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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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.
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