In our trail ride, we organized the position in line depending on each horse’s particular set of vices. The horses that shied the most predictably and the worst (there are varying degrees of shying from tremulous, soft, jerky stops to a violent swivel on one hoof in the opposite direction to a double take that simply and neatly unseats the rider) were put towards the back of the pack. The ones that were the strongest in the field (as in, difficult to keep back) were likewise tucked in behind the leader.
In most cases, Traveler and I were in the lead since he never shied, rarely had an interest in going too fast (unless we were headed in the direction of the barn), and usually didn’t concern himself unduly with obstacles such as mud puddles, branches across the path or rusting car ruins on the sidelines--all common horse terrors.
Unfortunately, I was almost never familiar with the paths so there was much shouting over my shoulder: “Left or right? Up the gorge? There’s a fork in the road...” With Traveler in the lead, we would pass scary piles of manure, or branches jutting out at awkward, threatening angles and the horses behind us would usually follow without fuss. If one horse shies, the others often will too in a sort of equine chain reaction--even if they haven’t seen the object that made the first horse shy in the first place. It’s enough that one of their fellows has been frightened. They have a lot of respect for each other’s judgment when it comes to the question of when they should be afraid. Since Traveler rarely became unnerved by noises or objects, the other horses tended to relax a little more. Which isn’t to say that they didn’t still shy. They did. But not as often and not as violently. Laura’s horse, Shadow, will react so quickly to a scary object (a bush, say, or someone’s jacket flung on a hay bale) that he can single-handedly retard her chiropractor’s efforts by two years. One fluttering leaf has been known to be the cause of her having to endure endless weeks with an ice pack on the small of her back.
As I’ve mentioned, shying is rarely Traveler’s problem. His only flaw, really is his insistence on going back to his beloved barn--at the speed of light--whenever he’s judged that he’s had enough of the outdoor life and your ride.
One particular autumn morning, I was riding with a group of three other friends and I could feel that Traveler definitely felt peppy. The cooler fall weather had all the horses feeling pretty good. I feel compelled to add that this morning was before I began using a pelham on Traveler. A pelham is a bit, in this case, a hard rubber bit, but with a chain chin strap that can be notched fairly tightly so that when you pull back on the reins, you’re imprinting the chain--at varying degrees--into your darling’s soft little chin. It’s often very effective in getting your pet’s attention, and persuading him that the direction that you want to go and the pace you want to go it will be less painful for both of you.
This morning, as usual, Traveler and I were in the lead. All of us felt up and happy and spirited because of the weather, the condition of the trail which was firm and clear, the healthy luster of our horses’ coats--too early for the fuzzy lengths of bear fur they would all sport in another three months--and their own contagious good moods.
At about the point where Traveler and I were stepping over a small log and I was sharing a bit of a joke with the rider behind me, Traveler decided it was time to call it quits. Keep in mind, that it was not (presumably, because how would one ever know?) because he wasn’t enjoying the weather or the company or the activity that necessarily made Traveler decide to bolt--it was the brisk, zip in his step that just made him want to run. And if Traveler is going to run, he’s going to run to some place worth running to: the barn.
He swiveled around on the narrow trail, nearly dislodging me, and headed back for the barn. Very fast. I hauled back on the reins and nothing happened. The brakes were gone. I see-sawed the loose-snaffled bit in his mouth. Nada. The ground roared by underneath me as we pounded back towards the barn...separated from it, in fact, by only two wicked patches of woods and one rather slippery creek bed. A year before when I had been faced with a similar situation on Thunder--a mad near-gallop and a slippery surface ahead leading down a long hill and certain or at least very-well-could-be death--I twisted Thunder’s head hard to the right and as he slammed on the brakes, I went soaring over his head to land with bone-thumping solidity on the ground in front of him. Witnesses thought a body bag would be needed. And, although I’d only knocked the wind out of myself, I knew I’d been lucky to have walked away from that one.
Unfortunately, that memory and image came screaming back to me as Traveler now picked his way home at a fast canter. Timorously, I tugged on one rein--his left one--and saw his ears lean in that direction. I pulled a little harder on the left, determined not to tip us over or stop him on a dime (although that possibility did seem less and less likely.) His legs thundered on, but his head began to follow my direction. Miraculously, I felt him turning, and as he turned, he slowed.
When I had him facing the opposite direction, he dropped down to a trot, shook his head, snorted, and, seemingly, tried to act like nothing had happened. I jumped off immediately, --a mistake since you’re not supposed to bail out once you’ve won your point, they say it makes the horse think (in this case, quite correctly) that he’s intimidated you-- and stood shivering in my rubber boots. Traveler stared at me balefully, almost as if to say: “Well, I tried.”
My friends rode up to me: “Where’d you go? Why’d you take off like that? How come you’re on the ground?” After hearing my story, they all scolded me, to a woman, for dismounting. As was proper that they should.
The first time a horse takes off with you is terrifying. In fact, the second time is pretty bad too. The feeling of helplessness as you’re borne too quickly in directions you don’t want to go, is painful and unsettling. Another interesting point to note, and you’ll no doubt end up noting it while you’re clinging to your horse’s back at break-neck speed, is that horses won’t always take the best route to their destination. If he bolts, he’s not thinking: “now, if I jag to the left here, I can catch the main trail leading over to Buttercup’s pasture and then hang a right near the grain room...” He’s going to crash into areas that are not big enough to contain him (or you, on him) or soft enough to catch you when you finally let go.
A young girl at our barn was out riding one lovely spring afternoon after school on a borrowed and beloved thoroughbred that she had her heart set on leasing for the summer. Two frisky dogs put an end to those plans when they startled her and her horse out on the trail, sending him flying into the deeper part of the wood, crashing through branches and brambles. She finally stopped him and she did not come off him, but fifteen stitches to her face had her rethink her love affair with him.
A horse that won’t stop when you tell him to is a horse in control. And given their brain limitations, that’s a dangerous situation. Traveler took off with me often; defeated only when I would turn him into the slow, wide circles that would eventually bring him under control. Actually, as soon as I was able to turn his head in the direction opposite that of the barn, his eagerness for the venture began to fail. But riding in circles, and struggling with your horse’s head while your friends are jumping logs and enjoying slow, controlled canters up the field line, is not the way to appreciate riding.
Some horse people will tell you that you need to work with your horse and teach him--slowly, patiently, gently--an end to his bad habits. But for the green rider, where frustration factors can eliminate the will to ride altogether, and the older rider, who doesn’t have the extra years to train a horse, and the rider-with-a-day job-and-maybe-even-a-family, the answer is usually (and thankfully) found in the form of a riding aid, i.e. a stronger bit. It settled the matter for Traveler and me. I’m careful not to tug needlessly on his dear little mouth, and he doesn’t usually pick up speed unless invited. It’s a happy situation for all.
For some reason, many horses are afraid of water. They won’t naturally cross it and then only do so with much whinging and resignation. Here w
as another instance where my horse, Traveler, defied the norm and did me proud. He would splash into creek beds and mud puddles with panache and energy then turn to watch the other horses timidly and unhappily pick their way through the shallow murk behind him.
On one trail ride on a drizzly November morning, a group of us decided to brave the chill and the wet trails and get a little exercise on horseback. As usual, I was in the lead with Traveler when we came upon a large muddy pool that the rains had created the night before. Traveler and I quickly sloshed through it without breaking pace, turned and waited for the rest of the group to catch up. One of the riders with us, although not at all green, had warned us beforehand that her horse had a problem with water. She was positioned directly behind me and Traveler and when she and her horse--a huge dun gelding named “Monroe”--approached the water, she applied her bat at his first balk, and then urged him forward and through the filthy water. Monroe edged into the muck, then, just before they reached the other side, he stopped and did the most incredible thing. He dropped to his knees.
Squealing in shock and surprise, his rider dug in her heels and squeezed with her knees to get him back up. Nothing. Just when we all felt she should be climbing off him, he slid onto his side and began a luxuriant roll in the mud--saddle, tidy little leather saddlebag, bridle, the works, now black with mud. The rider, having finally kicked free, managed to escape being pinned under him by milliseconds and was now dancing around him in the mud, tugging on his bridle and whacking away at her boots and the mud with her crop.
I’m afraid we were never really fond of this woman and we reacted rather badly--with smiles and even howls of laughter and teasing: “Margo, when you said Monroe had a problem with water, we thought you meant he didn’t like it” “She said Monroe was a cross-breed. Just left out the part that he was part pig!” (Horse people are so funny I’m surprised you haven’t seen us on Jay Leno.) Margo, dripping with mud, finally got the little dear out of the mud and onto his feet and with one final and violent shake of his be-soiled self (yes, just like dogs, horses will shake themselves dry) he allowed her to pick up a sticky stirrup and remount.
Sometimes a horse will choose to lie down at a bad moment, and sometimes they will just fall down--and of course, no moment is good for that. One sunny fall day (appropriate), about a half a dozen of us grouped for a long trail ride. One of the trails that was popular (and has since been claimed by a lovely subdivision of houses priced from the $230’s) went as far as Turkey Mountain, about ten miles away. It followed the Chattahootchi for a part of the way, and then twisted off into a jumbled copse of woods in the direction of what was a rather unremarkable mountain. We hadn’t gone two miles before Traveler fell down…at a walk. All my fears of losing it at a gallop in a pothole never came to be. He just dropped to his knees in the narrow path and froze there. I kicked free of the stirrups, ready to hop off if necessary, but he soon scrambled back up. The rider behind us did a wonderful job of not stepping on us and we soon resumed our ride. I was a little perplexed and concerned but Traveler seemed none the worse for the experience.
Why do horses fall down? When I asked my vet, he just shrugged and replied sagely: “Sometimes horses fall down.”
Once, when I’d cantered out onto a polo field with Laura where she was showing Shadow to a polo player in the interests that he might buy him, I amused myself by trotting aimlessly around the field. A polo field is very smooth (and usually off limits to the hacking types in order to keep it that way). As we were trotting about, Traveler, once more, fell to his knees. This time I went over his head in a neat little flip and landed on my back--crop and reins still in my hands. I jumped up immediately. Traveler was looking wild-eyed this time, a sure-fire indication that he would attempt to leave the scene of the accident at top speed. I soothed him, checked his knees, which he’d skinned a little bit, checked the girth, and remounted.
Why did he fall? He wasn’t off. The ground was as smooth as he’d ever had the pleasure of trotting over. A week before, Laura was schooling Shadow in the ring and the same thing happened to them. Shadow just fell down. Boom. No reason.
Sometimes horses fall down.
Chapter Eleven
National Velvet Grows Up and Eats A Lot of Advil
In the crackle and calm of early morning at a barn, you can breathe in the muskiness of the nearby horses and the glorious crispness of the day that's coming. Early morning rides may be the very best of all. Leather boots crunching across the packed dirt drives that lead to the barn and your horse's stall; cozy nickering greeting you from within his warm niche. Or standing at the gate and watching your own beauty pick his way carefully toward you. (Contrary to what some horse people may tell you, many horses will come agreeably, even happily, to their owners--carrot or no.)
The pungent-sweet smell of leather tack is sharper in the morning. The scurrying of little mouse feet evacuating your tack box, the lazy morning stretch of the indolent and remiss barn cat, the absorbed munching of the stall horses enjoying their Wheaties. All fitted perfectly into the morning stillness. And when you've mounted and stepped out into the mist, you could be a heroine out to find her lover in the heather-dusted moors or a young Viking warrior. The strength and power of the early morning brings to mind battle-mornings that must have been and smelled and looked much like this one, or must have the beginning of many a romantic and adventuresome journey. Surely, such journeys started early in the morning, before the day had the wits to turn ugly and forbidding.
So you quietly walk into the moors, eyes scanning the horizon for Heathcliff, unconscious of the easy gait of your mount, as steady and familiar as your own breathing. And when you canter quickly and rhythmically through the glen where you know the castle rebels have grouped, or gallop passionately to the edge of the wood where the world-shatteringly important exchange of secret messages is to take place, you know that no one in your typing pool, or in your bridge club, or in the campus cafeteria later that day will have experienced anything like what you have just experienced. And as you re-affix your veil and bid your Arab smoothie adieu, turning your horse back toward the barn and the blinking, suddenly-alert sun, you know that there's nothing else quite like this morning in the world.
It was in North Georgia, four years after that first wobbly jaunt on horseback in New Zealand, that the full meaning of loving horses and being with them had finally emerged. After what seemed a lifetime of borrowed horses, injured horses, damaged confidence, poor weather and generally rotten conditions, everything fell into place.
The thrill of jumping, heart stopping can-we-do-it gates and coops that loomed two titanic feet high. Trot, trot, trot, eyes ahead, up and over! And will he fall? Will that soft, safe landing on the other side continue after his feet hit the ground, or after his front feet, will his chest and his nose and then my head follow? No! Bounding effortlessly over streams and logs and caviletti like they were so many sticks across his invincible, sure-footed, scornful path. And cantering a jump's even easier! More effortless! And faster even! You just canter toward a jump, get in two-point, and stay out of his way while he gets on with the business of jumping it. Simple! And people win Gold Medals for this?
If your horse enjoys these mornings and evenings and afternoons out in the field with you as much as you do, wonderful. If, on the other hand, he views you as a walking feed bucket and little else, he'll probably spend a good deal of his time out in the field trying to convince you to go back to the barn. Sometimes he might skip the "convincing-you" part and just go back to the barn. Very fast.
Most horses view the barn as a source of security and food and therefore as a positive place to be. Traveler, for example, considers the barn a very positive place. This situation will typically mean some rather stern conversations about who is, in fact, the boss. As far as I can tell, the results of these little conversations do little to nothing to convince my horse that the barn is any less a positive place to be, but they do quite a lot for making me feel like a Real Ho
rse Person. And that's something.
Part and parcel to being a Real Horse Person (aside from snapping at the cashier at Winn Dixie for no apparent reason) is having a new, and virtually constant, element into you life.
Pain.
Riding a horse will make you sore. Stiff and sore. Stiff and sore and aching and bent over so you can't get your car door open. Most riders, even the ones who ride frequently and who canter as smoothly and as expertly as an angel on a moonbeam--even these people groan with conviction when they get out of bed the next morning.
There are a wide assortment of bones and muscles pounding away at each other in the exquisite art of horseback riding. And this isn't even considering the occasional dumping. If you fall, roll neatly and then jump to your feet while gaily and correctly waving your crop to signify that you're okay--having not suffered even the loss of your wind--then you can count on having a black and purple map of Australia tattooed to your hip by lunch time the next day. (Assuming it wasn't a concussion all along.)
Also, riding down hill with a tense spine will do never-before-felt things to your back. If you haven't discovered chiropractery before, you will no doubt do so once you've begun to ride on a regular basis.
The know-everything horse person usually has a pretty fair knowledge of medicines and balms for their horses and for themselves. They have to. One friend I know regularly pops Ibupropen right along with her One-A-Day and orange juice because she never knows where that inflammation may be lurking--unseen or even as yet undeveloped.
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