CAVE CREEK - The metal box hanging from the window of the white trailer glows deep-orange, its flames fed by a hose that snakes back to a propane tank.
Shaun Woodsum ducks into the trailer, a workshop on wheels hitched to his pickup. He opens the glowing box and uses tongs to pluck out a horseshoe. It pulses white heat as Woodsum places it on an anvil and inspects it, studying its shape for flaws.
Horseshoe process in Phoenix
He picks up his hammer and pounds the shoe, once, twice, three times, each strike producing a dull metallic ring. He works the shoe some more, then carries it to the shoeing stall. Jagger, a dark-brown horse, waits.
Woodsum squats, lifts Jagger's left-front leg back and presses the shoe against the horse's hoof. It sizzles and smokes, and the air fills with an acrid smell. Jagger never flinches. Woodsum pulls the shoe back, studies the hoof and returns to the rig.
"Not all farriers hot-shoe anymore, but it's the only way I do it," Woodsum says as he hammers the steel shoe. "It's more of the traditional way, but you know you're getting a good fit. The smallest little corrections can be huge."
Woodsum, who is 44, has worked as a farrier for about 22 years, shoeing horses in stables as far away as England, where he worked as an apprentice. He set up his own business two years ago in Chino Valley and now traverses northern and central Arizona plying a trade with practices and lore that span centuries. His work is part blacksmith, part animal expert, part salesman building a stable of horses and customers.
The job of shoeing horses has evolved. Time was, riders took their horses to a blacksmith's forge, often the only one in riding distance. Now, most farriers travel to clients -- Woodsum's glowing-metal box is a propane-fired forge that lets him run a blacksmith shop out of the trailer, which also hauls his anvil and tools.
Rather than forging shoes from scratch, some farriers purchase them from a supply store. Many don't even use forges, relying on the hammer to adjust the fit.
But the basic tools of the job-- hammer, anvil, shoes and nails -- have changed little since farriers worked in the blacksmith shops of Old West towns. And there is one unchanging part of the job: the horse. It's all about the horse.
Want of a nail
CoCo, a dappled white-and-gray mare, stands still as Woodsum clips one end of a strap to her harness and the other to a ring on a post at the front of the stall. He attaches a similar strap to the other side, though CoCo shows no signs that she would attempt to bolt.
"I've been lucky today," Woodsum says. "They're not always as calm as this. Sometimes, they can be so calm they fall asleep while I'm working on them."
He lifts the front left leg and checks CoCo's hoof. She wore a shoe and a plastic pad that protected sensitive areas on the bottom of her foot. Not all horses need the pad, but if the horse is to carry a rider or pull a wagon, it needs shoes, he says.
"We've been putting shoes on horses for thousands of years," Woodsum says. "They haven't always looked like this, but if you want to keep the horses working day after day, you've got to protect their feet. Wars have been lost because shoes were lost."
Blacksmiths and farriers know the proverb, repeated in one version or another for centuries:
"For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;
"For want of a shoe, the horse was lost;
"For want of a horse, a rider was lost;
"For want of a rider... the battle was lost;
"For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost."
As prospectors and ranchers and settlers spread across the Western frontier, they brought their horses, for travel and for work. And where there were horses in those days, there were farriers and blacksmiths.
"The job was one and the same for a long time," says Barry Denton, another northern-Arizona farrier who has shod horses for 35 years. "When I worked with my grandfather, we did the blacksmithing, made all our own shoes. And we'd do decorative things for houses sometimes. I can still make whatever you need out of steel in my shop."
Today, many blacksmiths work as artists and craftsmen and never see a horse's hoof. Some produce household items like fireplace tools or door hardware, while others create works of art.
In the Old West, the blacksmith repaired wagon wheels, forged tools and hinges, shaped horseshoes and put them on the horse. The smith worked long hours, and his customers came to him. He worked to perfect his methods, and then he told no one how he did it.
"The men of my grandfather's era grew up in the Depression, and their trade secrets were closely guarded," Denton says. "I worked for one guy, an old-time shoer. He would back his truck up to a barn and have me take rolls of brown paper and thumbtacks and cover the windows while he worked."
Today, farriers are more likely to share information, and their methods are often on display at blacksmithing competitions. They prove their worth now in the way they keep a horse healthy and on the trail.
"Our tools are probably better today than they've ever been," Denton says. "But the process hasn't changed. It's something that can't really be done by a machine."
A seed is planted
Woodsum grew up around horses and got to know the farrier who took care of his family's animals, a longtime shoer named Bob James. One day, James planted a seed.
"He told me, 'You would make a good horseshoer. You have the right build for it.'" Woodsum says. "At first, I said, 'Oh, I'll keep paying you.' But then one day, I decided to give it try."
In June 1990, Woodsum enrolled in a Phoenix horseshoeing school, and when he completed the training, he decided the job was right for him. The iron and the heat of the forge were in his blood.
"It's a craft, an art," he says. "It's not just nailing on shoes. The guys who make things on an anvil, they're like an artist with his paint brushes or a guy with his guitar. The blacksmith has his hammer and anvil."
It's also an act of trust. The farrier is working at ground level with an animal that can weigh more than 1,000 pounds and whose legs can exert power enough to injure or kill.
"When I got under a horse the first time, I was feeling everything," Woodsum says. "I was feeling his heart beat. I was feeling him breathe. Trust is so important. You have to be cool. Don't lose your temper. If you lose your cool, they will, too."
Woodsum lives in Chino Valley, but many of his clients live and keep horses in the Phoenix area, so he travels constantly. He also shares a workshop space, where he keeps a coal-fired forge, but he does most of his regular farrier work out of the mobile rig. Working out of a shop, he says, "is every blacksmith's dream."
Inside his rig are several metal tool and supply chests, a drill press, a grinder, the anvil and the forge, which is attached to an arm that swings outward to keep the heat and fire away from the workspace.
Woodsum prefers working with a coal forge for its heat and, he admits, for the tradition. But on the road, the only practical option, and the safest, is propane.
Once a horse is secured in the shoeing stall, Woodsum removes the old shoes, using pincers to pull the nails. Sometimes, the shoes can be reset and reused, but often, he will replace them. A horse needs reshoeing about every six weeks to keep the hoof and foot healthy.
He scrapes out debris from the hoof and trims it, not unlike the way a human trims toenails. Trimming a hoof precisely is critical for the health of the horse and the safety of the rider. A poorly trimmed hoof can lead to the loss of a shoe.
A farrier has to know the physiology of a horse and its feet. Most farriers work with a veterinarian to watch for infections or injuries. Woodsum says modern shoers know enough to keep a horse healthy and working. In the Old West, a lame horse was more likely put down.
"You're doing it for the betterment of these guys," Woodsum says, patting Jagger on the neck. "It's all about the horse."
On routine jobs, Woodsum now uses preshaped shoes, although he can make his own from steel bars. He inspects the hoof, chooses the right shoe size and puts the shoe in the forge to heat up.
Woodsum wears a heavy-leather apron around his waist and safety glasses when he smooths a shoe's edges on the grinder, but he does not wear gloves, even working as closely as he does to a forge that produces temperatures higher than 1,500 degrees.
"I like to be able to feel what I'm doing," he says.
Once the shoe is hot, Woodsum can hammer it into shape on the anvil. For a farrier, the hammer and anvil are among the most important tools, carefully chosen for their size and weight.
Woodsum then places the hot shoe on the hoof. It burns its shape into the hoof, which allows Woodsum to see where each surface meets. A shoe needs to fit snugly to protect the foot. If the fit isn't right, Woodsum hammers it again and grinds away errant edges.
Once he's satisfied with the fit, he taps special nails through the shoe and into the hoof. The nail emerges from the outer edge of the hoof. Woodsum bends the nail flush with the hoof and uses a rasp to remove any sharp edges. The horse feels nothing, standing calmly through the heat and the tap-tapping.
After the shoe is securely attached, Woodsum repeats the process three more times.
Respect for the craft
Denton, the longtime farrier, rarely travels to see clients anymore. He considers himself semiretired and takes work when he wants to in his shop at the Bar U Bar Ranch in Skull Valley, where he lives with his wife.
He also tests farriers for certification, a voluntary step that some tradesman take in order to prove their mettle and attract better business. Neither Arizona nor the federal government requires farriers to become certified, and neither enforces standards. The farriers who take that step set themselves apart and, Denton believes, demonstrate a respect for the craft.
"I think it's a good personal goal, to get certified," he says. "It certainly shows people that you're serious. I think there's too many horseshoers out there and not enough good ones. The good ones are so busy they can't stand it."
Woodsum went further than voluntary certification. In 1997, he moved to England and served as an apprentice for part of a year, a necessary step in that country to obtain a license to shoe horses.
The experience improved his skills and gave him a new perspective on his craft. Feeling more confident, he began competing in blacksmithing contests and won a fair share.
Woodsum relies on word-of-mouth referrals to build his business. His clients come to him based on those referrals, and he can seal a deal with his certification and his awards. A basic shoeing job starts at about $150, a price based in part on Woodsum's experience and training, as well as the market. In California, he says, a good farrier can charge $200 or more.
These days, more of his regulars own horses for show or jumping competitions than for work on a ranch herding cattle. Some clients ride for pleasure, climbing the trails and foothills on the edges of the suburbs. Woodsum has learned to shoe the horse based on what it does.
Farriers who last in the job become attached to the craft, to the independence of the work and to the horses.
"I wouldn't know what to do if I got up in the morning and didn't see a horse," says Denton, the Skull Valley ranch owner. "Horses are some of my best friends. To me, the best thing in the world is seeing a horse that maybe I put the first shoes on and he's still out there competing when he's 20. I've helped keep that horse sound for 20 years. It's wonderful."
In Cave Creek, Woodsum finishes shoeing Jagger and pats him gently.
"You've been a good boy today," he says in a low voice.
He leads the horse back to its stable and then cleans up the shoeing stall, readying it for the next horse.
"Sometimes, I try to imagine what it would be like to have an office job where someone bosses me around," Woodsum says, sweeping up the hoof trimmings. "I can't. I enjoy this more than when I started. A well-fit shoe, a sound horse, things you see that one one else does ... it's a lot of hard work, but it's extremely satisfying."
Leave condolences for the Dever family | Remembrances | Dever dies in car crash | Arizona politicians react to Dever's death
