Quintons Gold Rush by Emily Hufford

© David Shields 2004

He was gangly, goofy, and full of personality. He had nerves that were easily rattled and markings that were unusual. Quintons Gold Rush was never the most spectacular racehorse, but he wasn't the worst, and I certainly took him for granted.

My tale of this gangly son of Wild Rush began at Keeneland last April, when I was walking with Turf Angels Staff Member Amelia Baldree through the backside one late afternoon, heading in the direction of my car. It was the Wednesday after the Santa Anita Derby, where my boyfriend had captured several shots of a horse named Quintons Gold Rush, such as the photo above. I, like a lot of other horse-crazy girls, fell in love with his strange markings and distinct coloring, not because he had shown any kind of spectacular turn of foot in the race. It was the rare kind of face you could never forget.

Ahead of us was a trailer, and a horse was being unloaded. The horse threw up his head and took in his surroundings, and at once I was drawn to him. He was tall and flashy with four white stockings and a white blaze spotted with a splash of chestnut. Closer I could tell that his coat was red flecked with white hairs, but from further away he looked golden in the light of the sun. He began to walk toward us, a purposeful, long-striding walk.

"That horse looks like Quintons Gold Rush," I remarked, thinking the resemblance was so close it was almost uncanny. But how could he be in Kentucky, he'd just run in California? As the horse passed, my suspicions were confirmed; the nameplate read Quintons Gold Rush.

We followed him back to his new barn, just to see where he was and maybe learn why he was here. It wasn't until that night that the facts came to light: "Quinton" had been transferred to Steve Assmussen from Mike Mitchell and would run in the Lexington Stakes as a prep for the Kentucky Derby. Several days later, he won that Lexington Stakes. Over the course of the next two weeks, I saw him every day. He always seemed nervous, flighty, powerful, delicate, goofy, and bold all at the same time. We visited him at the barn often during bath time, and I always looked forward to seeing him.

We drove up to Indiana to see him run at Hoosier Park. We skipped class to see him run at Churchill, a race that he won in a driving rain. I saw him again in the Malibu Stakes at Santa Anita. He was always the same; big, goofy, spunky Quintons Gold Rush. After the Malibu, I was walking around the backside with some friends. The sky was cloudy and dark and the last tiny glimpse of the sun was falling. Rain was about to fall, a rain that would last for weeks. I saw Quintons Gold Rush walking around, being cooled out after his race. I stopped and smiled, and he stopped and looked at us, then kept walking. He seemed almost like a ghost in the dim light, with the white markings on his body being the easiest part of him to see. It was cold and I was tired, so I started off for home, leaving Quintons Gold Rush to disappear into the night.

I found out a few weeks later that Quintons Gold Rush was dead. It is hard to believe that I will never see him again, because I simply took for granted that I got to see him so often. He was a stakes winner, but not a champion, a winner, but certainly not consistent. The most important thing was that he was always around. Rest in peace, Quinton, and thanks for being there.