The Andalusian horse in my barn has courage bred right into her. After all, Caprichosa's ancestors are the Horses of Kings. Her folk carried the conquistadors. She has a heart for battle.
We've ridden together in some pretty tight places up in the mountains. Places that left my head swirling from up there on her strong back as I fought the temptation to grab the saddle horn while the mare simply strolled onward with all the nonchalance of a tourist on one of those holiday bus excursions. You know, where they serve box lunches and Coca-Cola.
The narrow, rocky trail to Lake Katherine that Dennis talked me into years ago--
I'm jiggling the reins every now and then just to remind the horse of the sheer drop off to the canyon way down there below, the one that's filled with boulders so astonishingly humungous that giants must have stacked them there. Their footprints are everywhere. I can hear them breathing.
To let her know that that marauding mountain lion could appear on the naked cliffs above us at almost any moment. And as she and I are slightly more plump than Dennis and his mountain goat arabian horse Miss Morningstar on the trail ahead of us, he'd be sure to eat us first.
I got my first Australian saddle for my birthday last year. I am absolutely sold on these. Especially for the trail.
My son and daughter have been riding in Australian saddles for years. It gives them a sense of security on the horse while still being able to feel the horse. There are also all of those great rings for tying things.
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.
The woman I bought Lacey Jay from when I was in my late twenties was scared to death of the big-boned appaloosa mare. The marbled, strawberry-colored horse knew it full well and had taken complete advantage of the woman's gentle nature.
The horse had refused to budge beyond the white gates of the riding stable for the six months the woman had owned her and boarded her there. During my test ride, I rode the horse right out of the gates after about a five-minute conversation in which I led her to understand that she wasn't going to do that to me, and I never looked back.
That woman was relieved to see the persnickety dotted beast go for the grand sum of $750. She was in the process of purchasing herself a nice beginner's horse with a more generous attitude, and the timing worked out well for all of us.
A chance encounter with Linda Tellington-Jones in the arroyo in the front of my Pojoaque house (she was riding a very cute Icelandic) changed the whole course of things for Lacey Jay and me. I'd just read an article about Linda in an airline magazine on the way home from a trip to see my parents. I'd had no idea she was officed around the corner. Anyway, I couldn't afford a TTouch practitioner, but I did manage to scrape up the money to buy one of her books. And I massaged that rascally mare completely into submission. Of the most relaxed and warm and fuzzy variety. That horse and I in fact became excellent friends. And on the back of my speckled soulmate, I learned the meaning of the word adventure.
In Ohio, where I'd grown up and done most of my riding, my experience had been limited to riding around the periphery of cornfields and through some fairly tame woodland paths and dirt roads. In the Pojoaque Valley, my property bordered native land and the barrancas--wild red cliffs and hills that leapt into the sky above the sandy creek bed and where you could ride for miles.
And miles.
It was, by my standards, and still is today, jaw-dropping rugged country. If you didn't watch where you were going, you'd find yourself in a high place surrounded by deep canyons with no way to get down. You had to be careful not to fall off. Or ride off. Or get run off. I got caught, boxed in, if you will, on those cliffs many times, and we'd have to find our way back.
You could ride through the deep gullies and arroyos that wound through the cliffs like scars or you could go cross country--up and down in undulating waves of stone. I remember that big athletic mare cruising down a steep, slate hill into the arroyo. I can still hear her raggedy breathe as we entered that tight place together. And then it was as if our minds intertwined, as we had to make the decision to go left, right or straight up again. I remember distinctly the horse waiting for me. Asking what it was I wanted to do. And sometimes, I let her decide. She was one smart mare. And sometimes I think she enjoyed showing me a thing or two.
One of my favorite places to ride was way up the back of the barrancas, the blood red rocks that seemed to have sprung from the earth just yesterday and about a million years ago at the same time, where I almost expected the earth to open up and swallow me and Lacey Jay, or for us to just tumble out of the grasp of gravity into the white sky above. We rode up through the serpentine arroyos that got more and more narrow until we were nearly at the top, along the spine. And if we ducked into a canyon on the left, we found ourselves in a small oasis of cottonwood trees and buffalo grass with the ruby walls rising up way above, and the sky just a slice of blue in the cliff's teeth.
I'd tether Lacey Jay to a tree, her girth loosened, or saddle off, give her a goody and a rub, and sit on my knees in the sand, in what was very nearly a cave, and dig and dig. Until I found it.
Water.
The invisible stream that always seemed like such a miracle to me. Way up there in the cliffs, in the middle of all that barren land.
I loved to watch the red liquid seep up from the desert, feel it rising up in Lacey Jay and me.
I drive to work each morning and watch the aspen transform from green to gold on the Sangre de Cristos and the Pecos--northern New Mexico alchemy.
If all goes as planned, this Sunday we'll be riding the horses to Horsethief Meadow, at approximately 10,000 feet in the Pecos, realm of the aspen. There are places where the pine forest opens up into alpine meadows with stand after stand of quivering trees. And I always get the feeling, as I'm wandering down corridors of smooth, white trunks, beneath the high, blue vault, that I'm in a land filled with kings and goddesses and other nobles who nod their golden heads at me and my horse in passing. We must seem to be small creatures from their towering perspective.
From timcopejourneys.com. Hortobagy, Hungary - Tim Cope, 28, who for three years and two months has been travelling in the ‘hoofsteps’ of Genghis Khan on an epic 10,000km horseback journey from Mongolia to Hungary – the first person in living memory to attempt this journey is due to finish on September 22.
On 31 May 2004, Tim set out to travel 10,000 km on the trail of Genghis Khan from Mongolia to Hungary by horse. Within a week, his horses were stolen but undeterred Tim continued with his three horses and intrepid canine companion, Tigon, who has had numerous adventures of his own along the way (including being stolen, frozen and hit by a car).
Me and Miss Long Legs (Pinon) on Round Mountain in the Pecos Wilderness.
No photo can do justice to the sheer scope of this country. We have just ridden an hour up a snarl of switchbacks to get here. The kind of terrain that used to have my flat-lander's heart pounding in my chest and me reminding myself to "breathe! breathe ..." and "for heaven's sakes do not look down."
Well, I am better at that looking down thing these days. Also the breathing part in this country. It helps to have a solid, trustworthy horse for these types of forays. Even if she does like to walk on the outside edge of the trails.
From my little ranch here in northern New Mexico, the Carpathian Forest in Transylvania conjures up images of deep mystery and beauty in my imagination. Of somewhere, well ... else. A place many of us might visit only in our dreams.
I don't know if I'll ever get to travel to Julian and Danielle's Stefan cel Mare Equestrian Centre in Romania, but what I can do is travel through the words of a very excellent writer and storyteller as Julian blogs about their daily life on his blog Transylvanian Horseman. Definitely check this out. You are in for a real treat as this Transylvanian Horseman shares with you his vision of --
Stunning mountains, quiet and unspoiled, shelter a land and a way of life that has changed little in generations. Here, working horses still outnumber motor vehicles, providing transportation for people and goods and cultivating fields. Food is grown and produced locally, using age-old methods. The hardworking, hospitable people gather in close communities where family is the centre of life.
So the truth about my recent ride up to the trailrider's wall is that I didn't really want to go, lest I give the impression that I'm some kind of backwoods adventure woman, which I'm not. At least not all on my own.
Fankly, I thought we were riding up to Lake Baldy (3 hours), having a lovely picnic and a nap in the tall grass and then returning home. But when we arrived at Baldy, my trickster husband Dennis informed me with that spark in his eye (the one that means there's no changing his mind) that we were going to ride up The Wall. "I'm so close, and I might not get to do it again," is pretty much what he said. I wonder if it's because I read him this quote from The Sheltering Sky not that long ago? I rolled my eyes and dug in my heels, whining about how the horses weren't in shape for that and blah blah blah and every other matter of excuse possible. And so my Trickster talked me into it. And I could have just ridden down to Jack's Creek on my own and waited for him there if he didn't. Because he was on his way.
I love the Trickster. Both of mine (Dennis and my young Percheron horse Toby, who is a major four-legged version of the archetype), and just generally speaking. Trickster pushes us out of ourselves and helps us become something more. Trickster transcends the mundane. Trickster laughs and plays and sees what's just beyond the horizon. Tells you to get back up on that horse because we're going to ride The Wall, baby!
Consulting Wikipedia.org about the Trickster-- Many native traditions held clowns and tricksters as essential to any contact with the sacred. People could not pray until they had laughed, because laughter opens and frees from rigid preconception. Humans had to have tricksters within the most sacred ceremonies for fear that they forget the sacred comes through upset, reversal, surprise. The trickster in most native traditions is essential to creation, to birth.
The complex role of the trickster. The trickster provides truth, balance, play, recreation, destruction, creation, change. He is the destroyer of our well-ordered world and the creator of the new through play. It is by change that we are made new. We are all Phoenixes, capable of rising out of the ashes, if only the destroyer will bring us change. Let the trickster lead the way.
Pinon and I atop the Trailrider's Wall (approximately 12,000 feet) on the northern edge of the Pecos Wilderness this weekend. You can see the Truchas Peaks behind us. We were above the treeline and hoping to see the mountain sheep. I've heard stories about them for years--how they will walk right up to you and try to lick the salty sweat from your horse. I suspect the opinionated Pinon would not have been too keen on that... She would have thrown that head up in the air, rolled her eyes, and snorted in indignation. Maybe even given one a good drop kick over the edge and puffed up with satisfaction at the wooly critter's bleating. (Do mountain sheep land on their feet like my barn cats?) But the Forest Service was relocating the sheep herd via helicopter on Saturday. So this is what we saw of them.
The sheep were literally swinging from bags on a cord be beneath the helicopter, way above the mountain. Three at a time. All you could see were sheep heads sticking out of the bags.
It had rained on us pretty good at Baldy Lake.
By the time we hit the beginning of the Trailrider's wall, we were a good five hours into our 12-hour ride. As we started up the wall, we ran into three deer--a doe, a fawn and a young buck. They mustn't see many people up there, because they stopped and stared at us from about 20 feet away. And they seemed more curious than scared. You could read it all over their bodies, the way they seemed torn between leaping off into the pine and planting their hooves on solid ground to give us a good once over. They had huge brown eyes, large ears that they flicked in our direction, and coats that were golden. I'm not exaggerating--they were kind of a golden yellow. No boring brown for these guys. Pinon was transfixed. Enchanted. I think she would have followed them off into the wild if I'd given her her head. She might have dumped me and gone off to join the herd. You catch glimmers of the something very wild and primal inside of your horse when you get up into this kind of country. Occasionally you even get lucky and feel it reflected in yourself and all of a sudden you realize it is inside of you too. You'd like to follow the deer as well if it meant you could spend your life in these high, wild, and windswept places.
Pinon has a penchant for walking along the very edge of the trail, not the middle, and not the top, the edge. And she kind of sniffs the trail out like a 1,000 pound hound dog. So in between my bouts of vertigo up on the wall and this sense that the whole world was tilting beneath her four hooves (at that point I got off and walked), I noticed that the scrubby and very wild yellow roses that grow up there were covered in raindrops. Whenever the sun would peek out from behind the growling and grumbling thunder clouds above, more raindrops than you or I could count would twinkle like stars on the leaves, branches and yellow petals. Like stars fallen to the ground and that just happened to get hung up on some scraggly roses growing out of the rock. Shards of light in roses and rock, momentarily earthbound. Gives you the feeling that you've just barely scratched the surface of this place.
By the time we reached here (The Trailrider's Wall is that last mountaintop in the distance. Yes, we covered some ground), the trail was a bog.
Black, deep mud sucked at our boots and at the horse's hooves. The roar of a high mountain creek reverberated off of the canyon walls as we made our descent to Beatty's cabin to the aspen trees and the Pecos River, and still three more hours to go. I hung onto the saddlehorn as Pinon carried me down the final snarl of switchbacks, feeling a little goofy because I was so tired, and thankful the opinionated mare's so darned strong and has this huge, adventurous heart along with a strong sense of self-preservation. She's a mountain horse.
We arrived back at base camp just a little shy of 8PM. I was very relieved to be back at semi-civilization before dark while the silly part of me had been secretly wishing I'd get to see the stars shining above Round Mountain.
But I did see them on the scraggly yellow roses that had managed to thrive above the treeline, where sheep fly and the deer are made of gold.
In looking back through some of my videotapes the other day, I realized that nearly every time I take the camera down to the barn, I take this same scene. This big black shadow is looming around in nearly every shot, either heading straight at me for a good scratchin' or towering over my kids.
Maybe he's really not a Percheon (3/4) Quarter (1/4) cross. But some strange interspecies Black Lab/Perch mix. I wrote recently about our unfriendly appaloosa. Well, Toby's got to be just about the friendliest horse I've ever known. He's going to scare some hikers on the trail up in the Pecos this summer, I suspect. I can just see him greeting everyone.
Our Andalusian Caprichosa has a habit of thrusting her head right at anyone she meets on the trail, sniffing inquisitively, just being sociable. After I realized what she was up to, I have to keep an eye on her and see who's amenable to such horse friendliness and who's not. With some idiots hikers not liking horses on the backcountry trails (Eek! Horse poop! How the hell do these city dwellers who venture into the forest once every couple of years with a thousand dollars worth of brand spanking new REI gear think this country got settled? By SUV? Maybe Coronado drove a Lexus? Lewis and Clark a Humvee?) and even managing to limit backcountry usage in some places (so I hear), I do everything I can to be a good equine ambassador up there.
I'm going to have to watch The Big Boo. To the uninitiated, his social overtures might be a little intimidating. Don't want my Percheron to get me thrown out of the National Forest ...
(I can see now that his baby-elephant-sized poops are going to be potentially offensive to someone with more refined sensibilities than mine. As far as I'm concerned, they can limit their outdoor forays to the city park with all those nice clean pigeons.)
This evening, instead of longing Caprichosa, our Andalusian mare who's on the mend from an injury and getting lots of physical therapy these days, I decide to pony her from my Appaloosa mare Teyla instead. I haven't ridden Teyla in a good six weeks. But I feel pretty good about it. All of my horses have a bit of that wild as a deer thing going on in the wintertime, but Teyla seems to bounce back faster than anyone. The clocks working against me, and I know it will be dark soon. So I grab my lightweight bareback pad that I like to use in the wintertime, her hackamore, Caprichosa's halter, and a long lead line.
Teyla may not be the prettiest or the friendliest mare on the block, but when I swing up into the saddle, it's like I had just ridden her yesterday. She is as light as a feather, and I can ride her on a loose rein, using only my legs. She cruises forward in her all business walk, and Caprichosa has to jog to keep up with her. I drop Caprichosa's lead line once, and Caprichosa bends her head down to graze. But Teyla, who has no problem being in charge or herding anyone else around, gets right up next to the Andalusian with only a little leg from me, and I can bend down and grab the lead line easily.
That fellow I bought her from for $500, the killer price, sure would be surprised. She's as sure as the sun. As solid as a rock. As right as the rain.
I love that rangy little mare. And I think that underneath all the layers of abuse, her hardened psychological makeup that melts, bit by bit, as the scars are fading, although I don't kid myself, I think they'll always be there, she knows that.
From
the opening ceremony at Doha again. I've ridden my horses in some high
and steep places over the years. Places that make my heart stop. Heights
that
give
me tiny
moments
of panic
where
I have to remind myself, "breathe, girlfriend, breathe." But I've got to tell
you, the idea of riding straight up a long flight of stairs or a steep ramp
on horseback like this just leaves me cold.
This must have been an impressive and beautiful sight.
Uh, yeah. This is kind of what
it looks like at my house when my husband Dennis takes his Arabian mare
Morningstar out
for
a
spin.
Except
that in addition to the masked bodyguards, he usually has a whole bevy
of dancing girls following him too. (Led by yours truly,
of course.)
There's something magical about being swept over
by curtains of white flakes on a brilliant snowy day while sitting on the back
of your horse (maybe bareback to keep your butt warm) and watching them melt
on
his
neck
... speckle
his mane ... cling to his eyelashes ...
Here's
a really good article on how to give your
horse more traction.
Get a Grip with Horse Shoe Studs (Equisearch).
If you've ever wanted to give your horse more traction on slick surfaces--grass, "bulletproof" hard
ground, mud--studs (also called caulks) could be what you need. Long considered
routine for event horses, stud can also kelp a dressage horse keep his legs
under him in ten meter circles in a test on hard ground, or prevent a jumper
from slipping as he accelerates through the turns of a course, be it adult-amateur,
junior jumper or grand prix.
Your husband is sitting cross legged on the living room floor with his USDA Forest Service Map of the Pecos Wilderness spread out before him.
“Whatcha doin?” you ask, as he takes another swig of ice tea, ice cubes clinking against glass, tapping the bottom right-hand corner of the map. “What far corner of the earth are you dragging us to this time?” You squeeze his shoulder. “We’re not going to need machetes to hack through the bush, are we? Pygmies to carry the gear?” He smirks, ignoring your smart-ass comments for the most part. You sit down next to him to take a closer look, pretty sure of what the legend reads just above the blunt tip of his finger. And, there it is, to the right of the crease where the yellowing paper’s been folded and unfolded in all types of weather—Hermit’s Peak, Hermit’s Spring, El Porvenir (The Future in Spanish).
Funny how a handful of words on a map can stir up something all big inside of you.
My appaloosa mare Teyla is made of Snowflake Obsidian, Lace Agate, Fossilized Jasper, Jet.
We’ve just weathered a hailstorm with a good three hours still to ride through this steep country back to the trailhead. The temperature has dropped at least twenty-five degrees in the last five minutes. The kids’ eyes have become the size of saucers, widening with each piercing roll of thunder reverberating down the mountain trail. I’m doing the mental checklist—oilskin coats buttoned up, helmets fastened, a layer of polar fleece, sturdy boots, cinches tight, everyone’s fed, you don’t come up here unprepared—and the horse tosses me this look over her shoulder, across the Bar N that some damned fool carved there, like, Sister, you have no idea the trouble I’ve known. But I have a hunch that the spotted horse could carry me through the bowels of hell without missing a single stride. After all, she’s had a lifetime of practice. Until we brought her home. Her gaze is unwavering. So just sit light in that saddle, give me the reins, and I’ll carry you down this mountain. Her intent is clear, I’ll lead every one of you home.
in the medeival Welsh tales The Mabinogi of Pwyll Prince of Dyfed and The Mabinogi of Manawydan ap Llyr, Rhiannon was a daughter of Hefeydd the Old. Pwyll first met Rhiannon, when she appeared as a beautiful woman dressed in gold and riding a white horse. Pwyll sent his horsemen after her, but she was too fast.
As they were seated, they could see a woman on a large stately pale-white horse, a garment of shining gold brocaded silk about her, making her way along the track which went past the mound. The horse had an even, leisurely pace; and she was drawing level with the mound it seemed to all those who were watching her.
Getting ready to take two kids, 4 horses, and one dog to the mountains (with fishing gear) feels like preparing for a National Geographic-scale expedition. We are prepared for anything. Rain. Hail. Bears. Getting stuck up there. (My survival plan includes Vienna Sausages. You'll eat anything if you're hungry enough.) I wasn't able to find a seat pad to fit 8-year-old C.'s little Australian saddle, so I took the sheepskin pad off of my Stuebben cross-country saddle and innovated. Now he won't be complaining of a sore behind.
I've finally figured out how to get my long-rider, the-farther-and-steeper-and-wilder-and-woolier-the-better, distance-trekking, Arabian-riding cowboy of a husband (a.k.a. Daniel Boone) to take a nice long rest on the trail ride we're planning in the Pecos wilderness this weekend. (Honestly, he and that hot-blooded vixen of his would excel at endurance riding.) Otherwise I will be so exhausted afterwards that I will not be able to move.
Solution: We're going fishing.
I found some very cool fishing poles that break down for carrying in a small, lightweight case (at Wal-Mart, $39.99). We're going to strap those puppies to our saddlebags and head up to one of the mountain lakes, where we will stop. For a good long while. And catch sleek fat trout. Or at least lounge on the shore and try.
Brilliant, huh?
What I haven't considered is how we're going to get the fish back down the mountain. Anybody have any ideas? I don't want my insulated saddlebags to get all fishy smelling. Maybe we'll just catch and release.
What's your inner landscape look like? Does it match the one outside? I know I will carry this beautiful, wild green place inside of me for the rest of my life.
We spent about 10 hours in the saddle on this trip to Lake Johnson up in the Pecos Wilderness in Northern New Mexico. We've cancelled our trip to the mountains tomorrow because of the rain (yippee!) today and the forecast for more.
There are still adventures to be had. Places to explore.
After the storm, steam rises up from the mounds of porcelain hailstones melting against the earth, like spirits too long inhumed. Long white fingers strain towards the sky, beseeching. They caress your face, your hands, your bare arms, until the fine hairs are standing on end as you slog down to the barn on what had only moments ago been a searing summer day. You shiver, suddenly clasped too close for comfort by the frigid air, like an unwelcome advance from a stranger. Manage to wriggle into your husband’s old blue flannel shirt as you reach the gate.
Due to the urbanization of America, the general population has lost its contact with and innate understanding of most animals, including livestock. The horse, in particular, is a unique animal. Because it is large and seldom encountered, people assume that it is no different than other species of large animals ... Scientific studies indicate that the horse may be more benign to wildlife than hikers, nature studiers and photographers.Enviro Horse
We rode at the lower elevations yesterday afternoon—7400 feet! I treasure our wide open spaces here in northern New Mexico. Riding a horse in the middle of thousands of acres of pine and meadowlands is pure, sweet freedom. Since the kiddos are with their dad this week, I took the opportunity to ride my 8-year-old son's quarterhorse Piñon. She babysat me too.
We watched the moon come up over the mesa. Loaded up and trailered down in the silver-blue light. As my 9-year-old daughter has taken to saying lately—Brilliant.
It's amazing to me how the divine is everywhere. In the 80-pound bale of hay you lug to the horse feeder. Baling twine. Dirt. The barn cat's meowling. Hummingbirds. A blue heeler dog's wagging stub tail. Cottonwood trees. Hungry horses. A New Mexico sunrise.
We're trail riding today. I'm chomping at the bit to go here. (I can hear it now— my husband gritching at me, "Kimberly, you don't tell everyone in the world where your favorite hunting spot is, for crying out loud!"). But it's above 12,000 feet, and we're concerned there still might be some snow on the trail. We'll stick to the lower elevations for now.
Today will be an adventure. Maybe I'll see you there!
This morning I want to look at my copy of Packin' in on Mules and Horses, and this is what I haul out from beneath my four-poster bed─nearly all of my horse books, and no packing book in sight.
A late Saturday afternoon outing during which I courageously ride my husband's hot blooded Arabian critter with only a bareback pad.
She is a perfect lady and manages to not turn herself inside out like a cat or flip from front to back in the wink of an eye. I think Dennis had a little chat with her before our ride.
Yesterday afternoon, the kids and I rode the horses up the mountain to visit an old friend.
A venerable cedar.
He lives way up on a ridge above our ranch. Most of the trees he grew up with are now blue gray ghosts. Their trunks surround him like memories along with a few young upstarts, pinon that are perhaps fifty years old.
We’re at Jack’s creek campground in the Pecos Mountains. It’s my first time riding horseback in the high country . Every evening after the horses have been taken care of for the night, dinner dishes washed, campfires stoked, the horsemen and women stroll from trailer to trailer to swap stories of the day’s rides. Their voices carry over the alpine meadow and linger in the increasingly cool mountain air like the last few rays of sunlight. Some endurance riders from Tennessee excitedly describe their ride along The Wall. People gather around to listen. Camp dogs sit on their haunches and yawn, pink tongues unfurling.
While I waited to pick up my children from their riding lessons at the Santa Fe Horse Park, one of the polo pros came trotting by on his plucky little horse, a throng of polo ponies in tow. This was no single-file endeavor. The copper-colored ponies enveloped him and his mount in a flurry of glistening manes, arched necks, flaring nostrils, flickering ears, sparkling eyes, swishing tails like banners. The little herd buzzed past me in a cloud of churning dust. Twenty lively stepping hooves seemed to belong to one creature instead of five.
A horse who knows how to neck rein is a sheer joy on the trail. You can begin teaching the neck rein regardless of your horse’s age. I work on it with my horses every time we’re on the trail. My little rescue appaloosa is beginning to get it even though we haven’t had a lot of time for practice. Like most things in horse training, consistency is the key to teaching the neck rein.
So how do you navigate the change from direct reining to a turn whenever your horse feels the weight of a light rein against his neck?
Recently, 25-year-old Matt Parker became the first person to complete the 4,000+ miles of the new American Discovery Trail equestrian route. He’s also the first person to complete the route from West to East since the founding of the trail.
I took my first backcountry ride in the Sangre de Cristos only a few years ago with my husband and kids. With my 5-year-old son, C., riding behind me on my Andalusian mare, Caprichosa, we began the ascent out of Jack’s Creek.
Daylight savings time makes me grumpy. Just ask my husband.
I don’t see any purpose for these human meddlings with the calendar, particularly as it affects my ability to saddle up, ride my horses, and be outside. Neither do my horses.
, and this is what I haul out from beneath my four-poster bed─nearly all of my horse books, and no packing book in sight.
