As I child, I was astounded to learn that my mother did not know how to ride a bicycle. I mastered this by age 6 and could not fathom that an adult could not do this. On the other hand, Lethe told me, she was riding horses at my age.
I did not know what that meant really. We have a celebration on July 4 in Coronado, and to any child, the passage of horses is a critical part of a parade. When else would one see and smell a live horse, living on a square mile of town on the Pacific Ocean?
As a small child, I actually rode a pony once or twice. In the late fifties, one (of privilege) could rent a horse which would come to a birthday party and children could take turns on a small circular track. I remember feeling that it was not much of a challenge—but was still delighted by the novelty. I contrasted that with a picture my mother had on her dressing table of a teen aged girl riding a horse in full gallop. It was Lethe.
I would come to have experiences with horses that find me, not a fan. And yet—when I saw the movie, The Horse Whisperer I was profoundly affected by the winter scene when the horse rears up to protect the fallen rider from the eighteen wheeler bearing down. I cried. My voice not only got hoarse, it disappeared. This was not the reaction of the college student who contemplated the price of horse meat when on a budget or the junior high student who quietly adjusted while riding horses at Camp Marston—when the horse would rub up against the pine trees making it necessary to pull my leg out of the stirrup and shift the leg to as to avoid having it crushed and scrapped by the bark. Come to think of it, the instructions for steering the horse by laying the reins on the neck, one side or the other, never worked. Ever……..
Reconsideration for my fear and distrust of horses was moderated when I came to know the Schaufelberger girls (Krissy and Margie). They had been stationed in Virginia and brought to Coronado a different world view which included Motown Music and a love of horseback riding. I was invited to learn to ride horseback and for just a few dollars, we would drive down the Silver Strand to Imperial Beach and rent horses by the hour and ride the surrounding hills. I grew perhaps a little comfortable though when the girls would put the horses into a gallop, I found I had no sense of rhythm or balance trying to keep up with them and I reined him in and we trotted home. They often went their own way and I found myself at sunset arriving at the corral first. Handing the horse over, I walked down a line of trees and thought it would be funny to scare Krissy when she arrived. I crouched low hidden from sight for those on the trail which was within a hundred hards of a long barbed fence. A truck came up the road behind me and caught me in the headlights. I heard, “Freeze.” I stood and looked at an officer in uniform. Krissy rode by as he was interviewing me. The fence nearby was the Mexican border. The man in uniform, a Border Patrol Officer.
My senior year in college found me questioning my pre-med status and intention to apply to medical school. I could get 5 credits working for a veterinary office in Santa Cruz. Perhaps my pre med education would in turn become pre-vet. This wound up being a tremendous opportunity in that I was able to see and do hands-on medicine with cats, dogs, exotic birds, and occasionally, horses. It was here that I learned to lance accesses and the danger of feeding your dog soft food exclusively—-the tooth cleaning with an ultrasound can shatter rotten teeth and I rendered a Chihuahua nearly toothless doing this routine chore. My world at this office was mostly with small animals but occasionally I was needed in the barn where horses were kept. I learned to imagine the dialogue as I entered, tasked with something that brought me within reach of the horses. Their ears twitched as a I approached.
“Dude’s from the suburbs. He doesn’t know squat.” Ears twitched in unison as I walked carefully down the center of the barn, keeping those hooves equidistant right and to the left. No sudden moves! But there were sudden moves as soon as I was between two horses. Suddenly, the two thoraxes collapsed together with me in between. Horse hooves seemingly moving at random seemed awfully close to my shoes. My co workers got it and I was relieved to find my extra duties were to help in surgery, my first choice in any case. It was here that I learned that some dogs have a reputation that is not born out in the vet hospital. Doberman’s and Rottweilers predictably whined and shat on the floor as I brought them into pre op……….
When I dated Kernie, I was head-over-heels in love and wanted to make a big impression. We drove to Rosarita Beach and I rented horses so that we could ride on the beach and into the surf. So romantic! I turns out, Kernie had a greater fear and distrust of horses than I. We mounted. My horse spread her forelegs and coughed up a huge luggi. She moved slowly regardless of my pulling or relaxing the reins. Kernie asked the vendor, in English, if he would be so kind as to lead the horse down the beach——please. And he did. VERY romantic.
Salinas re-introduced me to the world of horses. My first night of call at the hospital as a newly graduated doctor was on July 4, 1978. That is the day of the Salinas Rodeo and I became aware of traffic in the ER; I had one admission of a man who looked eighty (I think he was thirty-five) who had been gored by a bull. Later, in Salinas, when I was in private practice, I took a call one weekend and “Joe” needed to have his ear sewn back on after cutting it on a barb-wire fence. I suggested we meet at the ER. This advice was met with dumfounded silence. “Why would I take my horse to an Emergency Room? You should come here.”
We sorted it out.
I had a friend with horses and after a few beers, he noted one of them was bleeding. We walked out to the corral and found that a leg vein had been cut by barbed wire. Horses generate a lot of pressure in those veins. I put my medical knowledge to use and applied pressure to the wound. This required getting close to the animal. Thank God I wore boots that day as this horse very carefully lifted a hoof and put it on my foot. My reaction? I hauled off and hit the horse’s flank with all of my might. It was like hitting a soft brick wall. The owner was amused. With a twitch and relaxation of the reigns, the horse stepped back and off my foot.
No love lost with horses there.
In Olympia, our family room overlooked a pasture that friends owned. Jennifer owned award-winning horses who played in the pasture. She had a covered arena and a huge barn that housed the horses. One day, her daughter and mine spent the afternoon at their house after school and I came to pick her up. Jennifer was standing next to a fence as we chatted and one of the horses trotted over near her. I did not see it, but the horse nipped at her arm, extended on the fence. Jennifer bent down, picked up a 2x4 and whacked the horse’s muzzle forcefully. It did not whinny or kick, but simply walked away. The look on my face must have said so much. She raised her eyebrows and not missing a beat said, “You know, you have to show them who is boss. I cannot allow that kind of behavior!”
And I thought we were strict with our daughter. There is a theme there—I have known many women who have taken on a strategy of delaying their daughter’s social/sexual evolution by reinforcing a love of horses. If you love a horse and are tasked with its care in Junior High and High School, there is not a lot of time (much less attraction) for boys. I believe I have witnessed at least partial success with this approach.
Jennifer gave me a wonderful opportunity. I mentioned that I had never seen a horse foal. I delivered human babies and loved it but had never seen a horse born. She told me she had one due any day and if I liked, would call me to witness it. I agreed. It was a cold night and the moon was full when I got the call. I dressed and drove down to the barn. Within an hour I saw a foaling. It was absolutely riveting. Even more so was the extraordinary hour or two after the birth. The colt made repeated efforts to stand on all four legs, something I would have guessed was futile. At first, my judgement seemed good. This poor creature attempting to stand fell forward and sideways, often striking its head against the planks of the stall—with all of its weight behind that fall— It persisted and righted itself eventually and was suckling (the point of it all) before I went home. I now had a good feeling about horses.
Kernie had retained over the decades her fear of horses and as an exercise, chose to fight it. She enrolled in classes and weekly visits to a nearby farm found her learning to muck stalls, clean hooves, and saddle a horse. With time, she learned to ride. When she completed the course, she seemed assured and confident—but there was no love there; when asked if she wanted to go and ride horses for recreation, she politely answered, “no thanks.”
That gets us to a final recollection and cementing of my ambiguous feelings about horses. It is a story of Kernie and the children and the caballos.
We visited Puerto Vallarta during a school spring break. Our girls were quite small; I think Amber was in Third Grade which would have found Darby a few months short of three. The morning was pretty and the light soft. Diesel permeated the air and the girls in their native long dresses leaned over the rails looking for sea life. Kernie started a conversation. “Girls, you know what I think? I think when we get to Yalapa, we should go horse back riding! What do you think?” The girls were familiar with horses playing at Jennifer’s house often. I thought it would be a nice family memory especially when a brochure pointed out that the end point would be a pond set in a jungle for swimming, a waterfall, and beer. The boat whistled and we slowed, coming into port. We could see a young man on horseback on the beach near the dock and the girls got ramped up. “Can I ride my own horse or do I have to ride with somebody?” asked Darby.
“I think you will ride with your Dad, “ I replied looking at the Kern with that fuzzy warm look that says, “Can it get any better than this?” We were in Mexico and were going to take a family ride on horses into the jungle and swim in a tropical paradise. We headed towards the horseback riding concession and I had my wallet out, ordering up the tickets for the horses; Kernie spoke up. “You know, I am remembering horses don’t get along with me and I don’t want to disappoint you girls. I think I will lay out at the beach and wait for you; Dad will make sure you get to have a good time with the horses.”
The girls gazed at me with eyes wide open. We are on vacation. The sun was out. The line behind us was lengthening.
“Tres boletos, por favor.”
A sense of being manipulated usually comes to me late. I am in this sense, usually behind the curve but on this occasion, the issue was clear. As my thinking about the next few hours formed, I chose to take the higher road realizing Kernie, of course, must have a reason for doing this and she would explain to me later, when the kids could not overhear. We said our good byes and the three of us tromped down a quarter mile path inland where we came upon the corral, several young adolescent caballeros, and the smell of horse percolating in what was now 85 degree heat. The other tourists arrived, and we were allocated our horses. Darby sat in my saddle and Amber was just ahead. We trotted out in single file and the pace was very very slow. I looked for the jungle, but it was not there; we walked on talc like soil worn over very abrupt rolling hills that had vegetation below the level of the horses’ backs. The sun was strong. On the uphills, I hung on the the horn for dear life; on the down hill, I stretched my sandaled feet into the stirrups at a forty-five degree angle forward trying to take the weight off Darby who was compressed between the horn and my body.
The horses ambled along and occasionally stopped for no reason; the chalky dust rose just to nose level as the sun played with the ribbons of texture these clouds made once generated by the horse hooves. The sun felt even stronger at this point. I was drenched in sweat now working in a patina of brown dust on every skin surface exposed. The children were great; they did not complain. An hour into the ride (or was it just twenty minutes?) we arrived. The caballeros were quite gallant offering help with the senoritas, Amber, and ultimately, Darby. There were flagstones and a small cabana with a fellow selling beer and soft drinks. There was not much shade. There was pool of cool water below this level and indeed, an undulating waterfall with some spray. The group was in the water in no time, raising a stain of brown in the water that slowly was diluted as we sloshed and splashed. The girls got cokes, and I had a beer. It was now 95 degrees.
There was a, “last call for alcohol” moment and we found ourselves newly refreshed, getting back on the horses. There was a lot of activity as the adults gathered, saddled up, and started back on the path. We managed this ourselves and were executing an attempt to not be the caboose of this train given the dust. The caballeros were excited and there was energy as they whipped and hooted at the horses to head home; some of them (the horses) looked genuinely pleased. I got caught up with that excitement and pressed my bare heels into the flanks of my horse, loosened the reins and demonstrated for Amber, looking muy macho: “Andale!”
There was not much motion. Just like Rosarita, a slow sullen plodding at the tail of the caravan. The caballeros led from the front. Soon, we could not hear the other riders and the cloud of dust they raised in front of us was nearly settled by the time we passed along the trail. We were in wet bathing suits. It was now more than 95 degrees. The horses stopped at the bottom of a small hill. They realized, there were no whips, spurs, or competent riders anywhere near. They did not have to work if they did not want to.
I maintained some composure, but not for long. Five minutes uncovered in that heat without any forward motion found me taking a decisive step. I got off the horse and let Darby down. I put her on my shoulders and led my horse by the reins. Mercifully, Amber’s horse chose to follow. We walked slowly over the path and hills. My flip flops raised the clouds of talc just as effectively as the horses and it stayed with me a little longer, given that my head was now even with the horse’s. Despite the distraction of Darby on my head, I managed to keep my third eye on the horse behind me because I knew, he was aiming for my nearly bare feet. The downhill portions added to the heat to produce more sweat.
An hour later (or was it twenty minutes?) we came to a wide flowing stream whose bed was composed of beautifully worn rocks, all smooth and round and about the size of potatoes. I knew we were not far from the starting point. I reassured Amber and Darby and prepared the crossing with Darby holding my hand. I slipped. My ankle inverted and my flip flop nearly came off. I hung on to Darby and the reins with all my might. I sat in cold water and saw that Darby was fine, maybe a little amused that I had fallen and splashed. I looked at the horse: I had pulled the bit out of its mouth. The reins no longer seemed to have much of a hold. I stood up. The horse eye-balled me, shook its head, and headed downstream. I had one moment of hesitation and felt the bridle shift and the bit dangle further. I let go. I set the horse free.
Amber’s horse looked at its mate and looked at me. I did not manage to grasp its reins as Amber had those raised to her chest. Her horse proceeded across the creek on the path back to the corral. Darby and I strode after her as quickly as my sprained ankle and her little 3 year old gait would allow.
I think it nearly broke one hundred degrees that day.
As we came around a bend, I saw the caballeros, leaning back with a casual masculine grace not often seen in adolescents, speaking quietly amongst themselves. I made no eye contact but strode purposefully with Darby in tow. I heard one call out: “Señor, donde está su caballo?”
I replied, with some satisfaction, “No sé— caminó por aya” and I pointed toward the river.
There was a pause, and then in unison, they all jumped up, ran to their horses, and took off toward the creek at a gallop.
I walked further; around the next bend came Amber, in tears, and distraught at having found herself alone, in Mexico, not knowing where her mother, father, or sister were. Amber is made of stern stuff and within a minute or so, was composed and at peace with what had happened. We finally made the tree line just short of the beach; this was the first shade found since leaving it. The sand was full of beach goers and somewhere in there, was the Kern. She looked so relaxed and peaceful. As she heard our approaching feet, she raised her shades and smiled holding her arms out to the girls. “Did you have a wonderful time?”
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