The horse 35

For a season of my childhood there were horses. Chief among them was Thirty-five, the ancient dappled-grey mare whose size and demeanor frightened me least of the three. She was purchased with the name ‘Thirty-five’ but no explanation for the numerical designation. We inferred that Thirty-five must have been the count of circles she’d turn if you attempted to ride out beyond the barn alone. She was a pack animal and no more, comfortable in the world only if behind another. This behavior was a comfort, an assurance that the unexpected would not be likely to occur were I riding aloft her back, nervously hearing the snap of broken bones and sharp pain were I to fall from her prodigious height. But my confidence was to be short-lived.

In the rolling foothills of northwestern Colorado, on a matchless Spring morning, we rode our horses along a winding dirt-track road. Birdsong, the sway of wildflowers in the meadow and the glowing warmth of the sun had softened the knife-blade of anxiety I felt astride Thirty-five’s mighty back. Minutes of enjoyment flowed into hours, and my pleasure drooped into discomfort.

Unaware of my growing discontent, my grandparents swayed further ahead on their wider-gait horses. Thirty-five, anxious to remain face-to-rear with the nearest animal, kicked into a trot every few minutes. As those who’ve ridden until saddle-sore can attest, the worst gait for sore bum is the jarring trot. And my discontent smoldered until, enraged, I demanded through violent command of the reins that she cease any more trotting. Her guides drew further ahead and the nervous tension in her back grew, but I had had enough jolting. Then she lost sight of her mark around a wooded bend.

Lunge! As though without warning, Thirty-five lept into a full gallop, completely inconsiderate of my sore back-side or the fact that I’d never once galloped atop anything in my life. If a scream escaped me then, I was unaware, for all my attention was riveted upon the pommel horse before me and the ominous ruts in the shaded side-track she was careening towards. We catapulted into the overgrown track at once, my imagination assailing me alternatively with visions of her foot catching in the bottomless ruts and falling, my body cartwheeling through the air until impaled upon some unassuming stump, and an aspen branch catching me across the throat and ending my short life by decapitation.

By God’s mercy neither of my imagined horrors were realized and we burst into the sunshine of a broad meadow. In my terror I briefly glimpsed the shocked face of my grandfather as we rocketed parallel and then past. At least my hindquarters had ceased to cause me pain, for they rarely made contact with the saddle.

Nearly halfway across the meadow my grandfather at last caught hold of the flailing reins and slowed Thirty-five to a walk. Blinded by tears and fear I slid immediately to the ground, gasping. I walked the remainder of the trip, only once glancing towards the beast who’d convinced me never again to sit astride an animal and sullenly noting that my distress was entirely unnoticed, her gaze contentedly afixed to the sweaty rump of her lead.