“We were nothing alike except for the unrestrained
willingness to do something, anything, to help a being in need. Loner Girl and
that horse were two wounded creatures. They had needed each other. “
Missouri Misery
by Candace Wade
Author and Equestrian
GaWaNi
Pony Boy was my introduction to the rapture of equine clinics. My riding buddy Penny and I sat in rapt awe at
his appearances from Tennessee to Alabama and Ohio. We collected his books,
videos and paraphernalia. I knew it was
a message from the Horse Goddess when I read he was going to be the guest star
of a trail riding week in Missouri that fell on my 50th birthday! My husband
Bill signed on to escort me on the week of Pony nirvana.
Pony
would lecture and walk among us Pony devotees. I crafted vagrant dreams of dude
ranches in the sky on the foundation of my fantasies. Percolating enthusiasm
and projecting happy experiences help us crawl out of bed in the morning.
The
Resort
Bill
and I checked in at the souvenir shop, a sort of combination tourist store and
front desk. Useless knickknacks, like painted rocks and foam beer cozies, and
the usual junk snacks tempted from dusty shelves. It looked wonderful to me. I
took stock of the crap and imagined how Pony and I might mosey on back after a
fabulous afternoon ride. Maybe I would treat him to a Twinkie.
Bill
negotiated the dirt road up to the resort. The trailer/camping area was a swarm
of some pretty talkin' rigs. Some of these people must have sunk six figures
into their trailers and trucks. Pup tents, lean-tos and Scamp trailers were
dwarfed, tucked back into the trees. Next came the dining hall, with a settin'
porch that was a charmless, chairless, running rectangle. The barn was on the
way up the hill to the resort lodging. This building was for us city slickers.
“Ranch lifestyle” can mean many things. In this case it was Kafkaesque. We're
talking cardboard walls, a bed with a concrete mattress and a pervasive
chlorine smell. We were given two sets of thin towels, one hanger in the
closet, and a TV with fleeting reception. My fantasy pivoted to Rod Sterling
stepping in to whisk us back to the ‘60s through the TV as a portal to The
Twilight Zone. The toilet flushing from the next room sounded like a 747 taking
off. The poor guy next door must have had a "going" problem, 'cause
the metallic scream of water pipes jarred me several times a night.
"Okay,
it's primitive. I can deal," I justified to myself. My future promised
miles of trail riding and Pony -- what's a little chlorine smell?
Meal
Time
The
dinner bell rang. Like zombies, guests on foot wandered in from all directions
to the dining . . . no . . . mess hall. Bill and I scattered out of the way
when a pack galloped up, full throttle, yanked their horses into a skid turn,
and leapt down to tie up.
"What
the hell!" I protested to Bill as we entered the building.
The
mess hall was set with long metal tables and faded, corny cowboy pictures. It
was expansive and spare. An echo would have gotten lost.
Still
pissed, I hissed at Bill: "There's such a thing as horse etiquette. I'm
going to say something . . ."
A
commotion behind us: in clattered "The Posse." They were pungent with
machismo, decked out in snake boots with jangling spurs and legs swathed in
black leather chaps. Big silver belt buckles glittered at the pubic bone.
Muscle tees displayed arms and chests adorned with skull and snake tattoos.
These ensembles were crowned with cowboy hats of various hides. The finishing
touch was the 15 inch Bowie knives tethered from knee to thigh . . . and these
were the women!
"I'm
shocked to actually see how long those things are!" Bill whispered.
Having
a word about almost getting trampled by this crew became a bad idea at the glint
of the Bowie knives. I slid in line for food instead.
Food
was slopped into the little cubbies on plastic cafeteria trays, most of which seemed
to have the oily sheen of the meal before. I opted for anything that would be served
in a Styrofoam bowl. I ate a lot of fruit gelatin and cottage cheese. Everyone
else dug right in, shoveling food into their mouths, lips smacking, plopping
second helpings on their trays. Even my prissy, gourmet-driven husband thought
the food was passable. I appreciated what a sport he was.
A
day into the adventure, I realized that the wranglers and barn manager were the
same ones scraping and washing the trays -- multi-tasking as it were. The trays
looked as if the washers were either in a hurry to get through the washing to
move on to their horse tasks or just not interested in hygiene. Yuck!
"Okay,
Bill seems to be fine with this and I can live a long time on cottage cheese
and fruit gelatin. This is about riding!
And Pony!" I justified, dewy-eyed with anticipation. I'm a Horse
Slut. I'll do anything to wrap my legs around Pony, I mean, a horse.
"Snib
Clinnart"
Our
first ride was with the guide. I think he was some old neighbor who sort of
knew the area and helped out. "Snib Clinnart" was a man of few words,
a dull razor and threadbare plaid shirts. He sat stoop-shouldered on his horse,
leg over the pommel, waiting for the group to assemble.
I'm
rather a safety nut when it comes to riding. Part of this comes from guidance
from instructors, part from an unwillingness to put my body in unnecessary
peril. I wasn't a very athletic kid, more of the pink pinafore and patent
leather party shoes type. I'm more than willing to take on the inherent dangers
of trail riding, but, I'm skeptical riding in large groups -- too many
opportunities for chaos. I rely on the knowledgeable leader.
Bill
and I were matched with Tennessee Walking horses. Other riders began to appear.
Swarm is more accurate. They cantered in from the camp grounds. Doesn't anyone walk
their horses around here? Parents, kids, singles -- there was a churning,
teeming energy, to me bordering on pushy. Imagine the biomass of krill.
We
were about 30 strong. Consider each person with a distinct personality astride
a horse with a distinct personality. Riding in a crowd was new to me. Four was
a crowd up at Big South Fork. I was not thrilled, but, okay, I'll be a good
sport. I can ride. I can do this. That was me, good sport. The operative word
here is was.
Snib
was a leader only in that he rode in front . . . sometimes. Everyone did what
they wanted. After the initial lurch out onto the trail, the herd performed a
constant shuffle for position. Riders muscled past without so much as an
"on your left." Seemed everyone wanted to be in front, in spite of
the fact we were on a two-horse-width trail. Thirty riders jockeying for
position -- riding abreast à la the credits for Bonanza. There just wasn't room.
The children were unsupervised, allowed to race up to strange horses and push their
way in front. No one had a red ribbon on their horse's tail to warn of a
kicker. My horse didn't like strange horses putting their noses up his butt. I
can't blame him.
We
rode in this "relaxed" manner for a couple of hours. Snib never said
a word. I was relieved to see the ranch in the distance across acres of meadow.
Bam! The group charged without warning. There was no concern for other riders
or possible chuck holes.
To
me, it was nuts. I struggled with my feelings because Bill wasn't fazed. The
other riders had a great time. My "caution-toads" were croaking like
mad. Was I a wussy? Was I a ‘fraidy cat? Were the other riders nuts? This
created an emotional struggle within me. I felt redeemed the next day when
riderless horses galloped across that same field and an ambulance was summoned
to collect riders who had raced across the field unsuccessfully. Is it possible
to be the one sane person in the herd?
 |
| Bill |
Riding
Alone
Our
next ride, I talked Bill into the two of us going it alone. This time, he was nervous
-- about getting lost. The chance of getting lost concerned me less than riding
with the wild bunch. We had to urge the horses to part from the herd, but this
was a good test of my leadership. I led us around the paths surrounding the
dreaded meadow. Once again, other riders rushed past to charge across the
field. Bill was more eager for speed than I, but we both performed a
respectable, lively jog to the barn. That was one in the confidence column.
Loner
Girl
Snib
guided our next ride. This was a group of eight. I think everyone else was
enjoying the calf herding contest. The calves seemed to outwit most of the
contestants. What a surprise! Snib
warned that the trail "gits steep." After our horse-rappelling rides
in the mountains at Big South Fork, I felt sure this wouldn't be a
problem.
The
ride went fine until . . . one of the horses sliced his leg on a shrapnel chunk
of karst. We're talking blood, and a lot of it. Snib didn't carry an emergency
kit. No one seemed prepared. I donated my bandana for a tourniquet. Being in
the depths of a gorge, there was no cell phone coverage. The horse was in
trouble.
Snib
just kind of stood there. We agreed to send him on to the top of the ridge to
call the farm. Duh! We all helped to
encourage the injured horse slowly to the summit. A trailer was going to take
some time. At the top of the ridge, it was decided that Snib would take most of
us back to the ranch, leaving a couple of volunteers with the horse. A spooky "Loner
Girl" decorated with raven black buzz-cut hair, piercings and full body
tattoos volunteered to stay back with the horse.
Loner
Girl was one of those little mice sleeping in a pup tent beneath the shadow of
the expensive behemoth trailers. She had saved up her money to come for the
week by herself. She had slept on the couch in her brother's house since she
escaped from her abusive boyfriend. Her jobs at two fast food restaurants gave
her "savings money" to get her own place and to support her beloved
little Mustang horse. She came to Missouri for a week of camping and riding to
help put her past behind and to re-start her life. She sat by herself at meals
and haunted the back of the group on the trail rides. Her small, dark presence
glowed with its loneliness.
Back
to the horse. They got the poor animal back to the barn, but there wasn't any plasma
or medicine on hand to help him -- no vet on staff. The local vet's practice
was mostly cows. They took precedence. The horse would have to wait his turn.
He was starting to go down. I stormed into the office to motivate someone into
action. Nothing. I was angry about the careless situation and that I was
useless.
Who
saved the day? Loner Girl. She cajoled the horse to his feet. She ran cold
water on his leg to stop the bleeding and take down the swelling. She got him
to drink water. She stayed with him until the vet came later that evening. She
stayed with him all night. No one else did a thing. They shrugged and wandered
away.
You
never know who the hero will be. It could be the dumpy, dark, scary girl with
whom no one will sit at dinner. Because of her, the horse survived. From then
on, I sat with her. She and I drove out and explored Wal-Mart one afternoon.
She told me all about her life and why she was there at the horse camp . . .
alone. We were nothing alike except for the unrestrained willingness to do
something, anything, to help a being in need. Loner Girl and that horse were
two wounded creatures. They had needed each other.
Pony
-- At Last
Pony
Boy. Ah, Pony. He was the grail for which I coerced Bill to drive all the way
to Missouri. Pony was scheduled to give a fireside lecture in the evening. I
dragged Bill down the hill to the campground an hour early, regaling him with
warm-up stories of the wonders I had seen Pony perform at other events. We
joined the other acolytes perched on hay bales swapping Pony stories. I heard
the jangling of "The Posse" as they swaggered up, switching their
Bowie knives off their thighs to keep from amputating themselves at the knees
as they sat.
GaWaNi
Pony Boy was everything I knew he'd be. He was elegant. He was wise. He was
inspiring. He was funny as hell. Plus, Pony is yummy in an exotic, Native
American sort of way. Bill got into him even though he believed the rumor that
Pony is really just a nice Jewish boy from New York. I don't care if he's an
Albanian sausage maker; I think his methods make sense. Unlike John Lyons and
the Parellis (although I have great respect for all of them), Pony didn't bring
his own Stepford horses. He was not into tricks. Pony was about the
predator/prey relationship and how to use it with care to get the best out of a
horse.
Pony
invited anyone who wanted to walk with him at 6 a.m. the next day to meet at
the barn. I was going if I had to crawl on broken legs. Sure that I would be
one of a few who were willing to walk, I was disappointed to see that Pony had
a crowd of 15. I could tell by their trudging gait and too-many-Snickers bodies
that most of them would poop out and leave me and Pony to a more intimate walk.
"These people will shed like skin off a lifeguard's nose after the first
mile," I smirked to myself.
Wrong.
Tough, determined and talky, the troupe trooped on. Not only that, many had brought
muffins for Pony! What a bunch of suck ups. Wish I'd thought of it.
Auntie
Em! or Ditch or Die
After
another scrumptious dinner of slop and glop (gelatin and cottage cheese for
me), Bill and I retired to our room in the cardboard shack. The rolling picture
on the five-channel TV with the coat hanger antenna (that's where the other
hanger went!) warned of tornadoes. Tornadoes!? And we were holed up in this
construction paper building!? I hurried into my clothes.
"I'm
going out to see what's going on."
Bill
just smirked, adjusting the coat hanger antenna.
I
scouted for intel from anyone I could find. Yes, tornadoes were reported. I ran
back up to our hovel.
"Get
up. Put on your clothes. Tornadoes are coming!" I urged, breathless.
"Where
the hell are we going to go?"
"There's
a ditch down past this building. We could lie down in there," grabbing my purse.
"I'm
not lying down in a ditch," was Bill's not unreasonable response.
I
couldn't convince him. I felt like Lillian Gish in the closet scene from Broken
Blossoms as the wind whipped the driving rain sideways against our windows. I
scurried back and forth, unsuccessful at motivating Bill and trying to decide
if I should abandon the fool and hurl myself into the ditch. There was the
other possibility -- that I would be the only lunatic lying face down in the
mud in a ditch. The danger passed while I was weighing those options. We went
out to the landing to reconnoiter. Many of the campsite people were huddled
together in the ditch. Even Loner Girl was there. Ha! Vindicated!
The
Party's Over
That
was it. I got up the next morning, had my swill and came back to pack. Missouri
is the "Show Me State." Well, show me the way to go home. I'm tired
and I want my own bed.
"I'm
packing. You go on your ride. I'll be waiting at the barn at 12:30. If you
aren't in the truck by 12:45, I'm leaving." After that, I went quiet. Bill
knew better than to challenge me when I go quiet. There's a chance if I'm still
yelling. Game's over if I go quiet. Bill strode off to have what turned out to
be the best ride of his whole life.
I
packed up our Ranger, then headed to the settin' porch to read and wait. Twelve
thirty, I fired up the truck and spit gravel as I drove up to the barn. I sat
there with the engine running. A gorgeous sight on a big black Tennessee
Walker, Bill was a vision in motion in a haul-ass, fast, gaited walk.
"Wow,
you look amazing, Bill. Get off and get in the car."
What
did I gain from this experience? All adventures have value. Savor the
anticipation. Better to venture out to the uncharted territory than not try.
Hey, I handled a variety of personal and riding challenges, some that kicked
holes in my "comfort fences."
The
real lesson was, we never know the true heart of an adventure. I thought I was there
to commune with GaWaNi Pony Boy, but Loner Girl ended up being the star for me.
Watch the quiet, odd one in the corner. That person may be the most valuable being
in the room. She might save a horse . . . or you.
Candace
Wade wrote the book Horse
Sluts - The Saga of Two Women on the Trail of Their Yeehaw. She has contributed to Horse
Nation, Mature Lifestyles and The Tennessean. Candace writes
political diatribe, wrote “Hillary’s View” pet column and four unpublished film
scripts. She learned to ride at age 46. Still rides at 59+.
Read Candace's Riding & Writing interview here.
No comments:
Post a Comment