Necking With My Mare

We had a session yesterday, so I went looking for Saxony, camera in hand, as her round pen had been moved to fresh grass. There she was, beside one wing of the barn, watching me approach.

She dispatched the clublike carrot I offered. I love the crazy mess there at the end of her blaze, like white paint that ran thin through the canyon of her nostril and then pooled along her upper lip.

We had such a good lesson. My trainer sat in the bleachers of the indoor arena and gave instructions. We're leaving on October 15th, so she's setting us up with a sort of working curriculum until next July, when I hope to bring Saxony back to her for the festival summer.

Does it make any sense to say I rode my horse? That's how it felt. Forward walk, really big forward walk, then in to shoulders in, both directions. Don't drive her with my leg or seat. An extended segment of sitting trot. Sit, sit, sit. Trotting on a big circle, working on contact, keeping the bend. Our circles are drunken, but we were working. One, two, one, two. I can count the beats of the trot out loud if I need to. Then haunches in, which we'd never done. B just called it out, with plain directions. We did it; there wasn't time not to because we were just moving, flowing. Ending the hour with a forward walk on the buckle. I'm becoming able to think Saxony into changing directions during our stretching walks on the buckle. Her walk is different now, wavelike to ride, soothing and carrying. I didn't want to get off.

Back at the round pen, I saw that my mare has discovered her neck, now grown strong and shapely through her five-times-a-week training regimen (not including my own rides on her.) 

She likes to lift her head high over the round pen panels and sometimes rest her jaw up high as if to stretch. And maybe she is stretching. It's another thing she's learned to do, stretch down and sigh out during work. Just as she's learned to present her face for the bridle and stay quiet at the mounting block. She seems to like having a job, seems to like school. I've loved my mare all along, but I've discovered more in her than I ever knew was there. 

Leaving, I turned back, certain she'd be watching me. She likes people; she's a people horse. But I've finally realized that she's bonded most to me, which is the one thing I never expected to come of this time.

Right to School

While the festival was winding down and I was wrangling my way through thousands of sunwashed, sometimes quite drunken revelers, my trainer continued to work with Saxony. She'd made one adjustment the same day I brought Saxony to the barn, sending me to buy a Baucher (bow-SHAY, at least that's my version) bit to replace the simple snaffle I'd been riding her in. I'm very curious to see how Saxony will go in the Baucher.

I'd told B pretty much everything I could think of about Saxony in the weeks prior to the move. It was an interesting recitation of facts and gaps. One of the things I told her about is how fussy Saxony is with her mouth during the bridling process. She offers much tonguing, yawning and rubbing as she settles the bit where she wants it, coupled then with producing sometimes copious amounts of drool during our rides. And I mean drool. It's not champagne, the fine white froth that sometimes results from the conversation between the hands of the rider and the mouth of the horse; it's just plain, clear drool. After having her examined by an equine dental specialist to rule out physical causes for her drooly fretfulness, I elected to wait until we were in training to make any changes to her tack. I don't know enough about bits and bitting to feel comfortable experimenting on my horse.

Because I trust my trainer, I went and bought the AlBaCon 5-1/4-inch Baucher she'd prescribed. This bit is made of German silver, with some copper added. B likes the Baucher for its steadiness in the horse's mouth. I'll see her ride Saxony in it on Thursday.

Meanwhile, B sent me a brief update during the weekend about what she was doing with Saxony, and it gave me a simple confidence boost in echoing some of what I already knew about her: "I rode her on Friday. She did very well. I can tell she's had some previous training. She was able to do both a shoulder in and haunches in at the walk. Her balance in the trot needs improvement, but I expect that to come quickly. She is weak in the canter, and needs to build her strength in the groundwork before we try cantering under saddle."

Naturally, I can't wait to get to the barn. Yes, I believe we'll come together, Saxony and I, and riding her will be wonderful, but right now nothing pleases me more to be learning about her. It's thrilling, completely thrilling.

It's Only an Ocean When There Isn't a Bridge

Or, How I Mythologized the Canter.

I'll be taking Saxony to my trainer in two weeks. We'll be there for four to six weeks. It's a first for me and I think it'll be a first for her too.

In my first horse life, after I graduated from wild summer-long bareback rides on a borrowed horse but found I hadn't left my love of horses behind, the options I saw were riding lessons or showing; I mean those were the milieus around me. People who wanted to learn to ride had riding instructors, and people who wanted to show had trainers. I would never show, didn't even have a horse, so I had a riding instructor. There was no middle ground; at least, I didn't know about any. I had some riding lessons and eventually I had a horse. She cost money, so I quit the lessons to pay her board. Several happy years passed during which I acquired two more horses. I became a better rider through miles and hours, but I didn't learn anything more about how to ride properly or well. Nothing, in fact.

When I came back to horses after 2o years off, I remembered the familiarity of them, the habitual nature of wanting them, the whole love of being able to touch them. I remembered all those things and it made it so easy to come back. What I overlooked was that I had never learned how to ride from beginning to end, through all three gaits, not to mention any of the other myriad nuances.

I returned to horses in the unexpected company of a fast, sturdy, opinionated mare who I eventually learned to be frightened of. I felt that I did not know how to ride her the way, perhaps, that she should be ridden. I didn't know what way that was, exactly, just that whatever it was, I didn't know it.  So I took riding lessons, the option I remembered from all those years ago. I hired someone to instruct me and "train" my mare. Fits and starts, fits and starts. There was never unity, never a unified course. I never "finished" those riding lessons and she never "finished" her training. (Understanding neither of those endeavors is ever finished, but I mean the basics roughed in.)

That's history and now is now. Before my lesson with B began today, I mentioned cantering. I was thinking that Saxony would be arriving at the barn in two weeks and those things felt connected, to me. "I'm not going to say never," B said to me, "but not until your sitting trot is there. You can't canter without it." I felt chastened and elated at the same time. Chastened like an eight-year-old, Oh, I'm not that good? Elated like an adult suddenly understanding something key, Oh, I can't canter without it? I get it. B went on to say that the canter is simpler to sit once a rider has command of the sitting trot.

It feels lame to write this, because I've had so much experience with horses, done real time with them in my own relative way. But no, I didn't continue with my lessons back then, so I never made it to the sitting trot. All these years intervening and then to come back seated on a high-spirited, spooky mare and find myself wondering what comes between the trot and the canter? Hmm. I just couldn't get Scout into a canter without both of us wigging out. There was a void there, so I filled it with fear, simple as that, and began to broadcast it, too. The canter became huge in my mind, mythic.

It didn't help at all that I had a riding instructor that used to call it "the C word." Literally. She'd say something like, "Just another couple of lessons and we'll start work on 'the C word'." Oceanlike, my fear of the canter grew, spreading as a sea of impossibility in front of me. It also became, in the negative space around it, the zenith, the height of my ambition: Cannot be a rider without it.

My thighs are just burning as I write this, sore from so much rising trot, sitting trot, rising trot, sitting. I get it. Someone has told me. I am being taught the sitting trot. It is hard, hard work, and I would go back there in an hour if I could.

Sunday School

In pictures. It's hard to describe how I feel. A soft French-link snaffle and my old Wintec 2000 Pro.



Responsive and willing. This is not the horse who pinned his ears, waiting for opportunities to evade.


This is my horse. I'm part of who he is today.

Baby Can't Handle His Dope

I wish it were a better picture, but just 30 seconds after the needle went in, Dar's head swooped to the ground and I couldn't get the shot fast enough. Doc B gave him only a quarter dose. Poor thing. He needed his teeth done. Man, the sedation hit him quick and hard.
I never tire of learning about horses, especially my horses. Doc B told me that draft crosses are coldbloods, and coldbloods have a different metabolism than warmbloods. As such, they metabolize drugs differently and it's not uncommon for them to require less sedation.

Here began an epic work of saliva artistry as the sedation took complete hold. I love his velvet nose.
Lights on, nobody home.
I love his XL ears and his lethally cute eyelashes. If I sound drunk, it's because I can't handle a high either. And I am high. We had a training session tonight that revealed Dar's progress and I am, well, feeling elated. Somebody needs to scrape me off the ceiling, actually. What if, I'm now wondering, he turns out to be exactly the right horse for me? The stuff of the last six months so consumed my thoughts, emotions and time, I never asked that question. I maybe didn't even dare.

Reverie

Tonight E was tired, so I did the longe line work with Dar while she provided running commentary and tips. I loved it, because Dar and I were training together, working at a pace that was perfect for both of us. First, I put him through walk-halts. My daydreamy doofus needs fewer reminders now; I think he's gotten the hang of whoa. We moved on to walk-trot transitions. We're looking for quicker responses from Dar, wanting to keep him attentive, not wandering off to some greener pasture in his mind. I mixed things up, throwing in a surprise halt here and there and changing directions. Then I worked him in trot for several minutes, up and down the soft, shallow slope at the west end of the grass outdoor arena.

When Dar was examined by the vet before I got him, she told me "Ride this horse up and down hills and slopes at walk and trot for the first year. He needs to build muscle strength; he has very little right now." She was right. It worried me how his hind legs looked back then. From hip to hoof, they wobbled and undulated like thick noodles. His hooves seemed to roll on their outside edges. All that's gone now -- the consistent good care has built him up -- but now it's time to begin to shape and strengthen the muscle that he's recovered.

Trotting the slopes is hard work for Dar, but exactly what the doctor ordered. Leaning on the line would be an easy cheat, but he didn't do that tonight. He settled into a steady pace and I kept the line light in my hand. It was quiet and still, just the sound of Dar's hooves, one-two, one-two, thudding softly on the grass. Reverie, that's what they call it. I watched him trotting, watched him passing between me and the sunset each time around. For a second, I was guilty of daydreaming myself, struck by his beauty, imagining what it will be like to ride him. I snapped back into the moment when he lowered his head and blew out, releasing that wonderful snorting exhalation that means a horse has relaxed, feels safe, and is content in his work. Music to my ears.

We are training this young horse. Part of me can't even believe it.

Tension Releases in the Supple Horse

I went to the Midwest Horse Fair on Saturday, where K, E and I watched a Steffen Peters clinic together. Peters is an Olympic-winning Grand Prix dressage rider. I think clinics are always fun to watch, but for me they can flow by and leave very little practical information behind. Peters worked with two women riding lovely Oldenburgs. Both riders were good, but they were heavy with the aids, particularly the spurs. Peters addressed that issue with subtle language. He said something that I won't forget. It's a truly useful piece of advice that I can bring into every interaction I have with a horse.

Tension has nowhere to go in an un-supple horse. (Or an un-supple human being, for that matter.)

I thought about it during Monday School with Dar. He's a young horse who lacks balance and self-carriage. He also carries some baggage from what little training he received before I got him. Particularly, he gets tense, rushy and aggressively defensive when asked to canter. That's something I think is endemic to joust horses, especially those who aren't cut out for that hard profession.

I think these photos show a nice, simple progression through tension to relaxation. I don't expect suppleness from Dar yet, but I can look for the classic signs of release: tightness and leaning, then a listening ear, then giving way into the long, low, easy profile of a calm, willing horse.

Lather, Rinse and Repeat

There's a fine line between youthful exuberance and insolence. Dar, just beginning school, is not yet balanced enough to walk that line. He tries juvenile things, sometimes to entertain himself, sometimes to assert himself, sometimes to pat his inner jerk. He came to me with mouthiness, and we've made good progress dialing that down. He stands quietly in cross ties where before it was hard for him. As for his studdiness, only time will tell.

Lately, Dar's begun barging out of his paddock when it's time to come in to the barn for food time. He doesn't run through the gate; what he does is blow by when the gate swings open, and sometimes he accents his barging with a swift buck, the kind that lets you hear his hooves whistling by.

Despite doing PM feed three nights a week, Dar's barging was something I hadn't seen. E mentioned it to me a couple of weeks ago. In hand and on the longe line, Dar isn't pushy or bargy, just clingy sometimes, so his gate capers had to be coming from somewhere else. On Tuesday night, I saw the barging firsthand. One look was all I needed. Rude, dangerous behavior has to be addressed quickly. Since I was scheduled for PM feeding yesterday, I went to the barn prepared to give Dar a reality check. Another boarder was there, so I enlisted his help.

Dar was pressing at the gate. That's something he's done off and on, especially when he's in solitary turnout. He'll back on command, so I backed him. I made him stand off while I unchained the gate. Then I swung the gate partially open, creating a six-foot-wide lane. T, the boarder, held the gate steady. Uninvited, Dar moved forward. I backed him by voice, pointing my dressage whip at his chest. After he stood quietly for a few moments and I felt I had his attention, I stepped aside. He barged right through, flying past me, tossing a buck in my direction.

No. I went to Dar and haltered him. I backed him across Lot 1, into his paddock, Lot 3. I left him standing, stepped out and closed the gate. Lather, rinse and repeat.

Dar stood off from the gate. Again, I opened the gate to a six-foot-wide lane. T held it steady. Dar thought about moving forward. I puffed up like a blowfish, lifting my arms and standing tall. I held him in place with simple dominant intention. I moved into the six-foot space, a dozen feet out in front of Dar. I had his attention. I walked quietly to him and patted his neck, then moved back into the lane. Dar stayed where he was. He lowered his head, chewing softly. A minute or two passed. Finally, I stepped aside. "Come forward, Dar," I said. "Dar, come." He hesitated, then quietly walked out his paddock, past me, and into Lot 1.

This is a five-minute lesson that will have to be repeated several times, but yesterday, as I watched Dar walk submissively past me, I felt almost like a horse trainer. He needed to be corrected and I knew how to do it. That, and I had no fear; I just didn't feel anxiety at all. There is nothing about Dar that makes me uneasy, and I don't think I really understand why. Maybe I have to look at the question of fear from a different perspective, because when I discovered my anxiety with Scout, I essentially assumed (painfully) that I had become fearful of horses in general. What if that fear is just all about Scout? I guess I'll know more on the day I fall off Dar, but for now, it seems there is no place for fear to grow in me when it comes to him. I'm not saving it up for tomorrow.