First Ride of Spring

About my horse, who passed away two years ago.

Catching a horse, somehow, is a hundred times more difficult than simply walking up to it in a field and snapping on a lead rope. Horses have a sixth sense for this sort of thing, and you have to be prepared. Carefully walking through the mud just inside the fence, I did my best to stay on my feet. I had my favorite green lead rope slung over my shoulder in hopes that Shadow, my horse, wouldn’t notice it, and I kept my thumb on the metal fastener so that it wouldn’t swing and clank against my belt. With my other hand, I shook an old coffee can full of sweet feed. I could smell the molasses along with the sharp tang of the metal.

I was never able to determine where the coffee can had come from, since no one in my family drank coffee. The can was obviously old, as there were spots of rust beginning to spread on the bottom, but it was impossible to even tell what kind of coffee it had contained, because my sister and I had the habit of peeling the paper-thin wrapping in long, crinkling strips. As I crossed the field, I almost lost my balance, and I wind-milled my arms and pressed my fingers against a bit of torn metal at the top of the can. It was sharp, and I constantly tore my gloves on its raised edge.

Today, one of the first nice days of spring, I didn’t have to worry about gloves. I did have to be wary of both mud and rushing streams of water, however, because my parents had made the mistake of purchasing land in a valley between two hills. Whenever it rained, the normally dry streambed that bisected the property became a dangerously rushing river. I could see Shadow standing on the other side of this river now, dry but covered in old mud. I needed to cross several feet of water-bent and drowning grass on either side of the dark chasm of ripples in order to reach him. My boots would handle of a couple of inches of water, but I still needed to leap a great distance without dropping the can or the rope, not to mention without startling the horses or landing face-first in the mud.

With little hope of success, I shook the coffee can one last time. I was fairly certain that Shadow was growing deaf in his old age, but if the other horses started to move toward me, he would probably come with them. Luckily for the state of my boots, the three horses began drifting slowly in my direction. Shadow leapt the stream only a few feet from me, pausing as though he would turn back and then bursting into motion as he used pure muscle to cross. He left long skid marks in the mud on each side of the stream. My mother’s horse, JJ, got distracted and began pawing and snorting, submerging his muzzle in the water. I couldn’t watch for long, though, because Shadow had noticed the grain and thrust his muzzle into the can, pinning my fingers inside.

I jumped away and twisted my hand free, ripping my fingers on the raised edge of metal. The can hit the mud with a sound like a drum, spilling grain onto the ground. I suddenly found myself jostled on all sides by warm bodies as the horses attempted to separate the grain from the mud with their lips. I tossed one end of the rope over Shadow’s neck, just behind his ears, while he was distracted. Then I pulled the halter over his ears, fastened the chin strap, and attached the lead rope. Shadow reluctantly responded to my pulling by lifting his head from the grain, and stood quietly as years of training took over. I picked the can up, dumping the rest of the contents onto the ground with the other grain. Then I began to lead Shadow through the mud to the house.

Shadow’s head bobbed in time with his steps as he walked. I really didn’t need to hold the rope, as he would walk beside me anyway, now that he was caught. I didn’t want to inspect my fingers yet, though, so I held on tightly to the rope. I could feel cool wetness on both my fingers and the rope, and I hoped it was mud. The new gate was difficult enough to handle with both hands free, let alone with an injured hand and a two thousand pound horse.

I lifted the catch with my right hand, switching the lead rope to my left and lifting the ground peg with my right foot. I then hopped through the slowly opening right half of the gate, eventually letting the ground peg fall and drag, its metal bottom grinding on the gravel of the driveway. There was already a groove in the ground from the peg, and although I suspected my step-father would be furious, I couldn’t see a way around it. Shadow followed me through the gate, and then whirled around, seemingly on two feet, to face the field. Moving through the gate was becoming just another ritual for us.

On the yard side, I didn’t have to hold the latch open, so I lifted the ground peg with my right hand and moved the gate back to where the latch clicked and I could drop the peg into the hole made for it. This was the only gate I had ever seen that Shadow couldn’t possibly open. The problem was that I couldn’t really open it either, and I worried that eventually one of the other horses would slip through behind us, resulting in a chase. This time we passed through without incident, and I tugged again on the rope, pulling Shadow out of the fresh clover in the yard.

I was then presented with a problem. I had forgotten to get the brushes and tack out of the garage. Somehow, I simply couldn’t lead Shadow into the garage so that I could get them. He would have fit without trouble, and probably wouldn’t even have minded, but there was an invisible boundary that I couldn’t lead him over. Horses don’t belong in garages. I slid my hand to the end of the rope, hoping I could both hold Shadow and go into the garage. Unfortunately, the rope was about twenty feet too short. There was nowhere to tie him, and I certainly didn’t want to have to catch him a second time if he decided that it was a good idea to wander off. I also doubted that anyone in the house would hear me if I shouted for them to come hold him.

Shadow was looking away, curiously watching something that I couldn’t see. I gently let go of the rope, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the added weight. Then I rushed into the garage. I pulled a bridle off of a hook on the wall, folded a saddle blanket under my arm, and hooked one hand under the tree of my satisfyingly heavy western saddle. Dropping all of these things just outside of the garage door, I went back and picked up the girth that had fallen off of the saddle and found the grooming kit on a shelf. Putting those things with the others, I straightened up and found myself face to face with Shadow, who was looking at me as though he was confused about my hurry. He hadn’t moved a step, and I almost hugged him. I changed my mind when I noticed how muddy he actually was.

The grooming process was going to get me a great deal dirtier than I already was. I brushed the old horsehair off of my side from carrying the blanket and picked a metal curry comb from the kit. The metal teeth would get rid of the majority of the mud, but I needed to be careful, or it would pull out the hair, too. Shadow was notorious for hair loss, and grooming tended to be a delicate process. I lifted the tangled, mud-caked mane on the left side of this neck, almost shivering from the unpleasant feel of the chalky dust caught between the wire-like hairs. Something sharp hit one of the cut places on my finger, and I sighed, recognizing the feel of a massively (and probably hopelessly) tangled burr.

It was already getting close to dark, and I had to hurry. I pushed the curry comb faster down Shadow’s neck, and watched it breaking up and pulling off the clumps of mud. It left behind a thick layer of dust, and I would have to follow the curry with a softer brush. I always fell into a sort of trance while grooming Shadow. The repetition and his calmness allowed my thoughts to wander ahead to the trails we would take and the fallen trees that we would need to jump. As I was daydreaming, the curry comb got caught in a bit of mane that I had let escape from my hand, and Shadow snorted and turned to look at me.

“Ok, Ok,” I said. “Paying attention. You’re just covered in mud. You’ve even got it in your ears. Do you really have to roll in the creek?” Talking to a horse as though he understood would probably get me locked up someday, but at least I didn’t expect answers.

I dropped Shadow’s mane, moving to the shoulder, the withers where the saddle would rest, and the upper part of his front leg. The curry was too rough for the lower parts of the leg, where there was very little muscle covering joints and bones. The most enjoyable part was moving the curry in broad sweeps from the center of Shadow’s back all the way over his rump and down onto the muscle of his back leg. It took six or seven swipes, and after you were done with that, you could move on to the stomach.

I was too tall now to see under Shadow, who was short for a Quarter Horse, and so I bent at the waist, half-blindly dragging the curry through the long and fuzzy winter coat still hanging from Shadow’s stomach. After the second swipe, I needed to pull the curry away and remove the thick build-up of hair on the teeth. His winter coat was finally coming out, which gave me hope about spring sticking around. Dust fell into my eyes and mouth as I brushed. I blinked furiously while trying to ignore the grit between my teeth. It was surprising that I’d never found a way to avoid that. I brushed the last of the mud off of Shadow’s stomach with the curry and moved to the narrow crescent just before his hip where the coat grew in a different direction. I could almost hear my mother as I brushed.

“Remember, brush with the hair, not against it. Not too hard, you’ll bruise his kidneys. Reach high, you missed a spot on top.” At the time, I probably wasn’t tall enough to even see the mud she was talking about. My mother had bought Shadow for her eighteenth birthday, and he’d been around my whole life. She had actually ridden him while she was pregnant with me, because she said that it made me stop kicking. It hadn’t been until my eighth birthday that she’d officially given him to me. That was when I received my first grooming lesson.

The sun moved from behind a tree and almost blinded me, and I was reminded me that I needed to hurry if I wanted to ride. Finally, I was finished with the curry on the left side, and could move to the other. The right side always went faster because there was no mane. After all the currying was finished, Shadow looked a dull, lifeless brown instead of the copper that usually shone in the sun. I began to sweep a soft brush over his coat quickly, raising a cloud of dust and getting more grit between my teeth. I enjoyed uncovering the coat underneath, and especially enjoyed the places on his shoulders and hips where white hair had grown in after old injuries. Working my way down each of his legs, I rested against him so that I wouldn’t fall over in my crouching position. The mud on his knees and hocks was almost impossible to remove, and I had to use my fingernails in some places.

At this point I always felt a surge of relief, because I only had the feet, mane, tail, and face left. I used the soft brush and my fingernails to get most of the mud off of Shadow’s face, lifting the halter and pushing the brush under it, dreading the tooth-grinding noise of the wooden brush hitting the bones of his jaw if I didn’t aim properly. Finally, as always, I gave up on the face and decided to ignore the mane and tail as well. A tangled man wouldn’t affect our ride, and I could be here all night untangling it. His mane was pretty when it was combed, though, with five or six different colors of hair, including white. It also had a pretty wave in the middle that I always wished I could transfer to my own hair.

I switched the soft brush for a hoof pick and settled into the hardest part of the grooming. I leaned against Shadow’s shoulder, facing backward, and bent, running my hand slowly but firmly down his leg. In theory, this should make him pick up his foot. As usual, it didn’t work, and so I had to push hard with my hip while pulling up on the ankle. After a brief tug of war and some annoyed sighs from each of us, Shadow lifted his foot.

I was presented with a mess of mud, rocks, manure, and hay. It smelled like it was rotting, and I realized that we were going to have to rotate the fields again before all three horses got thrush from the mud. I dug the sharp end of the hoof pick into the mud on the hoof. It was my favorite hoof pick, and had been made of an unusable horseshoe by a creative farrier. Most of the mud came out in a large chunk, and then I dug a little deeper into the grooves on either side of the frog. I always hoped that the frog would actually turn into a frog one day, but it remained soft and spongy without a sign of legs or eyes no matter how good my imagination was. The mud on either side of the frog smelled even worse, and again I worried about thrush. I finished the hoof by scraping the mud from the outside of the hoof, and then cleaned the other three.

Shadow stood calmly throughout most of this, despite the fact that I was only restraining him by keeping the lead rope thrown over my shoulder. When I finished and stepped away to pick up the bridle, he shook himself, his skin twitching like he was covered in flies. A cloud of dust rose over him, and I muttered to myself about never-ending dirt. The lead rope fell from my shoulder in the middle of his shake, but he continued to stand, waiting. I discovered, on picking the bridle up from the pile on the concrete, that it was a collapsed, tangled mess. I shook it out into some semblance of working tack, threading the chin strap back into its proper position.

The next step was probably the most dangerous. I needed to unfasten the halter and slide it onto the Shadow’s neck in order to put on the bridle, and it became pretty easy for him to break away if he wanted to. I positioned myself with one arm on either side of Shadow’s head, leaning against his chest and facing forward. I unfastened the chin strap, slid the halter onto his neck, and pulled the bridle partway onto his head, so that the bit rested just below his mouth. I stuck my left thumb into the corner of his mouth and pushed. As Shadow opened his mouth, I pulled up on the bridle with my other hand, settling the bit in his mouth while pulling the top of the bridle over his ears. I fastened the jaw strap and was done. The entire process seemed impossible and required years of practice to master, but somehow it worked. Most of the time.

I removed the halter and tossed it and the rope into the garage. The metal clasp crashed onto the concrete floor and Shadow and I both jumped. Now that the bridle was on, I untangled the worn, braided reins and left them dangling to the ground. Shadow had never really learned to “ground tie” but at least this way the reins wouldn’t end up under the saddle. The blanket was next, and as usual I wondered if there was an efficient way of cleaning it. The underside was coated with a thick layer of hair and old sweat, and the whole thing smelled stale. I opened it from its folded position and swung it in a wide arc onto Shadow’s back, close to the shoulders. I loved this blanket, mostly because the primary colors were teal and pink, unusual in the normally boring range of acceptable tack colors. I picked the blanket up and moved it forward a few inches onto the withers. I didn’t want to bend the hair the wrong way, and I certainly didn’t want the saddle to rub the withers raw.

Out of habit, I quickly moved on to the saddle. Some horses, including Shadow in his younger days, would walk away at this point, shaking off the blanket as they went. Luckily for me, Shadow had outgrown at least a little of his mischief-making. I lifted the saddle by placing one hand through the hole below the horn and the other in the soft wool under the rear of the saddle and swung it in the same arc that the blanket had followed, with considerably more effort and a mild grunt. I loved this saddle, partly because it was mine, and partly because it was so rugged and heavy. I had inherited the saddle along with the horse, and at the time I hadn’t been nearly big enough to lift it. It was a Big Horn, and had cost my mother only seven hundred dollars. The saddle leather was tanned very lightly, the suede of the seat was polished shiny from use, and the silver badly needed cleaning.

The saddle now rested with deceptive lightness in the dead center of the saddle blanket. I was pleased, as repositioning was usually difficult. Saddle and blanket tended to move together, the exact opposite of what you wanted. My last chore was adding the girth so that the saddle would stay in place. This was the only part of the process that Shadow disliked. On the right side of the saddle, under the stirrup, I found the nylon strap with an extra hole melted into it to accommodate my sister’s old pony. I placed the metal spike of the girth strap into the third hole, resting the metal ring on a worn spot on the nylon where it had rested for years. Then I crossed to the Shadow’s left side, reached under his stomach, and grasped the end of the girth.

Placing the girth properly is the difference between a nice evening and a broken collarbone, so I ran my hand along the skin just behind Shadow’s shoulder, checking for mud or burrs that might pinch. Then I placed the girth deliberately against his coat, making sure not to let it move. There was a long nylon strap attached to a ring on the saddle and this strap went through a similar ring attached to the girth. The strap was mud brown, and probably three feet long. I untwisted it and pulled it down through the girth ring, and back up to where I had started in front of the top ring. Then I repeated the process, because the strap was long and Shadow was small. The next step was probably the only reason that a complete idiot couldn’t saddle a horse. I put the strap through the ring again, and then pulled it out from behind the ring on the left side. It then crossed over itself in the front, went behind the ring and through again, and finally down through the loop that I had just made, forming a sort of slipknot.

At this point, except for tightening, I was done. Tightening, however, is easier said than done, essential to staying on the horse, and requires quite a bit of strength. Especially if the horse being saddled is Shadow. My horse was smart, and knew what was coming. I saw him take a deep breath, expanding his stomach as much as possible. I grabbed the outside loop of the nylon strap near the bottom, where it joined the girth, and pulled. The process knocked both Shadow and I off-balance, and I quickly threaded the slack that I had gained through the tie that I had just made. Then I walked Shadow in two quick circles, the reins between my fingers, and repeated the process. I tightened the girth again, and he left out an enormous grunt, as though I was kicking him. This time, I got quite a bit more slack, and the girth was tight enough that I could just wedge two fingers under it. I was finished, and just in time, as the sun was completely gone and the tree line on top of the ridge was lit from behind with light the color of prom-night lipstick.

I glanced over all of the tack, making sure that nothing was missing or unfastened. Then I tossed the reins over Shadow’s head and onto his neck, with the rubber grip (made so that headstrong horses didn’t tear your hands to pieces) resting just in front of the saddle horn. I hadn’t really worn appropriate pants, and the last person who had used my saddle had been considerably shorter than me. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the saddle horn and stuck my left foot awkwardly into the air at about waist level, thrusting it at the stirrup.

Finally, after much hopping about and worrying that my pants were going to rip, I got my foot into the stirrup and almost floated onto Shadow’s back. I made sure to swing my right leg out and over, and sat down with my left knee bent so sharply that I almost lost my balance and fell. The stirrups would absolutely have to be adjusted. I quickly made the adjustments, slipping my foot out of the stirrup and loosening the strap by several notches. Then I counted the notches and adjusted the other stirrup to match. They fit perfectly when I slid my feet into them, resting just my toes on their rawhide supports. I was finally, after a long unpleasant winter and an hour of grooming, ready to ride.

Shadow had been ready three minutes ago, it seemed, and had been walking aimlessly the whole time that I was climbing on and fiddling with stirrups. He had been doing that for so many years that I didn’t notice it anymore, and I had long ago stopped trying to break him of the habit. I lifted the reins, noticing that there didn’t seem to be much blood on my injured fingers, and tapped Shadow lightly with my heels. He immediately jumped into a trot, eager to be off. We went through the gap in the neighbor’s fence and out toward the old cow pasture, both of us sneezing under the double row of Dogwood trees which were just starting to blossom. I almost lost my balance again when a friendly honey bee landed on my wrist, but I shook him off and pulled Shadow back to a walk. There were still holes in the ground here from the old fence, and the last thing either of us needed was a broken leg.

At last we reached the edge of the field. It was starting to cool down rapidly, and my fingers were already growing fat and numb with cold. I knew that I probably had only twenty minutes to ride. I looked right and left, shading my eyes from the dusk-to-dawn light above me. There was no one around to chastise me for having a little fun. I dropped the reins to Shadow’s neck, lifted my weight from the saddle, and kicked lightly. Shadow understood.

We exploded into the field, almost trampling a rabbit. I was slammed back into the saddle by the speed, my eyes watering and my body falling and rising in time with Shadow’s rhythm. Each hoof hit separately, and I could feel the ground-eating thuds in my teeth. Now this, I thought, was a gallop! I held on tightly with my legs, not trying to direct with the reins, leaning into the turns just a little so we didn’t fall. Air rushed past, warm and then cold again. There was no sound other than wind. The entire horizon, past the stark black silhouettes of the trees, was red fading to indigo, and I thought that if we could just go a little faster, we would burst into flames and fly away.

The wind froze my ears and my face, and my calves were pinched from the friction of the saddle. I could feel my heartbeat pounding a tarantella in my fingers, feel my knees slapping against the stirrups. I tasted my tears in the back of my throat, and laughed at the pure joy of running. I shook the reins and leaned forward. Shadow gathered his legs under him and found more speed, hurtling even faster toward the edge of the field, sailing effortlessly over a log that blocked our path. We became a cheetah, one cheetah, rushing unhindered into the wilderness, unstoppable.

The light might have faded away, and we might have dragged ourselves home exhausted to wash and eat dinner, but I assure you, that ride never ended.

Author's Note

If you're made it this far, congratulations. I really appreciate any comments.

Reviews

[Angel's Lady]

I could feel my heartbeat pounding a tarantella in my fingers, feel my knees slapping against the stirrups. I tasted my tears in the back of my throat, and laughed at the pure joy of running.

How wonderfully eloquent! Ahh, yes, one must love not only the ride but the horse to put the time and effort into readying for the ride! But it is one of the "freest" rides you'll ever feel! Great job of bringing the reader right along with you!

[Windy]

Ari, I think it is absolutly fabulous. I used to ride and you brought me such joy from the memories as I was brushing and then riding along with you. Oh how I miss it. This is a beautiful story for so many reasons. First how he was your mothers and then her gift to you, then the way you knew each others every move, and how you became one on the ride. You painted the most beautiful picture and the story not only flowed and read well it was written with feeling and that shone brightly through. I think the only thing that could have made this any better, other than him not passing which I am truly sorry for, but maybe being able to put a picture of him or the both of you as the avitar for this write. Congratulations on a GREAT read and a job very well done. Going in my library. ;)

[Kristin]

This was very descriptive. The basis seems to be simplicity, something I believe most people aspire to go back to at some point in their lives.

[All faded blue]

Enjoyed this immensely, a couple of minor spelling errors, and had to chuckle at the "two thousand pounds" would have to be a massive horse to weigh that much. Often I think about how long it takes to ready up to ride, good thing I like the smell and sound and sight of my horses, for me it is therapy to brush and comb, then again New Mexico does not have mud very often. I am glad you had your ride, hope you remember him always!