Wednesday, December 24, 2008
It Will Never Be A Lexus
It is December 12, 2008. There is commercial running these days that shows a little girl standing with a pony in her living room on Christmas morning. She is telling us how wonderful to have gotten a pony and just as she is saying that this is the best...(dissolve to her as an adult looking at her gift wrapped Lexus)...Christmas present ever, she joyfully runs to her car.
I’m sure that it is a fine automobile but if growing up means giving up on the idea that a pony is the best Christmas present ever, then I am choosing arrested development as an official stance.
Judy’s first horse was named Robbie which is interesting because she currently rides a Robbie. The real star of her childhood though was a Welsh Mountain Pony named Flint. As long as I had known Judy and her dream of horses, I had heard the tales of Flint. I have no doubt her years riding him up until she had to give him up to go off to college instilled her continuing preference for really big ponies.
It is probably impossible to top Blue Ridge Tiger, a Connemara Pony who arrived Christmas Eve, 1982. We had just gotten started in the world of computers and did not really have the money for him. But Judy’s father put up the money and bought his youngest daughter a pony for Christmas.
The outrageously versatile Tiger could jump with any Hunter, run 50 miles with the Arabians, provide an arrow straight jousting platform and still be good natured enough to dress up in the most absurd costumes. He was the pony of a lifetime. The one that deep down inside you know you don’t really deserve.
On Christmas Eve, 2002, it started snowing. This was great for the relatives in from Canterbury, England where they don’t get much snow.
The grand old Tiger was in the yard munching on the last of the Newmont Farm grass. I felt a special song was in order so I cranked up the stereo and we all trooped outside to sing Sgt. Pepper. (Special subset of Best Christmas present ever – Best Christmas song performance ever. Hey, it was sung on Christmas Eve so it was a Christmas song. Hint. Do the math.)
So now we have another Highland Pony, Circle H MacKenzie, on his way from the west coast. Foaled in British Columbia of Scottish parents, he has spent the past year in sunny southern California bearing the oddly anglicized name of Kensington. In this economy, it is probably a really bad time to buy a pony. But some money came in from the estate of Judy’s now late father and I think the old horseman, one of the last actual cavalry, would approve.
MacKenzie is somewhere in the middle of America right now. Even assuming there could be traffic delays at some point, he will arrive before Christmas. And when he gets off that trailer, Judy will thank her dad for one last time. And, Madison Avenue, if you are listening, concerning the best Christmas present ever - it will never be a Lexus.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Only Question
Ok girls and boys. I can’t be the only one with horse stories. In honor of Halloween, I will tell one that involves buckets of blood and other terrors of the night. Not to fear, it is really about having one of those days and having a complete stranger ask the only question that really matters.
Pat Brescia
The Only Question
Normally it is hard to feel lonely in the company of my horse. But, at midnight, on the shoulder of I-81, five miles northeast of nowhere, equipped with only a dying flashlight, the company of a frightened Connemara Pony did little to relieve the isolation.
We had arrived at the Rockbridge Hunt that afternoon while the 50 milers were out on trail. So many rigs were crammed into the small parking area that we just set up camp at the outskirts. It seemed nice and quiet and the horses liked having a little access to the hundreds if not thousands of acres of lush spring grass around the ride camp. Since the vetting for the 25 mile ride wasn't going to be until morning, we had little to do other than socialize and watch the 50 milers come in.
That night Tiger and Ali were dutifully trying to turn their paddocks into dry lots by morning. Except the soft sound of munching, all was quiet. Then we heard the beginnings of the stampede. At first it was not clear if horses were actually loose. We hoped it was a false alarm but the approaching sound of many hooves meant trouble was coming. Suddenly the sounds of confusion thundered past our rig. By the time I got the door open there was nothing but the sight of our flattened paddock and the sound of even more hooves flying away down the driveway. We threw on clothes, grabbed flashlights and lead lines and started on the chase.
Initially, we were not that worried. There were going to be many searchers. We figured the horses would stick with their herd instinct. And we assumed that being in the middle of nowhere would be a safer environment for horses who were expected to stop in one of the wide open fields and just eat.
The problem was that it was quite evident that the herd was headed right down the driveway. When we followed the tracks onto U.S. 11 we got a bit more concerned. It was remarkably easy to follow the hoof prints in the asphalt as they headed southeast. But how far would they run on the pavement?
Concern turned to panic when we reached the ramps to the Interstate. It looked as if some had taken the southbound ramp while others had gone to the northbound ramp. The trackers split up and Judy and I headed south on I-81.
At the top of the ramp, Martha Ann pulled up in her Blazer. She had taken the time to unhitch from her trailer figuring that searchers might need more speed. We piled in and sped down the completely deserted highway. After about a mile, we saw lights up ahead. Eighteen wheelers were pulled off on both sides with their flashers on. Panic was now replaced by pure dread as we rolled up. And then in the flickering lights we saw a car. Along side the car stood Joanne holding the still blowing but unhurt Tiger. As we leaped from the car, she called out in an only slightly hysterical voice, “I found your horse!. Now you have to find mine!”
About then, one of the truckers said that another driver had caught a horse several miles northbound on I-81. He also that they had been unable to raise the state police who generally monitored channel nine but for some reason that night, were not paying attention. Nonetheless, all the truckers knew the horses were out there. Horse people never had better friends than the truckers that night.
Judy felt she could walk Tiger back to camp so I went with Martha Ann to go north. I don’t remember how we got to the northbound side but I doubt it was legal. We gone on past U.S. 11 for another few miles when we came upon a Bekins moving van pulled off to the right. Up in shadows there was a stocky man standing next to a black horse in a dark green blanket. Ali was safe! He told me that when he had come up, she was by herself and limping slightly. He also said that he had heard on his radio that another three horses were even further north running pretty hard. Another driver had tried to stop them but that they had taken the Buena Vista exit and he had lost track of them . By now, we were hearing over the radio that a total of eight horses were out. I told Martha Ann to just go and I would figure out something with Ali. The driver asked if it was okay for him to go because he was on a tight schedule. I thanked him for all he had done and assured him that we would be fine. It has been one of my great regrets that I completely forgot to ask his name. I later tried to track him down through Bekins and the American Trucking Association but I was never able to find the identity of Ali’s saviour.
Ali’s lameness was not bad and appeared to be mostly from having thrown a front shoe. I felt that we were about five miles from camp and that we could walk back. When we got back to the shoulder, I could see the clusters of hoof prints in the right lane that were consistent with cantering horses. And on the shoulder, I could see only what looked like three trotting marks where I would have expected four. It looked as if she had tried to keep up but her hurting foot held her back.
We had made about a mile back when a car crested the hill in front of me. I waved my nearly dead flashlight to warn the driver that I and my nearly invisible horse were on the side of the road. And the blessed roof lights came on. The trooper pulled over and told me to wait because there was a trailer coming in a few minutes. He also said that it looked like all the horses were at least off the Interstate. Soon enough, Marianne pulled up with her big white van and trailer. She was preceded by a car I did not recognize but at that time I did not care.
She said that she could take Ali but that we could not go back to camp for awhile. Anything sounded better than being on I-81 so I took Ali to the back of the trailer. When Marianne lowered the ramp, I began to understand that the night was nowhere near over. Even in the glow of the trailer lights I could see the blood running down the ramp. Thunder was standing quietly with a makeshift dressing that could not staunch the flow of blood from the awful wound in his leg. I was not sure Ali would even load under the circumstances. But despite her flaring nostrils, she must have decided it was still better than being on the road.
As we headed north away from ride camp, Marianne explained that Thunder had apparently fallen over a guard rail and torn his leg open on the vertical support behind the rail. The driver in front of us was Dr. Waldron, the head ride judge, who had realized she was going to need a lot of light and a lot of water if she was going to save Thunder. Marianne had no idea where we were going. But Dr. Waldron’s first practice had been in the area and that she knew a place to go.
At the Buena Vista exit, we turned away from the town toward the pitch dark country side. After what seemed an interminable drive, Dr. Waldron led us up a long driveway to an enormous dark barn. She pulled open a door and went inside. Moments later, the outside floodlights came on. Thunder was still pretty calm but Ali seemed freaked from the blood she was standing in. So I took her off the trailer after we got Thunder into the Taj Mahal of heated wash stalls.
While Dr. Waldron and Marianne were working on Thunder, I was walking Ali up and down the center aisle trying to keep her away from the curious but not upset resident horses. Then the outside door opened. I don’t remember whether it was the barn manager or a night watchman. What I will never forget is that he looked at a complete stranger walking a visibly upset Connemara Pony through puddles of blood and asked the one question a horse person would want to here. All he said was, “What can I do to help?”
When it was all over, Thunder had been patched up. He eventually recovered to the point of resuming endurance rides. The three horses that stormed into Buena Vista were stopped by a makeshift roadblock and were caught unharmed. Two other horses somehow doubled back and were found grazing contentedly in a field not far from the ride camp. Ali and I got back to camp at about dawn where Judy and Tiger had been keeping vigil.
On the trip home, we had to negotiate the construction at Lexington where the I-64 junction was being modified. Due to an unexpectedly disappearing lane, we were forced onto the shoulder by a big rig. But I could not be even momentarily angry at the trucker. His brethren had saved our horses. Those knights of the night had virtually shut down the Interstate when disaster was just moments away. I can never know exactly what all those unknown drivers were thinking as events unfolded. But I choose to believe that it was along the lines of the guy at the barn.
“What can I do to help?”
Pat Brescia
The Only Question
Normally it is hard to feel lonely in the company of my horse. But, at midnight, on the shoulder of I-81, five miles northeast of nowhere, equipped with only a dying flashlight, the company of a frightened Connemara Pony did little to relieve the isolation.
We had arrived at the Rockbridge Hunt that afternoon while the 50 milers were out on trail. So many rigs were crammed into the small parking area that we just set up camp at the outskirts. It seemed nice and quiet and the horses liked having a little access to the hundreds if not thousands of acres of lush spring grass around the ride camp. Since the vetting for the 25 mile ride wasn't going to be until morning, we had little to do other than socialize and watch the 50 milers come in.
That night Tiger and Ali were dutifully trying to turn their paddocks into dry lots by morning. Except the soft sound of munching, all was quiet. Then we heard the beginnings of the stampede. At first it was not clear if horses were actually loose. We hoped it was a false alarm but the approaching sound of many hooves meant trouble was coming. Suddenly the sounds of confusion thundered past our rig. By the time I got the door open there was nothing but the sight of our flattened paddock and the sound of even more hooves flying away down the driveway. We threw on clothes, grabbed flashlights and lead lines and started on the chase.
Initially, we were not that worried. There were going to be many searchers. We figured the horses would stick with their herd instinct. And we assumed that being in the middle of nowhere would be a safer environment for horses who were expected to stop in one of the wide open fields and just eat.
The problem was that it was quite evident that the herd was headed right down the driveway. When we followed the tracks onto U.S. 11 we got a bit more concerned. It was remarkably easy to follow the hoof prints in the asphalt as they headed southeast. But how far would they run on the pavement?
Concern turned to panic when we reached the ramps to the Interstate. It looked as if some had taken the southbound ramp while others had gone to the northbound ramp. The trackers split up and Judy and I headed south on I-81.
At the top of the ramp, Martha Ann pulled up in her Blazer. She had taken the time to unhitch from her trailer figuring that searchers might need more speed. We piled in and sped down the completely deserted highway. After about a mile, we saw lights up ahead. Eighteen wheelers were pulled off on both sides with their flashers on. Panic was now replaced by pure dread as we rolled up. And then in the flickering lights we saw a car. Along side the car stood Joanne holding the still blowing but unhurt Tiger. As we leaped from the car, she called out in an only slightly hysterical voice, “I found your horse!. Now you have to find mine!”
About then, one of the truckers said that another driver had caught a horse several miles northbound on I-81. He also that they had been unable to raise the state police who generally monitored channel nine but for some reason that night, were not paying attention. Nonetheless, all the truckers knew the horses were out there. Horse people never had better friends than the truckers that night.
Judy felt she could walk Tiger back to camp so I went with Martha Ann to go north. I don’t remember how we got to the northbound side but I doubt it was legal. We gone on past U.S. 11 for another few miles when we came upon a Bekins moving van pulled off to the right. Up in shadows there was a stocky man standing next to a black horse in a dark green blanket. Ali was safe! He told me that when he had come up, she was by herself and limping slightly. He also said that he had heard on his radio that another three horses were even further north running pretty hard. Another driver had tried to stop them but that they had taken the Buena Vista exit and he had lost track of them . By now, we were hearing over the radio that a total of eight horses were out. I told Martha Ann to just go and I would figure out something with Ali. The driver asked if it was okay for him to go because he was on a tight schedule. I thanked him for all he had done and assured him that we would be fine. It has been one of my great regrets that I completely forgot to ask his name. I later tried to track him down through Bekins and the American Trucking Association but I was never able to find the identity of Ali’s saviour.
Ali’s lameness was not bad and appeared to be mostly from having thrown a front shoe. I felt that we were about five miles from camp and that we could walk back. When we got back to the shoulder, I could see the clusters of hoof prints in the right lane that were consistent with cantering horses. And on the shoulder, I could see only what looked like three trotting marks where I would have expected four. It looked as if she had tried to keep up but her hurting foot held her back.
We had made about a mile back when a car crested the hill in front of me. I waved my nearly dead flashlight to warn the driver that I and my nearly invisible horse were on the side of the road. And the blessed roof lights came on. The trooper pulled over and told me to wait because there was a trailer coming in a few minutes. He also said that it looked like all the horses were at least off the Interstate. Soon enough, Marianne pulled up with her big white van and trailer. She was preceded by a car I did not recognize but at that time I did not care.
She said that she could take Ali but that we could not go back to camp for awhile. Anything sounded better than being on I-81 so I took Ali to the back of the trailer. When Marianne lowered the ramp, I began to understand that the night was nowhere near over. Even in the glow of the trailer lights I could see the blood running down the ramp. Thunder was standing quietly with a makeshift dressing that could not staunch the flow of blood from the awful wound in his leg. I was not sure Ali would even load under the circumstances. But despite her flaring nostrils, she must have decided it was still better than being on the road.
As we headed north away from ride camp, Marianne explained that Thunder had apparently fallen over a guard rail and torn his leg open on the vertical support behind the rail. The driver in front of us was Dr. Waldron, the head ride judge, who had realized she was going to need a lot of light and a lot of water if she was going to save Thunder. Marianne had no idea where we were going. But Dr. Waldron’s first practice had been in the area and that she knew a place to go.
At the Buena Vista exit, we turned away from the town toward the pitch dark country side. After what seemed an interminable drive, Dr. Waldron led us up a long driveway to an enormous dark barn. She pulled open a door and went inside. Moments later, the outside floodlights came on. Thunder was still pretty calm but Ali seemed freaked from the blood she was standing in. So I took her off the trailer after we got Thunder into the Taj Mahal of heated wash stalls.
While Dr. Waldron and Marianne were working on Thunder, I was walking Ali up and down the center aisle trying to keep her away from the curious but not upset resident horses. Then the outside door opened. I don’t remember whether it was the barn manager or a night watchman. What I will never forget is that he looked at a complete stranger walking a visibly upset Connemara Pony through puddles of blood and asked the one question a horse person would want to here. All he said was, “What can I do to help?”
When it was all over, Thunder had been patched up. He eventually recovered to the point of resuming endurance rides. The three horses that stormed into Buena Vista were stopped by a makeshift roadblock and were caught unharmed. Two other horses somehow doubled back and were found grazing contentedly in a field not far from the ride camp. Ali and I got back to camp at about dawn where Judy and Tiger had been keeping vigil.
On the trip home, we had to negotiate the construction at Lexington where the I-64 junction was being modified. Due to an unexpectedly disappearing lane, we were forced onto the shoulder by a big rig. But I could not be even momentarily angry at the trucker. His brethren had saved our horses. Those knights of the night had virtually shut down the Interstate when disaster was just moments away. I can never know exactly what all those unknown drivers were thinking as events unfolded. But I choose to believe that it was along the lines of the guy at the barn.
“What can I do to help?”
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
I wouldn't mind going out with my boots on
Here's a link to a you tube video that you have to watch, whether you ride English or Western.
This is about a a 100+ year old lady whose advice "always saddle your own horse" has been taken to a new level. She's in the cowgirl hall of fame. I did not even know that existed and my mother is a Texan!!!
Check it out....from my friend & riding buddy Diane Park.....
This is a great video of a woman that was approaching her 101'st birthday at the time of this video. Amazing woman! She died about a year later at almost 102 from a fall on the 28 year old Paint you see her riding. She was thrown and broke her neck but was not paralyzed but died a couple of weeks later. But she died doing what she loved best and was a true gem.
http://www.americancowgirl.com/film.htm
This is about a a 100+ year old lady whose advice "always saddle your own horse" has been taken to a new level. She's in the cowgirl hall of fame. I did not even know that existed and my mother is a Texan!!!
Check it out....from my friend & riding buddy Diane Park.....
This is a great video of a woman that was approaching her 101'st birthday at the time of this video. Amazing woman! She died about a year later at almost 102 from a fall on the 28 year old Paint you see her riding. She was thrown and broke her neck but was not paralyzed but died a couple of weeks later. But she died doing what she loved best and was a true gem.
http://www.americancowgirl.com/film.htm
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A Modest Blog From The Virtual Campfire
A great thing about the Tri-State Riding Club is that we have a whole lot of people who are thinking about what could make things better. When Kathi came up with setting up this blog site, I thought it was a great idea even though I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it. I told Kathi that I would try to come up with something useful or mildly interesting to write about. And Kathi wrote “Tell us a story, Pat”.
What a great idea. We all must have those campfire stories that celebrate why we share our lives with horses. Maybe this can be a place where we tell the stories without those pesky little bugs around the campfire. So, I will kick this off with one of my stories. I actually wrote it a number of years ago at the end of the first phase of my competitive trail riding career because - I did not want to forget.
Last Sunday At Sugarloaf Mountain
March 11, 1993
Last Sunday at Sugarloaf Mountain, he climbed the twisted, snow covered rocky trails once again, to carry me to the top of eastern Maryland. Oddly enough, in all our years together, we had seldom done a long ride in that kind of deep, sound muffling powder. Along with six other horses, Tut flew up the mountain, barely disturbing the quiet beauty. It was a day when I could dare to hope that maybe he could go on forever.
After reaching the summit, he brought me to the overlook where I could see the miles of rural Maryland stretching back to the Potomac, the Catoctin Ridge and beyond. And I was reminded of how lucky I have been to see similar sights all over the eastern United States. Things I might not have seen had it not been for this tough little Arabian horse. Things I would not remember.
I remember looking back over my shoulder as he made an effortless ascent from the floor of the valley east of Syria. As we rose above the trees, the entire valley opened up to my dazzled eyes. I saw what the explorers might have seen when they first wandered through the unknown land.
I remember approaching Passage Creek and staring up at the legendary trail known as Sherman’s Gap, wondering if Tut could really climb that beast of a ridge. At the top, I could either look back down that 1,800 foot drop to the valley I had left, or ahead to the greater valley of the Shenandoah River and the far wall known as the Blue Ridge.
I remember when we first came out of the pine forests of Canaan Valley as he brought me to the desolate wilderness of the Dolly Sods. In that strange journey to another world, there was a place where I looked back at the lush green valley and the endless stands of trees that reach the rim, but no farther. For miles in front of me stretched a shattered plateau of rock and scrub vegetation, as uninviting yet utterly fascinating a place as I have ever seen.
I remember riding silently down paths of pine needles through a most unnatural forest in New York. The towering pine trees were arranged in absolutely straight rows and columns. Interlocking boughs locked out the meager sunlight, leaving us to travel through a cathedral like stillness and gloomy grandeur.
I remember Tut confidently sliding down a muddy path to land on the MacInnich Ledge, a trail carved out of the wall of the Crooked Creek reservoir. With the blue waters a hundred feet below on the left and the near vertical walls mere inches to the right, the barely horse‑width trail snaked through the incredible number of trees defiantly clinging to the side of the valley. About half way along the trail, there was a particularly muddy place. A sign instructed riders to stay to the right. To the right of what? Unless someone was fortunate enough to be riding Pegasus himself, there was nowhere else to ride. I also remember how that almost impossibly difficult 60 mile ride was the only competitive ride he ever won.
I remember lightning crashing into the Goose Creek reservoir as I asked Tut to fly away from the deadly display. Not that I really believed he could outrun the storm. I just had the faint hope that if there was a ground strike, those magical moments of suspension might be enough to be disconnected from the earth when it mattered.
I remember Tut’s absolute confidence as we raced flat out for help in Harford County. With an injured friend on the trail and her horse loose in traffic, a curious calm came over me even as Tut found a speed I didn’t know he possessed. I remember having no fear that Tut might stumble or that I might come off because for that one time, I became one with him.
I remember setting up camp one cool afternoon up at Fort Loudon. I was comfortable wearing a long sleeve tee shirt when I noticed Tut staring at the mountains. I turned to see the wall of a snow squall sweeping out of the valley. In moments the camp was a winter wonderland. Oddly enough, the minor accumulation cushioned the surfaces of that primarily road ride just enough that Tut turned in his fastest endurance time ever.
I remember how he led two young and inexperienced horses through the Patapsco River valley, setting a steady and confident pace in the way other veteran horses had done for him so many years ago. At the time, I didn't know that it would be his last hurrah but it was a good way to finish his competitive career.
He carried me across the green glory of the Rockbridge Hunt, over the "hills" of Doddridge County, through the pine barrens of New Jersey and past the mighty, earth shattering machines in the Johnstown strip mines. Maybe he never got over his aversion to puddles yet he carried me safely through rivers, streams and bogs.
Tonight, I watched him dance across the field. Already recovering from yesterday’s recurrence of the shoulder injury and now unencumbered by tack and rider, he propelled himself with beautiful air of the Arabian, unmindful of prosaic matters such as gravity. Yes, Tut can still carry himself with the mystical assurance and strength of old. But he can no longer carry me.
For 12 years and for enough miles to carry me clear across this great land, he did all that I asked. But there is a time for the game to stop. For Tut, the time is now. And whenever I miss the times we had, I can always remember that last Sunday at Sugarloaf Mountain.
What a great idea. We all must have those campfire stories that celebrate why we share our lives with horses. Maybe this can be a place where we tell the stories without those pesky little bugs around the campfire. So, I will kick this off with one of my stories. I actually wrote it a number of years ago at the end of the first phase of my competitive trail riding career because - I did not want to forget.
Last Sunday At Sugarloaf Mountain
March 11, 1993
Last Sunday at Sugarloaf Mountain, he climbed the twisted, snow covered rocky trails once again, to carry me to the top of eastern Maryland. Oddly enough, in all our years together, we had seldom done a long ride in that kind of deep, sound muffling powder. Along with six other horses, Tut flew up the mountain, barely disturbing the quiet beauty. It was a day when I could dare to hope that maybe he could go on forever.
After reaching the summit, he brought me to the overlook where I could see the miles of rural Maryland stretching back to the Potomac, the Catoctin Ridge and beyond. And I was reminded of how lucky I have been to see similar sights all over the eastern United States. Things I might not have seen had it not been for this tough little Arabian horse. Things I would not remember.
I remember looking back over my shoulder as he made an effortless ascent from the floor of the valley east of Syria. As we rose above the trees, the entire valley opened up to my dazzled eyes. I saw what the explorers might have seen when they first wandered through the unknown land.
I remember approaching Passage Creek and staring up at the legendary trail known as Sherman’s Gap, wondering if Tut could really climb that beast of a ridge. At the top, I could either look back down that 1,800 foot drop to the valley I had left, or ahead to the greater valley of the Shenandoah River and the far wall known as the Blue Ridge.
I remember when we first came out of the pine forests of Canaan Valley as he brought me to the desolate wilderness of the Dolly Sods. In that strange journey to another world, there was a place where I looked back at the lush green valley and the endless stands of trees that reach the rim, but no farther. For miles in front of me stretched a shattered plateau of rock and scrub vegetation, as uninviting yet utterly fascinating a place as I have ever seen.
I remember riding silently down paths of pine needles through a most unnatural forest in New York. The towering pine trees were arranged in absolutely straight rows and columns. Interlocking boughs locked out the meager sunlight, leaving us to travel through a cathedral like stillness and gloomy grandeur.
I remember Tut confidently sliding down a muddy path to land on the MacInnich Ledge, a trail carved out of the wall of the Crooked Creek reservoir. With the blue waters a hundred feet below on the left and the near vertical walls mere inches to the right, the barely horse‑width trail snaked through the incredible number of trees defiantly clinging to the side of the valley. About half way along the trail, there was a particularly muddy place. A sign instructed riders to stay to the right. To the right of what? Unless someone was fortunate enough to be riding Pegasus himself, there was nowhere else to ride. I also remember how that almost impossibly difficult 60 mile ride was the only competitive ride he ever won.
I remember lightning crashing into the Goose Creek reservoir as I asked Tut to fly away from the deadly display. Not that I really believed he could outrun the storm. I just had the faint hope that if there was a ground strike, those magical moments of suspension might be enough to be disconnected from the earth when it mattered.
I remember Tut’s absolute confidence as we raced flat out for help in Harford County. With an injured friend on the trail and her horse loose in traffic, a curious calm came over me even as Tut found a speed I didn’t know he possessed. I remember having no fear that Tut might stumble or that I might come off because for that one time, I became one with him.
I remember setting up camp one cool afternoon up at Fort Loudon. I was comfortable wearing a long sleeve tee shirt when I noticed Tut staring at the mountains. I turned to see the wall of a snow squall sweeping out of the valley. In moments the camp was a winter wonderland. Oddly enough, the minor accumulation cushioned the surfaces of that primarily road ride just enough that Tut turned in his fastest endurance time ever.
I remember how he led two young and inexperienced horses through the Patapsco River valley, setting a steady and confident pace in the way other veteran horses had done for him so many years ago. At the time, I didn't know that it would be his last hurrah but it was a good way to finish his competitive career.
He carried me across the green glory of the Rockbridge Hunt, over the "hills" of Doddridge County, through the pine barrens of New Jersey and past the mighty, earth shattering machines in the Johnstown strip mines. Maybe he never got over his aversion to puddles yet he carried me safely through rivers, streams and bogs.
Tonight, I watched him dance across the field. Already recovering from yesterday’s recurrence of the shoulder injury and now unencumbered by tack and rider, he propelled himself with beautiful air of the Arabian, unmindful of prosaic matters such as gravity. Yes, Tut can still carry himself with the mystical assurance and strength of old. But he can no longer carry me.
For 12 years and for enough miles to carry me clear across this great land, he did all that I asked. But there is a time for the game to stop. For Tut, the time is now. And whenever I miss the times we had, I can always remember that last Sunday at Sugarloaf Mountain.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Tristate RC
I set up this blog site to see if it would be suitable for the TRSC members to use to post information, sale items, services and general topics. If you all think this is useful to the club, I will set it up on the TRSC website as a link from the navigation menu to replace the message board (which hasn't been working). I think this may be more flexible for club members to use, as well as protecting the integrity of the content.
Here is the current set up for use:
* 60 days of blogging, then comments drop off
* set to allow links to bloggers email addresses, if they choose.
* Set to "no" for search engines and "no" to adding our blog to blogger.coms listings. This is to give us some privacy
* Only members of the blog may comment. We can have up to 100 authors on the blog, which pretty much covers all the club members. Their email addresses would need entering in the authors list and they would need a Google blog account (free) to add their comments. It's pretty easy to use, though.
*Anyone can see the comments. This will be helpful for club members who are selling or advertising. Everyone still needs to be careful what they share on the Internet, though.
* A word verification stamp is required for entering comments. This will help to prevent spam.
Here is the current set up for use:
* 60 days of blogging, then comments drop off
* set to allow links to bloggers email addresses, if they choose.
* Set to "no" for search engines and "no" to adding our blog to blogger.coms listings. This is to give us some privacy
* Only members of the blog may comment. We can have up to 100 authors on the blog, which pretty much covers all the club members. Their email addresses would need entering in the authors list and they would need a Google blog account (free) to add their comments. It's pretty easy to use, though.
*Anyone can see the comments. This will be helpful for club members who are selling or advertising. Everyone still needs to be careful what they share on the Internet, though.
* A word verification stamp is required for entering comments. This will help to prevent spam.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)