Appaloosa Memories: Wenatchee

Her name was Wenatchee, and she looked just like the horse calendar photo I’d brought with me to summer camp: a blue roan with a blanket, lots of roaning, and a sparse mane and tail. And at nine years old, pretty was all that mattered. I’d lie on my bunk during quiet time, searching for her in the herd of horses I could see out the window. She was the first Appaloosa I loved.

I wanted more than anything to ride her. When the wranglers chose mounts for our horse classes, I’d cross my fingers and silently hope they’d pick me. But they never did. I always got assigned some plain bay or gray.

A painting I did in high school
based off of the calendar photo
that was my Wenatchee "pin-up."

When I came back to work at camp, Wenatchee was still there. Now I was the wrangler making or breaking kids’ dreams based on the horses I assigned. She was older, and being on the small side, I mostly used her for little kids. She was also a vaulting horse. And I came to find out she wasn’t as perfect as my nine-year old self dreamed. She was afraid of spray bottles. And she pulled back often enough to break several halters. After she injured her leg in an accident, she had to be put down.

I never did ride Wenatchee. But it doesn’t matter anymore. What I held onto is that little girl feeling of hope and excitement about an appaloosa.

Cow Commotion

Ransom and I encountered cows on our trail ride. The park land cuts through some pastures which are usually unoccupied. Not today. Judging by his reaction, this was probably the first time in his short life that Ransom has laid eyes on the creatures. His response was an embarrassing disgrace to his ¾ Quarter horse breeding. Despite his normally sedate manner, when the cows came into view, Ransom’s neck shot up, his head landed in my lap, and his whole body quivered. The small cluster of cows that blocked the path stared at us curiously. After preventing Ransom’s attempts to spin and bolt from the black, horse-eating monsters, I convinced him to inch toward them.

When we finally came close enough to cause them to turn and walk away, Ransom had a momentary revelation as to his heritage. I reeled in the reins to keep him from trotting after them. We followed at a walk instead, Ransom’s bravery lasting only as long as the cows moved away from us. Whenever they stopped and turned to look at us, Ransom reverted to a terrified, though interested, wimp.

Finally the cows returned to their herd, and Ransom had something to think about on the way home. Since I plan on cattle being part of our future experiences, our work is cut out for us.

Love and Worth

I love my horse. In high school I used to joke that my boyfriend was a handsome appaloosa gelding. Some things haven’t changed.

But it wasn’t always this way. After struggling to share my beloved lesson horses with dozens of other students during my teenage years, I developed a certain objectivity when it came to working with horses on the job. This distance was how I processed the fact that unsuitable horses were sold, old horses put down, and lesson horses abused by beginners. Though I cared for them and about them, they were ultimately tools in ministry, and had a job to do.

Now I’m unlearning this emotional detachment. Ransom doesn’t earn his keep, in the sense that most other horses I’ve worked with do. Like any other, he’s a money-sucking machine. No, Ransom earns his worth, not his keep. When he nickers at the gate as he sees me walking up the road toward his pasture, I don’t think about the boarding cost. When he tolerantly accepts the kisses planted on his nose, I forget how expensive hay is. When we spend quality time on the trail together, the farrier’s bill seems insignificant.

 It’s finally safe to get emotionally attached. And he’s a keeper.

Candy Carrots

The bag label said, “carrots for juicing.” Well, unless you’re a horse owner and then it reads, “seven dollars for twenty pounds of eternal equine affection.” Surprisingly, it was my mom who insisted we purchase it for Ransom. The man in the grocery store parking lot gave us an incredulous look as I hefted the bag from the cart to the trunk. “That’s a lot of carrots!” 
 

“They’re for her horse,” Momma explained, positively gleeful.

Momma has adopted my spotted charge as a surrogate grandchild, since my sisters and I have yet to provide her with any of the human variety. Carrots are the new candy. I have to carefully mete out portions to keep from spoiling Ransom.

I’m not one of those women who consider their horses as children, but it’s been fun to see Momma enjoy Ransom like that. She gushes about him to friends like any good grandma. “He’s the most sweet-tempered creature, so mellow and laid back!” She enthusiastically volunteered to horse-sit when I go out of town for a week, visiting the barn with me beforehand to learn to halter and lead, groom, and blanket. With a cache of carrots at her disposal, they’re sure to get along splendidly.

Bribery? Perhaps. But the best kind.