I love this photo of Harry the Horse. Reminds me of me and my big Percheron.

Toby, my just turned five-year-old percheron, and I don't venture too far from home unless we've got the grownup company of Dennis and another good, solid horse. In our case, all mares. And in Dennis' case, specifically, a 14-year-old Polish arabian mare who is an all around trail veteran and mountain goat. Who also, by the way, never seems to get tired. I've seen her carry Dennis and one of our then-five-year-old kids through mountain passes and across rushing rivers at 8,000 feet up in the Pecos mountains, and maintain the same proud carriage and sane sensibility all day long.

When we ride with Toby, that little Arabian meets her match.

What is it about young horses? Sometimes they are simply delightful. And sometimes all of that youngster energy makes them a pain in the ass. Usually, it's a blend of the two--

Brilliance and bull.

The first half and hour out along a brand new route, Toby pranced and trotted, pranced and trotted, started and stopped, blew hot air through his nostrils at the scary things, then after letting me know that Mr. K.'s old lawn chair in the front of his crumbling adobe house was probably going to eat us up at about any moment now, he marched by nonplussed. The routine is this--the big horse stops like a stone statue, blows, stares, let's me know he's not happy about whatever it is he's looking at or imagines he sees, I put my hand on his jar-head, marine-worthy neck, tell him we're safe, and suddenly satisifed, on the draft horse goes without a hitch.

45 minutes into the ride, he'd slowed to a walk, and was sweaty and frothy. With that winter coat in our unusually warm November weather, he had sweat rolling down his muzzle. I could feel his sides heaving in and out, heart pounding, not because he was all that tired, mind you. This is sheer excitement.

Yeah, it was sheer excitement for me too, perched up there on that broad back like a little doll when I'd lose that occasionally elusive deep seat in the rough terrain. And for Dennis and his Arabian, who'd been trotting and cantering to keep up with the living, breathing steam engine. Miss Morning Star did look a bit annoyed at Toby's sheer enthusiasm. Although she wasn't tired. And even if she was, the gritty critter would never fess up. (Nor would her equally gritty rider.)

We got Toby back and forth successfully through one of the big train tunnels (beneath the tracks). I led him through the hundred-year-old structure the first time, his giant hooves echoing clip clop clip clop, tenacious heeler sisters panting at his heels, taking very seriously their job as our escorts and protectors, and he didn't bat an eyelid (more than once or twice). Sometimes I think that horse would follow me through hell if the situation warranted it. This is good. This is the attitude I want in a mountain horse.

All in all, it was a successful outing. I wish I had more time to spend with the youngster. We'd be a lot further along if I did. What Toby needs is to work cattle, plow a field, pull a cart, haul stuff in panniers for miles, to flatten him out a bit and get him a little more sensible. Although I do love his sense of go and forwardness, and don't want to lose that.

You do the best you can with the time and resources you've got, I guess. We've got seven months before the mountains. We'll do some serious training rides on the mesa this winter. Although Toby's enthusiasm for the steers up there, where he likes to trot behind them and push them through the waves of grass (or is he just chasing something interesting?), makes me think I've got a percheron with a little "cow" in him.

Now just imagine that.