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.

Finding Direction from the Circle of Horsemen

And someone you never meet
Signs a check you get every week
You try and you still can't forget
All the strangers that you have met
~Patty Griffin "Florida"

I have a job. Grateful in this economy to be sure. I get a couple of paid weeks per year to do with as I please. Certainly half seem to go toward my horsemanship. I try not to get sick so I can ensure I have days to ride and learn. At times I will stare at my computer screen...the programming codes and fields fill each pixel with strict data, but my mind is in the dust amidst the cattle, horses, herringbone vests, and vaquero hats.

It's a passion that has lead to growth within my own tiny orbit within this universe.

A bit of history.

Discovering personal integrity
I met Paul Dietz in 2006. Jake was 3. Looking back, I was inadvertently a horrible horsewoman by my own present assessment. I was a hack; the kind of rider that makes me cringe now. It wasn't that I meant to be that way, it was just the way I had been taught. I was the queen of cracking a whip when lunging my horse in endless mindless circles that merely taught him to tune me out and build up endurance for plenty of trouble when I sat on his back. And that's not even touching my heavy-handedness.

In the clinic, Paul spoke of his mentors. Not just Buck, but Ray and Tom. I knew the names from Kathy, but back in those days she gave me bits and pieces and then waited to see if I would eventually find it. I went through the motions of the foundation class, not really understanding why we were doing it. The explanations were foreign. My hands clumsily fumbled with the leadrope, switching hands...moving hindquarters...walking the horse along the fence and back. It was foreign. And all I knew when I met Paul is that things had to change, as I had recently bought a horse that I had committed to start myself. I was one of two people who left that first clinic with enough information to know that I needed more.

What I remember most about that first clinic isn't something I am proud of. But it was a necessary experience that sent me down this path. Jake gave me some trouble as I went to get in the saddle on the second day. It was somewhat of a buck or a kick, but I'd had it with his behavior and I removed myself from the clinic to go out to the back lot to lunge him. With a whip. Aggressively. He wasn't moving fast enough. I knew what I was doing...I was being vengeful and spiteful and "showing Jake who was his boss". After I was satisfied that I had wore him out to the point where I felt I could get back on him, I returned to the arena. During a break, I complained to Paul about Jake's behavior. Paul asked me what I was trying to accomplish outside of the arena.

I insecurely argued, making excuses that Jake tried to buck me off. Paul didn't take my side.

"I saw what you did." He said frankly.

End of conversation. I shut down. I was mad, but he was right. And I had to chew on that for a year or so. When Paul says he is there for your horse, he means it.

No one stood up for Jake that day but Paul.

And for a couple of years to follow, there were many times I needed Paul put a mirror in front of me ("Why do you have him in a twisted-wire snaffle?" he asked me once)...to end my bouts of vengeance and whip-cracking, which only brought out a fight in Jake. That horse was not one to submit to spur, whip, or lungeline.

People didn't like Jake. Comments that he should have been dog food...glue...or shot were not uncommon. He was described as intimidating. I called him Turd. I had been praised for having the patience of a saint. Looking back, Jake was the one with patience.

It's hard to hear the truth sometimes, but only when you are open to it, can you grow.

The sponsor that year packed the arena with the best of intentions in trying to get a good base of clientele for Paul in our area, but it was overcrowded to the point that people felt as if they didn't get enough "time" for their money. Some students badly misbehaved against their horses. That had to have been hard for Paul to see. Despite taking a hit from that clinic, he returned.

The first couple of clinics, Paul seemed a bit stoic to me. Perhaps he was wary of me (as I certainly didn't make the best first impression). But as I got to know him as a teacher, and eventually as a friend, he really is just trying to help people's horses get a better deal.

And over the next few years, I kept coming back as a student who was looking for information...but came out the other side with something more profound than just horsemanship. You won't believe what you might believe if you put enough energy into something. And that goes for positive and negative energy.

In 2008, Paul called and asked, "So...are you coming to Buck's?"

"No, I'm still trying to understand what you are teaching."

Paul's 2008 clinics came and went, and things were slowly getting better with Jake. But they definitely weren't consistent. I still had a lot of force (the "get after him" mentality that was ingrained in my head as a teenager learning to ride) that I was trying to tame within myself. At times, I would walk out to the corrals where Jake was pacing and rearing, wild-eyed as a caged tiger; it was an easy decision to grab my old Arab, Buddy. Some days, I just didn't have it in me to get Jake out. I couldn't go to war every day, but if I had been able to comprehend that war shouldn't have even been in the lesson plan to begin with, I might have had better luck.

In 2009, Paul called and asked, "So...are you coming to Buck's?"

"No, I'm still trying to understand what you are teaching."

But then Kathy called and told me she was thinking about going and asked if I wanted to join her. Road trip! Of course...and with Travis's blessing, the check was sent and the time counted down until...

Tragedy.

News hit that Ray Hunt had passed away on March 12, 2009. A man who had become legendary while he was still alive, Buck and Paul were among Ray's close friends and family who were there for Ray's funeral. There was concern that the clinic would be canceled, but Buck rode into the New River, AZ arena on March 27, 2009.

Being the first clinic of Buck's I had attended, I quickly observed that his presence filled the arena when he rode in.

As the morning session began, one of the riders asked Buck how he was doing since Ray's passing. His reply made me wish I had not missed out on seeing Ray in person. Heartbreak in his voice, a lump in his throat, Buck spoke softly and respectfully about the man who inspired and taught him.

My relationship with Jake would crescendo at this 2009 clinic.

The wind was sharp and aggressive that weekend. It cut through horses' coats and humans' clothing. Jake was buddy-sour to Kathy's mare, Chic. I could barely keep him bent to disengage his hindquarters to save myself from flying over the arena railing. He was being difficult, at best. Sharp serpentines were on the agenda for much of the mornings.

Saturday, things went from bad to worse. There are videos shot by Mike Thomas (a longtime friend of Buck's and Ray's, www.mikethomashorsemen.com, video here) where a screaming horse can be heard over Buck's voice. That, my friends, was Jake. Being with me was the last thing on his mind. I couldn't make him want to find comfort in me. And my frustration was mounting, a migraine was looming, and I was missing out on the clinic.

Melissa, who had come to audit, ran to get the Excedrin Migraine. I was trembling and crying. She reassured me and I went back to working with my horse.

Buck got me (and the rest of the class) back to doing sharp serpentines...freeing up Jake's feet, directing them, moving them...freeing up my frustrated mind, directing it, moving it.

Sharp serpentine Buck Clinic 2009 - Photo by Mike Thomas

But every step felt like battle to me. He whinnied and called for Chic for most of the day. He would fake spook and go scooting 20 feet across the arena. Head tossing and more screaming. I felt broken. Jake would win this war and I had it in my mind that starting a colt was the worst decision I had ever made. In my mind, I'd been working at this horsemanship stuff for almost three years now and should have been at a different level. But in reality, I'd been incorporating it into my agenda. Trying to mix and match what I thought was working for me with what I thought I had been learning from the clinics. And to answer Dr. Phil's question, "How's that working for ya?" It wasn't.

So that evening, I had confessed that I wasn't sure if I wanted to ride Jake on Sunday. Paul Dietz and Hal Coker offered. Steve offered to bring his horse Gator for me. But in the morning, when Gator wasn't receptive to being caught by me, I realized that maybe the problem was me and not my horse.

In the morning as I drove down 7th Ave./New River Rd. to go feed the horses, Trace Adkins song came on the radio...

You're gonna miss this.
You're gonna want this back.
You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast.
These are some good times,
so take a good look around...
You may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this.

...and (yes, from a country music song) I realized I needed to slow down and pay attention to every moment in Arizona. I am glad I did.

So let's try this again.

The clean slate after overnight tears and broken ego, I walked up to Jake on Sunday morning.

Jake wasn't receptive to being haltered, but I haltered him anyway. I asked Kathy and Chic to walk with me to the arena, so as not to cause stress first thing in the morning.

Buck reminded me that the more frustrated I got with my horse, the less likely he would want to be with me. And he also told me that I had broken through a wall with my horse on my worst day of the clinic. And although I may not see it (I didn't), I had made a change and things would be different with me and Jake.

On the last day, the wind kicked it up a notch. It was miserable, but even one of the clinic participants commented, "Well, look who finally calmed down on the windiest day of the clinic."

Yep, it was Jake. Cool and calm. Responsive. But it wasn't magic. And the weather no longer mattered.

I had a big year ahead of me in 2009. Lots of tools to work with. Buck sent Kathy and me home with homework to break the buddy-sourness. And it worked. On day 1.

It would be almost a year before I saw Buck again, at Ray Hunt's Memorial Clinic in Fort Worth (along with Paul), and then again at his clinic in Phoenix. The 2009 homework and subsequent (and amazing) Paul Dietz VIP and Big Bear clinics had eventually progressed me and Jake into the hackamore. I was proud of my hard work and to be able to ride him in Buck's 2010 clinic and have him (and myself) in a much better frame of mind.

Sharp serpentine Buck Clinic 2010 - Photo by Mike Thomas

So, to Trace Adkins, I don't miss that time in my life. It happened for a reason, I was present enough to remember it vividly and I love that I experienced it.

It's hard to unlearn what has become habitual in your life. But habit doesn't mean what you are doing is right. And it's unfortunate that so many people ride the same, year-in and year-out. I was one of them when I first started hearing about these clinics. I thought, I don't need to do attend a clinic because I can ride. 

But then it was recently explained to me that many horsepeople who have "20 years' experience", instead might have one year of experience repeated 20 times over.

And there is something so incredibly beautiful that is being lost in all of it. The message is so profound that it's no wonder most people miss it. It's no wonder I missed it for 20 years. In the last few years, it has begun to unfold and I am continually amazed at this progressive horsemanship.

My journey is just beginning. All I can think to do is share it so others might be able to find it.

Four More Rides of Growth

Last weekend I rode Drifter on Saturday and Sunday. This weekend I did the same. His "marathon" is in seven weeks, so it would be in our best interest to build some endurance.

Last Saturday was his second trail ride and 14th ever ride. Jenn and I were cutting it close, as when we arrived, Kathy and Sis were on their horses. I barely got any groundwork done and hopped on so we could head over to Monica's to get her and Bullet. While at Monica's, Drifter needed some work. It was a new place with new smells and monsters.

He doesn't normally look like this.

But once we all rode out, the rest of the ride was pretty uneventful. He really only had a few spooks and, even though his spooks are big, they're fairly easy to rein in and he comes right back to reality when reassured.

Jenn & Jake

Jake wanted to move to Newport Beach with Jenn.

On Sunday, Drifter was so tired, he was basically a grandma-safe horse. Nothing alarmed him. Not even Kathy's six-month old puppy bounding through the sagebrush and darting around the trail.

OK, so this was also taken on Saturday, but he looked like this all day Sunday.

Yesterday, I threw down 11 miles in the morning (and finally felt great about running again) and immediately hooked up the trailer to go for a ride. Kathy on Chic, Lisa on Oakey the mule, and I on Drifter rode over to Monica's to pick up Bullet, to be ponied, while Monica rode Toy.

The ride was great. We climbed a pretty steep hill, rode along a fire road, dropped down into the National Forest, and looped back toward home. All went well until we came upon a couple who were wenching a tractor onto a flatbed trailer. They were parked across the road on which we were riding, so we had to ride around them and onto their property.

The couple kindly brought to our attention that there was a cable laying across the dirt driveway that we had to ride across. The mule and Kathy's two horses crossed it fine.

As Monica and Toy walked over the cable, Toy's back toe dragged across the cable. This, of course, startled him and as he lunged forward causing the cable to fly up, flipping a connected metal "No Trespassing" sign into the air.

Toy spun.

Drifter spun with full force and intent to head to Nevada.

Although startled, I impulsively reached to stop him with one rein, as has been ingrained in my brain as the emergency brake to save all wrecks.

But in the midst of a terrified horse tornado, out of the corner of my eye, I saw impending doom.

A barbed wire fence directly in the path of our escape route. I envisioned the two of us entangled in that deathtrap...and a one-rein stop at that moment would have sent his hindquarters and my midsection straight into it. Tachycardia raged in my chest as adrenaline surged through my body and I veered Drifter slightly away from the property line in order to finally engage the one-rein stop.

As the dust cleared, I looked down, envisioning entrails strewn across the hillside, but was relieved that there was no blood. We lived to see another ride.

[Google horse barbed wire injuries...I dare you.]

I dismounted and walked Drifter across the cable. He cautiously crossed, but trusted my lead. My core was shaking so violently (I was cold before the spook, and I felt frozen afterwards) that I continued to walk down the road a while before getting back on.

Today, I've laid low. Worked on a colt starting DVD for Paul and helped Travis put up more fence. When Travis left to watch the Super Bowl, I went to the safety of my backyard arena and quietly worked with Drifter, inspired by the video I am editing.

So, today, ride 17 in seven months, I asked Drifter to canter for the first time. He seemed as apprehensive as I was about going there, but then we both relaxed and let it happen.

This was a nice speed

A little fast, but controlled. He's still a bit of an overachiever.

A case of circles...

And it keeps coming back around to....

April 2011. North Phoenix. The last day of a four-day horsemanship clinic.

Buck Brannaman put the class to riding the line of a circle. There weren't any circles drawn in the arena, but the riders were instructed to work with their horse into a 10- to 12-foot circle, with the goal of getting tail to follow nose in an arc, using the reins to help the horse, but ultimately working toward using your legs more and using your reins less or no reins at all. After a bit of working at this, a pretty clear circle would be imprinted in the footing.

Photo courtesy of Mike Thomas

I was riding Kathy's young gelding, Junior. I didn't realize at the time but the sensitivity in that horse, which frustrated me at first, ultimately took me to a place I never thought was accessible in this life.

In clinics past, we had worked on these circles. If you are on a horse with not much "go", it's an experience that can be likened to inner-thigh torture. The forward movement required to keep hind following front is much better achieved in a horse willing to move. I would have not survived 15 minutes on Jake. But Junior is willing to move, which left me with working on guiding him and working on my "feel".

I wasn't prepared for what Buck was setting up. I was one of 18-some-odd riders in a dizzying assembly of circling horses. Junior and I were matting down a pretty good imprint of a circle in the arena.

Every 10 minutes or so, Buck would instruct, "Walk a half figure-8 through the middle of your circle and change directions. Move on."

Again, thanks to Mike (the Horse Mumbler) for the pictures

At times during the exercise, Junior would look out of the arena. He'd pretend to spook at something. I'd bring his nose back into the arc.

Are those bees or yellowjackets? I wondered.
Why are we doing this?

The food staff was prepping for lunch. Junior took notice. So did I. Oh, yeah...get back to your circle, Suzanne....

At one point, I thought it interesting that I'd become possessive of my circle. If a neighboring rider would encroach, I would become a little agitated as if it were my painting that someone was about to mess up with their brush. But I would soon learn it wasn't about the circle.

After about 45 minutes, people around me were falling out of their pattern. Strange geometric shapes were imprinted in the dirt beneath their horses. Another 20 minutes or so went by and some students were chatting, but still going through the motions. A few dismounted to use the outhouse. Others were taking their jackets off or pausing at the side of the arena. I overheard a comment, "I feel like a human hot walker." Clearly, frustration was mounting in the class. But for some reason I kept working at it. Trying to figure it out, knowing Buck had to have a reason.

But what?

As I searched through avenues of my horsemanship that I hadn't been down before, deep in thought of the meaning behind it, trying to feel the horse's feet, Junior met me halfway (and if I hadn't been so aware of the present moment, I'd have missed the timing of the release and the "feel" that was there) something dreamlike happened... we were floating. We were in a perfect arc; my hands weren't on the reins; we had forward movement from the front and hind. It was harmony. Time seemed to slow. Buck's voice on the loudspeaker echoed in the background as he acknowledged something that an auditor was discussing with him. A dragonfly on a tiny jetstream slalomed around us and out into the desert. I was aware of each of Junior's feet landing in the dirt as if they were my own. Our breathing was the same...our movements were the same. This is what Buck wanted! As soon as I really became conscious of what was happening, I lost "it". Junior looked out. I panicked and searched for "it" but didn't get it again, but for a moment I felt what this is all about. I relished the moment and rubbed Junior's neck.

The rest of the class for me wasn't perfect. I felt tired after four days of horsemanship and maybe Junior was too. Or maybe I was trying too hard to make it happen again, and frustrated myself that I couldn't get there again. We didn't fall apart at the seams, but that last hour was my worst of the clinic.

In closing questions, I told Buck how I went from frustration with the circles to harmony. He smiled at me.... then spoke with the class about how if he had time he'd have us do hundreds of thousands of circles. A few groans could be heard.

It was only later when I was discussing with Kathy that I realized what truly happened to me. Paul Dietz had been talking for years about the ultimate goal: one mind, one body. But I never could comprehend exactly what that meant. I was overcome with hot tears and my body trembled at the enormity of what that was like. I had to hang up the phone because I felt as if I was hyperventilating. My knees buckled and I dropped to the dirt. I panicked that I wouldn't experience it again.

The next day, I tried to seek validity from Paul. Then he simply said, "You know what you felt. Why didn't you develop it?"

How is it that I have been "riding horses" for 20+ years and not known that this was there all along!? Perhaps trying to make things happen is not the answer after all. What got me here isn't good enough to get me where I am going. The more I learn, the more I understand that I received what I had asked for. And I've tried to surround myself with a circle of horsemen and horsewomen with the same goal in mind.

It's universal...

It is universal...and it changes you. In the past six months, I feel like I have become a different person. Maybe I have become more patient, tried to become less judgmental, and more open and accepting of what is out there to enhance my life. I try to see people as if they're doing the best they can with where they're at in life. Whether I agree with what they do is irrelevant, as theirs is not my life to judge. I'm only doing the best I can with where I am in mine.

"The tragedy of life is what dies inside a human while he is alive." ~Albert Schweitzer

As Paul Dietz says, "Enjoy the journey." He is right. Enjoy, indeed.

Keep learning with an open mind. It just keeps getting better...

Commitment and the Tango

I've told a few friends that I am starting this blog...and there's interest. So I  must make a commitment. Not only to myself, but to my horses and my continued learning.

The other day Moo and I were talking on the phone and she was telling me about this amazing book that a friend of hers had written. It was about her personal experience studying the tango: an open- or closed-embrace lead-and-follow dance that, at the highest levels, is a beautiful thing to behold. In tango, the "lead" is responsible for choosing the steps and for leading the "follow" by hand pressure and signals to complete the steps smoothly. She was explaining the author's role as a student and how learning to tango eventually crossed over into teaching her about life as well. Now, I haven't read the book but the concept piqued my interest, especially since I have been in a discipline of horsemanship that is constantly being compared to a dance...and crosses over into life.

In Acton last week, I got a taste of the dance. It was Sunday, the last day of Paul Dietz's horsemanship clinic. Jake and I had a nice day on Saturday...some of the best riding I had experienced on the big lug in a clinic setting. So, Sunday, I really felt that Jake and I were jiving (OK, bad comparison, since jive is a dance)....we were in sync with each other through the morning's riding.

Paul asked the class to pass by him doing a great drill in which the rider sends the horse's hindquarters to the left 180 degrees and then the front quarters the to right 180 degrees. This maneuver, when complete, results in the rider continuing down the arena in the same direction after completing what non-horse-savvy observers might think was just a "spin" or a 360 degree turn.

As Jake and I passed Paul, we completed our HQ to the left 180, FQ to the right 180 and Paul's comment was "good."

I beamed inside. I agreed...I thought it was good. It felt smooth...not forced. Jake was pretty responsive and I was happy with it.

On our second pass, I slid down my right rein, bent Jake's head toward my right knee, untracked his hindquarters to the left 180 degrees. I opened my right hand allowing room for Jake's right shoulder to open up to the right and he stepped about 90 degrees with his right front leg. Continuing with the movement, Jake took a small step from his left front leg to balance himself ahead of completing the last sweeping step to the right. But I had doubt. I quickly came in with my left leg to his side. This caused Jake's head to shoot up and he quickly stumbled across the front and we continued down the rail.

"You rushed it." Paul said.

"I know."

After the rest of the class completed their turns, Paul called us in for a meeting. He gave everyone in the class come critiques about what they could do to get it better.

When Paul got to me, he said "Suzanne."

(pause) .... what's he going to say??? (There was a moment of worry)

And as if he were a dance instructor, Paul rhythmically said:

"One. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight...." With each number, he tapped the palm of his hand to the horn cap of his saddle.

After another brief pause, he said, again tapping the horn cap, "One. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight...."

I nodded. Those eight words were crystal clear. I realized I tripped my dance partner by coming in with a swift leg kick to rush the maneuver. If I was leading properly, he would have followed. Looking back, if I had left it alone, trusting my lead, we would have been fine. But I came in with an unwarranted leg to push my dance partner along and we lost all rhythm with that simple mistake.

And we learn from our mistakes.

So the good news (who am I kidding, it is all good news!) is through all my trials and tribulations with Jake (and one very special moment with a very special Junior last spring), I am learning what I should be looking for...what I should be waiting for...what I should be feeling for...and what I should search for as I begin a new commitment with Drifter.

This evening, after an off day at work, I came home and saddled my little yellow horse. Drifter gave me a little bit of work at the start...but as I learned at the Ray Hunt Memorial Clinic: you go with your colt until he can go with you. And here I am at ride #6 and I have my patience and I have trust in what I have been learning. So I am going to work with Drifter until he can settle a bit and continue to allow me to reward the smallest change and the slightest try.

the next step should be deep to the left

not bad...not bad at all

A tango in its infancy...

I hope whoever is reading is as appreciative of every step of their journey as I am with mine.