A Riding Lesson

Or, rather, two. But don’t worry—people, horses, even reins are all perfectly fine.

On the afternoon of Friday the 24^th, Ian and I decided to take a longer ride than we had previously, to see if I could find a particular trail that I’d been on once with the residents. One drawback to riding in forest land that has been extensively logged and replanted is that everything looks the same—the stump marking a particular path, the bend in the road, the stand of uncut pine or fir—and roads twist and turn so much, following the contours of the land, that it’s hard to keep one’s bearings even in afternoon sun. We did find the trail, however, and it was just as beautiful as I remembered. Two wide, grassy roads run along either side of a small cut filled with varied trees in varied green hues—tamarack, pine, fir; most putting out soft new growth; some dead, but draped with beards of grey-green mosses. Ian was on Sikum, I on Toby, who was in horse heaven—the grasses down this trail were so long she didn’t even need to lower her head to keep up a steady stream of grazing. Every photo we have of her from this ride shows a mouthful. Shadow, to her dismay, was left behind (an aside—I always feel bad for the one horse, either out alone for a ride, or in alone from a ride, because the one horse always whinnies for the two horses, and the two, happy in their little herd, couldn’t care less. Very sad.)

Anyway, we rode down one road and back up the other, then decided to continue our loop rather than re-covering old ground, found a likely trailhead angling more directly toward home, and headed in. Virtually right at the beginning we ran into trouble—although we could see a lovely clear path heading up the hill, directly in front of us stood several pines, blocking our passage with long, scraggly and pokey arms. I hopped off Toby, left the reins over her neck, and started bending and breaking bows. Toby immediately put her head down to graze with a vengeance, and her reins (which are hooked together into one loop) slid down and hooked on her ears, leaving loops at each side of her head. I broke a couple branches, then Toby stepped into the circle of rein and caught herself around the leg. This startled her and she bumped her head up, trying to get away from whatever had caught her. She couldn’t get away, however, and so, being Toby, put her head back down and continued to graze, taking one or two hobbled steps until I caught up with her (slowly—fast movement will, or may, spook the horse into something more dangerous) and released her, handing her reins to Ian who had dismounted to help. Later, when we were almost home, I realized that Toby’s reins are still sporting the repair work Erika fashioned two or three summers ago when she, opening a gate, had left Toby’s reins on her head and the horse had stepped on them, not through them, and broken them. Moral—Toby can’t keep her head up, so make sure she’s not going to tangle herself in her reins. Secondary moral—if the beginning of the trail is impassible, it’s likely other parts later on will be as well. There were a few places where only momentum carried us through the undergrowth, and I was very glad I wear glasses for the small protection they offered my eyes.

Lesson number two was Ian’s. Horseback riding can be hard on your lower back—the natural gait of the horse causes your pelvis to move back and forth a lot, and if it’s an exercise you’re not used to, a couple hours can make you pretty stiff. Ian had been in the habit, as we headed for home, of lying back over his saddle so his head rested on the rump of his horse, and using the back of the saddle to stretch his lumbar region. This can be quite an exquisite stretch—I occasionally employ it myself, during my riding lessons, in the arena, when my horse is stopped in the middle. Both Shadow and Toby, who Ian rode for the first few days, are virtually bomb-proof—that is, a bomb could go off next to them and they won’t care—so this unusual behavior from the rider didn’t disturb them. Sikum, however, who Ian was riding this day, is not. For one thing, is belly is ticklish, and one piece of long grass can set him off. And at this time of year, long grass is not hard to come by. For another, he’s fairly young—only six—and hasn’t had the breadth of experience that the mares have. For a third, this particular evening, we had just passed a herd of cows—one or two nurse cows and several calves—and Sikum was already a little jumpy. And he was headed for home.

So, up ahead (it takes longer to walk if you’re grazing, so Toby is invariably several paces behind) I see Ian lay back on Sikum. I start to call out “Um, I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea,” but all I have time to say is “Um,” before I have to change it to “Ohmygodareyouokay?!!” because Sikum has spooked and tossed Ian into the brush at the side of the road, and jumped away, to dance around just out of reach (an aside—for all that Sikum spooks easily, he also recovers quickly. He didn’t race in a blind panic for home, just began to graze). I had images of Ian’s lower back having been destroyed by his posture on the horse at time of forced dismount, and therefore needing to stay with him or get help or something, and competing images of Sikum racing away and somehow getting a leg caught in his reins and broken or not finding his way home, or finding his way home and getting tangled in the barbed-wire gate that was open but that he still could get caught in, and therefore needing to go directly to him and get him . . . Ian assured me he was okay, though, so I left him lying in the dirt for a minute while I rode after Sikum. He, though, realizing I was on horseback and therefore thinking everything was probably okay and he should just head home, continued on. Ian realized he really was basically fine and walked up to me on Toby, and then held her (lesson number one in action) while I got off and went after Sikum on foot. Once he realized I was walking, he seemed to understand that there should be someone on him and so he waited for me to catch him. We met back up with Ian and Toby, Ian mounted (the proverbial “always get back on the horse”), I mounted, and we made it home without further mishap.

Lesson number two, therefore, is that horses are unpredictable. Things startle them that wouldn’t startle us. For Sikum, the combination of Ian’s head weirdly on his rump and grass tickling his belly were too much and he had to get away. Lesson number two, part two is that, even if you haven’t done it before or recently, you can fall off your horse. Ian can’t remember ever having fallen off a horse before, and we’re both very glad that his one experience was so minor—and even so, it taught him a lot.

That night, as we were looking over our pictures from the day, we came upon some video footage Ian had taken, just after meeting the cows and just before his accident. The film shows a fat red cow running, tail cocked, up the road. It’s clear from the bouncing of the video and the appearance, now and then, of Sikum’s ears in the shot, that Ian is trotting along, not really in control of either horse or camera. “I probably shouldn’t do things like this anymore, either,” said Ian, laughing.