One Last Post

When I was a child, I used to jump on my parents’ bed, and then leap as far as I could off the edge, convinced that if I practiced enough, one day I would miss the ground and learn to fly. I also used to sit in the backseat of my parents’ car and imagine riding along the side of the road, convinced that if I wished hard enough, one day I would have a horse. I didn’t really think it would work. But I’ve been airborne for two years now, and it’s been incredible.

When I met the Kiger Mustang mare Surya, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than a horse. Nothing in the world I wanted more than to ride. Nothing in the world I wanted more than to feel connected to another creature, to love her unconditionally and completely. I was broken, lost, and sad. Surya was love, acceptance, and fulfillment of a hope that I’d harbored since before I can remember.

She is colored like high noon – deep yellow offset by the sparkling shadows of her mane and tail and legs, and one bright white star on her forehead. When she came, I was awake.

When she came, I poured all of myself into training her, and learning to truly ride. I drove back and forth to the barn 45 minutes away every day after work. I drilled my seat, my legs, my heels, my hands. I pushed her to the bit, I softened when she bent, I dug in my spurs and encouraged up and forward and in and together. We jumped on the weekends. We cantered a pole to see a distance, we practiced turning on the outside rein. We flew. In the evenings I collapsed into bed and dreamed of galloping dark mares and broken fences.

I committed everything. My time, my income, my capacity for devotion, and my trust. But my time and my income were no longer sufficient. I have begun to dream beyond the now. I could barely afford to keep Surya. And I was tired.

I agonized, and justified, and bargained…but in the end, I came to the conclusion that I must sell her. Living so close to the edge was not fair to me, and not fair to the horse, and with one extra expense I was tipping right over. The week I posted her ad for sale, the perfect family came to look at her and decided to take her. She went to a picturesque farm in northern New Jersey, and will be fed, blanketed, loved, and pampered.

I am heartbroken, but I have no regrets. Through her, I became an equestrienne. Through her, I learned to trust myself, and I learned to trust someone other than myself. She took my lonely soul and made me the happiest I have ever been. I did this fully. There will be other horses, and perhaps one day I will again make them my life. I hope that Surya is always loved and cared for. I hope that her absence leaves room for inspiration.

There was recently a post on Eventing Nation by Lila Gendal about “a world where money means everything and nothing.” She concluded “don’t ever allow money to dictate your life or sway your dreams, but you have to keep working hard if you want results.” I too was the child working in barns in exchange for riding time on half-broke horses. I was the adult who, after powering through graduate school, used my newly minted income to buy the thing I wanted more than anything. I was the adult who after working all week at my professional job in environmental engineering, got to the barn at 6:15am on summer weekends to work for 5 hours to pay for event entry fees.

But here’s the secret. I am more than an equestrienne. I will allow money to sway my dreams, because my dreams are mutable, and some of them involve security and freedom. My mare was there when I needed her, and I will always love her completely.

“The dance is this cage, in which one learns to fly.”* Surya was the dance.

* Claude Nougaro (as quoted in Philippe Karl’s The Art of Riding)

Breaks

Surya and I have had some time between the last show and our intended fall show schedule. We were planning to compete five times this fall- the first three at Beginner Novice, and the last two at Novice.

Four weeks ago, on Thursday, I started to warm up Surya for our jump lesson, and she felt off on her right fore. I got off, did a hoof test (negative), lunged her (confirmed she was feeling ouchy), and put her back out in her field. Naturally, on Friday I fell off my bike and broke my wrist to make sure I couldn’t ride and to make sure I gave her a lot of time off to resolve a minor problem.

She felt 100% on Saturday. I did not. Surya was very sweet about my arm. She kept trying to groom it.

I tend to become completely wrapped up in whatever we are working on. I am excellent at drilling. Give me a schedule and an agenda, and it will be done until my will is done, on earth as it is in heaven. With such an attitude it is easy to lose legereté. It is easy to lose willingness to experiment.

As my wrist broke, my schedule disappeared. The experience was surreal. My first thought after I picked myself up off the street was ‘why aren’t I more scraped up?’ My wrist hurt, but it certainly wasn’t broken. I got back on my bike and continued with my day. My head felt woozy and my wrist announced its condition with throbbing shooting pain through the afternoon and night. I just…waited. Waited for it to get better. This was apart from my life.

Surya and I had been stuck in dressage for a little while. If I rode her long enough, she would eventually become steadier in the bridle and stop emptying the right rein quite so much. But, she still would lean into the bridle for three strides, and then back off for another two. Corrections, no matter the subtlety, were instinctually met with nose-flinging before relaxation. We were making great strides in our trot work, but only laterally. To improve, Surya needed to take, and keep, the bit.

 When the cast was put on my arm, there was a certain relief. My wrist could no longer move, and so it no longer hurt. I was no longer afraid of injuring it worse. I stopped carrying it protectively next to my chest and expanded my arms in a stretch. The next week, after fielding the inquiries of all curious parties at work, I sat down at my computer. As I struggled with the frustration of one-handed typing, I became uncomfortably aware of the cast around my forearm, wrist, and hand. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t remove it. I couldn’t move. My breath hitched as my brain leapt into a quiet panic. I gained a better appreciation of horses’ submission to tack.

The first two weeks post-break, my trainer and ARF rode her a few times. Neither could correct her unsteadiness in the bridle. My trainer declared that since we were no longer concentrating on upcoming competitions, we would try bits. The first day back in the saddle, I rode in the regular Baucher and Surya was a relaxed angel. We didn’t work very hard; we trotted long and low around the ring. The second day, I tried a loose ring French link on her. She abhorred it, and took off when I asked her to canter. This resulted in me shrieking “If you break the other arm, you bitch, I will END you!”

After three weeks of being casted in a green monstrosity, I was thrilled to visit the doctor for a follow-up. All I wanted was to get the cast off for five minutes, close my fist, and wash my arm. The doctor told me I didn’t have to have it removed. I begged. They removed it, and I experienced satisfaction with a degree of completeness that approached the Oxford English Dictionary. The new cast was smaller, lighter, and tighter. It hugs my arm more closely than the previous cast, and it doesn’t move around my arm. I have dexterity in my fingers. Despite it conforming more closely to my arm, it is comfortable, and I don’t have the claustrophobia that the previous one induced.

Surya and I went back to the Baucher and tried a flash. She went marginally better. My trainer suggested we try a Micklem bridle on her, with the same French link Baucher bit. The result…was quiet acceptance of the bit and bridle. She took contact in both reins and reached through with her neck and back. Her canter was round and rhythmic; her trot was floaty. Her ears flopped over. She stopped fussing with her face, with the bit, and with the reins.

“The dance is the cage in which one learns to fly.” The trick is creating a cage that guides and comforts, rather than confines.

I think the break was good for us.

Cue the Inspirational Music

Success is best after prolonged failure.



Hi. I'm awesome.



You know the music at the end of The Lion King, when Simba dramatically walks up a rock and then makes a lot of synchronized noise? I’ve been feeling like that all week.

Last weekend Surya and I went to our fifth event, and our fourth at Beginner Novice. If you recall from previous episodes of Eventing is Hard Dammit, we were eliminated at our first three BN competitions due to disagreements regarding direction of travel during the jump phases. I arrived at Flora Lea very nervous. Our goal was to 'not get eliminated'.

The event looked easy when we walked the course. No combinations on cross-country, nothing less than a 6-stride in show-jumping. Which of course increased the pressure to do well. Oh well.

Happily, at each subsequent show, I’ve felt less nervous before dressage. After the first two, I realized that dressage with Surya is almost entirely dependent on the work we’ve put in beforehand. I simply go in and warm up exactly as we do at home. This time, my trainer told me to sit the trot in warm up, as I’ve recently had more success with getting her to bend and engage sitting than posting. Two minutes before going in, I asked “should I just sit the test?” “If you think she will spook at the judge’s box less.” I gulped a little, since I just figured out how to sit the trot without losing my stirrups two weeks ago, but sat back and went for it.

We got a 34.5! That put us 7^th. So far, our dressage scores show an encouraging trend:

Fairhill: 46.0

Flora Lea: 40.5

New Jersey Horse Park: 38.6

Carousel: 38.1

Flora Lea: 34.5

Evidently we improve by at least 0.5 points per week. Hopefully we can keep it up!

When we got back to the trailer Surya loaded herself on to take advantage of the shade, and I sat down to stare dramatically into the middle distance while gathering my concentration for the jumping showdown. When I went to tack Surya up for jumping, she was not her usual sleepy self, but stood with her ears pricked forward and all four feet on the ground.



Soon.



I went into show jumping determined the repeat the round we had at Carousel. Surya had other ideas. Instead of uncertainly trotting the first jump, she took up a canter at the start flags and powered straight over every line. We had one rail down at the second jump, because I saw a long distance but held to make sure she went over. I needn’t have bothered. She was committed.

When we walked to the start box Surya knew what was coming. She jigged into the square, and stood with her whole body tensed in anticipation of running. I let her go; she locked onto the first log and exploded into action. She did not look at a single jump. For the first time, she and I wanted the exact same thing. She took me to every question and landed running. But she wasn’t running away. Before the water we made a wide-turn, and I asked her to slow to trot. “Hey-ohhhh”… she came right back.

We did the second half of the course faster. Up the hill to brush, over a table. Across a ditch she regarded as terrain. The tempo of her feet pulled us toward the end. She launched herself over the last rolltop and galloped through the finish flags.

Run, Surya. It felt like flying. It felt like freedom.

A sign I saw driving home from the barn. It was oddly appropriate.

Personal Best

Try, try again, blah blah blah et cetera.

New Jersey Horse Park, unrecognized, event 3 (for us)

The dressage went acceptably, despite a misunderstanding of the order by the steward a very rushed 2-minute warm-up. Stadium, however, did not. The mare was scared of most of the jumps, running sideways twice at jump 2, and jumping 2 feet higher than necessary over everything. To make it worse, the course was at the edge of skill. After the fourth jump, we took a hard right, then immediately a hard left, and came up to a SCARY green oxer painted with weird swirls. Surya stopped and spun left, and I very nearly went flying over her right shoulder.

Elimination. Thankfully, as we were competing unrecognized, we were allowed to run the cross-country.

I’m usually not afraid (see previous posts re galloping out of control). So when we walked up to the cross-country warm-up and I started shaking, I was shocked. This does not happen to me.

Surya and I paced waiting to go into the start box. “I am not afraid,” I told my trainer. Inside my head I echoed “I am not afraid.” Then, “ok who am I kidding?! I’m afraid. We. Are. Going. To. Die.” I couldn’t feel my fingers. This was not good, cause I kinda needed them to use the reins. I muttered angrily, “either you are incompetent, and you need to get off the horse now, or acknowledge you’re afraid, and do it anyway. No middle ground.” I breathed and concentrated on feeling my fingers and toes and knees… and nose. “Be in here.” Miraculously, I felt warmth spread from my fingers and call me to run. My vision tunneled to see only the first log and the sounds around us muted behind the rushing of our blood. When we stepped into the start-box, Surya stilled with her ears pricked forward. The steward counted, “3, 2, 1…” I turned and genuinely grinned at him. “Thank you!” Then Surya and I leapt out of the start box and had a clear cross-country run.

Carousel, unrecognized, event 4 (for us)

We warmed up for dressage by stretching down and then collecting. Surya was an angel, and we had our best dressage test in a ring! We continued the improving dressage score trend! We scored an 8 on one of our circles!

THEN WE WENT CLEAR IN STADIUM. I put emphasis on this because it hasn’t happened yet, and I am so proud of Surya. And myself. It was not an easy ride. Surya tried to run out of the first three jumps. But, I kept her straight. The good thing is that once she commits to a jump, she NEVER drops a rail. Our distances were good, and we rode four related distances and a two-stride. I can feel our skill improving.

Cross-country. The moment of truth. The first five jumps went well. However, after jump 5, there was a large playground to our left. There were many screaming children on swings. Surya turned and booked it to the right (jump 6 was straight ahead up a hill). So we took a little bit of a circuitous route to jump 6. Thankfully, Surya doesn’t regard ditches as jumps, just part of the natural terrain. She extended her galloping stride a bit and then took off to the right again. The next step was to go through a gap in a line of trees and hedges to approach the 7ab combination. Surya, not understanding that and wanting to distance herself from the evil flying spawn (children), saw the starter jumps off to the right and proceeded in a full-out run. I stopped her by running her directly into a hedge. She halted abruptly and tossed her head, snorting.

Somewhat recovered, we trotted through the trees into quiet open fields, leaving the Circus (as the first part of the course came to be called by the people from my barn) behind us. Surya trotted down toward 7a with her head as high as it could go, frazzled and upset. She launched herself over the jump. Then, I made Mistake One. I could feel it happening. Instead of sitting up immediately upon landing and collecting her stride, I remained in two-point and let her fly at 7b. She ran out to the right and attempted to gallop away again. I reined her back and we popped over 7b.

The next obstacle was the water jump. All we had to do was trot through. And there I made Mistake Two. As we approached the water Surya started trotting sideways and refused to go in. At that point, she was frazzled, unsure, and obstinate. I applied leg as hard as I could and smacked her, insisting she go forward. She refused twice. Eliminated.

Eventually, we stopped directly in front of the water. Surya reached her nose down, sniffed, and walked through calmly. I should have let her trot up to the water and stop. She would have gone in. She wouldn’t have stepped backwards.

After we exited the water, the stewards let us finish the course. We jumped the remaining jumps straight and with enthusiasm. Surya galloped up the hill to the last jump and leapt with room to spare. She was a good girl.

I am a little frustrated, because I know what two mistakes I made, and I knew as they were happening. This is an improvement over our last events. I know what to fix and how to fix it. To be fair, we’ve never encountered these situations before. I’ve been to exactly as many events as Surya has.

Overall, we had an excellent dressage test, a clear stadium round, and a great cross-country except for two mistakes on adjacent jumps. It was our personal best elimination! Next time’s the charm?

Eventing: We're Doing It

Eventing is hard.

Surya and I have evented twice now. We went Starter Rider at the Fairhill Horse Trials on May 5^th, and then Beginner Novice Rider at the recognized Flora Lea Horse Trials on May 26^th. The week after the first, Surya was exhausted. This week, Surya is excitable and liable to canter at the application of leg instead of pin her ears.

My horsemanship, Surya’s abilities, and our combined knowledge have grown so exponentially fast in the past four weeks that my head is still spinning.

Here is what happened:

Fairhill

At Fairhill, Surya and I entered the grounds with our heads high and our backs tight. She behaved like an angel. Despite my assumption that I would not be at all nervous (see previous post re my propensity toward feeling no anxiety), I behaved like a spooky horse encountering crowds for the first time. We entered the dressage arena and the judge rang the bell in Surya’s face as we passed the judging booth. However, we performed the geometry of the entire test despite the fact that Surya hated the judging booth. I regarded this as a great triumph. We did not score well in the judge’s book, but we did in mine. (* Judge’s Comments: He is very strong. Do you use the same bit for cross-country? Well… be careful and trot your jumps. In the future, I would try a gag. Thanks a LOT! Way to give confidence to the green-as-grass event rider!)

Our jump lesson two days before the event was… eventful. We tried a running martingale on Surya, who hated it and flipped her shit when she hit it over jumps. Though we removed the martingale, she spent the rest of the jump lesson launching herself in the air. I did not do a good job staying in the saddle and spent each jump airborne, then slammed back into the irons on the backside. So, warming up for stadium, I will admit to a little teeny bit of nervousness. Just a smidge. Most of it was related to fear of going through the start flags at the wrong time. Happily, we trotted and cantered our stadium test clear. Surya was unafraid.

Cross country started with a flyer over the first log and then Surya romping for a good twenty yards. That was fun and I laughed. Then we took off for a while. Unfortunately, she ran out of the fourth jump. We trotted the fifth, but she stopped. She tried to stop at the sixth, but I had enough and made her jump it. We trotted again through jump eleven, and then cantered home. Overall, a successful first trip… but I had no braking power and my arms burned from trying to stop her.

We did it! We completed an event! We are official!

Intervening Time

The week after Surya had a day of rest, then a dressage lesson, then more rest. She was very nappy all week and picked back up her head-tilting habit (instead of bending her neck she just tilts her head). The week after that I was out of town for work, and my trainer and ARF rode her. Then, jumping boot camp.

We jumped Thursday, Saturday, Tuesday, and Thursday. Also, we tried new bits. First, a single-joint Wonderbit. Then, a French-link Wonderbit. I could slow her down with both, but she lost her mind a little if I touched the bit in the air. I am not a good enough rider to only touch the bit exactly when I want to. So that was out. Then we tried a full-cheek Waterford, and she loved it and I loved it. She plays with it more than the Baucher, and listens to speed control.

I also looked at pictures from Fairhill and realized that I need to work on my ‘going up’ jump position. Instead of folding/squatting and reaching forward with my arms, I stood up in the saddle. To practice and try to remedy this, I went to the gym, took 3 pound weights, visualized cantering to a jump, and “folded” 50 times. I think I’ve improved my jump position. At least, I’m getting better at releasing. Surya is forgiving of the Waterford, but she still doesn’t like me to touch it over the jump.

Flora Lea

Maybe not the best idea to do a recognized event so soon? Whatever. We had the best dressage test we have ever done in a dressage ring. Surya finally sucked it up, put her head down, and got to work! That being said, our score was still not good. But who cares. We now have something to work with!

Stadium was a problem. The very first jump had brush stuck all through it, which Surya had never seen before. I got her over it, but I had to stuff her over the rest of the jumps as well. Then, she ran out of the second vertical in a two-stride. Twice. Oh well.

Cross-country had a lot of scary stuff on the jumps as well. The second jump was brush, and she ran out. She came to a halt in front of a log with mulch before leaping it from a standstill. I brought her to a trot in front of the water, which she took as license to trot sideways before finally going in, completely unafraid. Then, a few more jumps and we cantered up a hill to another brush jump, and she ran out. We circled and she launched herself over it. Not really sure how I stayed on that, but I think all the squatting helped since I just folded over her neck and pushed on my irons to stay with the motion. And that is how we got eliminated.

Weirdly, I really don’t mind. We went very fast on cross-country and jumped complicated things and it was fun! AND we had a great dressage test!

The Next Day

We went BACK to Flora Lea with our other trainer and schooled the jumps. Surya tried to run out a couple of times, but we addressed the problem and I think I am more prepared to point her at a jump and make sure she goes over it. Plus, we jumped novice jumps, and now Beginner Novice looks small.

The Day After That

Dressage lesson. I thought Surya would be exhausted from the show and subsequent two-hour cross-country schooling, but she came out wanting to canter, and we had an awesome lesson.

Right Now

Surya is resting today. Jump lesson tomorrow, rest on Friday, dressage on Saturday, and then our third event at the New Jersey Horse Park on Sunday!

I am excited for Sunday. I don’t really have more to say about this. I can’t even say we have improved significantly each event. I mean, that’s true, but we have learned so exponentially that each event seems worlds apart. My head is reeling. Surya is up. I am psyched.

Last Comment

Appropriately, our colors are black and green. Bright, bright lime green. We are the Green Team.



Om nom nom nom.



Cookie for ME?!



Transitioning Into Competitors

Surya and I will attend our first event in two weeks, and we (well, I) am excited! Our goal is to complete the event. Going for blue will come later. But, in the interest of fostering a future winning streak (ha), I am concentrating on preparing for the competition season. In our last lesson my trainer commented that in order to be truly competitive in dressage, we need to work on Surya’s consistency in the bridle and our transitions.

Transitions are important, blah blah, yeah yeah, we all know. Over the winter, we did a lot of walk-halt transitions to extend our warmup when it was cold and to encourage bending even before we started trot work. Our downward transitions have steadily improved from full-stop-on-the-forehand to moving forward into the bridle. In general, though, I have eschewed work on transitions in favor of work on the bit, suppling, and bending.

I have especially ignored upward transitions. My approach has been to expect Surya to get it over with as soon as possible. Namely, I ask for canter, you canter, or you get smacked/kicked/named Acting President of the You-Are-in-Deep-Shit Committee. Not surprisingly, this approach improved reaction time and minimized fights over forward motion. Also not surprisingly, Surya does not particularly enjoy upward transitions. Sometimes she will pin her ears and swish her tail before I remind her of her pending application to juvenile delinquency camp. When she does comply, whether from walk to trot or trot to canter, she wrinkles her nose, throws her head in the air, and lurches forward into the faster gait.

Shockingly, I also do not enjoy upward transitions. They are uncomfortable before, during, and immediately after. They are an unfortunate intermediary between what I was working on (such as trotting), and what I would like to be working on (such as cantering). But, it is time to add transitions to the list of things we are schooling.

The past three weeks, I have spent the first ten minutes of each ride doing sitting trot and canter without stirrups. I like the schedule quite a bit. It warms my legs up (fast!), and gives Surya a chance to putter around in a pony trot before I go back to posting and am capable on insisting on a “big girl trot.” The other upside is that my sitting trot is vastly improved. Don’t be too impressed. By vastly improved, I mean improved to the point where I have a decent chance of keeping my stirrups on my feet and keeping my butt connected to the saddle.

This means that if I concentrate very hard, I can sit in the saddle, keep my back straight, and ask for a transition to canter without leaning forward and throwing the reins away. However, I still have a tendency to wish the transition to be over as soon as possible. Grit my teeth, clench my fingers, squint my eyes. My whole body screams “I’m uncomfortable, just go!” Surya reflects my body language, I reflect hers, and we reflect each other in one tense unhappy bundle.

The solution is obvious. I need to ride through the transition, before, during and immediately after. I need to breathe and stay with the uncomfortable feelings. If I always insist on rushing, no matter how fast her reaction time, Surya will never learn balance in transition and will always lurch forward. If I only have good technique and position when things are predictable and smooth within one gait, what kind of rider am I? There is a difference between insisting on immediate reaction to my application of leg and insisting on transition to a higher gait no matter what kind of balance she is in. I need to bend her, squeeze her to contact with the bridle, then apply leg and ask for the transition. Only then should I end her world if she doesn’t respond.

It will hurt. I will want to close my eyes and wait for it to be over. But I need to be unafraid to breathe and feel. The pain is good. We are not really hurt. Surya and I just experience an explosion of feeling when moving up. Our natural reaction is to shrink from intensity. Instead, we need to embody full awareness, and meet the challenge with equal power. Instead of a transition from one kind of work to another, I want the transition to become a moment outside of gait. A full stop to the music, a pause, a breath, before resuming in greater color. I want to love transitions. I want to want to ride nothing but transitions. Because dance is call and response, transformation from one step to another.

Cross Country Schooling!!!

Vulnerability is a difficult concept for me. I don’t like it and I decide against feeling it. In general, I am unafraid. I guess this is a coveted feeling in horseback riding.

But a few of weekends ago, something happened to shake my confidence. I usually go on a trail ride around the edge of the farm property before my weekly jump lesson. That Saturday, the weather was atrocious. A mixture of snow, rain, and hail dumped drearily from the sky, despite the fact that the calendar read March. I decided to go out anyway. We were jumping outside- why couldn’t we go on a trail ride?

Surya and I started out the gate and along the fields adjacent to woods bordering the property. These woods have historically been scary to Surya, and we have had more than one spooking “incident.” It hasn’t really fazed me. Beyond the woods along the backside of the property, there are suburban houses backing to the property, and Surya has found the need on occasion to spin 180 and bolt. This has upset me, resulting in anger and cursing, but again, hasn’t shaken my underlying confidence.

That Saturday, Surya power-walked alongside the woods, with her back tight and her head in the air, ready to leap for joy or run for her life. Suddenly, a branch on one of the trees cracked loudly to our left. Surya spun to the right and bolted back the way we had come. I lost my left stirrup, but really was in no danger of falling off. I sat back in the saddle and checked the reins hard. No response. All right. As we traveled along at a full gallop I evaluated my options. We were charging slightly downhill on leaf-covered rutted ground. There was maybe a horse-and-a-half length between the fence on our left and the woods on our right. A short field-length ahead of us, a gate was swung open and blocking our path. Under normal circumstances, I would have used a pulley rein and yanked her around in a circle until we stopped. But, I could feel her stumbling slightly. She wasn’t in any danger of slipping going forward, but I was worried that if I yanked her toward the woods she might fall down instead of coming to an abrupt halt.

Basically, it was up to Surya what happened next. THAT was scary. What was I scared of? What if she jumped the gate? I could probably stay on, and then we would have an open field coming up and I could stop her. What if she took a 90 degree left turn at a gallop? I could still probably stay on. I was scared of her trying to jump, but doing it wrong and getting caught on the gate. I was scared of her running into a tree. I was scared of her not being able to make the turn and smashing into the fence. Essentially, I was scared of her doing something stupid and not taking care of us. Staying on was my responsibility. Directing was my responsibility, until she assumed control. Staying upright was her responsibility. Did I really not trust her to do that?

This went through my head in a split second. Then, still having no brakes, I held on and waited to see what happened next. Surya galloped up to the gate then came to a halt that would have made a reining horse proud. She lowered her head and snorted. I considered that an adequate warmup and then went in the ring to have a jump lesson in the hail.

The next weekend, ARF was nice enough to go on a trail ride with me. I kept Surya’s neck engaged and bent the whole time, but she was predictably bored. The following weekend, Surya and I were leaving the farm and going cross-country schooling for the first time. I needed to have a better stop-gap measure should she spook at the scary things off the farm and choose to bolt again. The Friday before we went, I took the afternoon off work, put on my nifty new safety vest (required for cross-country but I guess useful for trail riding too), and went on another solo trail ride.

Surya was very up, and determined to spook and run despite the sun being high in a cloudless sky and absolutely nothing happening on the farm, in the woods, in the backyards of the houses, or the wheat fields on the other side of the property. She tried to spin and bolt four times. This time, though, I was prepared, and continued to spin her in tiny circles as soon as she pulled 180s. I was happy that she tried her best to act like an OTTB instead of a sensible mustang. It gave me the chance to insist on forward movement and her listening to me no matter what, and restored my confidence and sense of invulnerability.

However, it didn’t really answer the question- do I trust her? Of course there are all kinds of trust.  The most basic concept of trust is the expectation of a certain behavior from someone. I trust that Surya will not deliberately try to unload me from the saddle or hurt me on the ground. I think she has trust in me that I won’t put her in inextricably bad situations. If she didn’t have trust in me, there is no force on this green earth that would get her to go forward when she didn’t want to, load in a trailer, or accept clippers.

That is basic trust though. The same kind of trust that a business acquaintance won’t pull a knife and shive me when shaking their hand. Or maybe the trust that a friend will speak well of you when asked.

That is not life trust. Life trust is an extension of each other. That whatever the situation, you will get through it together. It is not a guarantee that nothing bad will ever happen. But it is knowledge that you each will support the other through it, that the breathing of one will suffice for both.

I didn’t have that belief in Surya. I have trust in myself, or the brazenness to go leaping in anyway. To Surya, I was acting as a director, refusing to cede any control, rather than as a partner.

When we got off the trailer at the horse park where we were cross-country schooling, Surya had her head as high as it could go. When I got on, I bounced off her back it was so tight, as she pranced and looked at everything. We warmed up and she slowly relaxed and listened. Then we entered the field and our trainer had us trot over some logs. There was a dawning of understanding on Surya’s part. “Ohhhhh THIS is what all this stuff is for! Jumping! Alright, woohoo!!!”

As we got deeper in the park, we started cantering and jumping larger obstacles. Toward the end, we jumped a coup and a rolltop. I was feeling very unsure. Again, not of my ability to stay on, but of Surya’s ability to take care of us. As we approached each, I asked “Surya, can you jump this?” The answer was unequivocally yes.

And just like that, I trusted her. With my support, she pointed herself toward the jump and leaped with room to spare. We were true partners!

ARF has told me frequently that cross country is “just you and the horse.” I thought she meant that there are no distractions, and it is nice to be in a quiet open space while horseback riding. But she meant it much more viscerally. It is you and the horse, as one team. Nothing else matters, and you each depend on the other.

We were both unafraid. But we were also both unafraid to be vulnerable, because the other has our back. She was unsure and I was sure. I was unsure and she was sure. We are a team. And, cross country schooling for the first time, we got each other home safely.