Hoofprints in the Sand

I love being the first to ride in a freshly groomed arena. Initially, I cringe at marring the smooth expanse of sand lined with symmetrical patterns from the rototiller; it's the same feeling as when I take a chunk out of the perfect surface of a new jar of peanut butter. But then the first few minutes of riding become a work of art, tracking designs with Ransom’s hoof prints on a giant sand canvas.

The tracks help us make a perfect circle, or show how crooked our line down the rail was. Riding straight is more difficult than it seems. We crisscross the arena with serpentines and figure-eights. A turn on the haunches leaves a semi-circle cluster of prints.

The pasture horses stand on the knoll overlooking the arena, observing our performance with interest, while Jake, the big black tomcat, crouches in the tall grass. When we pass nearby, he looks up and joins the audience.

By the time I finish, the arena is muddled with designs. If I’m lucky, it will be only a few days until I have a fresh canvas.

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.

Munching Music

Ransom reached eagerly to graze along the side of the road as I led him out of his pasture. I usually let him munch for a few minutes every day. His nose swept back and forth to brush away the weeds, while his lips worked madly to sift the choicest grass and tear it off in quick bites. He was like a greedy child stuffing his mouth. I think he knew his time was at my whim, and he wanted to eat as much as possible before I tugged on the halter and dragged him away. There was a kind of rhythm as he grazed: rip, munch munch, swish, stomp; rip, munch munch, rip munch.

He made me think of a cartoon where the goat with exaggerated teeth plows through a field of tall grass to the sound effect of a mower’s engine, leaving a straight and even lawn. Ransom’s head came up only once when something caught his attention, and I grabbed my chance to pull him away and continue down to the barn.

Saving Up

I didn’t have a horse-print on the seat of my jeans when I slid off Ransom, thanks to his stylish new bareback pad. I’ve been waiting a long time to have my own horse to spend Christmas money on. I used to spend hours scouring horse supply catalogues, picking out all the things I would buy my horse, planning coordinating color schemes, and calculating costs.

When I was thirteen, Momma humored me and let me spend my hard earned allowance on a halter and lead rope from the local tack store. Never mind that I didn’t have a horse to use it on. I just thrilled in having it on hand, in case I needed to catch the lost horse that might wander onto our property.

When I was sixteen, my riding instructor gave me a bucket, sweat scraper, stiff brush, and two red hoofpicks for Christmas. Her favorite refrain was, “Sarah, when are you going to get a horse?” The lunge whip I won at a horseshow sat in my closet untouched, waiting for the day.

Every couple years when I sifted through my stuff, reducing my belongings and filling a donation bag, the horse equipment managed to make the cut, though narrowly. I wasn’t using it and it took up space. But I couldn’t bear to part with it. Somehow getting rid of the tools was like giving up the dream.

Finally I’ve been justified. The lunge whip has left its closet prison for a more useful life, and the hoofpicks are getting dirty like they ought. And I’m scouring horse catalogues, picking out all the things I want to buy for Ransom, planning coordinating color schemes, and calculating costs. And how long it will take to save up.