An Exciting Life . . . Not

My life is, well, boring. Busy but boring. And at my advanced, creaky-kneed age, I am happy for the UNeventful days. That doesn't say I don't do A LOT. I write, teach, volunteer, travel some to promote books, take care of animals and home, ride, garden, read . . . All of these activities take planning, time, creativity and thought but lately, none have been blog-worthy or discussion-worthy. Sigh. So what am I going to write about this week?

Sometimes equine or writing-related topics, which I think others might be interested in, hit me before it's my turn to post. Other times, not. Today is one of those days. My kids are here for the weekend for their dad's birthday and both are healthy and thriving in school and jobs. My horses are winter-ready with thick coats and a hay-stocked run in-shed. I have even ridden all week in the chilly but clear weather. My dogs are lyme-free with all their shots up to date. Dozer, our old Lab, is happy on two types of pain pills for his own creaky joints, and has even joined Jake, Fang and me on a few walks. The cats are, well, cats.

Teaching and volunteering continue to challenge me and feed my need to give back to others. Writing is going okay. The fever to write and publish that bestseller or Newbery winner has changed into a quiet joy in having written a body of works that I am proud of. The house is getting as old as I am and needs as much work, but you know, we can do a little at a time. The vegetable garden is under newspaper and mulch waiting until next year, and the annuals which were killed in the first frost are on the compost pile.

I guess the topic of this blog is not just my boring life, but my peaceful life. I find that when I am content and drama-free, I can give to others: my CASA child, who I advocate for, needs someone who is always there and who will not judge; my students at the community college, who have multiple problems and dilemmas, benefit from a teacher who's able to encourage and value them; my kids want a mom who is a sounding board and who will listen and help when it's needed. I know many people who are addicted to drama. When I was younger, a roller-coaster kind of life was exciting and easier to deal with--and believe me, I still LOVE amusement park roller coasters. I just want to be able to get off when the ride is over.

Next week I am off to Kentucky for two school vists, a two-day book fair, and a conference. My fingers are crossed that it will be an uneventful trip. I don't need the drama of driving in a freak snow storm (already did that a week ago), flat tire, my husband calling with a--God forbid--family member's medical issue--or wrong turn. I want to concentrate on inspiring young readers and teachers, getting them excited about books and writing. Then I want to make it through West Virginia and safely home to my family, animals and boring life.

How is your life these days? Just right? Or are you working hard to hold on to that bucking bronc of drama?

The Giant Pickle

I made a mistake, got myself into a giant pickle, and now I’m kicking myself. You see, yesterday, I moved Qrac to different stable, five minutes from where he was before. I gave my notice to Steph back in September, when I realized that there was no way she’d have her indoor arena built before the winter, and didn’t want to find myself slip sliding around on snow and ice, unable to work Qrac for weeks on end. Greg, my second, more recent trainer, was going to move his horses to a place in another village close by, so I figured it would be a good solution for the cold, wet months ahead.

I visited the new stables once at the end of August, or maybe in early September, during a run of dry, warm weather. Back then the indoor arena, although not chi-chi or state of the art as far in terms of architecture and flooring, seemed ok. I mean, I saw that it was narrow, and that the floor wasn’t as fluffy and delightful as the floors at Steph’s place, but the damp sand looked like it would work. I should have looked at it carefully, but I didn’t; I was simply happy to have found a place for the winter.

Oh dear.

It was warm and sunny when I arrived there with Qrac yesterday, so I rode him in the big outdoor arena for about half an hour. He behaved beautifully, he didn’t spook or get full of himself or anything. I was so pleased with and praised him over and over, telling him he was such a good boy. Once we’d finished our little workout I walked him off in the outside arena, and then thought I’d take him into the indoor arena, just to show him and to see how he liked that.

Well, neither of us liked it one bit. The floor was like wet, gloopy clay, the kind that sucks off your shoes when you walk around in it. It was full of water-filled hoof marks, with the added bonus of a nice wide puddle-pond in the middle. It was dark and dingy and, well, kind of depressing. We plodded around, gloopety-gloop. It felt like riding in a swamp. Water dripped on us; I looked up and saw that the roof had holes in it. I almost burst into tears.

On top of the not-so-nice indoor arena issue, Qrac’s stable door doesn’t close properly; well it does, except it’s fiddly, and when I’m in there with him I’d rather shut myself in so he doesn’t run off and cause mayhem. Trouble is, I have to reach over, channel my inner contortionist and fiddle for ages to let myself out again. This morning, I got stuck in the stable with Qrac for about five minutes before the damn door finally surrendered to my fury and bad language.

I actually attempted to ride in the indoor this morning seeing as they’d been over it with the tractor and it didn’t look quite so bad. But once we were inside I realized the place reeked of diesel fumes, and that every step Qrac made turned made rude squelchy noises, forming hoof shaped puddles underneath him. I was pissed, he was pissed, and the diesel fumes were giving me a headache, so we soon went into the outside arena and squelched around there for a while instead seeing as it had poured during the night.

Once we’d walked off as much heat as possible (Qrac seriously needs clipping) I put him back in his stable and immediately got locked in again, for much longer this time. After about ten minutes I started cursing a little more loudly, and yelling for someone, ANYONE, to come and let me out. Nobody came, but eventually the door yielded and I staggered out like a semi-crazed sweat-infused banshee.

I guess you get the picture. I don’t like it. I know it’s petty and that it’s small potatoes in the grand scheme of things, and as my husband rightly says, it’s a rich person’s problem, but it’s my passion, I love my horse and, believe it or not, this place is costing me much more money than my more up-market previous stable. Yes, the new place has an indoor, but if I can’t stand being in it then what’s the point?

So on my way home I stopped at three other places. The first one didn’t accept stallions, the second was nice but way too expensive (you have to pay extra for this and that and the other, to the point where you almost have to pay extra to use the bathroom) and, anyway, my long-time trainer, Marie-Valentine won’t go there as it’s way off her route. The third place was such a mess that I was depressed before I even got out of the car.

Maybe I’m spoilt, maybe I’m super-picky. Because I’ve wracked my brain yet can’t think of anywhere within a half-hour radius of my house where I’d be content to put my horse, and, more importantly, where Marie-Valentine would be allowed to come and work with me. Yes, there’s one place, and it’s amazing and not too expensive, and I’m on the waiting list. I’ve a feeling it’s a long waiting list…

So I’m actually considering taking Qrac miles away. And when I saw miles away, I really mean miles and miles. Like, it would take me just over an hour to get there. Which sounds utterly crazy, but, according to Marie-Valentine, it’s a really nice place and I’d like it a lot (she knows me well!). My husband thinks it’s menopausal madness to even consider stabling my horse somewhere so far away. But I have a friend who just moved there who is thrilled (okay, so she lives much closer) and who tells me that if I want to bring my horse there I can take him tomorrow as they have space. It’s reasonably priced, with everything included. So in my menopausal madness I may just drive up there tomorrow morning to check it out and assess just how far away it is. The thing is, I quite enjoy driving, and although my car is permanently filthy (dog hairs and mud) it’s also super comfortable, and I’m not the type to get all riled up and hyperventilated by slow traffic. So if the place is nice, I might be tempted, at least for the next few months. It doesn’t have to be forever, as Steph might finally get her indoor built, and the super nice not too expensive place with the waiting list might finally have an opening.

What do you think? Is it menopausal madness? What would you do? What do you do? How far do you have travel? Or, for those of you who have horses at home, how far have you travelled for comfortable, pleasant equestrian facilities?

Dilemma

by Laura Crum

Warning: this post is not horse related (though it is about livestock) and may be upsetting for some. If you don’t eat meat and are repulsed at the thought of eating animals for food, please click on the little “x” now.

I have an ongoing dilemma. I’d like to lay it out there and see what others think. It bothers me at some level all the time, and I can’t come up with a solution that works for me. Here’s the problem.

I do eat meat. My young son, a very slender child, loves meat, and I think he needs it for his overall health. My husband enjoys meat. We are a meat eating family. Not being totally in denial, I accept the fact that eating meat means I support the slaughter of animals. But because I care about animals, and I want to eat healthy meat, and I own a sixty acre pasture in the foothills, I decided to start raising my own grass fed beef.

By “raising” I do not mean that I am breeding cattle. I mean that I am buying “used up” Corriente roping steers that would otherwise be going directly to the sale and on to be slaughtered, and turning them out on my pasture for several years. When they are somewhere between five and seven years old, we “harvest” them.

Sounds pretty, put like that. But what we are really doing is killing them and eating their meat. And I just can’t feel solidly okay with it.

I know all the reasons to support what I am doing. I did not bring these cattle into the world, and if I did not buy them and give them several years of retirement in my pasture, their end would come definitely come much sooner and be FAR less pleasant. And I do ensure that their end is painless. They are not hauled anywhere. When the time comes, they are shot by a professional ranch killer while they stand there grazing. One minute alive, the next gone. No hauling, no feedlot, no disruption, no suffering. Its very important to me that I am giving these steers a good life and a peaceful end.

I also know that when I buy beef in the market, the average age that steer lived to be is eighteen months. Contrast that to my cattle, who live to be five to seven years old. Beef you buy in the market comes from cattle that are penned up in crowded dry lots for months and fed corn. My cattle live their last years turned out, eating only grass. Corrientes are well adapted to this as a breed, and rarely need supplemental hay, but when they do, we feed them. They are never allowed to get thin. We take good care of them and give them a healthy life. In return they give us healthy meat. As a family, we thank the steer for the gift he gave us every time we eat his meat. I tell my son that we gave the steer a good life and now the steer is helping us to have a good life.

That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I tell my son. And I believe it. But look at the photo below.

This is the steer whose meat I am currently eating. He was a nice, easy to get along with critter—I choose the steers that I “retire” very carefully. They are selected not just because they are well made, but also for the attitude. I buy them from the proprietor of our local practice roping when he deems that their days as a roping steer are done. Those who have been good, cooperative roping steers (and believe me, some steers throw in with being roped, just like some horses throw in with being ridden), get the call. We called this speckled steer “Roany” and he was a pleasant animal-- easy to gather from the pasture and move from here to there. Its hard for me to look at his photo and not feel sad that we killed him, despite all the logic behind what I am doing.

The steer would die eventually, of course. If I kept him until he died of old age (very impractical) he would simply be faced with aches and pains, overgrown feet, and other maladies which I would be unable to treat, and his flesh would be of no use when I would finally have to kill him out of mercy. The end result would be much the same for him. Just a few years in the future. Of course, I would not have bought him and given him three peaceful years on my pasture had I not had a purpose. That purpose being healthy, humanely raised meat for my family. And yet, I still wonder if I’m doing the right thing.

So I’m stumped. I don’t think its better to buy my meat at the market. That distances you from the process, sure, but you’re actually supporting something that is MUCH less humane than what I am doing. The only answer seems to be to become vegetarian, and, for a variety of reasons, I’m not ready to go there yet. But still…

Here is next year’s uhmm, “candidate”. Or victim. Or however you want to phrase it. He is happily running around the pasture as I type, and has been for the past three years. But eventually it will be June, when it is his turn. I always dread that time, when we schedule “the day”.

I am still struggling with this process, even though I have been doing it for seven years, and logically believe it is the right thing to do, if I want to eat meat. I am giving the cattle a gift, in exchange for what they give me. They have a healthy, relatively long life; we eat their healthy meat. I don’t believe what I am doing is wrong. In my heart, I ask permission of the steers, and I think they are OK with it, if that doesn’t sound too new-agey. But it still makes me sad. I have moments of wanting to give up doing it, just to escape the emotional burden. But how is that a better, more responsible choice, unless I then become a vegetarian? And even then, by making that choice, I deprive a few cattle, who already exist, of the possibility of some happy, peaceful years in my pasture. Don’t you suppose that these steers would prefer I continued eating meat?

Even now, as the roping season comes to a close, I am contemplating buying a nice brindle steer who has been a solid citizen all year long. If I do, instead of going to the sale and on to slaughter, he will be hauled to my pasture to live for three or four years with the other steers that are currently there. What a good deal for him. But eventually the day will come and I will feel sad and somewhat guilty, despite everything I just told you.

As I said to begin with, the whole thing puzzles me and I'm still not in a place that feels completely right. Any thoughts?

Urban Horses: More, Please

What this city needs is more horses.

I'm a big proponent of natural horsekeeping: barefoot, roughage, turn-out. Frankly put, I think shoes destroy hooves, grains are an unnatural starch and sugar in the equine diet, and the practice of stalling a horse for 23 hours a day can make a horse crazy.

But, I think that humans can do a pretty good job of managing horses' health while using those three practices, and I also think that in our paved-over world, shoes, starch, and stalls are going to remain a necessary reality. We can't just let horses fade out of urban environments, even if it isn't the Garden of Eden ideal for them. Let's face it, it isn't the ideal for cats, either, but I'll bet 90% of the apartments in this city have a cat in them.

Even mine. And I'm not a fan of cats. (I had to pause in the writing of this to get my cat out of the recycling bag.)

It's not easy to find horses in New York City, unless you happen to see a policeman on horseback in Times Square or Central Park. The bridle path in Central Park has been turned over to joggers. The last riding school in Manhattan has been turned over to condos. There is one livery stable in Brooklyn accessible by public transit, the other one is on a spit of land near JFK airport. There are a few in Queens and the Bronx, where it is less dense, but that's a long ride for Manhattan and Brooklyn kids looking to ride.

flickr of t.shirbert
Invisible, a Thoroughbred at Kensington Stables.  He's a great therapy horse and, as you can see, a crowd-pleaser. Urban horses like this are ambassadors to city-dwellers and needed by horse-crazy kids. They also get more carrots than a rabbit in a petting zoo.

And that's what I'm most concerned about: kids looking to ride. What if you're born horse-crazy, like, say, me? What if all you think about are horses, horses, horses, and there aren't any? That's rough for a kid. I think I'd have ended up in therapy. (Of course, that might have been a better solution than indulging the obsession!)

I'm starting to think that keeping horses in the city, despite less-than-ideal conditions (mainly no turn-out and small stalls), is a necessity the way that marine parks keeping whales in concrete tanks is a necessity. It's not beautiful, and it's not natural. But, in the case of the whales they're well-cared-for, they're (apparently) happy, and they're providing an educational out-reach to people that keeps them relevant and encourages sympathy for the rights of wild animals. And in the case of the horses, they can be well-cared-for, happy, and provide everyone, but especially children, an outlet for that deep emotional connection that humans have to horses.

Volunteering with the therapeutic riding program here in Brooklyn has really brought that home to me. No, I'm not a fan of seeing horses in standing stalls, as some of the horses there are living in. But these horses change people's lives. They give speech to children whose autism keeps them silent. They give power and grace to people whose developmental disabilities relegate them to the sidelines of society.

And they also bring joy to children whose bedrooms must look like mine once did, wallpapered with pictures carefully clipped from Horse Illustrated, dancing with plastic Breyer models on every flat surface, cluttered with Marguerite Henry paperbacks.

I'd like to see urban horsekeeping become a more common topic. I'd like to see modern, carefully-run riding schools opening up in cities, not out somewhere on the outskirts, but in-town, like a YMCA is. I'd like to see city kids going off to their riding lesson after school the same way they go off to their piano lesson or their tennis lesson. I'd like to see the waiting lists for the therapeutic riding disappear because there are enough horses for everyone. I think it would be good for everyone.

Yes, even the horses.

A Fall Trail Ride

Fall in the Pacific Northwest is fraught with perpetually gray skies and incessant rain. Once in a while, we get a few sunny fall days. During those rare times when the sun peeks its shy head out of the clouds and graces us with its presence, most of us native northwesterners jump at the chance to be outside.

Last weekend was one of those weekends. It was a low 60s, crisp, but sunny, fall day. If you read this blog regularly, you know my mare has been battling lameness issues. She’s certainly never going to be a dressage horse again, but she appears sound enough for casual riding. With that in mind and a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I decided to take her out for her first trail ride in about seven years.

So I tied Gailey in the crossties and groomed her. I hauled out the western saddle, dusted it off, and heaved it onto Gailey’s back. Dang, but I’d forgotten how heavy that thing is. I probably haven’t used it in seven years.

This would be the second time I’d ridden Gailey this year. With the exception of a short walk through my neighborhood, she hadn’t been out of an arena in about seven years. The cautious side of me heckled my more “reckless” side about how stupid it was to hop on the back of a horse without any preliminary work when the horse hadn’t been ridden more than once in a the past year. Let alone take this horse out on the trails by myself.

Yet, I know this horse. She’s never been one to need lunging before you ride her, always been a bombproof show horse, and a dependable trail horse. I decided to trust her.

I called to the dogs, got on Gailey’s back, and off we went through the gate in my arena which opens onto commercial timberland with miles of logging roads. She walked along, enjoying the day and relishing being outside of her small little world.

We ambled through the clear cut into the woods with Douglas Firs and cedars surrounding us on all sides. The cold bite of fall floated in the air, even though the temperature bordered around 60 degrees. Sunlight filtered through the tree limbs and dappled the gravel road with rays of sunshine. The dogs ran ahead sniffing all great the scents. The yellows and reds of the maple and alder leaves added color to the woods.

On a long rein, Gailey weaved back and forth across the road like a drunken sailor. I’m not sure why walking a straight line was such a challenge to her, but it was. I finally had to take up some rein just to keep her straight. I don’t know if she was sight-seeing or trying to find something edible close to the road which she could grab on the way by. Not that it mattered, we were on a trail ride not a food foraging expedition.

Our little ride lasted only an hour, but it brought back memories of how much I’d once enjoyed rides in these woods, especially in the fall. Of course, the rain has since prevented a repeat of last week’s ride, but I’m hoping for at least one or two more trail riding days before the really nasty weather sets in.

I hope you all get the chance to enjoy a little fall color with your horses.

A Special Lesson with the Remarkable Bernard Sachsé

I recently had the opportunity to take a riding lesson with Bernard Sachsé, a truly remarkable man whom I’d never heard of until my trainer, Marie-Valentine, asked me whether I’d be interested in doing a clinic with him. She told me a little about him, mentioning she’d read his book a few years ago and had been blown away, not only by his background but by his incredible courage. I looked him up on the Internet, found his website and was immediately eager to work with him. I also ordered his book, “Sur mes Quatre Jambes” (On my Four Legs) on Amazon and, when it arrived a few days later I read it in one sitting, finally turning off the light at one thirty in the morning. If you can read in French I highly recommend it.

Classically trained in dressage at the Haras du Pin, one the most prestigious and rigorous French riding schools, Bernard Sachsé worked as a stuntman in movies and shows all over the world. He even rode horses on stage in ballet and opera performances, working with the likes of Maurice Béjart. His accounts of the difficulties of galloping up narrow ramps through curtains onto slippery stages and then back down the ramps in pitch black gave me goose-bumps. It is obvious from what he writes that most film directors or ballet producers have no idea how complicated their demands can be when it comes to working with horses.

Tragically, in 1994, Bernard lost the use of his legs on a film-set in Geneva. The accident took place in front of the cameras while performing a particularly dangerous stunt that the director wanted to edit into a previously shot polo match. Bernard had trot up, then make his horse rear and fall over backwards. For reasons he never understood, Bernard had not been allowed to ride the horse beforehand.

The cameras rolled and Bernard attempted the stunt only to be surprised by the horse’s apathetic reaction. Instead of going up into an energetic rear which would allow him to flip over backwards, he reared lazily, sank slowly on his haunches, and did a sort of floppy tuck-roll. The second take was hardly better, and the head stuntman snarled disdainfully at Bernard, asking him whether he wanted him to do it instead. Irritated, Bernard told him he’d try again. The third attempt showed improvement, but by then Bernard had come to the conclusion that the horse was neither strong nor enthusiastic enough to perform the stunt flamboyantly. He told himself he’d have to make the most of the tuck-roll and got the horse to perform it with a little more oomph by the fourth take, which satisfied the film director who suggested they move on to the next scene.

The head stuntman, however, intervened. He said the horse could go higher, that they would do it again.

Bernard did as he was told. His horse reared, tuck-rolled, and Bernard lay on the ground, waiting for the director to yell “Cut!”. Unfortunately, the horse didn’t wait, and as the animal struggled to its feet, Bernard felt one of its legs slip beneath his back. He recalls an elusive cold trickle down his spine. He knew immediately that his spinal cord had been damaged.

The head stuntman urged him to get up, saying it had been the best take, that the horse had reared far more flashily this time. But Bernard couldn’t move. Soon afterwards he was transported by helicopter to the Cantonal Hospital in Geneva where
the doctors informed him he’d spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Rehab was a nightmare, the pain horrendous, yet Bernard was determined that before too long he’d ride again. When he spoke of this to the doctors they just raised their eyebrows; as far as they were concerned the notion was inconceivable. Nevertheless, in March 1995, only nine months after his accident, two friends helped him up onto one of his most trustworthy horses, a twenty-four year old schoolmaster. Bernard’s wife, Agnes, held the horse’s head and, once Bernard was ready, lead him forwards a few paces. Bernard was terrified, the motion made him seasick, the height gave him vertigo. He panicked, tensed, holding onto the neck strap for dear life. And then suddenly, magically, the fear dissolved and his body remembered what to do. The horse flexed to the left, to the right, offering a collected walk, even some lateral movement, a hint of piaffe. That night Bernard went to bed exhausted but high on happiness. Pretty soon he set himself a new goal; to participate in the French handicapped dressage Championships.


Would you believe he won the gold medal, two years running? Would you believe he taught himself to trot and canter, was selected to participate in the Para-Olympic games in Atlanta? Bernard didn’t win, but came fourth in the individual programs (the judges said he “didn’t appear handicapped enough”!) and played a decisive part in the French team’s bronze medal. Four years later he took part in the Sydney Para-Olympic games, where once again his apparent ease on horseback played against him, placing him in a less severely handicapped category of riders (he recalls watching the winner warm up her horse in rising trot and “standing” canter).


Bernard Sachsé lives in a small village in northern France where he owns an equestrian property. He rides every day, gives lessons to local riders, and offers clinics for external riders who can stable their horses at his facility. He travels all over France, and regularly visits the French speaking area of Switzerland to teach.


My lesson with him two weeks ago was fantastic. First of all, I had no idea what to expect from a teacher in a wheelchair, and secondly I didn’t know how Qrac would react to being ridden in new surroundings. This was the first time I’d be riding him anywhere but at “home”. Also, I was flying solo as the friend who was supposed to accompany me and help me out with Qrac suddenly needed root canal treatment, poor thing! Whisking me further from my comfort zone was the fact that it was very windy, that I had no idea where the equestrian centre to which I was travelling was located, that it was over an hour and a half away, and that I’d be returning home in rush hour traffic. Quite a big deal for a chicken like me!

Of course, when I arrived at my stables, Qrac had rolled in his field and was sporting muddy dreadlocks instead of a long lustrous mane. Thank goodness he’d been wearing his outdoor rug as I’d have been frantic if he’d been thoroughly caked in mud! I didn’t have much time to give him a thorough grooming as my other trainer, Greg, had to leave our stables at one o’clock at the latest, and I wanted him to help me load Qrac in case he played me up, which he did, if only for a minute or two. With my lesson scheduled for four, leaving just after one gave me more than enough travelling time, but under the circumstances I didn’t have much choice.

The journey went smoothly, I drove slowly so as not to arrive insanely early. The only hairy moment happened when I overshot the turn-off for the equestrian centre and had to find a place where I could make a U-turn. This always gives me palpitations as I have a terrible time reversing my trailer and am constantly terrified of finding myself stuck in a narrow dead end (it’s happened!). But the saints were with me and I found a fantastically giant circular turnaround space and arrived at the stables with plenty of times to spare, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing as I soon discovered that Qrac doesn’t really like standing in his trailer unless I stand by the side door talking to him.

I was a little worried about unloading him by myself, but the lady who’d organized the clinic arrived (there wasn’t another soul around) and kindly offered to help. Qrac came out slowly, even regally, arching his neck to survey his surroundings. He didn’t prance or get all nervous and silly, so I was very proud of him. The lady held his halter while I saddled him up, pointing out the canter track around a cross country course where I could walk him to warm him up before the lesson. I climbed on and we set off. Qrac felt a little electric as we stepped through the gates and onto the track; the wind was blowing flurries of golden leaves all over the place, and the cross country course jumps looked a little scary to him (to me too!) but I just chatted to him non-stop and he settled down and strode around almost like he owned the place.

I was walking Qrac around the arena when Bernard Sachsé arrived, coming straight from the airport. We chatted for a while; he asked me some questions about Qrac (it turned out that he was very familiar with the Massa stud farm in the south of France where Qrac was born, and had just come back from there with a new horse), what we could and couldn’t do, whether there were any particular problems. He came across as very friendly and down to earth, very much like he does in his book. His assistant hooked me up with a wireless earpiece so he could talk to me easily from a distance and the lesson began.



By this time a photographer had arrived, as well as another person with a video camera, which was nice as I’d been relying on my unfortunate root canal friend to take some photos. Qrac was a little spooky in the arena, but Bernard spoke to me calmly, giving me tips, getting me to breathe deep in my belly, to “think” my horse calm, to get him to listen and connect with me. Once Qrac had settled, we moved on to shoulder-in where Bernard worked on sharpening my awareness of where my weight was distributed in the saddle, and where I place my legs. At one point he specifically told me to put my right buttock deeper into the saddle, to sit taller and to use my outside leg (we were tracking left) a little further back and apply a more regular pressure. I immediately felt Qrac’s back come up to meet me as his hind leg stepped a little further beneath him. Magic!


We worked on the trot in a similar way, Bernard gradually getting me to ask Qrac for more collection by using shoulder in, halts in shoulder in, and then moving straight back into trot. Qrac seemed to be enjoying himself; he certainly felt fantastic to me. I don’t think he’d ever offered me such a good trot; he felt connected and forward and springy. The canter work was great too; Bernard really got us going forwards and Qrac’s rear engines were firing on all pistons, giving me such great sensations that I couldn’t stop smiling. By the time we finished (and I was sad to
finish, the whole experience having been so utterly more-ish!) Qrac felt wonderfully supple and loose and was so attentive to me that I could transition from canter to walk simply by lifting my solar plexus. This, of course, made me smile even more!

I thanked Bernard for his help, chatting for a while (he really liked my horse!), and then took a very sweaty Qrac (not to mention a very sweaty me) back around the canter track to cool off. If Qrac was strutty before the lesson, now he thought he was seriously hot stuff, striding around, rolling his shoulders. He was tired though, and was happy to get back to the trailer where, once I’d undressed him and suggested a carrot, he walked into the trailer all doe-eyed and goody- goodyish. I could hardly believe how well behaved he’d been during the entire day, and how well we’d coped just the two of us!

I’d love to take a clinic with Bernard Sachsé over several days, and might consider trailering Qrac to his centre in the north of France if ever I have the opportunity. I’ll definitely take lessons with him if he comes back to Switzerland next year. I found the experience truly inspiring, mega motivating, and also really fun. I’ve rarely felt so much admiration for someone; having read his book before I met him definitely heightened my respect for him. I loved his special charisma, the sparkle in his eye, his cheeky sense of humour, his respect and passion for horses. I loved how involved he got with my ride, how he gave me the feeling of riding with me every step of the way.

Have you ever had a similar experience? Do you know anyone who has overcome a dramatic accident and willed himself/herself back into the saddle?

Changes

by Laura Crum

I guess life is all about change. Certainly my life with horses has been about change. About the only constant is that I was always horse crazy. Here’s the first photo I have of myself on a horse. I am two years old. The horse is a pony named “Tarbaby” that belonged to my horse trading uncle. The photo, which sits by my desk, says nothing about my small self. Rather the notation on the back reads, “Pony for Sale.” Apparently the picture was taken to prove the pony was gentle rather than to capture my happiness aboard a horse. But you can see that I’m happy.

Throughout my childhood my parents steadfastly refused my pleas for my own horse. Eventually, at fifteen, I was allowed to buy one with my own money. This horse did not really work out, but I wasn’t discouraged. I kept trying. And when I was twenty-two I bought the first horse I would keep until he died (in his late 30’s). This is Burt, a horse I rode for many years on commercial cattle ranches and showed at a very beginning level in cowhorse and cutting.

Burt was a kind, willing horse. I bought him as a five year old with thirty days on him, and trained him myself. He was the first horse I ever “made.” You could work a cow, gather all day in rough country, corral rope on him…etc. He was a great ranch horse. But in my late twenties I became obsessed with competing in cowhorse events.

Burt was a nice horse, but not the sort of horse I could be truly competitive on. And I had the competition bug. So I bought Gunner, a fancy three year old QH with ninety days on him. I did all the rest of Gunner’s training myself and competed on him pretty successfully in cowhorse, cutting, and, eventually, team roping. Here’s Gunner and me winning the cutting class at our local county fair.

I still own Gunner, he’s thirty-one and happily turned out to pasture. Here we are when he was eighteen, a couple of years after I retired him.

By the time Gunner was retired, I was obsessed with team roping. I bought a half interest in Flanigan, who was a solid seven year old team roping horse, and competed on him for almost ten years. I also rode him on numerous pack trips through the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Flanigan was truly a magical horse for me, enabling me to do many things I’d only dreamed of doing. Here I am roping on Flanigan with my friend Sue Crocker heeling on Pistol.

And here we are riding through Kerrick Meadow in the Sierra Nevada.

At this point in my life (my thirties), I really liked training horses. I bought several colts to train and rode some for others. Of these, the one I kept and rode myself for many years was Plumber, a horse I’d known since he was born. I bought him as an unbroken three year old, trained him myself to be a competitive team roping horse, and rode him until he was nineteen. Plumber is twenty-two today and retired. Still sound and happy and living with me. Here’s Plumber a few years ago. Always a very sweet horse, which I think you can tell from his expression.

When Plumber made it clear he really did not want to be ridden any more, I bought Sunny, a steady little trail horse. At the same time I bought Henry, an equally steady horse, for my then seven year old son. The two horses have taken us on hundreds and hundreds of happy rides over the four years I’ve owned them, and have been total rockstars when it comes to reliable. Here we are on a recent autumn day at the Lookout, Monterey Bay in the background.

I know I look mean in the photo, but we weren’t really upset with each other--we had a very happy ride. I am asking my kid why he can’t just smile at the camera, and he is insisting he doesn’t like having his picture taken. My husband, who hiked with us, was trying to get a nice photo in front of our favorite spot. The horses look cute, anyway, and obligingly pricked their ears.

This string of photos does not reflect all the horses I’ve owned, let alone all the horses I’ve ridden. But it does show the five horses who have been my main mounts throughout my lifetime. Burt, Gunner, Flanigan, Plumber, and Sunny. As well as Henry, my son’s horse, who has given us so much. Gunner, Plumber, Sunny, and Henry are still with us. Burt and Flanigan I owned until they died. These photos also demonstrate the big changes I’ve gone through in my “horse life”. From a toddler sitting on a pony, to an active trainer/competitor, back to a sedate middle aged woman sitting on a slightly larger pony. Its been quite the path. Forty years of non-stop horse ownership.

On a recent post of mine about my trail riding (Trail Ride Drama), Fantastyk Voyager commented that I should enjoy my current contented life with horses because it probably wouldn’t last. This comment made me think. Change is inevitable, I know. If nothing else, my son will grow older and I will no longer be riding with my “little boy”. And/or I may tire of trail riding. But more than that, I will some day either be old enough that I can’t ride any more or I’ll be gone. We don’t last forever. This change, too, will come.

At first, this is a sad thought. But the more I considered it, the more I realized that it depends on how you look at it. Looking at these old photos of myself, I knew that in the thick of my roping days, if you had told me that ten years later I wouldn’t be roping any more, I would have been very sad. I would have told you that I wanted to keep roping until I was eighty (at least). But when the change actually happened, it was gentle and pleasant. I lost interest in roping and competing. I was very happy to enjoy relaxing trail rides with my son instead. Might it not be true that when I am old enough that I can only toddle down to the barnyard and feed, this change will feel appropriate also? Perhaps I will be at peace with it, as I have been with the changes that have happened so far.

The truth is I don’t miss the many things I’ve done with horses. Ranching, horse packing, cutting, cowhorse, team roping, horse training…etc. I’m glad I did those things. They were all very happy parts of my life. But I’m fine with where I’m at now. And I’m hoping I’ll be fine with where I go next.

So how about you guys? Any insights on change or growing older with horses? Its sort of the bottom line.