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[RC] August horsenews - Mike SherrellAugust horsenews
For pictures of some of these rides, go to
www.postindustrialhorsemanship.com, go to the index at the bottom and click
on "August 2006".
At the beginning of the month, Granada put her weight on her left rear
and cocks her right leg for the first time. I started riding her; got her up
to about 15 minutes of gaiting in the arena. Then she hurt her leg again.
Faw!
Margaretta has spreading fungal hair loss on her back. Jean had to quit
riding her. Anti-fungal salve wasn?t getting it, so now we used a systemic.
She was almost fully recovered, then had a sudden relapse. We correlated it
with a feed change from orchard grass to oat hay. She?s back on the orchard
grass and after three days looks a lot better. We?ll see.
Riding up Marsh Creek in eastern Contra Costa county, I tied Traveller
up alongside the trail where it and the creek emerged from under some huge
umpty-ump lane suburban intersection, so I could walk around to various
corners to consider access to the trail on the other side of the creek. This
took me so long and so far from Traveller that when a Brentwood cop came
cruising by he pulled over to consider this apparently unattended animal.
Fortunately he did not issue us a parking ticket.
Later on this trail we came upon a freestone peach tree with fruit so
ripe it was more like drinking than eating. The fact that just being on a
horse means you?re dirty meant that the pleasure of slurping up a few of
these peaches could be enjoyed with a lack of inhibition not felt since
childhood.
Took Traveller to the All-Gaited Junior Benefit Horseshow in Vallejo
and covered myself in ignominy. We came in dead last in all three events we
tried. In the trail class, Traveller wouldn?t approach the yellow slicker;
reared rather than cross the water; and didn?t sidepass up to the mailbox at
all. In the open gaited breed 3-gait equitation competition we were beaten
by, among others, a 9-year-old on some kind of midgety pony. But in the Mae
West race we did get a little of our own back.
The idea was to race to the far end of the arena, put on a DD bra, put
two water balloons in it and race back without breaking them. I think we got
down there before the other guy and the three women contestants, but they
sure slipped into their bras a lot faster than I could. And being
flat-chested, once I got on the horse both balloons fell out and broke.
The second-place finisher was a blank-faced lady trainer of about 30,
on a big black Tennessee Walker. While I had been disqualified in the trail
class by the judge for my numerous shortcomings, this woman had won the
blue, moving imperturbably through the obstacles with what might have been,
annoyingly, studied nonchalance, or perhaps simply mechanical
methodicalness. When I arrived baloonless at the finish where all the other
contestants were awaiting me, she regarded me with an expression I took,
perhaps over-sensitively, as smug. Being empty-handed, or empty-brassiered,
I impulsively grabbed her right balloon ? given the relative size of our
horses it was at about my eye level ? and popped it, soaking her shirt
front, and quickly dodged off. After a double-take, or maybe triple-take,
and some yells and hoots from the crowd, she withdrew her left balloon and
drew a bead on me. Traveller and I took off like a shot down the arena as
she chased us right around the judging tent. In all modesty, I could see
that she wasn?t keeping up, so rather than going round and round like Sambo
and the lion, or worse yet have her abandon the chase herself as a gesture
of contempt, I turned around and, I thought, chivalrously, let her take her
shot. She only got me in the leg, but I think Traveller must have been
terminally shocked at having something come flying at him from another horse
and strike him, because he started backing and backing and backing. But
after some twists and turns I got him turned and walking forward, and then
he would let me stop him.
This was the closest I?ve ever come to that Afghan horseback game, the
precursor to polo, where a sheep carcass is thrown onto the field and
everyone tries to grab it and carry it to their team?s goal posts while the
members of the other team hit at the person with the carcass with crops and
try to grab it from him. It was fun, if brief.
Well, this was the last class I had wanted to watch or partake in, so
after to my surprise actually being awarded a 5th place ribbon we went back
to the trailer and got ready to go. But the damp lady trainer came out with
the woman who had organized the show and said she felt like I had ?violated
her personal space,? and so did her ?partner?. I apologized and excused
myself, listening closely for a pronoun or anything else that would identify
the partner?s gender. When my anxieties were confirmed and my stereotypical
suspicions dispelled, I tried to make a joke about hoping he wouldn?t be
coming after me. In all seriousness she said no, she was settling it right
then, so I told her I had enjoyed the chase quite a bit and asked the show
organizer to unpin my competitor?s number from the back of my shirt where I
couldn?t reach it.
This show made me reconsider Traveller?s capabilities and how I ride
him and how I try to ride him, not only because we were judged to be so bad
but because of another thing that happened a couple of times. By part way
through the second day, Traveller became attached to the scene around the
arena. When we rode away, either back to the trailer, which since we drove
in both days was parked about as far from the arena as anyone, or out around
the fairgrounds for some sightseeing, he became slow and ready to spook at
any little thing, and when we headed back, he quickly built up terrific
speed, gaiting like a steam locomotive hitting top speed downhill ? a way of
going that I normally enjoy enormously and indulge to the greatest extent I
possibly can. However I?m sure from the ground this is frightening to the
mommies with their children near the arena. And to the knowledgeable, such
as a group of chalons standing in a circle speaking in Spanish several of
whom suddenly look up in unison at the sound of rapid, pounding hooves, it
probably looks somewhat out of control ? which with Traveller it might be,
in that when he suddenly sees a certain kind of spook, most likely a dark
patch on the ground, he is liable to shy so badly that if I hadn?t gotten
used to it I?d likely be unseated. So between the trainer accusing me of
?inappropriate? behavior, the official disapproval, even condemnation, of
our rankings, and what might have been raised eyebrows among the
cognoscenti, it looked like it was my judgement against the world?s.
The next Saturday we went with our friends the Rismans to ride at
Anthony Chabot Park in the Oakland hills. Along the bottom of the canyon
there are trails on both sides of the stream that are generally flat, pretty
good dirt footing, very peaceful, quiet, shady and green. There is one
section of trail, called Cascade Trail, that is one mile of the most
enjoyable gaiting I can think of. It is 95% level, on a contour cut into the
canyon slope, with a soft dirt surface. It is about three feet wide, with
trees or the canyon wall on one side and the creek below on the other. It
follows the curves of the hillside like a snake. On it Traveller and I
practiced fast gaiting, him with a will and me with all thoughts unrelated
to the horse and trail out my mind.
And on Sunday T and I went out in the Yolo Bypass north of I-5 by
Sacramento, an expanse of fields and seasonal wetlands that in the course of
winter are usually flooded by overflow from the Sacramento River, and in
summer offer miles and miles of nearly uninhabited, flat, superb gaiting.
There we practiced maintaining a comfortable gait for ten of fifteen miles,
at whichever speed he preferred as long as it wasn?t absolutely too slow, in
sightseeing mode ? i.e., requiring minimal attention on my part while I took
in the scenery, which this day included huge flocks of white herons
convening in broad, shallow lakes, ranks and banks of trees across
impassible fields of stickery weeds, a blizzard of white butterflies
flitting over meadows of white horse-poisonous blossoming Queen Anne?s Lace,
and inviting diversions leading to shady nooks among the trees on the banks
of the canals and streams. Then did a turn of having the horse stand
unobtrusively with the lead rope looped around the master?s arm while he
rested on his back in the shade by the stream, eating cashews and macadamias
for lunch and reading Greenlander sagas until he fell asleep; and we also
practiced having the horse hang about with the lead rope dangling unattached
and not running off while the master scrambled up an embankment to see if
what was on the other side was worth making the horse scramble up too. We
perfected having the horse jump over ditches after the master, and drink out
of ditches. We practiced having the horse stumble at the gait and recover
without losing speed or either horse or rider suffering an adrenalin surge.
And we practiced having the horse led sedately on levee-tops with gravel too
sharp to be ridden over, and, in order to complete a loop, across a field of
large, hard, dried, unpleasant ploughed-up clods without stepping on the
master?s heels to express dissatisfaction. We refined the horse?s skill at
eating a flake or two in the trailer during the two-hour drive each way. I
gave us at least a yellow in all these classes, and we even got two or three
blues.
The next weekend it was in the high 90s in the Valley so we went to the
coast. There are only four trails at Pt. Reyes that have little enough steep
up-and-down that I would happily take a Peruvian on them: Rift Trail, Coast
Trail, Tomales Point Trail, and the Muddy Hollow-Estero Trail loop. The
first two I?ve been on so many hundred times that I?d rather not, and the
road to Tomales Point trailhead is a real pain. So it was to Estero, even
though there?s enough grades that I lead about a quarter of the way and only
gait a third or so.
To give myself some variety, I started down the road through the ranch
at the Estero trailhead ? Home Ranch, I think it?s called. Since I?ve never
been sure passing through this ranch was legal, the dozen or so times I?d
previously made this circuit I had always left it to last on the theory that
right at the end of a long loop my desperation to avoid backtracking would
fuel the determination necessary to bull, beg or sweet-talk my way through
if I were challenged. Naturally, this time we were caught.
When we hit the flat stretch running between the house, stalls and
other buildings, we took off at our usual gait. We blew by a couple of women
tending the stabled horses, who, surprised, greeted us reflexively. But
there was a big white horse completely loose eating a flake of alfalfa
alongside the way, and the gate out the back of the place was open. I
paused, afraid it might come with us, and while I hesitated the women
gathered their wits and came up to me.
The owner, Ann, seemed to be in her 30s, thin, wearing filthy, stained
brown corduroys. She had slightly crazy eyes, not exactly wall-eyed but not
aiming at the same point, but she smiled a lot and spoke fluently and
alertly. When I guessed they might keep quarter horses and thoroughbreds,
she said they kept Arabs, too.
This pinned her down for me. Any physically and mentally fit female so
utterly lacking, and uninterested in, visual appeal who rode Arabs was
obviously devoted body and soul to riding. She asked if Traveller were a
Peruvian Paso or a Paso Fino, and said she?d seen us ?zipping through? too
fast to talk to a few times before. ?Zipping.? It is very pleasing to hear
yourself, riding your Peruvian at the gait, described with this word, and
nice to hear unexpectedly from someone outside the breed. She asked his
name, and when I told her my wife had named him after Robert E. Lee?s horse,
she said she knew that that horse had carried the general everywhere and
that she had a picture in her mind of a big strong horse. She mentioned that
the ranch was private and that it was ok to go through if someone had
permission, so I asked for it and she granted it. By way of apology or
explanation, I told her that I had always taken the place for a horse world,
and she said yes, it was a horse world, and if any of the dogs started to go
with us, would I be sure to not let them.
Regards,
Mike Sherrell
Grizzly Analytical (USA)
707 887 2919/fax 707 887 9834
www.grizzlyanalytical.com
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