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| Bill and Wendy |
They have been borrowing Jake for trail rides for the past few months. Bill and Jake seem to get along really well. In fact, when I was booting Drifter's feet, Bill came around the corner into my yard and Jake nickered at him. A slight pang of jealousy was immediately replaced with a smile. Since I haven't had time for Jake lately, he seems to have found a new buddy with Bill.
Anyway, we loaded up and trailered three miles up a dirt road to a trailhead that winds through a canopy of towering pines, twisted junipers, and ancient oaks. The weather couldn't be described as anything but perfect. An occasional gust of wind sang a song through the tree branches and released a few leaves to swirl in my peripheral. It was beautiful.
The horses were all in a great mindframe. Wendy's Peruvian Paso is a fancy, dust-free parade horse...the kind of horse that doesn't appreciate organic forest-floor footing. Still, the ride was calm and uneventful.
We reached a turnaround point and headed down an old dirt road that now looks more like a wash. We crunched over pinecones, fallen branches, manzanita, and dried sagebrush as we neared Belleville. A few tourist vehicles were visiting outbuildings as we crossed a meadow and headed back the direction of the trailer.
I got my camera out and snapped a few photos. We rode through a meadow and worked our way back toward a wooded area, when I raised my camera to snap another shot of Wendy and Bill.
And that was when Belphegor stabbed Drifter with his pitchfork.
With my focus completely on the photo I was taking, my world violently shook beneath me. Drifter launched straight up. Oh. Sh*t. (If you make it through this unscathed, you better start to pay attention, Suzanne.)
It took me an eternity to find where I was as Drifter launched again and again. I don't think he moved at all laterally. Ow. I hit hard on my launchpad. Ow. Ow.
Once I was mentally back in the ragdoll of a body flailing in the saddle, Drifter's triple-buck moment winded down with a hi-ho-Silver rear. And he stood calmly. Quietly. As if nothing had happened at all.
"OK, I'm awake. I'm awake. I am here."
I assessed the damage. My sunglasses were in my lap, camera (sans battery) in my right hand.
They must've heard my Ows.
"What happened?" Wendy asked.
"A three-year-old moment."I answered sheepishly, not wanting to admit how bad I was hurting.
As I dismounted to search for my camera battery in the haystack of pine needles, I momentarily berated myself and then smiled. I know exactly what happened before what happened happened. I abandoned Drifter to take pictures. And for my complacency, I was punched in the gut and smacked in the tailbone. My helmet made contact with Drifter's neck, and shoved my sunglasses into my forehead.
"What spooked him?" Bill asked.
"Nothing." He was reminding me that he's still here...and he's still 3.
I took for granted that we have been doing great. It's not just Drifter's job to be a "good horse" all by himself. Not yet anyway. Gone are the days when my horse does something for no reason.
Bruised, swollen and battered (and in a great deal of discomfort today), I am grateful for the lesson. It answers many questions that I made assumptions about. And now more than ever, Ray Hunt's words as repeated by my mentors have become crystal: You go with your horse until he can go with you.
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| Somewhere in this bed of pinecones is where I learned my lesson |
