Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Twilight
Trail Riding a Bond
In chemistry a covalent bond is a bond in which two atoms share electrons, the strongest human bond is friendship. Friendship is the sharing of memories, experiences, even deep secrets. I am extremely lucky, I have friends who deal with me the quirky, moody, self-centered child. I have never had a closer bond with any fellow horseback rider than Margrith, she is a sparky, adrenaline addicted, opinionated firework who lights up my day, she is also caring, and protective and radiates a powerful determination. I have only know her for two years now, but it feels like I have know her for a lifetime.
However, before I meet Margrith I shared a peculiar friendship with Sarah, the beautiful, confident rider that I had gone to camp with. She and I started horse back riding together with Penelopy and Twilight, but not in the arena. We became explores and set out with our horses on trail rides.
It was like riding into a fairy tale. The roads were dusty and worn with travel, but there were hills of grass and sage brush, valleys choked with tall crocked trees bent in conversation with each other. There was a steep sandy track that took us up a dry angular crag, onto the side of a baron mountain. From its fortress we could see everything.
The trails were philosophical, and led us through many paths of life. On day while wandering we stumbled upon a marsh in the heart of a valley, a lily pad infested pool surrounded by bare wired and Autumn leaves fermenting in the heat. The pool had swollen over the fence and dripped into a small stream. Twilight and Penelopy snorted in alarm at the small ribbon of water, I finally convinced Twilight to tip-toe her way across the three inch wide brook, but Penelopy decided she would have to jump the three inch wide brook with a three foot wide leap. I watched as she caught Sarah by surprised as they flew over the stream clearing it and the surrounding mud with easy. Sarah and I stared at each other frightened looks reflected off one another and then burst into laughter, and jokes. We found an old abandoned camp site with a cow pen rusted and bent, forgotten in this small pocket in the mountains. It was ghostly, there was no sound, no other creatures but our caravan of four. We left the site wrapped in the sacred silents. A few days later we found a winding path that took us past elaborate houses with manicured bushes, and trees grown upside down. A farm with cattle that were covered in thick layers of curly brown fur, and a mansion that's drive way was lined with perfect blue spruce trees. To the west was the rich, to the east that abandoned cattle pen, two different forks in the road.
Beauty was not always part of our trail rides, in fact every trail ride began with a horror story and a hassle. In order to go on a trail ride we had to go through the entire length of the mountain pasture, which meant fighting off Carita's stamped ambushes, and Mateo's persistent insistence that he accompany his mother on our trail riding adventures.
The horror was the cattle farm right across the way. Its entrance was lined with cracked cow bones, from the sickly cattle the owners left to slowly starve and die. Two rusted trucks, lurked around the corner filled with harsh metal griding spikes in their beds, rusted with age or blood. When the wind blew it prowled through the skeletal structure of the truck allowing them to rasp and rattle. Chains hung from the fence line dyed with harsh copper streaks. Neither Sarah nor I could fathom the use of the chains. The cattle were mad creatures. They were penned up together in layers of their own feces, several had large oozing abscesses on their legs, or wounds turned black by infection. Hate had made them stark raving made. They would charge the fence when we rode by, I once saw a bull leap into the air in his eagerness to thrust his horns into our horses. We were scared of that place, scared of the death that seeped into every pore of the ground, and air and abandoned machines and creatures. It was a relief to get into the open air and ride into the flawless land.
Horses are the best therapy I have ever known, while riding Sarah and I would share secrets of our past, ones I am not willing to disclose. We cried together and confided everything with one another, our fears, our passionate hates, our irrational hopes.
We were a miss matched pair. She was popular, gorgeous, and had a boyfriend, who she rode with on occasion. I was an awkward, nerd, who only wistfully looked at the boys I liked and never had the gut to talk to.
Our conversation were not always serious, sometimes we would play. Two high school teenagers suddenly became a fair princess on her shire mare, escaping from a betrothed marriage, and a gypsy outcast or thief ranging the hills on her black gypsy pony. We would meet at the top of a hill, circle each other at a trot, throwing questions and answers at each other about our make believe pasts. It was great fun. She was the romantic and I was the sullen prickly stranger.
I remember the first day Twilight and I cantered together. Sarah and I were coming home through a thicket of trees, following a faint deer path, suddenly Twilight broke into a wild trot charging straight under one of the tree's low hanging branches, she fit under them perfectly, I did not. The branches dug into my back, and I felt the sharp pain of needle sharp wood piercing skin. I pulled Twilight up and sat up from my crouched position. Sarah rode up behind me. "Your bleeding!" she said. I reached my hand to feel my back, and when I looked at my fingers there was a long streak of dark scarlet blood trickling down them. I did not say anything. We'd better go back.
Sarah and I rode Penelope and Twilight at a fast trot back up the hill. Twilight went faster and faster, then suddenly the jarring two beat step changed into a jerky three beat step and then began to smooth out. Penelope jumped up onto the ridge next to us and began to canter as well. We looked over at each other, this moment was surreal, dreamlike in quality, we could not believe what was happening. Once we reached the crest of the hill Twilight returned to her trot as if nothing had happened. Sarah and I high-fived each other and we road back to the barn in high spirits, completely forgetting that I had bloody scratches etched into my back. The day had been perfect.
However, before I meet Margrith I shared a peculiar friendship with Sarah, the beautiful, confident rider that I had gone to camp with. She and I started horse back riding together with Penelopy and Twilight, but not in the arena. We became explores and set out with our horses on trail rides.
It was like riding into a fairy tale. The roads were dusty and worn with travel, but there were hills of grass and sage brush, valleys choked with tall crocked trees bent in conversation with each other. There was a steep sandy track that took us up a dry angular crag, onto the side of a baron mountain. From its fortress we could see everything.
The trails were philosophical, and led us through many paths of life. On day while wandering we stumbled upon a marsh in the heart of a valley, a lily pad infested pool surrounded by bare wired and Autumn leaves fermenting in the heat. The pool had swollen over the fence and dripped into a small stream. Twilight and Penelopy snorted in alarm at the small ribbon of water, I finally convinced Twilight to tip-toe her way across the three inch wide brook, but Penelopy decided she would have to jump the three inch wide brook with a three foot wide leap. I watched as she caught Sarah by surprised as they flew over the stream clearing it and the surrounding mud with easy. Sarah and I stared at each other frightened looks reflected off one another and then burst into laughter, and jokes. We found an old abandoned camp site with a cow pen rusted and bent, forgotten in this small pocket in the mountains. It was ghostly, there was no sound, no other creatures but our caravan of four. We left the site wrapped in the sacred silents. A few days later we found a winding path that took us past elaborate houses with manicured bushes, and trees grown upside down. A farm with cattle that were covered in thick layers of curly brown fur, and a mansion that's drive way was lined with perfect blue spruce trees. To the west was the rich, to the east that abandoned cattle pen, two different forks in the road.
Beauty was not always part of our trail rides, in fact every trail ride began with a horror story and a hassle. In order to go on a trail ride we had to go through the entire length of the mountain pasture, which meant fighting off Carita's stamped ambushes, and Mateo's persistent insistence that he accompany his mother on our trail riding adventures.
The horror was the cattle farm right across the way. Its entrance was lined with cracked cow bones, from the sickly cattle the owners left to slowly starve and die. Two rusted trucks, lurked around the corner filled with harsh metal griding spikes in their beds, rusted with age or blood. When the wind blew it prowled through the skeletal structure of the truck allowing them to rasp and rattle. Chains hung from the fence line dyed with harsh copper streaks. Neither Sarah nor I could fathom the use of the chains. The cattle were mad creatures. They were penned up together in layers of their own feces, several had large oozing abscesses on their legs, or wounds turned black by infection. Hate had made them stark raving made. They would charge the fence when we rode by, I once saw a bull leap into the air in his eagerness to thrust his horns into our horses. We were scared of that place, scared of the death that seeped into every pore of the ground, and air and abandoned machines and creatures. It was a relief to get into the open air and ride into the flawless land.
Horses are the best therapy I have ever known, while riding Sarah and I would share secrets of our past, ones I am not willing to disclose. We cried together and confided everything with one another, our fears, our passionate hates, our irrational hopes.
We were a miss matched pair. She was popular, gorgeous, and had a boyfriend, who she rode with on occasion. I was an awkward, nerd, who only wistfully looked at the boys I liked and never had the gut to talk to.
Our conversation were not always serious, sometimes we would play. Two high school teenagers suddenly became a fair princess on her shire mare, escaping from a betrothed marriage, and a gypsy outcast or thief ranging the hills on her black gypsy pony. We would meet at the top of a hill, circle each other at a trot, throwing questions and answers at each other about our make believe pasts. It was great fun. She was the romantic and I was the sullen prickly stranger.
I remember the first day Twilight and I cantered together. Sarah and I were coming home through a thicket of trees, following a faint deer path, suddenly Twilight broke into a wild trot charging straight under one of the tree's low hanging branches, she fit under them perfectly, I did not. The branches dug into my back, and I felt the sharp pain of needle sharp wood piercing skin. I pulled Twilight up and sat up from my crouched position. Sarah rode up behind me. "Your bleeding!" she said. I reached my hand to feel my back, and when I looked at my fingers there was a long streak of dark scarlet blood trickling down them. I did not say anything. We'd better go back.
Sarah and I rode Penelope and Twilight at a fast trot back up the hill. Twilight went faster and faster, then suddenly the jarring two beat step changed into a jerky three beat step and then began to smooth out. Penelope jumped up onto the ridge next to us and began to canter as well. We looked over at each other, this moment was surreal, dreamlike in quality, we could not believe what was happening. Once we reached the crest of the hill Twilight returned to her trot as if nothing had happened. Sarah and I high-fived each other and we road back to the barn in high spirits, completely forgetting that I had bloody scratches etched into my back. The day had been perfect.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Riding War
It has been mentioned on several occasions that Twilight and I have a lot in common. This is a wonderful thing, but to much of a good thing can turn out to be a curse.
I am a very stubborn person, so is Twilight. As I grew more confident in riding Twilight I began to ride her bareback for the mountain pasture. I would halter her, walk her over to the side of a hill to give myself and edge, then ungracefully scramble onto her back. The rest of the herd would often stay put or gallop ahead. . .something I was not willing to do on Twilight.
She grew impatient with me, annoyed at my awkward scrambling, and giving me a ride for free. She viewed me as the dictator enjoying a ride on her back through the scenic beauty of the valley and giving her nothing in return.
Horses can not talk, but that does not mean they cannot communicate their intentions. Twilight began to run away from me. If she saw me jauntily waltzing down the hill, she would wait till I got close then break into a run and race up to the barn. I tried sneaking up on the heard, but there was not much to hide behind, (I would not be a successful thief). Twilight would spot me easily and languidly move into a flowing gallop. Laughing at me as a scrambled to try and catch her.
Once when I had managed to catch her she gave a small half buck that broke any hope I had of riding her bare back.
I grabbed a lunge whip and Twilight without her garnishes of a saddle and bridle, just her halter and lead rope. We struggled up the dirt road yanking against each other. I opened the gate to the spaces arena and slipped Twilight's halter off her head, she was completely free. This was a new experience for both of us, I had never free lunged a horse and Twilight had never grasped the idea of pure freedom. Go on! I said and clucked to her, Twilight shivered. This is new. . .what am I supposed to do? I flicked the end of the whip near her back haunches and she leaped forward into a elongated run.
I am a very stubborn person, so is Twilight. As I grew more confident in riding Twilight I began to ride her bareback for the mountain pasture. I would halter her, walk her over to the side of a hill to give myself and edge, then ungracefully scramble onto her back. The rest of the herd would often stay put or gallop ahead. . .something I was not willing to do on Twilight.
She grew impatient with me, annoyed at my awkward scrambling, and giving me a ride for free. She viewed me as the dictator enjoying a ride on her back through the scenic beauty of the valley and giving her nothing in return.
Horses can not talk, but that does not mean they cannot communicate their intentions. Twilight began to run away from me. If she saw me jauntily waltzing down the hill, she would wait till I got close then break into a run and race up to the barn. I tried sneaking up on the heard, but there was not much to hide behind, (I would not be a successful thief). Twilight would spot me easily and languidly move into a flowing gallop. Laughing at me as a scrambled to try and catch her.
Once when I had managed to catch her she gave a small half buck that broke any hope I had of riding her bare back.
The waring did not end there. Twilight would fight me during lessons. She would swing her head back and down, to fight the bit, fortified against any persuasion. She refused to back up, when I put pressure on her mouth she would chomp furiously at the bit, bobbing her head. I had never met a horse before that would not back. Even more disappointing was the fact I could not get Twilight to canter, she would trot faster and faster, like a standard bred trotter and refused to move into the canter. Gretchen tried her hand and making Twilight canter, but was unsuccessful.
Every ride was a hopeless tangle of hateful feelings and rough hands and mouths. Twilight tried to buck me off at the trot and I was so surprised, I just kept riding unsure of what to do. We were a clown show, jogging down the side of the arena constantly trying to gain the upper hand. It was horrible. 
Walking Twilight up to the arena took effort, imagine playing tug-a-war with a boulder, I couldn't win. I had to shuffle up the slope brimming with cylinder shaped apple treats and a long dressage crop whip to try and speed up the prolonged pauses that Twilight took along the way.
One day, I snapped I could not bear on more day of thrashing and fighting against each other. We need a break. I told Twilight, she shifted her head away becoming preoccupied with the granules of grain in the wood. I'm not talking to you.
I grabbed a lunge whip and Twilight without her garnishes of a saddle and bridle, just her halter and lead rope. We struggled up the dirt road yanking against each other. I opened the gate to the spaces arena and slipped Twilight's halter off her head, she was completely free. This was a new experience for both of us, I had never free lunged a horse and Twilight had never grasped the idea of pure freedom. Go on! I said and clucked to her, Twilight shivered. This is new. . .what am I supposed to do? I flicked the end of the whip near her back haunches and she leaped forward into a elongated run. It was breath taking. I had never seen Twilight so alive. She was in her element. Her head was high, and arched, crowned with a deep blue sky. Her mane flared and swirled around her neck, like fire black fire. Power drove her forward into a blur of movement. Hooves vibrating the ground when she fell from the sky and then extended back into it. It was like she was trying to fly. Her tail acted as a rudder, held in the air like a flag. When she slowed to a prancing trot she waved her tail in a sassy manner at me, cocking her aloft head in my general direction. Go on admit it, you did not think I had it in me. To be honest I did not know I could do this, but aren't I pretty? Did you know I could fly? Oh! It was fantastic! Did you know the wind talks to you when you move fast enough? It roared in my ears, and did you see me fly? I was suspended in mid-air. Look! Look! I'm still doing it. I'm so pret-ty, I'm so pret-ty. I'm sooo gorgeous! This adventure we had just shared together was a stepping stone, a turning point. Riding Twilight became a team effort, now we were starting to work together, now we were ready for a trail ride.
The Mountain Pasture
Twilight had now officially reached a healthy weight, thanks to an unlimited amount of alfalfa hay, the buttered food of the horse world, and a pocket full of apple treats from me every time I came to visit her. Her coat was healthy and shined with a red gloss when she was in direct sunlight. She and Mateo had more energy. There was not enough room for a curious mare and her pushy frisky colt in the stall and paddock, so they were moved to the mountain side pasture. This was a monumental changed for them, because now they had to learn to be part of a herd, after two and a half years of seclusion as a pair.
I was excited for both of them, especially Mateo, it would be beneficial for him to interact with other horses. Foals are not raised just by their dame, as they get older, experienced geldings and mares will teach them manners and how to mind their elders.
The pasture herd was made up of Adam, the undisputed leader. He was gentle but firm with the other horses, and was not a tyrant. He would usually let them wander where they pleased till during the day, but when the evening came and he heard the crunch of gravel under car tires,smelt the aroma of bales of hay being tossed, and felt the approaching shadow of dark and cold he would drive the horses up to the shelter of the half shack and keep them there till morning.
Elf, or Elfie was the brains of the group, she was a logical buckskin mare with tiger stripes on all four legs and a dark brown dorsal stripe along her spine. She was a professional western horse, and looked the part with the wide face and sturdy stocky legs. Elfie was always good natured and never caused any trouble, she remains to this day the only horse I have ever meet who enjoys a bath. If I sprayed the hose in their pasture Elfie would walk right under it and rotate herself till each side of her body was soaked through.
Penelope was the princess, the large overbearing princess. When I brought hay to the tire rubber feeders in their pasture, I had to carry a whip with me to flash at the hungry beast to keep her from tipping over the wheel barrow brimming with hay.
Carita was trouble, a wild card. Three years old a teenager in horse years. The red coat bay loved to stir up the herd. She would lag behind the rest and then suddenly break into a wild gallop driving the herd in front of her. She thought it was great fun, and would toss her head and leap over sage brush just for the adrenaline rush.
Mateo of course fell head over hooves for her. Tagging along like the adoring puppy, the more she spurned him and tried to kick at him, the more he followed her. Mateo's crush, was a tragic love story, he was unconditionally devoted to Carita, but she could never be his. Navarre, Mateo's father already had claims on the her. Once Carita turned five, she would become a brood mare, be bred to Navarre, and raise Mateo's half siblings.
Twilight became the overprotective mother, she hated Carita for threatening her son with kicks and bites, and would chase the red mare all over the pasture trying to sink her teeth into Carita's perfect hide. Carita was usually to fast for her. Every now and again Twilight would triumph by craftily cornering Carita against the fence, and thrashing her with her teeth.
The pasture made Twilight protective of Mateo, she would fight any horse in the herd, even if she had no hope of winning. If Penelope was to close to Mateo, Twilight would charge in between them, taking monstrous kicks and nips from Penelope in the attempt save her boy from some unknown danger. As the months went by she settled down into the incredibly watchful mother. She and Adam formed a partnership, a mutual agreement to take care of Mateo. Adam became a wonderful father figure, and would never harm Mateo. On countless occasions I would see Mateo, Twilight, and Adam, eating hay out of the same tire trough.
I started lounging in the mountain pasture when ever I had down time at the stable. Curl up in the belly of a tire trough and laugh as Twilight and Mateo would peak in at me and tickle my face and stomach with their inquisitive bewhiskered muzzles.
When I was alone at Bishops I was prohibited from riding Twilight, and I was alone quite often. On those days I would wander the slopes with the mountain pasture herd, staying close to Adam or Twilight and always watching Carita for signs of a stamped. Only once did I feel the terrifying thrill of six horse racing full speed past me, within touching distance of my hands. Becoming a two legged member of the herd is an experience I will never forget. I learned that horses make trails that they follow to get places, their movements are not scattered but very precise. Adam had three different grazing patches, one on the step crown of the mountain, a last resort he went to if the other two places were grazed to the bone. A ridge that was parallel to the barn, he took the mares and Mateo there when the weather seemed untrustworthy. And when the weather was sunny and the grass was long and fresh he would take them to the outskirts of the pasture to a wide sloping valley.
I remember the day that I knew I was a part of the herd. I had gone into the pasture to find Twilight for some one on one time, just a nice day of brushing and handling, an attempt to make her accustomed to the strokes of human hands. The parallel ridge was vacant, and so was the sloping valley. My eyes searched the mountain side, following the thread thin trails the horses used. The herd was on the mountain peak, grazing comfortable next to a steep drop that would leave them a broken screaming heap at the bottom. Determined I scurried up the incline, a treacherous path for a gangly, un-graceful teen. Once I reached the top I was meet with a surprised herd, Carita snorted at me, you scarred me, idiot.she seemed to say. Twilight literally rolled her eyes at me, Can't I eat in peace for twenty minutes? Without you or Mateo bothering me?! I tapped her lightly on the nose and slipped her halter around her head. As I lead her along the minuscule path towards the barn, I heard the familiar half muted rumble of racing hooves, a moment later the whole herd rushed to meet us, but instead of rushing past us in a chaotic run, they slowed down and took there places, walking with Twilight and I up to the barn, and staying there till we returned 30 minutes later. Now they were unwilling to go anywhere. Slouched next to the fence, and dozing under the half shelter, sagging against each other.
Mateo and I were restless, we wanted to go. I raced up the side of the hill, just to stretch my legs, and to my surprised Mateo followed. He shoved me with his nose and I leaped down again, sliding through the sand. Mateo squealed, and leaped down after me. Bucking and rearing with delight. We ran around, together like two sibling colts instead of a human and a horse. I had to be careful not to be struck by his wild legs, and chided him several times, he would crinkle his muzzle at me, showing his teeth and then we would bound away down the slope. We leaped wide bristling sage brush, and whirled around the small crooked trees that grew along the valley. Farther and farther we went, dancing around each other, till we reached the bottom of the hill.
Suddenly a lone thunder of hooves reached our ears, and we both looked up in unison to see a furious Adam bearing down on us. He scolded us, with a throaty neigh. Snaked his head back and forth at us with his round ears flat against his skull. Shaming two foolish youngsters for wandering so far away from the safety of the herd. He pushed Mateo with his head, and then circled back to get me. I was shocked, by how brutishly he treated me, giving me a heart shove in the back. He walked behind Mateo and I all the way back to the shelter, the two friends in shame.
But I was happy, bubbling over inside Adam and Mateo had not treated me as a rider, or even as a human, for one day I became a horse.
I was excited for both of them, especially Mateo, it would be beneficial for him to interact with other horses. Foals are not raised just by their dame, as they get older, experienced geldings and mares will teach them manners and how to mind their elders.
The pasture herd was made up of Adam, the undisputed leader. He was gentle but firm with the other horses, and was not a tyrant. He would usually let them wander where they pleased till during the day, but when the evening came and he heard the crunch of gravel under car tires,smelt the aroma of bales of hay being tossed, and felt the approaching shadow of dark and cold he would drive the horses up to the shelter of the half shack and keep them there till morning.
Elf, or Elfie was the brains of the group, she was a logical buckskin mare with tiger stripes on all four legs and a dark brown dorsal stripe along her spine. She was a professional western horse, and looked the part with the wide face and sturdy stocky legs. Elfie was always good natured and never caused any trouble, she remains to this day the only horse I have ever meet who enjoys a bath. If I sprayed the hose in their pasture Elfie would walk right under it and rotate herself till each side of her body was soaked through.
Penelope was the princess, the large overbearing princess. When I brought hay to the tire rubber feeders in their pasture, I had to carry a whip with me to flash at the hungry beast to keep her from tipping over the wheel barrow brimming with hay.
Carita was trouble, a wild card. Three years old a teenager in horse years. The red coat bay loved to stir up the herd. She would lag behind the rest and then suddenly break into a wild gallop driving the herd in front of her. She thought it was great fun, and would toss her head and leap over sage brush just for the adrenaline rush.
Mateo of course fell head over hooves for her. Tagging along like the adoring puppy, the more she spurned him and tried to kick at him, the more he followed her. Mateo's crush, was a tragic love story, he was unconditionally devoted to Carita, but she could never be his. Navarre, Mateo's father already had claims on the her. Once Carita turned five, she would become a brood mare, be bred to Navarre, and raise Mateo's half siblings.
Twilight became the overprotective mother, she hated Carita for threatening her son with kicks and bites, and would chase the red mare all over the pasture trying to sink her teeth into Carita's perfect hide. Carita was usually to fast for her. Every now and again Twilight would triumph by craftily cornering Carita against the fence, and thrashing her with her teeth.
The pasture made Twilight protective of Mateo, she would fight any horse in the herd, even if she had no hope of winning. If Penelope was to close to Mateo, Twilight would charge in between them, taking monstrous kicks and nips from Penelope in the attempt save her boy from some unknown danger. As the months went by she settled down into the incredibly watchful mother. She and Adam formed a partnership, a mutual agreement to take care of Mateo. Adam became a wonderful father figure, and would never harm Mateo. On countless occasions I would see Mateo, Twilight, and Adam, eating hay out of the same tire trough.
I started lounging in the mountain pasture when ever I had down time at the stable. Curl up in the belly of a tire trough and laugh as Twilight and Mateo would peak in at me and tickle my face and stomach with their inquisitive bewhiskered muzzles.
When I was alone at Bishops I was prohibited from riding Twilight, and I was alone quite often. On those days I would wander the slopes with the mountain pasture herd, staying close to Adam or Twilight and always watching Carita for signs of a stamped. Only once did I feel the terrifying thrill of six horse racing full speed past me, within touching distance of my hands. Becoming a two legged member of the herd is an experience I will never forget. I learned that horses make trails that they follow to get places, their movements are not scattered but very precise. Adam had three different grazing patches, one on the step crown of the mountain, a last resort he went to if the other two places were grazed to the bone. A ridge that was parallel to the barn, he took the mares and Mateo there when the weather seemed untrustworthy. And when the weather was sunny and the grass was long and fresh he would take them to the outskirts of the pasture to a wide sloping valley.
I remember the day that I knew I was a part of the herd. I had gone into the pasture to find Twilight for some one on one time, just a nice day of brushing and handling, an attempt to make her accustomed to the strokes of human hands. The parallel ridge was vacant, and so was the sloping valley. My eyes searched the mountain side, following the thread thin trails the horses used. The herd was on the mountain peak, grazing comfortable next to a steep drop that would leave them a broken screaming heap at the bottom. Determined I scurried up the incline, a treacherous path for a gangly, un-graceful teen. Once I reached the top I was meet with a surprised herd, Carita snorted at me, you scarred me, idiot.she seemed to say. Twilight literally rolled her eyes at me, Can't I eat in peace for twenty minutes? Without you or Mateo bothering me?! I tapped her lightly on the nose and slipped her halter around her head. As I lead her along the minuscule path towards the barn, I heard the familiar half muted rumble of racing hooves, a moment later the whole herd rushed to meet us, but instead of rushing past us in a chaotic run, they slowed down and took there places, walking with Twilight and I up to the barn, and staying there till we returned 30 minutes later. Now they were unwilling to go anywhere. Slouched next to the fence, and dozing under the half shelter, sagging against each other.
Mateo and I were restless, we wanted to go. I raced up the side of the hill, just to stretch my legs, and to my surprised Mateo followed. He shoved me with his nose and I leaped down again, sliding through the sand. Mateo squealed, and leaped down after me. Bucking and rearing with delight. We ran around, together like two sibling colts instead of a human and a horse. I had to be careful not to be struck by his wild legs, and chided him several times, he would crinkle his muzzle at me, showing his teeth and then we would bound away down the slope. We leaped wide bristling sage brush, and whirled around the small crooked trees that grew along the valley. Farther and farther we went, dancing around each other, till we reached the bottom of the hill.
Suddenly a lone thunder of hooves reached our ears, and we both looked up in unison to see a furious Adam bearing down on us. He scolded us, with a throaty neigh. Snaked his head back and forth at us with his round ears flat against his skull. Shaming two foolish youngsters for wandering so far away from the safety of the herd. He pushed Mateo with his head, and then circled back to get me. I was shocked, by how brutishly he treated me, giving me a heart shove in the back. He walked behind Mateo and I all the way back to the shelter, the two friends in shame.
But I was happy, bubbling over inside Adam and Mateo had not treated me as a rider, or even as a human, for one day I became a horse.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Twilight Rolling
A series of pictures involving Twilight's favorite past time. . .getting down and dirty A.K.A rolling.
A New Name
Tylo and I were now partners, whether we wanted it or not. I was thoroughly enjoying having a one girl horse, I was the only one who rode her, brushed her, now that I look back it was obvious that Gretchen had planned on me owning her from the beginning. For some reason however, it never struck me that my relationship with Tylo was anything more than care taker and rider, not even once did I realize that I was acting as a foster owner. The horse was not mine, but at the same time she was. I at least was oblivious to the situation.
When Gretchen and Risa approached me about giving a new name to Tylo who we had been calling "Mama," or "The Mare," for two months, it did not dawn on me that naming a horse was something only owners do. I just gave them a huge ear to ear grin and set to work.
Renaming Tylo was a challenge, there were no restrictions. Mateo's name needed to be short with Spanish heritage to honor his Andalusian father. Tylo had no heritage in her breeding, she was grade, a mix of Shire, Thoroughbred, and Saddlebred in varying degrees. I asked Gretchen what "The Mare" had been called in the past. Gretchen rattled off a short list of names, "Lady, Lady Godiva, and Tylo."
Renaming her Lady Godiva was a possibility, the name as a whole was a rich creamy chocolate mouthful, but it was to extravagant . I thought about shortening it to Godiva, or Lady, but Tylo did not act like a Queen or a Lady. She was lazy at best with moments of unbreakable stubbornness.
Her age was something to consider as well, Tylo was 8 years old and a completely new unfamiliar name would be hard to comprehend. I wanted "The Mare" to learn her new name as quickly as possible, if I gave her a name that sounded nothing like her old one, it would take time, a long time before she understood that it was hers.
Keeping Tylo as Tylo was not an option. The name was not "pretty" on my tongue. It sounded like a cacophony a horrible combination of Tie as in a knot and low as in as close to the ground as possible.
To solve the problem, I took the consonants and the Y out of her name. I had a T, a Y that acted as and I, and a L.
This was my thought process:
Tilly? No that name was almost as bad as Tylo and I had a friend with a pet Cocktail named Tilly.
T,Y=I,L, TIL, LIT. . .lite. . .light. . .Twinkle twinkle little star. . .Starlight? No The Mare is not white, she is a black bay. Twinkle twinkle little star. . .Twinkle. . .Tw. . .Two. . .Twi. . .light. Twilight! It fit like a glove, the mare acted like she was in her Twilight years of life, and she had a dark coat with flecks of white speckled across her back and haunches, just like stars in the sky at night.
Naming accomplished, I renamed the nameless mare Twilight. And then the vampire crazy hit. . .Oops.
Names, are powerful things, they bring people closer together. Parents spend time thinking, listing, pondering over names for their babies, and when the name is given it becomes a bond. It is a connection between two creatures. Naming another being, a horse on my own soaked me will love and pride, and drowned me in affection for Twilight.
When Gretchen and Risa approached me about giving a new name to Tylo who we had been calling "Mama," or "The Mare," for two months, it did not dawn on me that naming a horse was something only owners do. I just gave them a huge ear to ear grin and set to work.
Renaming Tylo was a challenge, there were no restrictions. Mateo's name needed to be short with Spanish heritage to honor his Andalusian father. Tylo had no heritage in her breeding, she was grade, a mix of Shire, Thoroughbred, and Saddlebred in varying degrees. I asked Gretchen what "The Mare" had been called in the past. Gretchen rattled off a short list of names, "Lady, Lady Godiva, and Tylo."
Renaming her Lady Godiva was a possibility, the name as a whole was a rich creamy chocolate mouthful, but it was to extravagant . I thought about shortening it to Godiva, or Lady, but Tylo did not act like a Queen or a Lady. She was lazy at best with moments of unbreakable stubbornness.
Her age was something to consider as well, Tylo was 8 years old and a completely new unfamiliar name would be hard to comprehend. I wanted "The Mare" to learn her new name as quickly as possible, if I gave her a name that sounded nothing like her old one, it would take time, a long time before she understood that it was hers.
Keeping Tylo as Tylo was not an option. The name was not "pretty" on my tongue. It sounded like a cacophony a horrible combination of Tie as in a knot and low as in as close to the ground as possible.
To solve the problem, I took the consonants and the Y out of her name. I had a T, a Y that acted as and I, and a L.
This was my thought process:
Tilly? No that name was almost as bad as Tylo and I had a friend with a pet Cocktail named Tilly.
T,Y=I,L, TIL, LIT. . .lite. . .light. . .Twinkle twinkle little star. . .Starlight? No The Mare is not white, she is a black bay. Twinkle twinkle little star. . .Twinkle. . .Tw. . .Two. . .Twi. . .light. Twilight! It fit like a glove, the mare acted like she was in her Twilight years of life, and she had a dark coat with flecks of white speckled across her back and haunches, just like stars in the sky at night.
Naming accomplished, I renamed the nameless mare Twilight. And then the vampire crazy hit. . .Oops.
Names, are powerful things, they bring people closer together. Parents spend time thinking, listing, pondering over names for their babies, and when the name is given it becomes a bond. It is a connection between two creatures. Naming another being, a horse on my own soaked me will love and pride, and drowned me in affection for Twilight.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Dear Readers
I am writing to you my dear readers to thank you for your support. I have been following the stats in my blog like an obsessive stalker and am thrilled to see the results. However, I am writing to plead with you to stay with me for the next week or so, even though there will be no posts. My blog has been invaded by spammers, *spits on spammer's shoe* and I hate to see my writing meddled with, so I will not be continuing till there website graphite has been removed. Please be patient with me and curse the spammers when you get a chance.
May they always be caught at red lights, find their left shoelace untied, and may old ladies smack them in the head with there hard brittle canes and walkers.
May they always be caught at red lights, find their left shoelace untied, and may old ladies smack them in the head with there hard brittle canes and walkers.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Pictures of Me Riding Twilight
These are not pictures from our first ride together, these were taken near September, when we had graduated from the round pen to the big arena.
The First Ride
Tylo and I walked slowly up the dirt road that lead to the arena above, a long ellipse shaped space surrounded by an electric fence and filled with a thick layer of tan sand, and a round pen down to the far end of the arena. It had a great view, on the top of its own plateau. To the east was Bishops grey house a lone fortress on a hill of perfectly manicured lawn. I never personally met the man, all I knew was his was incredibly wealthy and extremely sad. He personally had no interest in horses, his ex-wife did. He had built the arena, the spacious barn and paddocks all for her carving out the hills next to his house to suit her purpose. The marriage had not lasted, she had left him taking her horses with her, leaving him in a large empty house with a shrill chattering Cockatoo.
The house must of caused him pain, because he was trying to sell it. Personally I hoped it never would because if Bishop moved then Gretchen would have to relocate as well, she even admitted that she was to the dregs of her horse stable resources.
To the west was the city of Boise which stretched across the horizon, a sea of deep green tress with pools of light emerald and small specks of fall oranges and reds, in the center the skyscrapers stood tall and barren, like square blocks of sand stone, to the north west were the mountains rolling like waves, growing higher and more blue the farther away they stretched.
Of course in order to see this diverse view I had to get Tylo and myself to the top of the dirt road. It was not easy, Tylo did not like traveling away from the herd of horses she had grown so familiar with, especial with Mateo pacing along the green metal fence at a gallop in their paddock whinnying shrilly to her. She would stop ever few steps and refuse to move, I would coax her gently tugging the reins and reprimanding her for not trusting me. I would walk back to her give her a reassuring pat on her shoulder then tap her with the flat of my hand to encourage her to move. Progress was slow, but eventually we made it to the top, the sound of her hooves changing from the gravely crackle to the hollow echoing of cement. I lead her into the arena and down the middle to the round pen holding the reins loosely in my hand so she could keep her head up and swivel her ears and face to investigate the new space.
We walked into the round pen, Gretchen told me to walker her around the enclosed space and let her become accustomed to it. Circling and changing direction till she relaxed. I stopped her near the fence and let her sniff the sun flowers surrounding the pen, their stems were so long that their flower head bent and bowed over into the round pen. I knew Adam was very fond of sunflowers, he loved to snack on them during our riding lessons. Tylo was not interested. Gretchen told me we were ready to ride after a few minutes. She brought in the mounting block and told me to test her reaction to being directed by the reins. From the ground I gently pulled the reins left and right, Tylo let her head follow the reins, but her eyes were on me. Slowly, deliberately I leaned into her side and raised my leg into the stirrup, Tylo turned her head to watch curious. Then I swung up and settled into the saddle.
The seconds between lasted ages, waiting for a reaction. But Tylo just sat there, I gently tapped her with my legs and clucked and she moved on at a slow walk. The methods we went through were very mundane, circles and moving in a straight line across the circle, and finally a quick posting trot. It was wonderfully uneventful, she responded quickly to my requests, by the end we were both fairly exhausted. Tylo and I made a wonderful pair, two sweaty girls, lanky and curious about everything.
I took off her amber English leather saddle, and removed her bridle. I was incredibly surprised when as I turned to drape her bridle over the fence, she rubbed her head up my back. This was the first time she had made physical contact with me of her own choice. I wheeled around in surprise, and Tylo did not move away, instead she rubbed her sweaty face against my torso, knocking me back a few steps. I reached out my hands and gently scratched her face, she leaned into it bobbing her head, yes, that feels wonderful keep scratching.
I looked at Gretchen as she and I marveled at the sudden change. I've never seen a horse act that way, she said. As it turned out Tylo just wanted to get back down to the barn and was trying to encourage me to put the bridle back on so we could go. Regardless Tylo had proven herself to be intelligent, but she still lacked the spark of a character I wanted to see.
The house must of caused him pain, because he was trying to sell it. Personally I hoped it never would because if Bishop moved then Gretchen would have to relocate as well, she even admitted that she was to the dregs of her horse stable resources.
To the west was the city of Boise which stretched across the horizon, a sea of deep green tress with pools of light emerald and small specks of fall oranges and reds, in the center the skyscrapers stood tall and barren, like square blocks of sand stone, to the north west were the mountains rolling like waves, growing higher and more blue the farther away they stretched.
Of course in order to see this diverse view I had to get Tylo and myself to the top of the dirt road. It was not easy, Tylo did not like traveling away from the herd of horses she had grown so familiar with, especial with Mateo pacing along the green metal fence at a gallop in their paddock whinnying shrilly to her. She would stop ever few steps and refuse to move, I would coax her gently tugging the reins and reprimanding her for not trusting me. I would walk back to her give her a reassuring pat on her shoulder then tap her with the flat of my hand to encourage her to move. Progress was slow, but eventually we made it to the top, the sound of her hooves changing from the gravely crackle to the hollow echoing of cement. I lead her into the arena and down the middle to the round pen holding the reins loosely in my hand so she could keep her head up and swivel her ears and face to investigate the new space.
We walked into the round pen, Gretchen told me to walker her around the enclosed space and let her become accustomed to it. Circling and changing direction till she relaxed. I stopped her near the fence and let her sniff the sun flowers surrounding the pen, their stems were so long that their flower head bent and bowed over into the round pen. I knew Adam was very fond of sunflowers, he loved to snack on them during our riding lessons. Tylo was not interested. Gretchen told me we were ready to ride after a few minutes. She brought in the mounting block and told me to test her reaction to being directed by the reins. From the ground I gently pulled the reins left and right, Tylo let her head follow the reins, but her eyes were on me. Slowly, deliberately I leaned into her side and raised my leg into the stirrup, Tylo turned her head to watch curious. Then I swung up and settled into the saddle.
The seconds between lasted ages, waiting for a reaction. But Tylo just sat there, I gently tapped her with my legs and clucked and she moved on at a slow walk. The methods we went through were very mundane, circles and moving in a straight line across the circle, and finally a quick posting trot. It was wonderfully uneventful, she responded quickly to my requests, by the end we were both fairly exhausted. Tylo and I made a wonderful pair, two sweaty girls, lanky and curious about everything.
I took off her amber English leather saddle, and removed her bridle. I was incredibly surprised when as I turned to drape her bridle over the fence, she rubbed her head up my back. This was the first time she had made physical contact with me of her own choice. I wheeled around in surprise, and Tylo did not move away, instead she rubbed her sweaty face against my torso, knocking me back a few steps. I reached out my hands and gently scratched her face, she leaned into it bobbing her head, yes, that feels wonderful keep scratching.
I looked at Gretchen as she and I marveled at the sudden change. I've never seen a horse act that way, she said. As it turned out Tylo just wanted to get back down to the barn and was trying to encourage me to put the bridle back on so we could go. Regardless Tylo had proven herself to be intelligent, but she still lacked the spark of a character I wanted to see.
Preparation
The week had been cold, blistering winds had made riding unthinkable as Autumn swept down from the mountains and settled on Bishop's hill side, but today the wind was still, and the sun had selfishly claimed the entire sky for himself. It was a hot day, a surprise in the middle of August.
I came down to the barn as usual, prepared to spend the day wistfully brushing Tylo and skirting around Mateo but Gretchen had other plans.
"I think The Mare is ready for a ride." she said suddenly and with a smug grin under her life is good cap. I looked up at her unable to keep my mouth from spreading into a huge smile, Really? I squeaked, my voice rising to a childlike octave in excitement.
I raced out and grabbed Tylo, spending about 5 minutes trying to get her into the stall while blocking Mateo from coming in with her. He squealed at me in protest as I countered his every move to try and shove into the small cozy space with us. Once I had firmly shut and latched the door, he stared in at Tylo and myself like a mistreated prisoner, glaring from under his lashes through the metal bars, his nose and body hidden by the wall of wood of the door, drawing attention to his small stature. Tylo shifted nervously from side to side, knowing something different was about to happen, something that had my energy flowing like electricity in the space.
Everything had to be done slowly, I did not want to scare the mare. Gretchen still was not sure of how familiar Tylo was with a saddle and rider. First was the saddle blanket, one of our heavier English blankets, used in the winter time for warmth, but in this case, it was for comfortable padding on Tylo angular back. She sniffed it with slight interest, almost like a queen inspecting her clothing. Her eyes seemed to say, this is it? I do know what a blanket is you silly girl. Why are you walking so gingerly with it? I know it doesn't bite you should to. She seemed to reprimand me for acting the way I did. Tylo did not mind the foam pad either, she barely glanced at it as I slowly walked into her stall with it held out in front of my body. You are very smart, pretty girl. I told her.
The saddle was different, she snorted when I brought it to her side, billowing her nostrils then intently examining it. I let her run her whiskers over the leather seat, the pommel, and even flipped it over so she could run her muzzle along the tree that would rest upon her back. Finally I raised it up and gently settled it on her back. She stood perfectly still, muscles neither relaxed nor trembling with tension. Finally we both released our breath in loud sighs. The greatest challenge was finding a girth that was small enough to go around her stomach. If I remember correctly I think it took seven different girths before Gretchen and I finally found one that would suffice.
The bridle and bit were easy, after she observed the tangled mass of leather in my hands she let my toss the reins over her head and slip the bridle on over her ears, making me rise on tip-toes to reach her aloft head. She mouthed at the soft plastic bit for a while rolling her tongue under it to investigate the taste and feel of a odd slightly foreign object in her mouth. We were ready to go after a good month of waiting and 50 minutes of preparation Tylo and I were ready to ride.
I came down to the barn as usual, prepared to spend the day wistfully brushing Tylo and skirting around Mateo but Gretchen had other plans.
"I think The Mare is ready for a ride." she said suddenly and with a smug grin under her life is good cap. I looked up at her unable to keep my mouth from spreading into a huge smile, Really? I squeaked, my voice rising to a childlike octave in excitement.
I raced out and grabbed Tylo, spending about 5 minutes trying to get her into the stall while blocking Mateo from coming in with her. He squealed at me in protest as I countered his every move to try and shove into the small cozy space with us. Once I had firmly shut and latched the door, he stared in at Tylo and myself like a mistreated prisoner, glaring from under his lashes through the metal bars, his nose and body hidden by the wall of wood of the door, drawing attention to his small stature. Tylo shifted nervously from side to side, knowing something different was about to happen, something that had my energy flowing like electricity in the space.
Everything had to be done slowly, I did not want to scare the mare. Gretchen still was not sure of how familiar Tylo was with a saddle and rider. First was the saddle blanket, one of our heavier English blankets, used in the winter time for warmth, but in this case, it was for comfortable padding on Tylo angular back. She sniffed it with slight interest, almost like a queen inspecting her clothing. Her eyes seemed to say, this is it? I do know what a blanket is you silly girl. Why are you walking so gingerly with it? I know it doesn't bite you should to. She seemed to reprimand me for acting the way I did. Tylo did not mind the foam pad either, she barely glanced at it as I slowly walked into her stall with it held out in front of my body. You are very smart, pretty girl. I told her.
The saddle was different, she snorted when I brought it to her side, billowing her nostrils then intently examining it. I let her run her whiskers over the leather seat, the pommel, and even flipped it over so she could run her muzzle along the tree that would rest upon her back. Finally I raised it up and gently settled it on her back. She stood perfectly still, muscles neither relaxed nor trembling with tension. Finally we both released our breath in loud sighs. The greatest challenge was finding a girth that was small enough to go around her stomach. If I remember correctly I think it took seven different girths before Gretchen and I finally found one that would suffice.
The bridle and bit were easy, after she observed the tangled mass of leather in my hands she let my toss the reins over her head and slip the bridle on over her ears, making me rise on tip-toes to reach her aloft head. She mouthed at the soft plastic bit for a while rolling her tongue under it to investigate the taste and feel of a odd slightly foreign object in her mouth. We were ready to go after a good month of waiting and 50 minutes of preparation Tylo and I were ready to ride.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Patients
I'm always amused by the similarities between me and Twilight, how much we have gone through together. Once I reached a healthy weight it was now my turn to be the stressed, patient parent and wait for Tylo to gain enough weight to comfortably carry a saddle. . .and rider. Gretchen assured me that I would be the very first to ride her, to test her unknown talent. We did not know if she had ever been ridden with a commanding rider on her back. The man Gretchen took Tylo from claimed his children had ridden on her back before, but Gretchen and myself both speculated as to what that meant. Just sitting on a horses back and actually riding one are two completely different areas. Regardless I was ecstatic and could not contain my inpatients as to when Tylo would be ready to ride.
I was given a double sided mirror from this experience, I had lived through the torture of gaining weight and now I watched anxiously from the other side. Every day I came to the barn and asked has Tylo gained enough weight yet? Can I ride? Like a constantly whining child asking how far away Christmas is I repeated the question day after day.
I was given a double sided mirror from this experience, I had lived through the torture of gaining weight and now I watched anxiously from the other side. Every day I came to the barn and asked has Tylo gained enough weight yet? Can I ride? Like a constantly whining child asking how far away Christmas is I repeated the question day after day.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Mateo and Twilight in the Snow
Here is the only other photo I have of Mateo, I took both photos on the same day.
It was snowing, ( in the picture this was a moment before the snow started to fall, the photo of Twilight was taken about three minutes after the picture of Mateo) and with the snow came that spectacular silence that makes one feel like they are the only person on the earth.
It was snowing, ( in the picture this was a moment before the snow started to fall, the photo of Twilight was taken about three minutes after the picture of Mateo) and with the snow came that spectacular silence that makes one feel like they are the only person on the earth. The flakes were thick and shapeless, and blew across the landscape in a chaotic swirl, which gave them a life of their own like fairies almost. This was the first snow Mateo and Twilight had experienced at Bishops. The clouds looked painted in the sky an unmoving canvas of grey with lines of black, the shadows caught between the clouds. The sage brush transformed from the grey ragged bush to a carefully trimmed and sculpted art, with tiny delicate blue leaves arching away from a dark mahogany trunk. The only beings that moved were the horses. Adam carefully moving his charges, Elfie, Carita, Twilight, and Mateo into the shelter of the crocked open shed, which appeared more like the rib cage of some great beast now and forever gone from the earth. Broken branches that sparsely littered the ground down the mountain side were suddenly bleached bones, a remembrance to the sacred silence that came with snow as a blessing and a curse. It was beautiful but with the slightest change of the wind it could turn deadly. Even the horse stood completely still for a time watching the snow fall to the ground, stirring ancient instinct to find shelter and warmth. Snow is a spell to them they react without thought, they just feel. They feel the need for shelter feel the caress of snow catching in their manes and alighting on their backs. Instinct tells them that this softness that touches them with the lightness of a feather can quickly change to the harshness of a dagger freezing them and bleeding them dry of warmth. In this moment however the snow is calm and the horses stray only a few feet away from welcoming shelter to feel it and watch it change the landscape, cleanse it into a white land clean of all prints, smells, and marks that would have made it familiar. As far as the horses are concerned this land that they have grazed on, wandered on and raced upon is foreign now a new world that must be meticulously inspected inch by inch to become familiar once more. I of course feel nothing of this, I just see the potential, the beauty of the snow piling on the ground, a new slippery adventure that will make my noise run and turn my hands red, soak my jeans till they cling to me like my own skin.
Mateo and Twilight
I just stumbled upon a real treasure. I have found a photo of Mateo and Twilight, it is one of only two photos I have of Mateo. I took the pictures with an old phone that was unfortunately murdered by my washing machine. . .on its memory were countless videos, pictures, and notes about my earlier experiences with Twilight and Mateo, which have now been lost to the suds and murky depths of the washer much like many of the treasures from the Titanic were lost to the ocean. I did not think I had saved the photos anywhere else. Somehow two photos survived, I don't know why I saved these two on my computer and only these but, I am glad I did. I love finally having a solid memory, a real picture, since the memories of the mind are biased and illusive, and memories in ink and words can only convey so much.
Tightrope
For months it felt like I was standing on a tightrope dangling above a city, if I even made the slights movement in the wrong direction, I would topple of the thin wire and crash onto the hard asphalt below. Every appointment with the pediatrician was a panic attack, would the scale tip in my favor? Or had I lost weight. And if I was lucky enough to gain, how could I prevent myself from losing it again? I was frustrated, I was just below my needed weight 110 lbs. but I just could not reach it! I begged and begged for leniency but never got it. I can't recall what my diet was like, what I did and didn't eat but finally, one day I went the the pediatric office, and I weighed in a 111.
The very next day I had my mom take me up to see the horses I had missed so much. I felt like a child going out for ice cream, squealing every few seconds for absolutely no reason at all, and jabbering away about how much I had missed them, wondering if Mateo had grown, how Tylo was doing.
We pulled into Bishops and I flew into the barn startling the horses. Very little had changed, if anything I could see nothing different but it still felt strange to be back. I had fallen out of the motion of horse life, a coat of unfamiliar strangeness was on everything that used to be as easy as breathing.
Tylo and Mateo did not recognize me, and did not come towards me when I called to them. I was impressed by their improvement. Mateo was filling out into a very healthy muscular build, his spindly legs were still a little to long, but they had become stronger than before, the angular bones had filled in with muscles and fat. Tylo was starting to fill out, her back was still swayed, her shoulder's met in a peak above the rest of her sunken back and sloped up again to where her spine connected to her sharp withers. She still looked twenty instead of nine but there was improvement. A dim light was present in the dusty tired mare, she raised her head when I approached and awkwardly danced away. She was still a ghost but a faint glimpse of horse was beginning to show through.
I went and grabbed a halter and lead rope and took both Tylo and Mateo into the small wooden stall. We crowded together, Mateo still pushy and demanding and Tylo still shifting away when I tried to pick her hooves clean but it was nice to be embraced by the smell of horses again and to feel their warm bodies moving under my hands and bumping into my torso. I had made it across the tightrope, and back into the bliss of horses that I had missed so much.
The very next day I had my mom take me up to see the horses I had missed so much. I felt like a child going out for ice cream, squealing every few seconds for absolutely no reason at all, and jabbering away about how much I had missed them, wondering if Mateo had grown, how Tylo was doing.
We pulled into Bishops and I flew into the barn startling the horses. Very little had changed, if anything I could see nothing different but it still felt strange to be back. I had fallen out of the motion of horse life, a coat of unfamiliar strangeness was on everything that used to be as easy as breathing.
Tylo and Mateo did not recognize me, and did not come towards me when I called to them. I was impressed by their improvement. Mateo was filling out into a very healthy muscular build, his spindly legs were still a little to long, but they had become stronger than before, the angular bones had filled in with muscles and fat. Tylo was starting to fill out, her back was still swayed, her shoulder's met in a peak above the rest of her sunken back and sloped up again to where her spine connected to her sharp withers. She still looked twenty instead of nine but there was improvement. A dim light was present in the dusty tired mare, she raised her head when I approached and awkwardly danced away. She was still a ghost but a faint glimpse of horse was beginning to show through.
I went and grabbed a halter and lead rope and took both Tylo and Mateo into the small wooden stall. We crowded together, Mateo still pushy and demanding and Tylo still shifting away when I tried to pick her hooves clean but it was nice to be embraced by the smell of horses again and to feel their warm bodies moving under my hands and bumping into my torso. I had made it across the tightrope, and back into the bliss of horses that I had missed so much.
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Fall
In every good story there is a point of absolute failure, when things go from the worst possible situation into sheer chaos. I just did not realize that stories are based from reality.
I was no longer cooped up in a mental institution but that did not mean that I was healed or perfectly happy. If anything I regressed when I came out of UNI like a goldfish that has gone into shock after realizing that a little fish bowl can suddenly change and become a large tank. I was still very unhappy and my weight kept dropping. My mother drew the line, "until you reach 110 lbs." she said, "you cannot go horse back riding or even work with horses it's too dangerous." I screamed at her till my voice was harsh like gravel. She couldn't take it away from me, my one solitude since I had gotten home. Horses I could feel safe and normal around horses but now that refugee had been wrenched away from me.
I became feral and a wanderer. Biking around down town Boise looking for a way to pass the time, something to take away the burning with drawls of want, the craving for Bishops, the mountain view, the sound of horse hooves cupping the gravel and dirt, even the bitter tang of fresh manure would have been better than this rabid circling of the town that did not hold much for me.
I would go to the store Win co and look in the yellow pages for book stores around town, browsing from one to another listlessly and bored out of my mind. I started testing my memory for places I had been and a thought came to my mind, Gretchen's house. Technically she was renting the basement but, it was still a home, I knew where she lived.
If I could not have horses I would get the next best thing, a woman who loved them as much as I did, maybe even more. I biked down to through the boulevard neighborhood's searching for familiar streets and houses, listening for the familiar deep throaty bwoof of Derek. I was very lucky to have biked past her house just as she was pulling up in her car. I jumped off my bike suddenly awkward, I had just barged in unannounced. "I brought you some flowers. . ." I said uncomfortably, and held out the white lilies I had picked up for her. Gretchen smiled at me putting me at easy, and invited me in.
She told me the lilies were beautiful and that they were one of her favorite flowers. I think she may had added something about them reminding her of her mother. We talked for a while, edging around the topic of horses.
My eyes took in her house, I loved it. It was a cozy collection of true western furniture and art. Stuffed animals were everywhere, beautiful carvings and works of Native Americans, feathers, clay pots, antlers of deer, thick woven carpets, old brass handled trunks, pictures of horses, comfortable chairs of cracked leather all covered in a fine layer of dust. It was a masterpiece of a home, as if Gretchen had opened up her soul and let the contense materialize and build itself into the room I saw before me.
We talked about her work for a while, she was a veterinarian tech. assistant so she always had interesting animal stories.
Suddenly she looked me in the eyes and asked why I was not coming up to the horse. I mumbled on about my mom and the fact I needed to gain weight, and how hard it was to be away from horses because they made me feel happier than any amount of Zoloft or any other type of antidepressants medication ever would, and at some point started crying. Gretchen sat silently while fat tears rolled down my face. After I had calmed down she explained how much she cared about me and how she had gone through a similar problems in the past. She had grappled with depression before, and she was familiar with eating disorders in the past she had been a model and had constantly watched her weight and what she ate to the point of obsession. Gretchen's emotions became obvious in her voice but, she was strong and held the tears back. Afterwards she said she was going to make us lunch, so we had thick peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with layers of crunchy peanut butter and thick globes of dark grape jelly topped off with a glass of milk and a banana on the side. We moved on to lighter topics of conversation and had a great time. I felt like I had a family member in Boise for the first time, outside of my family unit, Gretchen was now like a grandmother to me and a best friend.Gretchen told me I needed to eat meals like this all the time to put weight back on my frail frame, and to stop biking around so much, and to stay home get lazy and read books all day. I stubbornly said I would go stir crazy if I stayed at home for that long. She then offered to call my mom and ask if just for today we could go up and just look at the horses. My heart leaped up my throat, so we called and asked but my mom was unrelenting. I could not go see the horses in my condition.
My spine broke right then, the world was just to heavy, and I was not going to cry in front of Gretchen again, I said a hurried goodbye choking on my words and rushed out the door and onto my bike, I speed away without ever stopping to look back.
I was no longer cooped up in a mental institution but that did not mean that I was healed or perfectly happy. If anything I regressed when I came out of UNI like a goldfish that has gone into shock after realizing that a little fish bowl can suddenly change and become a large tank. I was still very unhappy and my weight kept dropping. My mother drew the line, "until you reach 110 lbs." she said, "you cannot go horse back riding or even work with horses it's too dangerous." I screamed at her till my voice was harsh like gravel. She couldn't take it away from me, my one solitude since I had gotten home. Horses I could feel safe and normal around horses but now that refugee had been wrenched away from me.
I became feral and a wanderer. Biking around down town Boise looking for a way to pass the time, something to take away the burning with drawls of want, the craving for Bishops, the mountain view, the sound of horse hooves cupping the gravel and dirt, even the bitter tang of fresh manure would have been better than this rabid circling of the town that did not hold much for me.
I would go to the store Win co and look in the yellow pages for book stores around town, browsing from one to another listlessly and bored out of my mind. I started testing my memory for places I had been and a thought came to my mind, Gretchen's house. Technically she was renting the basement but, it was still a home, I knew where she lived.
If I could not have horses I would get the next best thing, a woman who loved them as much as I did, maybe even more. I biked down to through the boulevard neighborhood's searching for familiar streets and houses, listening for the familiar deep throaty bwoof of Derek. I was very lucky to have biked past her house just as she was pulling up in her car. I jumped off my bike suddenly awkward, I had just barged in unannounced. "I brought you some flowers. . ." I said uncomfortably, and held out the white lilies I had picked up for her. Gretchen smiled at me putting me at easy, and invited me in.
She told me the lilies were beautiful and that they were one of her favorite flowers. I think she may had added something about them reminding her of her mother. We talked for a while, edging around the topic of horses.
My eyes took in her house, I loved it. It was a cozy collection of true western furniture and art. Stuffed animals were everywhere, beautiful carvings and works of Native Americans, feathers, clay pots, antlers of deer, thick woven carpets, old brass handled trunks, pictures of horses, comfortable chairs of cracked leather all covered in a fine layer of dust. It was a masterpiece of a home, as if Gretchen had opened up her soul and let the contense materialize and build itself into the room I saw before me.
We talked about her work for a while, she was a veterinarian tech. assistant so she always had interesting animal stories.
Suddenly she looked me in the eyes and asked why I was not coming up to the horse. I mumbled on about my mom and the fact I needed to gain weight, and how hard it was to be away from horses because they made me feel happier than any amount of Zoloft or any other type of antidepressants medication ever would, and at some point started crying. Gretchen sat silently while fat tears rolled down my face. After I had calmed down she explained how much she cared about me and how she had gone through a similar problems in the past. She had grappled with depression before, and she was familiar with eating disorders in the past she had been a model and had constantly watched her weight and what she ate to the point of obsession. Gretchen's emotions became obvious in her voice but, she was strong and held the tears back. Afterwards she said she was going to make us lunch, so we had thick peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with layers of crunchy peanut butter and thick globes of dark grape jelly topped off with a glass of milk and a banana on the side. We moved on to lighter topics of conversation and had a great time. I felt like I had a family member in Boise for the first time, outside of my family unit, Gretchen was now like a grandmother to me and a best friend.Gretchen told me I needed to eat meals like this all the time to put weight back on my frail frame, and to stop biking around so much, and to stay home get lazy and read books all day. I stubbornly said I would go stir crazy if I stayed at home for that long. She then offered to call my mom and ask if just for today we could go up and just look at the horses. My heart leaped up my throat, so we called and asked but my mom was unrelenting. I could not go see the horses in my condition.
My spine broke right then, the world was just to heavy, and I was not going to cry in front of Gretchen again, I said a hurried goodbye choking on my words and rushed out the door and onto my bike, I speed away without ever stopping to look back.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A Name
Ringo Star needed a new name. He was a son of Navarre, and needed a name to match his heritage. Calling a Spanish colt a Beatle, a little bug that can bang on drums just did not fit. (Note: I am a Beatle's fan but their names can stay out of my horse world.) Gretchen and Risa had been debating about a new name for some time. I was at this point starting to care deeply for the little colt and wanted to take part in naming him. I volunteered to go onto the Internet and find names for Ring with Spanish origin. Gretchen and Risa happily agreed and I floated on air all the way home, I was going to have a key part to play in naming him. I got home and launched myself onto the computer to a site I was quiet familiar with seeing as I had gone to it to find good names for characters in my fantasy stories on several occasions. . . BabyNames.com. I went to the advanced search and looked for boy names of Spanish origin. I selected names the same way I select chocolate, the name of the sweet must sound decedent and taste good on the tongue. Every name I picked I said aloud to myself feeling the way it rolled across my tongue, I wanted the name to feel like a marble, smooth, rolling, and perfect.
Adelo Castel Diego Mateo and Zavier.
Amor Cezar Eracio Rafeal
Angelito Cinco Hildago Rey
Antonio Daren Lazaro Tiburon
Personally I was hoping for Zavier which means New House. The meaning was not great but the name sounded prestigious like the name of a grand godly stallion. Gretchen and Risa however liked the name Mateo and it stuck, Mateo means gift of god which fits a young colt. He has not grown out of the name yet, literally. The last time I saw Mateo he had not grown an inch in height, and had not grown since the first day I met him.
Adelo Castel Diego Mateo and Zavier.
Amor Cezar Eracio Rafeal
Angelito Cinco Hildago Rey
Antonio Daren Lazaro Tiburon
Personally I was hoping for Zavier which means New House. The meaning was not great but the name sounded prestigious like the name of a grand godly stallion. Gretchen and Risa however liked the name Mateo and it stuck, Mateo means gift of god which fits a young colt. He has not grown out of the name yet, literally. The last time I saw Mateo he had not grown an inch in height, and had not grown since the first day I met him.
Stepping Stone
Even though I hardly considered Tylo the ghost, a horse I still felt compassion for her and her son Ringo. I had just come back from UNI, I knew what it was like to be shattered into pieces and try to shuffle them back together into something that resembled the person I once was. I understood Tylo's appearance, the hair loss from lack of food, since I had gone through the same thing, only I had starved myself. Tylo distrusted new people, especially the people like me who liked to come into her personal space, touch her brush her, prod around to see what was wrong. She hated prodding people, and I despised psychiatrists we had common dislikes.
Finally I managed to gain shaky ground with her, Tylo knew I was not going to hurt her or her colt, but she did not like by cuddling and fawning. Little flakes of her past slowly began to dislodge and fall around me like snow.Tylo could not be tied securely to anything, she was claustrophobic in a way, she needed to be able to move without walls or fences moving with her. A few years before she came to Bishops she had been tied to a fence post for a long period of time, eventually something spooked her and she tried to run away, she pulled against her lead rope and the fenced came lose from the ground and slammed into her front. She took off running around with an iron fence tripping her legs and ramming against her body. Under Gretchen's wise instructions I tied Tylo to twine so if she spooked and pulled the twine would snap and she would be free.
I brushed that horse again and again since we did not know if she would tolerate water and did not want to traumatize her. The gray shroud of dirt she had slowly brushed out into the dull coat of a black bay. With an iron curry I began to work the patches of long hair she had on her rump and along her back. It was the end of summer and she still had pieces of her winter coat clinging to her. It was an obvious sign of malnutrition, (as if her skeletal built was not enough) her body did not have the strength to shed. Her tail posed a problem, it I brushed it to hard all the hair would fall out, but she had a massive knot in her tail that needed to be removed. I worked carefully, like an archaeologist excavating a new site, I worked around the edges of the knot and then dove in deeper. Portions of the rat's nest were simply to tangled and I had to cut out chunks of tail. By the end about 1/3 of her tail still remained. Her mane was also tough to brush, the dreadlocks needed to go so Tylo lost about 1/4 of her meager mane. This brushing time with Tylo was not entirely unpleasant, I began to see pieces of her that were unique, she had small threads of white on her rump and on the outskirts of her pure black tail, and a few strands of white in her mane. Her eyes resembled the eyes of an ancient Egyptian with a streak of carmel eye liner under each eye. Her nose was no single color, she had splashes of pink mixed with pools of white and black. For some reason it reminded me of a rock cover in lichen. Unlike most horses Tylo didn't mind having her face brushed. However, she hated having her hooves picked, every time I clicked for and ran my hand down her leg to lift her hoof, she would lean onto that leg. We would argue for several minutes on each hoof debating the merit in her keeping all four hooves planted on stable ground or having a rock lodged in her hoof. Regardless we began to make our way along the stepping stones of returning to being human, and horse.
During these brushing sessions I began to interact with Ringo. It did not take long to discover that Ringo was a little imp who had double intentions behind everything he did. When I first began working with Tylo he would butt in wedging himself between me and his mother. He did this partially because he wanted to protect his frail mother and be her shining knight, and he wanted to be brushed and investigate the bristly creatures running up and down his body. He was arrogant like his father, and bold almost to the point of being pushy but I adored him.
Finally I managed to gain shaky ground with her, Tylo knew I was not going to hurt her or her colt, but she did not like by cuddling and fawning. Little flakes of her past slowly began to dislodge and fall around me like snow.Tylo could not be tied securely to anything, she was claustrophobic in a way, she needed to be able to move without walls or fences moving with her. A few years before she came to Bishops she had been tied to a fence post for a long period of time, eventually something spooked her and she tried to run away, she pulled against her lead rope and the fenced came lose from the ground and slammed into her front. She took off running around with an iron fence tripping her legs and ramming against her body. Under Gretchen's wise instructions I tied Tylo to twine so if she spooked and pulled the twine would snap and she would be free.
I brushed that horse again and again since we did not know if she would tolerate water and did not want to traumatize her. The gray shroud of dirt she had slowly brushed out into the dull coat of a black bay. With an iron curry I began to work the patches of long hair she had on her rump and along her back. It was the end of summer and she still had pieces of her winter coat clinging to her. It was an obvious sign of malnutrition, (as if her skeletal built was not enough) her body did not have the strength to shed. Her tail posed a problem, it I brushed it to hard all the hair would fall out, but she had a massive knot in her tail that needed to be removed. I worked carefully, like an archaeologist excavating a new site, I worked around the edges of the knot and then dove in deeper. Portions of the rat's nest were simply to tangled and I had to cut out chunks of tail. By the end about 1/3 of her tail still remained. Her mane was also tough to brush, the dreadlocks needed to go so Tylo lost about 1/4 of her meager mane. This brushing time with Tylo was not entirely unpleasant, I began to see pieces of her that were unique, she had small threads of white on her rump and on the outskirts of her pure black tail, and a few strands of white in her mane. Her eyes resembled the eyes of an ancient Egyptian with a streak of carmel eye liner under each eye. Her nose was no single color, she had splashes of pink mixed with pools of white and black. For some reason it reminded me of a rock cover in lichen. Unlike most horses Tylo didn't mind having her face brushed. However, she hated having her hooves picked, every time I clicked for and ran my hand down her leg to lift her hoof, she would lean onto that leg. We would argue for several minutes on each hoof debating the merit in her keeping all four hooves planted on stable ground or having a rock lodged in her hoof. Regardless we began to make our way along the stepping stones of returning to being human, and horse.
During these brushing sessions I began to interact with Ringo. It did not take long to discover that Ringo was a little imp who had double intentions behind everything he did. When I first began working with Tylo he would butt in wedging himself between me and his mother. He did this partially because he wanted to protect his frail mother and be her shining knight, and he wanted to be brushed and investigate the bristly creatures running up and down his body. He was arrogant like his father, and bold almost to the point of being pushy but I adored him.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Bright Light at the End of the Tunnel
At this time in my memoirs of Twilight, the memories are more like nightmares, dark corrupt with no sign of hope on the horizon. I assure you the story will get better eventually. This post will be different from all the others published so far. It is not a memory of the past it is a small glimpse of Twilight today on the 30th of August.
Today Twilight and Rosie (Margrith's horse. Margrith and Rosie will be introduced in full in later posts) had a race around the square arena at their current home on Pleasant Valley (also to be discussed at a later date). It was like a game of tag, the tall long lazy mare stretching out into an easy gallop barely ahead of the short collected paint in a wild sprint.Most the time Rosie easily laps Twilight, but today they are not competing they are companions. They were in perfect sync with each other spinning at the same moment and racing in a new direction making circles around each other in a perfect unison of pounding hooves. They race right next to each other. The moment of true friendship lasted only a moment before both horse's broke into thundering sprints in different directions stretching their muscles and cutting through the air, the unison broken into chaos once more as they avoid the two demons trying to give them a good workout.
After they were done I went over and cooed at Twilight for a while, stroking her neck, finding her newest set of battle scars from a skirmish in her pasture. I let my hand wander into her thick mane, nothing compared to the thin snarls of when I first met her and grab onto her neck, she lets me guide her with that loose hold on her neck till it is time for her to stretch her legs in a flowing canter once more. I would not have believed that two years ago Twilight had been a broken life less horse, because all I see before me is a fiercely independent spirit and powerful horse. Love ya Wild Black Lassie!
Today Twilight and Rosie (Margrith's horse. Margrith and Rosie will be introduced in full in later posts) had a race around the square arena at their current home on Pleasant Valley (also to be discussed at a later date). It was like a game of tag, the tall long lazy mare stretching out into an easy gallop barely ahead of the short collected paint in a wild sprint.Most the time Rosie easily laps Twilight, but today they are not competing they are companions. They were in perfect sync with each other spinning at the same moment and racing in a new direction making circles around each other in a perfect unison of pounding hooves. They race right next to each other. The moment of true friendship lasted only a moment before both horse's broke into thundering sprints in different directions stretching their muscles and cutting through the air, the unison broken into chaos once more as they avoid the two demons trying to give them a good workout.
After they were done I went over and cooed at Twilight for a while, stroking her neck, finding her newest set of battle scars from a skirmish in her pasture. I let my hand wander into her thick mane, nothing compared to the thin snarls of when I first met her and grab onto her neck, she lets me guide her with that loose hold on her neck till it is time for her to stretch her legs in a flowing canter once more. I would not have believed that two years ago Twilight had been a broken life less horse, because all I see before me is a fiercely independent spirit and powerful horse. Love ya Wild Black Lassie!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
First Impression
I first met Twilight on a warm evening. The sun was slowly falling behind the mountain casting orange rays of light that stirred up particles of dust in the air. It was the hour of contrast, the blue and grey pallet of night had already drained any color from the barn and surrounding landscape of sage brush and cheat grass, yet the shards of orange light made it beautiful.
The sight I saw in the first paddock, was not a sight of beauty. Hunkered against the far rail, heads bent against a non existent wind were a pair of horses. A mare and her foal. The foal was filthy, heavy patches of caked mud covered his body. His legs were long and spindly, like most foals but the body it supported was thin, his petite neck did not look like it had the capacity to hold his square head.
The mare was not even a horse anymore she was a shadow of a horse. A husk, just a body with no soul. Her coat was filled with dust covering her with a grey tinge. The balding mane strewn along her neck was composed of brittle dread locks that could snap at the lightest touch. Her tail was a rats nest hunched in upon itself in a massive snarl. She was a ghost, even her brown eyes were dull, I had been hoping to have a movie moment. A instant of moving a side the curtain of mane and seeing an eye of fire burning bright, defiant, even with hate but, there was nothing not a single shred of personality.
This was the first horse I had ever meet that I could not envision myself owning, and that should have set the warning alarms howling at once.This one was different.
The sight I saw in the first paddock, was not a sight of beauty. Hunkered against the far rail, heads bent against a non existent wind were a pair of horses. A mare and her foal. The foal was filthy, heavy patches of caked mud covered his body. His legs were long and spindly, like most foals but the body it supported was thin, his petite neck did not look like it had the capacity to hold his square head.
The mare was not even a horse anymore she was a shadow of a horse. A husk, just a body with no soul. Her coat was filled with dust covering her with a grey tinge. The balding mane strewn along her neck was composed of brittle dread locks that could snap at the lightest touch. Her tail was a rats nest hunched in upon itself in a massive snarl. She was a ghost, even her brown eyes were dull, I had been hoping to have a movie moment. A instant of moving a side the curtain of mane and seeing an eye of fire burning bright, defiant, even with hate but, there was nothing not a single shred of personality.
This was the first horse I had ever meet that I could not envision myself owning, and that should have set the warning alarms howling at once.This one was different.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Truth
The previous essay does relay a large part of the truth, but because it was indeed an essay it was given an sweetened fairy tale ending a lie.Everything I wrote was true accept for my opinion of Twilight and her son Mateo, there was an entirely different scenario behind the words.
Once Gretchen moved up and settled at Bishops she began re-inviting her students back, there had been a wide gap of time between the move from the cozy barn down in the valley to the mountain stables crouching on a slab of dirt and gravel. The stable was beautiful, made of steel with a large interior and a line of wooden stalls and a spacious indoor tack room. It could fit several tons of hay in its hull stacked up upon each other till it almost reached the skeletal ceiling. The out door paddocks were crowded, there was only so much flat space on the side of a mountain. It worked well for Gretchen's horses however, they got along with their paddock partners after the pecking order was established.
I have firmly decided that life's road does not go in a straight line or even one direction, its like a snake, it winds back over itself several times as it moves along retracing patterns of movement. Horses who I had met years ago at Saddle bred Stable were suddenly back in my life, living at Bishops ( that was the name of the man Gretchen least the barn from so the name seemed to suit.) I was shocked to see a fully recovered Griffin, the chestnut Thoroughbred I had seen hobbling and limping through the green pasture years ago was cantering up and down a loose dirt hill, with only a slight stiffness to his gait. Jack-O-Lantern, was much calmer and would stand still when I walked into his stall to pet him, his 'spooked' white eyes showed more intelligence than fear. The small arrogant colt who ignored me at Saddle bred was now an extremely tall (about 17 hands) gangly 2 year old with a bright golden coat and thick dark mane. He was still arrogant and difficult to deal with, but he had grown up into a beautiful horse, with strong resemblance to his Thoroughbred heritage. Gretchen sold him months later to a trainer in Sun Valley who cherishes Noah above all her other horses.
The scholarly Mark was there, as well as Adam the dark bay from the pasture that Griffin and Mark had shared before. And of course the handsome and proud Navarre was present, still a breath taking force despite his age of 15 years.
It was like the mountain air had acted as a cure, these horses had all been taken to the highest of the mountain to a retreat like the ancient monk monasteries, to cleans and refine themselves. I was impressed. Griffin was sold shortly after my arrival, and new horses were brought in.
Sarah my dear friend from horse camp had introduced her mother to the wonders of horses. It was almost comical to see them together, Risa a short wiry woman with thick brown curls, and Sarah a tall straight blonde with appealing curves and a sweet open face. With her mothers support Sarah had begun her search for her first horse. Gretchen had urged her to purchase Jack-O, but she declined, she did not like his spooking nature, he was still a wild card. Instead she purchased a large black mare, half shire and half Thoroughbred named Penelopy.
Sarah and Penelopy were meant for each other, they were large and in charge in the arena. Sarah was a confident rider, strong and brilliant on a horse's back, she needed a companion who would reflect her prowess as a rider, Penelopy fit the order. She was massive and a princess, it was her way or the high way. She demanded food, she did not wait for food, she was on top of the pecking order and no one could stop her.
Risa followed suit and found Lacaro, Navarre's half brother and a little red bay Andalusian named Carita.
Gretchen sold Jack-O and it seemed like the picture was almost perfect, almost. I had been riding Mark and Adam and had grown deeply attached to Adam, but he was not my horse and would never be mine. Gretchen needed school horses and Mark and Adam were perfect teachers.
Adam is the only horse I have ever met who I could say has OCD. He would not canter, trot, side step, or do anything for that matter unless he was asked perfectly. If I wanted him to canter I had to apply slight pressure with my inside leg roll my hips forward as his lead foot came forward in the trot and drag my outside leg up his side making sure his weight was placed into the back of his haunches. If anything was even slightly off he would not canter. He is a true proper English horse, and a coward. Sheep, the wind, his shadow, certain sounds scared him silly, he never bucked or ran away or reared, he would just bulk and shy away from anything that scared him. It would happen in a split second his muscles would tense and suddenly we would be moving 45 degrees away from where we originally started. I loved him anyway.
Adam had found away to replace the hole Sting had left in me, a horse who could show me new levels of riding, like the gallop. I was so proud, almost hysteric with pride the day Gretchen told me I was the only person she trusted to go that fast with him. She began teaching me dressage, side steps, spins, a complicated dance of horse movements.
She talked of showing, not me and Adam but, of herself and Navarre, she subtle hinted at the fact they could use a traveling groom, some one like myself. Things seemed to be going perfectly, till the day Gretchen went to check up on a mare who she had bred Navarre to two years before to cover some bills. What she found was horrific and it turned my world topsy turvy, and it has not been quite the same since.
Once Gretchen moved up and settled at Bishops she began re-inviting her students back, there had been a wide gap of time between the move from the cozy barn down in the valley to the mountain stables crouching on a slab of dirt and gravel. The stable was beautiful, made of steel with a large interior and a line of wooden stalls and a spacious indoor tack room. It could fit several tons of hay in its hull stacked up upon each other till it almost reached the skeletal ceiling. The out door paddocks were crowded, there was only so much flat space on the side of a mountain. It worked well for Gretchen's horses however, they got along with their paddock partners after the pecking order was established.
I have firmly decided that life's road does not go in a straight line or even one direction, its like a snake, it winds back over itself several times as it moves along retracing patterns of movement. Horses who I had met years ago at Saddle bred Stable were suddenly back in my life, living at Bishops ( that was the name of the man Gretchen least the barn from so the name seemed to suit.) I was shocked to see a fully recovered Griffin, the chestnut Thoroughbred I had seen hobbling and limping through the green pasture years ago was cantering up and down a loose dirt hill, with only a slight stiffness to his gait. Jack-O-Lantern, was much calmer and would stand still when I walked into his stall to pet him, his 'spooked' white eyes showed more intelligence than fear. The small arrogant colt who ignored me at Saddle bred was now an extremely tall (about 17 hands) gangly 2 year old with a bright golden coat and thick dark mane. He was still arrogant and difficult to deal with, but he had grown up into a beautiful horse, with strong resemblance to his Thoroughbred heritage. Gretchen sold him months later to a trainer in Sun Valley who cherishes Noah above all her other horses.
The scholarly Mark was there, as well as Adam the dark bay from the pasture that Griffin and Mark had shared before. And of course the handsome and proud Navarre was present, still a breath taking force despite his age of 15 years.
It was like the mountain air had acted as a cure, these horses had all been taken to the highest of the mountain to a retreat like the ancient monk monasteries, to cleans and refine themselves. I was impressed. Griffin was sold shortly after my arrival, and new horses were brought in.
Sarah my dear friend from horse camp had introduced her mother to the wonders of horses. It was almost comical to see them together, Risa a short wiry woman with thick brown curls, and Sarah a tall straight blonde with appealing curves and a sweet open face. With her mothers support Sarah had begun her search for her first horse. Gretchen had urged her to purchase Jack-O, but she declined, she did not like his spooking nature, he was still a wild card. Instead she purchased a large black mare, half shire and half Thoroughbred named Penelopy.
Sarah and Penelopy were meant for each other, they were large and in charge in the arena. Sarah was a confident rider, strong and brilliant on a horse's back, she needed a companion who would reflect her prowess as a rider, Penelopy fit the order. She was massive and a princess, it was her way or the high way. She demanded food, she did not wait for food, she was on top of the pecking order and no one could stop her.
Risa followed suit and found Lacaro, Navarre's half brother and a little red bay Andalusian named Carita.
Gretchen sold Jack-O and it seemed like the picture was almost perfect, almost. I had been riding Mark and Adam and had grown deeply attached to Adam, but he was not my horse and would never be mine. Gretchen needed school horses and Mark and Adam were perfect teachers.
Adam is the only horse I have ever met who I could say has OCD. He would not canter, trot, side step, or do anything for that matter unless he was asked perfectly. If I wanted him to canter I had to apply slight pressure with my inside leg roll my hips forward as his lead foot came forward in the trot and drag my outside leg up his side making sure his weight was placed into the back of his haunches. If anything was even slightly off he would not canter. He is a true proper English horse, and a coward. Sheep, the wind, his shadow, certain sounds scared him silly, he never bucked or ran away or reared, he would just bulk and shy away from anything that scared him. It would happen in a split second his muscles would tense and suddenly we would be moving 45 degrees away from where we originally started. I loved him anyway.
Adam had found away to replace the hole Sting had left in me, a horse who could show me new levels of riding, like the gallop. I was so proud, almost hysteric with pride the day Gretchen told me I was the only person she trusted to go that fast with him. She began teaching me dressage, side steps, spins, a complicated dance of horse movements.
She talked of showing, not me and Adam but, of herself and Navarre, she subtle hinted at the fact they could use a traveling groom, some one like myself. Things seemed to be going perfectly, till the day Gretchen went to check up on a mare who she had bred Navarre to two years before to cover some bills. What she found was horrific and it turned my world topsy turvy, and it has not been quite the same since.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Bishops
This is an essay I wrote shortly after we made the move from the small barn up to a small stable up bogus basin road. Since my memories were much fresher and without marring holes as they are today I decided to place it on the blog and filling in the gaps of knowledge later on.
Speeding up the road of Bogus Basin, the sky a pale backdrop to a landscape of tawny grass speckled with clumps of refreshing blue sage, painted upon mountains layering each other into the distance. My eyes locked on the treasure in the valley, peaking out into the burning sun. A horse barn with a roof of reflecting steel, framed with paddocks and long ranges of corrals. My day has just begun. The garage like-door to the barn opens with a roar, letting in sun to stir the dust and cast a golden tint upon the hay and tack. I smile whenever I hear the familiar shuffle of hooves and eager nickers of the horses within, ready for me to begin my labors. Hay is dropped in each stall followed by content munching. A specific order must be followed in feeding, because horses, comparable to people have a certain class in which each member is placed. First and foremost, the grand stallion, Navarre, the one and only stud, he is king and therefore must be treated as such with his demands met before the rest. Followed by Lacarro and Mark the bay and buskin beta horses, each feed within a stall and paddock. The fine ladies of the horse court are given meals as third in command, Penelope a mare of shire upbringing and a fierce attitude, and Twilight a delicate mare who is sensible in nature.
Finally the knights of the round corrals, their commander Adam, first lady knight Elf, the second female Carita, and the young and spirited page Mateo. If this order of class is not followed, utter chaos is sure to rule. After the distributing of food, I fill in as a maid of this castle in the mountains and start cleaning the stalls of manure. With rake and bucket I swiftly remove the too sweet stench of fermented hay. The task is not entirely unpleasant, I can move about the horses freely giving idle strokes and treats. The prize of the job, seeing stalls of only pure white sand. I can never help but allow my chest to swell with pride. The rest of my work is the exchanging of dusty water mugs for fresh sparkling flasks, and sweeping out the main corridor of dust and wisps of hay. The tasks complete, I stand back and enjoy the labors of my work, relaxed horses and a barn with the refreshing scent of sweet hay.
The chores done, and my reward is given a chance to ride a creature of pure prowess and strength. I always grin, and run a stray hand through my ruffled hair, as the freedom to chose a mount tickles my smile. Mark is the usual choice, he is tall and lean, with a coat of brass and coal colored mane and tail. His face is longer than most and angular, with a cluster of white at his forehead that drips down to the soft tip of his nose. To me he appears scholarly in the face, but when he is sent into a canter, his athletic abilities shine with his copper coat. However, for some reason this time is different. My choice resigns to that of an old favorite, my companion from the beginning, Adam. He holds the disposition of someone old in nature yet young in spirit. His body well toned under deep browns highlighted by soft golden streaks. Adam’s mane reflects the coloration of his coat, and is long enough to hide the white star on his face, set between two deep auburn eyes. We understand each other well, and it takes only a breath before he is saddled and ready to ride. We climb back up the dirt road together, cutting off into a trail that shoots straight into the riding coral above. When riding we are as one, my body movements are corresponded by his own understanding of them. It is communication at its highest level. In the beginning, last fall when we first found ourselves surrounded by strings of fence encompassing the sand, we were latched to disharmony. My movements were confusing and muddled by nervousness, and in response Adam’s reactions were jerks of panic. Yet we learned, under the steady hand of my teacher and friend Gretchen, who is never seen without her worn "life is good" hat. After months of practice, riding became a thrilling and comfortable experience for Adam and me, a harmony between human and horse.
The tales and character of each horse at Gretchen’s barn are uniquely distinguished in depth and flavor. The distinct herd that lives within the sandy cove in Bogus, posses stories from each individual horse that are incomparable to any found within a book or novel. Straight from the horses mouth, so to speak. Every detail, every second of these horses lives is memorable, I could not possibly encompass them all. A select group of stories however I feel must be told. Adam, my gallant riding companion’s tale is a true tragedy with a sunny twist. As a colt Adam did not belong to Gretchen, he lived with his first owner a woman who had named him Thunder which matched his stormy coat but could not compare to his sweet almost cowardly character. He bloomed under Gretchen’s instruction, and with a bit of polishing became a beloved school horse. Gretchen’s salvation of horses did not end with Adam, her grand finale came in the form of a mare and her foal. Risa, Gretchen’s partner and fiery friend had been hinting all day that Navarre, the kingly stallion had a son that she and Gretchen had found. I could not repress the wave of longing to see one of Navarre’s colts, eagerly I asked what he looked like, Risa grinned and said, "Why should I tell you when you can see him for yourself tonight!" Gretchen had smiled thinly when she found out I knew of the arriving colt, when evening came I discovered why. In the far left paddock, while the sun drifted down over the dusk tinted mountains two horses stood slouched against each other, one a skinny mare with each individual rib protruding from her sides and patches of long hair clumped about her body. She held her head low, brittle mane and forelock falling like twigs around her neck and face. Tilo, was her name. Next to her was a colt, who like her was thin, but not to the degree of his mother, Ringo Star had long stick legs, and a foal’s soft feathery mane and tail, a layering of gold and black, like his fathers. Ringo hugged his mother’s side and soon dropped his head to suckle. I could not believe he was still nursing, Tilo should have been separated from him weeks, even months ago. Ringo was drinking the weight right off his mother. Gretchen affirmed that the colt should have been weaned months before. She also said that we would be keeping both Tilo and Ringo here at the barn and that I could help care for them. My first day in the paddock with the mare and foal was awkward. Ringo was constantly butting his head into his mother trying to move closer to me and be given the attention he so righteously deserved. I rolled my eyes several times and could not help but think, there is no doubt he is Nevarre’s son. The mare, Tilo I handled like glass, she seemed so fragile, ready to shatter at any moment. Gretchen instructed me to tie her halter to twine so if she jerked her head the twine would snap and she would be free. It took two months to finally brush the clumps of hair from Tilo’s body, and a few weeks after that to finally wean Ringo off her and send him to the sweeping corral of the knightly horses. Ringo, like all horses under Gretchen’s attention and love, bloomed. His natural wise nature, inherited from his mother made him an easy foal. He rarely tried to nip or shove, and was a joy to watch with his young curiosity. Gretchen and Risa changed Ringo’s name to Mateo, preferring him to have a name of his Spanish ancestry verses a Beatles band member. Over the months his young honey coat darkened into a lovely deep brown swirled with gold, and he began his knight training under Adam. I smile every time I see them shuffling through hay together, and the charming sight of Mateo trailing Adam like an idolizing puppy. Mateo also has a slight infatuation, with Carita, a mare just leaving filly years, he pesters her for attention daily which she stubbornly refuses. Tilo, I have renamed Twilight, and with the endearing name, she has my heart on a string. Her sensible nature and wild spirit combined, make her a dream horse. The first day I saw her race within the riding paddock, I was in love. She galloped with her head held high, mane billowing like obsidian feathers, and a tail held like a flag. Twilight runs with grace, every step precise like the stroke of wings. I can not wait until the day I can ride on her back and experience first hand the freedom she now feels.
Horses are my passion, they are like characters in a novel, I can never stop being enthralled by them and eagerly awaiting the next story they tell. The work feels worth while, the riding a thrill, and the tale each horse expresses through their character seals my love. The depth of the relationship that is possible between myself and these beautiful creatures destroys any whim of leaving. I will forever be under the spell cast by the magic of the animal of wind and earth, the horse.
Speeding up the road of Bogus Basin, the sky a pale backdrop to a landscape of tawny grass speckled with clumps of refreshing blue sage, painted upon mountains layering each other into the distance. My eyes locked on the treasure in the valley, peaking out into the burning sun. A horse barn with a roof of reflecting steel, framed with paddocks and long ranges of corrals. My day has just begun. The garage like-door to the barn opens with a roar, letting in sun to stir the dust and cast a golden tint upon the hay and tack. I smile whenever I hear the familiar shuffle of hooves and eager nickers of the horses within, ready for me to begin my labors. Hay is dropped in each stall followed by content munching. A specific order must be followed in feeding, because horses, comparable to people have a certain class in which each member is placed. First and foremost, the grand stallion, Navarre, the one and only stud, he is king and therefore must be treated as such with his demands met before the rest. Followed by Lacarro and Mark the bay and buskin beta horses, each feed within a stall and paddock. The fine ladies of the horse court are given meals as third in command, Penelope a mare of shire upbringing and a fierce attitude, and Twilight a delicate mare who is sensible in nature.
Finally the knights of the round corrals, their commander Adam, first lady knight Elf, the second female Carita, and the young and spirited page Mateo. If this order of class is not followed, utter chaos is sure to rule. After the distributing of food, I fill in as a maid of this castle in the mountains and start cleaning the stalls of manure. With rake and bucket I swiftly remove the too sweet stench of fermented hay. The task is not entirely unpleasant, I can move about the horses freely giving idle strokes and treats. The prize of the job, seeing stalls of only pure white sand. I can never help but allow my chest to swell with pride. The rest of my work is the exchanging of dusty water mugs for fresh sparkling flasks, and sweeping out the main corridor of dust and wisps of hay. The tasks complete, I stand back and enjoy the labors of my work, relaxed horses and a barn with the refreshing scent of sweet hay.
The chores done, and my reward is given a chance to ride a creature of pure prowess and strength. I always grin, and run a stray hand through my ruffled hair, as the freedom to chose a mount tickles my smile. Mark is the usual choice, he is tall and lean, with a coat of brass and coal colored mane and tail. His face is longer than most and angular, with a cluster of white at his forehead that drips down to the soft tip of his nose. To me he appears scholarly in the face, but when he is sent into a canter, his athletic abilities shine with his copper coat. However, for some reason this time is different. My choice resigns to that of an old favorite, my companion from the beginning, Adam. He holds the disposition of someone old in nature yet young in spirit. His body well toned under deep browns highlighted by soft golden streaks. Adam’s mane reflects the coloration of his coat, and is long enough to hide the white star on his face, set between two deep auburn eyes. We understand each other well, and it takes only a breath before he is saddled and ready to ride. We climb back up the dirt road together, cutting off into a trail that shoots straight into the riding coral above. When riding we are as one, my body movements are corresponded by his own understanding of them. It is communication at its highest level. In the beginning, last fall when we first found ourselves surrounded by strings of fence encompassing the sand, we were latched to disharmony. My movements were confusing and muddled by nervousness, and in response Adam’s reactions were jerks of panic. Yet we learned, under the steady hand of my teacher and friend Gretchen, who is never seen without her worn "life is good" hat. After months of practice, riding became a thrilling and comfortable experience for Adam and me, a harmony between human and horse.
The tales and character of each horse at Gretchen’s barn are uniquely distinguished in depth and flavor. The distinct herd that lives within the sandy cove in Bogus, posses stories from each individual horse that are incomparable to any found within a book or novel. Straight from the horses mouth, so to speak. Every detail, every second of these horses lives is memorable, I could not possibly encompass them all. A select group of stories however I feel must be told. Adam, my gallant riding companion’s tale is a true tragedy with a sunny twist. As a colt Adam did not belong to Gretchen, he lived with his first owner a woman who had named him Thunder which matched his stormy coat but could not compare to his sweet almost cowardly character. He bloomed under Gretchen’s instruction, and with a bit of polishing became a beloved school horse. Gretchen’s salvation of horses did not end with Adam, her grand finale came in the form of a mare and her foal. Risa, Gretchen’s partner and fiery friend had been hinting all day that Navarre, the kingly stallion had a son that she and Gretchen had found. I could not repress the wave of longing to see one of Navarre’s colts, eagerly I asked what he looked like, Risa grinned and said, "Why should I tell you when you can see him for yourself tonight!" Gretchen had smiled thinly when she found out I knew of the arriving colt, when evening came I discovered why. In the far left paddock, while the sun drifted down over the dusk tinted mountains two horses stood slouched against each other, one a skinny mare with each individual rib protruding from her sides and patches of long hair clumped about her body. She held her head low, brittle mane and forelock falling like twigs around her neck and face. Tilo, was her name. Next to her was a colt, who like her was thin, but not to the degree of his mother, Ringo Star had long stick legs, and a foal’s soft feathery mane and tail, a layering of gold and black, like his fathers. Ringo hugged his mother’s side and soon dropped his head to suckle. I could not believe he was still nursing, Tilo should have been separated from him weeks, even months ago. Ringo was drinking the weight right off his mother. Gretchen affirmed that the colt should have been weaned months before. She also said that we would be keeping both Tilo and Ringo here at the barn and that I could help care for them. My first day in the paddock with the mare and foal was awkward. Ringo was constantly butting his head into his mother trying to move closer to me and be given the attention he so righteously deserved. I rolled my eyes several times and could not help but think, there is no doubt he is Nevarre’s son. The mare, Tilo I handled like glass, she seemed so fragile, ready to shatter at any moment. Gretchen instructed me to tie her halter to twine so if she jerked her head the twine would snap and she would be free. It took two months to finally brush the clumps of hair from Tilo’s body, and a few weeks after that to finally wean Ringo off her and send him to the sweeping corral of the knightly horses. Ringo, like all horses under Gretchen’s attention and love, bloomed. His natural wise nature, inherited from his mother made him an easy foal. He rarely tried to nip or shove, and was a joy to watch with his young curiosity. Gretchen and Risa changed Ringo’s name to Mateo, preferring him to have a name of his Spanish ancestry verses a Beatles band member. Over the months his young honey coat darkened into a lovely deep brown swirled with gold, and he began his knight training under Adam. I smile every time I see them shuffling through hay together, and the charming sight of Mateo trailing Adam like an idolizing puppy. Mateo also has a slight infatuation, with Carita, a mare just leaving filly years, he pesters her for attention daily which she stubbornly refuses. Tilo, I have renamed Twilight, and with the endearing name, she has my heart on a string. Her sensible nature and wild spirit combined, make her a dream horse. The first day I saw her race within the riding paddock, I was in love. She galloped with her head held high, mane billowing like obsidian feathers, and a tail held like a flag. Twilight runs with grace, every step precise like the stroke of wings. I can not wait until the day I can ride on her back and experience first hand the freedom she now feels.
Horses are my passion, they are like characters in a novel, I can never stop being enthralled by them and eagerly awaiting the next story they tell. The work feels worth while, the riding a thrill, and the tale each horse expresses through their character seals my love. The depth of the relationship that is possible between myself and these beautiful creatures destroys any whim of leaving. I will forever be under the spell cast by the magic of the animal of wind and earth, the horse.
Breaking point
Well into summer Gretchen suggested that I sign up for an all day horse camp she was having for two other girls around my age who were as addicted to horse back riding as I was. I was apprehensive, after my battle with Kenzie I was not sure I wanted a competition with two other girls. However I signed up anyway and met the girls. There was Sarah a year older than me and absolutely fearless on a horses back, and Katara two years younger than me, who enjoyed bragging about her horse back riding mother. Needless to say we all got along perfectly.
I remember the day we had a costume ride and we all dressed up in my mother's old prom gowns. We cantered about the arena screaming shrilly with joy and a teenage silliness while bantering with delightfully exaggerated English accents. We all decided to trying riding side saddle like proper ladies of the high court. I fell off after maybe a minute of riding sideways, my dress pooled up and above my head, I was very lucky to be wearing pants underneath. . .otherwise everyone might have seen my bloomers!
Our hysterical antics knew no ends. We soon found out that there was a canal behind the barn, a fast moving green ribbon of water with long strands of red vines on the sides and thick white sand on the bottom. A canopy of trees stretched out and over the sides their roots exposed like long wrinkled fingers intertwined with each other as if patiently waiting for something that would never come. We also discovered a long neglected rope swing which we could use to swing above the shallow sides and drop into the depths of the middle current. We would swim for hours daring each other to float further down the canal each time. Our fun was so boisterous and loud that Gretchen even tried out the swing and caused Derek the water coward to wander in to the water up to his large knobby ankles to rescue her from the canal. She was fine of course.
It was during this time that I first learned the wonder of jumping. Sarah was the first to ride and she and Sting flew gracefully over the poles, in a fluid motion. I was on Ali and ready to go, and prove myself as a good ride who was not afraid of anything. Miss Ali did not share my enthusiasm. Countless times she swerved away from the jump dragging my hands through the reins till they felt raw. I became extremely frustrated to the point of tears, finally I dismounted and left Ali to Katara. I scrambled to the top of the fence and watched Sarah trotting Sting over the pole again and again, like a broken video replaying over and over in my mind. It felt like the end of the world, I was heartbroken, I could not make a horse jump, a horse I had worked with for over two years. Inconsolable I went through my plan in my head. Obviously I was unfit to ride, never meant to really accomplish anything in the world of horses. This was my last day here, my last ride was a failure why bother trying again? The heat of the summer sun beat hard upon my back making sweat drip down my back as tears slipped of my face. I had reached the breaking point.
Gretchen snapped me out of my gloomy mood. "Gabbi" she said, "Miss Ali can be stubborn, you should take Sting for a go."
Wary of failure I half heatedly dragged myself over to Sting and clamoured up into the saddle. I turned him around and began trotting him towards the poles, he did not jump. Rather he lifted his feet up a little higher than usual and pranced over the poles. "Try again." Gretchen said firmly. I took Sting around again a small tingle of hope and desire rising up from my toes to the tip of my head. I urged Sting forward into a slightly faster trot and just before we reached the poles I clucked and tapped his sides with my heels. The power of a horse gathering himself and going airborne is marvelous. I can not explain it, it is the closes any human will ever come to knowing the true feeling of flight. The world goes silent when a horse jumps, there is no sight or sound to guide you only feel, the feel of going up the muscles collecting and extending into a leap the sudden rush of air. Your heart pulses once and then the spell is broken sight and sound come back with shattering clarity. I felt a smile wide and childlike spread across my face. "YES!" I screamed in jubilation. From then on Sting was my horse.
When it came time for me to learn the art of cantering, Sting was the horse I learned on. It was difficult and frustrating, but once it was accomplished I could jump into the air and know the feeling of riding on clouds. Cantering is like a formal dance, it is a three time beat, smooth and collected but at the same instant it is fast and strong. Sting was the first horse I cantered on bareback. In his pasture over the freshly turned dirt we rode, me cling for dear life till he moved from his bouncing trout into a effortless waltz. Sting gave me back my confidence in riding. He was also the horse to shatter my joy in flying. My mother had come to watch me jump, and I was excited, granted I was only jumping about a foot and a half of pole, but it was a rush. We had warmed up and I was urging Sting for the jump when something went wrong, suddenly I was propelled forward and riding on Stings neck instead of the saddle and he was not cantering he was running, full and and wild. I had no control as we swung around the corner galloping for the other fence, I could only cling tighter as we swerved around another corner and began bearing down the long stretch of the arena. I wrapped my arms higher around his neck and began to pull back, he listened to my firm but shaking arms and slowed to a halt. Gretchen's face was pure white, ashen her eyes wide. My mother was speechless. "That was scary" Gretchen said quietly. Jump never occurred again in our lessons together. I was shaken up, but determined to continue riding, I could let go of jumping but I could not let go of the freedom of riding.
It finally happened, I could not contain my joy. I had for the millionth time brought up the idea of leasing a horse to my parents, and they were actually considering it. They did not try to brush the idea away saying I was to young or just not ready for the next step. They began asking me questions about it where would we find the horse? How much would it cost? What was leasing verses buying? I had all the answers ready. I wanted Sting, he was the only horse I would consider, the cost was the cost of owning a horse without buying. I loved that little half Morgan, he was intelligent, handsome, and a true gentleman, much better than any boy in school. I was in love and was even wedging in the idea of buying him into the minds of my parents.
Fate is a funny creature, she favors for a while and then one day on the flip of a dime she changes for the worse, like a storm at sea. It can be glassy calm on moment and a brief instant later a maelstrom is baring down with full gusting force. Sting, my beloved horse was injured, an unexplainable occurrence, a wound straight through the flesh of his face barely missing an eye. He could not be ridden. Gretchen could not afford to keep him. He needed care and rest, and she needed a working horse. Her heart was to large to push his recovery. She called up his previous owner a woman in California who was thrilled to take him back. I did not even get the chance to say goodbye.
Change blew in again with a rush. A dark change, Gretchen had to give up her ownership of Ali, and suddenly we had to leave the beautiful paradise in the middle of an urban maze. I was sorry to leave, and wondering yet again where we would go, and who I would ride? My prince and friend was gone, the little mare torn away, neither to return. Gretchen needed to become a magician and pull an entirely new life, barn and horses out of her hat.
I remember the day we had a costume ride and we all dressed up in my mother's old prom gowns. We cantered about the arena screaming shrilly with joy and a teenage silliness while bantering with delightfully exaggerated English accents. We all decided to trying riding side saddle like proper ladies of the high court. I fell off after maybe a minute of riding sideways, my dress pooled up and above my head, I was very lucky to be wearing pants underneath. . .otherwise everyone might have seen my bloomers!
Our hysterical antics knew no ends. We soon found out that there was a canal behind the barn, a fast moving green ribbon of water with long strands of red vines on the sides and thick white sand on the bottom. A canopy of trees stretched out and over the sides their roots exposed like long wrinkled fingers intertwined with each other as if patiently waiting for something that would never come. We also discovered a long neglected rope swing which we could use to swing above the shallow sides and drop into the depths of the middle current. We would swim for hours daring each other to float further down the canal each time. Our fun was so boisterous and loud that Gretchen even tried out the swing and caused Derek the water coward to wander in to the water up to his large knobby ankles to rescue her from the canal. She was fine of course.
It was during this time that I first learned the wonder of jumping. Sarah was the first to ride and she and Sting flew gracefully over the poles, in a fluid motion. I was on Ali and ready to go, and prove myself as a good ride who was not afraid of anything. Miss Ali did not share my enthusiasm. Countless times she swerved away from the jump dragging my hands through the reins till they felt raw. I became extremely frustrated to the point of tears, finally I dismounted and left Ali to Katara. I scrambled to the top of the fence and watched Sarah trotting Sting over the pole again and again, like a broken video replaying over and over in my mind. It felt like the end of the world, I was heartbroken, I could not make a horse jump, a horse I had worked with for over two years. Inconsolable I went through my plan in my head. Obviously I was unfit to ride, never meant to really accomplish anything in the world of horses. This was my last day here, my last ride was a failure why bother trying again? The heat of the summer sun beat hard upon my back making sweat drip down my back as tears slipped of my face. I had reached the breaking point.
Gretchen snapped me out of my gloomy mood. "Gabbi" she said, "Miss Ali can be stubborn, you should take Sting for a go."
Wary of failure I half heatedly dragged myself over to Sting and clamoured up into the saddle. I turned him around and began trotting him towards the poles, he did not jump. Rather he lifted his feet up a little higher than usual and pranced over the poles. "Try again." Gretchen said firmly. I took Sting around again a small tingle of hope and desire rising up from my toes to the tip of my head. I urged Sting forward into a slightly faster trot and just before we reached the poles I clucked and tapped his sides with my heels. The power of a horse gathering himself and going airborne is marvelous. I can not explain it, it is the closes any human will ever come to knowing the true feeling of flight. The world goes silent when a horse jumps, there is no sight or sound to guide you only feel, the feel of going up the muscles collecting and extending into a leap the sudden rush of air. Your heart pulses once and then the spell is broken sight and sound come back with shattering clarity. I felt a smile wide and childlike spread across my face. "YES!" I screamed in jubilation. From then on Sting was my horse.
When it came time for me to learn the art of cantering, Sting was the horse I learned on. It was difficult and frustrating, but once it was accomplished I could jump into the air and know the feeling of riding on clouds. Cantering is like a formal dance, it is a three time beat, smooth and collected but at the same instant it is fast and strong. Sting was the first horse I cantered on bareback. In his pasture over the freshly turned dirt we rode, me cling for dear life till he moved from his bouncing trout into a effortless waltz. Sting gave me back my confidence in riding. He was also the horse to shatter my joy in flying. My mother had come to watch me jump, and I was excited, granted I was only jumping about a foot and a half of pole, but it was a rush. We had warmed up and I was urging Sting for the jump when something went wrong, suddenly I was propelled forward and riding on Stings neck instead of the saddle and he was not cantering he was running, full and and wild. I had no control as we swung around the corner galloping for the other fence, I could only cling tighter as we swerved around another corner and began bearing down the long stretch of the arena. I wrapped my arms higher around his neck and began to pull back, he listened to my firm but shaking arms and slowed to a halt. Gretchen's face was pure white, ashen her eyes wide. My mother was speechless. "That was scary" Gretchen said quietly. Jump never occurred again in our lessons together. I was shaken up, but determined to continue riding, I could let go of jumping but I could not let go of the freedom of riding.
It finally happened, I could not contain my joy. I had for the millionth time brought up the idea of leasing a horse to my parents, and they were actually considering it. They did not try to brush the idea away saying I was to young or just not ready for the next step. They began asking me questions about it where would we find the horse? How much would it cost? What was leasing verses buying? I had all the answers ready. I wanted Sting, he was the only horse I would consider, the cost was the cost of owning a horse without buying. I loved that little half Morgan, he was intelligent, handsome, and a true gentleman, much better than any boy in school. I was in love and was even wedging in the idea of buying him into the minds of my parents.
Fate is a funny creature, she favors for a while and then one day on the flip of a dime she changes for the worse, like a storm at sea. It can be glassy calm on moment and a brief instant later a maelstrom is baring down with full gusting force. Sting, my beloved horse was injured, an unexplainable occurrence, a wound straight through the flesh of his face barely missing an eye. He could not be ridden. Gretchen could not afford to keep him. He needed care and rest, and she needed a working horse. Her heart was to large to push his recovery. She called up his previous owner a woman in California who was thrilled to take him back. I did not even get the chance to say goodbye.
Change blew in again with a rush. A dark change, Gretchen had to give up her ownership of Ali, and suddenly we had to leave the beautiful paradise in the middle of an urban maze. I was sorry to leave, and wondering yet again where we would go, and who I would ride? My prince and friend was gone, the little mare torn away, neither to return. Gretchen needed to become a magician and pull an entirely new life, barn and horses out of her hat.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
More Changes
During this time at the quaint and charming place where Gretchen now resided I found life suddenly becoming a blur of swift changes and busyness. I began growing in height and other places on my body began to develop. . .you get my drift. I felt more awkward and gangly than ever but Gretchen bluntly assured me that I was finally beginning to fit my frame, and that I had been even more clumsy and at loss with my long tripping limbs when she first met me. Change did not only effect my body, but my riding companion.
Miss Ali despite her monstrous temper, and overwhelming stubbornness was a short horse maybe 14 hands at best, and I was rapidly outgrowing her size. I had not however outgrown her lessons. She was the first horse I ever rode bare back on. I can still remember urging her into the trot and bouncing all over her broad back like a rag doll caught in a gale. I almost fell off more times than I care to reveal and was exceedingly frustrated with her as she was with me by the end of our lesson. We continued to learn with each other bareback style till I was decent at asking her to go over trot poles and turn, and did not slip down her side every 7 steps. In my defense she had a extremely exaggerated trot that was uncomfortable and naturally bumpy.
The week after to show how stubborn she could be Miss Ali took off after Derek, the Dane having goaded her into a round of catch-me-if-you-can around the arena with me clinging to her back, laughing as she tried in vain to corner and nip the bounding black hound as he raced around the arena glancing over his shoulder at the frustrated horse ever few steps. Regardless of how fun it was I was completely out of control and the playful game could have ended much differently.
To say the least I was incredibly fond of Miss Ali, even though my legs could dangle to right above her knees, we had shared several unforgettable memories together and I'm sure we would have enjoyed more adventures if my growth spurt had not gotten in the way. I had to transition from Miss Ali to the taller and entirely different Sting. At first I was very bitter about the change. Sting was not as stubborn as Miss Ali but his mouth was made of rock so it was difficult to control him and clearly communicate with him in the beginning. We were schooled together me teaching him, he schooling me both of us under the tutelage of Gretchen who would guide us both or attempt to get the lesson through our equally thick skulls.
It was on Sting that I learned the art of cantering. He was not the first horse I cantered on that memory is a blur, lost in my mind soaked to a fuzz in my mind like an old photograph. But I remember my first canter on Sting. WE were at the back right side of the arena facing the road, and Gretchen told me to urge him into the canter. I knew I was sloppy, I could feel my body surging ahead and falling back with Stings speed and grace when I should of had a steady rocking seat but I didn't care, there is true beauty in cantering that can never be found in the jangling trot. It was like seeing only black and white colors for ones entire life and suddenly discovering a whole spectrum of vibrant purples and greens, and iridescent blues and all the other innumerable colors that exist. I was hooked.
Like anything else in horse back riding learning to canter took time and a lot of patients from both myself and Sting. We finally achieved this new pedestal in horse riding, after that numerous doors began to open up for me.
Instead of one lesson a week I took two provided that I pay for the second one by working in Gretchen's summer camp for three ten year old girls. I eagerly accepted, I found out only a little while later that I would be co-working with another girl named Kenzie who I had briefly encountered in school. I was slightly disapointed by this. Kenzie was a fabulous rider, and she was beautiful, her hair curled in natural ringlets around her perfect oval face, the face of a flawless porclien doll. She was petit and graceful and radiated confedence, I was excidingly jelous and very intimidated by her. I always forced myself to work harder then she did, to clean up the manure in the pasture faster, to make the three young girls like me more than they did her. To recieve more praise than she did. I felt that the only way I could beat her was through physical labor, a danty thing like her certainly could not work harder than a lank determened girl like me.
The problem with my envy of her beauty and riding skills was that it made me blind to what was underneath Kenzie, behind that beautiful face, popularity and skill was a girl who loved horses to the point that she was working at a camp to earn for a single lesson a week, her family could not afford to pay, and eventual she had to drop horse back riding all together because of the finances. I was to blind to see it, to see the ending flaw in a girl I thought was perfect, a regret my blinding jelousy now.
Miss Ali despite her monstrous temper, and overwhelming stubbornness was a short horse maybe 14 hands at best, and I was rapidly outgrowing her size. I had not however outgrown her lessons. She was the first horse I ever rode bare back on. I can still remember urging her into the trot and bouncing all over her broad back like a rag doll caught in a gale. I almost fell off more times than I care to reveal and was exceedingly frustrated with her as she was with me by the end of our lesson. We continued to learn with each other bareback style till I was decent at asking her to go over trot poles and turn, and did not slip down her side every 7 steps. In my defense she had a extremely exaggerated trot that was uncomfortable and naturally bumpy.
The week after to show how stubborn she could be Miss Ali took off after Derek, the Dane having goaded her into a round of catch-me-if-you-can around the arena with me clinging to her back, laughing as she tried in vain to corner and nip the bounding black hound as he raced around the arena glancing over his shoulder at the frustrated horse ever few steps. Regardless of how fun it was I was completely out of control and the playful game could have ended much differently.
To say the least I was incredibly fond of Miss Ali, even though my legs could dangle to right above her knees, we had shared several unforgettable memories together and I'm sure we would have enjoyed more adventures if my growth spurt had not gotten in the way. I had to transition from Miss Ali to the taller and entirely different Sting. At first I was very bitter about the change. Sting was not as stubborn as Miss Ali but his mouth was made of rock so it was difficult to control him and clearly communicate with him in the beginning. We were schooled together me teaching him, he schooling me both of us under the tutelage of Gretchen who would guide us both or attempt to get the lesson through our equally thick skulls.
It was on Sting that I learned the art of cantering. He was not the first horse I cantered on that memory is a blur, lost in my mind soaked to a fuzz in my mind like an old photograph. But I remember my first canter on Sting. WE were at the back right side of the arena facing the road, and Gretchen told me to urge him into the canter. I knew I was sloppy, I could feel my body surging ahead and falling back with Stings speed and grace when I should of had a steady rocking seat but I didn't care, there is true beauty in cantering that can never be found in the jangling trot. It was like seeing only black and white colors for ones entire life and suddenly discovering a whole spectrum of vibrant purples and greens, and iridescent blues and all the other innumerable colors that exist. I was hooked.
Like anything else in horse back riding learning to canter took time and a lot of patients from both myself and Sting. We finally achieved this new pedestal in horse riding, after that numerous doors began to open up for me.
Instead of one lesson a week I took two provided that I pay for the second one by working in Gretchen's summer camp for three ten year old girls. I eagerly accepted, I found out only a little while later that I would be co-working with another girl named Kenzie who I had briefly encountered in school. I was slightly disapointed by this. Kenzie was a fabulous rider, and she was beautiful, her hair curled in natural ringlets around her perfect oval face, the face of a flawless porclien doll. She was petit and graceful and radiated confedence, I was excidingly jelous and very intimidated by her. I always forced myself to work harder then she did, to clean up the manure in the pasture faster, to make the three young girls like me more than they did her. To recieve more praise than she did. I felt that the only way I could beat her was through physical labor, a danty thing like her certainly could not work harder than a lank determened girl like me.
The problem with my envy of her beauty and riding skills was that it made me blind to what was underneath Kenzie, behind that beautiful face, popularity and skill was a girl who loved horses to the point that she was working at a camp to earn for a single lesson a week, her family could not afford to pay, and eventual she had to drop horse back riding all together because of the finances. I was to blind to see it, to see the ending flaw in a girl I thought was perfect, a regret my blinding jelousy now.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Whoops!
A brief note to the patient individuals reading this blog, the posting Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes should be read after reading The Broken Horse, despite the fact it is shown bellow it on the blog. Thank You!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Broken Horse
I can recall with shocking clarity the first time I ever saw a broken horse, it was horrific. Just as I can remember the first time I fell of a horse and the first time a horse bolted away with me. Painful memories are crystal clear and rise to the surface of the mind quickly, like jetsam from the ocean utterly useless but always there a twisted mess of slime and junk that is not even worth the effort to untangle.
His name was Demetrius an extremely tall bay Thoroughbred with a strip of blurred white down his nose that gave him an knowledgeable but sorrowful appearance. I watched his owner saddle him with a English saddle that looked petite on his long broad back. She left to go get a helmet and returned with it grasped in her hand. She did not undo Demetrius' lead rope from the metal fence it was tied to since she only intended to get on to adjust the stirrups. It was like a firework went of. Suddenly Demetrius was rearing and bucking and screaming in pain. His rider flung herself off as he began to tug against the rope with all his might till the fence bent in submission toward him. The clasp of the rope finally snapped and Demetrius stumbled back shaking with wild eyes.
Gretchen was the first to approach him, her calm eyes never leaving his white rimmed ones till she slowly reached out and gently grabbed his halter. Demetrius flared his nostrils at her she did not say anything for awhile, just stood there looking at the him as his trembling slowly evaporated. She then turned her head slightly and asked me to go grab another lead rope, which I did. She then told me to come into the arena and hold him.
I was scared to, I had just seen this horse at his very worst and it terrified me. After a slight hesitation I slowly entered the arena and began slowly tip-toeing towards the woman and the horse. I reached Demetrius head and snapped on the lead rope as Gretchen let go and went to examine his back. She removed the saddle and began to lightly stroke Demetrius spine till she found a tender point that made him wince. She nodded her head as if confirming to herself something she already new then she went to talk to the rider who was pacing shaken and agitated on the other side of the fence. I stood there looking up and the horse who could have easily knocked me over with the slightest flick of his head, but when I looked at him all I could see was the venerable pain in his dark eyes. Slowly and tentatively he lowered his massive head till it was resting heavily on my shoulder and released a hot sigh from his nose. I began murmuring softly to him and stroked his long neck. We stood there for a while simply calming each other down till his owner came back to collect him to take him to the vet.
I never saw Demetrius again but not because he was put to sleep, but because change was in the air I just did not know it.
His name was Demetrius an extremely tall bay Thoroughbred with a strip of blurred white down his nose that gave him an knowledgeable but sorrowful appearance. I watched his owner saddle him with a English saddle that looked petite on his long broad back. She left to go get a helmet and returned with it grasped in her hand. She did not undo Demetrius' lead rope from the metal fence it was tied to since she only intended to get on to adjust the stirrups. It was like a firework went of. Suddenly Demetrius was rearing and bucking and screaming in pain. His rider flung herself off as he began to tug against the rope with all his might till the fence bent in submission toward him. The clasp of the rope finally snapped and Demetrius stumbled back shaking with wild eyes.
Gretchen was the first to approach him, her calm eyes never leaving his white rimmed ones till she slowly reached out and gently grabbed his halter. Demetrius flared his nostrils at her she did not say anything for awhile, just stood there looking at the him as his trembling slowly evaporated. She then turned her head slightly and asked me to go grab another lead rope, which I did. She then told me to come into the arena and hold him.
I was scared to, I had just seen this horse at his very worst and it terrified me. After a slight hesitation I slowly entered the arena and began slowly tip-toeing towards the woman and the horse. I reached Demetrius head and snapped on the lead rope as Gretchen let go and went to examine his back. She removed the saddle and began to lightly stroke Demetrius spine till she found a tender point that made him wince. She nodded her head as if confirming to herself something she already new then she went to talk to the rider who was pacing shaken and agitated on the other side of the fence. I stood there looking up and the horse who could have easily knocked me over with the slightest flick of his head, but when I looked at him all I could see was the venerable pain in his dark eyes. Slowly and tentatively he lowered his massive head till it was resting heavily on my shoulder and released a hot sigh from his nose. I began murmuring softly to him and stroked his long neck. We stood there for a while simply calming each other down till his owner came back to collect him to take him to the vet.
I never saw Demetrius again but not because he was put to sleep, but because change was in the air I just did not know it.
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