Day 5
A picture of my favorite memory. This is a trick. Why? Because the best memories usually happen when a camera isn't around. Also, memories tend to happen in a group don't they? For example, most of my childhood is a favorite memory. You can't really take a picture of that. I see that the flaw though is that I'm using the work "picture." Maybe what I should be doing is writing this stuff instead of choosing from available photos?
I think that's what I'm gonna do. A story then:
When I was fifteen, I went on a trip with my friend Marcy. She lived on a horse farm and invited me to go on the Vermont Cross State Trail Ride. Essentially you ride approximately a hundred miles in five days through the Green Mountains of Vermont. On this, my first trip, I rode Joey. Joey was a pony. The only pony out of three hundred horses. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Add to this my lack of formal riding lessons and that I wasn't a true "horse person" and you have someone who had a hell of a lot to prove.I was also very short and very skinny with very long black hair. I was a ballet dancer. Yep, if I had a neon sign over my head I wouldn't have stuck out more.
We arrived on a Monday to find that it had been raining in Vermont for about a month. The rain would continue through to Friday when we would be packing up to go home. Imagine with me for a moment what that might look like. Three hundred horses and weeks of rain equals the most amount of mud I have ever seen in my entire life. It looked like some sort of disaster movie was being filmed at our base camp. Tractors were pulling the horse trailers and trucks out of the camp for all the whimps would decided to pack it in early. We were not one of them. We rode on.
At the end of the first day, I had been on Joey's back for about nine hours. If you have never ridden a horse before I can only suggest that you go try it for ten minutes. The next day when your legs, ass and back are achy you can imagine what nine hours might feel like. I had done a lot of riding before this trip to get Joey and I in good shape but the thing is, you just can't really prepare for this. It was insane. We were riding through mountains and trails and dirt roads and rivers and people's backyards. At one point the path opened up and there we were, hundreds of riders suddenly in the center of a small town. People were running out of their houses to take pictures of us, children were chasing us. Some were offering us water or beer or whiskey (gotta lover Vermonters!). The enormity of what we were doing hit me then. I looked around and as far as I could see in front and behind me were horses. The sound of 1200 hooves on pavement was deafening.
After the first two days of the ride our attempts at being dry were abandoned. People were just damn soaked. Horses dry have a smell. Three hundred wet horses with riders who haven't bathed in a few days? Oh my gosh. We were the definition of stink. I can only say that the early June timing was a blessing. In the mountains it didn't really get hot and for that I was pretty damn thankful.
On day three we discovered a swimming hole. The teenagers had found each other and there was a small army of us. After dinner one night we decided to ride bareback to the hole and go for a swim. No one bothered with actual bridles either, we were bareback and using a halter and lead to get there. Normally I could do this. Joey had other ideas though. He had his maniacal idea that he should be allowed to rest. He didn't want to go to a watering hole. And he sure as hell didn't want to go with that horse over there, the white one? Yeah, apparently Joey and White Horse were on the outs. It took everything I had to get this little guy to the swimming hole. Getting back? Oh that was easy. So easy. All I had to do was get on and the little beast TOOK OFF RUNNING as fast as he his little legs could carry him. He took off running so fast that I was barely on his back. And he kept on running, right back to where he was tied. He was tied to a clothesline type of rigging that was approximately four feet off the ground. Lucky for me, this was the exact same distance from the ground as my neck.
I didn't hear the laughter until I stood up and started brushing the horse shit off my butt. Joey had knocked me off his back and I did this amazing backward flip landed square on my behind. He stood over me with this "Whatcha doin' down there?" sort of look on his face. Three hundred horse people were essentially staring and laughing at the newbie who just got thrown from a tiny pony.
By the end of the week, I was so exhausted and so sore I could do little other than sit and hang on. I walked into my house the morning after we'd returned - I hadn't yet showered. I stepped through the back door and was fully expecting my mother to greet me with open arms and to revel in my accomplishment: I SURVIVED! The door hadn't closed all the way when I heard, "What in God's name is that smell? Oh my God! Get in the shower and get that crap outside!" I was never so happy to hear those words.
The following year, I would have my revenge. I rode a horse. A real, live, grown horse. His name was Navajo Cheater. Cheater was the first horse Marcy had ever broke herself. I had known Cheater since he was a day old. At the time of our trip he was two or three years old. He was a purebred Appaloosa. He was beautiful. And he was an asshole.
For the entire week of our ride, Cheater never had four feet on the ground at the same time unless the moon was out and I was off his back. I was more seasoned as rider that year and better prepared to not look like a newbie jerk. Unfortunately, Cheater had another idea. Allow me to explain:
There is a mentality issue with some horses. Its what I like to call, "Me First Syndrome." Like the pretty blonde during high school, some horses just like to be first. Its like being Prom Queen to them or something. This isn't usually a big deal, but when you're number 213 in a line of 300, its a pretty difficult thing to deal with. Cheater had Me First Syndrome. In fact, if there was a Wikipedia article about this, it would be his photo that would be featured in the right-hand column. His front feet flying into the air and a sixteen year old girl with a look of feigned calm on her face would be standing in her stirrups. The caption would read, "Navajo Cheater, famed MFS sufferer, nearly killed several hundred riders in 1986 as he made his mark on the Vermont Cross State Trail Ride. He never had four feet on the ground in five days of riding. Several horses were wounded in his quest for firstdom."
Cheater coped with his Me First Syndrome by kicking, biting, bucking, rearing, spinning and attacking all 212 horses that were in front of him. For five days. It got so bad that at one point, I was asked to stay behind and ride way after everyone got a good head start. I spent an entire day out there in the mountains alone. It was the best/easiest day of the week. It was also pretty scary. Thing was, Cheater had been duped. He believed he was indeed first when really we were dead last.
At the last night's campfire I sat around on a bale of hay with the other survivors riders listening to the Riding Dumb Fucks (yes, a real name of an actual riding group of guys) play guitar and harmonica and sing old cowboy songs in their signature black hats and red bandanas around their necks. These were the guys who knew how to pack a twelve-pack of beer in their saddle bags, who every night raced at barrels and bare-back jumping. They weren't the life of the party, they were the party.
I was once again sore, exhausted and my hands were bandaged from holding Cheater back for most of the week. I wasn't defeated though and I was dry. My arms were sore in places I didn't know were part of the human anatomy, but I felt pretty good all things considered. I hadn't been tossed that week by a maniacal horse. I wasn't clothes-lined by a pony dead set on rest. A newly broke horse with a mental deficiency hadn't done me or anyone permanent damage. I never once let that horse get me off his back. In fact, my rear end stayed pretty firm in its seat and I'd handled that beast pretty damn good.
At the end of the night I was walking back to our campsite with my friend. She was busily chatting up a son of one of the RDFers and quickly turned to me and said, "Be back later!" I waved her away and kept heading toward my sleeping bag. One of the organizers and founding RDFer came trotting over to me . He stuck a hand out and said, "Nicely done kid. You rode that son of a bitch of a horse like you knew what you was doing. And you din't kill nobody."
"Uh, thanks." He was standing there smiling at me like he had done something wrong. I started to feel a bit weird about this confrontation and looked around to make sure there were other adults in my general vicinity.
"Well, anyway, if you come back next year, I would try to find a horse that uses all of his legs to move forward at the same time." He cracked up at his joke. I joined him and shook my head.
"Yeah, no kidding! He was a handful that's for sure." I turned to start back when he stopped me.
"Here, ah, Jenn is it? You, um, you earned this." And with that, he placed a black cowboy hat on my head, gave me a wink and walked away.
And that moment? That very moment? One of my favorite memories.
I think that's what I'm gonna do. A story then:
When I was fifteen, I went on a trip with my friend Marcy. She lived on a horse farm and invited me to go on the Vermont Cross State Trail Ride. Essentially you ride approximately a hundred miles in five days through the Green Mountains of Vermont. On this, my first trip, I rode Joey. Joey was a pony. The only pony out of three hundred horses. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Add to this my lack of formal riding lessons and that I wasn't a true "horse person" and you have someone who had a hell of a lot to prove.I was also very short and very skinny with very long black hair. I was a ballet dancer. Yep, if I had a neon sign over my head I wouldn't have stuck out more.
We arrived on a Monday to find that it had been raining in Vermont for about a month. The rain would continue through to Friday when we would be packing up to go home. Imagine with me for a moment what that might look like. Three hundred horses and weeks of rain equals the most amount of mud I have ever seen in my entire life. It looked like some sort of disaster movie was being filmed at our base camp. Tractors were pulling the horse trailers and trucks out of the camp for all the whimps would decided to pack it in early. We were not one of them. We rode on.
At the end of the first day, I had been on Joey's back for about nine hours. If you have never ridden a horse before I can only suggest that you go try it for ten minutes. The next day when your legs, ass and back are achy you can imagine what nine hours might feel like. I had done a lot of riding before this trip to get Joey and I in good shape but the thing is, you just can't really prepare for this. It was insane. We were riding through mountains and trails and dirt roads and rivers and people's backyards. At one point the path opened up and there we were, hundreds of riders suddenly in the center of a small town. People were running out of their houses to take pictures of us, children were chasing us. Some were offering us water or beer or whiskey (gotta lover Vermonters!). The enormity of what we were doing hit me then. I looked around and as far as I could see in front and behind me were horses. The sound of 1200 hooves on pavement was deafening.
After the first two days of the ride our attempts at being dry were abandoned. People were just damn soaked. Horses dry have a smell. Three hundred wet horses with riders who haven't bathed in a few days? Oh my gosh. We were the definition of stink. I can only say that the early June timing was a blessing. In the mountains it didn't really get hot and for that I was pretty damn thankful.
On day three we discovered a swimming hole. The teenagers had found each other and there was a small army of us. After dinner one night we decided to ride bareback to the hole and go for a swim. No one bothered with actual bridles either, we were bareback and using a halter and lead to get there. Normally I could do this. Joey had other ideas though. He had his maniacal idea that he should be allowed to rest. He didn't want to go to a watering hole. And he sure as hell didn't want to go with that horse over there, the white one? Yeah, apparently Joey and White Horse were on the outs. It took everything I had to get this little guy to the swimming hole. Getting back? Oh that was easy. So easy. All I had to do was get on and the little beast TOOK OFF RUNNING as fast as he his little legs could carry him. He took off running so fast that I was barely on his back. And he kept on running, right back to where he was tied. He was tied to a clothesline type of rigging that was approximately four feet off the ground. Lucky for me, this was the exact same distance from the ground as my neck.
I didn't hear the laughter until I stood up and started brushing the horse shit off my butt. Joey had knocked me off his back and I did this amazing backward flip landed square on my behind. He stood over me with this "Whatcha doin' down there?" sort of look on his face. Three hundred horse people were essentially staring and laughing at the newbie who just got thrown from a tiny pony.
By the end of the week, I was so exhausted and so sore I could do little other than sit and hang on. I walked into my house the morning after we'd returned - I hadn't yet showered. I stepped through the back door and was fully expecting my mother to greet me with open arms and to revel in my accomplishment: I SURVIVED! The door hadn't closed all the way when I heard, "What in God's name is that smell? Oh my God! Get in the shower and get that crap outside!" I was never so happy to hear those words.
The following year, I would have my revenge. I rode a horse. A real, live, grown horse. His name was Navajo Cheater. Cheater was the first horse Marcy had ever broke herself. I had known Cheater since he was a day old. At the time of our trip he was two or three years old. He was a purebred Appaloosa. He was beautiful. And he was an asshole.
For the entire week of our ride, Cheater never had four feet on the ground at the same time unless the moon was out and I was off his back. I was more seasoned as rider that year and better prepared to not look like a newbie jerk. Unfortunately, Cheater had another idea. Allow me to explain:
There is a mentality issue with some horses. Its what I like to call, "Me First Syndrome." Like the pretty blonde during high school, some horses just like to be first. Its like being Prom Queen to them or something. This isn't usually a big deal, but when you're number 213 in a line of 300, its a pretty difficult thing to deal with. Cheater had Me First Syndrome. In fact, if there was a Wikipedia article about this, it would be his photo that would be featured in the right-hand column. His front feet flying into the air and a sixteen year old girl with a look of feigned calm on her face would be standing in her stirrups. The caption would read, "Navajo Cheater, famed MFS sufferer, nearly killed several hundred riders in 1986 as he made his mark on the Vermont Cross State Trail Ride. He never had four feet on the ground in five days of riding. Several horses were wounded in his quest for firstdom."
Cheater coped with his Me First Syndrome by kicking, biting, bucking, rearing, spinning and attacking all 212 horses that were in front of him. For five days. It got so bad that at one point, I was asked to stay behind and ride way after everyone got a good head start. I spent an entire day out there in the mountains alone. It was the best/easiest day of the week. It was also pretty scary. Thing was, Cheater had been duped. He believed he was indeed first when really we were dead last.
At the last night's campfire I sat around on a bale of hay with the other
I was once again sore, exhausted and my hands were bandaged from holding Cheater back for most of the week. I wasn't defeated though and I was dry. My arms were sore in places I didn't know were part of the human anatomy, but I felt pretty good all things considered. I hadn't been tossed that week by a maniacal horse. I wasn't clothes-lined by a pony dead set on rest. A newly broke horse with a mental deficiency hadn't done me or anyone permanent damage. I never once let that horse get me off his back. In fact, my rear end stayed pretty firm in its seat and I'd handled that beast pretty damn good.
At the end of the night I was walking back to our campsite with my friend. She was busily chatting up a son of one of the RDFers and quickly turned to me and said, "Be back later!" I waved her away and kept heading toward my sleeping bag. One of the organizers and founding RDFer came trotting over to me . He stuck a hand out and said, "Nicely done kid. You rode that son of a bitch of a horse like you knew what you was doing. And you din't kill nobody."
"Uh, thanks." He was standing there smiling at me like he had done something wrong. I started to feel a bit weird about this confrontation and looked around to make sure there were other adults in my general vicinity.
"Well, anyway, if you come back next year, I would try to find a horse that uses all of his legs to move forward at the same time." He cracked up at his joke. I joined him and shook my head.
"Yeah, no kidding! He was a handful that's for sure." I turned to start back when he stopped me.
"Here, ah, Jenn is it? You, um, you earned this." And with that, he placed a black cowboy hat on my head, gave me a wink and walked away.
And that moment? That very moment? One of my favorite memories.
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