Carter's story

12-8-14

I saw a unicorn stopping traffic on the way to EQUU8 Murrieta today.

You thought I was crazy, didn't you...

I had a sneaking suspicion that the unicorn was just foreshadowing that something rare and magical was going to happen.

27 weeks ago, I met a six-year old angel wrapped in the body of a child.

Carter is a participant who has such a peaceful presence about him that he attracts volunteers who show up just because of him. He is quiet, but trusting. He has taken a liking to the activity of riding horses, but he also enjoys silly human noises, plastic keys to chew on, electronic noisemakers, and animatronic stuffed animals. His pupils are encompassed by indigo starbursts floating in arctic blue irises. Initially, we focused on getting Carter balanced on the horse and improving his trunk strength and posture, but it wasn't long before making eye contact with him became an objective of his lessons...with the goal being that Carter will communicate.

When the eye contact started coming, it was time to show him how to ask the horse to move.

"Carter, walk on." I'd say while demonstrating the hand signal (in the therapeutic riding world) for asking a horse to move forward. Since he started riding in April, Carter often would ignore our requests instead choosing the distractions of noisemakers or generally seeming unfazed. It will come, I thought. I don't know when, but I believe Carter will communicate with us.

Carter's mother beams when she shares stories about her son. Her assistance and support—and bag full of pacifying and stimulating toys—has helped far more than she will ever know.

So with Carter, the focus became to teach him to equate communicating with getting the horse to move. His lessons have always consisted of making eye contact, modeling communication, and also stops and starts and serpentines (which help him physically to build core strength). He always had the option to listen or reach for noisemakers during his lesson to keep his attention. But each week, we continued to pepper his experience with three steps. "Carter" (make eye contact). Hand signal (communicate). "Walk on" (result of communication) as the horse is led to move forward. Week after week. Lesson after lesson.

For three 9-week sessions, the goal has been communication, while the objectives have been to make eye contact, to encourage good posture through the horse's movement, and to attempt communication.

About 11 weeks ago, I thought I saw Carter motion his hands in a way that I felt was an attempt at the sign for "walk on". But it was once upon a time and I haven't seen it since.

Last week, Carter's eye contact was stunning. We reveled in longer stops with less distractions...and we were all amazed when the day came that Carter began to pet Smokey's mane...stroking her long black hair repeatedly and refusing to replace the hair in his hand with a toy. In his first 9 weeks, he somewhat balked at touching horsehair. He began to tolerate longer periods of time riding the horse while not being stimulated in other ways. He's not super fond of the noodle curtain (it's a bit too overbearing). He likes the friendly faces around him. He doesn't love it when we grab his wrists and demonstrate to him how to use his hands to ask the horse to walk.

"Carter (pause), walk on." (Volunteers move his hands.)

My horsemanship mentors have repeatedly reminded me over the years regarding young horses: it takes as long as it takes. Such is the case with these children and their therapeutic riding.

So last week, something changed during one of our stops. Carter rocked in the saddle as if to ask for movement.

He wants to ride! Excitement!

Today was the last day of Carter's third session, and he sat in a 10" children's western saddle above us, propped atop Smokey's back. At the beginning of his lesson, he rocked his small body as if to say "Let's ride!"

I reminded the volunteers what we are looking for with Carter. The tasks have not changed in all the weeks we have enjoyed with Carter. Eye contact, hand signal, lead the horse.

And as I called Carter's name, the eye contact followed. "Do you want to walk on?" I asked. He smiled and nodded, rocking gently in the saddle.

"Carter." I said, signing the cue to walk on.

He tolerated when volunteers Christa and Neal grabbed his hands, then smiled as Smokey carried his tiny body into the sunset. He squinted until he rode into the shade of the hay barn where I knew he would have the ability to look at me.

"Whoa," I said and attempted to communicate again. "Carter (pause), walk on (sign)."

This time, Carter smiled as he stretched his right hand down toward Neal and curled his hand in the subtlest cue to walk on.

I reminded myself to let Carter enjoy the moment and refrained from asking for one more try, as Smokey weaved around the cones, allowing Carter to enjoy what he'd been asking for the whole lesson.

His smile is pure, unrefined joy.

The green noisemaker his mother handed to me at the beginning of the lesson was pulled from my pocket long after they had gone home.

We never used it during his lesson today.

***

If you would like to sponsor lessons for a child like Carter, please donate to EQUU8, PO Box 703, Big Bear City, CA 92314 or click the Donate/PayPal link on equu8.org. EQUU8 is a 501(c)(3) non profit corporation.

For some people, the path to healing is found through horses.

Riding Hazard Peak

We trotted east to an unknown destination. Paul prefaced the trail ride that he'd done part of it and there were some spots that "make you pucker". Drifter, tired from two beach rides south of Morro Bay, extended his trotting stride and headed up the fire road where we passed Paul and his mare Sunshine, then veered to the right to catch a single track trail that pointed us toward Hazard Peak. I took note of a bell box kept at the trail entrance for bikers to alert equestrians of their presence. The trail switchbacked in tight curves, lined with brush and moss-covered trees. We climbed higher and higher until the trail straightened out along a hillside.
Drifter noticed a doe across the ravine rustling through the brush. The terrain she traversed was as steep as the slope we were on, except hers was covered in dense vegetation. When we reached the end of the canyon, the trail made a sharp right and curved back to the West. We were looking down into the valley, where our campsite awaited for our return. Karin and Alex, Paul's student from Germany and her son, would be there in an hour...but something told me we wouldn't be back by then. The ocean horizon from our viewpoint marked the nearest identifiable location, yet it was a couple of miles away. The sun moseyed westward as we leg-yielded our horses toward the upslope. Paul told a joke about falling. I don't remember the joke, but the punchline is "Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh...!"

There's plenty of room on this trail.

I kept trying to stabilize myself in the saddle, ensuring that I was balanced, feeling my seatbones evenly. I steadied myself and inhaled the warm, salty air. Vertigo can get me in situations like this. But I couldn't tell if I was more bothered by the dizzying effects of vertigo, or that I was climbing trails unlike anything I'd ever ridden (and fear from the experiences of others was on my mind).
Paul casually commented that he was afraid of heights. It wasn't until later that I realized he was telling the truth.
The trail to Hazard Peak isn't totally stressful. There are places that are a little tight, but there are places where the grade in the hillside leveled, and we could look around or take a picture. Paul told me there were picnic tables at the top. Whoever brought those up here was pretty ambitious, I thought.
The trail had curved to the south, where ahead of us, I could see it against the hill heading West yet again, toward the summit. A bike dropped into the horizon, heading East. We were on a rare spot in the trail where the ground had widened a bit.
"I think we should wait here." Paul said, noting we had an opportunity to step our horses off the trail. The biker safely passed us. I asked if Paul wanted to lead, since Drifter is a slow traveler and wasn't as fresh as Sunshine. He told me he liked being in the back, as his mare was being pushy and he had a better opportunity to work with her behind Drifter.
We carried on toward the summit, where we rode directly into the sun as it was heading toward the sea. The silhouette of picnic benches and a small fence sat atop the mountain at 1,076 feet above sealevel. An arrow pointed westward. 3.4 miles to Spooner Cove (which is still another couple of miles to camp). If we go back, we can make it before dark. Not sure if we can do that going forward.
"Christine and I made it here, and then returned the way we came." Paul said and we both commented on how we don't care for riding out-and-back trails. But neither of us liked our choice from here.
We could: a) go back the way we came; or b) go forward...on this.

What happens around that bend?

I took Drifter as close as I was comfortable to try to see around the northfacing trail of Hazard's summit. It didn't look pretty.
Paul sighed. "Well, we could go back. I don't know if I'll ever see the rest of the trail."
Think, Suzanne. At this point, I'm a little scared, but I am on the trail of a lifetime.
I walked Drifter a couple of steps closer. He showed no signs of concern about the slope or that he couldn't see where the trail went either.
We stepped out to where our only choice to abort the mission was to back up...which had gotten pretty darn reliable at Paul's 2014 clinic the week before coming to the beach. Have you ever backed a horse with lightness? If not, it's something to strive for with your horse.
"Oh, we're going?" Paul acted surprised, and rode Sunshine onto the trail loop off of Hazard Peak.
I walked Drifter across a small reinforced section of the trail, where it might be possible to do a 180-degree turn on the haunches. I wanted to take a selfie. Not smart (see blog on Complacency), so I promised myself I would only retrieve my phone at a location where I could safely turn around if needed. I approached the bend in the trail and looked back, shocked at what I saw.
Paul was standing on the upslope of the trail with his hands on the saddle fork and cantle. He smiled and laughed, "I can't get my knees to quit knocking."
A few steps ahead of me was a place where I could slide off Drifter's back. I wasn't sure how I felt about it, because Drifter was holding me together a little. When my feet hit the dirt, we discussed making good choices in tight situations so we walked our horses to where the trail opened up a bit. Fifty feet ahead of us, another biker dropped from the summit picnic area onto the trail where we were headed.
"Wait, let's watch him and see where the trail goes." Paul said.
The biker went toward the sun before the trail took him South in the bluish shadow of a ridgeline. We watched as he made a very slight descent about 1/4 mile before turning west where the shadow met sunlight on the landscape. Seeing that the biker made it, we decided to go forward.
We kept conversation light, laughing about places in the trail that would make anyone pucker...except maybe his dad, Gene.
As we curved left, heading on the trail in the ridgeline's shadow, things got quiet. This had already happened a few times on the ride, but this time was different. The trail was narrowing, where the slope left no shoulder on the trail...not even plants. There was no place to get down and walk. There was no backing up from here. My muscles began to tighten and my chest clenched a pounding heart as my left stirrup hovered over a steep valley floor located some 800 feet below us. While the hillside was covered with light vegetation, there was nothing to stop a fall. Not that a tree or a rock would be consoling. Breathing was no longer involuntary. It became my priority. I've been making some mistakes in my life that have had some pretty nasty consequences.
God, are you here? Help me believe that I can do this. I am here and I do not want to be afraid.
Time screeched to a halt. Drifter's head was low as he carried me, placing one little hoof in front of the other in a slow four-beat rhythm. I felt safe. I looked down at the valley below us and smiled. I am here. On this horse I made! With our teacher!! This is amazing!!!
And after a long stretch of silence, and a few more minutes before we reached the next chapter of the ride, Paul spoke up. "Sunshine just settled."
I shared with him that I had just relaxed a little bit there too.
"You need to balance yourself." He advised. "You are pushing your horse's ribcage exactly where you don't want to go."
My saddle was clearly leaning to the right. I carefully adjusted my seat. With as stressed as I had been feeling, we might as well have been riding our horses on a tightrope.
We quieted back down and rode to where the trail curved right, toward the setting sun and the view was spectacular.

I saw a puff of mist. "Paul, there are whales out there!" I said. On an earlier trail ride, I had shared with him that a very good friend once gave me the worlds biggest birthday gift (a blue whale), when she took me to her office on a research vessel a few years ago, and taught me how to look for whales in a vast ocean. He passed me, and we both watched several puffs of water spraying in the setting sun. We were both distracted by the mist of the whales when our horses' heads shot up. No way they could see the whales, we laughed...until Sunshine launched to the right with Paul perfectly centered in his saddle. A biker was changing a tire on the other side of a bush to the left of the trail.
The topography was changing to more gradual slopes, although some of the ravines might have made us uncomfortable if we hadn't already ridden where we had just been. The worst appeared to be over. More rustling in the brush across the ravine caught Drifter's attention. I looked to my right to see a buck bounding through the thicket.
At this point, the ride was pretty surreal.
Paul informed me of the presence of a biker behind him. A few minutes later, we found a spot to move over so he could pass. He dropped down the trail ahead of us and it looked fun.

Paul and Sunshine

"Wanna trot?" Paul asked, taking the lead.
"Yep."
And we long trotted, our horses extending their legs on a softer trail that cut through waist high brush. Sunshine jumped down erosion-control logs leaving a wake of dust ahead of me and Drifter. I caught myself laughing out loud. Drifter was snorting, releasing tightened energy. We reached the sandy Cable Trail just after sunset, with a pink sky leaving shades of purple in the eucalyptus above us. We let our horses lope on the northbound trail, which we had ridden earlier in the day with Karin, and passed campsites on our way back to the horse camp.
We hopped on the Bloody Nose trail, this time riding it "backward" from our previous rides. We trotted up step-ups and down switchbacks, bending our horses and challenging their agility, as twilight blackened the canopy of the eucalyptus grove.
We don't know if "Hazard Peak" is a good enough name for what we rode and joked about leaving fingernail marks in our horncaps. And I don't know many people who would feel comfortable riding it. Except maybe Gene Dietz.
By the time we got on the last trail to camp, it was almost dark. We didn't talk much, but I noted how Sunshine looked relaxed as she extended her walk through the deep sand. Drifter was soaked with sweat but felt strong even still, with 2 days left for more beach riding and trails. He has a big heart. I'm looking forward to what kind of horse he will be as he ages, but I love where he is at right now.
The Dietz horses whinneyed as we approached camp. It was dark and the half moon was rising. Christine's exceptional food was ready for us when we unsaddled, and the melodies from Alex's ukelele rose with the smoke and the glow from the campfire.
We survived the Hazard Peak loop. There's no going back.
Thank you, Paul and Christine for an amazing experience at the Beach Clinic.

These are days that won't be forgotten.

Patience and Lightness

On Friday, I decided to be better prepared for Saturday's lessons with Cherry, so as a good instructor should, I spent a "schooling session" with her this afternoon I equipped her with a bareback pad and the hackamore (the jaquima, a bosal hackamore...not the mechanical variety that has flooded the horse industry). Due to her severe underbite, I'd rather not use a bit on her. She goes pretty well in the bosal, but last week she was heavy and a little unresponsive with one of my students. She was also in heat. But then she was amazing with another student, following her 5-year-old leader over a tarp.

Trust

I started with leading her and asking her to trot alongside me and transition to the walk when I slowed down. She was quite compliant and maintained a good expression. She picked me up from the fence without trouble. Once on her back, I began picking up a soft feel and waiting various spans of time for her to give to the pressure of my hands taking the slack out of the reins. Waiting with more patience than I think anyone has ever given Cherry, she eventually softened, and softened, and softened. I watched our shadow to ensure my timing was appropriate with my releases. She began licking and chewing after I gave her a big release for Cherry putting slack into the reins.

I rode her and worked on keeping her straight and centered, leg yielding, and bending...always conscious of the need to release when she complied with what I asked. And then I asked with less by opening a leg rather than squeezing her to yield from the other. Sometimes, she moved through the open door. If she missed it, I would bring the other leg to her side and lightly send her into the open space.

This isn't the lightest any horse has ever been with someone, but this is the lightest I've felt from Cherry, I thought.

I need to get Drifter out.

So I found a good spot to stop Cherry with softness. She didn't stop soft, so I waited for her to back off of my hands.  She is a good horse. Unbelievable she's a rescue. Her riders need to be respectful with her because I know she will respond.

Drifter was soon in hand and ready to go. I am certain that my groundwork can get lighter with him. I walked toward him and he stepped away, rocking back to sink a hind foot in the dirt while moving his front feet around. I pulled on the leadrope but immediately stopped and refocused, then stepped away from him and he followed, and then toward him while he kept the same distance stepping away from me.

The tarp has been sitting in the middle of the arena for a week. Drifter is not progressing very well to walking over it. He placed a quarter of a front hoof on it a few days ago, but hasn't offered since. I keep hearing my mentor's voice in my head, "don't make it about the tarp." So as I worked on maintaining this beautiful space between us, we floated around the arena in a dance, and edged our way closer and closer to the tarp.

I felt my own anxiety rise by getting too close to the tarp. I didn't want to ruin the moment, but as I looked at Drifter's soft eye and ear cocked toward me, I could see that he was not focused on the tarp. I guided him away from it and decided that in time, we will cross the tarp with complete trust. But this was not going to be that time.

I got on him with the same minimal tack I used on Cherry. My intent was to ride with "as little as it takes to get a change" and he responded with amazing lightness. But then I became aware of my own lightness. No sooner did I open a rein was he already meeting me at the intended destination. And again, we floated. Sometimes slowing down can really teach you something.

EQUU8's excited horsemanship lesson kids want to go fast and do all the things they see on TV or in the movies. But I think slowing down and letting them explore this is going to be very beneficial. And these early lessons are preparing me for my upcoming therapeutic session that starts mid-April.

On Saturday morning, I started my student with groundwork, then showed her how to get a soft feel and a one-rein stop. She could feel Cherry get light in her hands. She might not know exactly what that means yet, but she smiled when it happened.

I will let photos of Saturday's lessons speak for themselves. It was a good day.

Waiting for softness

A quiet moment

Responsibility and building strength

EQUU8: A journey

So, I've decided on calling my new venture EQUU8.

For equine enthusiasts, they may immediately recognize the word "EQUUS." But, instead, here, the S is closed, forming an 8. Consider "equate."

The first time I heard my mentor, Paul Dietz, say "horsemanship is lifemanship", it "felt" right to me, but I didn't understand exactly what he meant. I focused on the word lifemanship. What is that? Why did he use that word.

But as I look back on my journey from a horse-loving kid, to a horsechick, to a student of horsemanship, to a therapeutic riding instructor, I think about what it all means to me.

I knew as a child, there was something special about horses for me. When they helped me find healing, I wanted to learn more about how and why. And I start to realize what this lifemanship is. And I want to share it.

I am waiting at the county offices to register my fbn. 

Doors are slowly opening. I am passing my time trying to put one foot in front of the other. I have picked up a cute little rescue, on trial and ready to take on her first lesson, and I am starting an Arab filly who is reminding me that every moment of true horsemanship is important. She is impressionable and teaching me to teach her. 

I believe that horsemanship is therapeutic in nature...so able bodied or not, I want to help people and horses begin to heal. 

So begins this journey... 

I never finished my story...

Reminiscing on experiences that should have been blogged.

On November 17, nearly 2000 visitors came to the school for their annual Holiday Market fundraiser. It was a good opportunity for me to say my goodbyes: to the volunteers, instructors, students, and family members that I had met in Connecticut.

One of my most challenging students was there with her husband. Knowing her lesson was approaching each week caused anxiety and restless nights. Each week was progressively worse, until I gave her a choice: today you can ride a perfect circle or I can teach you to turn on the haunches. She huffed and then asked me about the perfect circle. We created a measurable way to calculate how accurate her circle was and it challenged her. The next week, she took the time to give me a henna bracelet as a going-away gift.

JD was there with his mom and sister. His regular instructor walked up and chatted with us for a while, mentioning that she knew I've ridden with Buck.

"No way! You know Buck!" JD exclaimed.

Smiling, I explained to JD that bits and pieces of his lessons had a little bit of Buck in them, like feeling the horse's feet. I always wondered what JD thought about that, because he doesn't have his own feet to feel, but he always seemed to enjoy that part of the lesson.

So my last day teaching at school—Monday, November 18—was a memorable one.

I drove in cold wet morning weather to pick up my friend, Erin, who flew in on a red eye from Seattle to see where I'd been spending the fall of 2013. On the way to the airport, I slid through some wet leaves on a roundabout and crashed into a guardrail, bending the left front rim of my dad's car. Seriously!? On my last day in Connecticut!? After months of careful driving all over New England, including deer near misses (one went in front of the car, the other came straight at the driver's side door in a miraculous game of "chicken"). Sigh.

After Erin and I put on the spare tire and located a junkyard with a replacement, she joined me for a tour of the school and to observe one of my favorite classes...JD's class.

Several weeks prior, JD told me that his big goal was to trot around the arena once. It became my personal goal to get him as close to his goal as I could in the time I was there. For weeks, we had been practicing keeping him balanced in the saddle without leaning into the turns, keeping his horse moving with his energy (difficult because JD does not have use of his legs), and looking in the direction that he wants to go. The morning rain cleared and we were able to go outside, where we thought his Percheron mount might not get so stuck in the corners. The horse was also weary of his leaders in recent weeks, tossing his head and being generally uncooperative. It can be a hard job for these horses. We were really hopeful that the outdoor arena would be what he needed. After some warm up trotting and volunteer rearranging, we were ready to ride into the corner. And then it happened, sitting tall and with forward movement, JD rounded one corner as I cheered him on to keep going, where he rounded another corner before settling his horse to a walk. JD bent forward and wrapped his arms around his horse's neck (again, something you just didn't see him do because of his physical limitations). Tears welled up in my eyes. I cheered so much I went hoarse.

It was my pleasure to see him progress halfway to his goal.

He gave me a gift—a Christmas ornament—a gray horse like his Percheron and a thank you card. I cherish that card maybe more than the certificate I received.

My last class was also a success. Mondays were always my favorite day at school. The students were incredible, the volunteers were so invested in their jobs, and the instructors were incredible supportive and helpful in their evaluations.

We paid a last visit to the Rustic Cafe, and the server, Jen, who had for the past few months been entertaining us with pumpkin pie martinis and the best sweet potato fries on the planet. A couple of the other ITCs joined me and Erin where we shared stories about following your passion, even if it doesn't make you wealthy. I am certain you can be rich beyond your dreams when you are making a living doing what you love and giving back.

I haven't made a living yet...I'm still in the hole with my husband footing the bills. But I have taught a few lessons to a 5-year-old on a little rescue horse named Cherry who just earned her place at EQUU8...thanks to an anonymous sponsor from Seattle who wants to help keep me going.