Note: this is a pretty rough draft of many stories I have from my days of riding horses. It's pretty scattered, but I'll probably come back to edit this later. I'm just tired tonight. My mom's been pushing me to begin writing my memoir, and she reminded me how the country has helped me through life; more specifically, horses. I hope to add some of this stuff in my memoir when I actually start writing (whenever that is, since I'm easily distracted by other things when I get new ideas).
For most of my life, I've been around horses. My great aunt Sharon and her husband, Courtney, have owned a few in the last 15 years or so. Courtney uses his horses as pack animals for hunting, and I use them to get better at riding and working with horses. Geldings are the easiest to work with, and Courtney's horses have helped me to better learn and understand horse language ever since I was little. I've learned things in both easy ways and hard ways.
I'll always remember the time I was thrown off one of his horses when I was no more than 8 years old. It was entirely my fault. I was getting warm, so I decided to take off my jacket. Courtney had previously warned me about how horses react to sudden movements, but I never expected the horse to spook at just the motion of my arms. Well, Apache did spook, and I face-planted into the ground. I got up, and started crying because I was bleeding profusely from my nose and mouth, which scared me. Courtney retrieved me and carried me into the house. That's all I remember, but I was ok. It was a hard lesson, but ever since then, I've been much more careful around horses, especially when I'm in the saddle. I haven't been thrown off since.
Over time, I've gotten more comfortable around horses. I've taken lessons in both English and Western riding styles for years, from people like my great uncle and trained professionals. I've learned how to groom horses, care for their hooves, feed them, bathe them, clean up after them, and move them around. It's a lot harder than it looks, but once you get the hang of it, then it's usually pretty easy.
Courtney's horses grew to love me actually. Usually, catching a horse in a 3 acre pasture is a nightmare, but for some reason, Pete, Smudge, and Apache all came galloping over when they heard my voice. I rode Pete until I got a call that Pete died of old age. I started riding Apache again, but I quickly realized that Apache was a boring horse to ride since he almost never cantered, so I started riding Smudge.
Smudge was a pretty decent horse. Sure, he liked to test me sometimes, but a testy gelding isn't what I'd call "testy" at all in the horse world. He just didn't like to stop cantering when I got him started, and he'd finally stop so fast I'd have to wrap my arms around his neck. Smudge would just look back at me like he was completely innocent, and I was just being the weird one as I pushed myself back into the saddle.
A few years ago, I was volunteering for a family with a newborn who had about 70 rescue horses. I was one of three volunteers, plus the husband. So, there were four of us to take care of 70 rescue horses in four hours a weekend. While some of the horses were decent, others were considered dangerous. One horse in particular, a pretty pinto called Tex, nearly hoofed the husband to the ground. When I heard the man shout, and saw Tex charging out of his shelter with his ears pinned, I abandoned what I was doing, rushed the pen with the pitchfork, banged the pitchfork against the iron fence and shouted "Hey! Hey! HEY!" to spook Tex before he could do any damage. Tex was just about to make contact with the husband's back when I shouted, and that horse threw himself to the far side of his pen with terror in his eyes. I only saw that horse that one day, and I didn't see him again afterwards. No horse is a bad horse, but some are so traumatized that you can't really reach them after a certain point. A terrified 1,000 pound animal, with rocks for feet and tree clippers for teeth, can and will kill a threat almost instantly if allowed. So, horses like Tex are usually put down. I don't like to think that I did, but I likely saved the husband's life that day.
Some of the horses were so sweet, that I could hardly get my job done since the horses would press their heads against me, demanding attention. One such horse only had one eye, and he'd press his blind side against my body as I worked. Other horses were playful, and liked to canter around, buck, whinny, and half-rear at me as I worked. I could tell they were just playing, since their ears were forward and tails were high, but I still had to chase them off so they wouldn't hurt me. I can't play with a horse quite like that. I've seen videos of people trying to play with their horses, and more often than not, that never ends well.
I didn't volunteer at that place for long; mostly because I was moving to the western side of town and it would be too far. But the people I worked for thanked me with an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies, which were some of the best cookies I've ever had. I miss volunteering at that place, but I've since been provided three more horses to work with, and all three are mares with their own personalities and difficulties.
My little brother's dad, Clarke, lives in Elizabeth, Colorado, in the basement below his roommates. His roommates own three mares, which I took care of a few times while they were away. As long as I help out, I'm allowed to ride. But, for some unfortunate reasons, I've only ridden once in the year Clarke has lived there.
Summer is the mare I'm supposed to be riding. While the roommates' son is out-of-state with his mom during the school year, I'm supposed to be riding Summer, so she'd be tamed for when the 10-year-old returns for the summer. The roommates gave me a saddle and everything I needed to ride, but of course, the lead mare, Artimus, had to ruin it for me.
Artimus is a testy mare. She's in her "teenage years" in horse years, so naturally she's gonna find ways to mess with all of us. Her partner-in-crime, Melody, does whatever she does. Melody is the sweetest mare I've ever met, but once Artimus gets to her, she'll do whatever Artimus is doing, not what anyone else wants her to do. Artimus always tried to escape, and Melody isn't far behind. When Artimus started to bully Summer, Melody joined in. Last fall, Artimus kicked Summer in the back leg and broke a small bone in Summer's left hock (which is the back knee). Summer was lame for the fall and most of the winter, but luckily she healed and I was able to ride her once. It was a short but pleasant ride, and I got to get a feel for Summer's riding style. She was a little testy, but she behaved for the most part.
Clarke's roommates offered to take me along when they worked cows in the summer. All the mares are cowhorses, and I've always wanted to work cattle on horseback. I've worked cows on foot and on ATVs, but never have I worked cows the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately, just as summer began, Artimus kicked Summer again, and now I think she is permanently lame. So much for those plans! At least I can look forward to a new horse, and I hope they choose a gelding that has a riding style I'm familiar with.
That seems like a short life around horses, but that was just a brief rundown that hardly scratches the surface.
I took English riding lessons for nearly three years. The horse I rode was a mare called Zayda, or something like that. She was huge; part quarter horse, part Budweiser Clydesdale. My teacher would make me catch Zayda in the pasture, regardless of the weather, bring her in, pick her hooves, groom her, and then saddle her in under 20 minutes. We'd then go into the indoor arena for lessons. At first they were simple lessons, but as I got better, the lessons got harder. But, I moved away just as I started doing short, simple jumps on Zayda, which really didn't feel like short, simple jumps with a horse her size. Zayda wasn't a hard mare to deal with, thank God. She was a retired police horse, which made things way easier. She was trained to be bomb proof and listen to humans no matter what. While I got a lot of useful knowledge, I always thought that the English style of riding was too disciplined. So, I quickly went back to western riding.
Around this time, my grandpa Lyle was preparing to take me to his childhood farm in North Dakota for the first time. I don't remember too much of the trip. It was just me and him, and we did a lot of fishing, shot off a lot of fireworks, and somehow convinced the neighbor, named Steve, to take us for a horse ride. It was early morning when we got there. The morning mist hadn't quite burned off yet. Steve already had three of his horses saddled and ready to go when we arrived, and he was standing next to his horses with his cattle dog by his side. Steve is very much a cowboy. He had over 300 cows at that time, and even now he's maintained a herd of the same size. He wasn't gonna put us to work, but he was gonna drag us out of our comfort zone.
He gave my grandpa a not-so-obedient buckskin mare, and I was given a typical chestnut ranch horse, who was ready and waiting to work. Steve rode the buckskin mare's sister, and the three of us set off into the North Dakota sun rise, towards several plowed fields. The first signs of trouble began on the driveway. The mares were testing Steve and my grandpa, while my horse just stood by and tried not to fall asleep. Eventually, my horse found some grass, and he refused to move out of the ditch! No matter how much I heeled him and tried to pull his big head back up, he didn't budge, and Steve had to help discipline my horse once he had his mare under some sort of control. By discipline, I really mean he just pulled my horse out of the ditch by the bridle and called it good. After that little incident, the ride was actually quite smooth. My grandpa and I got a little wild at times. We'd race our horses from one end of the field to the other. It was unclear who was the winner, since my horse didn't go past a canter, and grandpa's mare would dart off in random directions for no apparent reason, and I'd go chasing after them. Steve probably thought we were just being immature, since he was trotting silently with his cattle dog by his side, saying nothing and showing no emotion. It had been awhile since me and grandpa had time in the saddle, so we wanted to have some fun.
Steve trusted we knew what we were doing, and we wouldn't fall off and lose his prized horses. I guess grandpa never told him any stories, such as when grandpa was my age and gathered his friends on horses to play a little game of "cowboys and indians". Well, that didn't go well. All the horses spooked, and it took hours for everyone to get them back. My grandpa also tried to ride a horse that hadn't been ridden in a year, by just haltering it and jumping on its back. My grandpa nearly broke his nose when that horse suddenly reared up, and smashed his neck against my grandpa's face. There's plenty of other mishaps my grandpa's had with horses, but luckily none of them turned out badly for anyone. If Steve would've known these, I don't think he would've taken us on the free range.
But, we returned to Steve's farm on tired horses, and Steve was very glad we "worked the hell outta 'em." I hope to ride those horses again, but to say Steve is a busy cowboy would be an understatement.
The last time I rode horses with grandpa was a couple years ago. Courtney invited us to his place to ride horses and have a dinner of pronghorn steaks and wild goose sausage. When we got there, Courtney made me catch his horses, since his horses made it easy for me to catch them. He then made me groom and saddle the horses. Me and grandpa would be on horseback, and Courtney would lead on foot since his horses weren't exactly bombproof.
Apache only spooked once when a white donkey came around the corner of a barn, he-hawing its heart out. But I held the reins tightly back, and Apache forgot about the donkey a few minutes later. Grandpa, on the other hand, almost got thrown off. There was a sign laying down in the mud. For some strange reason, Smudge didn't see it until he was right above it. That horse reared and jumped to the left faster than I could blink. Grandpa held on, but Courtney had to hold Smudge steady while grandpa moved the saddle back to its middle position. I made sure Apache knew that sign was laying there before I walked him over it.
Courtney lead us to a wide open plowed field, and told us to work the horses until their heads were low and their eyelids were droopy. We did. Apache was never a fast horse, and Smudge was never a slow horse, so grandpa just left me in the dust and started racing the cars that were driving on a road parallel to the field. I turned Apache around and trotted him towards Courtney while my grandpa galloped Smudge to the other end of the field and back to us. When we returned to Courtney's house, the horses were about ready to collapse from exhaustion. Even we were drenched in sweat and dirt, and I had a severe case of the saddle legs. My grandpa basically had to drag me out of the saddle, because I couldn't get my right leg over Apache's back.
I kinda forgot where I was going with this since I left it. But I think horses are a metaphor in my life for something else.
Like people, every horse is unique. They each have their own personality, their own look and size. And damaged horses tend to gravitate towards damaged people. I don't know why, but that seems to be a common theme. Every horse has their quirks and things that they're afraid of (such as the dreaded plastic bag in the breeze). And, even if they're extremely aggressive and dangerous to the point of being put down, every horse is a good horse. Some horses are just so scarred that they only know two things: fight and flight. And all this can be said for people too.
