There is a young woman, I'll just call her A, who has come to Arizona from Germany because of an advertisement she saw in a newspaper. She works for room and board and in return cares for a large stable-full of horses. There are a lot of Paints and at least one Appaloosa.
A good friend of mine became acquainted with A and arranged for me to have a lesson. My friend assured me that A is a good teacher and that the horse I would most likely ride, Mr. D, was a real sweetie.
The day arrived, Saturday March 14, 2009, and with a small bit of trouble, I found the (well I can't say address because there is no address) place, met the dogs (a large German Shepherd and a Husky) and found my way down to the stables. I saw a young woman and called out her name and she turned and walked over to me. We shook hands (Germans are still very good about shaking hands when meeting someone new, something I think Americans could practice a little more, it's so polite) and she took me to the Paint that I would be riding. She told me his full name is Diablo, which set me back on my heels for a moment. The first horse that I ever rode was named Diablo and he deserved the name completely.
The owner, D, of the horses was in the paddock sitting on another Paint and A told me that she was riding this horse for the first time. I wanted to know, was the horse new to her or did A mean that the horse had never been ridden. It was the latter. We watched for a moment while D tried to get the horse to walk. He refused … and then capitulated but entirely on his own terms. He took off, straight for a tree. D decided to bail before crashing into the tree but did not do a good job of it. She lost her footing when she hit the ground. A and I rushed into the paddock and D was lying on her side moaning. Her head had hit a rock. She was not wearing a helmet. There was quite a bit of blood, scalp wounds are like that, and A went for towels. She started to try to get up and I took her arm to steady her. I told her to go slow and that she might feel like throwing up. She said she knew that and that she is a nurse. I said to her, "You know, there aren't all that many rocks in here." It was a lame attempt to lighten the situation. She replied, "Yah, I'm just talented that way." And so I knew that she would probably be okay.
A wanted to call an ambulance but D said not to. By then she was standing and seemed to be steady enough. She decided that she could walk herself up to the house to clean herself up and assess the damage and that A should go ahead and give me my lesson. D would call us if she needed help.
A took me into the tack room and pointed to a pile of helmets and said that I should find one that fit. The first one I turned over was filthy and full of cobwebs and so were the second and third. But I was determined to find one that fit and wear it no matter what its condition. Lesson learned.
The rest of the lesson was considerably less eventful, but I do have to say that D's fall shook me up a bit. If a seasoned rider and horse trainer … well, let's not go there.
Horses are tall. I needed a bucket to get up on Diablo. And once up there … well, it was really high. To add to my discomfort was the fact that the saddle was English. I've only ever been riding on Western saddles and their big pommels and horns are sort of reassuring. With the English saddle, if Diablo decided to take a header, there was nothing to stop me sliding right up onto his neck. And from there, goodness only knows where I might end up.
I have to say that A is a very good instructor and her grasp of English is way better than my grasp of German. I've heard worse accents from Germans who have lived in the United States for many years. She was patient and cheerful, and really knows horses.
Before I knew it, we were walking and stopping and turning. But she could see that I wasn't all together comfortable with my seat. Those English saddles are small and the stirrups seem to be further forward. So she made me let go of the reins (clutched feverishly in my hands and me needing constant reminders to not pull my hands up to my chest) and sit on that hornless saddle while she walked Diablo around in circles. Not only that but I had to make giant circles with my arms, one circling forward and one circling back and then switching sides (to take my mind off of my seat). Then while A was still walking the horse, I had to twist side to side at the waist. Finally, she had me take my feet out of the stirrups. That one really unnerved me. Of course Diablo was just plodding along at about one mile per hour. The penultimate exercise was to lean way over and touch the toe of my left boot with my right hand and then my right boot with my left hand several times. At no time did I fall off and I have to say, that after all that, I sat a lot more easily in the saddle.
A taught me the rudiments of posting (when to "stand" in the stirrups; when circling left you rise when the horse's right shoulder moves forward, vice versa for circling right) and even got Diablo up into a trot. I don't know that I am hooked, but I do know that I would like to do this again. But preferably without a repeat of the opening performance. I would like to be comfortable enough on a horse that the next time I take a trail ride I can actually enjoy the scenery. Now I just have two things to overcome: 1) how sore I will be, and 2) convincing my husband that we can afford it. As sore as I am sure I will be, D will probably be even more so.
I'm not one for increasing the fear in our world, even without the world situation to think about, advertisers try to create fear so that we will buy their products. This is a little pet peeve of mine and I mention it often. Even so, I will offer this caution, no matter what sport you are engaged in, always, always, always wear the proper protective equipment. You just never know what might happen.
One final note: I wrote this article on the 14th right after I got home from my lesson. Now with the sad passing of Natasha Richardson, it becomes a caution even more worth paying attention to. Dianne Lehmann
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