The Natural

Although many of our neighbors own and ride horses, we're currently an equine-free household. At least in terms of living, breathing animals. The house is full of books, photos and other artworks of an equestrian theme. This is Dear Wife's passion rather than mine, and when we first met, she did in fact own a horse on which she competed in three-day events. Although I frequently tagged along to the stables it was more in the role of official photographer, dog minder and fetcher of things. But it's not as if I'm completely inexperienced when it comes to horse riding. I have sat on several horses in my time, occasionally even while moving and on one occasion the term "natural" was used to describe my horsemanship. Although admittedly, not for very long.

Several years ago a group of us were making our way up the West Coast of New Zealand's south island and decided to try our hand at this horse-riding lark. So, bright and ugly one morning we found ourselves yawning and stretching outside a stable among some breathtakingly pretty farm country. There were eleven of us altogether and Wendy the stable owner spent some time matching us to various horses depending upon our respective sizes and levels of experience. Jonathon, at 6'7" was assigned a 14-hand monster, while Helen, who barely reached his rib cage, was given something not much larger than a Shetland pony. I myself was paired with a gentle looking nag called Honey, which sounded just fine until I learned she had a penchant for rolling on her back in the middle of rivers. Hmm.

After bribing our way into the horses' good books with a slice of bread away we went. One of the downsides of most trekking schools is that the horses are conditioned to simply follow the one in front. The clients tend to do little more than sit on the back and it can be rather dull. Not so with this group apparently, who each had day jobs and only did service for the tourists on weekends. All well and good, but I was secretly hoping mine didn't become too independent.

As it turned out the first river crossing wasn't too traumatic and we made it across without mishap. The only snag so far was that my steed was becoming bored with my pedestrian pace and would occasionally break into a jog in order to catch the more experienced riders up ahead. I found that as long as we never went any faster than a canter, I was able to keep my balance quite easily and was really quite enjoying myself. That said, I was uncomfortably aware that Honey was paying very little attention to the signals I was attempting to send via rein and stirrup, but was instead operating on her own agenda. We ran when Honey wanted to run, we stopped when Honey wanted to stop.

Knowing I was out of my depth, I solicited Wendy's opinion. "Keep your elbows in. Shout 'whoa!' Pull on the reins like you mean it." was her advice and I'm sure it was perfectly sound even though it had no effect whatsoever. There were a handful of occasions where I thought I was running the show but I suspect this was simply indicative of my naivete. Still, we'd been going for some time, had crossed multiple rivers and cantered several times without mishap so my confidence was growing.

Even so, when the more experienced riders broke off and took a separate route to try some gallops, I elected to remain with the rookies, much to Honey's disgust. She fancied herself a thoroughbred and was becoming visibly frustrated at my reluctance to open the throttle. Nonetheless, once the others were out of sight, she resigned herself to being a wimp transport and plodded along sedately without complaint. For oh, about twenty minutes.

That was the point when we rounded a corner of the trail and saw way, way off in the distance, the departed members of our group racing across a meadow. Tails up, manes flying, legs stretched out it was a picture of primal athleticism. And Honey decided she wanted to tag along. I kept my elbows in; I shouted "Whoa”, I hauled back on the reins, I swore incoherently. Nothing. Honey was going to join those other horses, she was going to join them as soon as possible and if I wanted to come along or not, that was up to me. It didn't take long to realize my actions were not only futile, but were actively increasing the likelihood of a fall. So, I leaned over Honey's neck as I had seen the pros do, and concentrated on maintaining my balance.

Then I saw the log.

A good 3-4 feet high, it lay completely across our path. There was no room to ride around it, even if I'd had the skill. Stopping was out of the question. We were going over it. 3-4 feet doesn't sound that big if you're only familiar with watching the professionals in the show ring. But it's way higher than even many experienced horsemen would be expected to tackle. And I was no experienced horseman. I set my feet firmly in the stirrups, clutched the reins as if my life depended upon it (as perhaps it did) and gibbered helplessly as Honey set her feet, bunched her muscles and sailed out into the blue.

Horse and rider soared, as one, over the log and landed, safely, comfortably and beautifully on the far side. My compatriots were in raptures. "That was awesome", they yelled, "You did that perfectly" and so on. Even Wendy gushed admiration. "You did everything right." She told me, "Your posture, your balance, your technique. I couldn't have taught you that. You're a natural".

I sat back, and basked in the praise. Yep, Mr. Horseman that's me. I was finally getting the recognition I was due. Maybe I had a future in the equine field. Me being a natural and all. Although I had to admit, my butt was getting a touch tender, so I sat up on the back of the saddle to massage the muscles a little. It was at that point one of the other horses leaned forward playfully and nipped Honey on the flanks. She shot forward, I stayed momentarily in place. Then I was sitting bewildered on the ground, wondering what had just happened as my companions dissolved in peals of laughter.

Oh yeah, I can clear a 4 foot log with perfect style, but fall off my horse when it’s standing still. That's me. The natural.