There is an art to holding onto a rope without getting burned. I learned how to dally by roping my brother and asking him to walk backwards while I let my slack slide through my hands and then, without looking, thumb up, back straight, I wrapped my rope around the saddle horn to secure the hold. Over and over and over again we did this.
I have a scar next to the webbing between my index finger and my thumb on the backside of my hand. I must have been about seventeen and was branding calves with my Dad. It was just the two of us and a small bunch of late calves. There was 36 of them. I remember because he said after we let the last one up, “If I had known there was more than 35 here I would have gotten us some more help.” We got this done by heeling each calf and dragging it over to an intertube that was tied to the fence. The intertube had a loop on it and the person who didn’t have the calf caught would jump off their horse and put the calves front legs in that loop. The roper would then get tight and the one on the ground gave the shots, ear tag and slapped on a brand. Sometime in the earlier part of that long day I threw an unfortunately lucky shot and caught the head of a calf. My Dad came by me and picked up the back two legs. I should have let go then. I popped my dallies and then just hung on as my Dad turned his horse and went towards the fence. Even after the rope started to pull away and heat up in my hand, I hung on. The rope kept pulling and before I had given up, a chunk of my hide was gone for good.
I am about to be twice the age that I was on that day and I have endured countless rope burns. Sliding rope is to admit that you are not in control. You can influence, steer, inspire, hint, pressure or guide but you cannot control. The more I rope, the more I live, I appreciate the art of the dally, of the slide and of the burn. This year, I hope to grasp the art of letting go.