I returned to Colorado soon after, with a confidence I thought I could never have. I ended up back at Courtney’s, ready to ride the trails on Smudge that time, but I still somehow ended up in Apache’s saddle, and my grandpa in Smudge’s. Nevertheless, Courtney led us on the bridle path on foot, while we stood in the stirrups in our slow, squeaky leather saddles. The horses were spooked often by barking dogs and mares that came up to the fences with their ears pinned, but not so much that we couldn’t control them. I think Courtney’s lead helped a lot to keep the horses calm.

Eventually, we ended up at the old cornfield where every horse Courtney’s ever owned has been raced at least a few times in their lifetime. I knew who would win that race. Smudge was like old Peter; wild and spirited. Apache was slowing down, and would rather rest than run. I was still happy to be in the saddle, even though my grandpa was at the other end of the field before Apache and I were halfway. I met him there, and we trotted back, stirrup-to-stirrup, riding rather close to the parallel road, though the horses were never afraid of vehicles. Courtney led us back to his place, where we took off the saddles, brushed the sweat off our horse’s backs, and led them back to their pen for the day.

That winter, I ended up back at Courtney’s, and while I had a chance to ride Smudge, Smudge was acting very nervous. In fact he was so nervous, he almost kicked my ass to heaven when I was trying to work him out in the round pen on foot. After that close call, I just decided that it was a Divine sign I better get Apache and ride him instead. It was still a good ride even though it was 15 degrees outside with a windchill of -5, and Apache was almost as frozen as I was.