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.