If you are reading this on a laptop, the picture of Hobie cuts off his head. My apologies to you and Hobie.

The backstory of my sister’s bay horse Hobie impresses on its own. In his life he’s served as a ranch horse, dressage horse, outlasted an apathetic previous owner, and survived the sale ring at the Bozeman stockyard. This stately gentleman of a horse stands at 16.2 hands, taller than your average horse, and at thirty years old (yes 30!) he’s older than your average grandfather. He’s older than your average great-grandfather. His calming presence, gentle demeanor, and amiable personality belie his early years as the fiercely competitive race horse……El Hobie.

The tattoo on his inner upper lip was used to register and identify Hobie as a race horse and his previous owner confirmed he raced under the name El Hobie on the Montana fair racing circuit.  Official records are hard to track down but there are unconfirmed reports…. a myth if you will, about the one they called El Hobie.

They say his mere presence unnerved the competition. His trot to the paddock brought whispers of his name from the fair attendees. “I hear he’s a great Spanish champion,” the rumor would pass down the line as he calmly exited the starting gate. The “campeòn’s” strategy was simple. Remaining in the middle of the pack until entering the final turn, he would move to the rear of the leading horse. The legend claims El Hobie was the quietest horse people had ever heard. Or not heard. A ghost horse. The leading horse would feel El Hobie’s presence but could not see or hear him. Unsettled, the lead horse would panic and slow giving El Hobie the opening to win the race without ever increasing his speed. El Hobie ran like the wind, but won with his gall. The more this happened, the more the legend grew, and the more he won.

Today Hobie has his own pasture and serves as the elder statesman of Bozeman Horse Boarding. His days of moving with the wind are of the past but as the sun sets beyond the distant Bridger Mountains, Hobie trots in the open pasture toward the memory of a starting gate. Head held high, the campeòn returns. It’s a sight you have to see, because you won’t hear a sound.