A few years back, when the young 'uns were younger than they are today, a kind churchman let us loose on some of his horses. I say loose, we were confined to an arena and, for the kids, a round pen.
Big fun and such a pleasure to ride such well trained animals. Of course my two sons loved it, with the youngest sitting like a Buddha and the eldest, now in Korea, galloping about like a trooper. Fearless, you see.
I ran my horse around the barrels too, though I was told not to. He was, I discovered afterwards, a champ barrel horse with a habit of throwing unwary riders, and I felt foolish. Still, what a lot of fun.
There's something about riding which gets you right down to earth, hopefully not in a painful way. And I know many of you have forgotten more about this kind of thing than I'll ever know. But still, big fun and good for the kids.
Imagine how important it was for them to break away from computerized serfdom and get out and ride. And you can see, they liked it.
Your Old Friend,
LSP
8 comments:
I get it. I've only done a bit of trail riding when I was much younger, but I enjoyed it. The horses our cousins raised and we rode were all very well saddle-trained, and good with kids. There's a "partnership" between horse and rider, much like with a dog, or a good, fast car. A feeling of control, if you will. And just like some cars will turn around and bite you, so can some horses.
here's a horse video your readers might enjoy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0MbFZYRF8A
I grew up with horses, had my horse from an early age. The most we had at the ranch was eight. Morgans, Quarterhorses and American Saddlers. DRJIM is right (above). You feel a partnership with a horse and there is a bond that develops over time. Trust. Like a dog. Love. You need to ride them often, care for them daily. It's a big investment with a return on that investment.
I hate to say, "Back in my day", because it makes me sound as old as the hills - which I sort of am - or that's how it feels on a bad day. BUT back in my youth, I could saddle Big Red and ride all day in any direction on the compass. Nobody stopped you. Nobody bothered you. Nobody fuxed with you. You could ride. Best take a lunch and a thermos. Sometimes you could ride with friends. Sometimes even with a girl, which was a treat for a young man. But it was always about you and your horse. There was water either in streams and ditches, and you had to dismount, put on a halter and a lead and let him graze mid-day while you ate your lunch. Loosen the cinch (You know that he's going to blow when you go to tighten it again. It's the game).
Anyway, it's how I grew up. That's long ago and far away now.
It's true that you could do that at the White Wolf Mine - ride in any direction of the compass and not encounter a fence for many miles. But there aren't many places left like that.
Here's my horse story, copied and pasted from comments on another blog.
"I am told that when I was a wee lad learning my first words, I was introduced to my maternal grandfather. Those present tried to encourage me with words like 'granddad' and 'grandpa', but to no avail. Then someone said "Poppa" and I came back with "Boppa". The name stuck, and my grandfather was Boppa from then on. When my third horse foaled on our ranch, I named him after my grandfather. Boppa. We grew up together. He turned four about the time I turned 12.
His mother was full blooded thoroughbred and 17 hands at the withers. He was right at 16 hands. He was also 1/4 Quarter Horse and 1/4 Morgan, and built like a tank. He was also a one man horse. Even if I was in the saddle, if another guy walked up to give him a friendly pat on the neck, he would shy away. If I was on the ground and we yakked for a minute, then it was ok. Any girl on the planet could walk up and hug him with both arms. Then he was a big teddy bear. What a chick magnet.
I was fortunate enough to be able to pasture him literally across the street from where I went to junior college. There was another pasture behind the first that I also had access to. In this second one there were a couple of dilapidated out buildings and some old tires laid out flat in a large figure eight. This was used to gallop a horse around to train them to change their hoof lead going into a turn.
So, one fine weekend Boppa and I arrive in the back pasture, and I spot something low in the sky some distance away. Looks like another hot air balloon. Cool. We go about running some figure eights and some other stuff. Meanwhile the balloon is getting closer. And closer. And lower. By this time we are taking a break and I am standing on the ground. Boppa is giving me glances letting me know his is just not real sure about this thing in the sky. Knowing that I have more control of a nervous horse in the saddle than on the ground, I decide to mount up.
Just as my right foot leaves the ground, the balloon pilot lights his burner. Three things happen immediately. Boppa crow-hops forward, I land behind the saddle, and I lose my grip on the reins. Boppa crow-hops three or four more times (I lost count) and my frantic attempts to grab the reins are exactly out of sync. Boppa finally bucks, I go up and forward, he goes hard right, and when I return to cruising altitude, there ain't nobody there.
I sorta remember hitting the ground. I do remember sliding to a stop and feeling the dust settle on the back of my neck, and thinking (to borrow a future movie line) "Gonna be sore in the mornin'.". I hurt some, but nothing was broken and everything worked. I got up and dusted off and looked around.
Where's my horse? Ah, standing over there about 20 yards away. So I walk over to him and reach for the reins. As I reach out, he begins to tremble, and before I can grasp the reins, he walks away. Doesn't bolt or run, just...walks away. This happens once more. You see, this is the first time he had ever thrown me. In his mind, I was going to walk up an blow his brains out. On the third try, I finally got the reins. I had never seen the whites of his eyes that big, and he was shaking like a leaf. I just patted him and quietly talked to him, telling him it was ok, not his fault. And then he let out the biggest sigh of relief I have ever heard from anyone, two legged or four. A one man horse.
And here's the thing. That first photo up top is his spittin' image, right down to the white blaze on his face. He also had two white socks on the left side.
Boppa. See you soon buddy.
Drjim, they do have minds of their own... I've ignored that on a few occasions and regretted it!
Ha, Julie!
I'll have to share that fine equestrian video.
LL, what a thing to able to that. Impossible where I am in Texas, with barbed wire standing in the way. West Texas? Yes, but even there, maybe not so much.
Have you read Belloc's short(ish) essay/story on riding the length of England somewhere around 1910? His point was this, and he was fierce, "I'm going to do this now before it becomes impossible." He did, and it became so.
Chesterton makes a similar point -- when the last Inn has gone, England would go with it. He wasn't wrong, imo, but the Inn is a multifaceted thing.
Ride on.
I love that story, RHT.
Btw, after a Mad Arab kicked me off her back, she came up to commiserate as I stood on a busted upper femur. Seriously, came up and nuzzled. Wanted to put things right. I was genuinely touched!
Perhaps you should get some acreage out in the country?
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