his living like a pauper and being a 90 pound locavore vegan, but I know NO ONE who I think tries harder to support the community and make smart environmental choices as a whole (my truck, my one real weakness, aside.) Who is this asshole who thinks he can cast judgement on ME? I guess no matter who you are, no matter what you do, now matter how hard you try, someone is still going to find something to hate you for. It's just funny because I never in my wildest dreams thought that I of all people would be judged by freakin' LIBERALS. Welcome to Boulder.

In the morning I'm going to spend a couple of hours bucking hay at the ranch.