Wallflower Abloom: Volunteering at Owyhee Fandango International 2009

I pulled up on a bit of grass at the Teeter Ranch at 6:30 a.m. Coffee mug in hand, I headed straight for the nearest outhouse. (Hey, it's a long drive.) Before I could even knock on the door, a friend hollered across the clearing, "Tamara!"

And my heart lifted.

The drive had been long, you see, in more than minutes. I came in my little car, horseless, accompanied only by the tattered remains of my plans for the 2009 endurance season. This ride was, in 2008, Aaruba's and my first LD. I'd have given half my soul to be riding two 50's on him this year, plus an LD on Consolation. But it wasn't to be. Aaruba's colic and my recent injury conspired to put me in the volunteer crew at this year's Owyhee Fandango International.

But as anyone who truly loves this sport knows, it's far better to grounded in ridecamp than absent altogether. There are friends to be made and knowledge to be gained, and it's absolutely true that you'll meet more people in camp than you will on the trail. Besides, every ride needs volunteers -- and every rider can do with an occasional reminder of how the world looks from a volunteer's perspective.

And, I got to take pictures. These were snapped during the warmup for the 50 mile race, in which some riders competed seriously for both FEI and AERC recognition and others took a more casual approach. The riders below are FEI competitors; if you recognize them, please let me know and I'll be happy to identify them here.




Promptly at 7:00, they were off! The start was crowded but uneventful, so far as I'm aware. 51 horses started the race, and 39 completed.


At 8:00, the Limited Distance riders set out. Here, Elly Burnett and her green horse Jasper take a calm and sensible approach to the race, which they completed in good form. Congratulations on your first completion, you two!


During the first hold, I had an opportunity to do a little impromptu crewing for 2007 AERC national champion Bob Steller and his horse Majestic Star (pictured below). Both Bob and his wife Monika, herself a 2003 AERC Hall of Famer with her partner Markoss, are exemplary ambassadors for our sport.


We had plenty of volunteer help, so the workload in camp was light. I had the privilege of spending a couple hours chatting with Monika between passing time slips and pulsing LD finishers. In addition to being extremely knowledgeable, she is one of the kindest and most encouraging women I've ever had the pleasure to meet. Monika, you're on my shortlist of people to be like when I grow up.


All told, it was a beautiful day in the Owyhee canyonlands. I may not have gotten to dance, but I'm glad I showed up to sit on the sidelines and sway to the music.

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Bouncing Back

Almost a month has passed since the dog-chasing incident (I refuse to call it an accident!) that grounded me with a torn hamstring and a grudge against irresponsible dog owners.

Thanks to my savvy physical therapist, a rather extreme nutritional program (15+ servings of produce per day, anyone?), and countless hours of stretching, strengthening, and icing, I'm now able to walk through most of my daily tasks in reasonable comfort.

On Monday, I even earned my PT's permission to reintroduce some jogging into my workouts. I promptly went out and made myself sore with a few miles of hill repeats. Ahhh, bliss! Now we're getting somewhere!

I'm trying to ignore the depressing fact that five, slow miles and fifty squats made me sore in the first place. Excuse me while I put my fingers in my ears and hum. I'm like a rubber ball, baby, that's all that I am to you...bouncy-bouncy...bouncy bouncy...

(Ha! I just love the internet. Y'all can't even slap me for putting that tune in your heads.)

Anyway. We know that equines retain their physical conditioning much longer than do humans, so those few miles I managed to get on Consolation earlier this spring won't be entirely wasted. In fact, an experienced endurance friend of mine is convinced that I can have her ready for the LD at Pink Flamingo in early August.

Maybe she's right. What the hell. I'm going for it!

The bad news is that I still can't ride. This isn't just PT's orders; it's my own assessment. If I were to mount up, the knot of injured muscle tissue that remains just above and to the inside of my knee would press against my beloved Stonewall (or any other saddle), causing constant pain and risking re-injury with every stride. Besides, I'd be a fool to risk riding a strong-willed greenie without all systems intact.

So, it's into the round corral with Consolation for some trotting, just to leg her up her muscle tone and aerobic capacity. I could be wrong, but I think she rather enjoys it. That's my smart girl.


Rubber ball, I come bouncing back to you...
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P.S. I keep meaning to mention -- as many of you have shown great interest in the subject -- that I've decided to take the dog's owner to small claims court. It's not about revenge. It's about justice. And PT bills. I'll keep you posted.
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Shot in the Dark: Victory

I'm not the first to observe that the 2009 season has been rough on the endurance blogging community. Jonna of Barbs, etc. continues to struggle with hoof issues. Elly of Living in a Zoo is working through behavioral troubles. Jacke, aka Endurance Granny, suffered a crash course in exertional rhabdomyolysis. I had to retire a promising mount, then was grounded by an unhappy riding incident. Tabata of My Friend Shah concluded that her horse has done his time. Nicole of Adventures on Arabee and Shana of Sinwaan are sitting out the season, albiet for happier reasons. I've probably missed someone...but I hope not!

This post is for all of you dealing with setbacks -- horse related or otherwise. The quote comes from Jack Medina and Roy Vartabedian's excellent book The Winning Edge: Fueling & Training the Body for Peak Performance. If you don't own a copy, you should.

"There are times when a person puts out everything they have and still fail, they still don't win.
But in the striving, in the development of a will that goes down that deep, a man or woman learns a great lesson about life.
That somehow there can be more victory in striving like that than there is in victory itself.
And even beyond that I will predict that there can be defeat in victory if a person doesn't learn this.

...You can't tell me that there can't be victory in defeat and that there can't be defeat in victory depending on the attitude you have.
It isn't where you are going that counts,
it's the direction in which you are headed!
One of the great things about the sports world is that it can teach you to take frustration and come back out of it and go on to Victory."

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Shorts Stories

I hardly ever wear shorts.

They aren't practical on the farm or welcome at the office, and considering that I have no life beyond those two places, I can safely state that my shorts-wearing time is limited almost exclusively to whitewater rafting expeditions and workouts.

Well. I've discovered a new use for those scraps of navy nylon: Campaigning.

Fresh from yesterday's physical therapy session, still clad in athletic gear, I set out to run a few errands about town. It didn't take long for me to notice the less-than-subtle commentary that rippled in my wake:

"Look at her leg," said the old biddy in the feed store's poultry aisle. Her companion shushed her while I smiled sweetly and stacked scratch grains on my cart.

"That looks like it hurt," whispered the cashier to her co-worker.

"Oh, my god," said a teenaged girl in the parking lot. "Is that a bruise?"

Ahh, the perfect opening line. The girl was the first of many to direct it at me. She was followed by the cowboy with the silver Chevy, the cyclist in line at the post office, the natural foods stocker at the grocery, the guy on the sales floor at Play it Again Sports, and several more.

One after another, they asked, "Is that a bruise?"

One after another, they winced when I said, "Pretty much. Torn hamstring."

One after another, each of them took the bait. "What'd you do?"

And one time after another, I set the hook. "My horse was attacked by a loose dog, and I fell off."

Their reactions ranged from amusement to curiosity to indignation. A few jumped straight to storytelling or advice-giving mode. All wanted to hear more of the story. At some point during every conversation, I made sure to comment that if I'd fallen on pavement instead of dirt, I might have died. Yep, those loose dogs are dangerous. Surely do appreciate owners who pen them up.

The message, of course, was the same one I wrote to you two days after my wreck: If you cannot train your dog to stay on your property no matter what, find a way to confine it. Period. Because if you don't, someone could get killed.

Sadly, humans are less capable of picking up subtle messages than are our equine friends. (Sorry, did I say "subtle?" I meant "glaringly obvious.") As the strangers walked off, shaking their heads in rueful dismissal, I began to wonder if I was getting through.

Oddly enough, it was Mr. Pick-up Line who made my efforts pay off. Eying my tank top as he rang up my kale and flax seed, he asked, "You on your way to work out?"

"Usually."

"Mm. 'Cause whatever you're doing, it's working out."

Right. Clever. I thanked him politely and punched in my PIN. It wasn't until I was walking away that he glimpsed my leg.

"What'd you do?" he called after me.

"Tried riding my horse past a loose dog," I said. "But it didn't work out."

And it happened. The next woman in line dug her elbow into her husband's ribs and chided, "See? You'd better chain up that damn dog before we get sued!"

Mission accomplished.

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Mentor in Motion

Yes, that's Aaruba. He looks great, doesn't he? Like he could trot 50 miles, race for the finish line, and emerge with all A's from the ride vet. But he couldn't.

My Aaruba looks like that because of who he is -- not because of how he feels.

Sometimes, when it gets very bad, he shows the pain. In any other horse, I'd call the symptoms "mild." But Aaruba's pain symptoms were mild even when the colic diagnostics said he should have been thrashing on the hospital floor.

So, you'll understand if I worry.

There are a few, precious instants when I can almost forget. When the weight of dread, so familiar now that I scarcely know it's there until it lifts, is blown back by the force of his joy. When I remember what he is trying to teach me:

Live now, because now is all we have. Embrace the pleasures of sheer physicality. Run until sweat pours from your skin. Build muscle -- it looks good and feels better. Bask naked in the sun. Eat when you're hungry -- natural, nourishing foods. Quench thirst with water.

The dividing line between body and spirit is narrow indeed. Does it even exist? I think Aaruba would say not. So, do not only what is healthful, but also what is right and good.

Challenge your mind. Live with courage. Be prepared to fight, if you have to.

Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Respect those who deserve it. Ignore the opinions of those who don't.

Trust slowly. Love rarely -- but when you love, love deeply. Discover passion. Practice gentleness. Never give up.

In short, live as the best of horses do, for all the time you have. Like Aaruba.

Keep running, Buddy. I'm right behind you.
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Shot in the Dark: Determination

The flower
that follows the sun
does so
even on cloudy days.

~ R. Leighton

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Doggone It

All right. I reckon I owe you all an update. (Many thanks for the concern of those who wrote to make sure I'm not in a coma somewhere.)

Absence of life support notwithstanding, this hasn't been my best-ever week. Since the Border Collie incident that resulted in my unscheduled -- and painful -- dismount from Consolation, I've run a gamut of emotions ranging from frustration to gratitude to resignation. I guess I'm still running, if truth be told.

Last Friday, my physical therapist informed me that my right hamstring suffered "massive soft tissue damage" in the form of "extensive micro-tearing throughout the semimembranosis muscle" as a result of blunt force trauma. Said blunt force also delivered a bone contusion to my knee, but the hamstring damage is considerably more distressing. If properly rehabilitated, however, it should heal completely. That's the good news.

The bad news is that I'm looking at about 6 weeks to return to full use for normal, daily activity and light workouts. Nine weeks or more for my preferred style of working out, which is to say, intense. At that point, I'm guessing I'll be able to ride safely.

Aside: Have you ever noticed how many people assume that you should be able to ride shortly after an injury, because obviously riding isn't athletic. All you have to do is sit there and let the horse do the work! I like to smile agreeably at these people and say, "Oh yes. Riding is a lot like skiing...you know, where the hill does all the work."

Anyway, though I plan to beat my PT's healing-time estimates through a combined approach of excellent nutrition, appropriate exercise, and (should I tell you this?) positive visualization, it's clear that I won't be riding anytime soon. By the time I get at least three months' conditioning on Consolation, the endurance season will be nearly over. If you've been reading The Barb Wire for any length of time, you understand that this is a heavy blow.

Meanwhile, what's to be done about the dog? Or, more specifically, about its irresponsible owner?

Many of you commented that I ought to file a report with Animal Control. Don't worry. I did. Last week, a county animal control officer served "dog at large" charges to the Border Collie's owner. Unfortunately, although the dog's behavior meets our county ordinance's definition of "vicious," it doesn't meet the supersceding state definition, which requires that a dog actually bite someone before it is considered vicious. The upshot is that the worst that can happen to the owner, if he's found guilty on this "dog at large" charge plus two more, is that he'll be fined $100 or less. The dog still won't have to be contained on his property.

Several individuals, including myself, have expressed hope that the owner will demonstrate a sense of responsibility and offer to cover my medical bills and the cost of a replacement helmet. Better yet, he might even build a fence or otherwise contain his dog!

Yeah. Don't count on it. The ACO observed that although the gentleman admitted ownership of the dog, he refused to acknowledge the chasing incident or the dog's frequent off-property roaming. And he wasn't friendly about it. At all.

So, if I want to pursue compensation, I'll have to file civil suit. Idaho small claims court looks like the most reasonable route, should I choose to take it. But is it worth my effort? I've no chance of a ruling that would require the dog to be controlled. The sum of money involved isn't substantial. (Yet.) What's much, much more substantial the loss of most or all of my 2009 endurance and training season. Does that count as pain and suffering? Legally, I doubt it...but emotionally? Yes. It does.

And yes, I'm still running that gamut. But I'll get through. I know what's at the end, even if I'm not there yet: Commitment. Setbacks or no, I'll keep climbing. Always have. Always will.

Longfellow said it best. (So well, in fact, that he named my farm.)

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight,

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

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Dear Choir:

If you cannot train your dog to stay on your property no matter what, find a way to confine it. Period. Because if you don't, someone could get killed. On Saturday, that someone could have been me. And I do not appreciate it.

Take responsiblity before irresponsibility takes a life.

And everybody said Amen,

Preacher
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Consolation and I had a nice ride on Saturday. It was sunny out. Light breeze. Cheerful farm workers waving from the fields as we trotted by. Hawks balanced like tight-rope walkers on threads of sky. Perfect.

Early in the ride, we had a little scare when a merle mixed breed ran across the road to bark at us. Consolation whirled and ran a few strides, but a deep seat, calm voice, and tug on the reins brought her back under control.

We turned around and continued down the road. The dog, which had retreated across its yard, came at us again. This time, Consolation stood her ground while I ordered it it back. It stopped. That dog got a good scare off me when it was a puppy, and it knows my voice. We carried on.

Two miles later, our geriatric friend the laborador lumbered along the edge of his lawn, woofing warning. "It's just us again, Black Dog," I called. His cloudy eyes blinked and tail wagged. We carried on.

Half a mile up the road, the rottweiler stud hit the wall of his chain-link kennel with the force of a charging bull, all bared fangs and hackles with spiked collar between. Consolation flinched, but she's nearly convinced by now that this predator can't reach her. We carried on.

At the end of our sixth mile, we passed the farm where lives the dog I hate most: a Border Collie with irresponsible owners. This dog isn't the run-bark-and-back-off sort. He's a herder, and not a polite one. He can't be yelled down. Even Aaruba, who is very responsive to me and brave about dogs, has a hard time facing up to him because he's so quick and focused on getting around to a horse's hind end.

Fortunately, the whole front side of the farm is free of concealing bushes, so I typically have time to see the collie coming and dismount. Normally, there follows a period of trying to keep my horse calm and handwalk her out of range while the dog's owner limps out, red-faced with impotent shouting, to retrieve his beast. We've talked before, that owner and I, about the danger his dog poses to me, my horse, and itself. But no fence has been erected, no stake and chain installed.

On Saturday, I was pleased that the collie didn't seem to be home. Consolation and I walked briskly past and were half a field away when I pulled her off the road to let a couple large, white utility trucks roar by. Sane as Consolation normally is about traffic, I was surprised when she spooked as the second truck passed. She leaped forward, and I shifted again into calming mode. Molassas voice, "Easy-easy, Lady, I've got you." Deep seat, low reins.

But this time, she didn't stop. She sped up. Her head and back rose. Not the truck, then. Something else. That dog.

Sure enough, I glanced back to see a flash of black and white snapping around Consolation's near flank. It must have nearly been hit by the truck in its haste to ambush us.

Great. Now what? The three of us were flying across a plowed field -- far too fast to attempt a single-rein-stop -- at an angle that would force us either over a 12-foot dropoff into the irrigation canal or out onto the road. I tried circling left, away from danger, but the dog was on that side and Consolation wouldn't turn.

I could, of course, try to ride it out in the hope the collie would stop before we hit the edge of the field...but I know that dog. He doesn't stop.

So, Plan B. B as in Bail and try to keep hold of the rein. Not ideal, but better than the alternative. I was just preparing to act when Consolation rendered my efforts unnecessary. She let loose a twisting, double-barrel kick that unseated me and would have sent that dog to the seventh circle of hell, had she connected.

It's hard to say what happened next. I don't remember falling, but the landing is pretty clear. I came down on Consolation's off side, directly on my back with my right leg still in the stirrup. My head slammed down into the back of my helmet. My first thought was, thank God for that helmet. I'm okay. And then, where's Consolation?

I scrambled to my feet. Oh, [insert expletive of choice]! Leg pain. Bad.

On the bright side, my fall seemed to have scared the collie off. Consolation stood forty feet away, facing me, her great black eyes full of questions...and trust. She wanted her leader. After all the bonding issues we've had, it was almost worth the tumble to see that face looking back at me.

She stood calmly while I retrieved her and checked her over. No apparent damage. I wasn't so lucky. As I led her back toward the road and the adreneline drained away, my leg demanded an increasing amount of attention. So, I ignored the imbecilic owner's belated attempt to recall his dog. He was a quarter mile away, in the wrong direction. I needed to get myself and my horse home.

Back on the road, I mounted gingerly. Half a mile's ride was enough. The damage to my leg seemed to be concentrated on the lower, rear inside of my right thigh. Already swelling, it made sitting astride both uncomfortable and unsafe. I dismounted, but walking wasn't much better. Cell phone time.

I called Travis. No answer. Called again. Left a message: "I'm okay, but I need you to call me right away." Walked on. Called a friend who lives nearby. He got in his truck and headed my way.

Meanwhile, I tried riding again but got off when swirls of distortion began swimming like soap bubbles across my vision. So I gimped another mile, using Milady's neck as a crutch, before help arrived.

Being only on more mile from home, I sent my friend to fetch Travis. He led Consolation the rest of the way and put her up while I hitched a ride in the truck and headed straight for the ice and ibuprofen. My vision had cleared and I experienced no further symptoms of head injury, so I decided against a trip to the ER.

By Sunday morning, my head was back to normal (well, as normal as it ever was -- which is to say, not very), but my leg was clearly not. I haven't figured out yet how much damage is done. I'm hoping it's just a massive bruise rather than a stretched or torn hamstring. My knee may or may not be affected. We'll see.

Either way, it could have been worse. Had those trucks not come along to boost us off the shoulder, Consolation and I would likely have been chased down the road instead of across a field. The same fall on pavement instead of freshly-plowed soil could have been fatal -- even with a helmet. It could also have broken any number of bones from hip to shoulder and given me one hell of a road rash. We could have been struck by a car. We could have been killed.

Travis is all for shooting the dog.

Me? I'd rather set my sights on the owner.
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Shot in the Dark: Goals

If you are bored with life, if you don't get up every morning with a burning desire to do things -- you don't have enough goals.

~ Lou Holtz

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Message in a Bottle Rocket

Aaruba came home to In the Night Farm on a July afternoon in 2006.

The first thing he did was look for more space in which to move around. Failing that, he paced. It was the first of many signals that Aaruba would never be content to stand around.

Because of his shaky training foundations and highly emotional nature, as well as my own need to build confidence, we spent an entire year on groundwork. If the was one thing he never lacked, it was energy. When we finally we began training on the trail in July 2007, his tireless nature remained intact. From the first day forward, he never stopped asking, "Can we go? Can we? Farther? Faster?"

By summer 2008, we'd settled at last into a steady conditioning schedule involving roughly 40 miles of long, slow distance work per week. At long last, Aaruba seemed happy. He thrived on effort and motion, loved nothing better than the open road. Endurance was his life.

These days, post-colic, he finds himself back in that pen, unemployed and disconsolate. Watching him breaks my heart; it's like seeing a high-powered businessman who retired and wishes he hadn't, or an Olympic hopeful rendered quadriplegic by an automobile accident. Knowing him as I do, I see that he is in frequent pain. I think it is minor, but history shows that he's exceptionally stoic. He plays anyway, more than I wish he would. Every day, I watch him run and buck and spin about in search of purpose and release.

As Aaruba emerged from his recent colic emergency, I talked at length with several vets who know him well, both healthy and ill. All agreed that if Aaruba were the sort of horse that could be content with an occasional amble along the irrigation ditch, that would be the safest way of life for him, given the probability that he suffers from small intestinal adhesions. But Aaruba is not that sort of horse. He had "Fit Arab Syndrome" long before he was actually fit. He's as likely to hurt himself in the pasture due to lack of work as is he is to suffer damage during an extended trot under saddle. In short, I must consider the whole horse.

It is unfair that he hasn't the power to decide for himself. Lacking a voice, he must rely on me -- his best friend, I hope -- to listen as carefully as I can and choose for him.

Some of the answers are obvious. He wants to go! Yesterday, I tossed my Stonewall over his back for his third, short ride since he returned from the hospital a month ago. We walked the first mile, warming up, reasonably calm. But when I asked for a trot, I got full-on powerhouse mode. I wasn't wearing a watch, but I'd put that trot in the neighborhood of 18 mph. We cantered a little, too, which was heaven for us both.

And then, reluctantly, we walked again. Two miles of speed, for a horse accustomed to 15, was not enough. Aaruba turned almost instantly into a horse I didn't know. Clearly having outrun his brain, he danced and jigged, head high enough to burn his ears on the setting sun. He got light in front and even half-reared once -- a move entirely out of character for my sweet, if energetic, boy.

We circled, flexed, worked on "head-down" cues, and made it home safely. Dismounting, I felt as though I owed him an apology. I've tried to take it easy on him, you see, tried to keep his workload very low in the interest of minimizing discomfort in his gut. Alas, yesterday's message was loud and clear: I am not okay. Mental anguish is worse than physical. Please, please, please take me out more.

So I will. Perhaps there's balance to be found in more frequent, less intense rides. Or somewhere else. I'll look until I find it.

And perhaps, one day, I will be worthy of this kind award from Kimberly Cox Carneal, who is an excellent writer and the author of one of my favorite blogs, Enlightened Horsemanship Through Touch. Thanks for the encouragement, Kim. I'll do my best to earn this.
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Tough (Luck), Sucker

Well, folks. Today's the day!

The third annual Owyhee Tough Sucker no-frills 25, 50, and 75 mile rides started this morning from the Teeter ranch in Oreana. The sun is shining, the breeze is brisk, the air is crisp...and I am sitting in front of my computer.

Alas, I had planned for the Tough Sucker to be Aaruba's and my first 50 of the season. Before his serious impaction colic in March, he was nearly fit to take it on at a moderate pace. Now, due to the probable diagnosis of small intestinal adhesions, he's eating his way through a very early retirement. His frustration is at least as apparent as mine. There's no question he'd rather be in the canyonlands right now, tearing up the trails.


So would I. My backup plan was to haul Consolation down to Oreana to do the 10-mile trail ride with a friend's husband, who was also starting an endurance prospect. But, as it turned out, he decided to sell said prospect. Meanwhile, my truck announced that now is the time for a new transmission, and my little car just wasn't up to towing the gooseneck today. There went the backup plan.

On the bright side, I'm looking forward to a date with another friend, whose second-year endurance horse is laid up with a pulled muscle, to do the trail ride at Eagle Extreme next month. We'll both be on greenies in the stop-and-stare phase of training, so we're hoping not to have too much of an adventure.

Today, though, I could go for some adventure. Perhaps I'll take a little ride on Aaruba. As always, he'll try to pack 50 miles into 5 -- and I will close my eyes and feel the wind on my face, and imagine we're following that trail of pink markers like breadcrumbs through the desert, one last time.
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All in Good Time

For the past several weeks, I've been riding Consolation at a walk and trot for distances ranging from 4 to 6 miles, up and down the long, gradual inclines that characterize the landscape around In the Night Farm. This basic, early conditioning for the horse's muscular and cardiovascular systems lays foundational fitness without damaging joints, bones, and connective tissue. More importantly, in Consolation's case, it offers a low-pressure environment in which to advance her training in preparation for her hopeful career as an endurance mount.

The potential for high pressure, of course, comes from me. I'm the one who hopes Consolation is ready for her first Limited Distance ride at the Owyhee Fandango. I'm the one who'd like to do at least a couple 50's on her this year. I'm the one who cares if it takes two hours to cover 4 miles because my horse is balky.

Last I checked, Consolation doesn't wear a watch. Lately, neither do I.

You all know I'm a bit obsessive about my endurance conditioning log, in which I record ride times, distances, speeds, and other data in minute detail. Without a watch, I can't record time. Without time, I can't record speed. That leaves me with distance...and a mind properly focused on taking the time it takes to give my horse what she needs.

What does she need? Time.

Consolation has never been an easy horse to train. Interestingly, she was relatively easy to gentle, in the beginning. Self-confidence will do that for a horse. But the same qualities that made her less fearful than others in the gentling pen make her less compliant on the trail -- which challenges me to improve my game.

These recent weeks have served up a crash course in patience, consistency, persistence, and heels-to-the-pavement, independent-seat riding for me, and a series of hard-earned breakthroughs for Consolation. Ride by ride, despite many setbacks and exceptions, I see her breaking free of balkiness and spookiness, striding out with confidence and even delight, taking tentative steps toward partnership. Very slowly, I can feel the balance tipping from "just started under saddle" to "just needs miles."

Today, we'll do our first long ride. Eight miles is hardly "long" by endurance standards, but it'll be the farthest Consolation and I have ever attempted to travel together. We'll explore some territory that's new to her, trot when we can, walk when we must. Maybe we'll stop for a little grazing break halfway.

I won't wear a watch. Not yet. That moment will come -- all in good time.
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Post-ride update: She was fantastic! We had one of those golden rides that tells me I'm doing something right, after all. We all need a flight like that, once in a while. Thanks, Milady.
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Shot in the Dark: Trust

To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.

~ George MacDonald

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A Life of Leisure

Many thanks to all who have asked after Aaruba. He continues to do well, considering, though I still sense that he's what endurance riders call NQR -- Not Quite Right. I'm doing my best to keep him comfortable and healthy, a big part of which is managing his diet. He's not entirely thrilled that I've decreased his hay rations in favor of beet pulp and Senior mash, but there are some perks. Hand grazing has become a regular activity for us.


Managing his mental health is more difficult. Aaruba has never been content to stand around in the pasture for long. Almost two weeks after coming home from the hospital, he's bursting with energy and obviously bored without a job.


On Friday, I took him for his first, post-colic ride -- as leisurely a stroll as he could be convinced to tolerate. We've enjoyed some long handwalks. Maybe I'll teach him a few tricks to engage his mind. I have another job for him as well: Riding instructor. I'm overdue for remedial bareback lessons, and his schedule is wide open.

Aaruba? You're hired.
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A Point from the Pub

We always order Bombay and tonic.

Two rounds.

We spend them catching up on the past few months, in voices familiar as if we'd talked yesterday. Our voices sound quite alike, in fact. In the office, other people used to mistake us for one another.

There's no one for whom I'd rather be mistaken.

She's the one who hired me, you see, on potential more than qualifications. She handed me tools and let me work. When the politics blew and dragged us all through a professional firestorm, she was the leader who refused to airlift out. She had offers, of course. The best people always do. But she stayed and fought for the rest of us, and she took down the threat.

Problem was, she went down with it.

"You're the best decision I ever made," she said, along with goodbye. I figured if that was true, must be I'd do all right alone. And I did.

I had another mentor, once. He had a big ranch and a big dream, and needed help with both. I spent a year working with him on weekends, absorbing knowledge about his dream. Finally, I quit my day job, sold my house, and moved to the ranch to make that dream come true.

A couple months later, I was tearing down an old structure on the property, clearing space while salvaging what lumber I could. There were a lot of nails in those boards, so I set up a pair of sawhorses, grabbed a hammer, and started wrenching them out.

He brought over a cat's paw nail puller. I gave it a try, but it didn't fit well in my hands. I switched back to the hammer and was doing fine, thank you. Until he returned and slammed that cat's paw down inches from my fingers. He shouted that he'd been doing this for fifty years, and I'd better start doing it his way.

That wasn't our only conflict, nor the worst, but it was the last. Except for the conversation in which I said I wasn't going to live on eggshells, and he said he wasn't going to change for anyone.

He chases his dream alone, these days. Doubt he'll catch it.

Turns out he's the kind of guy who focuses on other people's weaknesses until their strengths don't matter. My other mentor focuses on strengths and makes them stronger -- both other people's and her own.

She rose from the ashes, of course, brighter than ever. Our professional lives intersect on occasion. She's still tough, still savvy, still genuine class. Still the woman I want to be when I grow up. I like knowing she's at my back, even though I'm confident I can walk the alley alone.

Last night, we finished our customary gin and sipped water for a while, wrapping up. Hugged. I told her I think of her every day, which is true.

"You're the best," she said.

"I try," I said.

"You're the best," she said.

Do you know how it feels when someone you respect truly believes in you?

I'd do anything for her.

I've never written so many words here without mentioning horses. Some of you are wondering what I'm up to. Well, I have a point to make. Let me ask again:

Do you know how it feels when someone you respect truly believes in you?

Does your horse?
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Building on a Balk

If there's one equine behavior I see more horsepeople get upset about than any other, it's balking. A weekend studded with balky behavior from both Consolation and Acey reminded me why: It's frustrating. A horse is a big animal. When you can't move it's feet, you have a big problem.

You also tend to look like an idiot to passers-by, a fact which I suspect is responsible for much of the spurring, lashing, and equine-intelligence-insulting that tends to occur in balking episodes. I'll tell you this: Whips and spurs may make you look tough -- but power without heart is a wrecking ball on any relationship.

It seems to me that horses generally balk for one of two reasons: 1) fear, or 2) disrespect. With some horses, it can be difficult to know which cause you're dealing with. Maybe it's a combination of the two. Fortunately, fear and disrespect are more closely related than they appear, and the same principles apply in training through any balk.

Consider:

If my horse balks out of fear, she's telling me she isn't confident in my leadership. My job, then, is to build her confidence through consistency and reliability (that is, not allowing her to be hurt. So much for whips and spurs).

If my horse balks out of disrespect, she's telling me I haven't fully established leadership. My job is to earn her respect through consistency and reliability. (How much do you respect someone who beats on you? So much for whips and spurs.)

See the connection? Regardless of the cause, balking behavior -- frustrating though it may be -- isn't the horses fault. Nothing ever is.

So, what's involved in working through a balk? Like every other training issue, it's not a matter of forcing the horse to do anything. Rather, it's as simple as setting up a choice and sticking with it, no matter what, as long as it takes for the horse to make the right decision.

Take Consolation, for example. Yesterday afternoon, I wanted to ride her across a wide, paved bridge over an irrigation canal. She objected to the idea. So, I gave her two options: move forward across the bridge, or we'll stand here and practice lateral flexion (in the form of bending her nose to my knee). Although Consolation already has a clear understanding of lateral flexion, it's not her favorite lesson. On the other hand, she really didn't want to cross that bridge.

Here's how it looked: We approached the bridge. She balked. I asked her to go forward. She refused. I bent her once in each direction, waiting for the "give" as usual, then asked her to go forward. She refused. I bent her twice in each direction, then asked her to go forward. She took a few steps and was rewarded with a slack rein and quiet seat. Then, she balked again...

Lather, rinse, repeat. Calm. Consistent. Clear. Eventually, we made it over the bridge and went merrily on our way.

There's an important point: I believe that, in the case of balking, it's generally best not to press the issue. Get past the obstacle and move on. If you keep hammering away at it, making the horse cross that bridge again and again, what motivation has she to "unstick" next time? That's no way to earn trust or respect.

On the other hand, you can't leave the game at halftime. Earlier today, Acey and I headed out for a handwalk in a blustery wind, giving her the opportunity to deal with stressful weather while keeping her mind on me. We weren't a quarter mile from the herd when she decided she'd rather be with her buddies.

She balked. I asked her to walk on. She backed up. "Okay," I told her. "If that's your choice..." I asked her to back several more strides up the hill (a conveniently difficult thing for a horse to do), then requested forward motion again. She refused. I backed her about twice as far, asked her to come forward...

You get the point. It took a good 20 uphill-backs, with several stretches of tentative forward motion in between, but finally Acey sighed, licked her lips, and walked freely on down the road.

We weren't done yet. As we hiked along, the wind blew in an steely mass of clouds. Naturally, Acey wanted to be back in her paddock. A mile or so out, as the scent of rain grew strong upon the wind, she began balking again. I'd have liked to head for home, too -- but not at the price of leaving my horse unsure of who was directing this show and whether I could guide her safely through the storm.

We went immediately back to the same choice as before: Come forward (easy) or go backward (hard). Both of us were soaked through before she decided that continuing our walk didn't sound so bad, after all -- but it was worth every chilly raindrop. By the time we turned around and headed home, Acey was walking quietly and respectfully at my side.

I can't help feeling that both mares and I have added a few bricks to the fortress of our partnership. Whips and spurs might have gotten us along the road, you see, but they'd have knocked the castle down.

Will my mares balk again? Of course they will. In fact, Consolation provided an encore in the same location today. I gave her the same choice, and she made the right decision in less than a quarter the time.

I'd bet my favorite boots that by the end of the week, she'll be crossing that bridge with no hesitation at all.

Let the passers-by laugh, then.


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Beating the Rush

Several years ago, when I first got back into horses after a seven-year haitus, I had a problem. Almost nothing I remembered from a youth spent in stables full of domestic horses applied to my seven, wild Barbs that, according to someone I used to respect, "almost nobody can train."

The Arabian I bought to help ease my transition turned out to be not the well-started trail horse I'd been promised, but an extremely emotional greenie whose mind had been fried by hasty training. Instead of having a horse to ride while I figured out the Barbs, I had another problem.

So, I did what I usually do when I encounter problems: I researched. My logic was that if I could understand how my horses perceived and understood their world, I'd be able to figure out how to lead them through it. I devoured scores of websites and books on the subject. My favorite, which I re-read at least once a year, is Lucy Rees' The Horse's Mind. A second favorite, more focused on actual training techniques, is Building Your Dream Horse, by Charles Wilhelm.

All that reading went a long way toward preparing me to train. What it couldn't cure, however, was my physical response to the occasional crises that are bound to occur when you're working with ungentled or, especially, green horses. I remember several times, early in Aaruba's trail experience, when I slid gratefully from the saddle, post crisis, with numb hands and quadriceps turned to water.

Over the miles, I became increasingly adept at the kind of forced relaxation that a person can require of her body despite racing mind and pounding heart. That skill proved useful, but it wasn't enough. Horses are too sensitive to our thoughts and emotions to be tricked by good acting. So what was I to do? I figured I had two choices: Get over it, or take up knitting.

I hate knitting.

One of my best friends is a fighter. Not only is he highly trained in the martial arts, but he's lived through the kind of encounters most of us only see in movies. Recently, we got to talking about adrenaline's impact on the body and mind. "The cure for drowning in the adrenaline flood," he said, "is desensitization through graduated exposure."

I thought about that conversation today while Consolation and I were out on her fourth training ride of the season. Our trek featured the usual array of temper tantrums, teleport spooks, and coltish enthusiasm. We also had an attempted bolt.

Go ahead and say I have control issues, but I don't like being on a bolting horse. It's dangerous. It's scary. On it's surface, of course, it's not that big a deal. The horse is only running. It'll stop. All I have to do is stay aboard ...unless we encounter traffic, barbed wire, slick footing... It's the contengencies that scare me.

Anyway, today's monster was a sneezing calf. Consolation shot forward like a bar of soap in hot bathwater. I caught her in three strides, with low hands and molassas voice, and had resumed a pleasant trot before I realized that I'd hardly felt the burst of electricity across my chest. It had been there; I recognized its aftertaste. But it hadn't impacted my ability to deal with the situation.

I guess my friend was right when he said, "with additional experiences, [adrenaline's] effect diminishes, which is to say, you learn to compensate for it." Huh. All those miles astride Aaruba really have changed me as a rider. It's one of the many gifts for which I thank him.
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Milady Consolation

She sounds very medieval, doesn't she?

Luckily for me, in light of Aaruba's uncertain future career, my beloved Stonewall saddle fits Consolation just as well as it does Aaruba. A couple adjustments to the centerfire rigging, which can be shifted front to back with a couple buckles on each side, and we were good for a quick training ride in this afternoon's unseasonably mild weather.


The difficulty, now, is getting personalities to mesh. Medieval or otherwise, Milady Consolation is a queen of the highest order. She's one of the most strong-willed mares I've ever known...and that's saying something. The descriptor (epithet?) "strong-willed" has been applied to me a time or ten, as well.

Today's ride was one of many reminders: With this horse, I need to pull on my Lead Mare britches and take control of the situation. Consolation isn't going to accept an unworthy leader. I haven't quite convinced her, yet, that I fit the bill. Fairness and consistency are critical, and it's going to take some time -- and timing. With Consolation, I must take even greater care than usual to push an issue only until I've made my point, then stop before she crosses the line between acceptance and frustration.

Mares. Honestly. As a friend of mine said recently, give me a stallion any day!

Ah, well. Consolation is a lovely lady worth every minute of trouble. We'll make it through together.

In the meantime, however, I'm looking hard for nice things to say about her.

Umm...she has a pretty tail? ;-)



PS. Down in the comments, Lori is right. Not all mares are like this. I'll be shocked if SandStorm ever demonstrates a modicum of disrespect, and Ripple Effect is an odd combination of sugar-sweet and iron will. Acey is a powerful mare, but nothing on Consolation. Furthermore, the only horse I've ever genuinely disliked was a gelding. (I'll bet if I'd understood then what I understand now, I wouldn't have disliked him at all. Poor guy.) Anyway, they're as individual as the rest of us.

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Until the Twelfth of Never

You know that age-old question about whether it's better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all?

I never wonder about that. I know.

Aaruba and I may have twelve days left together, or twelve years.
Either way, I mean to enjoy them.

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Don't miss the journey.

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The Little Arab That Could

Well folks, here he is: Aaruba the Miracle Horse, home from the hospital against all odds. He may not have won the Tevis Cup, but this guy is an endurance horse in my book.

He stepped off the trailer at 7:00 this evening, full of vigor and ready for a long roll in the lightly sprinkled sand of the round corral. Rising at last, he shook off the dirt and tension and dug right into the very same meal of beet pulp and senior feed he's been snubbing at the hospital.

Personally, I think he was on a hunger strike. (You want me to eat? Get me out of this bleeding stall, and we'll talk!)

He's now finished his paltry helping of soaked alfalfa and is giving me the pity eyes for more. He'll have to wait an hour yet. I'm taking no chances, even if he does have more lives than all the barn cats put together.

Thanks again, and again, and again to all of you for your encouragement, wisdom, and concern -- and to the best team of vets with whom I've ever had the pleasure to work. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Y'all are the best. Really.
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