Wishing There Were More
I have always loved animals. Always. The household in which I grew up was pet friendly, barely. Mom kept parakeets, but not for long. Most escaped through the kitchen window after serving a brief sentence of confinement in a toy-less cage in the pantry off the kitchen. Dad kept tropical fish. That hobby was short-lived when he decorated the tank with rocks he had brought home after a vacation to Yellowstone National Park. I highly recommend the trip. However, placing the mineral-laden, but beautiful, rocks in the tank with your tropical fish is not conducive to fish longevity. The left-over tropical fish food was sold at a garage sale, along with the tank, the pump, and the capital criminal rocks.
When in elementary school I begged to have a dog. Here’s the deal my folks offered — I could get a dog when I got all A’s and B’s on my report card. When I dropped out of college in 1977, I bought myself a dog.
Growing up in Sheboygan County, Wisconsin, the land of silos and dairy cows, the cows outnumbered horses by a ratio of at least 50 to 1. That decision was made shortly after Wisconsin applied for statehood as “The Dairy State,” when the founders discovered that cows were much easier to milk than horses, and not nearly as good on the trails. Rather than travel, the founders opted for food — a Wisconsin tradition that continues today.
All that aside, my mother did help develop a love of horses in me. Every Friday night I had the opportunity to ride. The five cent ride outside the Piggly Wiggly was the highlight of my week, and included three choruses of the main theme from “The William Tell Overture” while three plastic horses made the circle around the imaginary track. Always enthusiastic about new experiences, I could only imagine what it would be like to ride a real horse!
My first live horse ride was at the Kohler Company Annual Summer Picnic. Ten Shetland Ponies walking in circles, connected by five long poles bolted to a stake in the ground. Like the horses outside the Piggly Wiggly, they were expression-less and walking a circle not much bigger than that of the nickel ride. Watching those beautiful animals walking in circles broke my heart, and still causes a stir in my soul. I refused to leave the picnic until I had ridden each one, leaning over and whispering wishes for open pastures and freedom to roam.
Some years and three kids later, I enjoyed another horse experience. My children and I were on a summer road trip to Colorado. We set up shop for ten days at the Breckinridge Hilton and planned to use that as our base of operations for day-trips around the Summit County area. One of the ski hills adjacent to the hotel featured horseback riding. Real horses, lead by real cowboys! The plan for day trips gave way to the every morning breakfast ride.
We got to have the same horse every morning, and our own personal cowboy. One cowboy for every four green-horns. “Pete” was my American Paint companion for the breakfast rides, and Angel was our assigned cowboy. Angel and my youngest daughter Emilie formed an immediate bond. Emilie was a confident rider, but took Angel’s coaching on her riding technique with a positive attitude. As the week wore on, her horsemanship improved and her handling of her mount became even more confident.
Pete and I got along well. Breakfast was served from a Conestoga wagon that made the trip from 9,600 feet up to 12,000 feet with all the riders every morning. Riders were encouraged to tie their horses near their picnic tables, walk to the wagon, and graze the cafeteria-style buffet. On day two, Pete decided not to wait and followed me to the wagon. Watching over my shoulder while I ate, much to the amusement of the kids, Pete would occasionally nudge for a treat or poke his nose in my back just to remind me he was there. I understood dogs, but was really starting to groove on horses, especially my pal Pete.
Leaving the mountains is always difficult, but I must say breakfast without Pete was just not the same.
Each of the kids got their own, special 10th birthday trip. Anthony came along to a speaking gig in Orlando; Andrea chose Buffalo, New York and a Sabres hockey game; Emilie wanted horseback riding.
“Daddy, it’s FREE!!!”was her excited proclamation. She had my attention. Not only was it a good deal, but it was down in Carbondale, IL. Close to home, easy to get to, and free riding. As the date approached, I perused the website and discovered the fine print. Work for a day, ride free for a day. How hard can working on a horse farm be? Leading up to this trip, the hardest I had worked in terms of physical labor was gassing up the lawn mower.
The first morning’s briefing began at 7:00 am. Emilie’s day of labor consisted of cleaning the chicken coop in the morning, and hanging out with the caretaker of the property in the afternoon. Her afternoon would consist of spending time with the property caretaker. This entailed watching the caretaker take his daily siesta, playing with the cats that populated the property, and, of course, hanging out with the horses.
During our briefing, I was informed my day would be spent hanging barbed wire. Not so bad, I thought. It got bad when I learned post holes would have to be dug, concrete poured, posts set, and concrete cured. Post holes dug with a manual tool, not the ice fishing looking thing with the corkscrew and a gas engine. Concrete was mixed by hand, mercifully not with ones hands, and posts set the old fashioned way. That was the morning. The afternoon was spent stringing barbed wire, off the spool, post-to-post, using a series of come-alongs to keep things tight. The “barb-proof gloves” afforded some protection, but the use of previously unused muscles brought a new experience all it’s own. The hot tub at the hotel was looking pretty good. Then came quitting time — at least for the barbed wire experience. There was one more experience before our working day, now logging it’s 10th hour, would be over. Meeting and grooming our horses for tomorrow’s ride.
The Colorado experience with Angel and his friends had spoiled me. Riding with Angel and his friends was like renting a car at the airport — present your method of payment, credentials (driver’s license at the airport, release of liability at the stable), and off you go. Riding at Carbondale was like picking up your car at the end of the assembly line — it looks good, but there’s a lot to be done before you can get in and drive off any distance.
The final task of our day of labor to earn our “free” day of riding was to groom and prep our horses for the morning ride. (Ha!!! And I thought I’d be done after 10 hours!). We were introduced to our rides — Emilie met her ride, another beautiful American Paint; and I met my ride, a Tennessee Walking Horse. We watched Sue, the owner of the place, groom and prep her ride. After she was done she walked us through the steps as she watched and coached us along.
Duster, my ride, had done this before. When I went to the wrong side to clean his shoes and feet (forgive me for the wrong terms, but I’m an airplane guy. Horses are definitely not fixed gear.) Duster refused to lift his hoof until I went to the correct leg. Right front first, then left front; then right rear, then left rear. I was awed by the grace with which he told me, in horse-body-language, what to do. He also told me how to do it by immediately dropping his landing gear, err hoof, if I was doing it wrong. We walked our rides back to their respective stalls in an enormous barn, shoveled the stalls, laid down new straw, and fed them. Emilie’s ride allowed her to stand along side while she ate; Duster insisted on eating alone, all the while ensuring my view of him was the south end of a north-bound Tennessee Walking Horse. Emilie’s horse nuzzled her a gentle good night; Duster dropped his goodnight at my feet. (Lesson learned, when the tail goes up — Get Away!)
Sleep came easily when we returned to the hotel. Good thing, the hot tub was closed.
The morning of the big ride arrived before the night of rest before began. At least it felt that way to me. Emilie, on the other hand, awoke fully charged as if she had slept for weeks and had poured a can of Jolt over her cinnamon toast cereal.
Writer’s Note: Jolt Cola was born in 1985 and used the slogan “All the sugar, twice the caffeine.” A colleague speculated that “it turns your urine to chunk style, and that’s what keeps you awake.” Pure speculation, I’m sure.
Our horses were already tethered to the hitching post when we arrived. Emilie’s Paint was just as excited as she, and clearly recognized her when she approached. Duster recognized me too, but he saw me looked the other way. I’m not sure, but I think he actually rolled his eyes. Another briefing on the “rules of the road” for the day.
There were no prescribed trails, unlike the Breckinridge experience and clearly unlike anything I had ever undertaken. Emilie had to stay with one of use, either Sue or me. Without a surprise, Emilie chose Sue. Final instructions had to do with me and Duster. I was informed that, as a Tennessee Walker, he would always have one foot on the ground — a four-step gait, I believe Sue called it. For the most part, me and Duster would be able to keep up with them. However, when Sue and Emilie moved up to a run or gallop, Duster and I would be left, well, in the dust.
“Everyone ready?” Sue asked. Emilie cried “YES” and off they went. Nobody waited for my response. I gave Duster the “Go” command like Sue said. He turned to me as if to say, “go where?” He moved when he was ready and, I must say, his gait was quite to my liking. And the liking of my back, shoulders, ribs, fingers, teeth, and every other body part that had yet to recover from the work-day payment for our free ride.
During the course of our day together, Duster and I developed a nice horse-rider relationship. I eventually got in the groove of controlling direction and speed, and he cooperated by keeping that great gait going. We shared a nice lunch, me and Duster, that Emilie and Sue were kind enough to leave hanging in a bag on a tree. We were so far behind them, but it didn’t matter. This was a time in my life when my colleagues at work were telling me to mellow out, and my personal physician was telling me to read more fiction, and wrote a prescription for me to join a gym. Duster and a free day of riding was just what I needed.
We all met up when we returned to the barn at dusk. Three horses, three riders, all intact. After the post-ride groom of the horses, it was time to make our way back to the hotel, hot tub, catered dinner (delivery pizza from a local place that was really great), and some quality daddy/daughter time.
Duster, now there was a horse that really knew how to treat a rider. A wonderful horse experience for a non-horseman.
My last, well most recent, horse experience was unlike anything I had ever done before. Not unusual since all my previous horse experiences were unlike anything I had ever done before.
A dreary, rainy morning in Cullman, Alabama. My business associate June and her daughter Kim were picking me up at my hotel for the 30 minute drive to Arab, Alabama. The mission of the day was to have Kim get some riding in on her horse Reed, while June and I discussed a business project which is what brought me to Cullman in the first place.
Cruise Ranch was a beautiful layout in the outskirts of Arab. But then again, Arab is so small everything is on the outskirts. (I didn’t see it, but rumor has it there’s a sign that says “Now Entering Arab, Alabama.” Says it on both sides.)
Because of the inclement weather, Kim elected to take her ride in the indoor arena. A gifted rider, we spent more time watching Kim than talking business. That’s OK, because the events of the day would provide plenty of time for biz chatter.
When Kim finished putting Reed through his paces, she asked if I would like to ride. With some hesitation, I agreed. Reed was bigger than any horse I had ever been on. A magnificent, majestic looking piece of creation. I explained about my experience with Duster, and advice was rendered. “Go slow at first, then when you’re comfortable you can go faster. Just go around the outside of the arena, close to the fence.” I kept hearing close to the fence. Something important about being close to the fence.
Lap one, a nice walking lap around the arena. Duster would’ve been proud. Lap two, a bit faster with the bystanders encouraging “move with the horse.” Got it, felt pretty good. Lap three, the same. Moving with the horse. Yeah!
Lap four, and Reed took it up a notch on the throttle. (Remember, airplane guy.). Coming into turn three and I realized I was beyond my capability in controlling big, beautiful Reed. “Close to the fence. Close to the fence.” I was close to the fence, and since I had seen it done on TV, grabbing the fence to relieve Reed of his burden seemed like a good idea.
Bad idea. When I came to, Reed was standing over me, staring down with a somewhat sympathetic look in his eye. I did the physical inventory: ankles, check; knees, check; back, check; right shoulder — PAIN!
I was assisted to June’s vehicle by well-meaning staff of the stable. One of them, Tony, advised: “All you had to do was say ‘Whoa’.” Now you tell me. As my daughter explained later, “Isn’t that a natural, verbal response when you feel yourself falling? Geez, dad.”
Obviously, June and I had plenty of time to talk business in the waiting are of the emergency room, and while waiting for the health professionals to provide whatever comfort measures they could. Of course, June shared the story with all around, who found the story highly amusing. Later in the week, I was amazed at how many of the fine citizens of Cullman were up to speed on the story.
Moral of the story, just because you see it done on television does NOT mean you can do it yourself. You golfers out there know how true that statement is.
Having this as the subject for March was initially daunting, with very few horsef experiences under my belt. But the project brought back very fond memories (yes, including you Reed!) of all those horse experiences. It reminded me of the enthusiasm with which I greeted every encounter with these beautiful animals. The time with horses, the time with family and horses, and the time with just me and the horses. Kohler Ponies, Pete, Duster, Reed — may all your pastures be green, and all your stables clean. Thanks for the Lessons. Happy and blessed to have met you all. Would love to have met more.
PS: June informed me that Reed, an American Quarter Horse, is still alive and well at the same stable. I wonder if he remembers, because I sure haven’t forgotten.
May God bless always, and in all ways.
