Endurance Riding

I had never heard the name Sara Ashley Hobbs before. Not before Candy, that is. Candy is a 13.2 hand Quarter pony, short in stature, but stocky and stoic. She tolerates anybody and anything, coming as close to “dead broke” as they come. She has a soft eye, a shiny bay coat, and a quiet, calm demeanor. She is truly the Mary Poppins of ponies.

Candy came to Lightfoot Horse Farm on May 1^st. Her owner, after hearing of how we had tragically lost two of our main schooling horses nine months apart from each other, loaned Candy to the farm for the youngest, most beginner riders to love on and learn from. She was well cared for here, and it took no time at all before we all fell in love with her. After going through a string of horses that didn’t work out for our schooling program, we finally found one we wanted to stay. We were confident Candy would be with us for a long while at Lightfoot Horse Farm, to live out her retirement years being doted on by a multitude of little girls and boys.

What happens next is something out of a novel, or a daytime drama. Candy went missing. She literally just up and disappeared. One minute she was in my horse paddock, eating and drinking with the other horses. The next she was gone. At first, I thought it was a joke.

She must be behind the shed in the back stall.

Maybe behind a tree?

Next to the water trough?

She’s hiding. This is a joke. This is so silly, it can’t be. She has to be here.

Look again.

My heart was pounding, my senses on high alert. My breathing started to pick up, and my eyes darted back and forth, scanning the entire area, as my son, Jakob, continued to walk the same circles around the horse paddock, holding Candy’s fly mask.

Okay, she got out.

But the gate was latched.

“Jakob, maybe she got out. Maybe she’s somewhere on the field. You and Declan should walk the entire fence line along the property.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Seven. Seven. Seven. My god, where is she??? One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. God, there’s only seven! Where is she???

Crazy thoughts raced through my head. Was she injured? Did she colic? Am I going to find her down somewhere?

The boys reported back to me that they couldn’t find her. I asked them to walk the perimeter again. They did. No Candy.

“Walk it again! Look again! She has to be here.”

“Mom, we just did! We walked it twice. She’s not here!”

I screamed at my boys, “Walk it again! Look again!”

Jakob’s eyes got wide, and he snapped me back into reality with his own raised tone, “Mom! We can walk it a million times, but she’s not here. Candy is not here.”

What do I do? Do I call 9-1-1? No, that’s silly. This isn’t an emergency.

I shook my head. No, no, it is an emergency. Just not a life or death emergency.

I grabbed my phone and frantically dialed a phone number. I had to call Candy’s owner. No answer. I called her work, her cell, her work again. Then I called Candy’s breeder. Then I called the sheriff.

… and that’s when I learned who Sara Ashley Hobbs was.

It wasn’t long before we realized Candy had been stolen. Her owner had received a text message from Sara, admitting that she was the one who arranged for the horse to be taken.

This is when I learned Candy had been Sara’s childhood pony, from 1997 to 2006. In 2006, Sara gave Candy back to her original owner when she moved to Massachusetts after her parents’ divorce. Sara had seen photos of Candy on the Lightfoot Horse Farm Facebook page, and decided, after ten years, she wanted her childhood pony back for her own two children. When she asked Candy’s owner for her back, the owner declined, stating that she didn’t believe it was humane to ship a 27-year-old pony across the country in the middle of the summer, to a climate she had never lived in before.

So, Sara Ashley Hobbs took matters into her own hands. She arranged for someone to pick up the pony from my place and house her until she could have Candy transported to Whately, Massachusetts. She had somehow come to the conclusion that Candy belonged to her, even though she hadn’t cared for the pony in ten years. In Sara’s mind, she was simply taking back what she believed to be rightfully hers. The only problem is that she reclaimed “her” horse illegally. She never contacted me. Not a letter, not a phone call. She had a stranger come on to my property, enter my horse paddock where my other horses were housed, and walk off with a pony, all without my knowledge. She completely violated my privacy, and the privacy and security of my family and my animals. What if the wrong horse had been taken? What if the gate had been left unlatched and my horses had gotten out?

In light of this realization, the next several hours after Candy went missing were a whirlwind of reports, phone calls, and research. Our dining room table looked like something that belonged in a conference room, and I felt like I had suddenly been thrown into an episode of CSI.

A report with Stolen Horse International was filed, all local animal controls contacted, photos of Candy sent to all the veterinarians in the area, and shipping companies notified.

We located Candy late in the afternoon the next day, after a terrible sleepless night. I located her, using just a little savvy common sense and detective work. She was a little over an hour away, sharing a paddock with another horse on Humphrey Road in Yuba City. Apparently, a friend of Sara Hobbs’ family was housing the pony.

I notified the sheriff and animal control in that area immediately when I had confirmation of where Candy was. However, when they went to the house, they were presented with registration papers on Candy, and the last recorded owner on those papers was Sara Long (Sara Hobbs’ maiden name), and the last transfer of ownership was in 1997. Candy’s current owner had not completed the paperwork for a transfer of ownership in 2006, the year she re-acquired Candy.

I realized then that I was simply an innocent third party caught in the middle of a civil dispute over who was the legal owner of this pony. I knew I would never see Candy again, and I would have to tell the students what happened to their beloved pony, the one they thought was here to stay. I felt angry, sad, confused, and violated. Completely violated. The way in which Sara reclaimed Candy was not only illegal, it was morally wrong. But I had no proof of trespassing. No eyewitnesses, nothing caught on a security camera, no evidence of forced entry because I didn’t have locked gates. The only thing I knew was that I had a pony in my custody, who I was loving and caring for at my own expense, who was here one minute and gone the next. And no one got to say good-bye.

No one.

Not the twelve-year-old girl who braided Candy’s mane the day she arrived. Not the eleven-year-old who was scared to ride the big horses because being so far off the ground trigged her anxiety. Not the seven-year-old who could groom Candy by herself because Candy was just the right size for her. Not the slender, quiet five-year-old who thought she was going to be able to ride Candy in a lead line class at her first horse show. Not the eight-year-old boy who cried when he found out Candy wasn’t coming back, for Candy had been his first and favorite horse experience. Not the six-year-old girl whose hair is just now growing back, for she’s finally entered remission for leukemia.

No one.

Not even my own son, who refused to ride for an entire year after our beloved Appaloosa, Forest, left us after we tried for eight months to save him. Forest was the only horse Declan trusted, and no matter how hard I begged, bribed, and pleaded, I couldn’t get him to ride after Forest died. One week ago, Declan climbed on Candy’s back.

_________________________________________________________________________

Until this actually happened to me, I thought stealing horses was a thing of the past — something that only happened in those Western movies, set in the 1800s. But I’ve come to learn that I am not the only one in this modern day who has had a horse illegally removed from her property. Horse theft is considered a felony in the state of California (and I’ve actually heard rumors that it’s punishable by hanging), but proving you have had a horse stolen is an entirely different thing. Although I knew someone had trespassed on to my property, I could not prove it. The law wants concrete evidence — in the form of an eyewitness, security surveillance catching the trespasser, or proof of forced entry. On top of that, when the stolen item (in this case, a living horse, not a material object) is found, the law wants you to prove it’s yours. So, how can you protect yourself???

1. If your horse is registered, make sure he’s registered in your name. Many horse owners drop the ball here. They simply forget to the send in the paperwork, or maybe it was a previous owner who didn’t send in the registration, so the horse’s name isn’t in the seller’s name, making it impossible for the seller to sign the transfer of ownership over to the buyer. In this case, contact the breed registry. They will tell you what paperwork you need to send in to register the horse in your name.

2. Always, always write up a bill of sale. If the horse is a gift, pay $1 for the horse and write up that bill of sale.

3. If you are leasing a horse, make sure you have a lease agreement in writing, signed by both parties.

4. Protect your property and your horses by having your property’s perimeter fenced off and installing a locked gate. It’s true that if someone really wants to get in, they will find a way in, but a locked gate will at least stall someone, and if they do get in, it will be by force, giving your case more credibility when reporting to the police.

5. Hang “Private Property” and “No Trespassing” signs.

6. Consider installing surveillance cameras, especially on large scale horse facilities where multiple people will have access to many different horses.

7. Check on your horses daily; always do a head count. The sooner you notice a horse injured, sick, or missing, the better.

I have learned a startling and valuable lesson. The day I added the lock to our gate and hung “No Trespassing Signs,” I was filled with a disappointing sadness. It’s too bad agreements can’t be made on a handshake anymore. And it’s sad we have to lock down our properties in order to protect ourselves. But, unfortunately, you just never know. If you had told me the day I brought Candy home that a woman 3,000 miles away who owned Candy ten years ago was going to come out of the woodwork and make claim to her, I would have laughed out loud. But it happened. I hope my story is eye opening and helps other horse owners to become more diligent about protecting not only themselves, but their beloved equines.

This endurance season didn’t quite start off the way I had planned… I hit a first. The first time I went to a ride and didn’t start. I had been working out and training hard. My head was finally back in the game. I had dreams of riding through the night with my son, and my student and friend, Nyah, taking them both through their first 100 mile rides. But when we arrived in Ridgecrest, CA for the Twenty Mule Team 100 Mile Ride, Asali felt “off” in her left hind, and I dismounted at the start of the ride, just minutes before the trail was open and sent my juniors down the trail with the wonderful Jennifer Perryman.

Nyah and Ember made it an amazing 70 miles together before Ember starting looking tired and we decided to pull her. Jakob and Dippi both finished strong in the wee hours of the morning, alongside Jennifer and Roaster. It was such fun crewing for them all day, along with my dad and son Declan, and Nyah’s family. I was more than proud to watch my son cross the finish line of his first 100, on a horse I had trained and conditioned myself. But, I am not going to lie, it was hard to let go of that dream I had to carry my son through his first 100.

Needless to say, I was so excited to arrive at the Cache Creek Ridge Ride on Mother’s Day weekend. Jakob and I have attended the Cache Creek ride for six consecutive years. Last year, though, I was unable to ride with him due to my ankle injury. This year, however, I was going to ride with him again — and I was in the 50 for the first time, since I had always previously done the limited distance mileage at Cache Creek.

The beginning of the ride was fairly uneventful. I was thankful for the cooler weather. Jakob and I trotted along at a pretty good pace, but it wasn’t long before the rain started. It wasn’t a chilling rain, or even a heavy rain, but it was steady enough that the rain gradually began soaking into the ground, making the trail a muddy mess. As we came into our first vet check, we were both soaked to our skin, and starting to shiver. A friend loaned Jakob a jacket, and I put my vest back on, making a conscience decision to tough it out for another 25 miles.

We weren’t too far into our second loop when Asali started to slide on the trail. It was as if she couldn’t find her feet. She didn’t want to move forward, and I began to panic that something was wrong — Was she tying up? Did she pull a muscle? Am I asking too much of her? We didn’t properly train for this, did we? I feared her falling on me like she had at American River Classic, and so I decided to get off and hand walk her down the trail. I walked for what seemed like mile after mile. And each mile, my shoes captured more and more water, until it felt like there was a river in my shoes. We climbed several hills, and Asali wouldn’t let me tail up a single one. My new half chaps were caked in layers of mud, adding weight to my already fatigued legs. Jakob was quiet, still mounted on Dippi, moving forward little by little. As we approached what seemed like my hundredth hill, I lost it. I literally lost it. I remember screaming something about another f-ing hill. I was tired. I was wet. I was cold. I was covered in more mud than I could have ever imagined. I was hungry. I was thirsty. And here I was, trying to get my son through yet another 50 miles, on my Tevis horse. My TEVIS horse. My reliable Tevis horse. But we were, once again, having issues. And Jakob was going to, again, go on and complete another ride without me. For him and his horse were fine. Just fine. But I was not fine.

Jakob had nothing but encouraging words for me. The more he encouraged me, though, the more the voice in my head brought me down. You can’t do this. You aren’t an endurance rider anymore. You should go back to hunter-jumpers. Or maybe you should just quit horses altogether. I did not feel strong. I was weak, and somewhere at the top of that hill, I hit the lowest point I have ever hit at a ride before. I wanted to lie down in the mud, let the rain run down on me, and cry until someone picked me up off the side of the trail. Because I just couldn’t do it. I could not do it anymore.

We kept pushing forward, slowly, only because I had my kid with me and was acutely aware of what a bad example of sportsmanship it would be if I just threw myself on the side of the trail and cried like a two year old. Instead, I fantasized about heading back to camp every time we passed a purple ribbon, the color which signaled the way back to camp. So, we stayed on track, following the blue ribbons. After some time of silence, I decided to turn on our music, using the rugged waterproof speaker attached to my saddle. I was going to just get my son to the next vet check, where I could quit and send him down the trail with a new, more capable sponsor.

All of a sudden, the beat of the song Sail, from one of my favorite movies, blasted through the speakers. That beat radiated through me, and I was transported from the cold, wet, muddy, rugged, miserable back country I was stuck in, to a dark football field. And with each beat of that song, that empty, dry, warm football field lit up until it glowed like heaven. I was standing on the middle of that football field, and I just began laughing out loud. I don’t like football. In fact, I don’t even understand the game. But what I do understand is heart. I understand heart, and I understand passion. And I understand effort. Perfect effort. And as that song played through that little rugged outdoor speaker, scenes from the movie When The Game Stands Tall, flashed through my mind. I heard Coach Ladouceur’s voice in my mind: Life’s most impressionable lessons are when something challenging happens and confronts you.

I put one foot in front of the other, thankful I had legs to walk on. Thankful I was healthy and strong and could walk whatever mileage was required of me that day. I wasn’t going to be hungry or thirsty or tired or cold or wet or muddy for the rest of my life. I began laughing so hard I almost cried. When Jakob looked at me funny, I yelled out, “I have never had so much fun in the mud before!” I began dancing to the next song, a jolly upbeat tune by the name of Happy, skipping and sliding and running in the mud, as Jakob dismounted and began “downhill skiing” in that mud. We laughed at all the riders passing us, all of them having as much difficulty navigating the trail as we were having.

At the final vet check, we were greeted with food, drinks, rain jackets, and encouraging words from the vet who said our horses were fine. We ditched the rubber boots, leaving our horses barefoot so they would have more traction in the slippery conditions. We headed out for our last several miles, and after Jakob had an unplanned dismount into the mud, I swore the day couldn’t get any better. We laughed and laughed and I took photos of him covered from head to toe in that mud. I hiked another great distance alongside my horse, vowing to try the Ride and Tie the following year, since I was absolutely prepared and conditioned for it now.

We were the last riders to finish that day, and with that finish, I discovered I am an endurance rider after all.

Before it got REALLY muddy…

Downhill Skiing

At our last vet check before the finish line…

Such a long day… but we finished! And to finish is to win.

I usually give myself a few days after any event — happy or sad — to formulate my words and process. Usually, when I sit down to write immediately, the words that come out are much more suited for my journal, because what comes out are choppy sentences, irrational phrases, and often I don’t even find healing in that kind of writing. But, today, I just decided to write this blog post, without holding back, not caring who is going to read it, who might judge me for my words or decide that I am, in reality, a horrible writer. I don’t even care to edit this post, so forgive me if I misspell a word or forget a period.
 
So, that’s my disclaimer.
 
And now I want to yell out to the universe, FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK FUCK YOU!
 
My last two blog posts were about losing horses. Why? Why am I writing another? There is a huge gigantic hole in my heart that I don’t even know how I am going to begin to fill.
 
Fifteen months ago, a young gal from my endurance family called me up. I still remember the first message she left me. I was in Orange County, visiting family. We were at Disneyland with the boys. I remember being really intrigued by her message — because while I knew her, I didn’t know her well, and wasn’t sure what it was she was calling about, but it was obviously for a very specific reason.
 
When we touched base, I discovered she had a little Arab mare she had grown up riding — the mare she completed Tevis on as a junior rider. She was looking for a new home for Ember and thought she’d be perfect for my students and my schooling program.
 
When Ember arrived on January 2, 2015, I thought she was just the sweetest, cutest pony ever. But after she bolted with my son on the trail — and ran all the way back home — I had my doubts. She head tossed too much, and she was quite possibly too forward for my young, beginner students. But I decided to give it some time…
 
I don’t know what happened, but Ember became one of my favorites around here. She was the least intimidating horse in my herd, she was so easy to groom, and to teach the kids how to pick hooves. She would just follow the horse in front of her on the trail. She rarely spooked. She tolerated all those who were still learning their balance, who maybe pulled on the reins at the wrong time, and those who didn’t quite know what to do around a horse. She was always healthy and sound, one of my easiest keepers. She never got herself in trouble, and she was just the sweetest. I never worried about anyone’s safety around her.
 
Ember wasn’t just an incredible asset to my business, she was also my friend and a fellow teacher, my partner. I trusted her, and was constantly in awe of how well she took care of my students. I loved having her around.
 
Last month, when a schooling horse I was trying out for my business didn’t work out, I remember thinking, I still have Ember. I thought that when Forest died. I still have Ember. When Lady died, I still have Ember. I always had Ember. Ember was mine. She wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t as old as Lady. I always, always had Ember. Every time another free horse was offered to me for my business that didn’t work out, I still had Ember. She was the free horse that worked out. I still had Ember.
 
I don’t have Ember anymore.
 
I don’t have Ember anymore. And the hole in my heart is so big right now, I fear my heart might just stop. I am so broken. I am so lost.
 
I do not understand. I don’t understand Forest’s loss, I don’t understand Lady’s loss, I don’t understand Ember’s. Why all three? Why all three in less than a year? Why Lady and then 18 days later Ember. 18 days. 18 fucking days. FUCK YOU, universe. 18 fucking days.
 
It was a nightmare watching Ember suffer. It wasn’t a peaceful death like Forest’s, it wasn’t her time like Lady’s. I caught her colic early. I called the vet immediately. Between myself, my family, a few special students, and Haily, Ember’s beloved previous owner, she was never left alone. I was in constant contact with the vet — I had her out twice in a 24 hour period. I made the best use of my nursing skills, constantly monitoring her vital signs, administering oral, IM, and IV meds. I spiked fluid bag after fluid bag, bolusing her with LR just like I’ve done in the ICU with my human patients. For more than 37 hours, I tried to save her life. I didn’t sleep more than an hour at a time. Moments when she was too quiet, the silence woke me, and I’d check just to make sure she was still breathing. When she wanted to walk, I either walked with her, or stared up at the sky, listening to each hoof beat pass me. Every time she peed, or her behavior changed, or her vitals were different, or I treated her with medication, I wrote it down, recording every little note of her progress, or lack thereof.
 
The first night, Nyah and I lay under a star laden sky in the arena with Ember. We could hear the sound of the rushing Feather River behind us, down in the abyss of the canyon that called itself home across the street from my house. I tried hard to manage Ember’s pain with the best veterinary medications money can buy, though I don’t know how successful I was. Ember moaned, she sighed, she groaned, her lips and muzzle curled up tight. But I was hopeful. Five years ago, I had gone through an impaction colic with Forest, and after 4 days of fluids, Forest recovered and never colicked on me again. I didn’t believe that after Nyah just lost Lady, we could possibly lose another horse so soon. I’m a nurse. I have a great vet. We can figure this out.
 
Ember couldn’t take anymore after 38 hours. Her gums turned bright pink, her breathing was irregular, she had difficulty swallowing, she started drooling foamy white drool. Her abdomen was so distended it looked as though it would just pop like a balloon. It wasn’t until I ran my hand down her neck, trying to comfort her with every stroke, that I realized she was sweating. Haily was holding Ember, and when I looked at her, I knew. I knew. After 38 hours and 30 minutes, I knew I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t put her through anymore. I couldn’t let Haily see her childhood horse like this anymore. I frantically called the vet; she was already on her way up, but I wanted to see how far out she was.
 
When the vet arrived, I asked her to re-assess Ember, even though I knew. I knew. But still, I had to have one last assessment. I had to hear the vet say it. It’s time. This wasn’t a simple impaction colic — something else was going on. Ember was dying from the inside out. Every time she breathed out her nostrils, a rotten smell filled the air. I had smelled that smell the night before; it wasn’t quite so strong as this morning. Necrotic bowel. I knew. I knew. I can’t fucking save this horse. Just like I couldn’t save Forest.
 
Ember was given a lethal dose of medication to end her suffering. Haily and I were by her side, as she went down and gasped for air. She gasped and gasped, as I stroked her face, quietly telling her that it was okay to go. It was okay to let go. It was okay. She died under the great madrone tree in my beautiful field. Under that great fucking madrone tree.
 
Haily and I laid with her body for a long time. Haily cried and cried into her neck, finding it difficult to catch her breath. I bedded down next to her front legs, lying up against her heart girth, her beating heart no longer there. I stared blankly out into the field, watching the sunlight touch every blade of grass, and all I could think of was the first patient that had died on me when I was a brand new nurse. One minute she had been talking to me, sharing stories and smiling, the next she was bleeding out, a violent, terrifying death. We tried for hours to save her life. I hung fluid bag after fluid bag, I pumped blood transfusion after blood transfusion into her. Suddenly, her blood pressure dropped until it was no longer there. The doctor took off his gown and walked out of the room. Just like that. It was over. I was so overwhelmed with grief that I sobbed and sobbed as two other nurses helped me clean up her body before her husband arrived.
 
As I sat in that field, watching the sunlight touch every blade of grass, I thought about cutting down the great madrone tree. That great fucking madrone tree. I thought about violin and painting and dance and all the other things I could have chosen instead of horses. I thought about opening a shoe store or a music shop or a breakfast cafe, where losses would just be merchandise, not living, breathing, soulful beings.
 
I sat there, watching the sunlight touch every blade of grass, condemning myself for choosing horses. And the more I thought about selling all my horses, and closing my business, the more I realized I didn’t chose horses. They chose me.

Run Free, Sweet Ember. You will be remembered not just by me, not just by Haily, the first girl to love you, but by every student and child you taught along the way. You are missed so.

I will never look at the madrone tree in our field the same way again. While it has always been my favorite tree, I suddenly have a new appreciation for it. It towers above the black walnut tree, reaching the sky almost as high as one of our tallest pines. Its orange-red bark so smooth, branching out in spindles, curling its fingers out to give life to its tips. I imagine it is older than my grandparents would be if they were still alive. Much older. The way it withstands the most wretched winds and the most torrential downpours with such grace and ease tells me that tree is much wiser than anyone I know. That tree has many stories to tell, and on March 17, 2016, I watched another story unfold underneath those age-old branches.

A horse named Lady died beneath that tree. I watched as her sixteen year old owner buried herself in her chestnut colored neck and cried while Lady lay quietly still, letting the medicine release her of her pain. She never seized, she never heaved, or coughed, or gurgled. She left us so still and peacefully, and I watched a girl’s heart crumble as she said goodbye to her first love.

With Lady’s last heartbeat, I joined her and her owners underneath that tree, sitting in a mixture of grass, leaves, and the comforting sight of dried-up horse manure. I sat along her spine, in silence, as a young woman mourned, with her mother by her side. I stroked Lady’s hair, thinking how soft and warm and alive it felt. I was devoid of any concrete thoughts running through my head, but I did feel. My heart ached. I felt bad and sorry and strangely relieved and comforted and in all the sadness, I felt alive. And while the three of us sat in silence for a long time, it was a calming silence, and the three of us were connected through that silence, interrupted only a couple times by the calls of a single bird, sharing the sky with that great madrone tree. I began braiding Lady’s mane, tying each braid off with a colorful band, knowing those braids, once cut, would later become treasured keepsakes.

It was some time before I made us lunch, or rather breakfast at lunchtime. A feast of scrambled eggs, warm tortillas, salsa, yogurt, bagels, and juice. I carried it all outside, and we ate under the shade of the madrone tree, with Lady right there, in her resting state. I wanted to pretend we were enjoying a relaxing, joyous picnic at the park on a leisurely Sunday. But an air of grief surrounded us in all that beauty, as we stroked and stroked Lady’s neck, her soft ears, the tuft of her forelock, and the just-braided mane.

Another hour passed with few words before good-byes, hugs, more tears, and kisses were exchanged. I promised I would stay with Lady’s body until it was carried away.

I bedded down into the soft ground, stretching my legs out and burying myself into Lady’s neck to wait. It was then that I realized the shade of the madrone tree had left us. The sun had peaked in the sky and was directly overhead, warming me to a state of discomfort. I removed my long sleeve shirt to reveal my tank top underneath, and used my baseball cap to shield my face from the sun’s rays. When the flies came out, I fly sprayed Lady. I lay in the sun with her, as if we were both tanning on a summer day at some exotic beach. I could hear every buzz of every bug, and suddenly realized I could distinguish between the buzz of a fly, and the buzz of a mosquito, and the buzz of the bees pollinating each flower on each branch of that great madrone tree. The bees gave off a hum, more than a buzz, harmoniously going about their work, their purposeful, useful work that was crucial to life. I watched as they moved about, flying with tiny wings from one white flower to the next. When a breeze kicked up, little white round petals rained on Lady and me, there in the comfort of the great madrone tree.

As I lay there with Lady, intermittently reading a book I was more than half way through, I thought of Forest. I imagined Lady meeting up with her old friend, and the two of them running through endless green pastures, up and down soft hills, kicking up their heels, both of them free of any suffering. Memories flashed through my head as if I were watching an old home video, each image bringing me back to a moment in time that sometimes I wish I could relive. From where I lay with Lady, I could see the beautiful flower garden that was planted a few days before, a remembrance garden planted in memory of Forest and Lady, their very own manure feeding those flowers. As I stared at that garden and the plaque my husband had hand painted, I caught sight of ZaZa just beyond the garden, drinking from the water trough. Everything was quiet, the buzzing of the flies, and the mosquitoes, and the bees had left us, and I was suddenly chilly, the shade of the madrone tree beginning to again creep over Lady and me. I thought I might cry, sitting there watching ZaZa drink and hearing the sounds of the other horses alive on the property, but I was instead filled with gratitude, and this overwhelming sense that everything was just as it should be. While a small part of me was terrified of the next time I will have to say goodbye to a beloved horse, I knew this was my life. My life is right here, under this madrone tree, with these horses. It was then that I knew, regardless of why, Forest left me when he was supposed to. He gave me the knowledge to recognize when it was time to let go. He gave me the strength to hold a girl while she grieved over her own horse, her very best friend. He showed me that love exceeds boundaries, in so many ways, and that sometimes the deepest bonds aren’t made through words, but through time — time and just being.

The sun continued to move throughout the sky, and in the cool evening, I had to put on a sweater, and then a jacket. My youngest son joined me, placing himself on top of Lady, spanning himself across the length of her side. He talked and talked, filling the air with happy stories, commenting how “warm and soft and comfortable” Lady was, saying he wished we had had Forest this long after he had left us. We stood watch over Lady’s body, until her owners rejoined us with dinner, another picnic, but this time in the setting sun, to a loud chorus of frogs.

When the big black rendering truck roared into my driveway, it was past dusk. Lady’s owners had left as he was arriving, hours later than we had expected him. It was then that the calmness that had surrounded me all day suddenly left. The engine noise was disruptive and rude, and the finality of it all suddenly overwhelmed me. I had spent the last 7-odd hours with this horse, this horse named Lady, leaving her only to tend to my own horses. I had stayed with Lady, under the madrone tree, watching the sun rise and fall, feeling every minute temperature change, as the bees went about their daily work, until they were done and the frogs came out to welcome the night. And now, so abruptly, it was all coming to an end and Lady’s physical form was leaving us too. I began to cry, real big tears, one after another, the kind of tears that are difficult to talk through. I kissed and kissed and kissed her, saying childlike nonsense over and over about how she should say hello to Forest for me. I felt young and exposed when I handed the check to the man from the rendering company, the man with the big black disruptive, rude truck. I ran into the house, yelling at the boys to blast some music, as I jumped in the shower. I didn’t want to hear that big black disruptive, rude truck.

I stood in the shower, the warm water soothing and cleaning my body, as I cried exhausting tears, singing along at the same time to Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk. I laughed and cried and laughed and cried, and the next morning when I went outside to feed the horses, Lady’s body was gone. The field looked so still and empty, except for the great madrone tree.

Dedicated to the memory of My Fair Lady and the girl who loved her so.

It was a Saturday when I knew. It was warm out, slightly muggy, and my skin felt sticky under my worn T-shirt. He didn’t follow me around the horse paddock as I mucked. He didn’t try to tip the wheelbarrow over. He stood in the corner, hanging his head low.

That’s when I put a call in to a woman who I knew would know the answer.

How do you know when it’s time?

When he has more bad days than good.

On Monday, I called the vet at UC Davis who had been following Forest’s case for months. He, too, agreed it was time. Sometimes, the only thing we can offer is relief from suffering.

The days leading up to Thursday were sad, so sad, but so very beautiful. Many of my students who had learned to ride on Forest came to see him, came to say goodbye. They came with handfuls of treats, bags filled to the top with sliced apples, carrots, watermelon rinds. Forest was allowed to eat all the alfalfa he wanted. We took him off his treatment meds, but gave him an increased dose of pain medicine. Sometimes, the only thing we can offer is relief from suffering.

On Wednesday night, Melissa (whose mother had been Forest’s original owner) brought her 3-year-old son, Hunter, to meet Forest. Hunter spent time with “Grandma’s horse,” brushing him and gingerly handing him treat after treat. A group of us sat with Forest, brushed him gently, combed his tail until it shined, and took him for a walk.

The next morning I awoke just after dawn. I got Forest out of the paddock, brushed him, and sat on his back as a friend walked us around the field. I closed my eyes, locking every last step in my memory. I lied down on his back, my head on his rump, counting the clouds in the sky. I put my arms around his neck, and I kissed him all over.

The haul to UC Davis with Forest and Beauty (who was going to be re-evaluated for her splint bone fracture) was quiet. Gary drove, the boys slept in the back seat, and I stared out the window.

When we arrived at UC Davis, the boys and I spent more time with Forest, offering him more of his favorite treats. Declan quietly sat on his back, as Gary stroked his neck, and Jakob laid sweet kisses on his muzzle.

When it was time, the vet tech placed a catheter in the vein in Forest’s neck. As she did, I spent a moment with the veterinary students, sharing Forest’s story. I told them about Randi, Melissa’s mother, the reason Forest had found me. We had lost Randi 6 years previously, in the same month, July.

The walk to the lawn was quiet. I led Forest by the handmade rope halter and lead I had made him years ago. He was sedated, and comfortable. I slipped him the heart shaped horse cookie I had in my pocket, and the boys and I gathered around him, whispering to him, touching him all over. I knelt down in front of him, wrapped my hands around his face, and kissed him over and over. His muzzle was soft, and I continued to touch my lips against his until I realized it was time. I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that I just wanted to get this over with.

Sometimes, the only thing we can offer is relief from suffering.

Dr. Prutton approached Forest with a large syringe. I remember seeing a pink fluid, a bright and happy color, like bubble gum. Tears flowed down my face, as my fingertips gently stroked Forest’s face. I saw his legs wobble, and I suddenly turned away, yelling that I didn’t want to watch. I wanted to run, I wanted to run so far away from the pain.

Sometimes, the only thing we can offer is relief from suffering.

Moments later, in the time I took only one breath, Forest had found the ground. The world around me disappeared. I do not remember the vet standing near, or the students observing, or my family around the corner. I wanted to throw myself on top of Forest, and beg him to take me with him, but someone gently touched my arm. Soli. She told me to be careful of his legs, because he wasn’t gone just yet. I leaned down and buried my face in his neck. I was suddenly filled with an immense sadness as I felt him leave. The sobs choked me, almost stealing my breath, and the sadness suddenly turned to anger as I cried over and over, “I am so sorry, Forest.”

Sometimes, the only thing we can offer is relief from suffering.

Dr. Prutton put his stethoscope on Forest’s heartgirth, quietly announced that he was gone, and I continued to cry. My family joined me, gathering around Forest, and as I sat there, buried in his neck, my tears finally slowed. The sun warmed my back, the softness of the grass stroked my legs, and I was suddenly so comfortable there in Forest’s neck that I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted sleep to find me. I knew I could find it here, and I would sleep for hours, dreaming beautiful dreams, and awake, and all would be right in the world again.

I looked up to see Declan picking flowers from the grass, little flowers with purple tops. He carefully placed each flower on Forest’s face, arranging them just so. It was then that I knew it was over, but it was going to be okay.

Sometimes, the only thing we can offer is relief from suffering.

We picked ourselves up off the grass, and went to find Jakob’s Beauty. We received good news about her – she is healing well. Her destressed whinny called out for Forest as we loaded her into the horse trailer without him. We put Forest’s fly mask on her and hung his halter next to her, hoping his sweet smell would bring her comfort.

The drive home was quiet, and I did find sleep, off and on, as Gary drove.

A few days after Forest’s passing, I posted this on Facebook:

Six years ago, a little black and white Appaloosa gelding came into my life. I wasn’t looking for a horse. In fact, I already had a horse. But this little gelding found his way to me, and into my heart, after his original owner, Randi, lost her courageous battle with breast cancer.

Tonight, as I was reading some past entries in my journal, I found a short paragraph I had written back in 2011: “Forest is my rock. He is my friend, my confidence builder. He constantly challenges me. He is like a young child who questions your authority, but you can never stay too mad for too long because he wins you back every time. I enjoy being with him – sitting with him in the round pen, going for a slow, Sunday ride, grooming him. He is my big lap dog, honestly. I always seem to love myself a little more when I am with him.”

Is it possible to love another being, one not from the same species, as deeply as one human loves another? The answer is yes.

Forest left us on July 23, 2015, and on that day, I was filled with a sadness I did not know existed. But I imagine Randi is riding carefree now, galloping astride his back. And for that, I am truly glad.

“The love for a horse is just as complicated as the love for another human being… if you never love a horse, you will never understand.” ~ Author Unknown

RIP Forest Gumption

March 1, 2004 – July 23, 2015

The following is a guest blog post written by one of my students:

July 11, 2015, the day of my first LD.  I was up before the alarm had even gone off and ready to go as soon as my feet hit the ground.  I could barely contain my excitement and I could feel myself shaking as I put the tack on my horse.  I mounted Dippi, my companion for the weekend, and followed Jaya towards the starting line.  8:05 we began, and the next 5 hours would be one of the most amazing things I have experienced.

Before I met Jaya, my amazing riding instructor, I began riding in February of 2014.  I rode a horse name Memphis for about 2 months.  In April, we went and bought another horse, My Fair Lady, who would later become one of my best friends.  I was introduced to Gymkhana that same month.  I enjoyed it very much, but soon discovered that it wasn’t for Lady.  Before I met Jaya, I had no clue what endurance riding was, so I never saw it as an option for my energetic Arab.  I continued to ride in Gymkhana, but I still felt like this wasn’t quite for Lady.  Then during the school year I started taking lessons and I learned about a whole other world of riding.  I went on my first all day trail ride January 1, 2015, it was amazing.  I have always loved being on the trail and being on it for 7 hours felt great.  I expressed my interest in endurance to Jaya, but I had no clue that I would be doing a ride so soon.

I moved Lady to Jaya’s house in May of 2015, and she is so happy.  Lady didn’t have enough weight on her, so she wasn’t able to compete in this ride.  I hope to ride her in the KC Memorial ride in September.   For this ride, Jaya let me ride her green-broke arab, Dippi.  I felt so honored to be riding Dippi, it meant a lot that Jaya trusted me with her horse and was confident in my ability to handle her.

I have to be honest, in the beginning of the ride, I became a little frustrated.  Dippi was a lot more forward than I was used to and I was getting blisters on my fingers.  We stopped and put some medicine on my fingers that helped a bit and switched reigns.  Jaya reminded me that I needed to trust her and let her do her job.  After that I was able to enjoy the ride that much more.  Dippi may be green, but shes honest and she took great care of me. On the trail Jaya’s horse, Asali, threw two boots, which we were able to recover.  And Aurora’s horse, Ember, threw a boot, which the gaiter had ripped off of.  (we recovered that later on)  Then we stopped a few times to tighten the girths on our saddles, Jaya was a master of mounting and dismounting by the end!  On our ride to the vet check we went through beautiful terrain, it was nice and cool and you couldn’t stop looking around you!  At one point manzanita bushes were all around us, I’m pretty sure they were out to get us!  We got into the vet check at 11:14, we stopped and let the horses eat and drink and did so ourselves.  We all vetted through, even with Dippi not wanting to trot after eating her mash! 🙂  And then we were off again at 11:50.

There was this one hill on the way to and on the way out of the vet check that was crazy!  The first time was the craziest since we were going so fast!  The time back to the finish line seemed to fly by.  When we came around the corner to the finish line, Jaya and I wooped and held our arms up.  1:09 pm, I had just finished my first LD.  When we crossed we were greeted with cheers from the people standing there.  The supportive and positive atmosphere blew me away, it made me feel even more incredible about what I had just experienced.

I could try all I wanted to describe the feeling of the whole experience, but it’s something you have to do yourself and I strongly encourage doing.  I am definitely hooked and will be doing many more rides in the future.  I hope to do Tevis one of these days, but I’ll take it one step at a time. 🙂

— By Nyah Herndon, age 16

The following is a guest blog post written by one of my students:

I had my first of many endurance rides on June 27, 2015. It was supposed to be at Lake Almanor, but ended up at Camp Far West where the Gold Rush Shuffle is held. This was actually the 3rd endurance ride that I had applied for; the 1st one was cancelled due to weather, the 2nd, my horse I was riding (Forest) got his ulcers. I got so nervous when they said this one was cancelled. I hoped that they would find another place to hold it and they did!

After I got to Jaya’s, we loaded up and headed out for an hour and a half drive with Soli (the puppy) clambering all around the truck. When we got to Camp Far West, we unloaded our horses and vetted in. We then took a bareback ride (in shorts and tennis shoes) to the lake which was only about 2 minutes away. We saw many of Jaya’s friends in camp and said hi to some. After, we had dinner and a ride meeting and then we tried to sleep. Trying to sleep was the hardest thing!

The next morning, we got up and put our horses tack on and headed out for our controlled start. The trail we rode on went through woods, fields, and around the lake. The best part of the trail was cantering through the fields. At our vet check, Ember passed very well. We then set out for our final loop around the lake. We then took our last vet check and both Jaya and I showed for BC (Best Condition). We finished an hour before cut-off time. Our whole ride was from 7:30-12:30 (cut-off was 1:30).

We waited until 7 pm for the awards. Ember and I got 4th place, first junior, and senior horse award. Jaya and Dippi got 5th place and a sponsoring a junior award. We then loaded up and headed home with Soli curled between us.

So, if you want to do endurance riding, you shouldn’t be afraid of dirt or sweat and drink LOTS of water.

— Aurora Copp, age 12, riding Haily’s Ember, age 20

Aurora allowing time for Ember to drink her fill at the first water crossing.

On the last loop — Aurora and Ember just a few miles from the finish!

Happy and Proud — and Hooked on Endurance!

Haily, Ember’s original owner, came out to see Aurora and Ember on their first LD together!

I have a story to tell. But, even as I write, I am terrified to tell it. I have shared bits and pieces of my past on this blog, but mostly from the perspective that I have “overcome” a painful past and been “healed.” What I haven’t shared is that my personal struggle isn’t over yet, and it may never be.

I have been struggling with anxiety since November. It’s been a struggle of mine before, but something that I have learned to manage pretty well over the last few years. I know what the trigger was back in November, and it was multiplied by the stressors of a sick horse, working night shift as a nurse and managing an exploding business, being a wife, mother, daughter, mentor, friend, and then, as silly as this sounds, coming down from the high last competition season left me with.

Lack of sleep, slacking on my workouts, and eating poorly didn’t help either, and ten days before Whiskeytown, I experienced a panic attack. I was driving, and as I was, I realized it was the first time I had really sat down in a long while. It occurred to me how exhausted I was, and I feared falling asleep at the wheel. The fear of not being able to control my physical body suddenly got me thinking… What if I just lost my mind too? Right here, right now? My entire body was overcome with this tingling sensation and flooded with dread. Nobody around me knew what was going on, but my mind was racing, and I was left feeling weak when the panic finally subsided.

For days following, I beat myself up. For not being stronger. For not taking care of myself. For allowing myself to go back to that place I had left behind years ago…

I also felt guilt. Here I was, with a seemingly perfect life — a great marriage, a dream job, healthy kids, six wonderful horses, multiple personal successes — and I couldn’t handle it.

I love endurance. It’s my passion. And I couldn’t even get excited about Whiskeytown. So I beat myself up for that too.

When DJ arrived on Friday morning, ready to load up Dippi and Zaza and head to Whiskeytown, I was an emotional mess. She told me it was okay if I didn’t want to go, but I told her I had to go. I just had to go, even if I cried through the entire day, the entire ride, and the entire drive back home.

Friday was a struggle for me. I had moments where I felt okay, and then I had moments where I had trouble holding back the tears. I didn’t feel like myself. I was carrying around this fog that, for some reason, just wouldn’t let me go. My mind kept replaying that moment in the car — my moment of weakness, which I just wouldn’t let go.

On Friday night, after the ride meeting, despite my fierce desire to beat everything without pharmaceuticals, I gave up and took a ¼ tab of Xanax. Throughout the night, I’d wake up and take another ¼ tab, until the entire pill was gone.

Saturday morning was completely methodical. As a seasoned endurance rider, it was easy to go through the steps of tacking up, mounting up, and riding on.

The first several miles were quiet. DJ checked in with me, and I admitted that I was “alright, but I just didn’t feel like myself.”

I don’t know what happened, but right before the vet check, I suddenly began feeling a little more like myself. Dippi had gotten herself into the groove of this great little pace, and up, down, up, down, I just posted on down the trail. My little green broke Arab, the one who had two non-completions last year in the only two LDs I took her to, was taking care of me. I had taken care of her last year after a tendon injury, and here she was, taking care of me.

And every now and then, DJ and I would look around at our beautiful surroundings, breath in the fresh air, and yell out, “Present!” when we felt completely in the moment, right there, right then.

After Dippi passed the vet check and DJ and I settled in to our hour hold, taking care of the horses and ourselves, I suddenly realized whatever fog had been following me around was gone.

We headed back out, and as we were trotting down the trail on our last 12 miles of the day, I looked back at DJ and said, “I could go 50 miles today.”

I was back in the game.

The tears came again when we received our completions for the ride. But this time, they were happy tears. Tears of relief. Tears of triumph. And not for completing a 25 miler necessarily, but for not giving up. For pushing through and overcoming. And for allowing myself to be human.

I am slowly learning every day that I can’t always be this superhero I would like to be. I am simply human. And that is okay.

__________

Just a couple nights before Whiskeytown, I had written this down. I never published it on my blog, but it seems appropriate now to share a bit of what I wrote:

My greatest struggle has always been being present. Years ago, beginning in my late teens through my mid-twenties, I was tortured by my past. I could never shut my mind off. It was always running wild with thoughts — the “could haves,” “should haves,” the “what ifs.” I blamed myself for so many things — many things I actually had no control over, and at the end of the day, I had no idea who I was, what I was doing, or where I was headed. I was stifled, and lost. And I managed my anxiety in some destructive ways, which only increased my level of anxiety to a state of panic.

And then came Asali. I can’t tell you exactly what happened when I returned to horses. But, I can tell you that, being on an animal close to 1,000 pounds, who could possibly kill me in a moment, if I fell off or was thrown or kicked or many other things, made me be present. Suddenly, I had to be calm, I had to be quiet, and I had to pay attention. The more I rode Asali, the more she became a mirror image of me. She constantly gave me away, and I’d be forced to step back and ask myself where I was right in that moment — because I certainly wasn’t right there, with her.

Today, my struggle isn’t with the past, but with the future. I’ve always had this deep philosophical mind that questions everything, and this keen awareness of my mortality which keeps me striving for perfection — or at least “better-ness.” While it’s important to have goals and plans for the future, we must also learn to live in the present. Be here, be now. Seems simple, right? So, why is it so difficult?

There are some out there who think my love of horses, and my relationship with them, is more than a passion, but an obscene obsession. Maybe that’s true. But on the back of my horse, with the wind in my hair, the sky caressing my cheeks, the chill taking my breath away, I am nowhere but right there at that moment. Suddenly, the world around me has faded away, and I am a part of the being that is giving me her wings, if only for a moment.

So, my struggle continues to capture that “present-ness” during my daily routines. To quiet my mind of the future and the fears and the unknown…

A quote by Amit Ray says, “If you want to conquer the anxiety of life, live in the moment, life in the breath.”

And so I ride.

The boys and I enjoyed our quick trip to Reno for the AERC Convention over the first weekend in March. The highlights for the boys were, of course, go-kart racing, laser tag, and video games galore in the hotel’s arcade. I, on the other hand, enjoyed attending two different seminars on Friday. The first one was on 100-mile horses and what makes them successful in the longer distances. Several horses were surveyed at various 100-mile rides. Here’s what was discovered:

• The biggest cause, representing 55% of the pulls, was lameness (front limb lameness was more common than hind limb lameness)
• Rider Option was the second biggest cause of non-completions in the 100-mile rides
• Lameness pulls (and this isn’t a surprise) were 8 times more likely if the horse required corrective shoeing
• Training more days per week increased the probability of both lameness and metabolic pulls (take home message: Do Not Overtrain!)
• Cross Training and Fat Supplementation largely DECREASED the risk for lameness pulls
• Interestingly enough, a 4 year study conducted overseas showed no relationship between speed and lameness elimination
• While feeding grain and beet pulp the morning of a ride (which, after attending an equine nutrition seminar a few years back, I stopped doing) decreased pulls, it is beneficial to decrease grain in the off-season.
• Here’s a no-brainer (although not always feasible): Trailering for a shorter amount of time (i.e., attending closer rides) decreased the chances of lameness pulls
• Competing in the fall, after Spring competition, increased chances of a pull (in other words, the longer the competition season, the harder it was on the horse – REST is important!)

Lameness pulls are more often than not associated with higher heart rates and poor overall impressions. Lameness pulls usually occur later in the ride (averaging around mile 70) versus metabolic pulls (metabolic pulls often occurred around mile 48). The second seminar I attended was titled “Gastric Ulcers in the Endurance Horse.” For those of you who do not know, I discovered a few months ago that my schooling horse, Forest, an 11-year-old Appaloosa, has Grade 4 gastric ulcers. He is not an endurance horse; he has the least stressful life of my entire herd, so we’ve (meaning my personal vet, the vet team at UC Davis, and myself) have been unable to ascertain why he has ulcers, but we have been able to successfully treat him. I was particularly interested in this seminar to see what the recommendations are for managing a horse with ulcers. Here are my cliff notes on the subject; taken from my several pages of notes:

• Vague signs of ulcers in the equine include (but are not limited to):
  • • Dull hair coat
    • Picky eating
    • Lying around
    • Sour attitude
    • Being “cinchy”
    • Poor performance (reluctance to train)
• Unfortunately, some horses with ulcers show no clinical signs whatsoever, BUT after treatment, show improved performance.
• Clinical signs increase with the intensity of exercise.
• The more severe the ulcers, the more likely it is for the horse to show signs.
• The only definitive diagnosis is through GASTROSCOPY.
• Why do horses get ulcers?
  • • Small stomach
    • Constant acid secretions
    • Manmade conditions
• Risk Factors:
  • • Intense exercise
    • Extensive hauling
    • Changing environments/routines
    • Limited turnout/grazing
    • Stall confinement
    • Diet: high grain, low forage/roughage
    • Poor teeth
    • NSAIDS (giving Bute/Banamine too regularly)
    • Hypertonic oral electrolytes (a catch 22 for endurance riders!)

There are two kinds of ulcers: Squamous ulcers and Glandular ulcers, and these ulcers are rated from 1 (Reddened or thickened areas, but no actual ulcers; think pre-ulcers) to 4 (Extensive, deep ulcers). The glandular region of the stomach is a very susceptible area to ulcers, and unfortunately, ulcers in this area are difficult to treat and require a much longer treatment cycle. How common are ulcers???

• It is estimated that 75-95% of Thoroughbred racing horses have ulcers!
• 60-70% of endurance horses have gastric ulcers. Because of the aerobic exercise endurance horses experience (which increases gastric acid, and the motion of movement which splashes this acid around, coupled with decreased blood flow to the gut during exercise — similar to marathon runners; they experience ulcers too), they are susceptible to gastric ulcers.
• It is believed that 36-48% of Thoroughbred racing horses have Grade 3-4 ulcers.
• Ulcers are so prevalent in horses that Grade 1 (those reddened, thickened areas) is now considered normal in all horses.

SO, what do we do about these ulcers???

• Treat with a full dose cycle of GASTROGARD (omeprazole) for a minimum of 28 days.
• Sucralfate can help coat the stomach and decrease pain.
• Include some alfalfa in your horse’s diet (alfalfa contains calcium, magnesium, and protein — all which work as buffers)
• Give free choice hay using slow grazer feeders (grass hay is best — this is closest to mother nature; grain hay has too much starch)
• Eliminate large amounts of grain and simple carbohydrates from the diet
• Feed a small roughage meal 30 minutes prior to exercise to act as a buffer and reduce the splashing of gastric acid

Horses should not live on omeprazole every day, so following the initial 28-day treatment, re-scoping is recommended (to see if the ulcers have healed). A preventative dose of omeprazole can be given before competition or a known stressor by treating with low-dose omeprazole 5 days before the stressor and continuing seven days afterwards. Good news: Horses can, sometimes, self-heal ulcers with:

• • • Time off
    • Grass
    • Turn out

It was an educational and fun weekend! Of course, the ultimate highlight of the weekend for Jakob and me was receiving our Regional Awards:

It is difficult to describe the feelings I am feeling right now. There are many who, looking in from the outside, did not see the effort, the trials, the tears, the doubts, and the great fear that I have experienced in the last few years. And there are many more who know little of my life before Asali, for before her, I was a girl searching for a direction, but constantly losing my way. JayaMae is not my given name, you know. It is a name I gave myself. It has great personal meaning and I adopted it at a time when I wanted to leave behind a very painful past and take on a metamorphosis. I shed my skin, picked myself up, and moved my family 500 miles away, to begin a new life. That is when, quite by accident, I found Asali. What I have discovered in the last few years since we have entered into a partnership and taken on a sport I never thought I would endure – endurance – is that I am the same girl, in the same brown skin, that I was years ago. The only difference is that I have found a strength within myself I did not know I had before. I have learned to believe in myself.

Endurance is a sport that stretches beyond just knowing how to ride. It requires a true partnership with an animal ten times your own size. It is a sport that challenges your very core — physically, mentally, and emotionally. Endurance taught me to overcome the elements of the backcountry, to learn to be alone and comfortable in silence, to trust my mount and to trust myself. It taught me to take things as they come, that the best fun in the sport is when, despite a fall or a runaway horse or getting lost on the trail, you can smile through it all and keep riding anyway. The rides we did not complete forced me to reevaluate my training, my riding ability, and my horse’s ability. It was each non-completion that taught me that change is okay. And it was in those failures that I was hit with something very valuable, in the name of humility. Every ride, even those that are successful, somehow humbles me, for it is more than my own talents that get us to the finish line.

This last month has been especially meaningful to me. Jakob and I attended the Lake Sonoma 50 mile endurance ride on November 1^st. Jakob rode his horse, Beauty, and I rode Nicole Chappell’s horse, Savannah Knight, a gorgeous part-Friesian mare. Since I met Nicole, a well-known and very successful endurance rider, at the Tevis educational ride a couple years ago, she has been someone I have looked up to, taken advice from, and watched for on the trail. When she offered her horse to me for Lake Sonoma, it was a touching compliment, and while I was nervous about managing someone else’s horse, Savannah and I successfully completed the ride. It was Savannah’s third 50-miler, and I hit my 1,000^th endurance mile with her. It was a fun ride, being out there with my son on a beautiful day, and I gained a lot of confidence riding a horse I knew next to nothing about. Nicole had said something vital to me just days before I picked Savannah up for the endurance ride. You know how to ride. Those simple words made me realize I just needed to trust myself. Often times, the only thing that holds us back is our own self-doubt.

This past weekend, Jakob and I attended the 3-day Gold Rush Shuffle Pioneer Ride. Although I took a rider option at mile 27 on Zaza the first day, Jakob successfully completed 55 miles with Beauty. And then he went on to finish Days 2 and 3, with me and Asali. Jakob, my 12-year-old son, rode his mare all 3 days, completing more than 150 miles. He was one of only a small few who completed all 155 miles on the same mount. And he did it on a rescue horse, an Appendix mare who stands at almost 16 hands tall. Jakob smiled through the mud and the rain, slowed down when he needed to, dismounted and walked to give Beauty a break on Day 3, and he galloped on a loose rein, allowing Beauty the freedom to run when she asked him to let her fly.

Jakob is the only equestrian to have competed on Beauty, and he put most of her conditioning miles on her himself. There were times I doubted that Beauty would ever make it past a limited distance ride, but Jakob never doubted her. He believed in her and he believed in himself. Witnessing their partnership, trust, and hard work brought tears to my eyes as they crossed the finish line on Sunday. Jakob and Beauty are now in West Region Standings for the Junior Division. Asali, my little Missouri Fox Trotter mare, and I are in standings as well, in the Lightweight Division, after completing three 100-mile rides this year. We finished this season far surpassing my original goal and I learned more from my own horse, my son, and his horse than I ever thought possible.

As we move into the next ride season, this little grasshopper (as one of my many mentors fondly calls me), has just a few small words of wisdom for anyone who has a dream:

• Believe in Yourself. Self-doubt will destroy you faster than anything else, but when you simply believe, you are one step closer to reaching your goal.

• With a Lot of Hard Work and Determination, Anything is Possible. I mean that. Four years ago, the 100-Mile Tevis Cup ride seemed like such a HUGE feat. And here I was, trying to complete it on a non-Arab, knowing very little about the sport of endurance. But I kept riding. I competed. I trained. I read. I researched. I trained. I trained. I trained. I failed at my first attempt. I reevaluated. I trained. I trained. I trained. I pictured crossing that finish line. I played it out in my mind over and over again. I trained. I tried again. We finished.

• Be Patient. Everything takes time. Rejoice in the small victories and recognize how each one is getting you closer to your ultimate goal.

• Attitude is Everything. Don’t fall victim to fears. Laugh at your failures and keep going. Those who refuse to give up eventually see success. After all, when you’re at the bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.

• Enjoy the Journey. Because when you’ve reached your goal, you’ll realize it isn’t over yet. And you may just travel beyond your wildest dreams…