The Dismount, Accelerated

I rode today with N, taking her on four different loops that she was only somewhat familiar with—she’s lived here for a few years and I haven’t, but basically all I do here is ride, think about riding, and this year, look at the satellite picture to see where I want to ride next, so it’s not surprising that I have a better internal map of the trails. She, after all, is spending the bulk of her time eking a rich existence out of steep, wooded hillsides (which is a romantic way to say she spends her days splitting wood and hauling water). Midway through the ride, she asked how I felt about three weeks as the length of my stay here. Was it too long, not long enough?

It’s a good question, and I really didn’t know how to answer it. The more time I spend here, the more I know, I know, I can’t bear to live in a city the rest of my life. The noise—visual, aural, psychological—I can’t tune it out when I’m in the thick of it. And so my life accelerates to a fever pitch—all my hours, virtually all my minutes, are filled with input. Even when I’m washing the dishes or doing the laundry or driving 10 minutes to run errands, I’m listening to books on tape. Not a moment lost, not a second wasted. It was from the height of that—a story to hand in, a book on tape to finish and return to the library, the house to clean for the cousin who is living with us this summer (much to my joy so I don’t have to worry about home when Ian and I are off dilettanting), Pilates, rock climbing, parties to host . . . oh, I know—it’s not a bad life. But I’m in the habit of filling it too much—and the 24-hour-a-day go-go-go atmosphere of the city not only encourages that behavior; it expects it, requires it even. So in one sense, NO! Of course three weeks isn’t enough! I need a lifetime here! For many reasons I am loath to return home.

On the other hand, I fell off Shadow today, and Sikum yesterday, so maybe three weeks is just a little too long.

First of all, Sikum. Mom and I were collecting our horses from the long grass (they like it again, and eschew the yard . . . okay . . . ), which is a rather complicated process because the long grass is on the other side of the creek (remember to pronounce it “crick”). What I typically do, therefore, is take a halter with me and collect one horse, whichever I can grab (most usually Toby), fashion makeshift reins from the halter rope (I hook the hook on one sidepiece of the halter and tie the loose end on the other sidepiece), then jump on and, using leg aids and the horse’s good nature, ride across the creek to the gate. Well, yesterday I grabbed Sikum. He looked confused when I made my reins, slightly more confused when I led him over to a rise so I could have a better chance at jumping up, seriously alarmed when I did jump, and abjectly terrified when I did the little leg-pumping thing to work my way all the way up his side so I could swing my right leg over. I never got that far; certain that some evil wildcat was attacking him, Sikum bucked once, twice, dislodged me and tore the “reins” from my hand (I was trying to hold on even though I was ignominiously on the ground), and plunged across the pasture. Mom, who got to witness all this, happened to be standing by a gate that he would likely go through since the girls were through it. “Catch him if you can,” I called as I jumped up, fortunately unhurt. She caught the halter and held him there, feeding him baby carrots. I approached slowly, talking to him all the while (“it’s okay, Sikum. Good boy. You’re a good boy, it’s okay . . . ) and pulling more baby carrots out of my back pocket. When I caught up to him, I again grabbed my “reins”, and I slowly leaned against his side, my arms over his back (Mom still held his halter on the right side), always talking. After a few moments, when he seemed to be calmer (he really does recover quickly), I jumped up so I was lying cross-wise over his back. He started, but that was all. I slid back down, proffered a few more carrots, then leapt for real, and swung my leg over. He stood calmly. Mom let go of the halter, I reached down and fed him one last carrot while sitting on him, and off we went across the creek. This evening we tried again, to get Toby and him back into the yard. He didn’t even flinch when I leapt on. Such a good horse :).

As for Shadow, well, I was riding bareback, of course, The Sofa being still quite comfy, and cantering up a hill toward the west and the setting sun. A deer leapt across the trail up ahead, and Shadow, moving too quickly to see well, leapt aside to avoid what was most likely an evil predator. I flew off as she jumped for the brush, but landed not too hardly, and got back on without too much trouble. Still, I’ve never before dismounted quite so quickly or ungracefully from these horses . . . and I’ve never been here longer than two weeks.