(Forrest took these photos yesterday of Crow and me on our family Father’s Day adventure)
Wrapped
Entrapped
Bursting through the surface
And gasping for air
A dolphin above the waters
A woman beneath big sky
Ascending to higher ground
Scattered seeds settled
The wind pauses
Roots begin to grow
Twisted in the unseen vine
Back to ashes
Where we belong
(continued from previous post: Growing Back the Groove)
I wish there was a secret, and you might too, but we both know there is not.
It all comes down to this.
Do it.
Don’t be afraid to do it alone.
And even if you are afraid, do it anyway.
That, my friends, is how I grew back my groove.
And gained back my confidence.
And got back in the saddle again.
Though of course I wasn’t usually really out. Just out of sorts. Imagining myself flying out far too many times. And now, finally, I feel grounded again. A firm seat in the saddle. That’s where my butt belongs.
Because it’s not about not being afraid. Because often I am. It’s about doing it even when you are afraid. Yes, just like John Wayne once said.
“Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway.”
And remember this, too. Saddling is the easy part. Riding is where it gets complicated. So get on and ride, because if you don’t, you won’t, and you’ll end up right where you started. Standing there on the ground wishing you could go somewhere.
Get on and go.
(Quote borrowed from fellow horsewoman, Jenn Edwards)
So what happened is this. It started with a love/hate relationship. And I ended up with the most challenging horse I ever rode. My little Arabian stallion, now gelding, Flying Crow. For those that care about such things, his registered name is Fadjurz Ideal and I went all the way to the Jack Tone Ranch in California to find him. What was I thinking?
Was it love at first sight? Hardly. He was as afraid of me as I was of him. For years. Now I can say he’s learned to trust me. And I’ve learned to trust myself. For the most part. I can stay on and get where I need to go. Pretty well. No guarantees there won’t be more bumps along the way.
It’s the journey that counts, they say. I say, it’s the journey that wipes you out some days…
Seven years we’ve been together, Flying Crow and I. Seven long hard years where if he were a man, we’d be divorced. And if he were my son, well, I’d seriously consider boarding school. I’ve wanted to sell him, but how could I? He’d make a bad name for my training, and for Arabian horses. He’s, he’s… how do I find ways to describe him, how difficult he’s been (and still is) yet show the crazy deep love I hold fast for him?
Tiring, exhausting, challenging, and the cause of innumerable crying bouts. And then you look into his warm brown eyes, and all you can do is melt, get back on, and try again. More patiently this time. Ask, don’t demand. Take a deep breath… Settle in for the long ride.
What he misses in size he makes up in nerves. What takes me three times to show your average horse, took me thirty to teach this guy. And then, chances are, he’ll still be scared and uncertain. He’ll spin, spook, bolt and jolt… but eventually, he’ll trust me and go where I need him to go, with his lively little perky stride, which too, I might add, is exhausting after about fifteen minutes of working to keep your butt firmly planted in the bouncing seat. Try that for rides that last two, four, six hours or more. It has been, he has been difficult.
He is my special child. He has special needs. A lot of them. Needs non-stop guidance. Needs coaxing. Needs firm direction presented in the softest way, or he’ll get upset and shut down. And constant attention. Every minute down the trail.
So he taught me to pay attention, always. Be present. Be riding all the time. Hold your seat. Be ready. Expect the unexpected. And handle him lightly because if I over reacted, it wouldn’t be too hard to pull him over on top of me. He’s hyper sensitive.
That said, he’s also sensitive in the lightest of touch. He misses nothing. (Even when you wish he would.) And those skinny long legs know how to move. With the proper guidance and direction, he moves through the trees, up and down slopes, runs across open fields with the grace of a lovely young buck. A beautiful thing to behold.
So for every ride that I make it home in one piece, I am grateful. Relieved. Tired. And very proud. I believe he is too. I can tell by the way he stands there with me after he’s been unsaddled and I brush down his sweaty back, and he’s in no rush to leave me and go back to his herd, but finds a certain peace, finally, standing there in the shade of the tack barn with me.
And as for doing it alone… riding alone. Well, I do it because I can (no more dudes to take care of), and I have to (horses are my thing, my boys have other interests). Riding buddies? Who the heck wants to ride with the crazy mountain mama and the even crazier little Arabian horse?
So, there you go. No big revelations. Just time in the saddle. Sucking up and holding on. Because that’s the only way I know how to really move on.
Yes, I know I will be hurt again. I’ll fall off a few more horses, no doubt. That’s horses and that’s life. There are ups and there are downs. But it’s worth it and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I guess because I can’t, can I? Just ask my father-in-law, who at 81 fell off a horse just the other day. And a cliff, I might add, while training that horse. I can only hope I’m doing the same thirty six years from now.
Right on.
Ride on.
I think I will.
For Kim, who’s got a lot of scary rides ahead of her, but is still able to keep that butt firmly planted and enjoy the ride.
It’s not about the garden. 24 degrees Monday; 26 yesterday; 28 today. A warming trend? I dunno. Still kinda rough on a marigold and crookneck squash plant. I’m not saying I’m giving up, but…
It’s about horses. And confidence. Losing it, and gaining it back.
I’ll start with how I lost it.
I think there is this cycle in horsemanship. Maybe with other things as well, you can decide for yourself. You start out naive. Life is sunshine and bunnies. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. That sort of thing. You just see the beauty of the horse and the fun of the ride and figure every time you’re gonna get where you wanna go and back home safe and sound. But then something happens, and it will, that slip and fall or big buck or slap in the face, and you learn that life and horses aren’t really that shallow and simple. Sure, there are ups, but there are also plenty of downs. You don’t realize how bad you can get hurt, and that you will get hurt, and that horses die, and riders can fall off and break bones, and horses have personalities of their own and might need a rider to guide them, not just one to babysit on their back. It gets challenging, complicated. Some days you’ll have to saddle in the rain. That sucks.
So there you are as a rider and horseman. Questioning. The pretty picture has been shattered. Maybe you are, dare I even say this, scared. And if you’ve never been there, then you haven’t ridden enough, or you’re just some blind macho cowboy and good for you, but that’s not me. That’s my husband. Good for him. But I’m done having him ride the scary horses. I need to cowgirl up and sit in the saddle myself. And finally, I do. My way. And it’s working. And maybe at the end of the day, I’ll even ride better than him. But it’s taken me a lot to get here.
What happened? I think the pretty picture and my innocence was shattered with one bucking horse. Ready to rock on a pack trip, dudes all sitting pretty on the dandy horses and I’m trying out the loaner (now I know why he was on loan). He bucked good. I can ride a little crow hop no problem, but I have zero interest in riding a bucking bronc who knows how to tuck down his head and send his heels far above his butt. No thanks. I’ll leave that for the young men who still need to prove their manliness.
And here’s what I did wrong. I dusted off and got back on. Back on a horse that had a rep for bucking. And without doing anything different. I’ve heard the definition for insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So, what does this tell you about me? Right.
So the second pitch I see myself as in a dream (well, maybe a nightmare) up in the sky and the words that are going through my head as I’m falling slow motion really are not fit for print. I land hard and flat. Whoomp. There goes the air from my lungs. There’s blood but nothing broke. And yes, I cowgirl up. We have a trip to take, and dudes to take care of. Take the damn horse away and get me another; we gotta go ride. Pain? What pain? Don’t cry, just suck up and ride.
My husband takes the horse away, rides him when they’re away from the scene of the crime, I might add, which really pissed me off. Was this any time to train the darned horse, or maybe check to see if your wife’s bleeding has stopped?
He got me a different horse, I swallowed my pride, the blood just dried up, and I didn’t wash up and check my wounds until we rode into camp that night. As the dishes were out drying, the horses on the high line, and the guests still gathered around the last embers of the campfire, my husband lay next to me under our tarp and was still pretty clueless what he did to deserve the silent treatment. Go figure. Guys.
So I ended up with some scars from that day to join with a few others. But the deepest scar was internal; vulnerability. I woke up. And the day was not dawning bright and clear, I might add, but heavy and dark and foreboding. My confidence was shattered. I couldn’t ride that horse. If I couldn’t ride that one, how many others could toss me off? Come on. I know, I’ve heard and said a hundred times that part of riding is learning to fall. I can fall. But I can’t ride a big buck and honestly, I don’t want to. I want a good horse and a good ride. I’m a 45 year old woman. Add that to the fact that I never was a 25 year old boy with a little chip on my shoulder and a big fat ego to bolster.
That was a few years ago. A few years during which time I rode 500 or 600 miles a year and sat precariously in the saddle every single mile. I saw myself flying off hundreds of time, though no one else did, and it never happened except in my over active imagination and under active ego. I won’t tell my guests this, as my “job” was to keep them safe and instill confidence in them. A job I think I did pretty well. So, does that mean I faked it well?
And what about today? Ah ha. Here’s the good news. I’m getting it back.
But shoot, look at the time. I gotta get back to work, and so do you. So enough for today. I’ll finish this story another time.
Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?
How about an old horse?
How about an old person?
I’ll start with the horse.
Remember Norman the New Guy? He came to us at age five, untrained, completely green and a backyard pet. Oh no, we were warned, he’ll be spoiled, they said. Fine, I replied, I’ll take him. And I ended up with a horse who loves people, and was willing to listen and work with me. Within three weeks, Norman was reasonably proficient at pulling, driving, packing and riding. After his first summer working with us, he moved approximately ten ton dirt, and became possibly the highest paid horse in Hinsdale County. Right on.
Canella was our first born here at the Ranch. That was seven years ago. When she was two weeks old, she got on the wrong side of the fence, and a playful gelding ran her back through. Only she didn’t quite make it, and the gangly little foal found herself terribly tangled. No serious cuts or swelling, just a little limp ensued.
But the limp lasted, and if anything, got worse. Her front leg seemed to grow in ever so slightly cock-eyed. Not really enough for most folks to notice, but we did.
For years, I kept the front feet trimmed myself, trying to tilt her leg back in. I ground trained her, but never let her carry a load. My hope was that she’d straighten up, or at least strengthen up where a little swing to her step would not cause her pain, discomfort or imbalance.
She’ll never be anything, they told me, if you can’t get her going by two or three. Why not, I wondered? What’s wrong with starting an older horse?
After years of having her hang over the fence and sadly watch us leave for the high country without her, just the other day, I decided to take her for her first test ride. Seven years of handling paid off. Up and down the mountain she carried me, with the lightest of touch of the lead rope looped about her neck, no need for a bit, never breaking gate, spooking or misbehaving, sticking to the trail, crossing creeks and stepping high over fallen trees. Where was the thrill of the first ride? You have to start ‘em young, I was told, or they’ll be spoiled and won’t listen. Oh, really now? Well, I’d say the bucking bronc or indolent child was long gone from her disposition, and I am left now with a willing and eager partner. Interesting.
If it works for you and is respectful for the horse, why not give it a try?
But who am I to say. I’m “just” an outfitter. No, now not even. A ditch digger. Someone who relies on horses for transporting our selves and our gear deep into the Wilderness, and once there, moving dirt. Nothing fancy. But I am out there working with my horses, making a modest living with them, as dependent upon them as they are of me.
No, I don’t have the fancy gear or dress just right. My jeans are never pressed and usually dirty. I don’t have a particulary title or style or stick to a book. I don’t follow one method or trainer like a religon or guru, though I can say I should be able to learn something from everyone if I keep an open mind. Sometimes, that something is what not to do. I can tell you I don’t like old school methods and am open to the new. You won’t convince me that force and fight are the answer.
Always more to learn. At any age. Me and the horse.
This much I have learned, both from the horse, and those that I’ve seen working and playing with them.
He who speaks the most probably knows the least.
A horse has no words, but plenty to say if you’re willing to listen.
Thus when it comes to horses, I am learning (trying?) to keep my mouth shut, and just do what works for me.
How quick we are to judge, and how foolish we are if unable to learn something from everyone (and every horse) we meet.
And finally, the most important, get on and enjoy the ride. That’s what it’s all about, I guess. At least for me.
Well, really, what I wanted to share with you was about this old dog: my husband, Bob. But I’ll save that for another day. Have a good one. I’m off!
photo taken by Forrest.
For Julia.
Opening a can of worms, or a barn of horses. Let the fences fling open and the horses fly free. Where do I begin, such a huge and important part of my life… Will only skim the surface, like brushing off the last of the winter’s coat to reveal the shiny spring hair hiding beneath. But it’s still no more than the shell. What matters most is deep inside.
Horses.
I wasn’t raised with them, didn’t have the opportunity to ride as a kid, and wasn’t lucky enough to have my own backyard pony. This is not a sob story, just a fact of life. It didn’t matter to me then. You don’t desire what you don’t know exists. I didn’t know a horse back then, let alone anyone who had one. We didn’t watch Westerns, and the mountains in which I now ride were very far away.
I think this is an important point to note. Most horse people I know talk about their childhood longings. And then, more often than not, I hear of their adult distance. The horse, who once held an important place in their life, has become no more than a fond memory.
I’ve done things backwards. The horse came into my life later and expanded its importance, value and attachment.
The horse became my work.
Something I believe in, for the horse is a creature bred to work, not just sit around and look pretty, which I will admit they manage to do quite well. But they, like us, have the inner spirit that thrives with duty, responsibility, accomplishment, and a job to do. Tell me, who has a better life? The person with a point and purpose to every day, or the one sitting idle watching the world go by? Yes, this may be a matter of opinion, with my working class mentality…
So giving up the title of “outfitter” was an odd evolution in my journey with horses. Yet as that part of our business began to fade with the changing demographics and shrinking horse industry, lo and behold, our opportunity of taking on “the ditch job” was a blessing. A prayer answered. Careful what you ask for. I want to keep working with my horses. I’m not ready to become a hobby horseperson. No offence to those who are, but it’s something that’s mattered to me. Part of my identity. I take my horses, horsemanship, and learning and growing as a horseperson quite seriously. I don’t intend to be the horseperson tomorrow that I was yesterday. Today is for experiencing, learning, growing.
My relationship with my horses is thus changing, as is my role of mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend and neighbor. Nothing stays the same. Our relationship has transformed, and continues to do so. The ignorance of fun, beauty, simply sitting on the horse and enjoying the ride has been replaced with the deep bond of time, work, experience, shared trauma.
I have grown beyond looking for a horse to make me look good, and am now enjoying learning to make a horse look good. It’s not about me, it’s about the horse. I look at the few horse people I respect and admire and thrive to learn from them. Watch how they sit on the horse, move with him or her, communicate and become one. The fluid motion, subtle movement. You notice the horse. The rider is no more than a pure and positive passenger, perhaps subtly directing the movement, but not where the observer can note. Yet for those who pay attention, the rider is often the center of attention in the deal, and more often than not, because he or she looks so awkward and out of place upon their back. Those riders still must chose the horses that make them look better, not learn more. Me, I’m still somewhere in between.
The days of just getting on and enjoying the ride are behind, though there will always be moments of that bliss. Replaced with understanding, analyzing, evolving. It’s gone deeper and once you go that deep, the shallow sitting on the horses back is left far behind.
And then there are the cold hard facts. There is so much more to horsemanship than riding. That’s the little fancy candy flower on the icing on the cake. The rest is the feeding, cleaning, mucking, brushing, vetting, trimming, shoeing, training, fencing, transporting, worrying, day to day care and paying the bills for all of this to happen. Compare this to the amount of time, money, planning, preparing, practicing, etc. that goes into making a movie, and all you do is pay ten bucks and see it all in two hours.
I’m sorry, my friends, I know most of you are not horse people, don’t know much about horses, and may not even care. I share this on the chance that you understand what the horse means to me, and what in turn such a beautiful, vulnerable, powerful beast might in turn mean to you.
My focus and attention and time returns now to my horses. This is the time of year. We are riding most days, getting the horses and myself in shape, clearing trails, maintaining routes we are passing on… and finding new ones.
I must leave you now. Time to slip on the muck boots and head out to feed.
For a rare treat, we have dinner plates of perfectly pan fried fresh caught trout on our laps in front of the fire and watch a movie. Julie & Julia.
When I was 17, I returned to the states from a year in France where I started as an au pere and found myself diving deep into the depths of the divine world of French cooking. I figured I would be a chef because French cooking was all I really had, all I really knew or could do. And I learned that wasn’t such a bad thing, either. Went over pretty well at dinner. Alas, practicality proved stronger than passion, and the need for a job just to pay to eat won over the ability (or rather, lack there of) to pay to learn to cook… In other words, a quick stint waitressing (where I quickly learned I was better cooking food than serving food), then settling into office work won out over the Culinary Institute.
Though I’d bet you my husband is pretty glad I did learn and do love to cook.
But here I am still not a “real” writer. I’m still not paid to be published. In an attempt to act professional, I even requested a humble stipend from a local magazine that features my work regularly, and I’ve yet to hear a response. Gee, thanks.
It’s not discipline I lack. I’m all for the daily early waking allowing me time to sneak in my writing before my “real” day begins. In those early hours, I managed to finish my first full length manuscript. It’s been accepted by a literary agent, so I thought I’d be a regular name at Barnes and Nobles by now. But alas, it is somehow stuck in that literary limbo and not going anywhere. “Be patient,” he tells me. Trust. I’m not patient, and losing confidence. Not that I had much to begin with. I’m not doing the “self publish” thing. Say what you will, “real” writers don’t go there.
So, here I am trying to justify rejections, getting plenty of practice, and thinking more often than not now that my book is never going anywhere and this blog is just my relief and release for, what would you call it, creative expression? Oh, I am grateful my husband “lets” me take the time to write, but come on, seriously, what the hell am I doing here? How can I justify the time I’ve put into this writing, and then commit to the next manuscript when I’ve yet to see a penny from all this time spent… playing around with words?
Whatever. I’m going to write. Whether you read it or not. A quiet voice along a raging river. Words that flow like water in my ever active imagination, but get swept away by the wild winds, never to be heard from again.
Last night I dreamed of horses, running towards me on an open field, wild things, tossing their manes in a rhythm of tempestuous waves on the open sea, tails whipping like tattered flags, louder and louder the pulse of primordial drums until I feel the earth trembling beneath my still feet as I wait for them to near. They close in, mob about me, as they’ll tend to do when they see me out on pasture. Coming not for treats as that’s not my thing, but as children vying for attention, of which I still never have enough to satisfy them or myself.
Long noses, round brown eyes and prickly hairs under the round balls of their chins. Their scent a pacifying perfume, a mix up of memories of leather, sweat, and sweet grass. I try to comfort them in turn, a gentle touch on the firm flat space on the side of their necks where my fingers hide beneath the shadow of their manes, or a soothing stroke starting just above their eyes and rubbing in a line down the front of their extended noses, feeling the weight and density of bones beneath, so close to the surface, the skull I am too familiar with after seeing the remains of plenty who have passed before me, with me, near me, in my arms.
I slide onto Crow’s back (clearly a dream, for little as the horse may be, the older I become, the harder mounting bareback becomes) easing my leg over his back and hoisting myself upright with my hands pressing against his withers. There, where I am comfortable, comforted, where I have spent so many hours before. My buttocks firmly planted in the center of his back, a perfect fit, my thighs wrapping around and down in the hollow between scapula and ribs, lower legs draping below his belly, my boots loose and relaxed, suspended as if weightless and barely attached. I reach forward and touch the poll framed between his pointy ears, a window through which I’ve seen so many mountains and trails. I lean further, run my hands down his neck and around in a knotted embrace, my chest to his neck, my nose deep into his mane. And we stand there, nothing more, me on he, my patient horse awaiting word of what I want, and yet I want no more than to be there with him. Soft and smooth and gentle on his warm back while the others mill about, contented simply to be there too.
So I guess it’s time to go.
Again. No, not quite as hard the
second time. It will get easier. It’s all in my head. In my heart, I am nothing
but pleased and proud.
And so Forrest has healed from the concussion, has more
character from his broken nose, and has learned to live with those missing and
cracked off teeth. Though even they will
be replaced before I see him next. Yes. He has healed.
(We laugh at it now, he and I. I
told him to dive in. He did. Head first.)
This is what he does. There will be other times. I’ll be
there for him again, hopefully faster next time. Just as I know he’d be there for me.
Me, I’m starting to day dream about riding horses through a
trail of golden leaves. There are certain
things I miss. My dog, my horses, familiar
trails, the resonance of the late season river sounding as if no more than a
gentle brook, evening light spread horizontal across the top of the poles of
Pole Mountain, long shadows through dark timber and blowing yellow leaves like
fairies loose in my wild woods dancing at my heels. And at the top of the list is, of course, my
honey.
Ha! Home? We have
work to do. Always. But different this
time. Time to pack, clean up, clean out, head out, move on. I am ready. Perhaps
I too am healing.
Rain. Its primordial rhythm on the metal roof calls me, lures me seductively like an enigmatic wood nymph out into the ink black night. Akin to the murky depths of the ocean, the moon and stars are shrouded behind this heavy cloak. Darkness is complete. I stand in the doorway and look out as if with closed eyes.
Suddenly a close strike of lightening, the ranch illuminated before me instantly, seemingly unnaturally as if under glaring spot lights of a semi truck and I can see it all for just a second, the dirt drive, the cabins, the grove of aspen trees and old manure spreader we set there as an odd sort of decoration. Then the blackness returns and seems cavernous.
The dog and I step out into the abyss. Now the rain taps on my hard brim hat and I break the blackness with a beam from my flashlight. The drops of cold rain illuminated like a million diamonds falling from the sky. They feel close to ice, close to snow. A soft sign that summer fades as the tired aspen, leaves paling as their annual brilliant grande finale is about to begin.
We follow the flashlight’s beam to the barn and open the gates to allow the mare and foal a warm dry shelter for the night. They are there waiting, bright yellow eyes captured by the flashlight. I return to the cabin and release a contented sigh, kicking off the muddy boots and hanging the damp slicker by the door. They will be dry by morning when I slip into them again.
Heavy rains, a comforting wrap about the shoulders of the
mountain. I walk the ditch tucked under
the wide brim of my hat and the soft canopy of trees with fewer needles than I
remember each year.
It has been a while since I could walk with her alone, in
silence and peace. Who would guess the
disruption of a puppy would have such an impact? He’s a different sort. Still after a year, we don’t fit together
like Alan and I did. I miss the silent
old dog always by my side companionship.
It will be hard earned, but it will come.
Or perhaps my feeling of separation from the mountain on
which I walk it is more than that. Now
that I finally know we are leaving. I
separate myself. I don’t allow myself to
hold on. It is not mine. Then again, it never was.
Without a new land, a new plan, a new place to be connected
with, I am incomplete.
Have I ever been complete?
And now August.
Middle of the month already. I
have trouble keeping track of, keeping up with time this time of year. I wonder if it matters. Subtle signs show me where and when. A change of winds, of season, of
sunlight. Mid day and the shadows are
already showing. Longer, sharper,
crisper.
Morning and the first frost settles in and across the open
meadow of the Divide, replacing the weeks’ worth of fog and cloud I became so
accustomed to seeing upon waking, walking through the tall grasses soaking my
pants to above my knees as I lead the horses, two by two, from the comfort of
the highline tucked into the trees to their early morning feeding on the lush
mountain grasses.
The hillside is sprinkled with tiny gems hiding beneath frosty
leaves. Wild strawberries. I watch every step, often end up crawling on
hands and knees to harvest a handful.
Sweet treats. How
easy to overlook when we’re too focused forward to look at the ground before
us. Changing ground. Changing lives. Reaping the harvest while it blooms. What a pity if I had missed this.
Gin Getz 