Slow and Go

I stopped by the barn after working horses at another stable. I couldn’t wait to ride Ransom. The horse I’d just ridden was a paint mare with sides of steel and one speed: slow. Oh, she would walk, trot, and canter, but had no “go” in any gait. After twenty minutes of squeezing her around the arena, I was ready to be back on my wonderfully sensitive personal horse.

He may have been a little unmotivated to strike out on his own away from the barn, but we had a magnificent trail ride along the hillcrest overlooking the valley. The wind roared in my ears when we picked up a trot or canter, and every once in a while, a wave of it would splash against Ransom’s tail and send him surging forward. The freeway noise below drifted up as a steady hum, and several large birds hovered just off the edge of the ridge, motionlessly held aloft by facing into the headwind. My arms and face stung when the wind gusted, but I was glowing and he was going and it was glorious.