Trail Trial

I believe things happen for a reason.

For instance, I believe I titled Chicago’s stories on this blog “… Big Red Horse” as a rather uncharacteristic sign of optimism. Good karma. A commitment to the belief that he and I have settled our differences, made our peace and moved on to a happy life together.

See, I generally refer to Chicago as The Big Red Beast, a nickname reflective of our storied past. He has unseated so many times that I finally perfected the art of somersaulting over his left shoulder, sticking the landing and keeping hold of the reins in my right hand.

But we have worked on our relationship through lessons and clinics; tears and threats; prayers and perseverance; stubbornness and stupidity. And in the end, we’ve made it work. Life is good. Most of the time.

Today we were invited to join a group trail ride at a park five minutes from our house, one we used to ride regularly, but haven’t for a couple years. Yay!

And when my friends were delayed by technical difficulties, I decided this must be divine intervention. By the time I got the message, I was at the park, tacked up, ready to head out. Because it would be at least 45 minutes before the group arrived, I figured this would be a great opportunity for Chicago and I to go solo around the little 45 minute loop we used to ride. I’ve been of the mind lately that this is something we could and should do, and now here was the chance. An obvious sign.

Off we went. Chicago proceeded with caution, stopping a few times to test my judgment and/or resolve, but was easily convinced to continue. By the time we passed the halfway mark, he apparently realized we were on the  homeward stretch and stepped up from his “Are you really sure this is a smart idea?” amble to his “I am Some Kind of trail horse!” walk. Life really was good. Most of the time.

As we neared the trail center, marking the end of our  successful solo trip, I saw movement up ahead. Not a deer, a raccoon, or even a neon-shirted hiker, all hazards that haunt our Trail Rides Past. Nope, this was worse.

The dreaded Park Ranger on a Gator. With a fluorescent vest. To his credit, the guy was moving slowly and slowed a bit more when he saw us. But Chicago started jigging nervously, so we moved off the trail onto a side path, allowing the Very Scary Moving Vehicle to pass. Great, he went one way, we’re going the other, nearly home and completely uninjured after an uneventful ride. Almost.

Chicago continued to jig his way back on the trail and up the hill, mostly in a pretty little leg yield that moved us laterally upward. Then I made a couple mistakes: 1. I let him get straight, and 2. I let him get his head down. And as soon as he had the position, I felt the familiar power of his full 1200 pounds lifting straight vertical from all four legs. Experience has taught me that this is the part that ends badly. All the time.

Based on the dirt smudges on the back of my shirt, I landed right between my shoulder blades, (for my friends who are asking, Yes I was wearing my helmet) but managed to hang on the reins.  Which was particularly useful today, as instead of the immediate stop that used to follow such an unceremonious dismount, this time the Big Red @#$%&!* did his best to make sure we walked home separately.

But I got back on and realized my good fortune (how’s that for positive spin?)in having one more steep hill left, just perfect for extinguishing that remaining equine energy with a little more uphill lateral work. By the top, he waved the white flag and walked quietly to the trailer.

So, was this part of some Vast Eternal Plan to trail ride by our lonesomes? I don’t know. Will I test fate and try it again? I don’t know that either.

What I do know, is that this is the reason God gave us bubble bath and Ibuprofen.