I did chores this morning at the barn in my pajamas--fairly certain that after I filled water buckets, pulled our herd of 10 horses out of turnout to feed them, let them back in, doctored a few wounds and fed the goats, I would head home to my cabin and crawl back into bed.
Things went smoothly at first: the water wasn't frozen over for about the first day all week (we'd been having breaker/fuse problems), the horses came down from their top pen so I didn't have to hike through the pasture to catch them, and each horse stood with a feed bag tied to its muzzle eating grain and supplements without incident.
I fed the goats and rabbit while the horses munched, refilled water tanks and tended to the two horses with leg wraps.
I decided to keep Rocket, a lineback dun (a cream color with a darker dorsal stripe) mare with unfortunately dry, cracking hooves, tied up so I could give her feet some TLC. I turned the rest of the herd loose into the pens.
I opened the gate to the upper hay trap and the horses moseyed through lazily, full from breakfast.
As I bent down to apply hoof dressing to Rocket's dry feet, her body tensed. I heard a commotion. Thundering hoofbeats pounded the ground. I looked up to watch Misty, Izzy, Lola ... then Rev, Pete, Beauty, Cindy, Sandy--the entire herd--tear off out another side gate I'd accidentally left open. Across the road, snow flew underfoot from their jubilant escape, and they disappeared into the Ponderosa forest near the four story treehouse.
I stood for a moment, staring at the trees where they'd disappeared, unbelieving.
Rocket's screaming whinny broke my trance. Rocket, an ancy half-thoroughbred mare, had separation anxieties and a reputation for throwing a rider in the past. In my mind, she was unpredictable at best and even potentially dangerous in a situation like this. Riding her alone away from the herd was intimidating enough, but riding her as her fellow herd mates gallivanted freely was not my idea of a relaxing morning.
But what was my choice? The ranch covers 6,000 acres, and I couldn't be certain that this small group of horses wouldn't stop until they reached our larger herd of 55, grazing in a far away pasture for the winter. I kept hoping that they would circle back to the barn as I ran to grab my saddle and bridle.
I quickly tacked Rocket up, promising I'd give her a good grooming after the ride, stuffed extra halters into my saddlebags, and strapped my chaps on over my stretchy thin pajama pants. Meanwhile, Rocket screamed at her runaway friends--wherever they were--and pranced side to side, pawing at the ground. This was going to be interesting.
I swung up onto the saddle as she walked off in the direction they'd disappeared to. The seat was freezing cold through my thin pants, which provided absolutely no padding.
Now I know why cowboys wear jeans, I thought. I lengthened my breathing to exude calmness as Rocket pranced across the road and literally jumped over a ditch.
Searching for fresh tracks in the snow, I tried to relax into the idea that I wouldn't find the horses any faster if I was freaking out or berating myself for leaving the gate open. Feeding my exasperation would only fire Rocket up more. So, I set my intention for the ride:
I am going to enjoy this search.
After all, I thought,
who do I know that has this
particular set of problems? I smiled as Rocket pranced into the Ponderosa forest, screeching a high-pitched whinny every few seconds.
Instead of trying to force her to flat walk (as was my first instinct), I flowed with her movement a bit, letting her jog a few steps then scratching her on the neck when she slowed. It was counter-intuitive, but Rocket seemed to calm slightly: her head dropped lower and her tense body eased.
I couldn't find the tracks in the snow. We headed toward the gate leading to Little Blue, a "mini-mountain"--the highest point on camp. To my dismay, the gate was open. This pasture extended beyond the mini-mountain and all the way to the front of Sanborn property. They could be anywhere. The good news: fresh horse tracks.
Rocket screamed. No answer. She's pretty much the outcast of the herd, so I didn't expect anyone to whinny back. I scratched Rocket's neck, thanking her for trying.
At times, she lowered her nose, sniffing the ground as if to pick up a trail like a hunting dog. Then she lifted her head with newfound determination and began to jog. I was okay with this as long as it was a controlled speed. She seemed to know our goal, or at least she wanted to find the others as much as I did. As we passed through aspen groves coated with snow, the sun warming through the leaves, I couldn't help but grin to myself, thinking,
This is better than a nap any day. It was a clear, warm morning and Rocket was surprisingly great: I didn't feel out of control and she genuinely seemed to want to find the herd. We wove along the trail, my eyes on snowy hoof prints, and ended up at the boy's camp barn.
Another open gate. This time, tracks led everywhere--did those runaways have a party at Big Spring barn? I couldn't tell what went where. On a whim, I let Rocket guide me this time as we cleared the ridge toward the boys cabins and picked up the hoofprint trail again, this time heading back toward the High Trails girls camp and barn. Rocket trotted along at a good clip, occasionally lowering her nose almost to the ground. Uphill, she picked up a slow lope. I let her continue until we reached the road where our journey had started.
Magically, there they were, all of them, just up the hill inside the top hay trap, casually munching on hay. Rocket slowed to a walk. I scratched her sweaty withers and we cruised back to the barn.
Maren, the riding director and barn manager, pulled up. The herd had returned, puffing and damp with sweat, and she'd simply lured them back in through the gate with a bucket of grain. They seemed glad to be home. "I think they'll think twice before pulling that again," she said, "they know where they get breakfast."
As promised, I scrubbed Rocket until she was dry, thanking her for being so pleasant and determined on the trail, and thanking myself for having patience with her. In this case, I had no choice but to trust her. This ride helped me break through my fear, my preconceived ideas of Rocket's behavior on the trial. She is really a sweet horse, wanting to please. Like all horses, I'm learning, it just takes a little patience and the ability to listen without such an agenda to come to an understanding. Rocket and I connected today, and that may not have happened had the herd not made their Great Escape.
What a way to spend my weekend morning. I hadn't intended to ride, but I was glad I did. And when I finally got back into my cabin, I napped like a baby and dreamed of horses.
These photos of Rocket and I, taken by Jenny Hartman, were shot a few weeks ago while on a far more low-key ride.
I'm reading a nonfiction book by Richard Louv called Last Child in the Woods, and it's the kind of experience that I love from a book: Reading it awakens truths in me that I already knew, somewhere, but hadn't yet articulated. It's bringing back memories I'd long since forgotten from my childhood; a perfect invocation in this season of wintertime reflection.
So, among all this, I write to thank you for allowing nature and unstructured, imaginative play to be a formative part of my childhood. Maybe you weren't aware, as a parent, of exactly what I was doing as I explored the neighborhood, and perhaps that's part of the beauty of it. I want to thank you for letting me run loose around Windbury Court to play with friends. On any given afternoon, we would jump down into neighbors' window wells to collect toads in an old bucket; we'd explore the spooky forest behind the Burkes house to see who was bravest; I'd pick berries (even though you'd told me not to) to taste their bitterness then come home with stained fingertips. Thank you for watching with me in wonder as pheasants and foxes crossed the church lot behind out house at dusk. Thanks for trusting that a ring of the cowbell you mounted on the front porch would bring me home for dinner.
And gradually those forest voices
Searching for fresh tracks in the snow, I tried to relax into the idea that I wouldn't find the horses any faster if I was freaking out or berating myself for leaving the gate open. Feeding my exasperation would only fire Rocket up more. So, I set my intention for the ride: I am going to enjoy this search. After all, I thought, who do I know that has this particular set of problems? I smiled as Rocket pranced into the Ponderosa forest, screeching a high-pitched whinny every few seconds.
Out of the sky
I like to practice remembering.
I have officially started writing my book. After almost an entire year of not writing (aside from my daily personal journal entries), I finally feel the strong pull to craft something big. I needed this idle time, what author Linda Kohanov brought to light in her Way of the Horse as the concept of wu wei: the Taoist principle of non-doing. This long period of non writing cleared my mind of self imposed expectations, limitations, and old writing habits that had stripped the joy from my process. While I battled with a critical voice telling me that I should be writing, I trusted that it would come when it was ready. 
Its yellow illuminating Pikes Peak
