A few days ago, Dave and I were talking about the horses. I mentioned that it had been quite awhile since he'd been for a ride. This wasn't meant as an accusation, or a challenge, or a call to action. It was merely a statement of fact. I think though, that my loving husband may have misinterpreted my statement. His response was "It's supposed to be nice on Sunday, why don't we go for a ride then?". I wonder now whether he regrets his suggestion.
Sunday January 29th
It's a beautiful winter's day-- warm, sunny, and not a breath of wind. By 11:30am we're ready for a ride.
I'll be honest. I'm a little nervous about this mid-winter escapade. The horses haven't been ridden much. They're pretty fresh, and Maggie has managed to muster a considerable amount of energy during the few recent rides I have had on her. I don't mention my concerns to Dave, and I manage to convince myself that we'll just go for a short, leisurely, and safe walk in the snow.
Before we ride, I scope out the state of the road. It's been sanded, but is very icy underneath. I worry that the hill is too slippery for Maggie's unshod hooves. I'm also worried about the riding ring. There's a fresh layer of snow, but it's not thick, and lurking underneath is perfect skating-rink-smooth ice. I decide our best option is to ride the horses in the large, snow-filled, fenced-in field. The footing is safe, and we'll be in an enclosed area-- a large enclosed area, but enclosed nonetheless.
Dave is ready before me. As usual, he uses the round, two-foot-high concrete crock above our well on the front-lawn, as a step-stool to hoist himself onto Maggie's western saddle.
Me: "Forgetting something?"
Dave: "What? No."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Dave: "Oh, my helmet...I guess I forgot to tack myself up".
We giggle, and I lead Murray back to the barn to retrieve Dave's helmet. I'm a stickler about helmets. I've had two concussions from falls WITH helmets, so I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing the mushroom-like caps.
With his helmet securely strapped to his head, Dave urges Maggie down the path toward the pastures while I go back to the barn once again to smear Vaseline in Murray's hooves. It helps keep the snow from balling up beneath his soles.
From inside the barn, I suddenly hear a squeaky clip-clip in the packed snow, along with a series of ever intensifying shouts of "whoa" intermingled with: "whoa Maggie whoa". I grab Murray's reins and lead him abruptly from the barn as Maggie rounds the corner toward us-- eyes wide and nostrils flared. Dave yells at her and tugs on the reins, but she doesn't stop until she's right in front of us.
Me: "What happened?"
Dave (somewhat breathless): "I tried to ride her through the gate and she wouldn't go through. She spun around, took off, then reared, then took off again."
Me (dismissively): "Well, I think she's stressed about leaving Murray behind. Just wait for me and we'll go in together."
In the back of my mind, my apprehension over this ride is growing. I still don't mention it to Dave though. If I make him nervous, he'll make Maggie nervous, and things will go quickly downhill from there.
Dave has limited riding experience, but the experience he has had has so far has been positive. He's never fallen off, and until Maggie's uncontrolled rear/trot-back-toward-the-barn, he's never had a horse do anything more threatening than a mild spook (though he's watched enough of Murray's antics that he's well aware of how powerful and unpredictable these 12 hundred pound animals can be when they so choose). To this point, Dave's confidence on horseback is fully intact, and I'd like it to stay that way.
I brush my worries aside, and lead Murray to the well, so I can get on. Dave and Maggie are behind me, wandering in the snow on the front lawn. Murray and I make it about 20 feet down the path before I hear Maggie's gait quicken, first to a trot, then a canter. Again, I hear the chorus of "WHOA's", each one becoming more desperate. I stop and turn in time to see Maggie cantering through the knee deep snow in the lawn, with Dave tugging unsuccessfully at her reins (Dave has only ever cantered a handful of times). She leaps a small snowbank and hits the icy driveway at a fast clip. She slips, yanking the reins through Dave's gloved-hands. She manages to stay on her feet, but Dave's reins are now too long to offer any control.
"Sit up and shorten your reins!" I yell. Then I ad my own "whoa's" to Dave's efforts. Maggie slows slightly, to a half-trot-half-canter gait, but she's heading straight for the tractor. At the last possible second, she ducks to the left, nearly unseating Dave, who's still trying to shorten his reins to a reasonable length. Then, Maggie veers sharply to the left again and heads straight for our truck. Instead of crashing into it, she climbs the four-foot high pile of snow behind it, then runs up along the passenger side.
By now, I've jumped off Murray, thankfully Dave has readjusted his reins, and Maggie has exhausted the supply of vehicles with which she can play chicken. With a final "WHOA", and a sharp tug on the reins, Maggie comes to a halt a few feet in front of Murray and me. I reach forward and grab the reins, giving them a few unproductive tugs. I force myself to check my anger, and I look up to Dave to ask whether he's ok.
He's flushed, out of breath, and a little shaken.
Dave: "What a little B*^#&."
I concur.
Me: "Why don't you hop off, and I'll lunge Maggie in the field for a bit before you get back on?"
Dave: "Ok, I'll get the lunge line".
I hand Murray's reins to Dave, and I lead Maggie into the field, all the while whispering to her about manners, and taking care of Dave and how it's ok to behave stupidly with me, but not with him.
I let her out on the lunge line and she bursts into a bigger extended trot than I would have thought possible for her short legs. Then she canters, then she bucks. I dig my heels into the snow and hold tightly to the end of the lunge line until she tires. I figure that should happen soon; after all, she's careening around in knee-deep snow.
Maggie's more worked up than I'd hoped and I'm reluctant to let Dave climb back into the saddle. In the meantime, Murray stands calmly beside Dave, half dozing. I know Dave still wants to ride (he's never ridden outside in the snow before), so I consider the options for a few minutes, then suggest to him that he get on Murray.
Dave: "Really?"
Me: "Yeah, just stay fairly close, and just WALK".
Dave's ridden Murray around on several occasions. He even went over a very small jump on him on the lunge line before. It's certainly unusual for Murray to be the "safer" choice, but today, he seems just that. So Dave scales the fence and gently lowers himself onto Murray's English saddle. The two of them walk calmly back and forth through the snow-drifts while I try to keep Maggie from ripping my arms out of their sockets on the lunge line.
After a few minutes, I bring Maggie to a walk, and I decide to get on to test her obedience level.
I bring her alongside Dave and Murray and for a few minutes, we all walk contentedly through the snow to the bottom of the field. The snow is deeper here, and I notice Murray has added a bit more bounce to his walk.
Me, calmly: "Make sure you sit up, and keep your heels down".
Dave: "Whoa Murray".
Me: "Whoa Murray".
We round the corner so the horses' muzzles are now pointing up the hill toward home.
Murray simply can't hold back his enthusiasm. He bounds into a springy trot, which then becomes a rocking-horse-like canter up the hill. It's really just a lope, but with his 14 foot stride, Murray's lope can out-pace the canter of many-a-horse. He's bouncy at the best of times, but now he's also wading through a foot and a half of snow. Each stride must feel to Dave as though he's just been launched from the heart of a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.
In stereo, Dave and I yell "whoa". But Murray's enjoying himself. He doesn't stop until he reaches the fence at the top of the hill. Seemingly proud of himself for offering Dave such an amusing ride, he slows down. Then, Murray senses that Dave has lost a stirrup and is off balance. Unused to inexperienced riders, and very sensitive to any shift in his rider's weight, Murray becomes worried and confused. He glances down the Hill toward Maggie and I with a worried look on his face, then continues toward the paddock gait in a moose-like trot-- anxious to be rid of the bouncing burden on his back. I'm sure Dave's about to take a dive into the snow.
Miraculously though, Dave hangs on as Murray abruptly changes course and decides to come to "mom" for help. He finally stops when he's back alongside Maggie and me. The look of anxiety on his face matches the look on Dave's. Their eyes are wide, they're both breathing hard, and they both look confused. I hop off of Maggie and gently grab hold of Murray's bridle. With Dave still in the saddle, he relaxes, an within a minute or so, the old boy's eyes are closed and he's dozing in the sun.
Dave (still out of breath): "I thought for sure I was going to fall off".
Me: "Me too. Shall we call it a day?"
Dave: "Yeah, I think that's probably enough of a ride for today."
Showing posts with label trail ride. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trail ride. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
A Rollicking Ride in the Snow
Tuesday, January 11
Finally, the sticky, brown mud of the last few months is truly gone, hidden beneath of bed of soft, fluffy snow-- the product of a mild weekend storm. I'm as giddy as a small child as I pull a pair of winter-riding snow-pants over my long underwear. I can't wait to jump aboard Maggie's broad back and go for a brisk ride in the snow.
Maggie seems happy for the attention. She even stands still while I mount, though her elephant-trunk-like lips rip several small branches off our apple tree while I lean over to adjust my bulky pants. After tugging the twigs from Maggie's reluctant jaws, we set off down the hill at a lumbering march.
About halfway down, we meet our neighbour Greg on his four-wheeler, wearing a helmet and insulated green coveralls. He's on his way back from their dairy barn. I ask about his 90 head of cattle, and we chat about the weather. As the minutes tick by, Maggie stands politely, moving only occasionally to shift her weight. What a difference from Murray, whose anxious attitude doesn't lend itself well to mid-ride conversation. I promise Greg that Dave and I will eventually get down for a tour of the farm, then we wave and go our separate ways.
Maggie continues at her meandering pace, until we reach the cattle's marshmallow-like rolls of round hay bales at the bottom of the hill. Then we turn and jog unenthusiastically back toward home. It's a slow, but enjoyable pace. The only sound, other than the crunch of Maggie's bare feet on packed snow, is that of a lonely Murray, beckoning with high-pitched cries from his paddock.
Urged on by Murray's whinnies, Maggie manages a moderate burst of energy and we crest the hill at a full trot. We turn down the driveway and head for the riding ring. I'm not sure what the footing will be like. When I last checked (before our most recent snowfall), the riding ring had a smooth, rink-like quality. I had even considered hauling out my skates, but never got around to it.
Now, it seems that ice is covered by several inches of snow. We're able to trot serpentines and circles without a single slip, but I don't trust the footing enough to chance a canter. Time to explore the fields.
We set off at a trot through foot-high snow. Every so often, we come across drifts that rise as high as Maggie's belly. There's a particularly high and wide drift nearing the crest of a small hill. Maggie has to leap like a dear to get through it, but I think she's finally having fun since I no longer have to thump my legs on her sides to keep her going. Enjoying the moment, I can't wipe the grin off my face.
We turn and do a lap on the level, snow-covered grass outside of the ring. As we canter briskly by, I notice Muscade and Zorro playing in the snow. I laugh out loud as I watch their winter game unfold. Zorro hides behind the mounds of snow piled up by Dave's tractor, then as Muscade approaches (head down, sniffing some unknown scent), he leaps out from his hiding spot and scuttles toward her, back raised and tail up. When Muscade takes notice, he changes course and darts back behind another snow bank. It looks like we're all enjoying the winter wonderland.
I decide to take Maggie for a last loop down through the snowdrifts. Her long, thick, black coat is shiny from sweat, and steam is beginning to rise her from back. She's just getting going though. I actually have to hold her back. But as we round the corner and start back up the hill toward the massive snow-drift, I lean forward and give her her head. Her hind end lowers and chunks of snow fly into the air as she picks up speed. We're through the drift and cresting the hill when she squeals. Uh-oh.
Suddenly, with a toss of her head, Maggie gets carried away in the moment. She whips her body into the air with a violent buck-- this is not the kind of frustrated buck she occasionally tests me with in riding ring. No, this is the joy-filled, lurching, twisting buck I've seen her attempt when running side-by-side with Murray out in the field. It's the kind of buck that has often prompted Dave and I to look at each other and say "man, she has power."
Before her leap into the air, I'm perched, jockey-like on her neck, urging her forward. Now, I try to lean back, but I don't have time to drive my seat completely back into the saddle. I'm tossed around like a rag doll as her ample hind-end launches her 1300 pound body well into the air. My feet slip from the stirrups, and I think to myself that at least the snow will make for a soft landing. Her second buck is thankfully less-enthusiastic, and I do manage to hold on as her hooves sink into the snow and she bolts off at a full-out gallop.
Now, I'm someone who believes in treating horses' mouths with great respect. I generally ride in fat, loose ring snaffles, and I don't believe in using a bit as punishment. That said, I had borrowed a harsher-than-usual corkscrew bit from a friend since Maggie has been a little fresh lately. I wanted to fine-tune her responses before letting Dave on her back again. I used the bit once, and decided it might be too much for her. I had considered taking it off before today's ride. I didn't though, mostly because I was too anxious to get out in the snow, and didn't want to take the time to fiddle with the difficult leather.
I forget about the bit as I struggle to stay in the saddle on the steam-breathing black horse now careening through our snow-covered field. In grave danger of injuring my pride by landing on my butt in the snow, I give a pretty sharp tug on the reins. Maggie, who actually has quite a soft mouth, and who was in the middle of a full gallop stride, comes to an abrupt halt. Insulted by my assault on her tender mouth, she shakes her head savagely from side to side and shifts into temper tantrum mode just as I manage to slip my feet back into my stirrups.
When Maggie has tantrums, she reminds me of the stereotypical terrible two-year-old child-- the one who throws her body on the ground, shakes her head and flails her arms and legs from side to side while screaming at full volume. Only, instead of flailing limbs, Maggie pounds her front and hind feet alternately into the ground in a rocking-horse style rear/ buck, rear/ buck motion. Today she even snorts and squeals in anger as she hops up and down on the spot until I manage an apologetic pat on the neck. Eventually though, all is forgiven, and she settles as we walk through the shimmering, sunlit snow, back to the barn. What a great ride.
Finally, the sticky, brown mud of the last few months is truly gone, hidden beneath of bed of soft, fluffy snow-- the product of a mild weekend storm. I'm as giddy as a small child as I pull a pair of winter-riding snow-pants over my long underwear. I can't wait to jump aboard Maggie's broad back and go for a brisk ride in the snow.
Maggie seems happy for the attention. She even stands still while I mount, though her elephant-trunk-like lips rip several small branches off our apple tree while I lean over to adjust my bulky pants. After tugging the twigs from Maggie's reluctant jaws, we set off down the hill at a lumbering march.
About halfway down, we meet our neighbour Greg on his four-wheeler, wearing a helmet and insulated green coveralls. He's on his way back from their dairy barn. I ask about his 90 head of cattle, and we chat about the weather. As the minutes tick by, Maggie stands politely, moving only occasionally to shift her weight. What a difference from Murray, whose anxious attitude doesn't lend itself well to mid-ride conversation. I promise Greg that Dave and I will eventually get down for a tour of the farm, then we wave and go our separate ways.
Maggie continues at her meandering pace, until we reach the cattle's marshmallow-like rolls of round hay bales at the bottom of the hill. Then we turn and jog unenthusiastically back toward home. It's a slow, but enjoyable pace. The only sound, other than the crunch of Maggie's bare feet on packed snow, is that of a lonely Murray, beckoning with high-pitched cries from his paddock.
Urged on by Murray's whinnies, Maggie manages a moderate burst of energy and we crest the hill at a full trot. We turn down the driveway and head for the riding ring. I'm not sure what the footing will be like. When I last checked (before our most recent snowfall), the riding ring had a smooth, rink-like quality. I had even considered hauling out my skates, but never got around to it.
Now, it seems that ice is covered by several inches of snow. We're able to trot serpentines and circles without a single slip, but I don't trust the footing enough to chance a canter. Time to explore the fields.
We set off at a trot through foot-high snow. Every so often, we come across drifts that rise as high as Maggie's belly. There's a particularly high and wide drift nearing the crest of a small hill. Maggie has to leap like a dear to get through it, but I think she's finally having fun since I no longer have to thump my legs on her sides to keep her going. Enjoying the moment, I can't wipe the grin off my face.
We turn and do a lap on the level, snow-covered grass outside of the ring. As we canter briskly by, I notice Muscade and Zorro playing in the snow. I laugh out loud as I watch their winter game unfold. Zorro hides behind the mounds of snow piled up by Dave's tractor, then as Muscade approaches (head down, sniffing some unknown scent), he leaps out from his hiding spot and scuttles toward her, back raised and tail up. When Muscade takes notice, he changes course and darts back behind another snow bank. It looks like we're all enjoying the winter wonderland.
I decide to take Maggie for a last loop down through the snowdrifts. Her long, thick, black coat is shiny from sweat, and steam is beginning to rise her from back. She's just getting going though. I actually have to hold her back. But as we round the corner and start back up the hill toward the massive snow-drift, I lean forward and give her her head. Her hind end lowers and chunks of snow fly into the air as she picks up speed. We're through the drift and cresting the hill when she squeals. Uh-oh.
Suddenly, with a toss of her head, Maggie gets carried away in the moment. She whips her body into the air with a violent buck-- this is not the kind of frustrated buck she occasionally tests me with in riding ring. No, this is the joy-filled, lurching, twisting buck I've seen her attempt when running side-by-side with Murray out in the field. It's the kind of buck that has often prompted Dave and I to look at each other and say "man, she has power."
Before her leap into the air, I'm perched, jockey-like on her neck, urging her forward. Now, I try to lean back, but I don't have time to drive my seat completely back into the saddle. I'm tossed around like a rag doll as her ample hind-end launches her 1300 pound body well into the air. My feet slip from the stirrups, and I think to myself that at least the snow will make for a soft landing. Her second buck is thankfully less-enthusiastic, and I do manage to hold on as her hooves sink into the snow and she bolts off at a full-out gallop.
Now, I'm someone who believes in treating horses' mouths with great respect. I generally ride in fat, loose ring snaffles, and I don't believe in using a bit as punishment. That said, I had borrowed a harsher-than-usual corkscrew bit from a friend since Maggie has been a little fresh lately. I wanted to fine-tune her responses before letting Dave on her back again. I used the bit once, and decided it might be too much for her. I had considered taking it off before today's ride. I didn't though, mostly because I was too anxious to get out in the snow, and didn't want to take the time to fiddle with the difficult leather.
I forget about the bit as I struggle to stay in the saddle on the steam-breathing black horse now careening through our snow-covered field. In grave danger of injuring my pride by landing on my butt in the snow, I give a pretty sharp tug on the reins. Maggie, who actually has quite a soft mouth, and who was in the middle of a full gallop stride, comes to an abrupt halt. Insulted by my assault on her tender mouth, she shakes her head savagely from side to side and shifts into temper tantrum mode just as I manage to slip my feet back into my stirrups.
When Maggie has tantrums, she reminds me of the stereotypical terrible two-year-old child-- the one who throws her body on the ground, shakes her head and flails her arms and legs from side to side while screaming at full volume. Only, instead of flailing limbs, Maggie pounds her front and hind feet alternately into the ground in a rocking-horse style rear/ buck, rear/ buck motion. Today she even snorts and squeals in anger as she hops up and down on the spot until I manage an apologetic pat on the neck. Eventually though, all is forgiven, and she settles as we walk through the shimmering, sunlit snow, back to the barn. What a great ride.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
A Tale of Two Trails
Wednesday April 29th
It's mid-afternoon. Outside, it's cold, damp and windy. Inside, part of me just wants to cozy-up with a warm blanket and take a nap, but the other part of me wants to ride. I decide to take it easy on myself and the horses. I'll ride, but today will be "trail-ride" day-- just a relaxing 40 minute jaunt up and down the road.
If I thought that would take less energy than schooling them in the ring, I was wrong.
Maggie's easiest to catch, so I ride her first. I've only ridden her a couple of times since her accident and she's a bit fidgety. She's tacked up and ready to go, but she's moving around so much, and tugging at the reins so much that it takes a few minutes for me to mount. I start to wonder whether there's any pent-up energy that I should be worried about. But, once I'm on, she easily settles into her non-hurried, meandering pace.
We start our ride with the usual muscle-building jaunt down and up the hill. All is well. At the top of the hill, as we pass by our driveway, I have a great view of the road ahead as it curls back upon itself like a snake. About five hundred metres ahead, I notice what looks like a large sheet of white plastic entwined in the brush on the side of the road. I wonder briefly whether Maggie will spook at it once we get close. I push the thought out of my head so she doesn't pick up any nervous vibes.
I shouldn't have worried. She plodded by without even glancing at it. On the way back, I halt her beside it so I can lean over and have a closer look. I see that it's not plastic, it's paper. It's about 3 feet high and 4 feet long. It appears to be a blueprint of some sort. As we stand there, it flutters a bit in the breeze. Maggie stretches her neck to grasp at the long grass growing beside it. She seems completely oblivious to its existence. I nudge her sides with my calves and we continue home at a snail's pace. It's a relaxing, enjoyable ride.
Now it's Murray's turn. Even as I bring him in from the paddock I can tell that he's feeling more than a bit fresh. On our way into the barn, he skitters sideways and snorts at a white bucket I've placed under the eaves to collect rain (he's been by this at least a dozen times now). On the cross-ties, he pushes his hindquarters toward the wall and swings his head around to look, wide-eyed over his shoulder. He's like a schizophrenic in the midst of a particularly disturbing paranoid delusion.
It crosses my mind that in his wired, anxious state, Murray may not be a good candidate for a relaxing ride down the road. I'm stubborn though, so I figure I'll give it a shot anyway.
We don't get off to a very good start. Murray is normally quite mannerly when I mount. Not today. Today, in his vigilant state of high-alertness, Murray seems entirely oblivious to my attempts to hoist my body onto his back. His shifting gaze flits back and forth between the red-breasted robins hopping about on the lawn, and the branches of the spruce trees waving in the wind. He jumps at every sound, and simply will not stand still. Eventually, in a not-so-graceful move, I haul myself into the saddle and manage to gather the reins as he lurches sideways out of the grasp of some unseen monster. We prance down the driveway, his head swinging from side-to-side in paranoid angst.
Like with Maggie, we start off down the hill. We do the usual walk-down, trot up routine, and by the time we reach the top, he's lost much of his nervous attitude, or so I think.
As we pass by our driveway, Murray's head shoots up, his ears flick forward, and his eyes widen. He's just caught sight of the slightly twitching, white blueprint about half a kilometre ahead. He pauses mid-stride. His focus on the out-of-place, bright-white object is intense. I push him forward into a trot, then a canter, and figure that if we stay on the opposite side of the road, he should pass by it with little more than a sideways glance. I was wrong.
Murray and I canter up the road, but his eyes never leave the blueprint. We're still a good 25 to 30 feet away when he skids to a halt. I give an encouraging cluck, and a tap with my whip and Murray wheels himself around in a 180 degree pirouette. I turn him back around. He spins again. We enter into a strange, lurching dance, one where we're both fighting to take the lead. He darts sideways, kicking and rearing, and when that doesn't work, he brings out his signature move. He starts running backward toward the shoulder of the road with the steepest incline. In this case, the shoulder drops off quickly into a beautiful, but steep grassy field.
When Murray gets this frantic, he goes into what I call his "self-destruct" mode. Most horses might try to ditch their rider, but they'll do what they can to keep themselves safe. Not Murray, when he's like this, it seems like he'd rather throw himself off a cliff than give-in. He's one of two horses I've ever ridden who can get like this (both thoroughbreds), and it's the only time I ever get nervous.
After a minute or two in frenzied battle, we're both exhausted, but both two stubborn to give in. I somehow manage to get Murray to stop his backward spirals long enough to agree to a momentary truce. We're halted, facing toward home, away from the evil white paper. Despite the cold air, his neck is soaked with sweat, and his whole body is shaking, vibrating like a just-plucked guitar string. I decide on a partial retreat. I've fought these battles with him before--sometimes for hours-- and I know he won't give up, besides we're on a road. It doesn't get a lot of traffic, but it does get some, and I don't trust him to get out of the way of on-coming vehicles.
I figure I'll ride him home, get him settled, then come back down the road and make another attempt at passing-by this terrifying white paper. I relax the reins and urge Murray forward toward home. Murray doesn't accept my peace treatise. He throws himself sideways and launches another barrage of half-rears and backward spins. I kick, I scold, I pull, and I sit-tight, but after a few more minutes, I change tactics. I decide to bail.
During one of his less frenzied moments, I hop off. I stand beside him, grasp the reins and in frustration lead him purposefully down the road, past the object of his terror. He snorts and dances sideways, but with some firm coaxing, he allows me to take lead him by. We circle past the paper again and again and again. He never relaxes, but after a few minutes, he makes less of an effort to dodge sideways each time he passes it. I decide it's time to get back on.
I lead Murray off the main road onto a gravel path which provides access to the local cellphone tower. I try to get on. He rears. I try to get on again. He rears. I try several times, and each time he rears higher and twists more violently away-- now he's intent on heading home. Finally, my very tall horse rears so high that I'm forced to let go of the reins. As Murray hits the ground again, he spins away from me and starts to bolt toward home. I lunge forward and just manage to wrap my fingers around the sweat-stained leather reins before he can get more than a few feet away. My arm is yanked forward as he tries to dart-off anyway.
I decide I have no choice but to lead him home. I hate giving in, but I can't risk having him loose on the road, I just can't. By this time, I've had enough. I try to be patient, but I'm fuming. He's 22 years old. I mean really, there are times when it would be nice if he would actually act his age.
As I turn to lead him home, a light drizzle starts up. On the road, a car passes by. The driver gives me a funny look, and I do my best to smile. I can't imagine how I must look, decked out in my helmet and half-chaps, but instead of sitting astride of my noble steed, I'm walking, humiliated at his side. To make matters worse, he's still riled-up, and gives a little jump sideways as the car goes by. It's all I can do to keep myself from taking my anger out on my horse. Admittedly, I probably give him a few sharper-than-necessary tugs on the reins when he tries to trot out ahead of me, but other than that, I leave him alone.
Back at the house, I get on again. Then, I try to get him down the driveway, but he's having no part of this at all. He runs backward until he hits the telephone pole and scares himself. He runs backward until he hits the outside wall of the barn and scares himself. He tries gamely to turn and run into the barn, but I'm ready for that and I yank him the other way.
Just when I begin to worry that I really might lose this battle, he pauses in his assault. I take advantage, and throw every weapon I have into use. I kick, flail, cluck and flap my arms, and Murray moves forward into a reticent trot. We reach the end of the driveway and I can feel him starting to throw his shoulder to turn around. I dig my heels in as hard as I can and tell him to gallop. I think he's surprised by my determination. He's lost the element of surprise and has no choice but to gallop forward down the road. I don't let him ease up, I keep him galloping, galloping, galloping. We're not stopping until we're past that fluttering paper. It works. This time he barely even has time to look at the paper as we fly by. Once we make it, I pat his neck and I let him slow to a trot, then a walk.
Murray's winded, his nostrils are flared, and his C.O.P.D. lungs are gulping for air. Part of me feels bad, but mostly I'm relieved that I won...if I hadn't, he would remember his victory every time we're out on the road, and he'd be the one in charge. He walks pretty calmly back to the barn. He's still leery of the paper as we pass by it on our return trip. Unlike with Maggie, I certainly won't try and stop him beside it, but at least he'll walk by.
By mid-afternoon on the next day, the villainous blueprint has disappeared. I don't know whether it's blown off into the woods somewhere, or whether someone has picked it up and taken it away. Either way, I'm kind of glad I won't have to pass by it again.
Can someone please remind me why it is that I'm such a fan of thoroughbreds?
It's mid-afternoon. Outside, it's cold, damp and windy. Inside, part of me just wants to cozy-up with a warm blanket and take a nap, but the other part of me wants to ride. I decide to take it easy on myself and the horses. I'll ride, but today will be "trail-ride" day-- just a relaxing 40 minute jaunt up and down the road.
If I thought that would take less energy than schooling them in the ring, I was wrong.
Maggie's easiest to catch, so I ride her first. I've only ridden her a couple of times since her accident and she's a bit fidgety. She's tacked up and ready to go, but she's moving around so much, and tugging at the reins so much that it takes a few minutes for me to mount. I start to wonder whether there's any pent-up energy that I should be worried about. But, once I'm on, she easily settles into her non-hurried, meandering pace.
We start our ride with the usual muscle-building jaunt down and up the hill. All is well. At the top of the hill, as we pass by our driveway, I have a great view of the road ahead as it curls back upon itself like a snake. About five hundred metres ahead, I notice what looks like a large sheet of white plastic entwined in the brush on the side of the road. I wonder briefly whether Maggie will spook at it once we get close. I push the thought out of my head so she doesn't pick up any nervous vibes.
I shouldn't have worried. She plodded by without even glancing at it. On the way back, I halt her beside it so I can lean over and have a closer look. I see that it's not plastic, it's paper. It's about 3 feet high and 4 feet long. It appears to be a blueprint of some sort. As we stand there, it flutters a bit in the breeze. Maggie stretches her neck to grasp at the long grass growing beside it. She seems completely oblivious to its existence. I nudge her sides with my calves and we continue home at a snail's pace. It's a relaxing, enjoyable ride.
Now it's Murray's turn. Even as I bring him in from the paddock I can tell that he's feeling more than a bit fresh. On our way into the barn, he skitters sideways and snorts at a white bucket I've placed under the eaves to collect rain (he's been by this at least a dozen times now). On the cross-ties, he pushes his hindquarters toward the wall and swings his head around to look, wide-eyed over his shoulder. He's like a schizophrenic in the midst of a particularly disturbing paranoid delusion.
It crosses my mind that in his wired, anxious state, Murray may not be a good candidate for a relaxing ride down the road. I'm stubborn though, so I figure I'll give it a shot anyway.
We don't get off to a very good start. Murray is normally quite mannerly when I mount. Not today. Today, in his vigilant state of high-alertness, Murray seems entirely oblivious to my attempts to hoist my body onto his back. His shifting gaze flits back and forth between the red-breasted robins hopping about on the lawn, and the branches of the spruce trees waving in the wind. He jumps at every sound, and simply will not stand still. Eventually, in a not-so-graceful move, I haul myself into the saddle and manage to gather the reins as he lurches sideways out of the grasp of some unseen monster. We prance down the driveway, his head swinging from side-to-side in paranoid angst.
Like with Maggie, we start off down the hill. We do the usual walk-down, trot up routine, and by the time we reach the top, he's lost much of his nervous attitude, or so I think.
As we pass by our driveway, Murray's head shoots up, his ears flick forward, and his eyes widen. He's just caught sight of the slightly twitching, white blueprint about half a kilometre ahead. He pauses mid-stride. His focus on the out-of-place, bright-white object is intense. I push him forward into a trot, then a canter, and figure that if we stay on the opposite side of the road, he should pass by it with little more than a sideways glance. I was wrong.
Murray and I canter up the road, but his eyes never leave the blueprint. We're still a good 25 to 30 feet away when he skids to a halt. I give an encouraging cluck, and a tap with my whip and Murray wheels himself around in a 180 degree pirouette. I turn him back around. He spins again. We enter into a strange, lurching dance, one where we're both fighting to take the lead. He darts sideways, kicking and rearing, and when that doesn't work, he brings out his signature move. He starts running backward toward the shoulder of the road with the steepest incline. In this case, the shoulder drops off quickly into a beautiful, but steep grassy field.
When Murray gets this frantic, he goes into what I call his "self-destruct" mode. Most horses might try to ditch their rider, but they'll do what they can to keep themselves safe. Not Murray, when he's like this, it seems like he'd rather throw himself off a cliff than give-in. He's one of two horses I've ever ridden who can get like this (both thoroughbreds), and it's the only time I ever get nervous.
After a minute or two in frenzied battle, we're both exhausted, but both two stubborn to give in. I somehow manage to get Murray to stop his backward spirals long enough to agree to a momentary truce. We're halted, facing toward home, away from the evil white paper. Despite the cold air, his neck is soaked with sweat, and his whole body is shaking, vibrating like a just-plucked guitar string. I decide on a partial retreat. I've fought these battles with him before--sometimes for hours-- and I know he won't give up, besides we're on a road. It doesn't get a lot of traffic, but it does get some, and I don't trust him to get out of the way of on-coming vehicles.
I figure I'll ride him home, get him settled, then come back down the road and make another attempt at passing-by this terrifying white paper. I relax the reins and urge Murray forward toward home. Murray doesn't accept my peace treatise. He throws himself sideways and launches another barrage of half-rears and backward spins. I kick, I scold, I pull, and I sit-tight, but after a few more minutes, I change tactics. I decide to bail.
During one of his less frenzied moments, I hop off. I stand beside him, grasp the reins and in frustration lead him purposefully down the road, past the object of his terror. He snorts and dances sideways, but with some firm coaxing, he allows me to take lead him by. We circle past the paper again and again and again. He never relaxes, but after a few minutes, he makes less of an effort to dodge sideways each time he passes it. I decide it's time to get back on.
I lead Murray off the main road onto a gravel path which provides access to the local cellphone tower. I try to get on. He rears. I try to get on again. He rears. I try several times, and each time he rears higher and twists more violently away-- now he's intent on heading home. Finally, my very tall horse rears so high that I'm forced to let go of the reins. As Murray hits the ground again, he spins away from me and starts to bolt toward home. I lunge forward and just manage to wrap my fingers around the sweat-stained leather reins before he can get more than a few feet away. My arm is yanked forward as he tries to dart-off anyway.
I decide I have no choice but to lead him home. I hate giving in, but I can't risk having him loose on the road, I just can't. By this time, I've had enough. I try to be patient, but I'm fuming. He's 22 years old. I mean really, there are times when it would be nice if he would actually act his age.
As I turn to lead him home, a light drizzle starts up. On the road, a car passes by. The driver gives me a funny look, and I do my best to smile. I can't imagine how I must look, decked out in my helmet and half-chaps, but instead of sitting astride of my noble steed, I'm walking, humiliated at his side. To make matters worse, he's still riled-up, and gives a little jump sideways as the car goes by. It's all I can do to keep myself from taking my anger out on my horse. Admittedly, I probably give him a few sharper-than-necessary tugs on the reins when he tries to trot out ahead of me, but other than that, I leave him alone.
Back at the house, I get on again. Then, I try to get him down the driveway, but he's having no part of this at all. He runs backward until he hits the telephone pole and scares himself. He runs backward until he hits the outside wall of the barn and scares himself. He tries gamely to turn and run into the barn, but I'm ready for that and I yank him the other way.
Just when I begin to worry that I really might lose this battle, he pauses in his assault. I take advantage, and throw every weapon I have into use. I kick, flail, cluck and flap my arms, and Murray moves forward into a reticent trot. We reach the end of the driveway and I can feel him starting to throw his shoulder to turn around. I dig my heels in as hard as I can and tell him to gallop. I think he's surprised by my determination. He's lost the element of surprise and has no choice but to gallop forward down the road. I don't let him ease up, I keep him galloping, galloping, galloping. We're not stopping until we're past that fluttering paper. It works. This time he barely even has time to look at the paper as we fly by. Once we make it, I pat his neck and I let him slow to a trot, then a walk.
Murray's winded, his nostrils are flared, and his C.O.P.D. lungs are gulping for air. Part of me feels bad, but mostly I'm relieved that I won...if I hadn't, he would remember his victory every time we're out on the road, and he'd be the one in charge. He walks pretty calmly back to the barn. He's still leery of the paper as we pass by it on our return trip. Unlike with Maggie, I certainly won't try and stop him beside it, but at least he'll walk by.
By mid-afternoon on the next day, the villainous blueprint has disappeared. I don't know whether it's blown off into the woods somewhere, or whether someone has picked it up and taken it away. Either way, I'm kind of glad I won't have to pass by it again.
Can someone please remind me why it is that I'm such a fan of thoroughbreds?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Feeling Fresh
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Maggie's feet have been trimmed, she's had two days off, and she's dropped about 40 pounds in the last 6 weeks. She's feeling good- almost too good.
Another sunny day, another schooling session with Maggie. She's her usual lackadaisical self as I groom her and tack her up. Down at the ring, for the first time, she stands perfectly still while I mount. But the moment we start moving, I notice there's a spring to her step.
Normally her walk is painfully slow, and I have to urge her to keep going every step of the way. Not today. Today, Maggie's walk is forward and purposeful. So is her trot. As we warm up, she even breaks into a quiet canter as if to show me that she remembers what we worked on during her last lesson. I'm encouraged by her energy, but I'm not sure how long it will last, so we get down to business.
We circle and serpentine across the sandy ring leaving dark hoof prints in our wake. Maggie's balance and flexibility improves with each turn we make, and she doesn't seem to be tiring. Finally, it's time to canter. I ask, and she responds to the cue instantly, even ending up on the correct lead. As we turn down the long side, I feel her picking up speed. I'm pleased for her, she's finally starting to be comfortable at the canter. Then, I feel it: as we pick up momentum her back starts to round, she tucks in her head, and lets out her characteristic squeal. In an instant, just as we're turning the corner, we're air born.
Thankfully, years of riding hot-head horses like Murray have given me a good seat, and as Maggie bucks, I manage to keep my behind firmly planted in the saddle. Even more thankfully, Maggie's not actually trying to get me off. She certainly hasn't put the full power of her ample hind end into her buck, and she doesn't follow up with anymore. It's the kind of buck that clearly says "I'm feeling GREAT".
Of course, seconds after her feet come back to earth, she wheels sideways as the dog streaks across the field in front of us in hot pursuit of some kind of scent. I rebalance myself, then decide that I'd better make use of this mare's energy before she finds another outlet for it.
Our canter on the other rein is comparatively uneventful. We head down the road to cool out. For the first time, Maggie tests me, making a few half-hearted attempts to turn around and go back to the barn. I press her into a trot instead, and by the time we're halfway up the hill, she's finally tired. Her energy evaporates, and she plods along pleasantly the rest of the way.
Maggie's feet have been trimmed, she's had two days off, and she's dropped about 40 pounds in the last 6 weeks. She's feeling good- almost too good.
Another sunny day, another schooling session with Maggie. She's her usual lackadaisical self as I groom her and tack her up. Down at the ring, for the first time, she stands perfectly still while I mount. But the moment we start moving, I notice there's a spring to her step.
Normally her walk is painfully slow, and I have to urge her to keep going every step of the way. Not today. Today, Maggie's walk is forward and purposeful. So is her trot. As we warm up, she even breaks into a quiet canter as if to show me that she remembers what we worked on during her last lesson. I'm encouraged by her energy, but I'm not sure how long it will last, so we get down to business.
We circle and serpentine across the sandy ring leaving dark hoof prints in our wake. Maggie's balance and flexibility improves with each turn we make, and she doesn't seem to be tiring. Finally, it's time to canter. I ask, and she responds to the cue instantly, even ending up on the correct lead. As we turn down the long side, I feel her picking up speed. I'm pleased for her, she's finally starting to be comfortable at the canter. Then, I feel it: as we pick up momentum her back starts to round, she tucks in her head, and lets out her characteristic squeal. In an instant, just as we're turning the corner, we're air born.
Thankfully, years of riding hot-head horses like Murray have given me a good seat, and as Maggie bucks, I manage to keep my behind firmly planted in the saddle. Even more thankfully, Maggie's not actually trying to get me off. She certainly hasn't put the full power of her ample hind end into her buck, and she doesn't follow up with anymore. It's the kind of buck that clearly says "I'm feeling GREAT".
Of course, seconds after her feet come back to earth, she wheels sideways as the dog streaks across the field in front of us in hot pursuit of some kind of scent. I rebalance myself, then decide that I'd better make use of this mare's energy before she finds another outlet for it.
Our canter on the other rein is comparatively uneventful. We head down the road to cool out. For the first time, Maggie tests me, making a few half-hearted attempts to turn around and go back to the barn. I press her into a trot instead, and by the time we're halfway up the hill, she's finally tired. Her energy evaporates, and she plods along pleasantly the rest of the way.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Mellow Murray and Mischievous Maggie
Sunday, March 7th
Another beautiful, bright day. This time there's not even a whisper of wind to offset the surprising warmth of the bright March sunshine. I've decided to ride both horses today.
I start by taking Murray on another ride up the road (I make sure the gate to Maggie's paddock is well secured before saddling-up). This is the second ride in a row up this road, which means that Murray already has the lay of the land, that he's memorized the exact spot where we turned around last time, and that (if history runs true) he's bound to be slightly more neurotic this time.
After a few minutes, I urge Murray into an easy trot, might as well open his lungs and get the blood pumping. We reach the first house, a large (roughly 80 pounds) yellow dog runs towards us, barking steadily. His owner tries half-heartedly to call him back, but Murray doesn't spook, I call out that it's a beautiful day, and the dog stays in the yard. All-in-all, not so bad.
After that, we explore a side-road where the frozen ground has yet to soften up under the morning sun. We pass a house which I think may belong to a bootlegger. I see another large dog roaming the road up ahead. Murray and I decide to retreat.
We make it back to the main road, to the spot where we turned around yesterday. Murray makes one attempt to turn around and go home, but after a few seconds he gives up the protest and willingly trudges on. We ride the full length of the road, and he's an absolute gentleman.
The only time he throws a bit of a tantrum is when we run across another horse, in a pasture. Murray is frightened to death of the meek-looking quarter horse. For an instant, he's actually frozen in terror. Then, eyes-wide, and neck raised, he tries to run backwards down the road. The set-back is only temporary though. Warily, he lets me urge him past the small, non-threatening fellow-equine.
On the way home, Murray walks quietly on a long rein-- no dancing, jigging, or stupidity of any kind. It's possibly the best, most relaxing trail ride we've ever had. I'm positively beaming when I get back to the barn, and I'm even more pleased when I take him down to the ring to find that the footing is dry enough for us to trot a few circles.
Me, to Dave: Look, I'm riding my horse, in my ring, in March! I can't believe it! Actually, I can't believe I have a riding ring, at home, in my backyard.
I'm still on a high as I tack-up Maggie. I consider riding her down the road, but a little voice in the back of my head pipes up: "Is it really a good idea to ride a horse, who's only had someone on her back three times, on a road, in the open, by yourself?" Good point.
I take her down to the ring instead. I make Dave come with me. I consider getting on right away, I mean really, my biggest problem to date has been getting her to move. She's kind, lazy, unambitious, and halts abruptly the minute you yell Whoa! On top of that, she's probably not even fit enough to attempt a to buck or rear. Again, the voice chimes in: "She does seem to have much more energy in the paddocks these days. She's trotting and even cantering regularly, and I even saw her do something in her paddock that could have been called a buck. And don't forget yesterday's shenanigans". Ok, I'll lunge her first.
Well, it's a good thing I know enough to wear gloves when lunging. I ended up with mild rope burn as it was.
I turn Maggie lose on the lunge line, and instantly she's trotting, not waddling like usual, but actually trotting, only she's not turning as she should, she's continuing the length of the ring. I haul as hard as I can on the lunge line, but she dives her nose down and hauls harder. The only way I hold onto the line is by slipping my hand through the loop at the end (I know, not safe), and by running to keep up with her until I can force her to stop by making her run into the fence. We battle it out like this for about 20 minutes. She trots, canters, bolts, completely ignores all shouts of "Whoa!" and raises her heels in what can definitely be considered a serious buck (a hind-end that large can be pretty powerful).
Finally, I get her to stop, well, I get her to trot on a circle small enough that eventually she has to stop. We're both out-of-breath and sweaty. My arms feel like lead. I'm too tired to lunge her anymore, so I decide to get on. She jigs and fidgets while I mount. She trots off once I'm on. I try to stop her, and with some effort she halts. When I ask her to walk again, she squeals, shakes her head and gives a halfhearted (thank goodness) buck. This goes on for another 15 minutes. When I finally get her to walk around the ring once, in a cooperative way, I decide we're done.
Murray, you can be difficult, sometimes impossible to ride, but today you were an absolute dream.
Maggie, I'm not sure what to think of you. You're just too full of surprises-- and not all of them good.
Another beautiful, bright day. This time there's not even a whisper of wind to offset the surprising warmth of the bright March sunshine. I've decided to ride both horses today.
I start by taking Murray on another ride up the road (I make sure the gate to Maggie's paddock is well secured before saddling-up). This is the second ride in a row up this road, which means that Murray already has the lay of the land, that he's memorized the exact spot where we turned around last time, and that (if history runs true) he's bound to be slightly more neurotic this time.
After a few minutes, I urge Murray into an easy trot, might as well open his lungs and get the blood pumping. We reach the first house, a large (roughly 80 pounds) yellow dog runs towards us, barking steadily. His owner tries half-heartedly to call him back, but Murray doesn't spook, I call out that it's a beautiful day, and the dog stays in the yard. All-in-all, not so bad.
After that, we explore a side-road where the frozen ground has yet to soften up under the morning sun. We pass a house which I think may belong to a bootlegger. I see another large dog roaming the road up ahead. Murray and I decide to retreat.
We make it back to the main road, to the spot where we turned around yesterday. Murray makes one attempt to turn around and go home, but after a few seconds he gives up the protest and willingly trudges on. We ride the full length of the road, and he's an absolute gentleman.
The only time he throws a bit of a tantrum is when we run across another horse, in a pasture. Murray is frightened to death of the meek-looking quarter horse. For an instant, he's actually frozen in terror. Then, eyes-wide, and neck raised, he tries to run backwards down the road. The set-back is only temporary though. Warily, he lets me urge him past the small, non-threatening fellow-equine.
On the way home, Murray walks quietly on a long rein-- no dancing, jigging, or stupidity of any kind. It's possibly the best, most relaxing trail ride we've ever had. I'm positively beaming when I get back to the barn, and I'm even more pleased when I take him down to the ring to find that the footing is dry enough for us to trot a few circles.
Me, to Dave: Look, I'm riding my horse, in my ring, in March! I can't believe it! Actually, I can't believe I have a riding ring, at home, in my backyard.
I'm still on a high as I tack-up Maggie. I consider riding her down the road, but a little voice in the back of my head pipes up: "Is it really a good idea to ride a horse, who's only had someone on her back three times, on a road, in the open, by yourself?" Good point.
I take her down to the ring instead. I make Dave come with me. I consider getting on right away, I mean really, my biggest problem to date has been getting her to move. She's kind, lazy, unambitious, and halts abruptly the minute you yell Whoa! On top of that, she's probably not even fit enough to attempt a to buck or rear. Again, the voice chimes in: "She does seem to have much more energy in the paddocks these days. She's trotting and even cantering regularly, and I even saw her do something in her paddock that could have been called a buck. And don't forget yesterday's shenanigans". Ok, I'll lunge her first.
Well, it's a good thing I know enough to wear gloves when lunging. I ended up with mild rope burn as it was.
I turn Maggie lose on the lunge line, and instantly she's trotting, not waddling like usual, but actually trotting, only she's not turning as she should, she's continuing the length of the ring. I haul as hard as I can on the lunge line, but she dives her nose down and hauls harder. The only way I hold onto the line is by slipping my hand through the loop at the end (I know, not safe), and by running to keep up with her until I can force her to stop by making her run into the fence. We battle it out like this for about 20 minutes. She trots, canters, bolts, completely ignores all shouts of "Whoa!" and raises her heels in what can definitely be considered a serious buck (a hind-end that large can be pretty powerful).
Finally, I get her to stop, well, I get her to trot on a circle small enough that eventually she has to stop. We're both out-of-breath and sweaty. My arms feel like lead. I'm too tired to lunge her anymore, so I decide to get on. She jigs and fidgets while I mount. She trots off once I'm on. I try to stop her, and with some effort she halts. When I ask her to walk again, she squeals, shakes her head and gives a halfhearted (thank goodness) buck. This goes on for another 15 minutes. When I finally get her to walk around the ring once, in a cooperative way, I decide we're done.
Murray, you can be difficult, sometimes impossible to ride, but today you were an absolute dream.
Maggie, I'm not sure what to think of you. You're just too full of surprises-- and not all of them good.
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