The Right Track

There is a feeling that happens, a split second maybe, more if you are lucky, when the feet land just right. Mind, body, and spirit are connected, yours, his and you are not merely a passenger but a partner.

Those moments are what make it worth doing whatever you have to do to get there.  You won’t know what it is I am talking about until you felt it for yourself and, if you are a horseman, once you have felt it, nothing does until you can feel it again.  If you have not, but your spirit leaps a little at the idea, well, then, hang in there. It’s waiting for you.

I count among my many blessings the sure knowledge of what is out there, for me and my horse. The bliss of attaining pieces, here and there.

Okay, now that we have had the metaphysical ooh that’s awesome, how about the practical? Your horse (mine) is tossing his head restlessly, eye and ear rolling relentlessly in the direction of the barn, or his buddy,  disappearing over the hill in front of him. The mind has left and it’s not long before the feet make their attempt to follow.

We had that part  the other day. Royal was unenthused at going back to work after a nearly uninterrupted three weeks of bellying up to the round bale, with his best bud.  He was rude, I was rude in return. I asked for a foot, he gave me a finger.

When I pick up a rein, I want to move a foot. Not “left foot, right foot” but whatever foot I want. Peter has taught me if I want to go forward, shift the weight back, backwards, well vicey versa, right? I want one foot, not four, not twenty. It was not pretty last Saturday, but I hung in there, let my horse fuss, work at the wrong thing, and tried to be aware enough to pick up when his resistance turned to try. I am undoubtedly late on that. I can see it when you are. Just not as easy when it is me, up there.

A gal posted on the Peter Campbell Facebook group page that her horse will probably get easy in his skin when she does. I remarked it is well my horse is young. Easy in my skin, I am not.

I don’t have anymore on my plate than the next guy, less than many. My life is the calmest and best directed it’s been, maybe ever. I am still likely to look inward to a seething cauldron of simmering doubts, fears and what if’s. Finding that Zen place of oneness with myself and my horse? Takes some doing, let me tell you.

Eventually it occurred to me to wonder if I quit picking at my horse, would he just settle down and ride? Turns out, yes. We had a good hour, head down, loose rein, settling for obstacles when I asked. I still didn’t dare get off to open the gate to the back 80, none too sure he would stand for me to mount again and knee too stiff to be confident of the attempt. Made note to self, you cannot avoid this issue forever.

Last night, it felt like a beginning, right here in the middle. He isn’t meeting me at the gate anymore and sniffed me skeptically when I asked  him to accept his halter. No lip games.

Saddled quietly, the dark of the yard peaceful, a warm light emanating from the office telling me Charlie hasn’t gone down the hill yet. I know he worries about me riding by myself. It feels good that someone cares, and I am sure to call before I leave to let him know we survived the experience.

I send Royal around me, letting him find where to place his feet. As he rounds, hip disengaging, I ask him to come back through. We do this a couple of times, just standing there, and then I walk in a straight line, sending him around me, asking him to keep his ribs out and away from me. It goes well enough, he stutters his hind a couple of times, but I don’t worry about it, just keep my ask quiet and let him figure things out.

Mounting, I get him ready. When the feet are set, I step up. As I do, he is in motion and I bend his head sharply. When the motion ceases I swing my leg up and settle. Royal wants to get going but I ask him to wait. Be still. Don’t hurry.

Down the lane to the other barn where the indoor lives, it is very dark. I smile at my horse’s cheerful willingness to make his way. We have ridden at night a ton, it is very natural to us.

A lot less scary than the lighted noisy indoor arena it turns out.  Birds flutter and squabble in the rafters. Horses, curious at the invasion, nose buckets, move restlessly in their stalls. Royal can’t see them, there is a wall that divides the stalls from the arena and he is very worried at all these goings on. Curly ears prick sharply here, there, nostrils flare suspiciously. The jump standards, what the heck are those?

Again, more groundwork. Thinking about the Foundation class , the changes made in our horses before we ever got on.

“You have got to get him to relax” Peter says to me, eyeing us both intently, “you are not going to get very far until you can do that.”

When Royal sends calmly without hesitation over the poles scattered here and there, I know it is time to ride.

I take him to the mounting block. It is awkwardly placed in a corner and neither of us like the squeeze. Making a hard thing harder was not my goal. I send him around it a few times and then start asking him to stop where it would be good to mount. Royal is uncomfortable with the situation and I can’t really blame him. He discovers a salt block setting down there (I don’t know why, but there it is) and I let him lick at it. I touch him, rub him, move the saddle, set his feet. The next time I bring him around, he stands.

First I walk him around the perimeter. I am looking for my purpose. There are things I want to do but I need to know where my horse is, so I can do my best to work forward from there.  It’s a heck of a lot easier to have him be straight with a rail, and I set us up for good corners instead of lallygagging through them any old way. “Your horse is moving like pony!” It’s Jose.  I nod. I tighten my legs and ask Royal to extend his walk. He says “jog?” No, buddy, walk out.

And that sets the course for us. Royal moves into a free long walk. What a difference from the tight pokey “I don’ wanna” walk or the tense jiggy “I wanna leave NOW”.  All I can do is continue to lay down these layers, build our trust and confidence in one another. You get to the mind through the feet. Get the mind and the body will follow.

We get a good working trot, there are those moments I was talking about in the first couple of paragraphs. Floating along, straight, balanced, each foot landing equally in space and time.  We squeeze some gaps, I am timing my turns, giving him room to make it. When my courage fails going between a couple deeply frightening jump standards, his does, as well. I don’t let him down the next time and he sails through.

As he tools along, I practice picking up diagonals, changing reins.  Occupy me, leave him alone to work.

I drop the dressage whip I had stuck in my back pocket, thinking it might be harder to extend that trot. Looking at my horse, he is not looking back at me. His eye is still  hard, stony, ears turned back to some noise outside. He is bothered.

I am thinking back again to the Foundation class, and yes, I have done this before too, and I ask Royal to lower his head. Softly. No demand. Easy. I stretch my own neck down. Relax. Breathe. Roll my shoulders, feeling tension I didn’t know was there. Deep breath in . . . out. His head dips quickly to the ground and back up again. Okay. How about just a little? Slowly, his neck settles down. I am waiting for the change. It has to happen. I have to wait . . .

. . . and eventually it does. Luckily for me, didn’t take til midnight.  The flick of the loosening ear, the softening of the gaze, a change in the breathing.

We ride back to the barnyard and the pen Royal lives in, both of us easier in our skins that we’ve been for awhile. There are no boogers worth mentioning, not even in the dubious rows of stark and shadowy round bales, that could have been hiding dragons, just the other day.

We didn’t leave our troubles far behind, I am sure they are following just behind like loyal dogs. Still, it was a good night for us.

Timing

Timing is everything. How many times have you heard that before? True, not only of horsemanship but pretty much just every little thing in life. But, especially in horsemanship.

My lovely spotted Arabian is making a change. I sit him, scowling. The calm, level headed animal I have been on the past hour is becoming anxious. He is bored, and things that didn’t bother him a bit 20 minutes ago are now worth a great degree of stimulation and interest. He is suddenly buddy sour.

I see the change taking place and I want to nip it in the bud. Anticipate what is going to happen before it happens so it doesn’t have to happen at all. Too late for that, I surmise as we are already full in progress.

There’s some nervous head tossing, rebellious bumping at the bit, back talk.  A certain slinging that can turn into crazy 8’s, a frantic figure 8 style movement that I am pretty sure could dislodge his brain right out his ears and my bridle with it.

I pick up my reins, timing my response so Royal runs into his bit, sharply. He doesn’t get annoyed, he quiets. Then his weight shifts, a foot leaves the ground restively.  I am late. I move the foot but a half dozen more unasked for steps follow that one. Damn it.

There is nothing like the joy, the smooth communication of picking up a rein and being attached to the foot you want it to be.  To complete a maneuver, have the horse land solidly square, waiting for his next instruction. It’s a subtler better communication than give and take, pressure and release. A true wordless commune between yourself and your horse.

I have felt this with Royal, with other horses, and once you know that kind of thing is possible, it’s frustrating to be in a different place.   I can get caught in my horse’s drama (quoting Susan) and let my emotions rise with his. I match his strong reactions with reactions of my own. The very word “reaction” tells you I am behind the situation and my timing is stinking.

I back him up, reaching for the corner of his mouth with one rein, steadying him with the other. I don’t kick or brush with my spur.  As he backs the half circle, I feel Royal soften to my hand. His mind is back. The tractors, the crowds, the kids, lights and sounds, none of the bustle of a Friday night parking cars for Shady Lanes Ranch hayrack rides is a problem for him now. It comes and goes, that mind but I can see daylight and I know what to do. It’s the when of it requiring the work.

Day Three, back at the Peter Campbell clinic, the cattle come. They arrive in the morning and the little bay NHS horse, Duke, takes the newcomers completely in stride. He is interested, but not afraid. His life is good for him right now, and that is his response to most everything we are asking.  I have done the groundwork with everyone else. We are all bridled, as we  have been since Day One. They are riding.

I do a few more things. Blend with the Foundation class, me riding Duke from the ground, he sees horses around him, in front, coming up behind, doesn’t rattle him at all.  When I pick up a rein, touch the corner of his mouth, he sweetly softens, and moves whatever foot I ask him to. I glance at Peter, talking to Trina. He is paying no attention to me and what we are doing, or at least that is what I think.

Finally, as I am restlessly awaiting my next instruction, I walk up to the pair and ask Peter should I not be getting up in the stirrups, or something??

He glances at us. “Well yeah. Get on him, even. Ride him around a little.”

Heck yes I am ready to ride this horse! Duke has told me in no uncertain terms he is ready to be ridden and I am excited for this next step. Then, I realize, Peter had fixed it up and waited. On me. I grin a little. He’s pretty good. 

The riding goes well. We were ready.

That afternoon, I am a hairs breath from being late to class. I had put my phone away so no time piece and suddenly I realize the alleys are empty and quiet. Dammit!!

Royal and I head for the arena at the toppest speed I can gimpily manage. He is sky headed as we enter, planet sized eyes fixed on the horrendous beasts in the pen beside us.  Feet skitter everywhere.

No way am I climbing up on that.

I go to the far side of the cattle pen, put my back to them and send Royal back and forth around me. Approach, retreat. A steer moves and he levitates six feet sideways. Great.

We do this for awhile, it seems to get better but I have little confidence I can get him to stand at the block for me to mount. My knee is swollen and painful now and I can barely bend it enough to reach the stirrup.

“I advise you to get on your horse,” Trina enters the arena on the big gray warm blood mare she is riding for a client. I nod. I take a half hearted stab at getting him to the block. They want a steer out and we are in the way.

“Take him to the far end of the arena,” Peter. “Get on him there.”

I nod again and we head away from the ferocious Arabian devouring cows.

He is so high there is no keeping his feet still. I hop around after him, leg at  half mast nowhere near the damned stirrup. “Bend his head” instructs Peter. “Get up there beside him, get there! Come on! Get there!” I make a mental note to tell him about the accursed knee as soon as possible. Not fair to me and not fair to Peter, either.

I jam my foot in the stirrup, the horse jumps away from me. I spin, catch myself and at least avoid an ignominious tumble to the ground.

Now my knee hurts for real. I glare at my darling, fully ready to kick him square in his short ribs. He surges forward and I snap him back with a fierce yank on the reins. Respect that, bitch, I think furiously.

“Trina, you better hold that horse for her.” I know Peter can’t read my mind, but it’s probably pretty clear I am about to blow and absolutely zero good will come of that. I know that, but it isn’t going to stop it from happening, in front of God, Peter Campbell and everybody else. That damn horse is going to stand still.

Trina rides up, takes a hold and I get on. As usual, once I am up, Royal settles and calms beneath me.  I calm as well and turn my attention back to the matters at hand.

Before the day ends, my horse is following those cattle, level headed and on a loose rein.  We move them in pretty figure eights, to the rail, back off, circling and back.  I am working with Trina’s group, and she tails us, her clear quiet voice cutting through the rattle and hum in my brain. She gets me to trust my horse, slip him more rein than I want to. He gratefully lowers his head and relaxes.  I am so proud of him, I am, once again, about to cry.

“Now that you are finally riding it on a loose rein,” she says, “we can get something done.” 

Timing is everything.