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.