Unexpected Arizona

Friends on four legs. 4/21/2023

We’ve been camping near the Mogollon Rim for...I’m not sure how long, it’s been that long. We’ve hopped around sites on various Forest Service roads, and we’ve discovered things we didn’t know Arizona had at all, nevermind in abundance; wild horses.

Beautiful, various breeds, colors, sizes, all you can picture. We’ve seen colts and foals playing around, they even let us get close enough to them so we could capture them in photos. 

I knew that there are wild horses in North Carolina, and on Chincoteague Island, among other places. But Arizona? You can’t imagine my amazement and delight the first time we laid eyes on them. They wandered, staring us down. We rolled into a nice campsite right in their neighborhood. They visited us, staying in their personal bubble. We respected their space as much as they did ours. I could wax ecstatic about them for a very long time. You see—

I rode horses on and off for twenty six years. I started when I was four. My folks had a friend who gave lessons, and so once a week, I had a lesson after school. I was a tiny kid, so I rode a tiny pony. For all the things I’ve forgotten in my life, horseback riding might be my earliest memory. I still have my green and gold ribbon from my first competition, the “Fall Fuzzies,” in October, 1984-- I had barely turned five years old. I didn’t ride my tiny pony that day, I rode a gigantic beauty. I placed fourth out of twelve kids, not shabby for a five year old.

When I was nine, I was really happy and very fortunate to be able to be a day camper at a horse farm. Here, campers were assigned to their very own horses, who were in our care for eight weeks. My horse was named Delight-- she was a bit feisty, but in the decision making process of matching camper to horse, Delight was well behaved for me. She and I got along well-- she’d step on my foot when I was trying to groom her legs and hooves. She’d shake her head and snuffle indignantly when it was time to brush her mane. She didn’t need such fussing over-- in her opinion-- but after a couple go-rounds with her about hair brushing being done whether she liked it or not, she would just throw her nose up once and then get on with it.

At camp we took a long trail ride, and I was given another horse, another camper needed a horse that was Delight’s size. So I had a bigger fella, who, I didn’t learn until we were on the edge of what I thought was a sheer cliff, was mostly blind. And...I was on my own, no counselor to lead me along. Outwardly, I remained calm, inside I was terrified. This horse, however, was probably the most well-behaved one I've ever ridden. He clearly knew the trail, stayed in line with the others. I felt more confident and comfortable, my desire to leap off and walk him instead washed away, (plus the “sheer cliff” had leveled out). That was probably the bravest trail expedition I ever had.

On and off as a teenager, I rode with a friend of mine who mucked stalls at a farm in exchange for riding time and lessons. Sometimes I helped out just to get riding time. I don’t mind mucking stalls. Once, on a trip to Ireland in college, I got to ride up and down a beach, as fast as I pleased. I ended up very sandy and decided that's not as fun as people imagine. Skipping ahead in time--

I used to live in the seacoast area of New Hampshire. There are a lot of horse farms out there, so I picked one and leased a horse (essentially renting a horse and the farm folks take care of everything). So I had a few refresher lessons on my no-so-rusty skills, and after that, I could ride whenever and do whatever I pleased. My guy was named Cecil, whose quirks matched exactly with his unique name. A race horse, he was not. Although, playing catch me if you can in the huge paddock was his favorite game. Fortunately, I could cheat and win through bribery. I kept a pocketful of mints. As soon as he noticed a few in my hand, Cecil came running. And he’d be really well-behaved after that. Cecil had all the patience in the world to get saddled up, and zero patience for doing any kind of warm up. Race horse he was not, but he was no slouch, either. As soon as I was in the saddle, he was rust colored lightning. He would grudgingly slow down with me directing him to, but that boy always wanted to run full tilt. He wanted to gallop all the time. Through the trail in the woods, around the rings, he would never have slowed down or stopped had I let him have things his way.

Cecil loved jumping. He had no interest in the slow, precise, and kind of dainty world of dressage. Dressage is a routine and course where the rider must direct the horse to do certain actions with perfect precision and behavior. I always thought it was boring too, so we abandoned that effort and barrel raced, jumped, did obstacle courses-- and we ran down that trail in the woods at least 17 times a ride. That was my favorite part, too

In twenty six years of riding, I never fell off a horse. Even when learning the tricks of vaulting (gymnastics on horseback), gravity never got the best of me. I’d spent a lot of time with ornery, uncooperative beasts. Many horses tried to throw me, but none did. Except Cecil. He did.

Perhaps it was because I’d run out of mints and had brought carrots instead. Maybe we didn’t play catch me if you can long enough. Cecil was not in a great mood, but he seemed to perk up when I got him saddled and ready to go. I walked him at first, instead of mounting up in the barn like I usually did. He seemed more cheerful outside the barn. So, in the jumping ring, I warmed him up, walks, trots, canter and back again. That was really unusual cooperation on Cecil’s part. We walked through the jumps so we’d know the height and distance between each one. When we were ready, we got moving. And moving. And moving. Cecil was having tons of fun, as was I. He was being responsive and cooperative, changing directions on a dime if I wanted him to.

Dark was coming on and it was time for us to cool down after such a big workout. This is where Cecil got crabby-- he had no time for that cooling down nonsense, not when there was jumping to do. I was riding him at a walk toward the gate of the ring, which led to the path to the barn. I was about to hop down to open the gate, reins in hand-- and wow, did Cecil ever help me. He categorically and very seriously did not want to leave the ring. He reared up and I couldn’t bring him down and get him to cut the shit.

Cecil and gravity dumped me into the dirt, where I landed on the one rock in the ring, of course. I hollered, “What the fuck, Cecil!” Cecil then wore a shamed face, stood still, head drooped. I got up and brushed myself off and led a very hangdog-faced horse to the barn.

I didn’t think I was any worse for the wear, just bumps and bruises. I went back the next day and rode Cecil. My left wrist and hand were puffy and bruised, but I didn’t think much of it. I was icing it and just carrying on.

At work the following day, the school nurse was attending to one of my students. When Jen turned around, she said “What the hell did you do?!” Apparently it looked like something worth panicking over, rather than just ice it and carry on, (remember that I am the same person who took twenty four years to fix a broken knee, so is this at all surprising?). Jen ordered me to go to the ER. “No, Megan, not after school. Now.” Jen could be as terrifying as any school nurse can be, so I got my work bag and left. I walked into the ER and--

I walked out with four fractures, being lucky that my “wrist didn’t fold in half” (gross). I got a hot pink cast that ran from my elbow down to a fingerless mitten kind of thing over my hand (they were all out of purple, bummer).

I would probably have walked around with that for twenty four years (at least) if it weren’t for the lovely, yet terrifying, school nurse.

You might think that ended my riding, especially with my pal, Cecil. Nope. I waited until I got the green light and had graduated from a cast to a molded brace to ride again. And so I did, until I moved back to my hometown.

It is very tempting to have a The Black Stallion moment right now, the one where Alec finally tames the wild horse, post-shipwreck, and they just run, gallop, flying everywhere on the island. I’m exercising my self-control-- that was fiction and I’m not on a desert island-- I’m all about leave no trace and respecting nature.

But dang, I do love horses.

--Megan

PS: There are a few kids who would also like to come to Arizona and have a The Black Stallion moment too.