My Babies, My Babies

I`ve spoken many times of those little moments that stay forever in my mind.
What triggers the memory can be anything. What triggered this, I do not know.


Several years ago, on my way to Denver, I experienced one of the unforgettable moments that occur when I least expect them. Traveling on I-76 in western Colorado, that stretch of Interstate is very lightly traveled most of the time, and this day was no exception.
It was early morning, barely after sunrise. The sky coming alive with the rays of the rising sun.
Early sunlight splashed across the roadway, broken by the shadows cast by small hills.
In that part of Colorado, as in many western states, there are small dry washes that are crossed by short bridges with only a guardrail on each side.
I saw in the distance, a small motor home pulling a stock trailer coming towards me. A small motor home, not much bigger than a pickup with a camper on the back. I looked back at the road ahead of me, then let my eyes wander across the gauges, checking that all was well.
I looked again for the motor home, and saw a sparkling, ..light reflecting from metal,.. changing reflections. I looked harder and realized it was the stock trailer rolling over and over.
The trailer had come unhooked from the motor home and was rolling down the pavement.
Clouds of dust and sand scattered along its path as it rolled towards me. The trailer came to rest on it`s side, at an angle, one end atop the short guardrail of the bridge, the other on the bridge surface.
I had begun braking as soon as I saw the trailer rolling and tumbling. I pulled over to the shoulder, set the air brakes and ran across the highway to the little bridge.
As I ran, I looked back at the carnage left in the wake of the trailer. Saddles, gear, tack. In the median lay two horses, unmoving. A third in the roadway, also unmoving. The fourth lay next to the trailer on the bridge.

The motor home had stopped, a man was running to the bridge. We arrived at the scene on the bridge together. A short, stocky man. Wizened, dark brown skin, weathered, wrinkled. The face of a man who spent his lifetime out of doors working in the weather. He came upon the bridge, stopped, surveyed the horror that lay before him. Tears began streaming from his eyes. His attention drawn to the horse lying before him. The only words I heard from this man were, "My Babies, My Babies." almost a sob, yet a sound I`d never heard uttered before. As he said the words, the horse on the ground in front of us, moved his head, made a sound, tried to look at the man. The man dropped to his knees, held the horses head in his arms and lap and sobbed, saying over and over again, "my babies, my babies.
I had to look away. ...I choked up. ..I could scarcely take a breath, and fought back my own tears.
I looked at the scattered contents of the trailer. Saddles, blankets, bridles. Not show or hobby saddles, rather the gear of a working cowboy, a true Vaquero. And seeing that, knowing these horses were as vital to this man as nourishment, I understood the true scope of what had happened.
I was witness to a human tragedy.
A woman was running from the motor home. Not screaming, nor crying. It was a voice I cannot find a word for. If agony has a sound, it was coming from her,.... as she ran to us.

I felt within myself a deep sadness. These people had just suffered a loss almost as great as that of a child. I may be a city boy, but I understand the relationship of a working cowhand with his horse.
I stood there for an unknown amount of time. I finally could bear it no more. I turned and walked back to my truck
In all that time, not another vehicle had passed. As I walked to my truck, a car pulled in behind it. I know an unmarked state cruiser when I see one, so as I walked past the plain clothes patrolman climbing from the car, I asked if he had his weapon with him. He looked at me and nodded yes.
He surveyed the scene and I could see the look on his face and in his eyes, he had seen too many of these before.
He walked to them, I walked to my truck, put it in gear, and drove west.

I think of that day often.The one thing I will never forget, is the tear stained face of an old Mexican Vaquero, crying the words, over and over, "my babies, my babies.