Thrilled with our purchases and the assurances of our innate riding talent, we eagerly looked forward to other opportunities to ride. As it happened, there would be only one other chance to enjoy my new riding togs and equipment--and that an unsatisfactory one--before I returned home to the States.
In the middle of the North Island, about two hours south of Auckland, is the thermal region of New Zealand where there really are wonders such as Lake Taupo, the bed of the country's largest lake. The rocks you toss into Lake Taupo actually float back to you, and the trout--first introduced to the lake in 1890--are as big as basketballs. The whole area is pretty extraordinary, in an exceptionally extraordinary country.
Riding in New Zealand is like riding in an orchard of Kiwi fruit trees, on carpets of orange blossoms, surrounded by fields chock-a-bloc with lilies, pampas grass, tulips and the ubiquitous sheep.
One of the most popularly-touted bits of data to new visitors is the fact that there were, in 1985, three million people on the island and 60 million sheep. (After that, and regardless of how impressed you appear at that bit of news, you're invariably told how many sheep per person that breaks down to.)
Like multi-fold blobs of cotton stuck to a bottlegreen canvas, New Zealand's sheep are as essential to the spirit of the place as wind surfing and lager.
On what was to be one of my last weekends in the country after nearly two years of living there, I visited the Taupo area with friends.
Keen to try out my riding gear before I packed it up for good, I made arrangements with my friends to hire some horses near the Tongariro National Park. Here we were to amble along, at our various degrees of riding ability through wood and bush until we came at last to Huka Falls, where the full force of the Waikato River bounds over an eleven-meter ledge with much enthusiasm and panache.
There are no snakes in News Zealand. In fact, nothing to poison you, bite you, sting you, or hurt you. Later, when Trevor would visit the States and ride with me in the woods surrounding the Georgia farm where I kept my horse, he would spend a good deal of his saddle-time looking at the ground, expecting any minute for it to start slithering. Although I never had any run-ins in Georgia with things that shed their skin and shy your horse, I often long for the absolute certainty of the gentle New Zealand countryside.
My friends on the Taupo trip were capable riders--even the six-year old who started a precedent of children showing me up on horseback.
We hired our four horses from the rental stable, and I was insistent that I be given an English saddle. Western I can ride Stateside. I wanted the real thing. We were all soon mounted and moved off amiably enough into the crisp Taupo morning and our ride. The horse I'd been assigned was extremely tame and extremely bored with his current situation. He spent much of his time rooting about in the grass in order to relive the ennui. I was inexperienced enough not to know how to prevent him from grazing his way along the trail at the approximate speed of the continental drift and timorous enough not to have been able to, had I known.
Frustrated and mindful that I was holding up the party, I urged my friends to go on ahead and I'd catch up. I think I was tired of being the object of their patience and felt that if I had some time alone, I could reason with the creature in some way. They "cheerio"ed me and trotted happily off down the trail which was bordered with wild hibiscus and azaleas.
I sat on the horse for a few moments while he reduced the grass population of the Taupo region and felt my frustration build. I tugged on the reins to bring his head up. No dice.
In retrospect, I probably wasn't very firm about this. His blithe indifference to me was unnerving. I looked around at the beautiful countryside. Would I have to say here until someone came to get me? I nudged the horse with my new rubber boots. Nothing. I squeezed him hard with my knees a la Corrine's suggestion. Nada. It began to feel hot under my bulky riding helmet and I wondered how far my friends had gotten down the trail.
It was incredible to think that even if I did get this animal to stop eating and actually move I would then be able to find my friends.
I began to feel hopeless. The most I could hope for was to get back to the stables in order to save myself that embarrassment. This feeling of surrender mixed with my still-earnest desire to be with horses created a sick frustration. Here I am, all decked out, in some of the most beautiful riding country in the world and I can't get the stupid animal to lift his fool head!
In anger and fear (I was still basically afraid of these big beasts), I swung my leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. He looked around briefly at me and then resumed eating. With hands shaking, I took his reins and pulled him gently toward the trail that led back to the stables. He followed. I relaxed just a bit with the relief that this, at least, wasn't going to be a total nightmare.
I walked next to him, careful not to have him step on me, which I was fairly sure was next on the agenda, and spoke softly, nonsensically, to him. I wasn't sure that this was normal to him, or that being abnormal to him (how many riders rode out and walked back?) he wouldn't do something weird that I'd find beyond my ability to handle.
As I walked, I worried: Now that I'm on the ground, will he try to run away? What if he tries to bolt for the stables? Do I let go of the reins? Will he trip on them? Will they sue me then? What if he shies and lands on my foot, breaking all my toes? How do I get back to the stables then? We were at least two miles from the barn and I didn't relish the thought of hobbling them.
Suddenly it occurred to me that there was little to no grass on this part of the trail back to the barn. Nothing for him to eat. If I kept him away from little meadows like the one we'd just come from, perhaps I could at least walk him about. Heartened but shaking once again, I tossed the reins over his head, stood close to him as I'd seen in the step-by-step books I'd read, grasped mane and rein in my left hand, positioned my left toe in the stirrup and placed my right hand on the cantle or front of the saddle. Hopping breathlessly on one foot, I heaved myself up on the count of three. Just as quickly I found myself back down on the ground as the saddle inverted itself onto the horse's stomach.
I stood back and looked at the horse in frustration. I don't think I'd ever seen a saddle upside down on a horse's belly before. Although I thought I knew, technically, how to right the situation, I'd certainly never done it before, wasn't sure that anyone anywhere had ever had to do it before and was therefore hesitant to start unbuckling equipment. What if the horse, feeling his girth loosened, became unnerved and tried to kick me? What if he decided to run away?
I tugged gently, hopelessly, at the tack to see how easily it might simply be pushed back on top again. It was, to me, a conundrum as complex as splitting an atom. With your teeth.
Disheartened, resigned and miserable, I gathered up his reins and led him back to the stables, watching the New Zealand dust kick up and cling to my new boots as we walked. The horse walked agreeably beside me, pieces of grass protruding from his bit, his saddle slapping quietly against his belly.
CHAPTER THREE
Grooming for Success
One of the curious things about riding horses is the accepted possibility, even likelihood, of damaging oneself; perhaps quite severely. To some riders, it's what makes it exciting. to most, it's simply the calculated risk understood and accepted because the enjoyment of riding is worth it. Worth the pain of broken ribs, crushed fingers, lacerated hands, wrenched shoulders. There's usually nothing half way about an injury incurred on horseback.
Although it's true, most falls result in nothing more than having the wind knocked out of you, (and if it weren't true, a lot fewer people would be riding), almost everyone has their tale of pain and woe.
Horses are big creatures and we ask them to go fast and jump high and turn quickly, so when an accident does happen, chances are it's going to be a little more serious than skinning your knee on the tennis court.
This is probably yet another reason why horse people find it easy to feel superior. After all, jumping fenc
es at a mad gallop in the woods with dogs baying and a stampede of horses behind you tends to be a little more dangerous than serving up a diabolical serve to your racquetball partner.
At any rate, if you ride, sooner or later, you are going to fall. If you don't fall, you're probably not taking any chances and your riding will no doubt stay at a very basic level, i.e. walking. This is not to say that some people might not want to stay at this level. Older riders, and especially older new riders can still enjoy their mounts, and the countryside, without risk of a broken pelvis, if they leave the more animated riding stuff to the under sixty-year olds.
When I returned to the States, I visited briefly with friends in Atlanta, Georgia before deciding on my next move. As it happened, my friends owned horses, and we decided to spend my first afternoon home riding on the farm where they kept their horses.
The farm was a wonderful place, sprawling and comfortable, with several hundreds of acres of pasture and woods. It was springtime; and the trail we rode wound around the Chattahootchi River, hidden in spasms by great stands of dogwood and redbud trees. Wild violets and pansies stood out like vivid bruises against the green of the newly flourishing trees. The air smelled fragrant and full of new life. It was also a warm day, and the horses seemed happy as they pranced along the colorful trails.
It was a perfect day, marred only by my falling off the pony I was riding when I attempted to jump a wee one-foot coop in the pasture on the way back to the barn. Having never jumped before, I was nonetheless buoyed by my success at having negotiated a small stream the mile before by jumping it. When I saw the coop, I decided to try it.
I'd read enough books and magazines to know how to get into two-point position and get out of the way of the horse while he gets on with jumping the obstacle or fence. I was excited but confident. We jumped it successfully, if not effortlessly, but I lost a stirrup.
Determined to end the perfect day with a perfect jump, I cantered back to the jump to try again. It seemed to me that my pony was aiming for the pat of the jump that was not only higher but had a loose board sticking out as well. I attempted to steer him to a nicer spot (in my estimation) but was not able to communicate this until too late. When he finally got the drift of what I wanted, I'd already committed to doing it his way. So he jumped the spot that I'd originally preferred he jump, and I went sailing over the nasty, protruding board, narrowly missing snagging my jacket on big nail that leered from the board. I came down softly, almost gently on my left side and broke my shoulder in one muffled crunch.
During my recuperation, (made considerably worse by my lack of accident insurance--having just newly arrived Stateside), I read endless books and magazines on riding (and specifically jumping), attended horse shows with my arm in a sling (getting wary, even betrayed, looks from the riders) and made preparations to re-enter the world of horses.
I was as green as a rider could get and still be homosapien, and there was a lot to learn before I again found myself cantering through a lovely spring day, let alone toward a coop in a field.
The shoulder is a nasty break and physical therapy tends to be quite important if full or near full use of the arm is expected back. In addition to several hours of muscle and bone grinding exercises every day (made possible by the fact that I did not have a full-time job and was not physically able of procuring one) there is the torment of holding great, unwieldy blocks of ice to the bar afflicted area for length periods of time after each exercise session. When my arm was out of the sling, although still quite useless, the exercises began.
After a month of them, I was able to drive a car and had the strength to lift certain small items. When I walked, my right arm swung rhythmically to my gait, while my left one hung as flaccid and lifeless as a sack of beets. Though I couldn't lift it over my head, I could now raise the arm some, and so began the next step of my therapy, which was also the next stage of my equine education.
Learning to care for a horse on the ground can, and should be, as loving an experience--and in some cases as enjoyable--as riding the beast. I'd always felt much less at ease with horses when I was on the ground with them. I was convinced that a horse was going to: a)kick me b)bite me c)squeeze me into a corner of his stall and crush me to death d)stomp all my toes to the consistency of Span e)generally hurt me in yet-unthought-of-ways.
As my still-healing arm wouldn't allow me to actually ride just yet, I felt that working with horses on the ground was an ideal way to overcome my apprehension of them. I was still easily size-shocked by them. As it happened, it also proved to be wonderful physical therapy for my arm. In a way, horses helped me regain the full use of it.
One of the first things I wanted to know in my grooming education was how to tack and untack a horse. (The mystery of the upside down saddle in Taupo still haunted me.)
I learned that after you brush a horse's back (with a curry comb and then a hard brush), you brush his tummy with a softer brush to make sure there are not rasping bits of grit caught under the saddle pad of the girth. Once that's done, you gently toss the saddle over the horse, but high on his withers and then ease it back into place. During my instruction, it seemed I could never get this part right. I was always re-heaving the saddle on the horse and re-sliding it back...usually too far back.
Then, the mystery of the girth was explained tome. Why the stretchy part goes on the left, (it's the more secure end.) Why a horse will "blow himself up", (the phrase "equine-schmuck" comes to mind. He does it to prevent you from initially notching the girth very tightly.) Why he needs to be walked some before finally tightening it. (He lets out air as he relaxes.) Why he needs both legs pulled out from the girth once it's secured tightly. (In order to relieve any folds of skin that may be pinched and trapped under the girth.)
If you've gone it all correctly, you should be able to suspend your entire weight in one stirrup without causing the saddle to slip, and still fit one hand cleanly between girth and belly. While, of course, balancing a hard-boiled egg on the tip of your nose.
The saddle pad itself needs to fit properly too. It can't be bunched up, but must be straight and perfectly situated under the saddle with no part of the saddle touching the horse's bare skin.
I never saw National Velvet do any of this stuff, but it was, as they say, just the beginning.
For example, then there is the unbridled joy of learning how to bridle a horse. The mechanics of it are not all that tricky. You throw the reins over the horse's neck, hold the cavesson in your right hand which is snaked under the horse's chin and over his nose, and your left hand cups the metal bit. Then, you just pull the cavesson up over the horse's nose while you guide the bit into his mouth. Sound disconcerting? If the horse clamps his sweet little teeth shut and doesn't take the bit as easily as he does in all the horse books, you need to jam the thumb of your left hand into the side of the horse's mouth to force his jaws apart while you slip the offending piece of metal into his mouth.
This procedure goes under the heading of being a true test of whether or not you really want to be involved with horses. If you are willing to stand up in a crowd and say "I will now stick my hand into a horse's mouth", you may then advance to the next stage.
The western bridle, as usual with things western, tends to make things easier on the rider. There is no brow band to mash the horse's ears during the bridling procedure, there's no nose band to have to maneuver his delicate little nose through; you just insert the bit and flip the cheek strap over his head and buckle it. Bingo. Couldn't be easier than if they came into the world already-bridled. (Intriguing image.)
All the grooming techniques are pretty standard and vary only slightly from horse to horse depending on their personalities. Try not to puncture their vulnerable little frogs when you're learning to scrape crud and debris from their feet. (It is an accepted law of nature, by the way, that if you wash your hair the day you go to the stables to see your horse, then as you are cleaning out your horse's back feet, he will fart in your hair.)
> Applying a show sheen to your horse's coat after a shampoo will make him glisten and sparkle; perfect when you want to show him off at a show or horsy-gathering. It's not, however, advisable to ShowSheen his back if you have any attention of riding him bareback within the next week.
Mane pulling is a primitive bit of torture that is essential to perform unless you want your horse to look like a wild escape from a horse refugee camp...or like he belongs to a western rider. It involves combing the mane, then back-combing or teasing a part of it, wrapping the remnant mane around the comb and then yanking it out by the roots. The horses love this! Would ask for it specifically if they could talk! In fact, it ranks right up there with scrotum scouring--another particularly delicate little task loved by horse person and horse alike.
It sounds incredible, but when a horse suffers a laceration, and it begins to heal, one needs, it seems, to then pull the scab off the wound to encourage it to form yet another, if smaller, scab.
Unfortunately, all horses who need this particular service performed, and depend on me to perform it, would no doubt lose the afflicted area of gangrene. I'd quite happily eat dog food first. Or pay some mercenary, horse-loving child to do it. (It's widely known that the horse-crazy children that hang around horse barns will due literally anything and for a horse--especially for a buck.) Scab-pulling can prompt the skin to crawl at only a little faster rate than the need to peel off a horse's chestnuts. (Those crusty knobs of skin that form on the inside of a horse's legs.)
There is an oft-asked question (and I often ask it) that wonders how horses in the wild get their feet cleaned out with nobody to pick them, how they worm themselves, scrape off their assorted scabs and skin crusts, and maintain the correct nutritional balance without the vitamin supplements every horse person has crammed in his/her tack trunk.
The reason, I believe, it's often asked, is because it's usually incompletely and vaguely answered each time. There is a good argument for cleaning out a horse's feet. In the wild, horses obviously don't war shoes and don't need to have their hooves picked out. The rock and uneven terrain of their turf help to file down their feet and keep them trim.
Horse Crazy Page 3
