He who would venture nothing must not get on a horse. - Spanish Proverb
My Horse History.
“In a family, even one living in the tangle of a city, far from stables and pastures, a particular daughter or son may simply, inexplicably, be born with a longing for horses...
A horsewoman I know “rode” brooms as a toddler; Ian Millar, later a World Champion equestrian, “rode” his piano bench as a boy. Growing up in Ottawa, Ontario, young Millar watched desperately for rent-a-ponies in the neighborhood and followed westerns like a hound on a trail. Maxine Kumin, the poet, seems also to have been born horse-mad, and as a child would give camp blankets and lumps of sugar to passing cart horses in her suburban Philadelphia neighborhood.” – ‘Wild About Horses’ – Lawrence Scanlan
The author might as well have been writing about me. I had minimal direct exposure, growing up, yet these marvelous animals lodged themselves firmly in my heart, very early. It seems my passion for horses has always been. It endures; rises and falls, but never completely fades. Sparked whenever the beasts are in my proximity, or simply seen. I liked to pretend to ride one or be one, as a child, while my baby sister preferred the role, little Annie Oakley. I was so excited to stroke the milkman’s horse en route our neighborhood streets, (last, of its time), by pony rides in the park, sightings of the perfectly unassuming draft horses on relative’s neighbor’s adjacent property. I’ve gotten more adrenalin rush admiring the average equine
than gazing at many males of our species; Tom Cruise, the Man-of-My-Dreams, a few others, excepted. ;)
The longtime man in my life pretends to torment me:
“How come you love horses, dogs, cats, kids, but you only like me?”
For all that, I was twenty-something before we, the creature and me, got acquainted.
*
‘Seabiscuit’ - See it! - A masterpiece of filmmaking, every frame.
The book, a fascinating, fast-paced, page-turning read.
The movie has done it again; rekindled my simmering horse-crazy sentiments. I had to rush out and get the book – (even though I knew what to expect, more than once, dazed, amazed, tears welled in my eyes) – And I had to find myself some horses to talk to, quick. I did, and they responded favorably. If you’re disposed to them, you’ll find horses are consistently friendlier than a lot of the people you meet. The horse is a social animal, like we’re supposed to be. This affinity in common is one of the main reasons for our long-standing rewarding (mainly for us) historic relationship.
These days I live in a bedroom community in the midst of long established horse country. The northernmost reach of metropolitan Toronto, York Region, is home to horses, in particular the Thoroughbred industry. Most days, as I drive about on my rounds, I pass them by, grazing and romping in velvet pastures, on green-carpeted hills and dales. So near, yet so far, it seems. I just realized it’s been 17 years since I last saw my surroundings from the back of a horse!
*
That was during the last week of September 1986. I’d been desk-bound, cubbyholed, hog-tied, a captive of the rat race, too long. Stir-crazed. A single, hard-working, self-supporting thirty-something, dying for some real adventure in my life, besides the relationship kind. I couldn’t coax anyone to come along for the ride. I wanted to, simply had to, get away, anyway. I needed a breath of fresh air and the experience of unspoiled wilderness and wide-open space. I would have loved to trek Rocky Mountain highlands or Jackson’s Hole and Tetons, but funds and logistics to get there were prohibitive. Adventure Travel by horseback in the Adirondacks, the next-best ticket. Weeks in advance I phoned and booked a week of Lodge accommodation combined with daily mountain trail rides at Cold River Ranch. Proprietors, John and Marie, were warm and welcoming. With their help, practical hurdles melted away. Sight unseen, they felt like old friends, almost family. Impressed by my pluck, they encouraged and supported me. Could I get there, if I didn’t drive? I asked. That was key. Yes, indeed. An all day one-way trip. Greyhound bus, Toronto to Montreal, then Adirondack Trailways route into Lake Placid and Plattsburg. My stop, Saranac Lake.
“You’ll arrive at night around 9:30. John will drive over, pick you up and bring you out here.”
I was eager. Imagine riding in the mountains. Two pleasures combined, in one.
Now, something you need to know and appreciate -- I was bringing my horse history with me.
The last time I’d ridden a horse at that point was 10 years before.
*
That had been the time a horse ran away with me: Summer of 1976, or so.
An event, hard to put behind me whenever I think of it, I freely admit.
It gave me healthy respect and renewed appreciation for the animal’s size and strength and will, as weighed against my basic skill and simple enthusiasm. My companions and I, with some English schooling, upon seeing the sign on our weekend drive, eagerly took the challenge, “Ride at Own Risk”.
Now, I know better. The indications were clear. I tried to suppress my instinctive apprehension upon recognizing my horse was unruly and unwilling. We, I, went ahead anyway, while it fought me for the bit the whole way down the winding path and longer road to the far fields. As soon as we stopped and looked around to get our bearings, my beast saw the barn and that was it -- More tugs between us on the reins -- Try as I might to hold him back; he had his head -- He got firm hold from me, bolted, and took off, full tilt.
I stayed with him, terrified, gripped like grim death to the seat, but I can tell you, in sheer, heart-in-the-throat, full-throttled fright. I remember my mind being fixed on one elemental thought:
“Oh God, I pray, don't let me fall off!”
Visions of hitting my head, breaking my limbs, or back, or neck --- It was a long hard road, racing by, beneath our feet. I saw the abrupt left turn of trail coming up and prayed I’d stay with it, when he did. Miraculously we made it -- together! In spite of the fact I’d lost the stirrups a long way’s back. What to do? I felt more confident I could stay the seat, but had visions of what might happen to me next:
“When we get to the paddock, what?”
The gravel-strewn ground, the wooden half-doors into barn and stall, in relation to my head, my hands, my knees. No comfort there. I watched for some spongy, grassy, densely banked overgrowth. There it was, just ahead, a spot for a comparatively soft landing. I’d determined the safest move was to bail out. The horse kept racing for the barn as we parted company....
When my fellow riders finally caught up with me, naturally their first concern: “Was I all right?”
I was.
Thank goodness.
Only a slightly sprained neck.
The blanketed earth received me like a firm mattress: A bit of a bounce, but gentle on my head.
Some stiffness set in as the day wore on, so we had me thoroughly checked and x-rayed in hospital Emergency. For good measure – Nice to know - No signs of serious injury.
“You should have seen yourself, Helga! We were scared for you, but you rode real well.”
“Thanks! I can’t believe I stayed with him all the way! -- I didn’t fall off, I decided to get off.” I said.
“You dismounted! You should have seen yourself. You threw your leg over and stepped down, except the two of you weren’t standing still. Wish we'd had a movie camera. It was the funniest thing to watch - though not really funny, in fact."
"I’m just glad we can laugh about it, now.”
That was the culmination of my Horse Adventures of the previous five years...
*
1970 – 1975
Those were the years when I was no longer admiring from afar – Man or Horse. I visited several stables and took numerous supervised Western trail rides. I learned the basics of English riding, got myself a husband, and we got our selves a horse. Our relationship was built and revolved around our jobs – There should be a law against romance in the workplace! - And this shared mutual interest. While I loved horses, as I’ve told you, I wasn’t the natural, fearless athlete my spouse was. I never lost my fear of falling, so, I never fell off. Good riders will tell you this is not a good thing. It’s inhibiting.
Thus, our choices in both departments could have suited us better, but then, what did we know at that point? We bought our horse, Jahil, a 4-year-old Appaloosa, because he was young, sound, and the price was right. That’s like buying a car without taking a test drive. The horse was fine and dandy, but fiesty; he knew how to psyche me. We’d be cantering along nicely, when he’d suddenly start, change direction on a dime, jump sideways, and dash off to the left or right. The first time it happened I put it down to something startled him, but it continued to happen when I least expected it. I had him figured out. He was playing with me. That should have been all right, at his age, quite natural. But, my not being able to manage and anticipate him, despite being able to stay in the saddle, did not afford me comfort level and sense of security. Okay – Let my mate ride him. I had my best and most pleasurable outings on another horse the stable rented me, Sunny, palamino, with a lovely gait, seasoned and steady – when I could get him. He happened to be in high demand.
Eventually, the relationship ended. We went our separate ways and sold our horse.
Some dreams aren’t supposed to work out.
*
September 1986:
Nighttime in the Adirondacks is dark, blacker-than-black, but the stars are bright.
The bus driver announced my stop and I disembarked, with my bags.
In front of me, the town’s historic hotel, and outside it several cowboy-type characters hanging around.
I had fleeting thoughts concerning my potential predicament, but they were soon dismissed.
A voice called out and John, one of those rustic-looking locals, approached. He introduced himself, hearty handshake, and recommended refreshment first – I, a glass of wine or whatever, and he, his second or third cold beer - in the saloon-style bar. He didn’t have to twist my arm. This was really neat. Like frontier times in the Wild Old West. The only hitch -- By the time we got to the ranch it was pouring rain. The weather forecast: A wet week. The rest of the anticipated guests never showed up.
The rain came down in a deluge, kept me awake, drumming on the rafters, streaming and pounding on the ground.
I saw my long-anticipated dreams swimming by, in my minds-eye, while I tried to focus on sleep.
Aw, what the heck. After a hearty breakfast and coffee refill I was recharged, not ready for cabin fever, not now that I'd got here and head-to-toe rain gear was suggested. Marie was tickled pink by my trooper attitude.
My mount was Legs, a nice-looking, mature chestnut, 17 hands high, a retired Thoroughbred. He was well behaved, but I, barely 5 foot 2, had the mistaken impression the ride would have been perfect with a smaller horse. I was a little nervous in the saddle. The next day, a smaller horse only proved to feel too small. On day three, I was glad to have Legs back. He felt just right. So responsive I felt the beginnings of a bond. The rain stopped.
Wet or dry, the trail was to-die-for. The vegetation kept a lot of the rain out while the daylight and sunshine on the dampness made everything sparkle. No vaulted cathedral could compare with the woodland canopy that enveloped me. No stain glass windows anywhere could provide the panoply of autumn color and natural beauty. Through my viewer’s natural frame of birches, tall pines, bent branches, red, green, orange and gold leafy foliage, my dazzled eyes took in the mountains, lakes, streams, beaver dams, the rushing, swelling Racquette River.
I was ache-y and perfectly happy, but in addition to feeding me - what delicious pleasure - John and Marie, Italian, fond of food in portions large and several - thought I should have company. They phoned around the region to find some locals with time on their hands to ride with me. On day four a couple of riders joined me and John stayed home to rest.
After several enjoyable hours on the trails, we came out onto a secondary road:
“How would you like to go for a run? Wanna give it a whirl? We’ll work up to it, then go for a canter, as long as you're comfortable...?”
I had mentioned my little incident, my natural concern.
“Ooookay...”
I took a deep breath.
Trot, to canter.
Hey, I was doing alright!
This was real nice. They checked with me. We speeded up.
They took off, Legs and I, after.
I was fine, along for the ride for an exhilarating stretch. Wow! There’s nothing like it!
Then all at once I missed a beat. Lost the rhythm. Dang Western style is not as foolproof as they like to suggest. False security. Feet slipped from stirrups, balance suddenly precarious, relying too much on the saddle horn -- I was close to panic. I saw my horse’s ears moving keenly around like two antennae, one pinned forward on the distant riders, one pointing back, hearing me desperately calling,
“Whoa, Legs! Whoa! Whoa!”
as I pulled hard on the reins. Now remember, this was a Thoroughbred, an ex-racehorse. I had no reason to hope.
Legs responded to me! Immediately, smoothly, miraculously!
I was relieved and beyond it, overjoyed.
I patted him, thanked him, crooned to him. “Good Boy!”
I dismounted and on-tip toes, hugged him round the neck, when we got back.
He pushed his velvety nose into my cupped hand and bowed his head.
The horse I should have had!
I wished I could keep him. Rent a trailor and haul him home.
*
Wordlessly, the last day, for the full 15-mile drive to town and homebound bus that final morning, Marie drove, staring straight ahead, and I gazed, in a glazed blur at the landscape I was leaving behind. Neither of us wanted to break the silence and disturb the feelings of our final parting. Only, when we got there, eyes shiny, did we make our touchingly awkward goodbyes. Somehow we knew we'd never see each other again.
The ranch is still there but they, all, are gone now.
I will always remember the wonderful time I had, how wonderful they were, the wonderful time it was.
*
“The delicate balance in riding between risk and power still delights and rewards.”
– ‘Wild About Horses’ – Lawrence Scanlan
a wonderful write-i have been fortunate to share my life with horses-from my earliest moments i have been horse crazy and still at half a cetury old, am just as crazy about them
This is one terrific story, Helga. One I can relate to with a touch of envy, though. I was on a run-away horse once -- many years agot; the only difference being, I never rode a horse again in my life. Your story kept my interest all the way. You made me feel your exitment, and at times your fear. It was quite an adventure and very well communicated to the reader. Glad I read this.
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