About Me

My history with horses:
4 years old -- took riding lessons. The lessons really stuck with me (unlike piano lessons). Most of the lessons were basic horsemanship: how to groom a horse, pick up its feet, walk behind it, feed it without losing a finger -- good things for a 4 year old to know.
4-ish or so -- grandma and grandpa got a pony for me, her name was "Lady". They kept her at their place in Oregon, which was fine because we spent quite a bit of time there in the summers. From Lady I learned the difference between a knot and a loop, and basically there is no difference. I had a halter and about a 20 foot lead line for Lady (maybe it was only 12 feet). Gram and Gramp admonished me "NEVER tie the loose end of that to yourself." So, I didn't. Instead I looped the loose end around my waist. It took a LOT of loops. But where else was I going to put it? Anyway, it wasn't a knot, so it was all good, right? On most days, yes. Lady's main activity was sleeping. She was like a warm fuzzy jungle-gym, totally stationary. I just crawled around on her, slept on her, or tried in vain to kick her into a walk. On one of the rare days Lady actually attained forward motion, she was plodding next to an old truck covered in blackberry bushes. I don't know what spooked her, but she ducked and bolted. I fell, hard, next to her. This might've been the end of it, except that of course I still had 20' of rope wrapped around my 12" waist. She didn't appreciate it. Neither did I as I bounced along the clay behind her, flapping like a kite tail as she tore across the pasture. Grandma, Grandpa, and my older brother saw it all and to this day he shudders when he remembers it. I eventually unfurled, and lay on my back in the pasture, dazed. I had rope burns from my hips to my armpits. Grandma and I both shook for hours after that, and we both cried. Her sympathies ran parallel to my pain almost 100%... the exception being that she wanted me back on that possessed pony and I wanted nothing to do with it. I was, after all, a burned and bleeding mess. Grandpa caught Lady, and very gingerly lifted me on to her back. They made me sit there for a few minutes, and then took me in to give me a long soak in the tub and doctor my burns. Thank god for them.
Age 7 or 8 -- the neighbors got a horse. A "big" red mare named Spunky. They needed her to be ridden so they called my parents. The one rule of never tying yourself to a horse really needed no explanation. But, my parents had a second rule -- no saddles, ever. Spunky taught me TONS. In return, I flip-flopped between treating her like a million-dollar horse, and treating her ... well... terrible. Spunky was a testament to the forgiving nature of horses. Eventually, I started to get it right.
Age 13 -- two key events happened. 1.) the neighbors gave Spunky to me. Just drove up, called my dad out, and strong-armed him into letting me have her. That was that. 2.) Another neighbor with a horse ranch wanted a horse-handler. "Trainer" isn't the word, I was greener than the horses. I entered into another abrupt, steep learning curve. I had five yearlings to halter break and get going on some light ground work, a handful of older horses from 3 - 9 who needed everything from "broke" to "ridden" and a couple of stallions off and on to ride. I also fed when the owners were on vacation or whatnot. In return, I got hay for Spunky for the year. They had everything from race horses to show horses. I never specialized in anything, instead just handled the crap out of those horses. There were two major teachers at that place -- the owner, who's training methods were a bit harsh for my tastes, and an incredible blue roan filly who had zero tolerance for harshness. Fortunately, I rarely saw the owner. The two taught me a lot, but I liked her lessons a lot better. She was huge, long-legged, hot-blooded, and sensitive. She really refined me in a lot of ways, was far less forgiving of my errors than Spunky was, and it was time for me to learn those lessons. The arrangement lasted for 3 years.
Age 16 -- my first saddle, it was a birthday present. I still have it. It's huge and heavy and I still love it, if only for the fact that it was my first.
Age 16 -- Another horse is gifted to me. Atom. 6 or 7. Gelded at about 4. Ridden briefly, during which time he bolted through a barbed-wire fence, laying himself up and putting the trainer in the hospital (I believe that last part is true but I'm not 100% sure about it). My first project horse of my own. An arab/quarter horse with short-man's syndrome. Sensitive, easily offended, and WAY too freakin' smart. I gave Spunky to some neighbors with children, and she retired in lush green pastures. Around the time I got Atom I knew a few things: 1.) I don't ride bucking horses, 2.) I preferred more gentle and sane approaches to horse-training, and 3.) every horse is different and can't be crammed into a mold. With Atom I also got the mentorship of his owner, Robbin, a cowboy from Montana. Thank GOD. Robbin taught me how to use the hackamore, how to train with it, everything. I brought youth and durability to the table -- handy with a horse like Atom who could make you feel like you'd just run a marathon after the lightest session of ground work. With Atom we started at ground zero. He was HOT. I applied a lot of Ray Hunt/Tom Dorrance/Pat Parelli techniques with Atom and it suited us both, well. By the end of the summer he would stand ground-tied, anywhere, and I could pick up any of his feet. I could swing up on him bareback and ride him, anywhere. Where I failed him was getting him socialized. That came to light when it came time for a farrier to come out. Farrier #1: walkoff. Farrier #2: a LOT of tranquilizer, walk off. So, thanks Atom for teaching me to trim feet. Finally, with Farrier #3 (and after an EPIC battle in which Atom was thrown, only to come back up in full attack mode), the light bulb came on. "how about I hold his feet and you trim them?" i suggested. "We could try it" panted the farrier. He was sweaty, bloody, panting, and somehow still there. I drop-tied Atom, picked up his front foot, and the farrier began trimming. Atom licked his lips and all but dozed off. "I've been doing this a LONG time and have never seen anything like it" said the farrier. "What's your secret?" Well, I wish I knew. But the lesson there was that Atom could've benefitted from some socialization.
Age 16 - 29: Life, upheaval, and loss.
Age 30 - 39: I will never have another horse again. They're expensive. I'm too old. I'll get hurt. I'll have to sell it. I'm not good enough. I'm not settled enough. I'm too screwed up.
Age 39: married. Well, maybe a couple of nice horses -- mellow, totally broke. Or maybe I could just ride someone else's (that NEVER works out). Welllllll.... I guess I COULD get one.... but ..... now isn't the time. We are too: busy, cramped for space, transient, unsure...
Age 40: Shitty things happen to good people. A very strong (ridiculous) need to get back to "my roots". A huge part of my roots: horses. Okay, fine... Start allowing self to dream, then to dream a little bigger and a little more. Get encouraged by my all-too-knowing husband. And bam, we're buying a 2 year old filly for a project horse and planning to buy her a buddy in the spring.
This blog is about the 2 year old filly and her progress (okay, and a bit of my own progress too).